"The air conditioning is cold", I said to myself while I was riding a bus to Manila. I kept trying to draw faces on the fogged-up window, realizing that the fog was outside and I felt disappointed every time, only to forget about the whole ordeal entirely 15 minutes after. I keep forgetting about things lately. I was like a goldfish. I guess that's what kept me sane after the incident. “Why can't I remember a thing?", I mumbled to myself. "Fucking memory!", I said a little bit louder. It was loud enough that Sarah, who was sitting next to me, heard it. She said "You're talking to yourself again". "It's nothing.", I muttered. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" she asked and I just looked at her then went back to trying to draw faces on the window. Just as she was going back to sleep, the bus driver yelled and I heard tires screeching and the bus took a sharp turn to avoid a car that broke down in the middle of the highway. I looked for a seat belt that was not existent then the panic set in. The bus tipped over and started barrel rolling down the highway. Ten months ago, I was experiencing severe headaches. The most notable one was while we were playing Dungeons and Dragons. It was in the middle of a battle and the DM asked me what my next move was. "I will do a wall run and jump and hit the monster on the head with my axe" was what I was supposed to say. But what came out of my mouth was gibberish. It was a word salad party then I experienced the most painful headache that I ever had and then I passed out. I woke up in a hospital bed. It smelled vaguely of anti-septic, which reminded me of my time in nursing school. I looked at my mom and I asked what happened. Her eyes began to well up and she stormed out of the room. Holding my hand was Sarah, my best friend. Her eyes were puffy from crying the whole night. "Sarah, did someone die?" Why are you crying?". She answered me with a sob and everyone's eyes averted my gaze. That moment, the doctor came in and saw that I was awake. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "I feel fine", I retorted back. "Doctor, what's wrong? Nobody wants to tell me what happened and everyone is crying. Did I get into an accident?". "You passed out. Your friends took you here and we examined you at once. We found a brain tumor the size of a grape in your occipital lobe. I already talked to your parents. You can go under the knife and we can attempt to remove the tumor, but it's going to be risky...", he went on and on. I wasn’t really paying that much attention because I was already face-to-face with my mortality. His voice faded into the background as I try to get my affairs in order. "How long do I have?", I interrupted as he was explaining the procedure to Sarah. "If you don't go through this procedure? You have 6 months.", he answered back. I decided right then and there that I wouldn't get the surgery. I only thought about myself while the whole room exploded to get me to reconsider. My mind was made up. I was always fantasizing about killing myself anyway so this would actually give me a way out without going to hell. I was discharged after a few days and I went home. Sarah didn't go home. She stayed by my side every night. She calmed me down every time my head was about to split open. She took care of me. "Why don't you go home, Sarah? I can take care of myself." I said. "No, you can't", she rebutted with a smile. I knew she was right. I couldn't really do shit without her. She has been my partner-in-crime ever since high school. Every time either our hearts were broken, the other one would swoop in console the former. She was the type of friend that would agree with me even if I was wrong. Like whenever I talk about my exes, she says " She sounds crazy!". We made out once and almost had sex but we got interrupted. There is this unspoken rule that if you got interrupted before a kiss, you have 10 seconds to reinitiate the kiss or its gone forever...and at that moment, there it was, gone forever. I always regretted not asking her out again but we remained best friends. I'd admit though that every time she dates a new guy, I always get crazy jealous but I don't show it to her. And I think that she is the same way every time I date someone new. There was always this sexual tension between us, or at least that's the extent that I knew of. There was always this "will-they-won't-they" vibe between us. I always knew that I loved her more than she did me and that love only grew when she did not want to leave my side during this tumor thing. Sarah was quiet throughout the whole ordeal. I knew she was hurt upon hearing my decision but she set aside her feelings to accommodate mine. I could see the pain in her eyes every time I writhe in pain brought about by the tumor. I asked her to kill me but she wouldn't do it. She begged me to have the surgery, which I declined every time, until the time that she gave up trying. "I love you, y'know." she said with lackluster. "I really thought that that you would be the first one to say it...I've been waiting for you. Now that you're dying... I don't know. Stupid fucking tumor.". My heart melted. I wanted to take her pain away. I can't have her tears as the last thing that I will see before I die so I said, "Yes.". "Yes, to what?", she asked. "Yes, to the surgery", I answered. Her face lit up and she lunged in to kiss me. I couldn't really move that much so I just let it happen. I was so happy that I could die right at that moment. She told my parents and they arranged it immediately. The next day I was confined in preparation for the surgery. All I could think about was Sarah's face, her smile, the way she twitched her nose every time she was about to sneeze. I was so excited to have that life with her. The nurse came in the room and asked me if I was ready, I said yes. So she carted me off towards the operating room and that’s the last thing I remembered before the drugs kicked in. I woke up, woozy from something. The room was unfamiliar. I could see strangers bustling about. I was confused and I didn't know where I was. I was starting to panic until a soft voice broke the white noise. "You're awake! I'm so glad. Oh my god, you've been out for 2 days." and then she started to cry. "I thought I was going to lose you because the surgeon said something went wrong inside the operating room. They said they made a mistake. They said...", and then I interrupted her. "Who are you?" I said. She looked at me all puzzled and said "Don't fuck with me now! It's me, Sarah.". I really don't remember her. My face was as confused as she was. "What am I doing here?" I asked. She looked at me hoping that that was all a joke. I wasn't joking. I really couldn't remember her but I could see her eyes welling up then she stood up and walked out. I didn't know who this girl was and honestly, I didn't even remember who I was. I was starting to panic and some other people were trying to calm me down. A person in a white robe came in and stuck me with something then I felt light headed. I calmed down some after that and the two people who tried to pacify me said they were my parents. I said, "No, my parents aren't as old and my dad has hair.". The guy in white muttered something to those two people and he approached me. "You are experiencing retrograde amnesia.", he said. "This is because of the brain operation that you just went through." he continued. I was still flabbergasted but I was slowly recognizing the faces of the man and woman that were beside my bed. It really was mum and dad…But they looked so old. Once a very athletic couple, now a bag of wrinkles. It broke my heart seeing them like that so I called out to them. They were so happy that I remembered who they were and they hugged me and they thought that my amnesia was just short-lived. The called the girl named Sarah back into the room and asked if I remembered her. I said, "No. Sorry.". This time, the girl stayed and asked the doctor to ask me questions. The doctor asked, "How old are you?". I said, "I am 12, last time I checked.". Then the doctor corrected me and said that I was really 31 years old. It took me a while to digest everything. I was staring into space trying make sense of all of this then the girl came up to me and said, "My name is Sarah, don’t ever forget that...and I'll make you remember.", before kissing me on the cheek and going home to take a bath. After a few days I was allowed to go home. Every day, Sarah would come over and hands over a bunch of pictures for me to look at. She was explaining what happened when the picture was taken. I could see that she was genuinely happy recapping our times together. She would tell me stories about what I did before or what she did that was epic or funny. She told me how devastated I was when I lost my grandma. She took me out on dates and on outings. She took care of me like how she took care of me before, or at least that’s what she said. We always have dinner outside to where she said were my favorite spots in the city while retelling me the most intimate moments of her life. She always caught me staring at her and she would ask me why and I would always make some lame excuse to hide the fact that she was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I was falling in love with this woman who I've known for 4 months after my surgery. I was always elated every time I see her. I didn't tell her my feelings because I thought I would scare here away, not knowing that she felt the same way for me. I loved Sarah and I was thinking of a way how to tell her. One day, she told me she brought tickets for us to see Foo Fighters live in Manila. Sarah told me that if music won’t bring my memories back, nothing else would. Of course, I said yes! It was time with Sarah and my favorite band, apparently. So, we hopped on to a bus bound for Manila. I was really bored on the bus so I tried to entertain myself by drawing faces on the fogged-up window, realizing that the fog was outside. I noticed that the air conditioning was cold and cursed my memory which woke Sarah up. She said "You're talking to yourself again". "It's nothing.", I muttered. "Why don't you go back to sleep?" she asked and I just looked at her then went back to trying to draw faces on the window. Just as she was going back to sleep, the bus driver yelled and I heard tires screeching and the bus took a sharp turn to avoid a car that broke down in the middle of the highway. The bus tipped over and started barrel rolling down the highway. In the midst of the chaos, Sarah and I thought we were going to die and she held my hand tightly and said, "I love you, y'know.". I pictured her face saying that same phrase to me while she was sitting by my bed. Then everything came back. I remembered everything. I remembered the tumor, the talk and the surgery. I remembered why i loved Sarah in the first place. I remembered not saying I loved her back. As the bus screeched to a halt, turning over several times, I found Sarah and I on the floor all bloodied. She took her last breath and I said, "I love you too.


Waking up you head to the kitchen and brew dark roast, then sip the precious liquid on the back porch under autumn sun caressing your skin.  Showering and dressing in yoga wear, you drive to pilates session. Janette calls, and you answer maneuvering traffic with one hand.  “What are you up to?” she asks.  “On my way to pilates. You coming for lunch?”  “Of course. You must check the new place down by Vincent’s. It’s called ‘Pete’s butcher shop’. The guy is a candy and sells grass-fed meat. Let’s sink our teeth into proper steaks today, shall we?”  “Sure, later,” you respond dropping the phone onto your lap.  After the pilates session, you head to the butcher shop. Entering you see a tall, broad-shouldered man with copper-color hair. He is standing with his back to you, holding in his hand a large butcher knife rhythmically going up and down on a substantial piece of meat. You force your gaze to the impressive produce on display with various percentages of fatness and loudly call for his attention.  Lowering the knife, he turns and looks at you with the indifferent face, his emerald-green eyes scrutinizing your features. Thoroughly washing his hands, he approaches in a blood-stained apron asking how he may help. You point at the leanest steaks and ask for three. He wraps them inquiring if there’s anything else you wanted. In your head, there are many things you want from him now that he’s standing so close to you, but of course, you shake your head. Paying for the brown bundle, you smile to the serious face and leave the store.  At home, you sip Pinot Noir waiting for the girls. Janette arrives bringing flowers. Jasmine is late as usual but brings gluten-free cupcakes. The three of you drink and gossip cooking medium-rare steaks and fixing a salad.  Cutting the meat oozing with juice, Jasmine compliments it but notes the unusual flavor. Janette gushes about Pete, openly expressing her desire for the guy. You agree he’s hot but also gives you creeps, and nod to the meat tasting like nothing you had before. Lunch is finished with cupcakes and more wine.  The girls leave, and you nap then decide to go for a walk. You drive to the reservoir surrounded by trails. Walking with music in your ears and admiring the winter landscape barren of colors you realize the park is eerily deserted. Suddenly you feel someone’s arm around your neck clenching you tight against their steel-hard torso. Grabbing that arm with both of your hands to loosen the grip you see a hand moving to your mouth with a cloth and inhale a sharp acidulous fume. Darkness ensues.  Lying on your side with your arms between your legs tied to your feet, you gain consciousness in a trunk of a car, and see someone staring down at you. Your eyes widen in recognition, and you scream. Your muffled voice gets trapped in your stuffed mouth.  “Don’t worry,” he says with a sickening wide grin, distorting that indifferent face. “I’ll feed you with the finest grass too. And you will taste delicious!”  The lid falls shutting you from the rest of the world.


With a placid look in his eyes he began to write as he did every day the story of a young man’s life. Sitting in an overwhelmingly grey room with just a desk and a pipe above his head that dispensed new pens anytime the ink would run out, he scribbled across the coarse white pages with his black pen documenting every mundane action of the day. Of the countless books he had written this was as unremarkable as the next. The only thing that would break up his day would be the sound of a pen coming down the shoot as the ink ran dry on the one currently occupying his hand. It got to the point where he could sense it was about to happen. He would toss the old pen in the box next to his desk, reach his bony fingers out, catch the new one mid-air and continue to write without missing a step. Just then a sound from the pipe above. *It’s not time for a new pen* he thought. He emptied his hands and looked up curiously as he caught and grasped a new pen. *Purple?* he said to himself. Turning the pen over in his hand he stared in wonder. Smiling, he placed the pen to the paper. Never has he been so excited to write for a story before in his life. Page after page filled with the most vibrant purple ink, story upon story. At times he would stop writing because he couldn’t stop laughing at the story that was unfolding before him. Cackling, leaning back in his chair and wiping tears from his eyes he would weave the most incredible tale that he has ever had the joy of writing. At the end of the day he flipped through the pages he had filled out. With a nod of his head he twisted the pen in his finger tips one last time, closed the book and set the pen down lovingly across the cover as he left to get some rest. The following morning he returned, eager to see what else this purple pen could do. He sat down and went to reach for the pen, but it was gone. In it’s place a black pen. Terrified he lifted up the book, flipped through the pages frantically searching for the purple pen. He looked under his desk, all around his work station, everywhere in the little grey room and found nothing. Looking up he saw the metal pipe the pen came from and began to get angry. In a fit of rage he stood on his chair and shook the pipe, beating on it and pulling it, cursing at it wanting to know why the pen was gone. After awhile he resigned himself to defeat and sat down and grabbed the black pen. Opening the book to the fresh new page he noticed something different. The ink from the purple pen had bled through. Slamming the pen down he picked up the book and flipped through the remainder of the pages. Each and every one had purple markings. Some with just a bit of a line, some small blotches, while others the entire page was tinted purple. Laughing a deep belly laugh he smiled at the book flipping the pages back and forth. He stood up and danced, spinning around holding the book outstretched. When he finally stopped moving he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The purple was laying on the top of the box of old pens. Slowly he reached down and picked it up, smiling and cuddling it against his face, he sat it down at the top of his desk and began to write. No longer did he have a dull empty expression, but a tiny smirk. He would laugh at the purple stained pages, hoping that some day in the future he would get another purple pen and be able to write those wonderful stories from before.


The Steel Guardian It appeared one day after school, after another round of bullying from my classmates, and gave me quite a fright, to put it lightly. I was bullied a lot; it became part of my daily routine, and to avoid it, I often hid in the library or an empty classroom. But it hardly ever worked; they always found me, one way or another. This time, it happened in the parking lot, which by now, was nearly empty. The only occupants were the stoners and smokers, and they kept to themselves. Not that I would’ve asked for help, anyway. There was no point. And I kept looking at the only bright spot on my horizon: one more semester, and I’d be off to college, making a fresh start in a new city far away from my tiny town. “You know, it’s almost boring, pushing you around anymore,” Tiberius ‘Tiger’ Santos sneered around the cigarette in his mouth. “You don’t even fight back.” He shoved my shoulders, and I landed hard on my back, my backpack doing little to cushion my fall to the blacktop. He squatted down in front of me and smirked, drawing his fist back to hit me, likely right in the nose, to upset my glasses. “Then why even bother, Tiger?” I grumbled when I got my breath back. He shrugged, his smirk taking up the lower half of his face. “Because it’s fun. Because I’m bored. Just because. You like to act like you’re invisible, but I see you. You’re nothing. A speck. Dirt on the bottom of my shoes.” There was a high-pitching, whining squeal above me, and I squinted, trying to pinpoint the source of the sudden noise. A crash shortly followed; when flat gray feet met the parking lot, cracks expanded around them. “Step away from my human, Tiberius Santos, or I will make sure you cannot make another move for the rest of your days.” The voice was clipped, monotone, robotic, and an arm with some sick-looking blasters at the end of it hovered inches away from my bully’s face, coating his face in a bright scarlet wash, like blood. “What the fuck? What did you do, you sick freak? If this is some prank to take the piss out of me, I swear to God, I’ll pound you!” Tiger squealed, and despite the fact that I didn’t know what was going on either, I couldn’t help but feel a spiteful glee in seeing him squirm. Served him right. “You heard him, Tiger. Step off, or you’re gonna end up with blasters to the face.” I said, smiling up at him. “I’ll get you for this, you fucking nerd!” Tiger hollered as he turned tail and ran away from my mysterious protector. “You’re dead!” I stood up, and I got my first real look at the machine that saved my life. It was a life-sized robot, all decked out in silver and black chrome, with blasters that receded back into its metallic arms, and its bright red eyes found mine. Unbelievably, it was smiling. “Who are you? *What* are you?” “I’m your guardian angel. Robot. I’m here to protect you.


She was crumbling before them, dirt and blood mingling with the scattered tears; ugly sobs escaping from her small, petite form. Her knees pressed harshly into the ground, the wind snapping at her clothes and hair. Bloody knuckles splayed towards the sky, white palms trying to stablize her trembling form. They watched her fall, head bowed, shoulders shaking. And he smiled. Arms crossed behind him, feet delicately dancing on the gravel to a silent beat, he approached her form. As he stood over her, she shook her head, finally tilting it up to look at him. He crouched down, taking her face between his thumb and forefinger. He dragged his thumb over her cheek, brushing away the blood, sweat, tears, dirt, and everything else that sat on her skin. She heaved through the sobs, trying to catch her breath through the tears. "Shh." He cooed, eyes tracing her face, memorizing every detail in his mind. She hiccuped, sobs pausing momentarily before picking up again. "There, there." He raised his other hand to comb through her hair, "Now, then. Let's take a deep breath, and try to calm down." He took an exaggerated breath in, leading her through various steps to stop the sobs so she could properly breath again. "In, and out. In... And out." He voice soft, he looked into her shiny eyes, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her cheek. Finally, her sobs quieted, breathes shaky, but slower than before. "Now, are we feeling a little bit better?" His tone was almost concerned. She gave a weak nod, the colour in her palms finally coming back as she leaned off them slightly. Tears still streamed down her face, albeit slower now. "Good... That's good." He murmured, his hand still absentmindedly dragging over her face and the other through her scalp. "Why?" She croaked out, glossy eyes burning into his own, searching for an answer, a reason, *anything*. "Because," He smiled, "We're just alike, you and I." That's when she pulled away, jerking her face from his hands, a scowl upon her trembling lips. His smile never faltered. "Broken. Damaged." He stood, fixing his cuffs and straightening his tie. "Unwanted. Unloved." She flinched, eyes taking refuge on the gravel, fingers picking at the tiny pebbles. "I know what you're going through-" He began. "No, you don't." She spat. "Yes, I do." He insisted, crouching low again. "I've been in your exact same shoes. I've had people chase me away, cry out at the blood on my hands," He reached his hand out to cup her face again, but hesitated. Curling the long fingers into a fist, he drew it away again. "Shiver away from my touch." His voice trembled this time, but he cleared his throat, looking up into her curious eyes. "You're not a monster." "I am." Her tone almost broke him, heavy with self guilt and blame and remorse. "You're *not*." He placed his hand atop hers, placing his knees on the gravel as well. "I can help you." She looked hopefully into his eyes, straining to see any lies. "I can. And I will. They'll love you again. They'll forget you ever did anything wrong." He spoke quicker, overcome with his own excitement. She flinched again, eyes fluttering away. "Not that you did. In my eyes, anyway." He dipped his head, locking eyes with her again. He brought his head up, leading hers with his own. "It was an accident, wasn't it? You didn't mean to, did you?" She shook her head, eyes pooling up with tears again. "O-of course not- I would... I would never-No!" "Shh, shh, shh. Its okay, I know you wouldn't." He pulled her into a hug, dragging his fingers through her hair, the others gathering the fabric of her shirt in the back. She let out another choked sob, arms tangling around his back, fingers grasping weakly at the fabric. He scooped her into his arms, carrying her away. Trudging through the smoke and ash, through the dead bodies, which were still smouldering and burning. She tucked her face into his shoulder, pulling slightly at the fabric of his jacket. He carried her away from the burning town, sweet nothings drowning out the cries of pain.


"No". Her first word was already one strike against her. The mother blurted out an unintelligible, "squaaapp!" Hearing this, the father rushes into the room and utters an inquisitive, "Bluagh??" He immediately begins writing on the chalkboard hanging from his neck like a large pendant. It read, "What is the matter?" The wife furiously scribbles, "She spoke. She said, no." It was a similar chalkboard to his hanging from her neck. She holds the chalkboard right in his face, as was fashionable at the time when you wanted to yell at someone. "No!" The child shouts. "No, no, no, noooooonooo." The parents let out incredible sobs consisting of , "bluptts", "fludds", plostttiots" and "clisssptooos". "How many is that?" The mother writes. His written reply was, "Four, five... I dont know. That last one didnt count." Feeling the attention being drawn from herself, the daughter lets loose a tirade of at least 35 "no's". She is not content and doesnt stop until both parents are in shock, just staring at her. The mother writes in very small letters, meant to be a whisper, "How did she learn to pronounce?" The father looks at her for a long time. He takes his chalkboard off of his neck and writes, "come into the other room so she cant hear me..." He puts his chalkboard on the floor and walks out of the room without it. It takes the mother some time to follow. "Why would he leave his chalkboard." She thought. "What did he mean by, so she cant hear me!" Horrified by what she feared was about to happen, she grabs his chalkboard and several of his scattered chalks and runs after him. Finding him sitting in front of the fire in his normal chair directly across from her's, where they used to sit together and write tiny blocks of text to eachother. Each one written so small that the other could not possibly read, but each one so full of love and lust that their mutual desire for togetherness was as obvious and powerul as that from two people so in love and foolish that they would speak their desires out loud. She holds his chalkboard out to him. He refuses with a gesture. She presses the chalkboard into his hands to get him to come to his sences, but he wont grab it no matter how hard she tries. He stands and steps back as she collapses on the floor in a heap in front of him. She cant look at him as he begins speaking. "He is killing himself", she screams in her head as she counts down his words. He began in spoken words; "I taught her how to pronounce." "Why would you do that. Why would you kill our child." She wrote. He speaks again. "I know that she is not my child." "I made a mistake", she writes. "When I was a boy, my grandfather spoke to me." He continued. Each word she heard drew him closer to death. As the total neared 95, she stopped him and wrote, "Dont do it. I am sorry." He paused for a moment and continued, "he told me that..." He was interrupted by her begging him to stop. For the first time in her 32 years, she spoke, "Take care of her, I know you love her." He turns away confused, only to hear the sound of his wife unlatching the third story window. There is no other sound to be heard but a distant thump as the father had already made his way back to the daughters room. He holds his wifes daughter close and makes cooing sounds to her as she continues to babble the word "no". 97... "No", 98.. "No", 99..."No". He couldnt watch what was coming next so he continues his story, "...


It was Tuesday so, a slow day in the diner. Weekends, everyone is partying. Monday everyone is either hung-over or just sick of starting the same ole shit, new week. Wednesday and Thursday, they begin to look forward to, and make plans for, the weekend. Then Friday begins the cycle again. But Tuesday, Tuesday everyone just “coasts”. They don’t want to go out, so it’s typically our slowest day.  A few usual's were in and out. Now we’re almost empty. It’s just after 11 pm and I see Jason finishing up busing tables at the end of his shift. Jason’s an ex-con. I never got in trouble myself. (Who am I kidding . . . I just never got caught.) So I occasionally pick one getting released and try and give them a better start back in the real world. To help move them off the path I know I narrowly avoided.  Jason cleans tables, and helps out in the kitchen. Sue, the cook, is teaching him a thing or two. He’s not a half bad cook, I’m just not sure he’ll ever have the gumption to seize control and be an actual “cook in command” alone somewhere.  I catch Jason as he’s carrying the last tub of dishes to the back for the night., “Jason, when you get done, if you have a few minutes stop by my office.”  “OK”, he says, head down now, continuing on to the back.  I amble back to the office and begin going through tonight's inventory counts, getting restock orders ready for tomorrow. Five or so minutes later, I hear a knock on the door, and see Jason crack it open and look in. “Come in Jason, have a seat.”  Jason closes the door behind himself, and sits down. Literally “hat in hand”, rolling the rim of the navy blue toboggan around in his hands. “Are you going to fire me?”, he asks.  I look over at him, “What? No, no.”, I pause, slower, “No. I’m not firing you. You’re doing a great job. The diner is spotless. Or at least so clean, last month’s health inspector ask if we’d changed ownership.”, I chuckle, “And Sue says you’re picking up a thing or two in the kitchen. You’re doing fine on the work part.”  I exhale and lean back in my chair, “You ever have one of those moments, where, you’re not exactly having an original thought, you just hear one thing in one place, read another thing somewhere else, next thing you know, two or three seemingly unrelated things come together and you have a realization?”  “I don’t think so.”, Jason looks confused.  “Well OK, it’s been happening to me lately. One of the things was a quote, I can’t remember who said it . . . ‘You should only give advice at two times, when someone asks for it, or because someone is about to hurt themselves.’ I’m gonna break that rule and try and pass on some advice. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll just make things worse. I can see that it’s been hard going for you lately. You’re not the first person I’ve hired right out of prison, or the first person in the job you have now. Maybe some of the customers have picked up on that, and some of the ‘less-nice’ ones are giving you a hard time. And if some are giving you a hard time here, then you’re probably getting the same at your apartment and other places.”  “Sometimes.”, Jason nods.  “There are a lot of bad things about prison. One is that, we (society) take people having a hard time out in the world, and put them in a place that is even harder and more unrelenting. For those not bad to the core, but who just made a few bad choices, we’re not taking the bad and trying to make them good again, we’re instead putting them with even harder, even worse people, and are shocked when they leave prison worse than when they went in.”  Jason leans back in his chair, stops fidgeting with his cap and listens as I continue.  “This is going to sound strange, but I want you to answer a question. You don’t have to answer it out loud, because the answer isn’t for me, it’s for you alone. And I ask myself this question from time to time. It’s sort of a ‘thought experiment’.”  I look down from Jason at my hands on the desk, “Pretend, you know everything you know now. But, the year is 1920, and you are about to be born. With all the understanding you already have, God is asking you . . . ‘Who do you want to be born as?’ Now, most people, knowing what we do about the approaching 1939-1945 years would say, ‘I want to be one of those plucky Americans that sweep the world, leading the charge to halt the forces of evil.’ But, God tells you, ‘Sorry, right now almost everyone wants that. All those positions went fast, and first. There are only two slots open now. You can be a Jew, that will die in Auschwitz at the age of 22, or, you can be an SS officer in charge of exterminating prisoners in the same camp.’ Who do you choose to be?”  I lean back in my chair and look at Jason, who understandably seems confused and continue, “I think about the question a lot, during my idle moments. If ‘saving yourself or saving others’ wasn’t an option, would I choose to be ‘Victim’? Or ‘Victimizer’?, if those were my only options. It’s a hard choice. Maybe an impossible one. No one wants to be the lamb, the victim. And (hopefully) only a few want to be the wolf, the victimizer. Many more, wish/hope/pray that they can be the sheep-dog. Someone able to protect themselves, and fend off any foes (wolves), and not be an innocent lamb waiting to be slaughtered. But, we’re not all built to be sheep-dog’s, mentally or physically. And even if we were at one point earlier in our lives, as the years pass, health, reaction times, and muscle strength inevitably declines, even those that were once sheep-dogs, drift towards the lamb end of the spectrum.”  Still seated, but leaning a little over the table, hands flat on the desk now as I look directly at Jason, “Prison teaches you to be a wolf. It reinforces the idea that there are no sheep-dog’s. No one is going to save you. And you can either be a wolf or a sheep. You had to be a wolf in there, just to survive. But, now, you’re not in prison any more. You’re back out in the ordinary world where people live their lives, and make most of their decisions out of FEAR. And most likely, the people who treat you badly, are afraid of you. I’ve seen the way some of the people treat you as you clear the tables. If it’s a regular, or someone I know, I try and correct their behavior. But I can’t always catch everyone, some are just strangers passing through, plus I’m not always there, when you have to deal with people other places.”  I lean back in my chair again, clasp my hands together, interlacing the fingers on the desk and look up at Jason, “The last five years have reinforced you to be a wolf. And now you’ve back out among the lambs. So, whenever someone raises their voice to you, or demeans you, you instantly flash back to being surrounded by wolves in prison. Your trained instinct is to ‘be a wolf back’, to protect yourself from them. So, I’m going to ask you do the hardest possible thing. I’m going to ask you to ‘Have Mercy On Them.’ Now, understand. It’s not going to ‘get you anything’. Not exactly. People won’t suddenly, or maybe ever, respect you. They won’t turn their personalities around and start treating you better.”  I pause, “Like many of us, you’re not really in the position to be the sheep-dog. Fresh out of prison, if you fight, even justifiably so, you’ll take the hit as the ‘wrong party’ no matter who started it. But, I’m not asking you to be the lamb either. I’m asking you to *‘Know you are a wolf, choose to have mercy on them and not strike back.'* Not out of weakness, or fear on your part, but out of the strength of knowing after five hard years of prison, you could probably rip one of their arms off and beat them to death with it. To hold yourself steady in the face of simple verbal abuse, out of the strength of being a wolf who chooses to have mercy on those who, most likely, don’t deserve it.”  I shake my head, “I’m probably not making sense.”, I exhale again and stand up from the chair, “It doesn’t matter. Head on home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night Jason.”, I stand and extend my hand to shake his, as he rises and returns the handshake.  Jason stops on his way out with the door half open, pauses for a moment looking back at me, “Thanks boss. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  And I wonder as the door gently closes, if the wolf in Jason has made a decision.


Boom. A water tower falls in the middle of an empty strawberry field. Lonesome strawberries sit helplessly as the creaking and cracking wooden sphere falls to earth. Crunch. The strawberries are flooded and smashed by the dump of water, creating an almost jelly-like substance that slowly flows out from the wreck. Draining towards the running workers, the jelly creates a trail from where the bomb exploded. Splish-Splosh. Workers muddied boots rush through the sloshing soil. The farm hands were on break when the bomb went off; but, their break was cut off by the fallen timber. When they arrive at the site they notice the deep red jelly that has attached to their boots. Swoosh. An older farm hand, with signs of poor aging and substance abuse, slides his hand across his brown boots and catches some jelly on his middle finger. The dark red has covers his finger with it’s sticky substance, and slowly oozes down. His eyes study the contents, and he moves his finger up to his nose to examine the smell. Nothing. No scent evades his nostril. And so he opens his mouth and rubs his middle finger on his tongue. Slick. Jelly meshes with saliva, and through its chemical properties, the two bond together to form a heavy and dense foam. The old man struggles, for a few seconds, to breath and then falls to the ground clutching at his neck. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He is rolling in the dark red jelly as if his body is in full spasm. He is fully covered in the substance and he is dead. The foam spills out of his mouth and spirals into the jelly. Bddddd-Bdddddd. Far from this incident, on a perch overlooking the field, the ringing of a phone is going off. A man with binoculars is waiting for the other line to pick-up. Click. “Millybroke Car Wash, how may I help you?”, goes the other line. “The tower has fallen”, Says the man. “Yes, we do offer a deluxe wash. Thank you for calling, and have a nice day!” Click. The man looks again at the field and the oasis of red that has formed. Field hands are running amuck, and his job is done. The tower has fallen, and the strawberry field is not dry.  \[ I would love any feedback, or recommendations. I'm thinking this will be the intro to a feature film of some sort.. Would love any thoughts about anything considering this short story \] \[ I'm trying to figure out where to go from here. I think I've set up the first act pretty solidly as we are now hooked and need to figure out what is going on... I'm thinking that maybe I introduce a new character who will get thrown into all of this and have to figure everything out. Maybe the old man is a relative of his or something...


For the Greater Good “I’m afraid that the Emperor has suffered a stroke.” Your voice booms out in the cavernous cathedral, greeted by quiet protests and whispers. You wait until the talking dies down, and continue. “However, fear not, my dear people. Shortly before he became ill, he made me his regent. I will be assisting in ruling the kingdom. Our Emperor speaks through me, and I hope to remedy the gaping wounds that our land still bears. The Kingdom will thrive under a new golden age, of prosperity, peace, and wealth, and I hope The Council, nobles, and gentry find it within their hearts and power to assist me.” This fine speech hangs in the air like an expensive, rare perfume, and hesitant, scattered applause meets your words. “We will meet again, tomorrow, after breaking our fast. For now, I ask that you all keep this to yourselves. It would not do for our enemies and dissenters to know that our ruler is so vulnerable.” You know, though, that this will have the opposite effect, and you’re banking on it, because you will right everything that the Emperor has done; you’ve been waiting for such an opportunity since The Divine One came into power at the young age of seventeen. Rash, emotional, and foolish, he has made quite a mess of things. If his parents had not been summoned to the sky shortly before he’d been crowned, you are sure that they would be shaking their heads in disappointment. You watch to make certain that everyone in the room has exited, already talking amongst themselves. Your plan is already working beautifully. You couldn’t do it any better if you tried. \*\* For your part, you begin your retreat to the far western chambers, where the monarch is being sequestered. You find yourself wondering if this event could be the will of the gods, or perhaps the Emperor’s own ancestors. You aren’t one to believe in cosmic events, but this seems too neat. You are broken from your thoughts by a servant running down the hall, flat, wooden shoes clacking loudly on the floor, disturbing the silence. “Grand Advisor, The Emperor is demanding your presence in his rooms at once.” The girl says, only hastily remembering her manners and curtsying, her head bowed. “Please, sir, come quickly.” “Send for some fortifying broth and some green tea, with honey,” you say to her as you walk past her, toward my ward’s chambers. You push open the double doors without knocking; if it’s as urgent as the servant makes it seem, there is no need for such formalities. “What is it, Your Majesty?” You ask, walking swiftly to the bed and kneeling down beside it, so you are at eye level with your ruler. You stare into his eyes, dead and black like lumps of coal, and he reaches toward you with his good hand, the left, to tap out a message on your arm. Long before you were ever the Emperor’s advisor, you both came up with a language of taps and clicks in order to communicate without being spied upon. His touch is like ice on your skin, and it takes all of your self-restraint not to pull away. *Tap. Tap tap tap. Click-click, tap.* Your blood chills in your veins. *“I know what you’ve done. I know you did this to me.”* All the blood flees your face, and you know it. You are caught. All the scheming, social-climbing, all the favors you’ve called in, exposed. But really, who would believe him? After all, the only way he can talk is through you. He is your puppet.


Granddad of the Dead The necromancer lived in the mausoleum at the center of a graveyard, and the ancient stone building shone bone-white in the moonlight. It was a beautiful night, the dark navy fabric of the sky speckled with bright stars like jewels. Tonight, he was expecting visitors. Of all people, his son-in-law, his daughter, and their child, his grandchild. But not his only grandchild, oh no! His daughter was expecting, and they were dropping off Violet for a bit of well-earned time together. He was looking forward to it, even though it had been years (literally, years) since he had actually babysat. How, exactly, could he use his powers to entertain Violet? He wasn’t exactly good with children; he could barely remember his own daughter at that young age. But they’d find something to do, surely. He could be hip like the young adults that his daughter and son-in-law were. The necromancer was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the series of sharp knocks on the door. He walked through the mausoleum to the front door and pulled it open with a dull scrape. On the threshold stood his daughter, Hecate, and his son-in-law, Prometheus. In Hecate’s arms, Violet was squirming to be let down, wriggling like a fish. She wore a dress as purple as her name, adorned with yellow daisies. Her short, reddish-blonde curls were loose, and her bright green eyes seemed to sparkle, even in the damp, dark resting place that was his home. She was beautiful. “Okay, Daddy, we’re leaving now. We’ll be back in a few hours. And remember, no necromancy around the baby!” Hecate said, hissing the last part under her breath so Violet wouldn’t hear. She was dressed in a sparkling, wine-colored dress that showed off her baby bump, diamond earrings sparkling in her earlobes. Her long, dark curls were gathered in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck, and she tottered in five-inch heels; her father resisted the urge to laugh. Only his daughter would come to a graveyard in such fancy footwear. “I love you, Daddy.” Hecate murmured, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. Then she swooped down on Violet and kissed her forehead. “Please be good for your Granddad, okay, baby? We’ll be back in a few hours. Have fun. I love you!” Violet nodded, smiling up at her mother. Prometheus smiled at his father-in-law, handing off the diaper bag to him. “Thank you so much for this, Alastair, sir. We really appreciate it.” “How many times have I told you not to call me ‘sir’ anymore?” Alastair replied, laughing jovially. “You’ve been married to my daughter for almost five years now. Call me Al.” He winked. Hecate tugged on her husband’s arm, impatient to leave. “Come on, honey, I don’t want to mess our reservation at the restaurant.” With a final wave, the couple parted, with Hecate blowing kisses at Violet. \*\* “Grandad, let’s do something fun!” Violet squealed, jumping around him in circles. She was like a tiny little ball of sunshine, full of energy and so much joy. It made him wonder if he’d made the wrong choice, all those years ago, choosing to excel in the forbidden, dark arts. Perhaps his life would be entirely different, had he taken the alternate path. “What would you like to do, darling?” Alastair asked. He’d bought several coloring books, crayons and markers and colored pencils, as well as puzzles, sketch paper, and even an ancient TV and a bunch of kids’ movies. Just because he didn’t have company much didn’t mean that he couldn’t keep his granddaughter entertained. “Let’s have a dance party, Granddad!” Alastair hoped fervently that Hecate would not reprimand him. But surely this counted as an exception. “Very well!” The old man raised his arms and his fingers glowed bright lime green. At his gesture, there was a groaning, scraping sound, and then the dead were emerging from their stone coffins to dance around the child. Alastair hummed a jaunty tune, and in the middle of it all was Violet, spinning in circles and laughing happily. She clapped her hands and swayed back and forth, jumped up and down, and Alastair’s minions began to mimic her. Perhaps this magic wasn’t so useless after all.


Chew, chew*, Pop*! She certainly looked out of place where she was. A young girl, no older than twenty, blonde hair done up in pigtails, dressed in gothic Lolita attire and chewing bubble gum in an abandoned alleyway of some god forsaken corner of Nova Roma. Such a sight would be strange anywhere but more so here in one of the worst crime-ridden cities in the country. Yet she didn't care as she continued to stroll through the filthy ally. Of course, such nonchalance was bound to attract attention and eventually it did. A passing drunk with a posse wandered by. Perhaps it was the synthenal, perhaps it was the fact that he had others with him, or perhaps it was simply because he was stupid but this one decided to go and “ask” the pretty girl to spend time with him. He quickly matched pace with her and leaned down to look at her. “Well aren't you a pretty thing, why don't you come with me? I'm sure I can show you a good time.” ‘*Pop’* was her only reply. This angered the pig. “What, don't think I’m good enough for ya? You think I’m fat! You think I’m ugly don't ya!” He continued to project onto the young girl whose only reply was still ‘*Pop’*. “I’ll show you! Hmpf” He swung a fist at her head, or rather, where her head was. In his alcohol impaired mind, she appeared to dodge in a blink of an eye, when in actually he was just slow. The girl put out her leg, tripping him and with her right hand guided his fist into a nearby wall, smashing through the brick and becoming stuck. She then brought her pointed shoe back to deliver a kick to his unprotected groin. ‘*Pop’* Seeing how easily their boss was dealt with the goons panicked and fled causing the girl to sigh and move past the now whimpering degenerate. Before she could go any further however, a ringing could be heard inside her head. Tapping a button installed on the side of her head an image only she could see popped into her vision showing a girl and a waitress uniform with medium brown hair. Instantly her hard, unmoving features softened and she smiled, “Serena. How are you? I was just about to- “ Before she could get another word in Serena scowled. “How are you? How are you! I haven’t heard anything from you all day! I’ve been trying to reach you for five hours by now!” she grimaced remembering all the times she ignored her calls. To be fair, she didn’t want her to see what she was doing. “I just want to look out for you. What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t keep you safe?” “I know, I know. Look, I’ve been working and I couldn’t pick up my phone. If I did my clients would kill me. I’ve got one more stop and then ill be home. See ya.” And with that she ended the call. Her face once again hardened as the neon glow from the main road flashed, no need for anyone to see that other side of her. She wandered through the crowds until she got to the transport station. She stopped to get a new pack of gum and spit out the old, bland piece. Once in she went up to locker 224 and entered the usual combination. Inside was a guitar case. After retrieving the item, she began to move to the second location. She had found that one of the best ways to feign ignorance about her activates was to stand out. Everyone would see her so of course she couldn’t have done it. She smiled maliciously at the innocent act she pulled off every day. As she arrived at the high rise and began to climb the stairs, she thought back to how she got into this line of business as she continued to chew. *Pop.* It hadn’t been entirely by choice, as one you are recruited you can only accept or die. The training had been harsh but she pushed through and even excelled, graduating at the top of her class. Once out she chose to base in this city, one full of greed and corruption; perfect for business. The fact that her sister lived her was a plus as well. They had always been close friends but after their mom and dad died in a car accident, she was the only person she could rely on. Her mind came back to the present as reached the 42nd floor. The second room on the right from the stairs was where her handler had told her to go. Upon entering the room all she saw was a large window, a bottle of water, and an ear piece. She quickly put the ear piece in and opened the guitar case, revealing a disassembled sniper rifle. As she began putting the pieces together her ear piece cracked to life. “Agent 4, your assignment tonight is simple. The target is a waitress at the restaurant across the street. Company agents have filled to room and no other civilians should be within sight. Once you have finished cleanup will be handled by the usual team.” For a brief second, she paused, something about this didn’t seem right. The usual targets were much more challenging than this. It almost seemed as if the company was trying to make this as easy as possible. Yet it didn’t matter, she was a killer and kill she would. *Pop.* With a click she loaded the magazine into the rifle and aimed at the poor soul, seeing them for the first time. Her immediate thought was ‘that’s a lot like Serena’s uniform.’ And then she noticed the hair, and her posture, and eventually her face once she turned around. She gasped, the chewed piece of gum falling from her mouth. “No.” she whimpered, realizing what she had to do. Tears began to stream from her eyes. The ear piece crackled again, “agent 4 you must do this. You know as well as I do that agent can not have any emotional attachments. You told me when you started that you always dreamed of this life. You need to do it. Pull the trigger and become a true assassin.” She could barely hear her handler over the sound of her own sobbing. It was true, she had always loved spy thrillers and dreamed about that life since she was young. But was it worth it? Her sister had loved her, cared for her at her darkest hour. Was this how she would repay her? She knew her answer. After glancing around at the other agents in the restaurant she took a deep breath. *Pop.


Two Good Men and the Four Horsemen “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Bob,” A voice emerged from the darkness, mild and gentle. “It’ll be all right, Fred. There was a reason that we came here.” Another voice soothed, and for a while, they were only accompanied by the hoarse croaking *caw, caw* of the crows. Then a bright, blinding golden light split the quiet, and the portal widened as four figures emerged from it, all of them astride horses. Two men and two women, an even split. And in response, the men waiting in the dark stood up, ready to meet them. “We know who you are,” Bob said, his tone as friendly and affable as before. “But I’m afraid we cannot let you pass, friends.” He smiled at the newcomers, and then he pulled a plastic palette from his pocket, as well as a set of old, weathered paintbrushes. Fred Rogers smiled at them, standing up and pulling out several puppets from inside of the bag he’d set before him. “You are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, aren’t you?” He asked, surveying the biblical threat that stood before him. “I’m Mr. Fred Rogers, and that fine man over there is Bob Ross. And we’re going to send you straight back to the pages of the Good Book, where you belong.” \*\* For their part, the Four Horsemen looked at one another, baffled. When they’d been freed by the breaking of the seals, the last thing they’d expected was opposition, even if this was a very odd sort. These men were quite foolish if they thought they were going to escape this unscathed. The second horseman, astride a reddish, proud roan with flaming golden eyes, stared at the men, eyes narrowed. “You must be joking. Paintbrushes and puppets? Hardly weapons that are ready for battle.” He laughed, tossing his proud head, the sound rich and melodic. He was tall and muscular, with cold gray eyes and dark curls, as well as a silvering goatee. He was clothed in red armor, and in one of his hands, he held a deadly, wicked sharp halberd. “I am War, the Red Horseman, and you are merely two foolish mortals. What hope do you have at stopping the Apocalypse, which has been written in the Holy Book long before your kind ever drew breath?” Much to his surprise, instead of being intimidated, the two men just laughed. “We may be humans, Mr. War,” Bob said gently, smiling, his eyes crinkling up kindly at the edges, “But we are some of the best of them. And we aren’t going to let the whole of humanity be swept away without even a fight.” Fred laughed, and the sound was like a clear, sweet tolling of a bell. “You really shouldn’t underestimate the good in people. There’s a lot of bad things in this world, that’s true. But we know better than most that the good outweighs any evil that this world can cook up.” “We’re the proof.” Bob said. The two men looked at each other, nodded, and readied themselves for battle.


When I was 18 there was a lightning storm. It lasted for hours, the sky flashing and light dancing around me. I could smell the electricity in the air. I thought, for a moment, I saw something in those clouds. A dark shape. A round disk. I was 17, and she was my first love. She laughed with total freedom - throwing her head back and losing herself. Her eyes sparkled and her whole mouth showed. She never covered her face and I could count the teeth in her mouth. It was not a light tinkling laugh, but one that came from deep within her, and consumed her. She snorted and chortled and roared. Her garden was overgrown and wild. I don't remember her moving in, but I do remember a time when she did not live there. The earth was barren and rocky. And then a time came when she lived there, and it seemed as though she always did - as though she sprang from the rock and clay fully formed, house, garden and all. She was no older than I, though I never saw any family. She grew tomatoes and cucumbers, Basel, thyme and rosemary, lettuce and squash. She had chickens. She worshipped the earth, and the sun smiled on her. She was not what you would call conventionally attractive. She was tall, and her eyes were slightly too far apart. he forehead was larger than normal, and her feet slightly crooked, but She radiated life and light. Her presence seemed to fill every space around her, and her force was magnetic. She captivated me, and I, with the sun and the earth, worshiped her. On our first date, I took her to the movies. I forget what we saw. She talked the whole way through, though I didn't mind. Her voice was overwhelming. I clung to every word. On our third date we went to a field and I watched in awe as purple flowers bloomed around her, moved by her touch into life. We lay in those flowers for hours, her eyes sparkling in the fading light. 'Sometimes I think I am not of this world. Sometimes I feel the earth and the flowers around me, the sun on my skin, and as though I am bound by my body and physics, lost in this world. One day I will remember my true nature and be free from this plane of existence. Unbounded' When I was 18 there was a lightning storm. It lasted for hours, the sky flashing and light dancing around me. I could smell the electricity in the air. I thought, for a moment, I saw something in those clouds. A dark shape. A round disk. The world seemed to change in some underlying way, and at that moment I felt as though I was suddenly falling, as though gravity no longer held me and the earth was no longer beneath my feet. When it passed the dark shape was gone. So was she. Her garden never wilted, and the sun seemed to smile on it always.


The Lonely Reflection I couldn’t remember any time of my life without the mirror. It had been passed down in our family for generations, and it looked like something out of a fairy tale. I’d always been told that if you didn’t look at it, its wrath was unleashed, and the way always changed. There had always been mysterious deaths, sure, but I figured it was nothing but superstition, creepy stories told to children to make them behave, or to haunt their dreams before they fell asleep. It was framed with wood so dark that it looked almost black, like trees shrouded in the cloak of night, with bright green vines climbing all around it. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of Snow White and Grimhilde’s mirror, though this one was not crowned with a blank, speaking face, mouth yawning wide. I always had a weird feeling about it, and I’d made a point not to look at it, no matter who it belonged to. It always filled me with something strange: a sense of dread and anticipation all at once. Little did I know, it was soon going to be my turn to inherit the object, which I’d begun to suspect was cursed. \*\* The last person to possess the mirror had passed away, and the coroner had said it was from a heart attack. But I wasn’t so sure. My mother called me in the middle of running errands, and I pulled over, into a parking lot, to answer. “Calliope? What are you doing?” My mother’s voice came through at the other end of the line, without so much as a hello. “I’m running errands, Mom. What’s up? Is everything okay?” “We read Uncle Clay’s will today, and he left you The Mirror. Can you come over to the house and pick it up?” That’s the way she said it, The Mirror. I could hear it in her inflection. “Give me a few hours, and once my errands are finished, I’ll be right over.” “Okay, honey. Would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty, and I worry about you, living in that tiny apartment by yourself. I’m making pot roast.” As tempting as that sounded, I had to decline. “I already have plans, Mom. Thanks. I’ll be there later. I love you.” “At least take some home,” She replied, seeming not to notice that I was hanging up. I continued my errands, but my mind churned. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want that mirror, however beautifully crafted it was. Bad luck seemed to be attached to it, and I didn’t like the way it seemed to be following everyone; like it was watching. It gave me the creeps. \*\* After I ran my errands, I drove to my mother’s house and knocked on the door, eager to take my unwanted heirloom and leave. Though I was hungry, having not eaten since early afternoon, I was tired and eager to go home, throw a sheet over the mirror, and call it a day. My mother answered the door, smiling and giving me a hug; the scents of garlic, rosemary, and roasting meat greeted me like an old friend. “The mirror is in our room. If you need help loading it in your car, I can get your dad from his study.” “No, Mom, I should be all right,” I said, smiling at her and walking down the hall, toward my parents’ bedroom. “Are you quite sure you can’t stay for dinner, dear?” She called after me, and I laughed. The mirror was lying on the bed, faceup, reflecting the ceiling, and I found myself wishing, perhaps unkindly, that Uncle Clay hadn’t passed away. I walked to the bed and went to pick it up, trying not to look straight into the looking-glass proper. But when I peered into it, almost on accident, I could see my face out of the corner of my eye. And it was smiling.


When Dave was just four, he went up to a girl and said that he liked her. The girl started giggling and replied with an “eww!” Dave felt a pain in his chest. He didn’t know what it was at the time, but he would later find out this was heartbreak. This was his first heartbreak. But it would not be his last. A few years past and there was a different girl that caught his eyes. He decided to wow this girl with a handmade card and a dozen roses. He used all of his allowances and gave them to her. He was really excited. The girl liked them and thanked him. She read the card and said, “oh. I’m sorry. You’re so sweet, but I don’t see you in that way.” Dave’s smile disappeared and he received a pity hug. He walked away sad and defeated. This was his second heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Senior year of high school. Dave still never had a girlfriend, but he was determined to change that. “A prom-posal should do the trick,” he thought. He got a bunch of supplies for it. It was perfectly planned and he was ready. However, the day before Dave was going to ask the girl, another guy had beat him to it. Dave couldn’t believe it. That night, he took the poster and ripped it to shreds. He then asked the girl if he had asked first would she have had said yes. She laughed in his face and answered, “of course not!” Dave was crushed. A frown across his face and tears primed to starting flowing onto his cheeks. This was his third heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Dave needed an escape from his tiny hometown. A fresh start in the world. He would travel hundreds of miles away for college. A new group of people. A second chance for a first impression. Dave started college well and made lots of friends. He talked to a lot of girls, but there was one that stood out among the rest. He really liked this one. He enjoyed their conversations and all the times they hung out together. They had been friends for a few months now and Dave decided it was time to ask her out. He felt confident and ready and knew she would say yes. There was just one small issue with his plan... “I have a boyfriend back home,” she said. The words hit him like an express train. Dave’s jaw dropped, his face red with embarrassment. He tried to use whatever confidence he had left to gracefully end this conversation. It didn’t work, he gave her an awkward, stuttering apology and sprinted away. This was his fourth heartbreak, but it would not be his last. Dave used the rest of his time to work on himself. An outside observer would think he had a great life. It seemed he had it all, big house, steady job, nice car, the whole 9 yards. But I know the truth about Dave. He was lonely, he was sad, he had tried and tried to find someone, but it never worked out. Suddenly there was a crash by the window. A robber had entered Dave’s home. Dave came downstairs to see what was going on. Surprised by Dave’s presence, the gunman shot Dave right through the chest and ran away with as much as possible as quickly as possible. Dave fell to the floor with his hand over his heart. He lied on the floor watching his blood pour out. Dave was in great pain until he realized something. This would be his last heartbreak. In his final moments, Dave looked at his wound with a smile on his face. Only is those moments, was Dave truly happy.


In a time before time, when the mountains were still young and volatile, there was a cave of wonder hidden on a far-away rock resting deep out at sea. A shoreland piper lived there, his eyes were bloodshot yet pale. He was not of the fairy-folk, nor of the human-folk. He was an earthbone, an animeyas, a Walker-of-Water-Tone. Of stone was he, so porous and free. Often would he sing of despair and of glee. Yet his heart was with the tart of melon-calling Bree. 'O Breeze!' he would play, always on repeat. The ocean was wide and blue-gray during these beginning days. Islands like his were few and far in between, but many creatures knew of them and flocked to them in hopes of finding caves like his own, or perhaps a tree to make a home. He was well liked by the animals, for he bothered them not and instead sang his songs of forget-me-not. Countless sea-birds would follow him and say 'Play some other tune about some other lady. We hear enough of the Wind already, up here in the air where her gusts swoosh swift and fair." But he would just laugh and continue to whistle and bounce. Sometimes he would make a serious sound and whisper 'Only that which is as heavy as air may catch me like a net of lilly-weed hair.' Deep inside his cave was a cove of sea shells and ancient elf-jewels resting in the salt-brine. It was a place of calm solitude, a place where one could go and hear only the soft whine of the wind and the chirps of chicklings. This was his orchestra. The wind would rush into the fissures of the rock and down into his body holes, issuing forth mellow tones of color and hue. He would place his little hands over other holes and cause different sounds and whistles to come forth. This was his magic. For all the chasms and cracks upon that island would catch up his song and send it out into the airwaves over the ocean, spreading his tune to the islands around him. And as his love for this eternal dance propounded over the multitudes of waves, little pixies and fairies would harken on white sandy beaches. Their little cheeks red with emotion, their eyes closed or open in admiration. The music of the Walker brought joy to the fae folk which in turn gave them visions of ocean sailings and grand escapings. The fairies thought that his songs were about adventure and change. In truth, his songs were about blue longings and new range. One day, the shoreland piper played a tune previously unthought. He had become inspired by watching a massive yellow leaf float ever so gracefully to the surface of his cove. The stars reflected themselves in the still water until the leaf broke the placid jewel-home, giving way to a twinkle of moonshine swoon fickle. The song was, of course, about the wind. His Love deserved nothing less than the best. It was his overture to her, and when he was finished, he would be over singing. The melancholy life of solitude called to him, for he would never be with the wind. All of his life experience he put into this long tale of his love from above. The birds were perched at his cave entrance, while frogs and lizards rested upon the shells of large sea turtles on the beaches. His magic was at work that day, one can be sure of that. He needed no hat to pull off such a feat, only a cove of elf-stone and coral-shell, and a body of hollow bone and show and tell. On the islands nearby, the fairies and pixies danced and played. Oh! Such games they had on that night. They ate berries and drank cordial, but they mostly sat amazed in wild wanderlust. His songs had wisdom and wistful searchings for home and kingdom in them. To them, it was a beckoning. The four fairy queens spoke together in thought from the four islands. The flower fairies wanted to fly and find the orchestrator. The tree pixies thought of asking sea-birds to help them find their chief joy. Yet, the mushroom fairies had the idea at last. They would build rafts of bamboo and of large shells. In this way, they could grow strong as a team for the journey was long and sure to be dangerous. They would use coconuts to hold their flowers, nuts, and mushrooms. In this way, they would survive their journey's end (fae folk tend to be tied to some sort of source). They would make sails out of their hair, and most of the pixies loved their new hair style and felt it fit the strange change they had felt in their hearts. And they would forge paddles of coral to show their love of the sea and give respect to beauty in creation. As the legendary shoreland piper continued to induce wonderment to the young world, the fairy folk sailed to his island using only the melodies he played as a guide. The stone fairies did not join with the others, for they were content in their mountains, listening from afar. The flower fairies had the best singer, and her name was Anthuri. On that great journey, she sang this song quietly to herself. The fairies who heard it did not hate it, nay they said it paired perfectly with the angelic song already playing. "O silent silver streams, they wash my hair. From quiet meadow springs, I've taken my lair. Only the tale of tales could give me this scare. What is this I feel? What is this soothing light? Am I going to peel upon the very first sight? My journey is long. My night abound. I will chase this life. I will chase this sound." And so it went for quite a while. Anthuri only stopped her singing when she saw the island the fairies and pixies were seeking. They left their boats upon the shore, and floated after a heart worth keeping. Dreamland kisses of tonal hisses rifted by the fairy misses, beckoning them to the cove of lilies. They passed by turtles and crabs sleeping upon the beaches, and they passed by birds and 'munks resting upon the branches. The cove was beckoning, and they were following. When they peered through the dim opening of the cave, they at first were confused. No man or elf could be seen there, no fairy or beast was singing. Nay, it was a little rock creature covered with pockmarked holes standing there upon the brink of the cove like an orchestrator looking out upon his band. He moved with Grace, and he seemed to have no face, yet in him was a light known only to reside within the fright of fairy kind. He was akin to them, being an animeyas, being an animated spirit, but he was different. The fairies collapsed into a long sleep as his song reached its crescendo, and oceanside memories licked across their dreaming minds. When they awoke, they found that the rock-child was gone, and they knew not where. All over the island they looked, but to no avail. Until, finally, a young pixie named Willow Switch saw a grove of palms upon a high mesa upon the island. The fairies rounded themselves together and ascended to the peak of the mesa, seeking this mista’. There they found him, dancing and singing with odd little creatures who were of similar size to the pixie-folk. The creatures were fuzzy like a kiwi fruit, and they had two antenna protruding from their foreheads. They wore no clothes nor suits, and they had wings upon their backs that seemed as soft as a silk-bed. Together with the Walker, they danced and sang and laughed and played. The fairies were at first in shock at this new beginning, but they quickly joined in with the fun. It was soon to be realized by the fairies that these new creatures were to be their counterparts. When the fairies would raise their arms, the others would drop theirs. When the fairies wished to rest, the others wished to play. Many of the fairy-folk fell in love that day, for these others were smooth and silly, and acted ever so gay. As all the pixies were female, all the others were male. The queen of the tree fairies spoke aloud and said “My eyes see that we are all fae-folk, somehow. May you tell me what you call yourselves?” And a new creature arose to speak with her. He was slightly larger than the others, yet he was of similar shape and mold. But he had four arms instead of two, and his colorful wings could drape around his shoulders like a cloak. He lifted lazy eyelids and answered thusly. “We are the trow-folk. I am their leader, Kalimah! One day, all of my trows will look as I do. We are herdsmen to the little bugs and birds, or so we think. We awoke upon this mesa just the other day, as our great friend here sang his song of love to the Wind. Finding ourselves alone as his song ended, we lifted our voices together and summoned him to our birthplace. He says his singing brought us here.” And the queen of the flower fairies spoke and said “Why, we fairies awoke when the Wind whispered in the Meadows of our distant birthplace. We are of like kind!” “So it would appear.” said Kalimah with a smile. And the queen of the mushroom fairies stood and beckoned all to her. She was fairest of all the pixies, and Kalimah bowed before her, as did all the other trows. The Walker had only watched the two folks dance and play, and as they spoke he had begun to walk away. He was sad again, for his melancholy would not let him forget his love, and he felt trapped as if in a pen made from the sweetness of sorrow. And the queen sang to the Animeyas, which caused him to turn and listen. “O Walker-of-Water-Tone! Our hearts here have found their home! We will all follow in your footsteps, and sing songs of joyous desires known to be full of love and peps. You have awoken many fires, so do not begin to fret. You are married to the Windy Mother, you are her magical husband-other.” And he saw the truth in her words and began to weep. Who else could play with the wind as he could? Although he could never kiss the wind, he could feel her kisses. Although he may never see her in her majesty, he could sing about how she might look and be. And so, in the springtime of magical enchantment, the Father of Fairy-Folk accepted his heart. He lived no longer with despairing disappointment, but rather with the wee children he had gifted to start. Passion may wither like a flower in the sun, yet always can it arise again like children seeking fun.


There he laid, his hands by his side. As she visited with great fear and worry. His life hanging by the balance of whether or not he should let go or continue. Tears fell from her cheek, confusion and regret filled her. She remembered all the times they shared together, even if there weren’t many. She remembered. He slowly opened his eyes, and suddenly the heart rate monitor raced with a progression of beeps. As their eyes met, the world around them stood still, and for a moment it was as if they were back on that swing set. Looking at each other, with admiration and curiosity. Trying to understand these emotions that flooded in like a river with an endless stream. They were young, they were lost, and the world was just a cruel place. But for some reason with each other, they were home. “It’s so cold.” She said, as she was trying to keep warm by rubbing her hands together. He peered at her hands and reached out taking both of them in his. The spiraling warmth enveloped between their hands connected and a warm hugging like sensation filled both of them. He smiled, and said, “Me too.” It’s been three years, and for both of them. They had their own experiences of other individuals coming and going in their life. But it was never the same. They both knew that it wasn’t ever going to be the same. The “swing set memory” they called it. A moment in their life that they knew they were each other’s flame. Each other’s, fire. The burning love of a passion that could never be extinguished or matched. They would always reminisce on that one moment. Even if the world divided them, and kept them apart. They always felt like they could always feel each other. Could always feel so close. She was finally following the dream she had always wanted, and for once no one could stop her in her tracks. He had understood what he wanted to do, and continuously strived to be the best person he could be. Yet in this very moment. He lays upon a warm bed, with a frozen cold body, and a crying heart. Paralyzed both by the accident, and by her beautiful eyes. She remembered that her entire journey, and the drive that kept her going, was in hopes of seeing him again. But, not like this. He cried and cried, thinking this moment could never in a million years happen. To think, that she would visit him. Yet no tears flowed. All he could do was just stare as his eyes would water. He wanted to embrace her, love her, and tell her that the world he created and the life he lived was all for her. She sobbed, as she knelt next to his bedside. In shock, she couldn’t open her eyes and she hung her head down trying to hide her sadness from him. He didn’t like it when she cried, because he wanted to always make her smile, and she knew that. He urged and urged with all his might to move just one finger, but couldn’t. Desperately screaming and crying for help, he repeated in his head, “Please, for just this one time, give me a chance to make things right.” She lifted her face, flushed red, wanting to tell him she loved him. But she just couldn’t stop crying. All she could do was apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-, I-,” He wanted to shake his head and comfort her like he always did. He wanted to remind her that it was going to be okay, that they were going to be okay. His fingers twitched, and she noticed. She smiled with joy, and with both of her hands took his hand. She held it tightly, and held it like it was the long lost teddy bear that she’d been looking for. The warmth and burning passion flowed through the both of them, and it was as if they had never left that swing set. That they never went to different schools. That she didn’t leave for Paris, and he didn’t leave for New York. That she never said she wanted to prove the world wrong, and that he never said he was going to make everyone proud. She looked at him, smiling with tears rolling down her face and said, “It’s so cold.” Wondering if he would remember that moment. He held back with as much love as he did back at the swing set, and with his last remaining drip of life in him smiled and slowly muttered, “Me too.” And suddenly, the fire that had burned for so long, went out.


Derek C. The Stack The snow dampened the world. It crunched beneath our feet as we slipped down the path. All was quiet except for our voices. We stumbled to the barn. I felt out of place, oddly gazing at the hay as if it was a masterpiece. The starlings bathing in the dust and pecking at insects flew off as we walked to the back. I climbed onto a stack of hay and she pulled out her camera. She stared through it and fiddled with the knobs. “Look that way,” she said waving her hand around. I sat still atop this mountain I had conquered and looked out. I heard a giggle and a click. She dropped the camera and her eyes met up with mine. I smiled and said “Why don’t you get one from up here?” She shrugged, went to the ladder and soon we were on top of the world. We sat and talked, my hand in hers. As the day ticked on the birds came back. One at first cautiously darting it’s head this way and that to see if the loud creatures had left. A few more came to join it. Soon we were watching the dozen or so starlings peck at the ground and dusting their feathers in the dirt. I looked at her. She sat there beside me with a smile permanently plastered onto her face. I looked out to the world. The smell of hay filled the air. Snow drifted slowly down though we were sheltered under the roof. The birds danced and tweeted. The tattered ends of ropes holding bales or tarps danced with the wind yet the trees remained still. The world turned yet it felt as if we stayed still. I felt her gaze on my face and I looked back to her. There she was. Right here. She could’ve been anywhere right now but she had chosen here. It amazed me. A shiver ran down my back as much from the excitement as from the cold. With that I started stammering, my mind losing it’s control. “Do-d-do you want to kiss?” She took a short breath, “Maybe...” The way it rolled off her tongue was odd. Not bad by any means just in a tone I’d never heard anyone give their words. I smiled and closed my eyes as did she. There we sat. Atop the hay bales in the back of a barn. Snow falling and birds chirping as if we were in a movie. I sat there taking in the moment. I took in the smells, the sounds, the world, and her head in my shoulder and arms around me. Then I heard it. Those three sacred words. Again I stammered but I managed to get them out. My heart beat its way out of my chest. Then the gentle swoosh of the wind took over again. “So that’s what butterflies feels like.” She said with her cheeks red from the rush and the cold. It took me a moment to process the line. Something about it sat in my head and wouldn’t move. It had power behind. I smiled ear to ear and pulled her in close to steal her warmth. The snow dampened the world around us as we sat. Content in each others presence while the world ticked on.


This is among my first attempts at writing short stories, so advice and criticism are much appreciated! Johnny Hall was sprawled on his bunk bed, listening to the heavy rain drops on the train’s sheet metal roof and a faint guitar in another wagon. His former squad mate, now cell mate– Dan Burns, was playing solitaire on the shoddy wooden end table in the other corner of the room. It was kind enough that the handlers had given them a deck of playing cards... too kind for a bunch of no-good dirtbag invaders. This was not an ordinary train, and they were not ordinary prisoners. The door to the coupe opened, letting in the evening chill. It was pitch black outside. A Russian soldier walked in and laid his heavy backpack on the table by the door: “Feeling energized, comrade specialist?”– he asked Burns, who didn’t even look at the newly arriving handler: “The train is five hours away from Houston. There– you’ll be interrogated and, hopefully... recruited.” “Forget that, Ivan.”– Dan answered briefly, looking into the soldier’s eyes: “No amount of tea and *Pirogi* will make me give away my command!”– he followed with a grin. “Well that’s a shame... the war *IS* over. You are now officially considered terrorists and government obstructions! If I were you I’d use the chance to land myself in the new government! And you– comrade specialist... you are presented with such an opportunity.” “Better shoot us on spot.”– Hall joined the conversation. “It’ll come to that eventually, don’t worry.”– the Russian squatted beside the cell bars: “But if I were you I’d play nice. I don’t see how your command would even vouch for you! They’re all terrorists, and so are you! And if you don’t abide, you’ll be dead terrorists by dawn!”– the soldier stared Hall in the eyes. Hall stared back. The rain got heavier. The sheet metal roof sounded like it was being banged on. The guitar in the other wagon faded away: “The lads were so happy we captured you two that they’re probably too drunk to even play the guitar now.”– the handler chuckled: “If you were my soldiers, you’d be there with the others– enjoying the victory! *but nooo*, you’d rather die for a failed government that couldn’t even-“– he couldn’t finish the sentence. A sound Hall and Burns knew too well just resonated in their heads... *flashbang* The prisoners got on the floor and covered their ears. “What the-“– the Russian exclaimed. *bang* *bang* *thud* “Would you look at that! Two more *meat-shields* for my squad of *terrorists*!” Hall knew the voice too well– Colonel Bertram Reeves. He opened his eyes and got up from the floor. The colonel was wearing a waterproof rain poncho under a decked out load bearing harness, and a compact set of night vision goggles. In his hands– a decked out specialist AK-12. He picked up the keys to the cell and tossed them to Burns: “Open it up, Burns, we have to get off this fucking train! Hall– you get the dead guy’s AK.” The cell door opened. Burns hugged his commander and exclaimed: “All hail the mighty god-emperor Reeves– the savior of the unbroken and the bringer of doom upon the invader menace!” “It’s nice to see you too, kid! Now... can you still drive?” “Yessssir! What are we driving?” “A trio of Ural motorcycles is waiting in the cargo carriage. Modded to the bone." "Urals? Not bad, but I heard the clutches are a nightmare to work."– said Hall, putting the dead Russian’s load bearing harness on. "Don’t worry, we’ll spend most of the journey in 5th gear!"– the colonel fired back with a tone of pride and military spirit: "The rain is pretty loud, and no one on board knows that the two rear guard carriages are knocked out. Let’s move quickly and get to the cargo bay!" The three walked out of the prisoner carriage and prepared to breech the next one. The colonel gave a signal to Hall, who was the only one armed of the two captured specialists. Then, he opened the door and threw a flashbang. *bang* "Breech!"– the two soldiers moved into the coupe and mowed down a dozen of stunned enemies with controlled bursts: "Clear! Burns, get a gun!"– Reeves shouted. Burns picked up a Saiga 12 shotgun from the floor and decked himself out with a scavenged harness, while his two squad mates reloaded their weapons and finished off the injured foes. "Next!” They walked out of the carriage and into the next. Same drill, flashbangs flew in and enemies collapsed onto the floor. No one heard the shots in the deafening storm and rattle of the train tracks, so the trio had the element of surprise on their side. One by one, clearing out all the enemies on their way, the party reached the cargo carriage: “Voila!”– the colonel pointed at three motorcycles in the midst of weapons and other military equipment, pulling out a detonator and a plastic charge from his harness: “Hall, plant this in the munitions storage! Let’s see how easy it is for the Russkies to get to Houston on a burning train!” Hall took the charge and planted it in the pile of boxes with RPG-7 grenades, then came back to the three motorcycles and sat on the one beside Burns. Colonel Reeves unhinged the barn door on the side of the carriage and a wall of hail and rain covered their faces. Next, Reeves pulled the brake lever next to the door and the train violently came to a halt in the span of several seconds. Alarms went off in every carriage: “Just in time, Ivan!”– Burns chuckled. The trio revved their motorcycles and, one by one, jumped out of the carriage. Hall felt the wind blowing in his face, the stiff suspension recovering from the brutal jump, the nightmare-inducing clutch that was barely even working, and the angry roar of the engine– the magnificent sound that he grew up with! This was freedom! “Blow it up!”- Reeves shouted once the bikes were half a mile away from the train. Hall pressed the detonator. The train erupted in flames, throwing up clouds of toxic smoke and debris.


I’m on tills, it’s about five hours into my shift. Feeling a little tired. I’m in automatic mode; I serve customers with my almost monotone *thank you*, *who’s next*, *cheers bud*. Words just come out of my mouth. Sometimes I say *hi* when they are leaving, or *cheers* when they come to my counter. I’ve clocked myself doing this. I know it’s bad but I don’t want to berate myself — after all, I’m serving about two customers a minute. It doesn’t sound like much, but it is. I’ve decided I want to change things up. I will become conscious. I will take the wheel. I will fly my plane. ‘Hello’ I say with an award-winning smile. ‘ello!’ the small old lady says to me. She seems happy. Let’s add a personal touch to this interaction. Let's see… she’s buying alcohol — perfect! I’ve got just the ticket. ‘excuse me mam,’ *god* I am a charmer, ‘can I see some aye-dee for this?’. I’m already smiling. ‘what was that son?’ Bless. She’s too old to hear me properly*.* I suppose we all get old someday. Wrinkled faces and hairs coming out of our ears… out of her cheeks and chin and christ those are some gross eyebrows. No — stop. I’m being nice. ‘I said,’ *there’s that smile again*, ‘can I see some AYE-DEE?’ A frown. That’s not good. Is she a grumpy old person? Was that enthusiastic *ello* just a ruse? A subterfuge to subvert my expectations? I wonder if she looks down on me. Perhaps she was just in automatic mode too? **‘Ish there a problem here?’** says some burly bald-headed man that appeared from somewhere behind her. ‘No, ha ha, I was just asking her for some aye-dee, you know, for the wine’. I keep my smile up with effort. **‘Are youh tryin to confuse this frail ald woman? oan purpose?**’ He looks angry. Why must people moralise on behalf of others; can this lady not fight her own battles? I mean, probably not. But still. ‘No, no! Ha ha’ *yikes* ‘I was trying to make a joke, to make her laugh! I’m obviously not as funny as I thought I was, ha ha’. **‘WHO the FUCK dae ya HINK yeh ARE?**’ says another, almost comically similar rough big bald-headed man who also seemingly appeared from my periphery. These two men, standing either side of her, look like they could pick her up and lob her over the counter at me — if she didn’t break in their hands. How did they even hear the conversation? None of my colleagues seem to have; they’re still serving customers. Same as I should be. ‘Look. Fellas.’ *Oooh, where did this confidence come from?* ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. I’m not trying to confuse this lady-’ *you whelks* ‘I was just trying to brighten her day with a little joke. I mean, she’s obviously too old to be aye-dee’d for alcohol. She looks waayhaay over twenty-five!’ I’m sure these gentlemen can find the good humour in this situation. **‘HOUUUH**’ a gasp. A loud one Oh n- **‘HOU VERY DARE YOUH. YOUH ANIMAL**’ spittle on my face ‘**IF I CO-**’ ‘Killlll the motherr fuckkaa!!!!’ shrieks the old lady with a shrill, almost regal intonation; her head is thrown back and a finger points towards my face. Within seconds these burly men are on the counter, scrambling at me with their grubby sausage fingers. My colleagues, the bastards, continue to serve normally. These men have passed the threshold and are chasing me behind the self-scans in full view of the customers. The old lady cracks a smile. The burly men beat me to a pulp, first cracking my ribs then squishing my face like a beaten tomato. My body is so badly broken and rigid that I look like a chip that’s been left in the oven too long. The blood covering me looks like tomato sauce. It pools on the floor and my manager tells me to clean it up. Such is life when you are nice to customers.


Link to part 1 in the comments! Promises made, promises kept! Enjoy part 2! More coming your way in the span of several days! You probably want to know how it started. Why do three Americans have to escape from a train filled with Russian soldiers headed to Houston? Alright, I’m gonna tell you the whole deal. It all started somewhere in the mid 2030s... A certain "space travel pioneer" company had spent a massive amount of resources in research and development of efficient means energy storage. Finally, they have reached a certain point where a personal exoskeleton could be efficiently powered by a battery weighing a measly 5 kilograms! That’s not the way down which the militaries of the world headed, though... Such concentrated power gave rise to a new class of weapons– the Megawatt laser. The idea of shooting down ICBMs with giant space guns dated back to the 1960s, but now the world had a way to power this idea. A new arms race began, and soon– the long range nuclear missiles became obsolete. The nations of the world bit into each other’s throats, forming not blocks like during the Cold War, but rather small regional coalitions. Everybody invaded everybody– it was a true clusterfuck. Some nations played it wiser, though, like the Russian federation. They saw that the world would grow weaker and weaker with every day of war, and that everything around them would be easier to take over if they preserved their current strength. So they doubled down on homeland security and started mass-producing weapons of war. And, when the time came – they struck. Amidst all this– the USA depleted most of its resources on waging war in oil-rich countries, making it an easy target to invade– homeland security crumbled in months. Years of propaganda turned a once great nation into an invader-filled cesspool! All of the world’s nations– for that matter... even the Russian invaders were struggling, with their bureaucratic lines now being stretched over twenty different time zones. In all of this, Johnathan Hall and his two humble comrades are what’s left of the American special forces group called “The Rattlesnakes”– a nickname given to them by the Russians during the battle of California, where the specialists used decoys and guerrilla tactics to demoralize and wear out the enemy, making them appear as though they were a larger force. There are now only three original Rattlesnakes left, and most people on their secret base in New Mexico are civilians, barely capable of producing enough food, let alone fight. So they scavenge for Russian equipment and desperately search for good fighters, that may one day drive away the invaders and restore America! *flash of headlights* The three motorcycles drove into the Aztec ruins on low beams, trying to make as little noise as possible. Burns got off the bike and ran towards a little ruined house in the outskirts of the site, while Hall and the Colonel waited. There– he pulled a little crank out of his pocket and inserted it into the ground a few inches away from the house’s walls. When he turned the crank, a sizable trapdoor opened on the floor, revealing an ancient crumbling tunnel, lit up by butane torches: “Welcome home, soldiers!”– the colonel pronounced, as they started towing the trophy bikes into the improvised driveway of the tunnel. Hall parked his Ural near the entrance to the catacombs and took his AK from the sling. He hadn’t been here for several weeks since his capture during a scavenging operation, and he was suspicious, since, by the worlds of the colonel, neither was he. A suspicion of some extent was needed, since the tunnel might have gotten captured by the Russians who were just waiting for the team to walk in without any caution. When Burns and Reeves parked their bikes– the group headed towards the entrance to the hideout. “Awfully quiet in here... don’t you think?”– said Burns. “It’s early morning, everyone short of the guards is probably asleep.”– Reeves replied. They walked up to the metal door with a Rattlesnake painted on it and, one by one, got in. “Stop right there!” A bright searchlight lit up the darkness of the catacombs, blinding the trio: “Code! What’s the bloody code?!”– a man spoke from behind the searchlight with a thick British accent. “Susie, fetch the straw hat!”– the colonel barked. The searchlight dimmed. A silhouette of a 12.7mm DSHK turret could be made out from behind the light. A man in a British paratrooper’s uniform jumped down from the pulpit of the gate that led to the underground base: “Colonel! We were waiting for you... I mean, Leo was. I’m new here, but I’ve been informed of your arrival. Things have changed for good down here, you’ll be surprised once you enter the base!” “What’s your rank, soldier?”– Reeves said, now calmly, while his two squad mates holstered their guns. “Sergeant first class of the national liberation front paratroopers brigade, sir!”– The man saluted the colonel. “Good god, all the way from Britain?!” “Derry, sir! Our base there got barbecued a week ago, I’m afraid. Russians... Russians everywhere! My humble group of 22 men are stationed here now. Thank god your recruiter talked us into this!” “We don’t have a rec- wait. Since when do we have a recruiter?” “A kid showed up just when you left. Started gathering men from the whole world via encrypted messages. That’s how we got word of this place.” “A kid? Oh boy, do I have some questions!”– the colonel murmured: “Alright, it’s getting chilly out here! Lead us inside, Sarge-“ “Wilson”– the paratrooper fired.