I stare at the cracked mirror in the dimly lit backstage room, trying to recognise the person staring back at me. The once vibrant eyes now carry a weariness that no amount of success can erase. My name is Jake, and I've poured every ounce of my being into becoming a rock star, but lately, I've begun to question if it was worth it. Our band, "The Fallen," was born in the dingy basement of a rundown apartment building. We were just a group of misfits with a shared dream and an insatiable hunger for music. Countless hours were spent rehearsing, writing songs, and playing in empty dive bars, hoping for that one breakthrough that could change our lives. And finally, it came. We secured our first tour, hopping from city to city in a rickety old van, living off fast food and cheap motels. The late nights and endless miles became our companions as we played our hearts out in front of dwindling audiences. But perseverance paid off when we caught the attention of a record label executive who saw the raw potential in us. Our first album, "Blood, Sweat & Tears," became an instant hit. It climbed the charts, and our faces adorned magazine covers. The relentless touring took its toll, but we revelled in the adoration of fans, the exhilaration of sold-out concerts, and the euphoria that surged through our veins with every chord struck on stage. However, the dark side of success soon reared its head. The constant pressure, the unrelenting expectations, and the ever-mounting stress began to wear us down. I, in particular, felt the weight of it all crushing my spirit. The exhaustion led to sleepless nights and moments of crippling self-doubt that turned into bouts of depression. And then came the blackouts. I wake up in unfamiliar places, covered in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribcage. My mind is blank, unable to account for the hours that slipped away. Panic grips me as I frantically search for clues, wondering what I might have said or done during those lost moments. The fear of becoming a stranger to myself consumes me, and I'm left questioning my sanity. Inside the band, tensions rise. The arguments that used to be minor disagreements now escalate into full-blown fights. Trust begins to erode as egos clash, and resentment festers beneath the surface. The harmony we once had as a united force of music becomes distorted, replaced by discordant notes that threaten to tear us apart. As the fame grows, so does the darkness that lingers around us. I can't help but wonder if this is the price we pay for chasing our dreams. The success that once felt like salvation now feels like a curse, and I'm left wondering if there's any way to escape the shadows that haunt us. The once vibrant energy of "The Fallen" now hangs heavy with an ominous tension. We've reached a crossroads where the very foundation of our band threatens to crumble beneath the weight of our personal demons. As the second act of our story unfolds, the true horrors lurking in the shadows are about to be unleashed. The strain on our relationships becomes unbearable, like a frayed guitar string on the verge of snapping. Each member of the band carries their own burdens, and the pressure cooker of emotions can no longer contain the mounting resentment. Arguments turn into bitter confrontations, hurling accusations and insults that cut deep into our souls. But the dissonance within us pales in comparison to the malevolent presence that seems to infiltrate our lives. Strange occurrences haunt our days and nights, testing the boundaries of our sanity. Instruments mysteriously detune, creating discordant melodies that grate on our nerves. Eerie whispers echo through the corridors of our tour bus, leaving us trembling in the darkness. My blackouts intensify, their duration stretching into hours, and the fear of what I might become during those lost moments gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It's as if a malevolent force takes control, using my body as a vessel for its own nefarious desires. I wake up with bloodstained hands, surrounded by shattered glass and broken memories. Paranoia takes hold, and we start to suspect each other. The camaraderie we once shared is replaced by a toxic cocktail of suspicion and fear. Our music, once a means of escape and expression, now becomes a conduit for something darker. The lyrics we pen are laced with sinister undertones, haunting melodies that seem to summon an otherworldly presence. As we delve deeper into the abyss, we discover a disturbing truth. Our rise to fame was not simply a product of talent and hard work but a pact we unknowingly made when we were desperate for success. The price we paid for our dreams was steeper than we ever imagined. An ancient curse, tied to the music we create, has awakened forces beyond our comprehension. Our very souls are entwined with the darkness, and it feeds on our anguish, our struggles, and our desperation. The success we once craved has become a prison, a never-ending nightmare from which we cannot escape. With each passing day, the malevolent presence grows stronger, its grip on our minds and bodies tightening like a vice. It's clear that we must confront the origins of this curse and find a way to break free, or risk losing ourselves entirely to the abyss. But can we find the strength to overcome the horrors that surround us and reclaim our lives, or are we destined to become mere instruments in a symphony of madness? The depths of despair have claimed my bandmates, leaving me standing amidst a gruesome tableau of carnage and unanswered questions. The discovery of their lifeless bodies shocks me to the core. Crimson splatters paint the walls, turning our once vibrant sanctuary into a macabre canvas. Their eyes, once filled with dreams and determination, now stare into the abyss, their souls forever silenced. How did it come to this? Did our pact with the shadows consume them, or is there a more sinister force at play? The room whispers secrets, but they remain locked within the shadows, refusing to reveal their dark truths. Fragmented memories of our recent days together haunt my mind, merging with the echoes of my blackouts. Did I become an unwitting puppet, dancing to the malevolent tune of the curse? Or was I merely a witness to a horror that defies comprehension? The weight of guilt presses upon my shoulders, threatening to break me. The once unbreakable bond we shared, the brotherhood forged in music, now feels like a curse. Doubt seeps into the cracks of my sanity, intertwining with the tendrils of the darkness that has plagued us from the beginning. How could I have let it come to this? Was there any way to save them, or was their fate sealed from the moment we struck that infamous bargain? As I stand amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams and shattered lives, the truth remains elusive, buried deep within the haunting melody of our story. The horror of the unknown lingers, forever shrouding our final chapter in mystery. Was it the curse that claimed their lives, or was it my own hand stained with their blood? The echoes of their music resonate within me, their voices mingling with the haunting questions that will haunt me until my last breath. So, as I stand above the four dead members of my band, covered in blood, I wonder, was it all worth it? The End.


Red. The strawberries you hand-picked from your garden. I always pick the not-quite-ripe ones, but you have a sixth sense for the perfect fruit. You'd wanted to grow your own strawberries since you were a teenager and learned about all the chemicals that are put into mass-produced ones. You decide to eat just one while you wait for me. It's delicious. You've read all the books on gardening. You know all the tips and tricks. The strawberry melts in your mouth and blends perfectly with the hot summer's day. Yellow. The blanket you're lying on. We made it together, but neither of us was any good at quilt-making, and so the ends stick out. There's a hole down the middle from when I decided to surprise you with a fort. You smile at the memory of hearing chairs collapsing and me shouting, "I'm okay! Don't come down yet!". Eventually, we just sat on the couch. The sun in my eyes as I drive to the park. Even with my sunglasses, it's practically blinding me. Green. The grass that pokes through the hole in the blanket. You can feel it scratching your lower back as you look up at the sky. The grass is a dried-out green, and it's poking you quite a lot. You almost wish you'd surprised me with a fort instead. The caterpillar inching across your finger. You decide to call it Jerry, after our pitbull. I don't know why you have an obsession with that name. You set the caterpillar down on the grass and watch it inch away. Another one quickly replaces it on your hand. You wonder how easy it would be to replace me. You don't think you'd be able to do it at all. Blue. The way you'd felt after that fight. After you'd thrown my handwritten journal into the fire. It was the only thing you knew I loved. I wanted to move. I wanted to spend a year in the city. A city like Paris, or New York, or Tokyo. You wanted to stay. You wanted to stay in the log house that we'd slaved to buy. You didn't want to leave your strawberries, or the furniture we'd built together (which was almost as bad as the blanket, but you took great pride in it). You love the mountains, the trees, and the fresh air. You are surprising me only because you want forgiveness for using my diary as kindling. You still don't want to move. Pink. My lips the last time I kissed you. On top of our house and underneath the sky. The stars blinked as they watched us. I was never the first one to make a move. The first animal I'd ever held. A pig. Our first official date was to your uncle's farm. I begged you not to let him kill it. That day we both become vegetarians. My journal. It had four hundred pages in it. I'd been using it to write since I was seven. The last thing my sister had given me before she went to serve in the military. It's going to take more than a picnic for me to forgive you for that. I don't know if I have it in me. It's like you threw away all my memories. I'd always wanted to revisit my diary when I knew I didn't have much time left. I forget things, too. It always helps me remember. You don't know that I'm scared to forget you. I'm scared that you'll forget me. Silver. The stars we've watched so many nights. The stars that know all of our secrets. We painted them on one of our walls. I like to think that they watch over us. I like to think that they find us almost as fascinating as we find them. The moon. The moon watches over us to, I guess, but it doesn't think we're fascinating. It has its own world to take care of. A world that's much bigger than ours. The outside of the car I'm driving. The sun rains its hatred down onto its surface. I'm going to need to park in a shady area. The ring. The ring you're not sure about. The ring that will make everything official. The ring that will let people know that we're not just friends sharing a house. The ring that you want to put on my hand and that you want to stay there. You fiddle with it, and even though the stars aren't out, they're watching you. They want you to succeed. White. The dresses we would wear. Gowns. Big and flowy. Bursts of light. We would run through the town, wearing those dresses. People would wonder where our husbands are. Those people don't know a thing. The veils we would lift off of the other's face. The chairs for the wedding guests. The ridiculous loafers I would make you buy. The cake. The archway that we would stand under. The flowers we would both hold. The dresses we would stain. The dresses that we would figure out how to clean. The dresses that we would keep forever. Your watch. It's a quarter past five. I'm late. You wonder if I'm coming. You feel a little sheepish at the ring. At the fantasy you created in your head. You stare at your watch as the seconds tick by. Most of the ice in the lemonade has melted. It'll taste more like water now. The clouds. The clouds are too busy to care. They float away. What once was calming is kind of stressing you out. You try to make out shapes. Shapes that you'll tell me about. Once I get here. Once I get here. Bright yellow. How I feel when I finally find a spot in the shade to park. I hope that you haven't given up on me yet. The color of the lemonade. There are still a few ice cubes floating at the top. How I feel when I see the ring.


Filipa cursed the way her insides twisted into knots. The bastard didn't deserve so human a response. Still, holding up her candle at eye height, she inched along the stone corridor, lifting the hem of her skirt from the ground. Easing toward the commotion. The foyer was just around the corner and the sound was getting nearer. It must be her husband (she grasped the item in her bosom). As she came closer to the noise, she realized it wasn't just her husband, but two husbands -- no three, and a wife.

All seemingly speaking the king's English -- with a hard to place accents. Maybe it was the servants -- drunken and slurring. She immediately began to worry less for herself and more for their own safety. Hastily she turned the corner only to see her not-servants standing in strange and diverse garments. She felt like a fool. Certainly, these strangers wished to do her harm.

She started her scream but a silver haired gentleman interrupted the call to say in Portuguese: "Madam, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Royce and I know it is your first instinct to scream, but there are six of us and one of you and-- this is not a fact I take pleasure in divulging, but if we wished to do you harm, we could do it easily. Any cries for help would only be counterproductive and --- if we are the barbarians you surmise us to be -- it would only make our attack more brutal." "Are you the barbarians I surmise you to be?" she said in a restrained whisper, gasping for breath.  "Like many men, we are barbarians when the situation calls for it. Otherwise we are perfectly charming," he ends on a genuinely charming smile.

But Filipa is still cautious. "I should take the word of would-be barbarians.?"

"It would be either that or the fist. Not my own but my female associate here, Mercedes.” Filipa looked to the woman standing firmly before with a powerful frame and wearing garments just like the men. She did not look comfortable.  "What manner of name is Mercedes," Filipa queried, beginning to weave many tales of sorcery within her overactive mind.

"I will answer that," Royce replied. "So long as you answer what manner of blade it is." "Manner of blade?" Filipa asked, both blushing and confused.

"Is it short and stout? Does it have daggers at its corners? Is it a dagger itself? Is it made of the finest steel or cheap and rotted copper?"

Filipa shot up straight and in an overly offended tone said, "I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about!"

"You have every idea what I am talking about," Royce persisted, "because it is the dagger that is hidden beneath your bosom. The one you will use to kill your husband. " Filipa was not prepared for such specificity. Her mouth hung slack, searching, like a bedeviled man, for an adequate answer. Trying to suppress the perspiration. “Maybe,” she said, “I had the blade because there were a bunch of strangers in my foyer.” “Then why not have it drawn? Some good a blade does, hidden under your bosom.” Filipa somehow felt violated by that remark. Still she moved on. “Very well,” Filipa finally confessed, lifting her chin defiantly. “I was going to kill him because he is a horrible man and a horrible husband and an even more horrible master. If our dinner is a degree colder than his tongue can handle he will beat every slave whose hand the dish passed through. He beats men within a foot of death and then dares to beat them two feet more. You and he would get along nicely as there are none I know more barbaric than he.” The silver-haired one pondered these remarks and finally came back with what seemed like an obvious revelation. “He sounds like an awful man.” “He is,” said Filipa. “He sounds like a tyrant.” “He is,” Filipa said again. “And I will have to ask to never kill him.” “What?” “Yes, it is important that he survive.” The gentleman added these words with both caution and gravity, “It is important for history.” “My husband? Important for history?” Filipa was momentarily pleased for this meeting for it was during this rendezvous that she received the laugh of her life. The people surrounding her were not laughing, however, for her husband was Christopher Columbus. His wife, formerly Filipa Moniz Perestrelo, was barely a scratch on the pages of history. Dying under unknown circumstances two years into their marriage. No one knew -- not even, the silver-haired leader of the flock, Royce. But Mercedes, deep in her soul, knew how Filipa died. Married to a man whose most infamous accomplishments were brutality of the natives? How else could she have died? Like all the women married to bloodthirsty demons like him. The realization struck her like lightning forcing her to blurt out, “We can’t do this!”

“What do you mean?” asked Royce. “I’ve been biting my tongue this whole mission. What on earth did Columbus do that was so damned important! Slaughter the natives? Beat his slaves? Treat his wife like garbage?” Royce pursed his lips, thinking and then knowing the implication of what Mercedes was saying. “You are right, of course. Contrary to American fables, he did nothing really extraordinary. He didn’t discover the world was round, he wasn’t even the first European to find America. He was, however, the first to settle there. This led to the colonies, which led to America, which led to the only superpower strong enough to turn the tide against the Nazis. It’s sad, but without the US interfering, Hitler would have taken control of the world, slaughtering millions more.” Filipa observed as these weirdly dressed people talked strangely in her home. They talked of death and genocide. They argued passionately amongst themselves. “We have to find another way,” Mercedes pleaded. “We must find another --” “No,” a voice interrupted. And to everyone’s surprise, it was Filipa. Filipa who, upon hearing the servants drunk, first cared for their being tortured by her husband. Filipa who moments ago wanted to murder the man not for the harm he had done to her, but to all those around him. If she was preventing a greater catastrophe, she believed it her duty to do so. “This man you call Hitter,” she began. “Hitler,” Royce corrected. “Jackass trying to overcompensate,” Mercedes further corrected. “Hister. Whoever he is. He will ruin the world. Cause much suffering?” Resisting the urge to say he would cause grave and unending suffering, Royce coyly said, “That is the calculation.” “Well, I will suffer through my husband’s shortcomings. Who knows? Maybe he will change.” The awkward silence did not assure her of this. “Even if he doesn’t. It is for the greater good, is it not?” Royce at that moment, instantly fell in love, and wanted to brush his hand against her cheek. Instead he just admired her, saying, “You are a beautiful woman.” Filipa laughed again, “The way my husband sneaks around at night, I would guess that time has passed.” “It has not,” Royce said. “But that is not the beauty I speak of.” And with that, Royce and his associates walked up the hallway, mission completed… ...only to be interrupted by an enraged Christopher Columbus. He was a stout and serious man with piercing eyes that protruded from his face. His response was immediate. His voice boomed through the corridor. “Filipa! Who are these people in my home!” Royce, always prepared with a tempered answer for anything the Timekeepers got themselves into, was ready to respond. “Relax,” he said, with a disarming smile. “I can explain.” “You can explain it to the executioner’s whip. There is no reason worth listening to for being in a man’s home.” “But if you would just hear me out --” “I will hear your screams in the gallows! I will hear your cries in the alleyways and I will hear the lashes against your bubbling skin as you beg me for mercy!” Royce cringed at this man’s obsession with lashings and wondered if he would be some weird type of fetishist in modern times. This back and forth went on and Royce soon realized he would have to change his tact. A minor inconvenience, he thought. So while this king of history berated him, Royce did the temporal calculations. A few permutations. Carried the four.

Then, just like that, he shot Christopher Columbus straight through his big fat head. His lifeless body plopped to the ground to the audience of Filipa's wide eyes and equally wide mouth. Filipa was not so shocked by the death. In fact, an eerie sense of relief flowed through her body. Indeed, she was more shocked by the weapon used to dispatch with her loved one. A tiny, hand-held rifle that ripped through her husband’s brow without making a sound. “You are witches,” she proclaimed, still staring. Royce looked to his associates, as if mentally conferring with them. “We are something like that,” he said, echoes of the ancient movie Wizard of Oz ringing in his ear. “But we are good witches.” Mercedes filled in the pieces, “Yes, we are like witches but instead of magic, we use a thing called science to travel through time and avert disasters.” “But it seems,” Royce concluded. “There is an opening position in the annuls of history. Who can fill those shoes?” Maybe, his calculations told him, they didn't have to create the brutish nation of the US that obsessed with building bombs. Maybe, he surmised, the US could be built on a foundation of peace and diplomacy so unequivocal it would reverberate throughout the world and topple the SS before it started. In a moment of inspiration, he did another mental calculation. Coming to his conclusions, he turned to Filipa and said, “You wouldn’t happen to know how to sail, would you?”


“You can say what you like about those Australians but they certainly know how to make a big red and no mistake:” Professor Jim Lucas and Professor Belinda Conti had been firm friends for the full twenty-five years of their tenure at the University. And on this early summer’s evening they were to be found, as is often the case, sharing a reasonably priced but very acceptable bottle of Australian Shiraz in the University bar at the end of a, not too exhausting, day. They would delight in railing against the students, railing against the Vice Chancellor, railing against the government of the day, railing against the traffic or, indeed, railing against all and everything.

Belinda took a sip of her wine. “Too true. They have many faults but wine making is not one of them. I just wish that the wouldn't invade us though, Every time I go into the city for a meal the waiting staff are nearly always Australians. Why can’t they enjoy their own country where, I believe, they have endless sunshine and wonderful beaches?” Jim frowned and said. “I don’t care for too much sunshine.” “That’s why you’re so white. With your hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms. Not to mention those tufts sticking out of your ears and nose. You are just like a six foot three-inch spider.” “And you’re not like some busy little gerbil rooting and sniffing around in your stuffy old books all the time?” Ignoring his remarks Belinda continued. “You’ll never guess. One of my students actually fell asleep in my lecture this afternoon. Can you believe it? As if scrolling through their damn phones all the time is not enough, now they are falling asleep. Life would be so much easier without students.” Jim said. I’m surprised that the entire class wasn’t asleep they way you drone on.” Belinda smiled as she retorted. “I heard you fell asleep during one of your lectures again last week. Did you have a glass of red with your lunch again?” And so it went on, this evening no different from many others. With Belinda drinking rather less wine than Jim, owing to their stark difference in size and build, until it was time to go home to their respective spouses for the evening. But tonight Jim said something that changed everything. “I thought you should know that I have applied for the cross faculty Royston Grant?” Belinda leaned forward and hissed. “You snake in the grass, you back stabbing viper. Why would you...” Jim interrupted. “How could a viper ever stab you? Let alone in the back. You have applied for it too then, I gather, and you weren’t even going to tell me? Now that’s back stabbing a friend.” Shaking now with undisguised rage Belinda said. “Why would anyone give you money to pursue your crackpot theories? The octopus is so unlike anything else that it must have come from outer space? Frozen eggs somehow hitched a ride on some asteroid from across the galaxy that hit the earth millions of years ago where they hatched and thrived? Everyone knows that’s piffle. What are you going to do to get proof? Fly off into space to find the planet that they came from? You’re mad. And you’re not even a marine biologist” Jim picked up his wineglass, leaned back into his big comfortable leather chair and, after a long sip, said. “Everybody admires the octopus. I’m sure they’d love to know the truth. And what about you? People in glass houses etcetera. Who on earth is going to be interested in whether or not the Catholic Church or any kings and queens tying to alter the calendar, during the Dark Ages, for their own nefarious means? Not even if the succeeded in loosing a hundred years here or there but just that they may have tried. You know that you've read everything there is to read on the matter and have turned up nothing. Are you going to spend the money on a time machine to go back and find out?” Thin lipped, Belinda said. “I don’t need to remind you that my family line traces back to Sicily. And in Sicily we know how to deal with rats.” “You have remind me of that many times”. Jim raised is bushy eyebrows. “But now are you invoking The Cosa Nostra to frighten me off? I can assure you that vipers, and now rats do not frighten easily.” Belinda stood up quickly, slugged her remaining wine back and almost shouted. “You should know by now to never stand in the way of an academic and their grant money. From now on you drink alone.” Then in the finest Mafia tradition she added. “You are dead to me.” And she stormed out. Unfortunately, the dramatic effect was somewhat lessoned owing to her having spilled a large amount of the red wine down the front of her pristine white blouse. Jim showed no reaction. He finished the wine in silence, picked up his well worn tweed jacket, of course with leather elbow patches, and went home for dinner. He was an academic too. The next morning, Wednesday, found Jim outside the Vice Chancellor’s office at 9am sharp. Helen, the Vice Chancellor’s personal assistant, let him in as she knew Professor Winthrop had no pressing matters this morning.

“Good morning Jim. How are you? Take a seat I’ve got five minutes.” Jim didn’t beat about the bush. “Margaret, Professor Conti has applied for the Royston Grant.” “I know. She has as much right as you, or any other Faculty Head to apply. I don’t see why you would object.” “Her research is meaningless. Who gives a damn about what may or may not have happened during the Dark Ages. My research, on the other hand, may solve the long and much debated origins of the octopus.” “Jim, Belinda’s research, for historians, is just as valid as yours is for marine biologists. Or is it your people? Astronomers. Anyway, the review board is judging each application on its merits” Jim thought for a while and then said. “Did you know she had an affair with one of her students?” “Oh Jim, I expected better of you than that. Yes. It’s in her file. She was in her late twenties, had recently joined the University as an associate lecturer and the ‘mature student’ in question was a similar age. Plus, you have omitted to mention that they have been happily married for the last twenty-three years. You know Alan better than me. It’s in the hands of the review board so there’s nothing more to be said. You’ll know on Friday. Now if you don’t mind?” Jim left and, during his first lecture at 10 o’clock he gave his students some reading while he sat back to plot his next move. He didn’t fall asleep. At exactly ten fifteen Belinda stood in front of Helen demanding to see The Vice Chancellor. With ten spare minutes, the busy Vice Chancellor agreed to see Professor Conti. She stormed in and sat down without being asked. “You know he’s applied for my grant? Professor Lucas. What’s the matter with him.

I need that money for my research. You encouraged me to apply.” “Belinda, I have encouraged any Faculty Head with a research project to apply. I never said that you would win it. As I said to Jim, it’s in the hands of the review board and they will announce the winner on Friday.” “He’s been to see you? That snivelling snake. I bet he grovelled. You know he drinks to much and falls asleep during his afternoon lectures?” “It happened twice, he’s been reprimanded and he has assured me it won’t happen again. And anyway, while it’s not ideal we have had no complaints from the students. They like him and think it’s endearing.” “Margaret, I’m sorry to be like this but that’s my grant not his. I have to have it. Oh, and he fell asleep again last week.” As Belinda stormed out in exactly the same way as she had entered Professor Winthrop called after her. Calm down Belinda. It’s out of your hands now. You’ll hear on Friday.” Professor Windthrop and pressed nine on the keypad of her desktop phone. When Helen answered she said. “Helen, if Professor Lucas or Professor Conti ask to see me again this week I’m busy. Thanks” The next morning, Thursday, Professor Conti had finished her first lecture by eleven o'clock and had just stepped outside of the door to The History Department to go to the staff cafeteria for morning coffee. She heard one of her students call from inside the building. “Professor Conti. Have you got a minute?” Huffing, she was looking forward to her morning break; she stepped back inside the building just as a stone gargoyle (Or it may have been a cherub as was difficult to tell owing to the weathering and it suddenly being in pieces) toppled from the parapet of the ancient History building and crashed to the pavement right where Belinda had been standing just a split second earlier. It was agreed by all that the old building needed some urgent love and attention and a report was sent to the Vice Chancellor's office. Similarly, that afternoon Jim, choosing not to drink alone, started the engine of his antique Citroen 2CV with its tiny whiny engine and its fold down windows that just kept working. Not that it was ever driven very far. Jim lived walking distance from the Campus. But, driving with the knees of his long legs up around his elbows in a rare car that sounded like a sewing machine, made Jim feel that he cut a suitably eccentric air of flamboyance driving to and from the university.

This afternoon however, before reaching the car park exit to join the rush hour traffic, Jim had to brake to let another car reverse out of its space. As Jim pressed his brake peddle, he felt a slight give underneath the soul of his foot, then his foot slammed uselessly to the floor leaving him powerless to stop his Citroen from slowly drifting forward coming to rest in a shallow ditch between the edge of the car park and the University sports fields. When the roadside assist man turned up he said that the brake cable of the old car had finally worn through and he promptly towed it off to the garage leaving Jim with the ten-minute walk home to ponder. Had the cable in deed worn through or was there something more sinister at play? The next morning, at 11 o’clock, Jim, sitting at his desk, had just finished reading the email announcing the recipient of the Roytson Grant when his phone rang. “Hello. Professor Lucas speaking.” Hi Jim. It’s me. Did you see who got the grant?” “Yes, I did Belinda. That upstart Stanely. He’s not even forty yet. What’s going on with that review board?” “I know. Apparently he’s doing research into teleportation. I understand he’s already nearly got an atom to transport itself somewhere” Jim said. “Well, if he succeeds you’d never get me in any kind of teleportation machine. I’ve seen that film with Geoff Goldblumb. ‘The Fly’.” “Agreed. But you’d get mixed up with a spider. You’d make a great giant spider with your eight hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms.” “You can talk. Half gerbil half woman skipping about and bumping in to walls.” Belinda said. “Same time at the Uni’ bar after work? I think a decent Penfold’s Cab Sauv. might be nice. Those damned Australians do know how to make a big red.” “Yes. See you there”


I poured Whiskey into a glass, watching it fill with the dark brown color of my favorite drink. Taking the glass from the kitchen to my living room, I placed it on a table next to my couch. I went a little to harsh so the sound made me think it broke for a second. I turned on the radio like everyday. “ Good evening ladies and gentleman, the weather tomorrow will be quite shivering with an astonishing - 7 degrees celsius, rain also to be expected with a chance of 68 percent”. I took my first sip from the glass, remembering how I used to make a face while swallowing. “ What's more interesting, scientists found a way to make you experience death. A young Swedish team in the field of neuroscience made a groundbreaking discovery, when testing the brain activity of a freshly killed sheep.” I sat up and got closer to the radio. “ They initially wanted to figure out how long the brain would remain intact before shutting down, when it did they accidentally brought it back to breathing. Brian Adams, one of the teams members, wanted it to be tested on him. He experience death and reported to have seen and felt nothing. Of course believing that would be naive, they knew that too. So after further testing they published stations for everyone. Soon after they got built into trucks, now driving around almost every city. WIth the glass in my hand I walked to the window, there it actually was. A truck on the corner of my street. Action never happened in this part of town, should I check this out? Believing in an afterlife was never for me, joining God in heaven sounded absurd. This was my chance to prove it to myself, but this has to be a trick. How could this be? Experiencing death, I always knew this happened someday, but me, getting to see this day I could've never dreamed of. Rushing to the door I left after taking my keys. My building never had an elevator, so I had to take the stairs. There are people out there who have already died by now, I am about to be one of them. What if it had a malfunction, they said publishing was only possible after further testing. But still there had to be a small chance of me actually dying.But I needed to know if I was right, “ seen and felt nothing” they said on the radio. Would it be the same for me? I opened the exit door, outside a huge line built in front of this truck. I wish to be able to see inside of it but even the truck is hard to see with all these people gathering around. After walking all the way to the back of the line, not even a minute passed before another five stood behind me. The woman in front of me wore nothing but a blanket. Trying to cover her private parts she moved it a lot. The constant scratching of her arms made me uneasy. This got worse when blood stains appeared on the blanket. Avoiding the sight of her as much as possible I paid more attention to the other people around me. Until no one was in front of me anymore. “ Next one “ a woman's voice screamed from inside the truck. When entering it, only a mattress layed on the ground with three masked people surrounding it. “ Lay down, it won't hurt, “ they told me. The mattress itched the skin my clothes didn't cover, as one of them made me inhale something….. “ Was that it “? I asked them. “ Yes, are you enlightened now? “ One of them said mockingly. They pushed me outside before I heard the lady scream for the next one to come in. I never feared death but after this even less. I couldn't describe “nothingness” . I just placed myself on the mattress then got up again, Closest thing to it was sleeping without a dream. I had nights in which I slept so little falling asleep and waking up I perceived it as the same moment. If what I experienced now was actually death it felt a little like those nights but still slightly different in ways I couldn't bring to words. At Least the weather is cold, I might as well get some fresh air while I'm out here. “ It's all fake, it's all fake”! A drunk screamed, running at me. I barely dodged to the side before he would have run me over. Idiotic drunks, always in the same part of town as me. You get to see them all the time, today a bit more than usual though. I walked into a flower shop, and a bell rang over my head while entering. “ Hello” I screamed, there has to be someone here, I read “open” on the door before entering. After screaming again a guy opened the “staff only” room door, “ You're not one of those are you”? he said. “ One of those “?

“ The crazy people, a lot of them around today, are you one of those “? he asked again. “ I'm not, just here for some flowers sir “ I assured him. “ Flowers huh,... which ones do you want”? “ yellow ones, my daughter's favorite “. The bell on the door rang again. When I turned around, three guys ran into the store. Are those the people he talked about? They looked at me and the employee before destroying one after another vase with flowers in them. One of them walked up to me, raising his arm while getting closer. “ Wait “ I stopped him. “ I'm one of you, “ I added. “ One of us “? the man asked. “ I was just about to rob this man, then you guys came in”. “ Go right ahead, dont let us distract you.” He answered before joining his friends again. I turned around to the cashier “ G..give me your money “! I said. We met eyes before he quickly put his hands in the cashbox and gave some out to me. The guys still broke all things they could find so I ran out the door. “ Hey there, not so quick someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. “ Youre one of us “ he said. handing me a baseball bat. “ We have something planned for later, why not join us “?. If I said no, he'd definitely punch me. “ Sure, “ I answered. He lifted his hand off my shoulder before taking the lead with his friends following. They walked down the street until they all turned around to look at me. Hands still in their jackets. I started walking towards them, when I reached the small group they proceeded to walk with me in the middle of them. There will me a moment eventually, where they wouldn't pay attention to me, I couldn't leave now. Its weird, they seem like the guys I meet at work all the time. I imagined violent people to be old heavyweight guys, crazy alcoholics. But speaking to these guys I could never have guessed. “ We are almost here, “ their leader said, turning to me. “ See that bridge over there? always drunks underneath, there like punching bags, never met someone defending himself.” He proudly announced. Do they expect me to join? I have never hit someone, well maybe in kindergarten. My father broke his hand in his first fight, that won't happen to me though. One of the guys went in for a fast uncalled punch, the drunk he hit fell to the ground. Followed up by a kick, the drunk held his hand in front of his mouth before throwing up. “ Come on Frank it's your turn now “ he said, turning away from the drunk. I got a push from behind now standing half an arm length away from the homeless looking drunk guy. I kicked him in his stomach, he let out a scream, “ please stop “ he begged. I bent down, his stench filled my nose. Punching him in the face hurt less than I expected. My hand is not broken either. I turned away from him, the other guys were watching me, all with a smile on their face. awful people. 3 weeks later I rolled down the car's window. The wind threw itself against my face making my cheeks sting. “ I never asked why you do this “ I turned to James. “ You've been to a station right “? "Yes, of course, “ I answered. “ Before this we all believed in god, in an afterlife you know, hell and heaven. But after experiencing it for ourselves we realized how our actions while living don't have any consequences. Everyone here used to be religious, not doing what they wanted for the sake of god. There isn't one after all, so we formed this group, living everyday, filling it only with things we enjoy.” James said. “ So you always wanted to do these things “? I asked him. “ I have, what about you, why are you here “?

“ Well I never believed in any god or an afterlife, so the stations just proved my opinion. But I guess if there was something stopping people from committing crimes and sins, I guess I would call that a god.” “ You with your philosophies, “ James said, and we both started laughing. Though I don't think he understood what I meant with that. The car stopped in a small alley, and Phillip, our driver, got out. The back of the ally had a drunk guy sitting in it. Phillip beat him up mercilessly. These guys beat up people daily. I got used to watching it. But right now Phillip took it a little far. The guy, already being unconscious, reacted to none of his punches in any way. I opened the car door “ Phillip that's enough, you'll kill him”! I screamed. Him not reacting at all I stepped out and ran at him pushing him away from the nearly dead guy after reaching him. Blood all over his face, basic features like his nose not even visible anymore from all the swellings. “ Are you crazy? “ I asked Phillip. He stood there glaring at me. “ Since when do you give orders, kid “ he said.

“ I don't, but we shouldn't kill anyone, they clearly told us multiple times “ ! He took another step closer to me. “ They didn't, “ he said, raising his arm. He threw me to the ground, the asphalt hitting both my elbows. I could instantly feel them bleed. James screamed at him from inside the car. But Phillip hit me again…. I woke up laying in the same alley. My blood next to me on the ground had spilled out of my mouth. I must have lost consciousness sometime while receiving his punches. Getting up I saw the guy Phillip beat still there on the ground. No one else was around, not even James. Searching for them was meaningless, they committed so many crimes not being found is like breathing to them. Probably for the best. Would they come search for me? Usually I'm the guy beating up others, feeling it yourself was different from what I imagined. I had now felt what they did. I looked once again at the guy on the ground, before walking home.

Back in my apartment I poured myself some whiskey into a glass. Sitting down on my couch I put my feet next to me on the table. Drinking the whole glass in one sip, I realized I couldn't hear my radio. Why bother? Lifting my shirt up bruises were all over my chest and stomach I felt some on my back too. Did my punches leave the same marks? Hopefully they wouldn't come knock on my door expecting me to come do those things again. In that moment I wished to have never known what's after death, I wished for the chance of a god, for the chance of hell.


Arithmetic? – Ah, I am not good in that at all. When it comes to measuring distance, I found it too difficult to do. Most of the times, when am stuck in the issue while talking to someone, I try to measure in my head the distance between two electric poles and what I wanted to say.      “Emm, about two or three electric poles” That is always my answer to distance questions. That’s if am talking to close acquaintances. But if the person doesn’t fall into the category of a friend or acquaintance, I will supply guessed answers in miles. I can’t just claim to be deficient in what I supposed to know in my primary. Nah, it isn’t wisdom to belittle one’s self to a stranger in the name of being honest.

Few days ago, I was driving with my friend to a popular market not far from his house to buy some provisions. About three poles away into our journey, we were stopped by police officers that mounted road blocks and asked us to slow down. We did. We was asked to clear from the road. That is their normal parlance. Clear from the road or park well. We did. The officer started with:

 “ Where’s your particulars” We presented him with the car papers. He went into motion of checking it. Whether he was actually checking it or counting it, I really can’t tell. Observing him, I had this feeling that he was counting the number of papers not seeing what they are. They seems to Know how many papers each car supposed to have not what they supposed to be. After the counting, he handed the papers over to us again. Then, it was:     “ where’s your fire extinguisher?” We showed him. Then it was: “ Come down and open your boot” My friend went and opened the boot for him. He peeped from it north to south and then west to east and asked: “Where is your spare tyre?” My friend shifted the boot rug and pointed out the tyre for him. “Where’s your four heads?” he showed him. He sighed audibly and eyed us and then, it was: “Why do you put tinted glasses in your car, don’t you realize it’s against regulations? Civilians are not allowed to use it. You must get permission from the police before using it. Do you have the permit?”     “ No Officer” “ Give me your keys and documents, you must follow us to the stations. This is serious offence” “ Officer, this the first time am hearing about this laws. Besides, I bought this car with the tinted glasses on it. I didn’t change them” “ I don’t care whether you imported it or bought it with tinted glasses on, my concern is that it’s against regulations. We will talk more at the stations” “Ha, officer, station?- we had been talking already for 30 minutes and you want to talk in the station again. We are going to the hospital to see a sick friend. We will change the glasses first thing tomorrow morning” “You are asking how you will follow us to the station, don’t you know that by law, we supposed to impound this car and you?- I gave you leeway to go and see our chief and you’re arguing” “ But officer, I never knew that laws like this existed. Pardon my ignorance and I will do something about it first thing tomorrow morning” “Pardon your ignorance?- do you know exactly the interpretations of what you just said?- are you asking me not to carry out my official duty?” “ No, no officer, that’s never what I meant. I am just asking that you reason with me for today” “ Reason with you?- how?, Tell me how you want me to reason with. Are you suggesting I shouldn’t carry out my constitutional duties?”   Awkward laughter from me and my friend seems to spur him on. “officer, you must carryout your constitutional duties. After all, we are the ones you’re serving”

 We argued, pleaded, cajoled for about another 20 minutes before the officer opened his constitutional mouth to voice out what we all know it will lead to from the beginning.  “ Okay, because you are visiting the sick, I will help you see our chief. You have to hand over your papers and 20k and go see the sick after wards you come to our stations to collect the cover papers” “ What! 20k?- I don’t even have such amount on me. It’s huge amount. How can I pay 20k for cover papers” “Oh, you want to pay lawyer and court 100k? You don’t know once this your car got to the station, we will queue it up behind those with similar offenses and when it’s your time in court, we will notify you. No problem if you consider 20k huge. When we open proceeding, maybe 100k would be not huge anymore to you. Your documents first” We argued and pleaded for another 30 minutes before he agreed to help us with 8k. Help us. That’s his exact word. Afterwards, he turned and wanted to know what we are still doing there. “Fade” he ordered. It would have been stupid as Nigerian to show him how intelligent we were by following him to the station to go talk to their boss. If we were lucky enough to get to the station in one piece or even alive, the boss would have still sided with his boys. It’s normal practice here in Nigeria. Motorist went through hell in the hands of officers each day. Many are wasting in jail for nothing courtesy of Nigerian police. Officers here are in the class of their own. They has no rival in the whole of Africa. It might interest you to know what their motto is:        “ Police is your friend” Of course, they are our good friend. For just bribe of 20 naira from a driver that tries to play them by speeding off while pretending to park well. Bullets always teach those in that bus lessons some of them are not given chance to put into practices.

Well, we got to the hospital from the market. We entered into the wards our friend is in. He was on colored drips and after talking with him and assuring him that all will be well. We left to see the doctor. If the man had been a yellow guy, you would have concluded in laying eyes on him that he must have been born in the year of the dog. He walks like one, talks in a bark like tone just like dog and when he is not talking and eyeing you, he seems to be doing so just like dog that is debating within whether to charge or not.      It’s funny how small things always turn to something else. Our friend who is actually our course mate sustained the knock that ended him in hospital while playing soccer. He had thought like everyone that it’s a small thing and was massaging it with hot water and applying balm. Three days later the pain was getting worse that he decided to see doctor. We were surprised to hear from the dog like doctor that the guy has serious diabetes that if not urgently treated with special medication the name he mentioned was sounding Greek or Latin, the leg would be amputated.

Our friend panicked and started sending “ save my leg” messages to all his course mates. We nearer had been the one connecting with other course mates in person and phones. Luckily, we were able to raised the 2.3 million naira the doctor claimed the special medication from America would cost. We paid him the money and collected receipt from him. On our way down to the parking lot, we had noticed one nurse that looked like someone that should be in the security sector not health sector following us. The way he walks and cast eyes here and there attracted our attention. She is just like those men you see at times in gym lifting weight weights.

“Excuse me sirs. It’s your friend you came to see just now, the one they said suffering from type what I don’t know diabetes, right?” “ Sure, anything the matter?” “ Yes sir. Everything is the matter oh. I can tell you something I believe you should know about that your friend's sickness. It’s all in this form my boss asked me to sell… sorry show you. It is all about your friend” “About our friend?- let see the form then” “ Ah, sir, the form is sealed. I believe seriously you needs to know about the real truth about that your friend” “ Let see the form then” “ Ah, sir, my boss asked me to show you this form if you have 10k. In fact, it’s more than important” “10k?- for what? Who is this your boss?” “ Sir, it is sealed. Once open without 10k, I am the one in trouble” We debated within our self and decided to know the truth. We paid the nurse and she handed over the form. It was test from the lab department of the hospital our friend did on arriving there. The result indicated that our friend had serious knock on the leg that required resting for about two weeks while on antibiotics.    We have never seen anything like this before. We though it was only in security and political sectors you see dupes and crazy staffs. We can’t believe the health sector have joined the bribery race too.

We calculated and debated what best to do.

    “ Who is the mad one here?” My friend queried rhetorically.


     Across a vast ocean, cloaked in a thick fog, a ship navigating by the dim light from a derelict lighthouse. Barely able to see the way to a harbor nestled deep through the thick blanket of fog covering the seas. Even through this veil the captain keeps course, his eyes fixed to the seas, but once-in-a-while will take a glance at a man on the deck, wearing a trenchcoat and a top hat, his head hanging low, while the crew frantically make sure the ship doesn’t crash into any rocks.

“Cursed island, though I won’t question the pay.” The captain says in a scruffy voice, as from the crows nest he hears, “Land! I see the harbor!” Though to the captain, there was no safe harbor, only a canopy of fog, and the vast seas.

     However as his eyes squinted he could make out lanterns not far in the distance, and so he made the call, with the fog he couldn't go any further.

“I see the lanterns along the docks, but I cannot discern the distance! Anchor!” He shouts as the ship slows down when the two large iron anchors were thrown into the black waters below with a loud splash.

“You! Passenger!” The captain shouts, getting the attention of the man who boarded. “We’re stopping here, we’ll lower you in a row boat, after that, you’ll have to find a way back as no sane man treads on this island.”

“I’m well aware, but I received a summons, someone—or something—wants me here. Lead the way, captain.”

     The scruff old captain, who sailed seas no man dared to sail, was weary, and the passenger could tell. This gruff old man braved the seas, and yet one little island seemed so off putting to him, so detestable that he dare not sail any further. And he may say that it is because of the fog, but something on his brow says otherwise.

“Here she is, get in, the quartermaster’ll attend you to shore. Whatever you seek, the devil’s due, and you’re his payment. If you’d ask me.”

“Well I didn’t ask you, whatever has summoned me here, I feel it is important. My business is failing, a lineage of successful gunsmiths, the last of Egress Gunsmiths has come to an end, and I was sent a letter, telling me that ‘ Whatever the heart desires, Isle Iglas will fulfill .’ If it is so, then I must, my legacy, my lineage, what will my ancestors think of me?” The captain sighed, looking longingly to the shores. “Whatever it is you’re lookin’ for you ain’t gonna find it here. But if you insist, be my guest.”      So the passenger boarded a small row boat with a few members of the ships crew and the quartermaster. “Must’ve used whatever is left of your business’ funds to get here.” The quartermaster said as the passenger sighed in disdain. “I’m not judging, but I am in agreement with the Captain, whatever you want, you’re not going to find it here.”

“You believe that but have you sailed to this island, step foot on it? Or have you heard stories from travelers who have never been here, only seen it.”

“Fair enough. Though this island is always covered in fog from the tales I hear, making it out in the fog is impossible. No idea how anyone even lives here, where their food comes from, must live on fish and fish alone. Hope you like fish soup, he-he!”

     The passenger chuckled, trying to take his mind off the tension. As the small rowboat moved near the island, they were able to see the harbor, lit by lanterns. The island was breathtaking. A large island with little to no trees sat in the center, with a large forest ringing it, and at the base near the shore was a sprawling village. There was a mansion, a large, gothic sight to be seen, resting halfway up the mountain, carved into the rock. The dock’s were moldy and wet, slimy, with bags of fish left out to try, and the aroma, that foul, sickening aroma of rotting fish hit the ship like a rock. However, the crew knew the smell better than the passenger, who nearly puked as they kept their course. “Hehe! Are you sea-sick or fish-sick!” He shouts out laughing with the crew chiming in as the passenger only shakes his head bitterly.

“Very funny.” He says as the ship slowly eases to the docks as the townspeople begin to watch.

     The passenger disembarks from the rowboat, standing on the moldy, slimy docks, barely able to breath as that pungent acrid smell continues to assault him. Rich of iodine, as the sea breeze carries it along, An otherworldly, and yet earthly musk, so foul, so rich. He admires the source, the hanging nets of caught fish, hung from the lantern posts as a fatty oil-like substance drips from the lanterns onto the fish. The fog was still making it hard to see, with the lanterns covered in a misty haze. And the people, were they even human? They stood around, yet refused to speak. They watched him, and he swore he heard someone chant the words, “What the Heart Desires” It echoed in his head somberly, a reminder, rather subtle, but empowering.

“What the heart desires.” He says out loud as the people watch him silently, like a barn owl to a mouse.      But the people seemed to move, they began to walk, and clear the way. They went about their days, some tending to the fish sacks and others fishing. What was odd was that there was business here that made no sense. Jewelers but no mines, bakers but no wheat. Bicycle shops but oddly no bicycles. It was rather peculiar to him. Nevertheless he was able to focus on the town itself, this somber village nestled on forsaken shores. The homes were old, they were moldy, lit barely with the soft lighting of candles, made of tallow he surely didn’t want to know the source of. The windows were foggy, just like the air, and smoke was billowing out of chimneys, noting the unique architecture. At least three stories in height in the center of town with winding narrow alleys and pathways, leading aimlessly around the town. The roofs were made of tiles, maybe sea shale? Whatever it was, it was coarse, and yet smooth. Composed of multiple sediments, then layered flat one over the other held together with some sort of glue.

     The passenger slowly walked along the docks as a man approached him. Dressed formally in a tan coat, with a white poet shirt delicately embroidered along the central curls of it, done in golden string. He had on dress pants, a similar tan color as the overcoat he was wearing with finely detailed leather worked jackboots on his feet.

“I’m the innkeeper, welcome to our humble town, I kindly ask what brought you here?” He asks politely, in a tone so fond it seems like the man knows him.

“I was sent a letter, telling me that whatever the heart desires, I should come here. It took a while before I could find a captain who’d take me here, but I found one.” “Ah, and is it because of familial affairs? We’ve been, expecting you, for so long.”

     He was taken back by this sentiment, and his mind started racing. The innkeeper has been waiting for him? How did he know about him? How did he know about his business? But the echoes in the fog reassured him, and he took a somber breath.

“What if I want to leave?” The passenger asks, getting a rather menacing chuckle from the inkeeper.

“Leave? Oh, why would you want to leave when you just got here? Here, come to the inn, there is a tavern, have a drink. Or two. And let the heart guide you. Whatever the heart desires, it’ll come true.” He says with a grin to the passenger, with one arm curled across his torso all formal-like while the other one points for the passenger to go ahead of him. And so the passenger began to navigate the winding streets, moving through carefully, looking at the flies surrounding the fish nets, and seeing people working. There were restaurants, cafes, bookstores, all the accoutrement of a thriving town, and yet, where did it all come from?      And his mind began to race again, and he stopped, somewhere in a rickety alley with no clue where he was. And in the distance, a faint beating could be heard, perhaps his heart. “Where was I going?” He said to himself, looking around, frustrated. He saw someone walking in the distance, and he began to follow them. “Hey! Do you know a way off the island?” He shouts out, following after them. They stop, a young woman, wearing a black dress with a black bonnet. She looks at the passenger with a smile, chuckling.

“Leave? Why would I leave?” She asks him, striking the passenger’s curiosity.

“No, why would I leave? I’m here because of my family business, it's in danger, I cannot fail my family!” He stops himself. “No, I want to leave?” But the young woman only chuckles louder. “Leave? There is no leaving, not until the next ship docks. You’ll like it, the inn and tavern is right there. You’ll be welcomed here. Like all of us.”

     With a breath of that sour salty air, moisture from the fog clinging to his lungs and a taste of burning oil, he turned his head to the left where the woman was pointing, and to his delight, Corpus, the Inn and Tavern of Isle Iglas. It took some courage, but he entered the inn, delighted by the warmth. Feeling it caress him as a large fire roared in the center right hand wall. There were men and women, dining, talking, making it hard for the passenger to hear. Hard to listen to what they were saying as all the noise was just a cacophony in his ears.

“Ah! My esteemed guest! Sit, enjoy your, stay.” The innkeeper said so affectionately, a warm voice in this loud solitude. He approached the innkeeper who was stationed behind a counter, with a vibrant assortment of elixirs and alcohols behind him, a delight to his famished lips.

“May I give you something? A specialty made of the mushrooms in the forest, a refreshing tea, for all new travelers.”

     Without asking the passenger was handed a ceramic mug with details of the sea, of men fishing on a ship, and something dead upon the sea bed. There was a mountain in the background, with a village along the shores. He gave the tea a good smell, a flavorful, meaty and yet pleasant aroma to the nose. There were some herbs to it, not too sweet smelling, with enough floral notes to make it that much more appealing. “So, your family business is, doing terrible? We could use a, gun smith, here. So how is the tea, is it good? I hope you feel welcome here. I know we’re not, hospitable , but we try to appeal to, newcomers.” The passenger took back a sip of the tea, with the flavor hitting him hard. It was strong, a deep meaty mushroom taste with sage and what tasted like cinnamon and anise. There was a good turmeric flavor in there too, making him wince.

“Ah, you must find the taste, interesting? Drink up. We don’t like to, waste the tea here.”

     The passenger nodded as he began to down the tea, with a plate of roasted fish being handed to him. “It is a delicacy here. Roasted pickled bass herring. That is what, the locals call the fish. They’re like a bass, and a herring.” The innkeeper added, watching as the passenger began to eat the fish, devouring the plate, with the taste coming off strong. It tasted like the ocean in the most foul ways imaginable, and yet he ate. He stopped for a moment to question what was going on, looking at the innkeeper confused. “The fish tastes horrible.” “I understand your concern. But you’re, our guest, here for a reason. We’d love you here. So what is the reason, someone on this island will surely help you.”

“My family business, I’ve said it before I need to get it straight!” “Perhaps you’re, not cut out?” “No I am! I designed the best revolver that money could buy! The cylinder rotated when the trigger was pulled and it operated the hammer! No revolver did those things at once! You used to have to cock the hammer to move the cylinder and then fire! What I made is revolutionary and yet no one took me seriously and I didn’t get government contracts, and it was just a ‘sporting gun’! They wanted a rifle and I didn’t have the tools or money to make a rifle!” The innkeeper was smirking, nodding in affirmation.

“So you have skills, you are quite, talented. Perhaps you should go to the mansion, and speak with the heart. Whatever the heart desires will come true, it came true for us all.”      The passenger nodded stiffly, but shook his head in confusion. “I just don’t know, is self reflection going to help?” “Well, you can call it, self reflection. You’re good at your, craft. So good, so, desirable. Come, finish your fish and have some more tea, and find your way to the mansion. Whatever the heart desires is yours after all.” The passenger nodded, declining the tea and getting up, walking across the room and stepping outside. But as he stepped outside, his mind went blurry. He didn’t remember the room, whatever the inn was like, he just knew it was loud, chaotic, and warm. The shelf with the elixirs and drinks, who served him the fish? These were all questions that echoed in his mind. And yet, something called him, beckoned him, a desire from within. Urging him to leave the village.

     He couldn’t question it, he felt it, raw, burning, a craving. A desire. And before he knew it, when he came to, just for a moment, he stopped, that sweet salty air still clinging to his lungs, in a panic. Somewhere in the woods, the village so far away, horror seeped across his face as he wept.

“I have to! I’ve come so far! All I need is what the heart desires! He breathed heavily, in tears, shouting to himself.

“You’re better than this…” He said to himself, trying to snap himself out of it.

“But no one took my patent! I need this!” He shouts to himself from the hill, looking down, and seeing that the mansion wasn’t far away. “Whatever the heart desires.” He says to himself with determination, with courage. Standing up from his knees and pressing forward.

     As he approached, he admired how well and quaint the mansion was. The village was in ruins compared to this fine structure. Solid beige bricks making up the outside with red shutters that were all closed. There were white supports strutting from the wall giving it some extra texture to it. The doors were massive, at least ten feet tall, being made of dark wood. But before he opened the door he could hear something from within, a slow, rhythmic beating. But the more he listened, the less he heard it. So, he opened the door, and carefully stepped inside. He walked the halls, admiring the wallpaper, the ornate prints and textures, following the sound of a crackling fireplace. He kept following it, deeper and deeper into the mansion. That beating sound, it was louder, and the crackling of the fireplace grew too.

     He weaved the corridors, lost, confused, almost in a panic, and the beating was deafening, it was impossible to hear his own thoughts, impossible to navigate, horror gripped his face as he fell to his knees before a fireplace, the crackling hissing in his ears as he lay near the andirons. His breathing began to even, and realized that the beating was within the room, but it wasn’t from his chest. He came to his knees in this darkened room. The light of the fireplace is the only salvation. And as he looked up, he was greeted to a pulsating red mass before him, hanging from the ceiling. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. No arms and no legs, veins ran through the ceiling feeding it, and it beat like a bloody heart. It beat, and it beat. It oozed, it smelled of iron and soot.

And the passenger laid there, confused, his eyes glossing back as he began to cry. Silence fell upon him. Just the beating of the heart. “Oh God…oh merciful God” He sighs somberly, in a voice so holy it would rock the earth. He hears, coming from everywhere and yet somehow nowhere, but what it was he heard fell upon deaf ears.

“What are you?” The man asks, and yet no response comes, as his eyes fade to black, and the beating continues in the background. It keeps beating. Slowly, until the life of his fades away, and the beating stops.      The salesman, young, spry, full of life and energy, steps off a rowboat along the shores of a mountainous isle. Dressed in a nice red suit, a smile on his face, the pungent air doesn’t send him packing! He begins to walk the boardwalk, hoping to find someone, instead finding a shop, a small firearms shop, that catches his eye.

“Egress Gunsmiths? Sounds familiar!” The salesman shouts with a smile. He walks in as a young man in a black trench coat and tophat stands lifelessly behind the counter, with a rack of revolvers and revolver rifles behind him. “Whatever the heart desires, it’ll come true. It did for me” He says to the salesman, in a dead, lifeless tone.


The mirror had grey specks that had settled after swirling in the morning sun. And a few smudges of fingers that imprinted nothing but their desperation; the same desperation that stared back at her. The morning light was now long gone and along with it any premise that today might be different. The day was a monochrome of virtual meetings and emails. Everything had been accomplished by the taps of fingers that elucidated sense as they ran across letters and numbers. They didn’t seem connected to any other part of her, the words not imprinting on her synapses as they appeared on the screen. She had moved twice: once to make herself a bowl of cereal and once to pee. She used to get up more often to make the twenty-yard journey to the kitchen to get water and decided to obviate the trip by springing for a water fountain- like the ones you had in clinic waiting rooms, where you press down on the blue nozzle to get cold water and the other nozzle stays untouched. Time for her last meeting of the day: click, open, mute - her fingers worked with the deftness of an expert flutist. Video on (unfortunately). She mumbled a few words to register her presence on the call before collapsing into her vacuous apartment. The space that shrieked silence at her. She had moved here after her roommate and best friend of seven years had decided to move in with her boyfriend. She had long wondered what it would be like to live alone and hadn’t expected to find out while the whole world was locked away in their apartments for over a year. A movement on the screen caught her attention and it took her a minute to realize it was her tile on the screen. She spent most meetings staring at herself in her virtual mirror, eyeing with dismay the puffiness on her cheeks and the skin sagging behind her chin. Her forehead resembled an un-ironed dress more and more everyday, or perhaps it was the optical illusion of her webcam that seemed to keep her wanting. She figured if she found herself looking acceptable, she’d spend a lot less time looking at herself. Back to the disturbance on the screen; somehow a moth had found itself into her apartment that no human had ventured into in some time. It fluttered neurotically as it perched on her life - first the bed, then the dresser, and then her yoga mat that laid unfurled from two weeks ago when she had last promised herself she would be on it everyday. She contemplated turning off her video to go fight the good fight against the moth but pictured getting asked something just when she went off camera. The best way to avoid attention was to be a bobblehead on camera and feign attention. After what seemed like eternity, the meeting ended with a wave from each screen tile like the Brady Bunch. As much as the meetings seemed endless, she was now faced with the possibility of time and impossibility of doing all that she wanted to with it. Faced with this enormity, lately, she had been choosing mundanity. The trite trifecta of Takeout, TV shows, and Twitter. Hang on; was the moth still around? She looked around for the winged intruder, scouring her chair strewn with unfolded laundry and the plant that looked worse for the wear of existing in her room. She finally spotted it on her mirror in the corner of her room. It had been a long time since she had made it to that corner; full-length mirrors were only useful when she was in danger of being seen full-length in public. Nothing below her waist had been displayed for public viewing in quite some time. The moth beckoned her to the corner, having colonized it as its own. The sauciness of the situation enthralled her; that a space she had so fully occupied without reprieve could be so casually under siege. She made her way over, clumsily tripping over a basket full of unfinished crochet yarns; yet another hobby she had failed to routinize. Just as she reached the mirror, the moth un-perched and glided effortlessly out of her slightly cracked window. She stood there astounded by the abandonment for a few seconds, before realizing she was staring back at herself. Her right arm lifted in front of her to flatten her hair. The ravage of her unfocused tendrils smirked at her. Gone were the days she would spend thirty minutes every evening ironing out her corkscrew hair. Three months ago, she had thrown out her straightening iron in a desperate coup so that she might learn to embrace her frizzy curls rather than erase their existence. It wasn’t going too well. And then without registering the intent or rationale, she dropped down her senescent sweatpants and shirked off her nubby t-shirt. She was mesmerized by what was gawking back at her. Tufts of black peaked out nestled between her bra strap and her arms, matching the lazy protrusions from her underwear resembling a tarantula's legs. She moved her gaze to her torso where the sight of her stomach distended with loneliness sprung hot tears that seeped down her globular cheeks. As unlovable as she felt, the evidence was staring back at her, unrelenting, all-knowing. It shamed her to think this way, to feel so sorry for herself. All over her instagram feed were women of all shapes screaming body positivity at her. “Love yourself as you are; it begins with self-love; if you don’t love yourself who will; you’re beautiful at any size”. But it wasn’t that simple. Even those posters showed women with luscious, glossy hair, cheekbones that seemed to angle up at the sun, eyes that sparkled atop petite noses. She had always felt her face was too round, her eyes too small and her nose too big. She never saw someone who looked like her that got what they wanted and accepted as they were. It felt like a trick. The world yelled to her that she didn’t belong. And now, in the cringing silence of her life, she couldn’t pretend not to hear it.


The accumulation of what can only described as “stuff” is incremental. Hardly noticeable until a surviving relative must plough through it and decided what will be saved and what will be demolished.            I discovered among yet another box of old papers, a small black cylinder. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and lifted the lid carefully with my thumbnail. It contained an undeveloped roll of film. A label on the container read: “Eliza.”            I thought for a few moments. Grandmother Sarah never mentioned anyone with that name. Actually, she never talked about her family—she refused to discuss the topic. All I knew about her was that she was from Eastern Europe. The handwriting on the film canister was not Grandmother Sarah’s because my grandmother had a beautiful, even artistic handwriting, like the calligraphy seen on wedding invitations. No one else in my family had such beautiful hands. The writing on the canister was in masculine block letters: ELIZA. I placed the film in my sweater pocket. I left the attic to work on emptying closets in the master bedroom. As I stacked clothes to take to the thrift store, I couldn’t take my mind off my discovery. My hand kept going to the object in my pocket. I stopped, looked at it again, then put it back in my pocket and rushed downstairs. I drove to a chain drugstore, but they could not help me. They recommended a store downtown. I wasn’t paying attention as I drove downtown. All of my attention was on the film. Who is Eliza? Is she a relative? Does she know Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary? I thought she might be someone from my father’s side of the family, but I dismissed that as unlikely. It was my mother and grandmother’s belongings I’d been sorting through. It was dusk when I exited. I drove around, almost going the wrong way on a one-way street, and finally found the recommended studio. I parked and hoped the store was not closed. I ran up to the door; luckily, they stayed open until 7:00 p.m. The young man behind the counter, named Alan, appeared very excited when I showed him the film roll. He knew a lot about restoration and was very professional in his manner. He was able to estimate the age of the film. “Probably sixty years old, maybe more,” he proclaimed. Must be black and white. So cool.” Although it was almost closing time, he shared my curiosity about what the film might depict. “I’ll go ahead and develop it now if you want.” “Yes, please,” I said. “It will probably take me about an hour. There is a Starbucks across the street.” The coffee made me more anxious. The minutes crawled by. After 30 minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer and returned to the photo shop. Alan let me in, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. I paced around the shop as he worked on my pictures. I looked at the photographs displayed on the wall. Most of them were brides. There were also a few graduation photographs and several family portraits. Happy faces beamed at me from the walls. My family never seemed as content as these people. I wondered if they harbored secrets. Don’t all families? I wondered. Alan finally reappeared with a big smile on his face. “Got it,” he announced. He handed me the envelope and walked over to the cash register. “Thirty-six dollars,” he said. I gave him two twenty-dollar bills and didn’t’t bother to wait for my change. I rushed out of the store like a thief. I knew I should have taken the time to talk to him about the photographs, but as soon as I had them in my hand, my stomach cramped up and I felt lightheaded. I did not want to faint in the store. The fresh air revived me a bit and I was able to make it back to my car. I got in and sat for a moment behind the steering wheel. I tried to open the envelope with my shaky hands. A piece of glue attached onto my fingers from the envelope’s seal. I licked the pieces of glue away with my tongue and cleared my hand on my jeans. There were five black and white photographs. The first was a picture of a top of a building—like one found in any big ancient European city, such as Paris, Venice, or, Rome. I guessed it was most likely a church or a cathedral, maybe even a castle. The image was blurry, obviously a failed attempt. The next one had the same subject, but the masonry was a little more defined. It looked like a thick haze was in front of it. I could not tell if it was due to the weather or a technical difficulty with the photography equipment. The next picture was of the ground and two feet: women’s feet. The last was of a woman; the woman whom the photographer had worked so hard to capture. The focus was perfect. I gasped with astonishment. I felt as if I was facing myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was my spitting image…I could not take my eyes of her. The black and white picture made the contrasts sharper, the lines more defined. The woman had full black hair, dark eyes and strong lined lips. Her smile was alluring. “Yes, that’s it,” I whispered. The way she gazed into the lens revealed she must have been in love. People don’t pose like that unless there is an intimacy between photographer and subject. There was also a shyness about her, probably because she wore a two-piece bathing suite. Surprisingly, her navel was exposed. Puddles of water were on the terrace, which reflected off the top of the building behind her. I could not tell the location, but it was quite obvious that the photo was taken at least sixty years ago, probably in the 1940s in an urban area. I estimated that the young woman in the picture was no older than twenty. She smiled with her mouth shut, obviously flirting with the man behind the camera—probably her lover. It was clear that she wanted to show her best side and win over his approval and admiration. She had a nice figure with broad hips. As a dancer, I was always jealous of my girlfriends with round hips, which suggested they have a waist. I had learned over the years that European men and Black men appreciated women with such curves, while many American men, like my father, preferred skinny women. Besides the lust and admiration that the woman reflected in the picture at the photographer, her eyes showed a sadness; a certain insecurity that only a woman can see in another woman’s eyes, of heartache and longing. Her eyes made me want to give up on love. Her face appeared transparent, which allowed me to see into her mind, her soul, and her heart. Her shy smile illustrated good breeding, perhaps a good education. Something was special about her—even regal. I instinctively felt something nurturing about her, reminiscent of Aunt Rosemary. When I thought of Aunt Rosemary, tears welled up in my eyes. “Stop it!” I chided myself. “You are just feeling sentimental because of being back here in Austin.  “This woman in the picture could be anyone.” I scolded myself the way Grandmother Sarah used to, “You have work to do.” But I was unable to resist the image and glanced down at the picture again. The woman’s night black eyes twinkled; a light in her pupils betrayed her desire to a sparkling future, but at the same time, she seemed about ready to shut her eyes, as if she wanted to block out any thoughts and just be in the moment; the way I felt when I was dancing. What struck me most was the woman’s nose. It was identical to my former nose. Barbara Streisand has the same nose. Children taunted me as I was growing up. “Hey Yentl,” they called out to me during recesses. I only saw the movie a few years ago about the Jewish woman who so longed for an education she disguised herself as a man. After living under my Grandmother Sarah’s influence for so long, I could not imagine a girl not being allowed an education. Still, no one in my family could ever explain my nose since it did not resemble either my father’s or my mother’s appendage. People used to joke with my mother that I must be the milkman’s daughter. If my father, who was a surgeon, hadn’t delivered me himself, had not pulled me out of my mother’s uterus, he would have probably thought that I was exchanged with another baby in the hospital. It was actually Grandmother Sarah’s idea, not my mother’s, to consider rhinoplasty. My eighteenth birthday gift was a nose job from my grandmother. Of course, I was very happy to have a “normal” nose but could never understand why my nose was so problematic for her. As I stared at the photo, my heart began to beat faster, and my eyes began to water. It occurred to me where the distinct nose came from. The young woman in the picture had to be a close relative to either Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, there simply was no other explanation. Why had both of them been so secretive? Had something bad happened? Was this beautiful woman a criminal? My body trembled and my mind raced: How can I find this woman? Is she still alive? How can somebody I don’t even know look so much like me? Did she do something bad to my grandmother? Is that why Sarah always seemed so angry with me? Although the woman in the picture obviously had black hair and dark eyes, which contrasted with my bleach blond hair and green eyes, there was no denying that I looked just like her. We have the same cheekbones, the same nose, and the same countenance. Is this what they call a doppelganger or a poltergeist? I could not begin to guess where the picture came from, but what confounded me most was why my grandmother had saved this film for so long without feeling the need or the curiosity to get it developed. She must have known about its contents. Human beings are curious by nature. Wouldn’t she want to know? Had someone done something bad? If so, what? I was both excited and nervous. I looked up and realized it was now pitch-black outside. I stared out at the people gathering along the sidewalks. I remained alone, quiet, although I had an overwhelming need to shout. I had so many questions and no clue who would be able to answer them. Other than my brother, sister and remarried father, I had no other living relation to Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, and like my parents, I was divorced. I felt confused, but at least I understood why I was shaking when I opened the envelope. Instinctively, I knew that it would change my entire life.                                                      *****       My work continued to be interrupted by the image of the woman in the photo. Not until I saw the black and white pictures of the mysterious woman did it occur to me that the 1940s had beautiful women—sexy, erotic women. The older women in my own life consisted primarily of my grandmother and Aunt Rosemary. I was convinced that the young women of our generation had invented female sexuality. Even my mother seemed like a prude compared to the other girls I knew. The women I saw in movies, on television, and in music videos never shied away from their sexuality. Quite often, they flaunted it. They regularly showed their long legs, their belly buttons, and lots of cleavage. They wore provocative clothing and gyrated around muscular guys. I remember the first time I wore hip-hugger blue jeans and a midriff top to Aunt Rosemary’s house. She was alarmed at the amount of flesh I had exposed. My mother hadn’t noticed because it was December and I had put a coat on over my clothes before I left my bedroom. My mother was embarrassed when her mother scolded her for allowing her daughter to be “so loose” with her attire. Maybe it was because of her past. I remember a letter she sent me my freshman year. I’d read it so many times, I had it memorized. October 1, 1983 Dear Michelle, You’re sad about Brad breaking up with you. My only advice to you is that love hurts. One Saturday afternoon your dad told me he had to visit some of his patients. An hour after he left, the phone rang. It was our neighbor, Mrs. Harper. She asked me if I knew that my husband was playing golf with some woman, and they were close, laughing and hugging. Since they were in public, the neighbor assumed that I knew about it, “So you have an open marriage?” she asked, which was not the case. I didn’t know anything about it. I was humiliated, but I didn’t know what to say. I thanked her for calling, and said she was mistaken. I lied and told her Richard’s younger sister was visiting before ending the call.

I was so upset; my stomach churned, and my temples throbbed. I went into denial and tried to convince myself that it was not my husband whom Mrs. Harper saw at the golf course. Although I already knew the truth. That’s why I lied. As you know, your father does not have a sister. Your father is a charming man. I always told myself that he was only flirting—it never occurred to me that he could also be having an affair. I had just given birth to my third child. He seemed to adore Alice, but I was not a young woman anymore, and his assistants and secretaries worshiped him. He had so many choices and since he was not religious at all, faith didn’t keep him away from adultery. Suddenly, I saw my husband differently. He was the father of my children, he was my husband, and we lived together under the same roof. But what else did we share? Nothing. There was no longer anything special about him—about us.  You may wonder why I ever married him…because I was pregnant, with you. I’m sure he felt obliged, but he was probably not ready to get stuck with a family. Anyone could see that we didn’t fit together. Sarah liked him for some reason and wasn’t upset he got me pregnant. She liked that he was from a prestigious family who had been in America since the eighteenth century. He was a young, promising doctor who made me feel that I was not on his level, not as accomplished, although Sarah made sure I had a stellar education. I only had one year to go at Smith, but I had to leave college because I was pregnant. It was not easy to be a wife, a mother, and a good student. At that time men didn’t help their wives take care of their children. The only thing your father and I shared was lust. He was a terrific lover, and probably still is, but as a husband he was not successful. He made me feel insecure than. I thought if I was more beautiful, I could make him love me. The strange thing was that after Mrs. Harper’s phone call, suddenly, life became clear. The most important thing in life is that you experience at least one victory—one life-changing event. My victory was I didn’t feel any pain for something I always thought would be painful. The more I learn about myself, the more it feels like I am nearing a victory. I can be a strong woman.      Have a good semester.                                          Mom I had a sudden urge to find that letter and hold it again. I had an inkling it held the clue to the mystery of this photo. I went to my old room and rummaged through the drawers and closet. I found my old diary pushed back on the closet’s top shelf. I had saved the letter in it. I took it down, and popped it open since I did not have the key. I pulled out the letter, and when I did a scrap of paper fell to the floor.; it looked like the second page of an old letter. I picked it up and read: It was my idea to name you Christina. That way no one would know you were born a Jew—not even you. I know about infidelity, but. I was not angry with Pal for taking a mistress—our needs were different. However, I did not expect her to get pregnant. If I never saw Pal again, but if I had, I would have told him, “I saved your daughter.” As soon as I saw Eliza that day in Pal’s office and realized she was pregnant, I began to devise a plan. I had hoped that I would not have to enact it. As time went on, I knew there was no other way to escape the occupation. My feelings about Grandmother Sarah remain conflicted. She lived a lie most of her adult life, but she also did what she thought she had to do to survive. My mother was a way out for Sarah, and it’s possible her actions saved my mother’s life as well. I ask myself, what would I have done in that situation? But all I can do is speculate.                                                                 The End


            I WAS WALKING HEART BROKEN, DUMPED AND THROWN OUT OF OUR APARTMENT. I MEAN HIS APARTMENT NOW ONWARDS. I WAS JUST STORLLING THROUGH ROADS MY VISION WAS NOT CLEAR AS MY EYES WERE WATERY BECAUSE OF TEARS. SUDDENLY A TEENAGE BOY GRABS MY PURSE. I TRY TO HOLD IT HARDER BUT MY HANDS SLIPS AND HE GETS THE PURSE AND STARTS TO RUN. I STARTED TO RUN BEHIND HIM. I HAVE NEAR BEEN TO THIS AREA. THIS IS VERY ODD. HE HAS VANISHED. MY BAG IS HANGING ON THE WINDOW. THIS DOESN’T HAS A DOOR BUT HAS ONLY A WINDOW. I NEED TO GRAB MY BAG AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND LEAVE. I WAS JUST GRABBING A BAG HOW I AM STANDING AT A WINDOW. I WAS PULLED BY AND SUDDEN FORCE AND WITH A THUD I FELL TO GROUND. I AM LAYING ON THE GROUNDON MY BACK. A HAND HELPS ME GET UP.  HEY WAIT UP WHY IT IS A DAY? WHEN I WAS STANDING AT WINDOW IT WAS A NIGHT. “GREETINGS FOR OUR QUEEN DAY”. WHAT A QUEEN? OH! YOU HAVE REALLY GOT A NICE FAIRY OUTFIT. I THINK SO I AM IN SOMEKIND OF SHOOTING. WHAT KIND OF SHOOTING IT IS? IT IS A FLIM OR PLAY? “I AM NOT ABLE TO UNDERSTAND YOU MY QUEEN”. WATER FAIRY JUST GRAB OUR QUEEN AND TAKE HER TO DAY HOME. WHAT A DAY HOME IS? AND YOU BOTH ARE CALLING ME QUEEN? HAVE I LOST MY MIND WHEN I HAD FALL FROM WINDOW? AND I WAS PULLED INTO A BLACK HOLE. I AGAIN FELL ON WOODEN FLOOR. WHERE I AM? HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE? “YOU ARE IN BEFORE EARTH RELAM AND I AM WATER FAIRY. I GIVEN WATER FLOW AND DECIDE ITS ROUTE”. MY HEAD IS SPINNING. IT WAS YOUR FIRST TIME TO TRAVEL THROUGH PORTOL. I DON’T BELIVE YOU AND I THINK I AM LOSING MY MIND. NO, MY QUEEN. SUNSHINE! ANUTY, THANK GOD YOU ARE HERE. I THINK I AM LOSING MY MIND. NO, MY CHILD. I AM HERE FOR YOU. DRINK THIS WATER IT WILL BE ABLE TO HELP YOU. ANUTY THIS WATER TASTE SO DIFFERENT. MY HEAD IS SPINING. MY LADY DAYLIGHT WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH OUR QUEEN KNOW? I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING. IT IS BECAUSE SHE IS LEAVING IN MORTAL WORLD FOR LONGTIME. WHEN SHE WILL GET UP, SHE WILL GAIN HER MEMORIES BACK. BUT NOT ALL. AND SHE IS ONLY OUR LAST HOPE. AFTER FEW HOURS. WAT..E…R.. I WANT A GLASS OF WATER. THANKGOD IT WAS A DREAM A WERID ONE THOUGH. MY QUEEN AS I HEARD THESE WORDS MY HOPE GOT SHATTERED. I..I REMEMBER MYSELF. HOW IS DARKNESS MY TWIN. SHE HAS BECOME DEVIL. SHE HAD TAKEN THE CURSE FOR BOTH OF YOU. SO, SHE IS NOT HERESELF ANYMORE. SHE NOW HAD FREE SOME SOUL SUCKERS AND SHE LED THEM TO SUCK SOUL OF OUR KINGDOM. YOU NEED TO BREAK THE CURSE. OK! SHE HELD A MEETING IN THRONE ROOM.WAIT! WHAT HAPPEN LADY DAYLIGTH? YOU CAN’T SEAT ON YOUR THRONE. YOU ARE STILL IMPURE FROM THE MORTAL RELAM. FIRST YOU NEED TO CLEAN YOUR SOUL. MY QUEEN YOU NEED IMMERSE YOURSELF IN OBIVILION WATER FOR 3 DAYS AND MEDITATE. THEN ONLY YOU CAN SEAT ON YOUR THRONE. I WILL GO ALONE TO OBIVILION WATER. BUT IT IS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO GO ALONE. YOU KNOW LADY DAYLIGTH THE ONE WHO GUARD ME WILL BECOME THE TARGET OF SOUL SUCKERS. I CAN’T LET ANYONE GET HARM. BUT, MY QUEEN NOT NOW WATER FAIRY. LADY DAY LIGTH DON’T WORRY. I WILL SUMMON MY GRAND FATHER HE WILL HELP OUR QUEEN.

MEANWHILE IN A CAVE. MY QUEEN NIGTH YOUR SISTER DAY HAS COME TO OUR RELAM AND SHE IS GOING TO MEDITATE IN OBILION WATER. MY SLAVE LORD DARK YOU GATHER SOME SOUL SUCKERS AND STOP HER. AND DON’T DISAPPIONT ME. MY QUEEN NIGTH YOUR SISTER IS ROYAL WE CAN’T DEFEAT HER. YOU TRY TO STOP HER IN MEANTIME I WILL MIX UNHOLYWATER WITH OBIVILION WATER. NOW GO. NEAR THE OBIVILION WATER POND. DARK LORD WE ALL HAVE GATHER AROUND THE LAKE NO ONE CAN PASS US. SUDDENLY SOMETHING COME FLYING ABOVE THE DARK LORD AND IT SLPASH IN WATER. EVERYONE GATHER THEIR ATTENTION TO THAT THING IT WAS STONE OF QUEEN DAY. WHO EVER GRABS IT WILL BECOME POWERFUL, EACH AND EVERYONE TRIES TO GRAB IT. IN BETWEEN I JUMP INTO OBIVILION WATER. YOU FOOLS THAT STONE IS ARTIFICAL. I START TO MEDITATE. MEAN WHILE HOW CAN YOU LET THIS HAPPEN DARK LORD? I HAD JUST GIVEN YOU SMALL TASK AND YOU CAN’T COMPLETE IT. HOW CAN YOU BECOME DARK LORD? I STRIP YOU FROM YOUR TITLE. I MYSELF WILL STOP HER. AT OBIVILION WATER POND. HER MY TWIN SISTER DAY IS MEDITATING. AFTER SEEING HER FOR LONG TIME I STARTED TO HAVE HEADACHES. IN THAT MOVEMENT A FIGURE FORMED IN WATER. IT WAS WATER GOD. “QUEEN DAY” AS I OPEN MY EYES FROM MEDITATION, I SAW WATER GOD. AND NEAR BY MY TWIN SISTER NIGTH. SHE WAS DEFINITELY NOT HERSELF. I PAY MY RESPECTS TO WATER GOD. “QUEEN DAY IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO PERFORM YOUR RITUAL AND BREAK THE CUSRE. YOU NEED TO MIX HOLY WATER, OBIVILION WATER, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR SISTER’S BLOOD AND TAKE THIS HEAVEN WATER AND MAKE YOUR SISTER DRINK IT”. I DEED SAME AS INSTRUCTED AND NIGTH FELL IN SLEEP. BUT I WAS HAPPY. MY OTHER HALF, MY BESTFRIEND, MY FAMILY, MY TWIN SISTER IS FINE. QUEEN DAY, YOUR SISTER HAS OPENED HER EYES. WITH IN FEW WEEKS EVERYTHING WAS BACK TO NORMAL. WE BOTH WERE RULING OUR KINGDOM HAPPILY TOGETHER. ALTHOUGH WE SHARE FEW MOMENTS TOGETHER WHICH IN EVENING OR BEFORE MORNING. I DECIDE TO TAKE A TRIP AND I REACHED THE SPOT WHERE I HAVE ENTERED IN THIS REALEM. THERE IS WINDOW PRESENT. I TRY TO PEEK THROUGH WINDOW. AND I FALL FROM IT. I HAVE MY BAG. I CANCEL MY BOOKINGS TO HOTEL. AND REACH AT MY HOME AND FACE THE BITCH MY BOYFRIEND’S NEW GIRLFRIEND I MEAN EX BOYFRIEND. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE”? IT IS MY HOME AND I WILL DO WHAT TRUTHFULLY IS RIGTH. I WILL THORW YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND OUT OF THIS HOUSE. YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING. I CAN DO THINGS WHICH YOU CAN’T IMAGINE SO, DON’T TRY MY PAITENCE AND CALL HIM. HONEY YOUR EX IS HERE. I JUST THREW YOU OUT OF MY HOME AND YOU CAME BACK CRAWLING YOU DON’T HAVE SHAME, DO YOU? I GAVE HIM TIGTH SLAP AND SAID YOU DON’T HAVE SHAME THIS HOME BELONGS TO ME YOU MADE ME TO NAME IT YOU. HOW IS GOING TO BELIVE IT? YES, I HAVE ROBBED YOU. I MADE YOU NAME THIS HOUSE TO ME. BUT YOU ARE FOOL YOU DID THIS. YOU HAVE KNOW PROOF. AND IF YOU TRY TO GAIN PROOF, I WILL KILL YOU. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST MR. STUART FOR ILLEGALY GAINING THE PROPERTIES FROM YOUR GIRLFRIEND AND GIVING HER DEATH THEARTS. I HAVE UNDERSTOOD IF THERE IS DARK THEN THERE IS ALSO LIGTH. WE JUST NEED TO CHOOSE RIGTH PATH.