Beware brides upon the Seine, perfumed with river water, whose veils catch the wind like white flags of surrender. They will trip along the cobbles with their arms full of roses, and the petals will find you with all the softness of forever. The brides alone feel the thorns. Beware the Latin Quarter with its songbirds and bistro tables within kissing distance. Do not be tempted here to make a beautiful acquaintance, not over a bottle of wine, not over a shot of espresso, not even over a love song. Beware the dreamers of Montmartre who create en plein air and pick muses from stoops and shadows. They will climb on braids of ivy to your window and perch on your sill. By moonlight, they will stain you with watercolours and sign you in illegible cursive. Here, there are hearts ripe for picking. Never has a city hungered so badly to ruin you. ——— The mother’s hands are on her phone. The father’s hands are in his pockets. The Rodin’s hands are white stone, a bridge formed where their fingers intersect. Beneath the tenderness, a wide and hollow space between the palms.

——— The daughter is worried she does not have role models for being in love.

Her parents are passionless. Their kisses are closed-mouthed and fleeting, platonic pecks. When the daughter is in love, she decides, she will surrender herself to it, damning decorum on a voyage through desire. She will reject anyone who loves her less than the ocean loves a ship. She will be taken naturally, entirely, and dangerously. There will be no escaping it. It will take her apart. It will break her bow and soak her sails and sink her til she is just bones mired in blue. ——— The mother and father were not young when they met. They’d both had their hearts broken several times by then—with small fractures, piercing wounds, closed fists, open palms, and the sharp beak of a cooing dove. They’d known reckless loves, thrown stones in glass houses, and burned bridges. They were ready for the cushion of a forever love. Not as a ship and its waters, but as wind and sand: a love that lifts and dances in endless embrace. Their students were above them studying Water Lilies . Matin dans le matin. The shallow ponds reflected dawn-brushed clouds. Willows dipped their long, thready branches into the indigo pools. Lily pads created a soft place for sunlight to land. The water did not move. The students took selfies. The mother was downstairs with a Cézanne. The father stood beside her. They looked at the still life, and the still life looked back at them. For a long time, they were silent, and then the father said, “Yum.” He was so American. Then again, so was she. ——— The son is old enough to drink in Paris but too young to drink at home. He orders une bière in clumsy French, but cannot follow the waiter’s next question. His cheeks flaming red, he points at the menu: Kronenbourg.

The waiter slaps his notebook shut officiously, then bustles on to the next table. The son doesn’t look directly at his parents or his sister. He’s ready to step into manhood and afraid they can see how he’s stumbling. ——— The mother pats her hands dry on her pants. Outside of the bathroom, everyone is abuzz about the Mona Lisa. In every language she has ever known of, in husks, in singsong, in dialect, they talk about the smile, the smile, her smile. The mother smiles. It hurts her mouth. Her lips have become so tight over the years that something as elastic as joy doesn’t keep; it wants to snap back and burn the skin.

Her daughter will be on her phone, though staying connected brings out the worst in her. She sulks that life at home carries on. If she could, she’d trap it in resin and force it to hold its shape until she’s back. Her son will be standing apart from his sister and father. He has come to Paris to pretend to be alone. Her husband will be out with his spool, running circles to bind them together with fragile thread. Only the mother knows he’s trying to apologise. Sometimes, she wants to let him rope her in with the lot of them, tie the family prettily with a bow.

Other times, she hopes he’ll trip. ——— The daughter once heard her parents making love through the wall. She was curious and disturbed and yanked her sheets and pillow off her bed hastily. When she was rearranged on the basement couch, she thought as loudly as she could to cover up the memory. —— The father tilts his head to Nike of Samothrace. Automatically, he calculates her attractiveness. He registers her pleasing, hourglass figure. Her proud chest pulls his eyes, modest where the marble sheet clings to her, though not so modest that he cannot see the suggestion of her nipples. The exercise is so ludicrous that he wishes he could laugh, tell someone that he is assessing a headless statue’s sex appeal. There is no one to tell. He’s made slow progress in his amends and can’t afford to remind his wife of other women, even those who are impossible and sexless. “Wonder what she’s thinking about,” he jokes weakly and hates himself. He hates that he can no longer make his children laugh. He hates that, the longer it’s been since he has, the worse his attempts become. “Arms,” his daughter humours him without looking up from her texts. His son says nothing. He stands several feet away, brow furrowed studiously. The father’s heart aches when he sees his boy pantomiming a man. His wife reappears. She doesn’t look once at Nike. “What did I miss?”

She’s never missed anything, especially not when the father is looking at another woman. ——— The son will never tell the daughter about the woman who drove their father home under a velvet night sky. He will never tell their mother that, while he watched through the window, the woman leaned over the console and pecked their father on the cheek, then let her mouth linger on the corner of his. The son turned the TV off and ran upstairs before his path intersected his father’s. He will never tell. Every night that passes, he convinces himself a little more it was not what he saw, but what he imagined. ——— The daughter declares she cannot look at another museum or she will die. Instead, they sit on a second-rate bench in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe. To a symphony of traffic and horns, they sample pastries from the Champs: an almond tart with vanilla bean mousse, rose-flavoured macarons, moist cake with mango gelee.

The desserts lift everyone’s spirits. The daughter has a little pink crumb above her lip. “Is it how you remember it?” —— The mother remembers falling in love like this: Sitting across from the father in a bistro crammed with patrons and candlelight, grateful for an excuse to crush her legs into his under the table. Browsing the les bouquinistes for an English title, turning pages made delicate with age. Leaning against the balustrade, blue sky around them and boats below, a croissant in her hand. His eyes on her face, warming her like the sun.

The father remembers falling in love like this: Staring at the wall she built between them. The top lined with barbed wire so he cannot climb over it. Unable to reach through, even as the mother’s saying, “I can’t be with you anymore.” Trying to promise her “I love you more than anything,” when he means, “I can’t lose you,” and doesn’t understand that isn’t the same thing. —— They cross a bridge heavy with initialled padlocks. The daughter thinks it’s the most romantic thing in the world. More quietly, so does the son.

“We had a lock once,” the father recalls, but neither he nor the mother can remember on what bridge.

Stars peek down through the gauzy sunset. With age and vantage on their side, they remember perfectly. “I hope,” the father says, “it hasn’t been cut off.” —— Their children are above them in a pool of Water Lilies . The Cézanne is more vivid than the mother remembers it. She counts the yellow apples among the red. The father stands beside her. She reaches for his hand.


He picked through the rubble of what had been his childhood home, looking for anything that might be kept as a souvenir. Bryon meticulously opened drawer after drawer in the kitchen before moving on to the cupboards and then searching under piles of old papers and leaves that had been left to blow arbitrarily through the broken home, lifted by even the gentlest of breezes as it wafted through from the missing front door to the broken patio glass. He hadn’t been back there since that night. Memories would occasionally surface in his mind of the life they had lived as a family in Mojave Heights before everything had happened. They spent many nights sitting at the dining table that had been positioned just to the left of where he was standing. His father always sat at the head of the table, and his mother sat opposite him. Bryon’s older sister and younger brother sat across from Bryon, and the five of them spent many nights playing card games like War or Go Fish. He remembered the rules with a cringing familiarity. They were not allowed to use anything that required electricity or batteries outside of the house lights and refrigerator on weekdays. That meant they could read, but they couldn’t watch television. They could play card games, but no video games. They could go visit friends, but not call them. They could play music, but they couldn’t listen to it. The rules seemed so strange to the kids at the time, but once the rules no longer existed, Bryon didn’t mind so much. He had lots of great memories to look back on, like the time his brother got mad that his mom kept winning at Go Fish and tried to cheat, but the cards fell out of his large sweater sleeve, right in front of everyone.

Slowly he wandered up the cracked and decayed steps to the second floor, where he and his brother Mark had shared a bedroom. The carpets had long since been torn out, but he knew exactly where the bunk bed had been just as clearly as if the impressions were still there in the cheap rug, now long gone. Nothing remained in the closet, but he could almost see shadows of where his Spiderman costume once hung. His sister Maggie's room was next door, his parents down the hall. The last room to look at would be the bathroom, he acknowledged.

For five people in one home, having only a single bathroom had been a nightmare for the family. They had to take turns, which meant extra time in the mornings. Nobody was allowed to be in the bathroom for more than five minutes, and to a young boy that can be torture. There was nowhere else to go if he’d ever wanted to be alone as a child. Bryon glanced at his watch, entered the bathroom and closed the door.

“Five minutes, huh? We’ll just see about that.” He chuckled to himself, curious to know what his mother would do if she knew. He glanced around the room briefly and laughed, realizing there was nothing to entertain him for the next five minutes aside from his cell phone, and with it being a weeknight, it felt strange to break more than one rule at a time in his childhood home.

He pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink to peek at the darkness within. An old ponytail holder and a couple cotton tips lingered in the back, barely touched by the elements after all those years. He bent down to inspect the ponytail holder, wondering if it had been his sisters or his mothers, when his foot struck the baseboard at the front of the cabinet. It sounded hollow enough to garner his attention. Bryon backed away from the sink and looked at the baseboard, which seemed to be hanging at an angle. He pried his fingers into the sides of each end and pulled. With only minimal effort, the baseboard came loose and opened a small space beneath that he never knew had existed in all his years in the home. Stunned, he crouched lower on the floor to see further into the darkness. There wasn’t much visible and the space was dark, but he still didn’t want to break the ‘no electronics or batteries’ rule, more for sport than anything, so he wouldn’t use his phone as a flashlight. He figured the chances of being bitten by anything were slim enough that he should just go for it, so he thrust his arm into the open space to feel around. His fingers struck a couple different objects that he pulled out, one at a time.

First came a small golden key. It looked like the key to a child’s diary, and Bryon guessed it probably had belonged to his sister. She hated it when Bryon and his brother would sneak into her room and read her private thoughts, but they always made the boys laugh. Second came a larger key. This one appeared to be a functioning key made for a house door or an old lock. It didn’t seem familiar, and Bryon slid it to the side. Third, Bryon pulled out an old roll of film, still within the original plastic case. Curious, he held it in his hand and stared at it a moment, as though that would reveal the contents within. He stuffed the film and two keys into his pocket, feeling as though he’d found the souvenirs he’d been searching for, and glanced back at his watch.

Six minutes. HA! Bryon looked around the home one last time as he made his way slowly toward the front door. He’d spent many good years there, but it was finally time to leave it all behind.

“Hey Luba,” he sighed into the phone at his wife. “I just left the old place. It was weird being back there.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” “I don’t know,” Bryon answered her honestly. “I mean, I went looking for some sort of closure, but I found a couple of other things too.”

“Like what?” “I found what looks like an old diary key of my sisters, a key to something else, and an old roll of film.” “A roll of film? Oh my gosh, I haven’t even seen a roll of film since I was a kid. What’s on it?” Luba was always supportive of Bryon when he talked about his family, but this curiosity went beyond that.

“I don’t know. You think I should get it developed?”

“Yeah, of course! Why wouldn’t you?”

“What if it has something on it that I don’t want anyone to see?” Bryon had genuine cause for concern. As many good memories as he had in that house, there were a lot of hidden secrets, too.

“I think all film is processed using machines these days. I don’t think anyone will see what’s on it. The machine does all the work and then shoves it into an envelope. I mean, as far as I know that’s how it works but we can ask. I’ll call the drug store and see.” Luba was more curious about the film than Bryon was, she realized. There was a lot about his childhood that Bryon never really told her about, but what could be so bad that he would be afraid of old camera film? “Yeah, can you? I love you. I’ll be home in a bit,” Bryon finalized, and the two hung up. His heart pounded in his chest. He hoped Luba was wise enough to not call the nearest drugstore to ask, or he’d be forced to take the film farther from home to have it developed. That probably wasn’t a bad idea anyway, he acknowledged.

By the time he pulled into the driveway two hours later, Luba was already outside waiting for him. She was bundled up in her warmest jacket, hugging herself from the dip in temperature they’d experienced in the Adelanto high desert recently. She hurried to the passenger side of the old car and climbed in.

“Okay, let’s go,” she grinned at him.

“Go where?” “To the drug store,” she grinned at him quizzically. “The processing is done by a machine and that goes for all the Rite-Pharm locations in the state. I called the one in Apple Valley so you can take it to any location you want and they won’t know about the call.”

“God, I love you,” Bryon grinned at her and leaned over for a kiss.

“I know,” she grinned, referencing their favorite film, and kissed him back.

By the time they got to the drug store they only had 20 minutes before closing, but Bryon had driven over an hour away just to be safe. The sign out front advertised one hour photo services, but he knew there was no way they could get that done. They’d have to wait until the next day to pick everything up again. They went inside, requested the single print service to be available the following afternoon, and made the long drive back home. Neither spoke much, and Luba knew Bryon had a lot on his mind.

“It won’t be that bad,” Luba tried to reassure him, patting his arm. “I can only hope,” he nodded, praying she was right.

After work the next day Bryon drove the hour back to the drug store to pick up the photos that scared him so badly his hands were shaking as he reached out to collect them from the clerk’s hand. Still fearful, he didn’t even open the envelope to see what was inside. Instead, he paid at the register, got back into his car, and drove the hour back home, only glancing at the envelope a couple of times. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he chose to do nothing. Luba would help him. She was good at that.

He entered the house to the smell of fresh cookies. Luba, being the amazingly supportive wife that she had always been, knew this would be an emotionally torturous day for him and was doing what she could to make it just that much better. He smiled to himself, forgetting the envelope in his hand for a moment. How had he gotten so lucky? “Is that them?” Luba bounced around the corner, grinning at Bryon the way only she could.

“Yeah,” Bryon nodded, morosely.

“What’s wrong? What’s in it?” “I don’t know yet,” Bryon admitted, feeling somewhat sheepish to be so frightened of photos.

“Well, let's grab some cookies and take a look,” she patted him on the small of his back, knowing the cookies would help tremendously in leveling his mood. A plate of fresh oatmeal cranberry cookies rested in the middle of the table with two tall glasses of chocolate milk. Bryon sat down, plopped the envelope carelessly on the table, and reached for the top cookie. Luba kissed his cheek and sat beside him at the table. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Luba gingerly opened the envelope, as though it contained sheets of delicate gold, primed for turning to dust with any quick movements. She reached her nimble, slim fingers under the photos. Slowly, as though handling a duck egg, she slipped them from the envelope and held them out to Bryon. “I can’t. I need you to…,” he paused, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“I got you,” she grinned, knowingly.

The first photo was a close up of Bryon’s mother, showing an apple to the camera. Her mouth hung open and she seemed to be shouting in joy. Behind her in the frame stood an apple tree. Bryon could only guess that she’d picked an apple and someone had taken a photo of her to capture the sheer happiness on her face. How he missed that face. Luba moved it to the back of the pile to reveal the next photo. The second photo was similar to the first in that his mother was holding an apple still, but was taking a bite out of it. His sister was in the background, picking one of her own from the tree. They seemed happy. He remembered when they were happy. Luba moved that one to the back of the pile, too.

The third photo was one of Bryon himself, sitting at the dining room table with his brother and sister, playing cards. Neither their mother or father were in the photo, and Bryon started to believe maybe the camera had belonged to his father since he was the only one not showing up in any photos so far. Luba followed the other photos with this one.

“These don’t look so bad,” she smiled at him, reaching for another bite of her cookie.

“No, they’re not so bad,” Bryon agreed. “I don’t know what I was afraid of.” He took a swig of his milk and offered to take the photos from Luba’s hands. She declined, and revealed the next photo.

Bryon was standing with his mother and siblings on the back porch of their home, and his mother was holding a puppy. Everyone seemed so happy there together. Bryon was sitting on the steps, his mother was leaning on the railing, and his two siblings were sitting on what looked like a large metal case with a latch on it, half hidden beneath the porch. There, on the latch, was a large lock that looked as though it would need a key to open. He didn’t say anything at first, but instead he reached out a hand and pointed. Luba saw it too. “What is that,” she asked. “I’m not sure, but,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys he’d found with the film. “I’m wondering if this key would open it.” Chills shot up and down his spine. “Keep going. But slowly.” Bryon watched as Luba lifted the photo to reveal the next one down.

It was darker than the others, as though it was taken in a dark room. It was hard to make out what they were looking at, but the sinking feeling grew. He knew this wasn’t good.

“The next one,” he grew morose, knowing without having to guess what would be revealed in the next photo. He’d seen things like that before. He wished he hadn’t. Luba was still not sure. “Brace yourself,” he warned her. She leaned back a little, looked at Bryon a moment, and looked back at the photos. Slowly, with building anxiety, she revealed the next photo.

It was a woman, naked from the waist down and in the fetal position. She had strange scratch marks all over her body and deep red marks around her throat, as though she’d been strangled to death. Her cloudy eyes told a story of their own. Luba and Bryon both understood her to be dead. Both of them recoiled, but neither were strangers to the horror. Bryon had recently been promoted to his department’s head Detective, and Luba had spent 20 years working for the county coroner.

The next photo was a different woman, sitting upright in a chair, but with similar scratches on her arms and legs, and red strangulation marks around her neck. Luba glanced at Bryon.

“Should I keep going?” “Yeah,” he replied, regretting the internal drive he now felt to find out the truth. He didn’t want to look, but he knew he needed to. He’d long suspected his father had been the serial killer, the unknown Alphabet Murderer, and he may have finally stumbled on the proof that had been missing since the 1980’s. Luba always knew of Bryon’s suspicion, but never really believed it herself.

The next several photos were more women, each different, all naked from the waste down. Each had been strangled to death, and a few still had pantyhose or shoe laces tied around their throats. As hard as it was to keep looking at the photos, the two of them knew it was a necessity. They needed to see all of them. They’d turn them in to the police the following day, of course, but they needed to see the evidence before that.

The last three photos were all that remained. Bryon took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. Luba took the top photo and slid it under the others, careful to keep everything in order still.

It was another photo of his mother, Mary Martinez. Except in this one, she wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t picking apples. She wasn’t enjoying the sunshine or playing with a new puppy. She was, as the others had been, naked from the waist down. She had a noose around her neck. Bryon recoiled, tears biting at his eyes.

“Mom,” he whispered softly.

“Oh my God,” Luba looked on in horror.

The next photo was of her again, this time joined by his two siblings. All three of them were dead. There was only one photo remaining. Luba revealed the last image. There in the photo, beside the back door of their old home, the large metal chest had been opened. Inside sat thousands of rolls of film, and on top of it all, his sister’s childhood diary with her initials "M.M." on the cover.


Legend has it, Yumiko Nygune fought ten warriors at once and beat them all with the just one punch. She trained night and day waiting for another warrior to challenge her and one did. Her brother, Jungkook Nygune, jealous of her success and for being the most feared fighter in all of Korea, challenged her and as the rules say, one must leave Korea or accept the challenge, and so Yumiko had no choice but to fight her brother. The battle took place at an abandon warehouse and Yumiko’s only rule was that there was no audience; If her brother did not surrender after he is brought to his knees, she would have no choice but to kill him. So, the battle begins her weapon, swords and his, daggers. Jungkook was brought to his knees but just as she was afraid, he did not surrender. “Brother give up, it is the only way it can end”

“There is another way Yumiko, kill me” Her slight hesitation gave Jungkook the upper hand and Yumiko was brought to her knees. “I give up brother, I surrender, I no longer want to fight you, so I give up” “No Yumiko, there will be no weakness in our family, tell mother I say hello” A tear slipped from Yumiko’s face as Jungkook ended the battle with his daggers in her chest. The new feared warrior walked out of the warehouse with his sisters’ body in his arm and people looked with grief, joy, anger, and confusion watching her body drip blood from where the daggers entered her body. “My sister is dead” “How could you do that to Yumiko, to your sister, you show no honor to your family’ What she did not know was that he had been planning and training for months to kill her. Jungkook was the new member in the Korean mafia gang or better known as “Kkangpae” and they have had Yumiko’s’ name on their hit list for years. She was too powerful, and she was the only one who could ever beat the members of Kkangpae, but not their leader Jimin Hangeul. Jimin promised Jungkook he would be a member of the gang if he could eliminate the threat, Yumiko. “If I just jump it will disappear, everything will disappear but if I stay what would I’d be staying for, who would I’d be staying for, and the answer is simple. Nothing and no one”. Being lonely in this lonely world is a dangerous thing to do. American girl, Baha Morgan ready to be a coward and jump off the bridge to her death, truly knows how lonely this world can get. No mother, probably no father, she’s practically an orphan and a damn lonely one.

“Don’t do it, instead let me rebuild you” “Who said that, are you a ghost or something” Almost a ghost. Jungkook tossed Yumiko’s body over the bridge and into the ocean, but she did not die, instead she was floating to the bottom of the ocean when some miracle caused her to wake up. “Help me and I promise to rebuild you into a stronger, better version of yourself and not a coward who tries to jump off a bridge when things get hard” Baha gets downs to the rocks and see Yumiko and her blood all over the rock. “Take me to my temple, please”

“I don’t even know what that means” “American are you, the accent gives it away, please do as I say” American girl Baha takes Yumiko to the temple and when she arrives, she sees it. A huge temple that has trees and grass and is a total trash house. “What is this some kind of hideout” “It is my temple, I let nature do what she must do, take me to the center of the pond and lay me down in it”

As some may imagine, she floated in the air and a phoenix appeared and Yumiko was reborn. “How’d you do that, none of this makes sense”. “No, it doesn’t, but at least I saved you from becoming a coward for eternity” Yumiko’s wounds were suddenly healed, and she was more powerful than anyone could ever imagine. “Child sit. Let me tell you a little story”. Yumiko told Baha about everything. The battles with ex warriors and the battle with her brother. “Wait, your own brother killed you. Just like that. No remorse. No mercy. And he threw you over the bridge. Wow and I thought my life sucked”. “Child you see, where I come from, things are a little different. It’s not like America. Our rules are stricter and families, well they don’t mean anything here”. “But you cared for you brother otherwise you would’ve killed him”. “Maybe. But I also don’t want more blood on my hands than I already do”. Baha. American girl. Fragile and so small in Korea. “Child why are you here in Seoul, especially alone because that sort of thing can get you killed”.

In Seoul, Americans are typically not welcomed, unless you make a name for yourself. “When I was thirteen, my mother died. They said it was a robbery gone wrong, but I was there, I know what I saw”. “What did you see”? “Korean men, six of them. I heard them yelling at my mother about money my father owed, and they questioned her about where he was, she didn’t. They beat her and then one of them, Jimin, killed my mother with his sword. Where I come from people that murder other people are supposed to go to prison, but they didn’t. Everybody just swept it under the rug and didn’t even try to get justice. The only reason I’m not dead is because they already got their pay by killing my mother. That’s why I’m here. To avenge her. But it’s been four years and I have gotten nowhere”. “Jimin Hangeul. Leader of the Kkangpae gang”. “You know my mother’s killer, so take me to him”. “Child, you have no experience going up against someone like him, he will kill you before you could even get close to his men”. “So, help me, if you’re such a great fighter train me. You could get revenge on your brother and I for my mother, please Yumiko, I will do whatever it takes”.

“Well then, let’s begin” And so, they did. Yumiko trained Baha day and night. Baha learned all the styles Yumiko knew of fighting; Kung Fu, Muay Thai, Jujitsu, Karate, five months later and Baha felt unstoppable, and she was. “I’m ready. I’m ready to challenge Jimin and avenge my mother’s death”. “Physically maybe, mentally, are you? Are you prepared to fight to the death and die or have blood on your hands from the rest of your life Baha”? “I am challenging him and am prepared to have his blood on my hands”. Wondering the streets of Seoul, they both found where Kkangpae was gambling at. Jungkook surprised to see his sister and Jimin angry she was alive. “Is this some kind of game Jungkook, you plotted with her and faked the death” “No! You were dead, I made sure you were”. “You underrate me brother and that was your mistake”. “I challenge Jimin to a battle, time and place now and here”. They all laughed except Yumiko and her American girl. “Very well, first I will end this child’s life and then Yumiko I will end you and you Jimin for not finishing the job. Your move”. Surprised Baha lasted this long, Jungkook shows remorse and what seems to be regret for what he did to his sister. Now there is a bigger crowd than before waiting to see the death of Baha. \ “Wait a minute, I remember you. American family. I killed your mother. Are you trying to avenger her? Ha. You will see her soon”. Three hours in and Baha seems as if she is the one who will be dying. Jimin knocks her down and is given his sword. “You will die at the same sword your mother did”. Baha stopped the sword from entering her body. “No. You do not get the honor of killing me, but I will get the honor of killing you”. She kicked him off her and knocked him down with the same move Yumiko finished her opponents with, the death punch. Jimin lost his hearing for a split second and Baha knocked him down. Yumiko tossed her a sword. “Rot in hell you son of a bitch” Jimin Hangeul dead at the hand of a twenty-year-old American girl.

Five months passed by. Baha and Yumiko are the most respected not just in Seoul, but in Korea. Yumiko took American girl Baha under her wing and continued to train her until her last breath.


Kalan entered the hall of the high fortress, dragging his body along the ragged, uneven ground until he gathered the strength to rise. Inside, strong currents of air cleaved the interior of the monolith, immediately drying the blood that streaked his body until it turned dark and rusted.

Hearing his entry into the nest, the flock, cautiously and curiously, approached the various cave openings that housed them then. Round, lidless, rainbow-colored eyes watched him in silence. The view was superb. In every den, on the various levels of height and width of the immense entrance hall, his people had stopped breathing, until Ka, his progenitor, approached him. Kalan knelt, forehead touching the forearm which held his upraised knee, anticipating the coming moment, anticipating his father’s judgment. He was the prince of a cursed people and everything depended on him. "You survived the descent and arrived at the sea. Yet nothing has changed." Ka hissed through gritted teeth which protuberate from his open beak, “The witch lied to us, just as I suspected. She filled us with false hope.” In the background, Kalan could just make out the voice of Katara, his younger sister. “No one has yet figured out the obvious? Why do you think she bewitched us and left us isolated on this escarpment with these mutations? It wasn't by chance,’’ she paused and took her time looking around, at the shocked expressions of our people ‘’Galantha would never do anything by chance. She was one of us." Concordant and discordant voices echoed in the tunnels and black stone halls that nestled them. The loudest the discordant ones. Their words veiled by fear. Refusing to accept that to return to their former lives they had to accept the transformations caused by the curse and learn to live with them. And what is the best way to go about it? Kalan knew, as Katara knew, but his father, the King, the one responsible for the condemnation of an entire people, could not accept it, and so the dissenting voices did not subside. Ignoring Katara's comment, Ka continued. "You've proven your courage, my son. Now it is time to heal our wounds and rethink our plan to break the curse." Again the denial of what was obvious. There was only one possible plan.

There had only ever been one possible plan. Kalan looked up, the air shifting as his father moved away. Only the rustle of feathers echoed in the wide space as he passed. Ka's immense body momentarily covering the image of Katara's eyes locked on his. So lilac, like all her bizarre parts, and just like the translucent gown and dazzling amethysts she had worn the day everything changed.

Coincidence? He believed not.

At present, all that had been worn on that fateful moment was nothing but threadbare props, like his people, worn, wasted, their time reaching its end. Kalan took a deep breath and closed his eyes to all the life that depended on him. *** Kalan heard the band move away shortly after the King left the vast hall. His bruised body was slow to come to life when he rose. The craggy boulder, which he had descended and then climbed back in the space of a week, had left wide cuts along his chest, arms and legs. Fortunately, with the curse his feet had mutated to something more resistant and effective in his new environment, grabbing at the stone craggy wall like hooks, otherwise, the sea, which bathed the small cobbled cove at the bottom of the abyss, would have carried his carcass away long ago.

He knew he should go wash his wounds, eat and rest, but that would have to wait. A few minutes, or maybe forever. There was no more time to lose. He approached the mouth of the cliff, the only opening to the outside of the immense basalt fortress, and peered into the sunny sky and blue sea ahead, the briny air grew more pungent the closer he got to the edge. The sea roared intensely, but the distance he was at was such that to his ears the sound was like the murmur of placid waters on warm summer days. The unbroken horizon and sunshine called to him. "Brother, what are you doing here? I went to the infirmary. Vetara had already prepared the poultices for your wounds, but she told me you had yet to come for her." Katara's voice startled Kalan. The landscape, like his intent, had completely absorbed him.

Without turning around he said, "What do you think? You yourself proclaimed it." He exhaled loudly. "Sorry, but I can't do it anymore. Galantha's words haunt me. It's been nearly two years, and now that the end of the curse draws near... " he couldn't go on. "Kalan... what are you saying?"

Katara's fearful mutter made him turn toward her. The silvery line he saw in his sister's eyes proved that she had sensed the intent behind his words. He hugged her. His azure feathers, the same color as his eyes, the only attribute to have remained unchanged, enveloped his sister's purple ones. "May the destruction of the Winged God of Heaven, who opposed the continued extinction of His people, be today and for another 730 days the condemnation of yours to live like Him. Once that time is over may your destiny be the same as thou hast offered Him. His life and death be made yours and of yours. But for Katara, I offer you a chance at salvation. For a price. When from His palace on high, your firstborn, heir of your nation, accepts Him and reaches the sea, may the curse be no more." Kalan whispered Galantha's last words to his father. "This is my torment Katara. This is my sacrifice." He continued. Shoulders slumped, posture stooped under the weight of responsibility. "I have to believe she knew you could do it. Father's reign is over, it's time for us to change, to accept our collusion in the extermination of those who we look like now. From all of us, you were the only one who always recognized how wrong we were. I know we will never be like before, not inside because you will be the next king. You will guide us. Galantha knew too. I have to believe it." Katara's voice trembled, but her fervor was unwavering and contagious. "Yes..." He nodded. Kalan moved away from his sister, but not before gently wiping away the tears that stained her tanned face, one of the few areas unaffected by the feathers that covered most of her body. Like she and he, a whole nation of humanoid birds. Facing the escarpment once more and the sea that plunged into the horizon, Kalan opened his arms. The wings that thus formed felt the fury of the Northwind. Kalan shivered. But it wasn't the cold which the gusts dragged inside that made his body shiver, but the deep fear of the unknown.

Would he be able to conquer the skies and restore his people to their old selves, to their old lives, or would he be swallowed up by the waves that lapped at the rocks below? He was determined, but he couldn't contain the terror of what he had pledged to achieve. He woke from this temporary panic when he felt Katara's claws in the plumage of his shoulder. "Whatever happens, we will join you soon." She muttered to him. "In the infinite sky of annihilation…" she offered him a soft smile"...or back in our palace on the sea."

Yes, soon , Kallan vowed

Comforted by Katara's words, he didn't look back again. What will be, will be , he prayed. And, with the reflection of the blue horizon in his eyes, he stepped into the sunshine and threw himself off the cliff. The End


As I approached the tall office building I suddenly felt unnervingly overwhelmed. The only job I had ever worked was at a small local diner, which got me through my awkward high school years and my slightly less awkward college years. The diner was friendly and familiar, which was drastically disparate to intimidating building I was approaching. The interview I endured to acquire this secretary position took place in a coffee shop, ironically right next door the diner that I had just quit 3 days before the interview.  That being said, I was unaware of the massiveness of the building I would be working with. I did not think I could ever be more nervous than I was for my interview, but as I neared the entrance, I was. Just as this realization crossed my mind, I felt drops of a hot liquid splatter onto my pantyhose clad feet. My hands were anxiously shaking, causing my coffee to spill over and stain my brand new pants. Working in a diner for so many years, I did not own any professional clothing, meaning the stain was rather devastating. I shook it off and tried to think of a less embarrassing explanation for the stain as I opened the door to the my new place of employment. I was still a half an hour early, so I knew I would have time to search for my desk. When I received the call informing me that I had gotten the job, my boss told me that I would be on the 12th floor right next to the coffee machine, and that he was confident I wouldn't miss it. If only he knew of my absentmindedness, he would not be so confident in that assumption. The unclear knowledge of where my desk was furthered my anxiety, the only saving grace being that I was early, which allowed some time for inevitable error. As I was calming down, I noticed I was receiving some odd stares from workers getting ready for their day. I wondered to myself whether these stares were because I was new and unrecognizable, or because of the dreaded coffee stain that was now set into my clothing. I hoped it was the first thought. I decided that just in case it was the latter, I would find the restroom and try to eliminate the stain. I followed the signs to the restroom, where I quickly entered the ladies room. After a few minutes of a scrubbing and drying process, I got the stain to be faint enough to go unnoticed by others. I left the bathroom and started towards the elevator, as I knew 12 floors of stairs would be an awful way to start a Monday morning. I pressed the button with the arrow pointing up on the elevator and nervously waited for the doors to open. As I waited, I responded to a text from my mother that wished me good luck. Her excitement from hearing that I got the job quickly faded when she remembered I had no experience in this field, and that I was notorious for messing things up before they began. While these were valid feelings on her part, it made me even more nervous. I was determined to prove to myself, and my mother, that I could do this. The elevator doors opened and I stepped in alone, as I was early and most people would be arriving for another 15 minutes. As the elevator started moving, I checked my phone for the time to confirm that I was still early. The lights suddenly flickered off, my phone being the only source of light in the small elevator. My heart beat quickened and I began feeling panicked. After what seemed like five minutes, but was really only a couple seconds, the lights flickered back on, and I took a deep breath in relief. The relief quickly faded when I realized the elevator still wasn't moving. I tried to think calmly of a solution. Should I press the emergency button, or would the elevator start moving again at any second? I did not want to press a noisy alarm button if it was unnecessary, as it was so early. That was not the first impression that I intended to have. I decided to call the receptionist of the office building, as I noticed she was already there when I arrived. The phone did not even ring before it went to the automated voice message, meaning the phones must have still been down. I sighed in defeat, knowing I would have to press the noisy alarm. I pressed the button, but no noise sounded from it. I then started to panic again when I realized that nobody had any way of knowing I was stuck in there. I knew people would be arriving soon, and realize the elevator was not working, but that left me with almost 15 minutes of being stuck in there. I did not know until now that I had, what seemed to be severe, claustrophobia. My chest felt so tight, which combined with my shallow breathing, leaving me in a pitiful mess of hysterics. I was trying to take deep breaths, but the effort was useless. The sound of my phone ringing made me jump, it was my boss. I whispered a bleak "Hello," as it was all I could muster in the midst of my claustrophobia episode. He hastily responded, concern filling her voice, "Monica, the receptionist saw you get in the elevator and contacted me on my personal phone I warned her you would be coming today in case you had any questions. Are you okay? The power went out which stopped the elevators." His words spilled out so quickly, I barely had time to comprehend what he was saying before he was finished. "Um, I am freaking out a little bit, but I am still eager to start my day!" I tried to sound as cheerful and grateful as I could, given the circumstances. He laughed and told me that maintenance was on the way to get me out, and to be patient, then hung up. I waited for about 20 minutes, when I started hearing some banging from below me. According to a movie I had seen, the elevator mechanics were in the basement, below the elevator, so this was a good sign. I tried calling to them, but got no response. I was calmed down, as I knew I would be out soon. I started thinking about what an embarrassing first day this would be, and how I would be able to concentrate on learning what the new job entailed after such a stressful and slightly traumatic morning. Just as I was thinking this the elevator shifted a bit, and starting moving normally. I was so relieved and grateful that the experience was coming to an end. As the elevator doors open, I was thinking about how the day could not get any worse. I lifted my head to exit the elevator and stopped when I saw him. I prayed to be back on the elevator, trapped.


Chris had always been a cautious man, careful not to slip into the abyss of risks or uncertainties. He had his life planned out like a meticulously crafted blueprint—until the terrible day when everything went south. An important business venture had failed miserably, taking with it his life savings, his reputation, and worse, the trust of his family. Just as he was contemplating the shattered pieces of his life alone in his home office, there was an abrupt knock on his door. It was 12 p.m., an odd time for visitors. “Who the hell is here at this hour?”

He swung the door open angrily to find a peculiar man standing there. Dressed in an incongruous blend of styles—Victorian ruffles meeting 22nd-century synthetics—the man grinned hauntingly, revealing an unnervingly perfect set of teeth. "Chris, isn't it? How would you like a chance to fix your mistake?" he asked. "Who are you?" Chris questioned, trying to not explode with anger with skepticism etching his face. "Name's Cal, short for Caliban. I'm a... let's say, a time-traveling salesman." Chris would have shut the door right then if it wasn't for the glint in Cal's eyes. It was as though he knew something, something profound, something that intrigued Chris deeply. “Listen, Cal was it?

I don’t have time for B.S. at this hour, I have enough of my own problems to deal with.”

Chris said as he started to close the door on Cal.

“WAIT, just one second!” said Cal.

"I really can offer you a trip to your past to amend that one choice that ruined you. You get to fix it, live it differently. But of course I get to take something in return," Cal clarified.

“As with any exchange of goods or services”

"Sure I’ll humor you Cal, what's the price for this impossible service you provide?" Chris smugly questioned.

"A memory. A good one. You'll never be able to relive it, think of it, or even know you had it," Cal said, his voice quivering with an almost insatiable excitement, like a predator looking at his prey. Drooling.

Just one memory for a fresh start—it sounded almost too good. Yet, desperation clawed at Chris.

Thinking of his hopeless financial situation and how he really has nothing left to lose he said “Fine.

I’ll agree to this.

It’s not like anything is actually going to happen anyway and I’ll be able to go to bed finally.”

Cal’s eyes seemed to light up like flames in the distance of his pupils.

Dilated with excitement.

With a flick of Cal's gilded pocket watch, they were there, in the boardroom where Chris had made that dreadful business decision. Chris rubbed his eyes. It felt surreal, watching his past self, trying not to scream out the correct answer. As his past self left the room with his head held low in disappointment, Cal nudged him to go and take his place. Chris did. He relived the whole meeting and made all the right decisions he didn’t before, invested where he should have, and abstained where he needed to. It felt like winning a long-lost battle that had been playing in his mind for a long time now.

With another flick of the pocket watch, they were back in the present, but things had changed. His apartment had transformed; luxurious décor replaced the earlier modesty. Sitting in amazement Chris looked about and reached into his pocket.

A quick check on his phone revealed his accounts brimming with money, more than he could ever need. Everything was as it should have been. This is incredible Cal!

I don’t know what to say to you. "Payment time," Cal announced, gleefully.

Then he closed his eyes and the joy seemed to suck right out of the room.

A jolt of pain ran through Chris's head as he felt a piece of him, something warm and comforting, yanked out. Cal smirked, "Pleasure doing business with you," and vanished. Chris laying in his bed awoke suddenly from what seemed like a crazy dream, but as he looked around his new fancy apartment he knew what transpired last night was no dream and it worked.

I can’t tell my family about this, they will just think I’m crazy.

Weeks passed and Chris found himself surrounded by the luxuries that money could buy—yet an unexplained emptiness haunted him. He had his loving family, but couldn't shake off the feeling that something precious was missing. Every laugh felt hollow, every hug incomplete, as if a crucial element of his happiness had been excised surgically. After a long time of feeling like this Chris decided to consult a psychologist, Dr. Anderson, renowned for his work on memory and consciousness.

He could now afford the best help available and being the cautious and careful man he’s always tried to be, didn't want any stone unturned.

"Chris, you are living what most would call the American Dream. Perhaps it's the sudden shift that has you feeling like this," the psychologist reasoned. Chris knew better. "No, it feels like I've forgotten how to be happy, like something integral is missing." They conversed like this for the rest of their session together, but he didn’t feel it was going anywhere that would help.

As he was leaving, he noticed a photograph on Dr. Anderson's desk—a little girl, presumably the doctor's daughter, blissfully riding a bike. "Do you ride bikes with her?" Chris asked. "Every weekend. Those are the memories that make life worth living," Dr. Anderson smiled. Memories. The word stung Chris. It was like a phantom pain that he couldn’t put his finger on. On his drive home, he started to realize the weight of the price he had paid for his 'perfect' life. A single, priceless memory could hold the essence of joy, love, or friendship—emotions that made life complete.

That warm something that a person holds onto to ensure them that it’s all worth the hassle of the terrible things life throws at you.

As he pulled into his luxurious home driveway he realized that he could amass all the wealth in the world, yet he would remain bankrupt in the only currency that truly mattered. Cal had taken more than just a memory; he'd taken a piece of Chris's soul, a slice of his humanity, a sliver of his core. And so, Chris found himself forever wealthy but continuously incomplete, successful but broken—a man who had traded the very essence of life for a hollow illusion of happiness. Cal the “time-traveling salesman” had indeed lived up to his name, a modern-day Caliban disguised as a savior. And Chris was left to ponder if fixing a past mistake was worth a lifetime of incomplete smiles and hollow laughs. For the first time, Chris wished he'd been less cautious, less eager to mend the unfixable. For what is life if not a series of choices, mistakes, and memories, each irreplaceable, each invaluable in teaching us how to live, love, and perhaps most importantly, how to be human.


The Lieutenant was staring at the huge, ornate double doors in a vicious sweat. It had been a pleasantly cool evening in Paris, even with the stifling scarlet uniform he wore, it should have been cold enough to dance without breaking a sweat. Yet… he stared at the lacquered wooden door. It showed, in its ornamentation, two horses rampant. The Lieutenant’s breath heaved in his chest, painful and slow. He couldn’t do this. He went to turn away, unable to face what he had to do. The gentle humming of music sounding his retreat. He turned and met Captain Drake’s energised blue eyes. “Ah! Lieutenant!” His genial greeting shook the Lieutenant out of the sights and sounds only he could hear.

“I thought you were with our tender Doctor, not leaving us so soon eh?” ”No sir, I just…” ”Star struck by our great Colonel, the Duke of Wellington?” Drake’s smile betrayed his pleasure at so easily determining the issue plaguing his regiment's newest lieutenant. “‘Pon my soul that will simply not do, I’ll introduce you” he beamed at the dumbstruck lieutenant, who couldn’t put out any words to protest at the assumption. Drake put his arm around the still somewhat moist lieutenant and opened the door with his other hand.

The door was thrown open into a well lit, lavish ballroom. With tapestry lining the stone walls, casting shadows round the edges of the ballroom. The room was filled with men in the uniforms of Europe's armies. British scarlet, Prussian black, Russian green, Austrian white and even French blue speckled the room like a painting. This was all chased by the sheer variety of fashion and colour on display by the women. Cream, grey, green, and blue accented the uniforms of their menfolk. The ornate chandeliers gave the light to the bathed pale powdered faces as well as sun-browned and scarred faces, that topped these colourful outfits.

Some turned their faces their way, scanning the two to apply any recognition to the blue uniformed cavalrymen. But there was one that caught the lieutenants eye. She was wearing a black dress, with pinned raven black hair, contrasting her powdered white face. Her deep brown eyes locked with his and in that moment, he would have rather fought the snarling cuirassiers in his dreams. For she looked upon the lieutenant, not with hate, not with loathing or disgust, but with a genuine smile. He blinked hard. He nodded as he was paraded past, unable to look away for a second. Giving the look, not of lust for a pretty woman, but as if she had sprouted wings and flown away. He was sucked out of his slow motion torment by Captain Drake saying his name.

“My lord, this is Lieutenant Frederick Mercer” He was suddenly looking at perhaps the most distinguished member of the ball and he couldn’t recall walking the floor to him, such was his trance. “Ah, I didn’t realise Captain Mercer of G Troop had brothers” the Duke of Wellington asked, in all his purported coldness. “No your grace, we’re of Middlesex not of Yorkshire” “Well, you could be a Mercer out of hell, but if you fight like our regiment did at Waterloo, you’ll be fine in my books. Were you there?”

“Y..yes your grace” Lieutenant Mercer stammered, trying to suppress the memories of hooves and blood that were bleeding into his mind at the mention of the place.

“Good show my man I-” The Duke abruptly stopped as another guest came through the door. “Will you forgive me gentlemen, I have a prince to greet” The Iron Duke walked past Drake and Mercer, followed by his coterie of aides and sycophants. Talk of a Blücher coming from the Duke could be heard faintly over the polite conversation. This left Drake and Mercer to their own devices. “Well… that wasn’t so hard was it?” Drake said, slapping the back of Mercer. “Now, I have a punch bowl calling my name and there will be a woman who shall be calling it by the end of the night” He grinned at Mercer.

“Though it looks like you’ve got a scent, you old dog you!” Drake had caught Mercer, looking a bit too long at the black dressed woman.

“Steady on, my good fellow, the night is young and it’d be ill manners to leave too early with a woman, but I won’t stop you if you think patience will be a virtue with this hunt” He slapped Mercer on the back again, and when Mercer looked back, Drake was gone.

Mercer was still terrified looking at the woman in mourning. She had her back to him and he found his right hand was jittering. The pre-battle shakes that affected some men, yet in this airy ballroom in Paris, it was upon him again. He couldn’t move, even as he tried to take a step towards this black-clad harbinger.

A flash caught his eye, and he thought he was going to yelp, as a glass pitcher caught the light. But all Mercer saw was the glint of steel-tipped lances and shining breastplates. “Ride them down!” “On to Paris!” as the thunder of hooves swallowed the faint chatter and clatter of feet dancing. The dancers were crushed by sweaty heavy horses crashing into broken infantry and exhausted cavalry. Parry, cut, kill; cut, cut, kill. What Glory! Calls of triumph fuelled his own roar of exultation at breaking Napoleon’s vaunted cuirassiers. He raised his sword, taking up the cry “Onward to Paris!” “Onward to-” A gentle hand, and voice popped the vision like a boil being lanced. “Mister Mercer isn’t it?” She was right in front of him. Her black-lace gloved hand on his arm. Ice slashed at his guts as he stared into concerned brown eyes. Yet, he began sweating again. “Uh” he gulped. “Ye…, yes”

She smiled. “Coronet Mercer, from the Duchess’ of Richmond's ball?” she inquired. “Yes, he is I” He smiled weakly. Take a hold of yourself Lieutenant, you are not a child, you are a cavalryman of the best cavalry in the world, act like it. “Lieutenant now” He put in with more confidence, but behind the confident smile, he was brittle at the reminder of how he got the rank. “Ah” she laughed slightly. “I could never get your silly soldiers’ uniforms right”. Mercer chuckled, not knowing what to say. “Marcus talked of you fondly” She remarked. Mercer’s already aching lungs couldn’t push out a sound at a mention of that name The silence stretched out before them both, like a battlefield, becoming awkward. She looked away as she asked the question that broke Mercer. “How did he die?” She looked at him after asking with such fierceness he almost took a step back. His mouth worked but sound and voice eluded him. “They told me he died a hero, but that’s what they all say. What will I tell our son? That he died a hero like every other man who died bleeding at a surgeon's table? That he died a hero, like those that were hacked to offal? That he died a hero, blown to Kingdom Come by a cannon?” Her meek demeanour and coy politeness had vanished, to be replaced with such a vivid and fiery temper, in such a short time made Mercer reel. “Mrs Fairbank” He protested meekly. “Don’t you Mrs Fairbank me” She hissed.

“I’ve spent the last few months being told all the platitudes and all the excuses” Her voice then took a mocking tone. “Mrs Fairbank, this is most inappropriate” Her voice changed to be slightly higher. “Oh Mrs Fairbank, we’ve told you! He died a hero!” Her voice shifted to a bad Scottish accent. “You’ve got a mouth on you young lady, you shouldn’t be talking of such things” She looked him dead in the eyes. “Well?” Her sudden fury, so well concealed to the other ball-goers, that they had no idea of the blessed, pure rage of a widow that had been unleashed. “Because if I found out he died like a coward trying to ru-” “He died a hero!” Mercer forced the words at her like a roundshot. He hadn’t raised his voice over the gentle music, but his force of will drove into her like a sword point. He had taken her tirade, unable to defend himself as she, and the memories of that day, pincered him into inaction. But that last remark had ignited the fury in his heart, the insult of his memory pushed burning oil in his veins. She stared at him. Both were shocked at the sudden, intense emotion being fired off like Howitzers. She looked away as the same silence that filled the battlefield after an artillery barrage, accompanied them in that ballroom. She turned to look at him again, delicately wiping tears from her face. Suddenly feeling guilty, he opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was died in his throat as he heard her say: “He told me too much of war.” Her voice was surprisingly steady as she laid out the words. “It was my own fault. I was never able to be told no once my curiosity peaked.” a flicker of a smile accompanied her recollection before being drowned in sorrow again. “All the ways young men die on those fields” her voice cracked for the first time. “He listed them in great detail, in great anger after I touched a nerve one night.” she sighed before wiping another tear away. “So… Lieutenant, tell me how he died, I’m begging you” Mercer watched as she clasped her hands in front of her. A single tear made a line through her powdered face, like a roundshot hitting a line of men. Her eyes implored, beseeched, begging him and for the first time he was calm.

He wasn’t nervous, his hand wasn’t jittering as if he was to charge all over again. He knew his duty. This is what he had come to do. He swallowed his fear, like he did that day. This time, to simply say thank you. “It was just after the Red Germans had been destroyed” He began his tale with the dead littering his mind, willing him to tell their story. Her aching gaze faded to the small walled farmhouse surrounded by French blue coated demons and Red-Coated corpses. “The elite of France’s cavalry, the Cuirassiers, had just butchered our men around La Haye Sainte. Lord Uxbridge was ordered to deploy us to sweep them away.” He took a deep breath in and met her eyes. “I cannot convey to you the joy we felt in that moment. All of us, thundering towards the enemy's elite mounted troops before they could get behind their infantry and get away with their perfidy. Such burning joy took us all, as if the Holy Spirit itself ignited our blood to bright holy flame that beat in our veins. It was like ascending to a higher plane of existence, to be close to the saints and heroes of old for just a moment, to touch what made them glorious.”

For the first time in months a smile opened his face, revealing a rather handsome and kind hearted man rather than the dour, anxiety ridden wretch he had been since that day.

“It reached fever pitch as we ploughed into them” He had gripped his dress sword unknowingly in his fitful recollection. ‘What a time to be alive’ I thought! To see the enemy that had subjugated Europe crying for help as we slashed them down. Our hooves driving their dream of Empire into the mud. As what was left of the horsemen fled, the French infantry, caught completely off guard by the retreating cavalry, fell before us. The smell of blood spraying up your arm as a carpenter or farmer judders your blade with his last breaths before oblivion, the sound of broken bones as the men who fell were trampled by our might, that taste as sweet as the fruit the devil gave unto Eve.” So deep in his trance, he did not notice her expression change to horror. But she stayed silent. “‘On to Paris!’ The cry was. We’d ride every crapaud down between here and Paris! We were Gods of War unbent, unbowed, unbroken, indefatigable!” In that moment his face fell into horror to match the widows’. “We hadn’t noticed the French lancers had come from their reserves. Just as the cuirassiers, who had reformed whilst we wiped their infantry off the map, counter charged.” A tear began forming in his eyes. “‘My god,’ I thought, ‘I’m going to die’. The feeling so complete as my companions, my brothers in arms, fell before me. I felt cheated, ‘this isn’t how I die!’ I roared at them, I am a God of War. I parried the first gleaming warrior to reach me and broke his arm with my heavy blade before wheeling and killing another with a blow to the back of his neck as he tried to get past me. I took another's sight forever as he tried to attack something to my left. It was then I noticed Marcus had my bridle and was shouting at me. ‘Run! Fly you stupid whoreson!’ I looked to see the lancers were enveloping us, and so we rode like the devil himself would take us if he caught us. I saw Marcus get clear of the lancers as I felt a force of nature take my horse from under me. My right leg was in such agony I had thought I would lose consciousness as my horse nearly broke my leg. A lance point protruded out of my steeds’ side as I landed badly getting out of my saddle. I tried to stand, I stumbled, adjusted then I toppled as my leg finally betrayed me. I stood again and tried to hobble to the safety of our infantry square, then I felt the devils pitchfork lance his lava into my back. The force had knocked me flat and had pushed my lungs free of air. I pushed my head up to see a horseman thundering toward me, and I would be damned if I would die like this, so I got to my knees and put my blade in guard. I wiped the mud and blood from my face just time to see the horseman thunder past me, and a scream to follow.

I heard a familiar voice shout my name but I was insensate. When hands tried to grab me from behind, I flailed uselessly. But then I saw the blue cuffs of my regiments uniform and recognised Marcus’ voice. He pushed me up onto his horse. ‘I’m getting you home to your wife like I promised’ he yelled as he tried to ride through a group of four lancers who had now closed the enveloping trap.

She was in full on tears unbeknownst to Lieutenant Mercer who was also leaking from his eyes, neither making a sound apart from Mercer’s retelling.

“I couldn’t breathe, until I coughed blood in a painful fit as Marcus thundered at them. He parried one, thrusting at another, with his horse barreling past the parried lance point into the unexpecting lancer’s horse. We all tumbled. I was thrown from the saddle. I must have broken ribs when I landed as I couldn’t force a breath in. It instead came in shuddering agony what felt like an eternity later, as I saw Marcus stand back up. His left arm hung limply by his side, but he had his blade held firm. He was yelling at me to get up if I was alive, we were paces from the infantry, but the lancers, furious at the death and wounding of their comrades, were on us before we could have run.”

Mercer’s voice cracked for the first time. Feeling ashamed as he tried to stop himself from crying freely. Everytime he opened his mouth to finish his story, it would sputter into silence. The both of them, tears flowing, everyone else dancing unknowingly near the two in grief. “I… can’t… I” He moaned in anguish.

“I’ve heard enough,” she squeaked. It was then she hugged him.

Despite the looks of the older more traditional members of the ball thinking it inappropriate. The two souls slipping under in agony held each other for support so they would not lose themselves to the endless bruise of the soul that sorrow was.

“He died saving me” He said simply, when the agony abated just for a moment. She held him tighter as the words came out. He didn’t care that his ribs ground together under her gentle pressure. “Thank you” she whispered as she let go, both of them now feeling a bit awkward and ostensibly being strangers, yet sharing a moment of such intimate existential grief for a good man gone. “For what?” he finally said, unceremoniously cuffing his tears away.

“For telling me the truth” “But he… they even gave me his damned rank… Why would…” “He always put others before himself,” She whispered. “He did,” he conceded. “Besides he died a hero, like you said Lieutenant and as he wanted” “Better than most men that day. I still see sabres and breastplates when I sleep. The scream of men and horses. The smell of blood… him…” She put her finger on his lips in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

“Then tonight we will dance all night, so you may have the small relief you have given me and we shall tell stories of him, something to tell his son and your comrades. They gave each other that brittle smile that people in agony give you, when a brief respite appears and insulates them from that hurt, for just a moment. “Thank you.” He whispered as they went to join the dancing. To put that hurt on hold, like the heroes they were, for a hero they loved.


The Symphonia Performing Center is a sight to behold. Not only was it one of the oldest and most popular theaters in the world, it was an outdoor amphitheater. It was gorgeous in the daylight, but it's best seen at night. Lanterns are lit up around the audience, the cushioned wood seats gleamed brightly during the full moon and sheets of stars twinkle and wink over everyone’s heads. Never in my life did I think I’d sit here, but today’s my lucky day. After his self-imposed hiatus, my idol Ramone was back and I was seeing him tonight! When I got news of his invitation-only ‘Musical Rebirth’ Concert, and workshop, I didn’t know whether to cheer or cry. I was so happy he was finally back, but I knew that only celebrities would fill the seats. But the prompt below the announcement gave me hope. ‘If you wish to attend both the concert and workshop, please submit a video introducing yourself and why you want to be in music. Ramone will choose the workshop attendees and they’ll have a special booth in the audience.’ I made my video that night. I usually scurried away from cameras, but my excitement crushed any trace of fear. I pulled on my favorite lacy yellow dress for good luck, turned on a newly purchased ring light, and pressed record on my camera. “Hi Ramone, or Mr. Ramone, sorry I’m not sure how to address you… My name is Cecilia, I’m twenty two, and I’m an aspiring singer who’s been diagnosed with hyperacusis. Hyperacusis is severe sound sensitivity, which happened because of a head injury. Your music was the only thing I could listen to during recovery, and it helped me a lot. I've followed your music journey from when you started at your church all the way to the Flower Festival concert- Oh sorry, didn’t mean to bring that up… I know people didn’t like that concert… Or the album you released at that time, but it’s my absolute favorite! I play it all the time, I love it! But anyway, I want to be in music to show that even someone with everything stacked against them can still win. I couldn’t even listen to music two years ago, but I think I have a chance to succeed now. Plus, I really want you to hear me sing so I can show off! And uh, that’s it! Thanks for listening, bye!” That video, and a clip of me singing one of Ramone’s hit songs (a little extra, I know), got me concert and workshop tickets. Now I was in my yellow dress again, my hair was in bouncy curls, and I was being complimented by the older woman I helped to her seat. “You look absolutely wonderful, like a little daisy!” she exclaimed. I smiled and waved her compliment away. “I don’t look half as good as you! Silver’s really your color.” The woman blushed and patted my hand. She was in a long silver gown that shimmered in the moonlight. Her salt and pepper hair was in an elaborate updo and her makeup made her blue eyes pop.

“Thank you dear,” she said happily, “Ramone has all that beautiful silver hair, I wanted to match as best as I could!” We chatted as people got settled down. The woman’s name was Rhonda and she wanted to be an opera singer her whole life. A lack of support in her earlier life had stalled this dream, but Ramone’s music, his return, and the workshop inspired her to try again.

The lanterns around us dimmed and the audience gradually fell quiet. The curtains parted and revealed our star Ramone seated gracefully on the stage. Raucous applause and cheers pounding through the space like a thunderstorm. Pain shot through my head, but my breathing exercises helped lessen the blow to my eardrums. Ramone raised a graceful hand and everyone quieted. Ramone was even more beautiful in person. His silver hair was in a long ponytail, he was dressed in a crisp white suit, and his graceful hands were highlighted with white nail polish. He flashed us a smile as he stood and grabbed the microphone.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to my musical Rebirth. I must apologize for my break being so long, but I promise I’ve used that time to create something life-changing. Tonight, you’ll be hearing entirely new music I’ve been creating. And after the lukewarm reaction to my last pieces-” Laughter filled the space, making Ramone smile tightly, “Well, I hope you’ll receive these better. One more thing before we start. In your programs, there are different emotions next to each song. I’ve decided to focus on making my audience feel through my music. So whatever you feel while I’m playing, embrace it. Laugh, scream, cry, cheer. Don’t wash away any impulses, just let yourselves feel.” That last word was accented with a slightly sinister grin . My smile slipped as his eyes seemed to darken to a stormy gray. Probably just a trick of the light…. The audience applauded again as Ramone’s harp was rolled out. Instead of his usual small silver harp, a tall obsidian harp with blood red strings loomed over him. The instrument matched the new pendant peeking out of Ramone’s suit jacket. In past interviews, Ramone said he avoided wearing jewelry because the weight distracts him while playing. So why was he wearing such a heavy necklace on such an important night? A delicate pluck of a string cleared away my thoughts. Ramone began playing his first song, a tune with high, clear notes that bounced off the walls. Strangely enough, the song made me think of frogs leaping across lily pads in a lake. Ramone’s full tenor further sculpted this image, making the imaginary frogs dance along with his light and buoyant vocals. As they twirled, kicked and swayed to the music, a giggle grew in my throat. Others fell victim to the mysterious laughter. Two girls behind me held each other, their cheeks pink with mirth. A man shook with laughter against his wife. Miss Rhonda was chortiling, not hiding her volume at all. Ramone swayed as he played and sang, not caring that his audience was falling into hysterics. When the song ended, I was giggling uncontrollably with tears running down my face. Laughter and cheers accompanied the applause as Ramone inclined his head in acknowledgement.

The rest of the concert was a rainbow of emotion. Ramone’s next song was a mournful tear-soaked ballad that had everyone sobbing each in each other’s arms. A sweet lyrical tune had people waltzing in the aisles like we were in a grand ball. One song with a cello accompanist was so haunting and ominous, everyone sat frozen in fear. All the while, Ramone continued playing, staying serene and relaxed as his audience journeyed through emotion. The only time he reacted was when he giggled after he and a saxophonist played a sensual, jazzy number that had everyone… hot under the collar so to speak. “ I’ll never listen to that again.” I thought, fanning myself and adjusting my dress. Many people also hid their faces as they tried to put themselves back together. My eyes were on Ramone as the audience murmured and laughed. His smile was fading and was being replaced by a deep, ugly frown. His stance was stiffer and his hands curled into fists on his lap. The diamond around his neck had changed color as well. Instead of being clear, it was now deep red with viscous black webs swirling around the surface. As Ramone raised his hands to the strings, his gaze met mine from the stage. He couldn’t have possibly seen me from that far away, but I could feel the hate from his eyes sinking into my skin. Tears filled my eyes as a cruel smile distorted Ramone’s beautiful face. Reality rushed back into my head as I hurriedly looked away.

I counted the songs we’d listened to in my program. This was the last one with a blank space where the emotion should be. What was he going to do to us? And how did his songs make me feel all of those emotions so viscerally, not to mention an entire audience? I wasn’t sticking around to find out what was happening next. I grabbed my purse and shawl and tapped Miss Rhonda’s shoulder.. “Dear, what’s wrong?” Miss Rhonda asked breathlessly. “I think we need to leave.” I said hurriedly. “Oh hon, was it that last song?” Miss Rhonda patted my hand sympathetically, “Don’t worry, no one paid attention, and I’m sure no one will speak of this again-” “No it’s not that, something’s really wrong-” Ramone plucked another string and silence fell. I cried out as a pulse of pain pounded behind my eye. I rubbed my eye to soothe it, but couldn’t get my other hand free from Miss Rhonda’s vice grip. The harp spat out strange, shrieking notes, couples with low ominous notes in the background. Through the horrible migraine, I stared around at the audience. Everyone around me was frozen, their eyes fixated on the stage. The music grew louder and louder, intensifying the pain in my head and making everything blurry. I tried wrenching my hands away from Miss Rhonda but her grip wouldn’t give. Tears brimmed in my eyes, followed closely by a trickle of blood from my nose. “Stop!” I yelled at the stage, “Stop playing!” Ramone’s grin widened as he started singing. His soothing voice was now a bizarre warbling melody with the harp’s humming in the forefront. The webs inside Ramone’s pendant swirled rapidly, making a shadowy cyclone inside the massive jewel. I finally wrenched my hand from Miss Rhonda’s grip, kneeled down and scooped her into my arms. I slowly moved through the crowd, trying to keep hold of my things and Miss Rhonda’s limp body. Something crashed into my hip and slammed me into the back of a chair. A man had collapsed against me and was now sliding to the floor. In fact, everyone was falling over in their seats. Some were snoring, some fell on top of each other, and many had collapsed against the back of others chairs. My own eyes got heavier, and my body felt like it was wading through thick mud. “ Don’t stop, just keep going.” I thought furiously, “ You can sleep later, just keep moving. ” As I got to the top of the arena stairs, I glanced clearly up at the sky. The moon was a red tinged mass in the sky. A few patches of white managed to break through but it was quickly overtaken by deep crimson. Before I could puzzle that out, I slammed into a wall. I reached out and brushed against a nearly invisible dome made of faint red glowing veins, each of them pulsing to the turn of the song. I shoved against it, but ended up sliding to the floor. The rough ground and Miss Rhonda’s prone body were the last things I saw before sleep took over. A jet black sky with a red moon and no stars is an ominous sight to wake up to. So is waking up tied to a chair surrounded by unconscious bodies, and especially Miss Rhonda in a heap on the floor. Her ankle was red, swollen, and bent oddly as she frantically scooted away from an approaching Ramone. “Please let us go,”she begged, “We won’t tell anyone, nobody would believe us anyway!” “You have an important purpose to fulfill before you leave.” Ramone said softly. He plucked a string on his harp and Miss Rhonda went rigid. Ramone knelt down and held his pendant close to her face, “Sing your favorite song for me.” Miss Rhonda shook her head and pressed her lips shut. Ramone plucked the string twice, the notes louder and more insistent. A tear fell down Miss Rhonda’s cheek as her shaking became worse. “Come now, resisting makes it worse. I know singing’s your favorite thing to do. Sing for me.” A strangled sob left her throat as Miss Rhonda began to feebly sing. As her song continued, her throat glowed with a spectacular blue light. It traveled up her neck, up her face, and made her eyes glow like brilliant jewels. “Miss Rhonda!” I screamed. She trembled as the light was pulled from her face and sucked into the necklace. Miss Rhonda crumpled to the ground, her skin pale and eyes blank. Ramone sighed as I screamed again. “There’s no need for all that noise,” he said. “What the hell did you do to her?” He lifted his now blue necklace. “I stole her voice.” Ramone said simply, “She has a lovely soprano, I couldn’t let it go to waste.”

“What? Why would you do that?” I asked. “Because she didn’t deserve to keep it.” The frown was back on his face again, creasing his smooth skin, “She insulted my album in her submission video, many others did too. They even laughed at the mention of it, that’s how much of a joke my work was to them. I put my heart and soul in my music, I spent weeks composing every song for those ungrateful people, and all they did was laugh. That woman even called it my…” His jaw tightened and he swallowed hard, “Weakest work to date.” “But even though she didn’t like your album, she wanted your advice! Miss Rhonda told me how excited she was for the workshop, and the tips you’d give all of us. She wanted to sing for the rest of her life, and you took that away! How could you do that?” “She and everyone else here doesn't deserve their pithy little dreams.” Ramone gently caressed the jewel with his fingertips, “They have a better use for me. Everyone’s musical talent, whether they sing or play an instrument, is in physical form in this necklace. Once I drink this, my skills will increase exponentially. No one will ever insult my work again once I’m the best.” I looked at the horrible webs surrounding the jewel. They eagerly pressed themselves against the necklace, as if itching to snatch my voice from my throat. “Are you going to steal my voice too?” I asked hesitantly. Ramone’s gaze softened. He kneeled down and gently cupped my cheeks. “No Cecilia, you don’t deserve that. You recognized the passion and hard work I put into my music. I could never punish a fan for loving my work!” He brushed the jewel against my lips, “Instead of some stuffy workshop, we can drink this together! I can’t imagine a better way to improve your voice.” I scoffed and leaned away, “No, I’m not drinking that.” “Why not? Everything you could ever want is right here.” “Because I want my journey. I want to start from the bottom and get better and stronger, just like you. Your fight for success and refusal to give up inspired me so much, and I want that too!” My fingers tugged at my bonds, but my gaze never wavered from his, “When I get out of here, I’m going to succeed with my own hard work. Fiddle with your magic voice stuff as much as you want, but I’m doing this my way. And good luck telling the police what happened here.” Ramone smiled and shook his head. “Trust me, as talented as you are, the music world will eat you alive. Even someone as successful as me is still torn apart by producers, the media, even my biggest fans. If you drink this, you’ll never have to experience that.” Ramone gently shook the necklace until the colors mixed themselves into a liquid rainbow. He unscrewed the top and inhaled the faint rainbow steam swirling out of the liquid, “This concert gave us something beautiful. We’ll be the greatest musicians in the world thanks to everyone here.” “And how’re you gonna explain this away?” I asked. Ramone patted his harp as he raised the necklace to his lips. “One pluck from this, and people will believe the sky’s pink if I tell them so. And everyone is still alive. No one’s catching me in anything, I made sure of it.” Ramone took a triumphant swig from the necklace, making sure not a drop escaped his eager mouth. The songs of birds and night bugs filled the tense silence. I watched him closely, still tugging at the ropes. If I could untie myself, I could grab Miss Rhonda and call the police. I just needed to loosen the knots just a little more… Suddenly, Ramone gasped and stiffened up. His skin began glowing every color of the rainbow, and his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. I flinched as Ramone fell on all fours, gasping and sighing in complete euphoria. He looked up at me with a sloppy, drooly grin and wide iridescent eyes, “Oh my God, you have to try this. It’s… It’s amazing.” Music edged every word Ramone spoke, turning every word into a melody. He frantically crawled towards me while I scooted back. I was nearly at the edge of the stage when I finally pulled one sweaty hand from the ropes. “Get away from me, don’t you dare-” My voice was cut off as Ramone grabbed my face and forced my lips open, smearing lipstick all over my chin. I shoved against his chest and face, but he still managed to pour liquid music into my mouth. “It’s so wonderful, it's everything we’ll ever need! You can't deprive yourself of this feeling! Join me Cecilia, join me please!” All I could do was sit there, my eyes staring at the endless void of the sky. Ramone’s angelic laughter rang in my head as the blissfully sweet taste spread across my tongue, seeped into my skin, and turned my body into a living rainbow.