Warning: Contains Graphic Violence, Gore, Suggestions of Suicide “It’s just… I’m worried about the drinking. You know?” A gasp of static from the phone: a sigh, long and stratified. “Again? I thought she quit?” “She did, but…” A pause. How much to burden them with? It was a well-trod road, but she had no one else to talk to. And Obert at least could claim some experience in this department, coming into a decade of clean living—so long as one overlooked the smoking, that was. “You know it is hard for her, with her job and all—” Obert’s tone shifted; brittle. “That’s an excuse, Ani. Plenty of cops cope without abusing substances. It’s called therapy. Did she even look at the recommendations I sent?” Ani twisted the phone cord between her ringed fingers. Tried for a response that would soften the blow and wondering why. Obert sighed again. “Lord above—look, I don’t mean to sound hostile, but your roommate actually needs to work to get her shit together. And if she’s not interested… I don’t understand why you put up with her.” Ani almost said, “Because I love her,” but that would have been painting a target on her back. The State had just increased the civilian bounty for turning in “aberrants”, and while she’d known Obert for years, she knew better than to trust him with such sensitive information. Clean though he was, he still struggled to find work; the money, not to mention the merits he could earn from turning her in, would go a long way towards improving his standing. Instead, she swallowed the thorns in her throat, the ones that tore at her day and night, that screamed for her to bleed openly and honestly—“We’re in love!”—and found a compromise. “Vanya means well,” Ani said on a rush of breath. “She just has trouble expressing herself emotionally, without—” “You’re enabling her,” Obert snapped. “She’s forty-four years-old. At some point, she needs to learn to handle her shit. Has she been seeing anyone?” Ani froze. There was a thread of insinuation in Obert’s question that put her hair on end. “‘Seeing’ someone?” “Like… another woman?” Obert almost sounded embarrassed to ask, and the honesty of it briefly sparked in Ani an urge to trust this man with their secret… until he continued: “They say that sebs struggle with depression far more than normal folk; most of the cases brought to the Institutes have a history of alcohol and drug abuse. And I don’t think I’ve seen her with a man—” Anger flared, and Ani responded the only way she knew how. “How dare you—Vanya’s going through enough without you accusing her of being a sexual aberrant.” Outside, it started to rain. “Look, I’m just saying.” Obert was on the defensive now: Ani knew how much he liked her. “Something to consider. What time is she off work?” “I don’t know. She left early today; some kind of hostage situation at the Kolstovo building.” Her eyes burned, and she stepped away from the receiver a moment to compose herself. “Look. I’ve known her all my life, okay? I think I would know if she was… different. This is depression, that’s all. She sees the ugliness everywhere, a-and it’s hard for her to do otherwise. The things she talks about: the world ending, how hopeless it’s all become… I’m just worried about her, is all. I don’t want her to”—She swallowed the lump in her throat—“to do anything… permanent.” Now, she started to cry; the thought of Vanya hurting herself too much for the charade to bury. Ani struggled to rally herself but the will buckled. “She’s all I have,” she blurted. The rain grew louder. She expected sympathy; maybe an offer for her to visit. Obert’s methods of comfort were predictable ones—this was hardly their first time discussing Vanya’s troubles, after all. At this point, she would have welcomed sitting in that faded blue chair, sipping lukewarm coffee while he chain-smoked and made ineffectual passes at her. Anything to help her refocus. Instead, all she got was silence. “Obert?” The metal phone was cold against her ear; the dead tone colder. She toggled the call, fingers turning the rotary with practiced speed as she redialed Obert’s home number. The dull clicks of the machinery were overly loud in the eerie still that had befallen the peeling kitchen. “Hello?” No response. Not even a dial tone. The line was dead. A chill ran down her back, and she felt suddenly claustrophobic; the kitchen walls lurched forward with odious intent, the welcoming colors running with sinister undertones to her panicked mind. It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a downed line. She let the steady drum of the rain outside convince her. Hung up the phone and wandered into the living room. Ani caught herself before she passed the window overlooking the front yard; she withdrew her boot from the wedge of gray light spilling through the partially opened curtains. In spite of the rational voice telling her everything was fine, Ani crept forward to peek through the opening, careful not to expose too much of her person to the light. Her throat was full of webs; her heart thundered against a chest gone tight with nerves, bass kick-loud in her ears. “First, they isolate you; no phone, no internet, no way to reach out for help. Then, they come for you. Fast, without warning, offering no escape. You’ll have maybe thirty seconds to react. Enough time to get below. You’ll want to use the gun; anything else is too slow. They have ways of bringing you back, otherwise. You don’t want to come back.” Vanya’s warning rolled under the groan of the storm. It had been a lesson drilled into her since the day it became obvious that what they had was serious. “They distract you, get you on the phone with a neighbor, someone you think you can trust… but they’ve already got to them. And they’ll have you soon, too.” *** They’d run the drills so many times that Ani could deploy them with her eyes closed: three-to-five seconds to cross the hallway into the closet— “stay low in case they have eyes on the windows”; five more to pry out the false wall; drop down the ladder, through the tunnel to the panic room: seventy-two steps total, any more than ten seconds at the inner lock and she was done for. Maybe fifteen seconds earned if she got the door closed—unless they brought satchel charges. The sawed-off was above the desk, shells in the left drawer. Load. Lock. Fire. “No hesitation, love,” Vanya had said after showing her the proper way of things… but the cold touch of the barrel under her chin had frightened Ani and she’d tossed the gun away, tears streaming. “This is wrong!” Ani protested. “You are asking me to kill myself!” Vanya retrieved the ten-gauge, ejected the shell and set it on the desk. Her gray eyes glinted like bits of smithed bone in their abused hollows. The thin lips tightened. “Ani.” There was no anger—never anger, only a cold sorrow that made Ani think of cemeteries. A resignation that ached of death. “I know how this seems,” Vanya said. She cupped Ani’s face. “But believe me when I say that there is no life after the Institutes. What they do to those people, people like us… At least this way, you choose to die whole.” “Dead is dead,” Ani replied. The bitterness in her own voice shocked her. She reached up to touch those calloused hands. Tipped her head against Vanya’s until she was lost in those eyes. “And that is no choice. No way to live.” Tears hemmed the bruised lids. The hands holding Ani’s face trembled, and some of that lonesome mask cracked. A gust of whiskey colored Ani’s senses. Vanya said nothing; she simply wept silently. Ani pulled her close, held her; she could feel Vanya’s scars beneath the uniform; like braille to the blind, she felt the story of the woman she loved play out beneath her fingertips, one penned in blood and punctuated by sacrifice. Entire chapters dedicated to suffering, State-covered hospital stays and surgeries: the prices she paid to protect their love. They kissed. “You’ve given so much for them.” Ani stroked a muscular forearm, fingers hitching on the raised plate buried in the marrow. “For us.” Vanya squeezed her hand. “And I will give more, if it means you are safe.” “And what happens when there is no more to give?” Ani would never forget the way Vanya looked then in the damp, sepulcher air of the panic room: wrapped in black, pallid, body strained from too many goes under the knife and far too many times downwind of a terrorist’s iron sights; a fractal of a human being, held together by bolts of surgical steel and grit. The snap of the breech startled Ani from her observations. Vanya offered her the shotgun. “Then I need to know you can do this.” *** How long had it been since the call? Too long. Maybe it’s nothing. Just the storm. Ani wanted to believe it. On some level, she did… but it wasn’t enough to override the screech of instinctual panic that woke her body up and kicked off the adrenaline. A heavy thump sounded from the roof, followed by another. Then another. They’re here. A muffled keening reached her ears, blunted by the thick concrete but still sharp enough to draw blood from her nerves. She covered her ears out of habit, ducked and ran, all the while trying to recall if Vanya had said anything about the Institute sweepers using sonics. Prayed to gods she didn’t believe in that some marksman with a long-tase wasn’t camped out in the copse of trees across the street from their scrappy little one-story in the Volstov suburbs. Told herself it was impossible to actually feel the heat from a laser sight dancing across her back. Three seconds… More pounding on the roof. As she passed the kitchen, on her way to the hallway closet, something flashed by the large bay window. It was blurred by fear, distance, and the torrential rains, but Ani thought it might have been a man. Was he… naked? The thought was so absurd that she stopped. It was a moment’s hesitation, but already she could hear Vanya scolding her. “Run, Ani! Run!” Yet, still she stared out the window, incredulous at the sight of the pale figure standing in her yard. His lanky form was distressed by the weather—Ani surprised herself with the relief at the accidental censorship—and he twisted about in a fit, arms flailing around his lithe, nude body, head snapping side-to-side like one might when imitating a predatory creature. “What the hell?” The man in the yard spun, eyes scything through the obfuscation to somehow, impossibly, find her. He tucked his head and began to sprint— —and Ani barely had time to feel her heart drop into her stomach when the sound of the living room window exploding reached her… along with the unfiltered shrilling of something crazed. Ani ran. She was halfway in the closet when something slammed the door into her and shoved her the rest of the way. Stars burst across her vision as her head connected with the hang bar, but fear iced the pain and survival demanded her attention. She lunged for the door to close it; it had a dual-lock that enabled it to seal from inside, a safety measure Vanya had insisted on after Ani’s trial runs hadn’t netted the results she’d wanted. Ani got a hand around the knob. The door burst open. It felt like a truck had barreled through it, the force jamming her wrist and knocking her off her feet. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, her senses dialing in to hypersensitivity: the pulse in her wrist burned like a sun; a miasma of smells: the sourness of mothballs, the tang of sweat, and a rancid meat-stink that guillotined the air. And she saw the source: a pale face, the mouth ringed in red, naked body lean and muscular, hairless but far from sexless. He screamed at her, eyes dark and vivid with bloodlust, a Pale Man— She struck the false wall then; the sensation jarred her out of the frame-by-frame. The wood gave way against her and in her panic she sought the rungs of the ladder, hooked her fingers through the metal. Her shoulder groaned, something popped; then she was impacting the ladder, the rungs jarring her ribs. Coughing, wracked with pain, Ani forced herself to scramble down, slipping the last few rungs to the damp concrete. Above, she heard the Pale Man continue to howl, and it was joined by another, the rumble of feet like thunder in the subterranean space. Ani was twenty of the seventy-two steps to the panic room when her pursuer dropped to the ground behind her. A bestial snarl echoed. An insurmountable fear took her, flooding her battered body with a fresh surge of adrenaline that burned away the pain. She reached the thick metal door at the tunnel’s end, tugged it open—it only locked from inside—and was halfway through when a vise grip closed around her arm. A searing, tearing pain erupted from her shoulder as the man lunged and sank his teeth into her. Ani wailed, and the weight of him against her back pushed them both into the room. They rolled; he was clamped to her like a dog, thrashing her about on the cold cement even as she flailed against him. Blood ran hot down her chest and back but she couldn’t think about that now. All thoughts were on freedom, muscle-memory usurping the hysterical animal mind. “They will come for you, love. You must be ready to fight.” She was not Vanya Kraz; she did not have twenty years of combat drilled into her DNA by a ruthlessly efficient State. She doubted heavily that she’d learned enough to face off against the type of trained men they would send for her, soldiers like Vanya. “You do not need to beat them—simply hurt them.” Levering herself with her arms, Ani rolled onto her back, pinning the Pale Man beneath her, then reached over with her free arm and jabbed a thumb into his eye, hard. It was enough: the man screeched, jaws separating from her savaged shoulder. Ani pulled her arm free, lunged to her feet and dropped a booted heel into the exposed genitalia. Then she was moving, limping past the rows of ration-stocked shelves to the lone worktable at the room’s end. The shotgun waited, the oiled metal catching in the buzzing fluorescents. Ani grabbed it, the wood grip worn smooth in all the right places. She grabbed a shell from the box in the drawer and slotted it home, the ritual of their training runs inoculating her to the single-celled dread seeking to make her fumble. The breech snapped closed, the weight of the weapon like a closely-held promise. Don’t hesitate, love. She brought the gun up— Behind her, an animal screech —and fired into the man’s chest. At close range, the shot took him off his feet. He rag-dolled across the room in a fireworks display of watery blood and viscera. The Pale Man left a red starburst against the flaking concrete wall, where he dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs and organs, the ten-gauge shell having practically blown him in half. Ani took a breath, choked on the acrid mixture of gun smoke and cooked meat, bent over and dry-heaved. Her whole body was sour-sick with adrenaline; she wanted it out, wanted to wake up and discover this was all a terrible nightmare… but the corpse beside the open door— the man I killed —acted like a magnet, pulling her into reality until she finally had no choice but to accept it. To do otherwise would threaten complete insanity. She closed her eyes, waited for the nausea to pass. Opened them— And saw at least three more of the Pale Men racing down the tunnel towards her. She scrabbled forward, threw herself against the door and slammed the lever down. One of the Men howled. The thick metal shuddered. Ani fell back. She ejected the spent shell, raced to the worktable and grabbed a handful more from the box. Thumbed a new one into the breech and snapped it closed, filled the pocket of her hoodie with the spares, knowing it would never be enough if they got in. Vanya’s words came to her. “I need to know you can do this.” The pounding continued. Dust settled on her shoulders, her throat nearly as dry. She thought of the steel pressed under her chin, her finger slipping behind the trigger guard. It wouldn’t take much… She thought of Vanya then, and knew she couldn’t. Not if there was a chance of holding her again. The shelter had enough resources to last her several years. Assuming she didn’t go insane from the incessant beating on the door, she’d be fine. And if the creatures did eventually break through, well… “Vanya, please be safe,” Ani hoped; a brittle thing, but all the more valuable when weighed against the brutal promise of the shotgun clutched to her chest. Tears slipped from swollen eyes, but even as her knees shook, her heart beat firm. “I’ll be here when you get home, Vanya.”


The glow of the Harvest Moon did nothing to guide his way into the Silentwoods. Mirth and joy still rang in his ears as he stumbled over twisted roots and jagged stones. He clung to it, held it in his breast hoping to steel himself for the task at hand. At the festival he had found peace. He ate heartily, laughed loudly, and smiled wide with his family and friends. The Silverbeards, Halguer, and even the Daromir turned out for the event. Assembled with his clan, the four families lined the river for a quarter mile. The smell of roasting meats, the sound of drinking and contest, and most of all the roaring laughter was carried downstream with the breeze. It had been decades since the dwarves had come down the mountain and truly celebrated as one in the verdant hills. His reasons for the gathering were lost and forgotten amidst the revelry.

Belegrim Ironjaw of the Silverbeards had even set up a forge and seemed to be making some handsome coin. The sound of his hammer driving home set the tune for many of their dances and songs. Late in the evening, one of the forgemaster’s axes caught his eye. Not an axe for cutting trees, but men. It shined like the sun, the mirrored surface gleaming brilliantly.

“You’ve got good taste lad.” said the elder dwarf. “At’ll cut a dwarf in full plate from shoulder to hip.” He felt its weight, tested the edge with his thumb, and swung it casually through the air. Everything from head to haft was perfect. He slid the handle through one of the loops on his belt and handed the dwarf his well earned coin. Even his son was enamored with the weapon, asking how the etching of their gods had been done so precisely and the leather on the grip tanned so finely. His wife cast her judgment but kept it to herself. It was not in his nature to be impulsive, so she was shocked when he took her hand in his abruptly and awkwardly. Their marriage had been filled with love of a kind, but intimacy and gentleness had not been a strong suit of his. So often he avoided it. Traila had known him better than any other for the better part of a century now and he could feel her unease when his skin pressed against hers. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “I love you.” he whispered so that only she could hear.

The moment felt poised to swallow him. Her gaze was too much for him to bear as he watched her try to form a response. “Just tell me so we might face it together.” he could imagine her saying.

She did not get the chance. Friends bombarded them, cajoling and cracking jokes about how he was going soft after all these years. They surrounded him and his wife, carrying him away for games and stories and drinks together.

They had been his companions since he was young. From them, he had learned much. The man he had become, and the man he wanted to be, he often saw in them. Part of him yearned for their aid, to unshoulder his burden at their feet so that they might help him bear it. Instead he drank more, he ate more, and he was rowdier and more boisterous than any other. Of all the things he wanted to be, today, he would be the dwarf he wanted them to remember.

After night had fallen, and the others had begun the trek back to their mountain abodes, he returned to the place he had been most often as of late. He readied himself, his muscles groaning and pleading for mercy. He swung his axe with measured cadence, burying it in the ancient, gnarled wood. Every few swings he would pause, catch his breath, and drink from the flask at his hip. The dull thud as his axe struck was the only sound that echoed between the trees. The moon was full above him and dim shafts of light pierced the canopy, guiding his aim. A blessing to hunters. A blessing to harvesters. Tonight though, this frigid and solitary stretch of time that seemed to skulk between dusk and dawn, there would be no song or prayers of thanks. Only curses haunted this dead and festering grove. The flask draped his belt since his father had passed. A gift ungiven, inherited from his late father who had received it in the same fashion. Passed down by countless other dwarves as far back as time’s grasping talons could reach. Or so the story went. A memento from the dead, to the dying. Vice given form, unassuming and cold. Forged of iron that would never rust, it was a well of spirits that would never run dry. Only, he knew some- thing had infused the drink. Smoke would billow out of the vessel when uncorked, and a voice would creep through the porous stopper, imploring any who held the thing to drink fully and freely.

As he worked, he drank. His body was warm, but the mouth of the flask was ice on his lips. It was a lover’s kiss, begging him to stay and drown in its embrace. Had he been a weaker dwarf, his son would have buried him amongst the tombs of his fathers. Instead, he resisted the call and replaced the flask on his belt, swinging the axe once more.

He might never have known the nature of his metal companion, had it not been for a scrap of text found and unbound from its ancient leather wrappings. A year ago now, he found himself lost within the bowels of tunnels that his clan had sealed long ago for reasons forgotten by. It was there, miles further than any had dug in centuries, he stumbled upon the truth.

The memory still burned in his mind. Statuary lined the passage as his footsteps echoed onward, heralding him to the nothing that lay before. He could not say how far or fast he walked, only that he came to a twisted iron door that had been blown off of its hinges. Its snarling face was melted so that only one glaring eye and a mouth full of jagged teeth remained. The eye seemed to follow him as he entered the chamber. Reflexively he grabbed the flask, then released it and drew the hammer from his belt. The light from his torch flickered across the walls. The air was stale.  It was some sort of dark wizard's domain or the lair of an unknown evil. Bones lay haphazardly, clothes still clinging to their frames. Something had scorched large sections of the walls and floor, setting the room alight. Ancient tomes were scattered about, burned and torn asunder, their text largely illegible. There were carvings on the floor, deliberate markings that spread in a strange and alien pattern. The South-East corner of the room was a messy pile of rubble and debris from where the ceiling had collapsed. A support pillar lay in fragmented pieces all across the room. In the center of it all lay a podium, untouched by whatever catastrophe struck this place, and unweathered by age. Atop the podium lie a tome which he tried to make sense of., And though the words swirled and morphed in shape. Their meaning was imparted to him.

A curse. A demon, ancient and powerful, had been bound here. It had been destined to be woven into the sword which lie mangled near his feet, but something had gone awry. He could feel the enmity radiating outwards from the flask, a blistering hatred that made sense of his family’s history. It had been bound to the flask, trapped in the vessel by folly. The cold iron of the flask had been a far better conduit for magic than the steel of the blade. At least, for this magic. All he could think of was that writhing essence, attempting to bend his will. How it was not his own weakness, but something that had willfully been the bane of his line for untold centuries. It filled him with a fire hotter than any warmth within the little flask could imbue him with. It filled him with dreams.

He was roused from his memories by shouting and lights bobbing through the trees towards him. His friends trudged into view, weapons in hand, cursing and spitting. Sweat poured from their brows and their eyes darted to and fro before finally locking onto him. Explanations were short. His story did not shake their resolve and they made no effort to turn him from his course. They helped him load lumber onto the small cart of his, and they pulled it up the hill and into the mountain. The calluses on his hands had worn off. His palms began to bleed, his fingers were tight and the ache in his muscles only fled him when he drew from the flask.

They were not alone. They could feel it. The flasks aura had been drawing them nearer night after night. He had tried to imagine that it was a trick of the mind, some horrid illusion that the darkness had manifested to steer him from his task. Now they gathered, huddling in throngs near the edge of their torch’s light. If they wandered about these woods on any other night, he had no doubt they would have descended upon him and his friends leaving nothing but gnawed bones and bits of clothing.

They weren’t here for him. No, their eyes followed his hand as he drew from the flask which shone gold and crimson, reflecting the light from the torches and the moon overhead. The light kept the creatures at bay but did nothing to ease his nerves.

As they approached the ritual site, they all coiled their hands tightly around their weapons. Frangen, his oldest and dearest friend, made a sign to the gods when he first laid eyes on the scene. They began piling wood around the pedestal, drenching the hastily formed pyre in oil that he had carried with him on the cart. When they were finished someone made a joke, trying to ease the nerves but he barely heard it. Others laughed though he didn’t see it. There was a pounding in his head as his friends fanned out, lighting the oil with their torches. A great gust of heat washed over him as the fire began devouring the oxygen in the room, but his blood ran cold.

I will kill you.

Clear as still water, the voice he had been hearing all his life warned him from the place on his belt. One final time, he drank greedily from it, grateful for the thing at last. It was heavy in his hand. He lobbed the flask into the flames and readied his axe.

“Perhaps.”


With nervous excitement, John had taken his seat and according to his ticket assignment. He purposefully reserved a window seat to occupy his mind on the journey. He gazed out of the window, as the remaining passengers boarded, and the crew performed their pre-departure routines. It had been many years since he had travelled, and he thought back to the days when his parents – now deceased – had taken him on vacations. They never drove more than a few hours from their home, but John had great memories of the places they had taken him. He had travelled by plane a handful of times during his career and by vehicle but something about the clickety-clack appealed to him. He'd never married and never had kids. In fact, during his career he hadn’t made any friends and pretty much kept to himself. He’d saved up most of his salary for the past twenty-five years and had decided to retire and move on to something else – something unknown and new and fresh. He had nothing holding him back and decided to embrace the uncertainty of travelling and visiting some national landmarks. As he continued gazing at the station from his seat, he began wondering if he’d lost his mind and contemplated if it was a good idea to leave. He reminded himself that it was too late, as all his belongings were packed in his suitcases and everything else had already been sold off or donated. His apartment lease had expired, and he had nowhere to go but forward. His trip was predetermined and would begin with a two-day trip to South Dakota then to Montana and on to Colorado – visiting all the landmarks along the way. These were places he’d never been such as Mount Rushmore, Glacier National Park, Yosemite, and etcetera. As the whistle blew, a gentleman had taken the seat just across the aisle from him. He was about John’s age and immediately engaged in small talk. He was on his way to visit his sister in South Dakota for the summer. John explained to him that he was embarking on a longer journey and would be visiting Mount Rushmore as his first stop. Stephen, as he introduced himself, then explained that his sister didn’t live too far from there. For the better part of the following two hours, they talked about their lives – something John didn’t normally share with anyone. Stephen explained that his sister had lived alone for her entire life and was about to embark on her own journey and move to Alaska. That’s why he was spending the summer with her. He went on to say that she worked in the station where he was to end his journey. Coincidentally, John was also going to the same station and from there he’d planned to rent a car to visit Mount Rushmore and then return to the station to continue his journey. They talked on and off for the two days and had become comfortable with each other – knowing they’d soon be parting ways. And that’s when Stephen asked, “Hey, how about I take you to see Mount Rushmore?” John stammered, “Um, I guess I could. I have a couple days to burn.” “Great,” Stephen returned. “You’ll like my sister. She’s very hospitable.” Soon after their conversation, the conductor indicated that they were approaching the station. Everyone was disembarking, at least for the night. John’s plan was to stay the night and then drive the next day to Mount Rushmore. He wasn’t sure how Stephen’s sister fit into the equation, but Stephen did elude that he’d be meeting her. They both exited and walked through the exit gate and into a waiting area where other passengers were being picked up by relatives and some were boarding buses. John asked Stephen where he was going from there and indicated he needed to check into the motel. Stephen replied, “My sister is picking me up. You can come with us. We’ll drop you at your motel, which is only a few miles from my sister’s place.” John began to feel uncomfortable with the whole situation. He had just met the guy and had grown more and more anxious the more they talked. Within a few minutes, a car pulled up – it was her. She waved and Stephen waved back. She got out and they hugged each other. Stephen yelled over to John, “we haven’t seen each other in a year.” They seemed to be privately catching up when John noticed Stephen point back at him. His sister looked John’s way and smiled. “Get in,” she yelled. They drove about ten minutes when John noticed his motel, but she kept driving. “Whoa, that’s my motel,” he blurted out. “Nonsense,” she replied. “You can stay at my place.” “No,” he insisted. “I don’t want to bother you. I already have arrangements.” “It’s fine, really it is,” she replied. Within a few minutes, they arrived at her home. From the outside, it seemed quaint and well kept. They all exited the car and made their way in the front door. John couldn’t help thinking about what he was walking into. They all took a seat around the kitchen table. “My name is Clara,” she offered. “You’ve already met Stephen.” “Yes,” John laughed. “My name is John.” “Nice to meet you. Anyone like something to drink?” “I’ll have an iced tea, if you have it.” “Sure thing. Stephen?” “Same.” They spent the next few hours talking and sharing stories. Nearing midnight, Stephen excused himself for bed. John was also going to excuse myself, but Clara kept talking to him. She was very personable, and they seemingly had made a connection, at least in John’s mind. They talked for another hour or so as she explained her move to Alaska. By that point, John had become comfortable with staying for the night. Early the following morning, Clara was up making coffee and breakfast. Stephen and John crossed paths in the hallway, on their way to the kitchen. The three discussed the day’s itinerary and that they’d all be visiting Mount Rushmore together, which was fine with John. At least he’d have some company – it beat going alone. By the end of the day and during the drive back to Clara’s, John had become saddened knowing that he had to leave the next day. As they arrived home, everyone decided to get to bed because they were all feeling tired. The next morning, John awakened to Stephen yelling out, “We need to leave now if you’re to make the next leg of your journey.” John threw his stuff together and thanked Stephen for everything. Clara was already headed out to the car. Stephen waved and yelled from the door, “Bon voyage, it was a pleasure.” John waved back. “Thank you. Till we meet again.” They raced to the station, but they were too late. John was somewhat disappointed yet not.

The car ride back to Clara’s house was comical because both thought the idea of missing check-in time was funny and worth poking fun. John felt they had made an even deeper connection, considering they barely knew each other. When they arrived back at Clara’s, John did his best to rearrange his plans and according to the station’s schedule, but it seemed that he wouldn’t be able to continue his journey until Friday – some three days away. Over the course of the following days, John learned that while Stephen was slated to stay the summer, it was really only two months and not the three months he had assumed. He also learned that Clara had sold her house and would be forced to relocate, temporarily, prior to her move to Alaska. Clara had also arranged for all her furniture and fixtures to be included in the sale. So, she essentially had nothing to move except clothes and personal items – making her journey easier. Clara had already resigned her position at the station, where she’d worked for some twenty years. John began to wonder why Clara hadn’t already moved because she’d seemingly had everything in order and could leave at moment’s notice. He also wondered why Stephen was there except to see her off. There was nothing for him to do. Leading into Friday afternoon, when John was due to leave, Stephen received a call that his son had been hospitalized with a rare heart condition. Stephen immediately made plans to leave but needed a ride to the airport. Everything seemed to be turned upside down, quickly. John realized he’d need to find his own way to the station because Clara would be taking Stephen to the airport. Everyone said their quick goodbyes and John stood and watched Clara and Stephen pull out of the driveway and disappear. John did his best to make arrangements to get to the station, but to no avail. It just wasn’t in the cards. He made the call to the station to inform them that he was unable to make it. They informed him that he’d have to wait another week before being able to continue his journey. While he was disappointed, a part of him was okay with spending another week with Clara. Clara returned later and was completely surprised to see John still at her house. However, there was a part of her that was happy. Clara insisted that John stay with her for the coming week and he eventually accepted her invitation. They became emotionally attached to each other in that week. During their dinner on Wednesday evening, Clara had asked when he was scheduled to leave. John shyly replied, “Well, honestly I never scheduled my departure.” Clara looked at him puzzled, “What? Why not? You have your planned trip.” “I know, but…I just can’t convince myself to leave.” “We’ve made a connection, yes. But I’m still leaving for Alaska in a handful of weeks.” “Yes, I’m aware and I don’t want to interrupt that. So, how about if I stay till you leave?” “I would like that very much.” “I mean, neither of us needs to work and you’re pretty much ready.” “That is true. What would we do?” “We’ve seen Mount Rushmore. How about we take the scenic drive to Devils Tower?” “We could. Sadly, I’ve never been there in all my years here.” “So, we’ll go, yes?” “Sure.” With that, they spent the next two weeks planning the trip. Their time together was enjoyed by both, but John especially. He’d never opened up to anyone in his life like he had with Clara. She enjoyed the time as well, but she was less needy than John. She was alone by choice and John was alone because it was the only life he knew. On the night before their trip, Clara and John prepared some food and put together a basket. They packed sufficient water and extra clothes, just in case. They hugged in the hallway and parted ways to their separate bedrooms. In the morning, they ate a light breakfast, packed the car, and headed out. They had a short drive to get to the highway, which would lead them to the main highway into Wyoming. The weather forecast was not favorable, at least for the morning, but they pushed forward. As they got into the second hour, heavy rain began to fall causing traffic slowdowns. A storm had formed and was barreling right at the traffic. At several points, visibility was poor, at best. Causing major slowdowns and near accidents. As they were deciding whether to pull off and wait out the storm, they were struck from behind by a large truck. The truck pushed them into the truck in front of them. Their car was pushed up and under the trailer and tore off a portion of the roof. Both John and Clara were knocked unconscious and were pinned in the mangled steel. Neither of the truck drivers were injured. Each attempted to rescue John and Clara, but it was a near impossible task. Fire and Rescue Services arrived within approximately twenty minutes from the time of the accident. They worked diligently for an hour just to get Clara out. She began to regain consciousness as they placed her in the ambulance. Extricating John was much more difficult. In fact, he was pronounced dead and remained in the car. Clara was taken to the nearest hospital where she began asking about John. Eventually, she was informed of his death. At first, she remained silent, but shortly was overcome with emotion. Clara was cleared to go home after about seven days. She had many lacerations, a concussion, and a broken arm. During her stay, she was forced to arrange for John’s transport and services back in town. She knew that John had no family, at least that he ever mentioned. He left behind no contacts and no living will. She was on her own. Sadly, there was no service for John and his body was cremated – and a marker was placed in the local cemetery. Clara had agreed to pay the fees, which was nothing to her. More painful for her was the fact that the services were held while she remained in the hospital. She thought John deserved better. When Clara arrived home, she did her best to settle in and get adjusted to the arm cast, but she knew life for her would be physically challenging in the coming weeks. She couldn’t imagine the emotional challenges that would soon follow. There was a bag of personal items that the hospital staff had indicated were collected from the accident. It contained the extra clothes they had packed for the trip, John’s wallet, and his wristwatch. Also in the bag was a card. She pulled it out and removed the envelope. She read the card and cried uncontrollably. The note read that their time together was a blessing, and she should follow her dream for Alaska, and he would not stand in her way. It was signed, “Bon voyage. I love you, John.” Clara grieved in the days remaining and leading up to her planned departure. On the morning she was leaving, she stopped at the cemetery to pay her last respects and to say her goodbyes. She mustered up the courage to tell John, “I love you too. Bon voyage, John. Bon voyage.”


A Slippery Slope Note: This story contains triggers about dementia that may be upsetting to some. Dementia is the cruelest of thieves. It slips in, unnoticed, stealing small memories at first, ones you might have just misplaced, leaving you with the belief that you need to pay a little more attention to details. Then in an effort to pay better attention to details, you find that you are obsessing over whether you have forgotten something and you start repeating yourself more often than before. It is at this point that you realize that you are being robbed and you seek professional advice, first to confirm what’s happening and second to find out how to make it stop. But that’s the catch. You can’t make it stop. You can perhaps slow it down a bit, but there are no locks, no alarms, no sentries to post that will keep dementia at bay. It becomes more and more aggressive, taking away the ability to control your own life and ultimately stealing your dignity. My mother was diagnosed with dementia. It was a hard thing to watch. She was a very competent, self-sufficient woman who eventually died in a nursing home without knowing who she was, who I was, or anything about her life except the occasional lucid memories that slipped through. That is, she could talk to me about me, her daughter, while at the same time asking who I was. I was her caregiver until it reached the point that it wasn’t safe for her to stay here in my home. She would get up in the night and start cooking only to go back to bed and leave the stove on high or the water running in the sink, or even scarier, she would leave the house and I would have to ride around and around the neighborhood until I found her. The final straw was the night I found her in a graveyard a couple of miles from my house. She said that she was looking for her final resting place next to her husband and she became quite combative when I tried to get her in my car to come home. She had a total melt-down because she didn’t recognize me, thought I was trying to kidnap her and eventually I had to call 911 and an officer from the local precinct came out to help. She finally agreed to go with him because of his uniform and he was able to give her a ride home. That’s when I realized that dementia was not only stealing from my mother, but it was stealing my mother away from me, too. As she looked at me with challenge, distrust and fear, I knew for certain that we would never have another heart-to-heart talk, just being mother and daughter who had a bond so close that nothing could break it, except that now it was broken and the basic building blocks of our lifetime of shared memories were no longer there. The foundation that was our relationship was changed irrevocably, and now solely relied on my memory of our life together that would never be reflected back to me in her words and actions. Putting her in the nursing home was one of the hardest decisions in my life. I felt like I was giving up on her or that I had failed as a daughter as I turned her over to total strangers. At the same time, she looked at me like I was a total stranger and that sliced me to the heart. Once dementia sneaks in, the process of losing the one you love begins and continues until the actual physical loss of life is a relief. You find yourself at the funeral with no more good-byes to give because the person you loved was stolen from you years ago. This is not necessarily a comfort. Then you start to realize that dementia isn’t quite threw with you yet. What about heredity? How prevalent is dementia in your family tree? So, you live with the fear of developing dementia yourself. It’s not like anyone can know for sure or do anything about it if they do know. It just comes on, gets worse, makes it impossible to live as an independent adult and then you just forget everything necessary to function and eventually you die. So, I did what anyone facing an unpredictable and unstoppable event might do, I put it aside and went on with the business of living my life. Fast forward about 25 years, and you find me facing the reality of an elusive and slipping memory head on. Are all my worst fears coming to pass? Is this dementia? If I had thought that watching my mother go through this was hard, I now truly recognize the cruelty dementia brings as it toys with your ability to make accurate assessments. The depth of this heinous crime is just now being realized as I live it. Of course, at least for a while, I watch it happen to my family and friends, too. I watched my children watch me for signs that I was following the memory loss path of their grandmother and the fear, pity, and sorrow in their faces as it became apparent that I was going down the same road. But most of all, it is the absolute lack of control that beats down your spirit. One of the first things I did to try to put dementia in a box labeled “health issues to manage,” was to be sure that I let people close to me know that I was repeating myself. I could see it in the faces of the people around me. At church, I would see people I normally would chat with after service, look sympathetic and find excuses to end our conversations, probably because I was saying the same thing over and over. Then simple things like making out a grocery list became nearly impossible. In my lucid moments I would find multiple grocery lists around the house that had a lot of the same items and then there would be items I couldn’t figure out what I had planned to do with them if I bought them. And of course, I never seemed to have one of these lists when I was actually at the grocery store. Just a little absent-mindedness? And then there are the packages. Did I really order this set of towels? They are pretty blue towels, but when I tried to put them away in the linen closet, it was already quite full of very good blue towels. Why did I order these? Maybe I’ll give them to someone who needs them. What else did I order? I should review my last credit card statement. Still trying to control my slide down the slippery slope, I make plans to put in checks and balances to offset faulty decisions, but then of course, I can’t remember to follow-through. No matter how hard I fight it, my mind is wide open to burglary. I’ve worked all my life to learn and become the best person I can be only to now have it all taken away, piece by piece, until I resemble an angry child trying to get through the first day at a new school. So, I have dementia. I’m still the same person I’ve always been. I know who I am, and I know where I am, but I for get things. I repeat myself and I can’t help it. Just tell me if I’ve said this before, but I have dementia and I forget things. Have I told you about this new recipe I tried the other day? It’s for making blueberry scones and it’s delicious! The key is to make sure you put your butter in the freezer for about ten minutes and then grate it into the flour instead of putting it in soft. I found it in … well I’m not sure where I found it, but I made it just the other day and it is delicious! Have I told you this already? I seem to be forgetting some things lately and I’m repeating myself. I know that is irritating, so please just tell me if I’ve told you this already. Some days I’m fine and other days, I just seem to forget things. I just thought I’d call you. We haven’t talked in a while. Oh, did I just call the other day? Well, you can never talk to good friends enough. How are you? Have I told you about this new recipe I tried the other day? It’s for making blueberry scones and it’s delicious! The key is to make sure you put your butter in the freezer for about ten minutes and then grate it into the flour instead of putting it in soft. Frances called me today. I’m not sure why she calls so often. I think we just talked the other day. She’s living with her oldest daughter now and her health is getting worse. She may have early dementia. That’s such a shame. It’s hard when you can’t remember things. I have dementia, too. I know who I am and where I am, but I forget things. I’m so forgetful these days. I can remember most things, hopefully the important things, but sometimes … Just this month, my daughter put my bills on automatic payments. I’m not sure I like that. I’ve always managed my own money. I’m never late, but she said that I had missed a month or two on paying utilities and my credit card bill. That’s not like me at all. She says that now bills will just be paid directly from my checking account. I’m not sure I trust that. I like it better when it’s under my control. But then, I have dementia and I forget things. The other day I was driving and got lost. Well, not lost exactly. I’ve lived here for twenty years, and I know this whole area like the back of my hand. I’ve always had a good sense of direction and I remember landmarks very well. But the other day I looked up and just couldn’t figure out where I was. The houses looked familiar and unplaceable at the same time. I could read the street sign and the name sounded familiar, but should I turn right or left? Left, I think, but when I accelerated someone blew their horn at me. It was loud and long! That was rude! Is the light green? No? It’s red, so I’ll wait. Which way should I turn? I started crying but managed to pull over to the side of the road out of the way. I called my daughter. She asked me about street signs and what I was seeing and then she talked me through getting home again. Of course, I know where I am now. That was just a strange situation that I’ve never experienced before. I’m sure I’m fine now. I have dementia. I know who I am and where I am, but I forget things. My daughter says that I should come and live with her. I’m not a child! I want my own space. This is my house, my home, and I want to stay right here. She means well, but I’m not ready to give up my independence. Sure, I forget things sometimes, but I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself. I’ve always taken care of myself! My daughter wants me to move in with her. Have I told you this? I know I’m repeating myself, but I just can’t remember if we’ve talked about this. I don’t want to move. I like my home. This is where I need to be. Am I really that forgetful? I still feel like I’ve always felt. I know what I’ve always known. I just repeat myself sometimes. I think I’ll call Frances and see what she thinks. Did you know that Frances is in a nursing home? Her health is getting bad, and she needs some care. I’m so glad that I can still do for myself. I don’t think I could live in a nursing home or with any of my children. I may forget things sometimes, but I can still take care of myself. I’m going to visit my daughter. It’s just a visit. I’ll be back here in a few days. Who’s going to feed my cat? Did I make arrangements for someone to take care of Sunshine? My daughter is here to get me, but it’s just for the weekend. I have too much to do to be gone for long. And who’s going to take care of my cat? I have to get someone to watch Sunshine. What is my daughter thinking! I can’t just pick up and go off with her for the weekend. I have a cat. I think I need to feed her. Kitty, have you eaten yet? Is my Sunshine hungry? I’m not sure how long I’ve been here with my daughter, but I’m ready to go back home. You know, that cat looks just like my kitty. Yes you do! You look just like my Sunshine. I miss my kitty. I’m ready to go home, but my daughter says I need to stay here. Why do I need to stay here? I’ve been taking care of myself all my life. I need to get back to my house and my cat. Maybe I’ll call Frances. I know who I am, where I am and why I’m here, but I forget things. If I only had my car … Did I sell it? I asked my daughter and she says we sold it a month ago. I didn’t sell it! She sold my car without telling me. Now how am I supposed to get back home? I’m stuck here. Why did she sell my car? This cat looks just like my Sunshine. I miss my kitty. Who’s taking care of her while I’m stuck here at my daughter’s house? Someone needs to feed her and love on her. If I had my car, I’d go take care of that. What happened to my car? I think someone took it. Maybe it was that nurse who was here the other day. I didn’t like her. She made me stretch and exercise when I just wanted to go home. I miss my kitty. But you look just like my Sunshine. Come here, kitty. That’s a sweet cat. Of course I took a bath. This morning? Well, sure. It was this morning, I think. Yesterday? Well, maybe yesterday. I don’t need you to tell me when and how to take a bath! My daughter fixed the best ham and eggs today. The ham was sweet and the eggs were seasoned just right. It was delicious! She takes good care of me. Did you know that this cat looks just like my Sunshine? My daughter fixed the best ham and eggs today. The ham was sweet and the eggs were seasoned just right. She’s good to me, my daughter. This is a sweet cat. She looks just like my Sunshine. I’m so glad you stopped by to visit. I’m doing fine. I’m staying with my daughter for a while. She made the best ham and eggs today. The ham was sweet and the eggs were just right. Did I tell you that I’m staying with my daughter for a while? I’m sure I’ll go back home soon, but I’m here for now. I know who I am, where I am and why I’m here. I miss my cat. This one looks just like my Sunshine. I don’t know who this woman is who says I have to stay here. She can’t tell me what to do. If I had my car, but someone took my car away. I’m not supposed to drive any more. They say I can’t drive, but I’ve been driving for years and I’ve never had a wreck or a ticket. I didn’t get a ticket, did I? I’m a good driver. Was I in a wreck? Wy did they take my car? What do you mean I should ask the woman I’m living with. That’s my daughter and I’m not living here. I’m just visiting. I have a house and friends I need to get back to soon. Maybe I’ll drive back tomorrow. I miss my cat. I don’t know why all of my friends and family never come to see me. There’s just this woman who says I’m living with her now. I don’t want to live with her. Who are you again? Is this your cat? I used to have a cat, I think. Did I have a cat? This woman I live with is nice and she has a great cat. I think this cat loves me more than her now because she is always in my lap. I just rub and pat on her. I think I used to have a cat. And didn’t I use to have a house? I know I did, but I can’t remember where it is. Where is my house? Who’s living there now? Will I be going back there soon? I don’t know who all these people are. I’m so tired. I know who I am, but I’m not sure where I am or why I’m here. Do I have a daughter? I thought I did, but if so, where is she? I just sit here and let people tell me what to do and when to do it. I don’t like to be bossed around. Did I have a house? I have all these pictures, but is that my house? I think that was my mother’s house. I don’t know who all these people are. I’m tired, I’m so tired.


SHYAMA Shyama walked with deliberate steps. Hard, narrow shoe heels punctuated her precise movements on the polished wooden floor. The rhythmic click-clack echoed in the small auditorium. No other sound intruded as she approached her desk to be seated. How well she held their attention with her practiced theatrical entrance. There was full seating today. Every uncomfortable hardwood chair was occupied. Twenty students sat waiting for her, some in fear, some with eager anticipation. All were perfectly silent before she spoke. She would keep them waiting and establish absolute authority without question. Before her stood a plain wooden desk where she would sit: an old, familiar school desk with a hinged top and cavity beneath, wherein books and papers could be stored; in a wide groove on the hinged lid, there lay a steel rod, about the thickness of a man's finger, perhaps twenty-five inches or so in length. Shyama found this bar at the perimeter of a small fenced construction site while walking near her home. Many passed without noticing, but she recognized a fine gift and joyfully retrieved the rod. It was rusty and somewhat dirty, lying there in the gutter. She cleaned her prize, washing and drying it with care. The iron wand of great intimidation now lay before her. This baton would command immediate attention when raised before a thankless audience. It was much too heavy for quick darting movement but bring it down swiftly across a desktop. Oh, fearful sound, a pistol shot crashing and reverberating throughout the small room. Her steel rod now lay in repose, displacing writing instruments intended for the space that it occupied. She stood before her audience, both hands resting lightly on the desk, her thin, taught body straight and unmoving, surveying the faces before her with pale, emotionless eyes. Dark greying hair was pulled back severely in perfect complement to her drawn angular features. No buried emotions would betray that implacable stare; no smile would disfigure those thin, straight lips. Without introduction, she began to speak. "You are here to learn. There is a simple process with a few simple rules that I will acquaint you with. I will not tolerate interruptions for any reason. There will be no questions before I have given permission to ask them." Heads nodded in agreement. "I will answer some questions, but always at my discretion. Do we understand each other?" A plump middle-aged woman raised her hand. "I have just a very quick question before you begin," she said, smiling hesitantly. Shyama felt slow, familiar rage tightening her stomach. She stared at the woman for several seconds, her cold grey eyes barren, without warmth or laughter. Reaching for the baton, Shyama spoke slowly, emphasizing each word with a short rap on the desktop. The clear, brittle sounds cut sharply into the quiet room. "You are here to learn. You have little understanding because you are stupid. You are stupid because you do not listen to those who would teach you. The weight of your ignorance will bind you to a life of disappointment and mediocrity. If you speak again, you will be removed. Do you understand?" Seeing Shyama's balled fists and bright, frozen expression, the woman made no reply. Nodding, she wiped quickly at tear-filled eyes but understood nothing. Silence again. Shyama continued with her teaching. "There is," she said, "a foul creature that walks this earth. It lives in shadows and darkness. A monstrous thing that cowers from any clean light of day, always avoiding the company of humankind and any pleasures there to be found. This beast is an enemy to all who live in happiness. It brings misery and chaos as surely as rich soil will bring forth a fruitful harvest." She felt anger rising again as she thought about the fiend but continued unmoved. "This creature has passed through every place inhabited by man. It is known by several different names in many cultures. We know this worthless goblin as the imp of grave misfortune." Shyama sat carefully behind her desk. The featureless masks of faces before her waited for the lesson to resume. She continued after a long, unnerving silence in a dry, penetrating voice that sounded unnaturally loud to her listeners. "There are some who claim to have seen this bringer of grave misfortune. It is described as short in stature, with heavy muscular arms and thickset legs. Wide, somewhat like a very large dog. Dark grey leathery skin. No hair of any kind upon the body. At each side of a large, rounded head, two long, pointed ears hang loosely as they do on some animals. It has thin predatory lips, similar to a hyena. It is usually seen crouching or sitting with slouched shoulders. In far distant times, many a likeness of this defiler was carved into dense wood or stone. These blasphemous images were unwisely used to protect people from evil or to discourage enemies. In their ignorance, architects often placed them overlooking doorways and gates, sometimes upon towers. These gargoyles provided no protection but instead called to their vile prince as lodestone calls to iron. Never seek this daemon. Do not invoke its name in anger or even in jest. It will find those who call to it and bring desolation and misery. Above all, do. . ." Suddenly came an unexpected interruption, an unheard-of intrusion. Brave, handsome Edwin with his long fair hair and bright innocent smile rose slowly, scraping the chair as he stood. "I have seen this unpleasant thing that you describe," he said excitedly. He spoke fervently, as perhaps an evangelist would. "It has dark, red eyes that hurt you when you stare at it. Oh! And there is a nasty smell, like rotting flesh. Makes you sick when you try to breathe. " I do think you are wrong about the ears, though, Miss Shyama. Seemed to me that its ears were wide and rather short. They stuck out from the side of its head, rather than hanging down." Shyama walked towards Edwin. Her passage marked by unrelenting precise steps. Suppressed tension and fury were well hidden, never noticed by those who watched her. She spoke so softly now with measured tight control. "You have seen nothing," she said quietly, "or possibly in dreaming you thought you did, but it was most certainly not the imp of grave misfortune that you saw." Shyama faced Edwin and touched his arm lightly with her baton. "You are mistaken, Edwin. You must apologize before you can be forgiven." Edwin blinked rapidly several times, uneasy with this sudden confrontation, but bravely continued with his earnest description. "Oh, no, dear Miss Shyama, please don't be angry with me. I really have seen this creature. I can describe it carefully for you. I was sleeping, but a sound woke me when the beast appeared, and as I awoke, I saw it quite clearly. I was very frightened. It suddenly pushed both hands through the blankets and into my stomach. Horrible, horrible, dirty thing. It twisted my bowels and blocked my lower intestine. I was taken to hospital for surgery. Couldn't work for nearly five weeks. Doctors told me they removed part of my colon to save my life." Shyama turned from Edwin, speaking to him but looking at the rest of her audience as she did so. Some of them were proud, with heads uplifted, others uncomfortable with eyes downcast. The rod of retribution weighed heavily in her hand. She fancied for a moment that she could detect the faint, acrid scent from hot, rusted steel. "You are wrong, Edwin," Shyama replied quietly, "Very much mistaken. So very confused." She swung about suddenly to face him again, her right hand raised high above her head. A graceful sweeping arc as the bar came down through the air. A faded blue-grey steel blur was visible for a fleeting moment before it crashed into the side of Edwin's face. A shrill scream came sharply before he dropped to his knees. The dull, wet sound of the blow seemed to hang in the air for a very long time. Shyama stood above him, legs apart. "Oh so terribly wrong Edwin," she said, "the very creature you claim acquaintance with now stands behind you." Many onlookers glanced quickly in the direction that Shyama had indicated. There was, as expected, nothing to be seen. Edwin was almost blinded by fresh blood in his eyes. Shyama swung her iron mace again. This time, the blow caught Edwin across his right shoulder, throwing him face down onto the polished floor. Such pretty crimson colours, so bright, against the yellow hair. Dark red pools reflected phantoms dancing from the fluorescent lights above. Shyama waited a few seconds before her ragged breathing returned to a normal, comfortable rhythm. She stepped back several paces and addressed her audience. "The lesson is finished for today. Tomorrow, we will discuss our families and family relationships." Again, metallic footsteps echoed in precise tempo as she walked to stand by the exit doors. One by one, the students stood, then moved slowly to the exit. Some walked with purpose, heads held high. Others shuffled nervously, eyes downcast. Most of them glanced quickly at young Edwin lying silent and unmoving on the floor. None commented about the widening red stain or his overturned chair. Many in attendance spoke to Shyama as they left. "Such a good lesson today." "Thank you so much; I can hardly wait for tomorrow." "Good job Miss Shyama." They moved in orderly file to a small, fenced garden, waiting again in pale sunlight for escort to the main wing. Shyama walked to where Edwin lay, standing over him for a few seconds before kneeling beside him. Kissing the back of his head tenderly, she whispered, "My poor sweet child, poor confused darling boy." Lights were shut off at the main panel. Heavy double doors closed with an amplified loud scraping sound before a final crash as they came together and locked. Fading now, sharp measured steps still faintly audible in the otherwise silent room. Edwin could not stand yet. Trying to push into a sitting position with his right arm shot blinding shafts of pain through his body. He would just lie there until the sickness left and he felt a little better or until he could think clearly again without pain. Behind Edwin, in the far-left corner of the room, was a small alcove, a necessary storage area for extra chairs, blackboards and other seldom-used items. There was also a good-sized wooden packing crate and other smaller boxes. This storage area was usually hidden from view by heavy dark-green drapes that reached to the floor. Perched upon the packing crate, so well concealed behind the drapes, unseen and unmoving, was the imp of grave misfortune. An unclean stench slowly filtered into the auditorium. Raising its head slightly, the beast wrinkled a broad, flattened nose. It sniffed the air several times before catching a familiar scent of fresh blood. The loathsome creature was well pleased. It chuckled deeply with satisfaction-a terrible gurgling choking sound. Edwin fancied that he heard a noise somewhere behind him. Far out in the distance, he thought, but he couldn't really be sure.


Jake and Chloe stood side by side in the dimly lit bathroom they had shared for the past five years. Their reflections were so familiar but the persons they now shared this room with were not. They had always intended to repaint the dull gray walls, but those plans fell to the wayside, like so many others. They looked at each other nervously, first in the mirror, then directly in side-long glances. Chloe strained to draw a deep breath from air so thick with tension. Jake fumbled with his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers. His eyes darted to Chloe's reflection. Her body was stiff, as she meticulously applied her mascara, her lips pursed in concentration. “You know,” Jake began, “we could’ve avoided this whole mess if you’d just let me keep the damn house.” Chloe's mascara wand froze in mid-air. She scoffed, “And let you turn it into your bachelor pad? No way. Besides, it’s my Nonna's house.” “Your grandmother’s house,” Jake muttered, “which I’ve been paying the mortgage on for six years.” “FIVE years” Chloe corrected in an icy tone. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your wandering eye during these lawyer meetings. Not that I care ...” "Then why bring it up?" Jake shot back. "Because I'm not going to have you screwing my divorce attorney in Nonna's house!" Chloe shrieked. Chloe dabbed at a small tear on her cheek, "And your phone is buzzing ..." "That's not my phone ..." Jake scanned the countertop. "It's ... the toothbrush?" Jake and Chloe's gaze slid to the bathroom counter, where their shared electronic toothbrush lay, a relic of happier times. Jake had always let Chloe brush first. She would then rinse and dry the device, remove her brush head, and return the toothbrush to its charger. Jake would grin at her as she inspected her smile. Then he'd grab the toothbrush from its charger, insert his brush head, and the buzzing would resume. But this time the buzzing had begun on its own ... the toothbrush stood in its charger. It buzzed only briefly, and then it stopped. Jake and Chloe looked at each other. "That was weird ... " Chloe said softly. "Maybe the battery is going." "Well," Jake chimed in, "we'll soon find out." Jake reached for the toothbrush, but before he could grab it, the toothbrush began to buzz again. When he withdrew his hand, it stopped. He reached once more, and it buzzed, louder this time ... but stopped when an alarmed Jake stepped quickly backward. "What the fuck!" Chloe was getting frustrated. She looked at her watch, "We don't have time for this! We're going to be late!" She grabbed the toothbrush, inserted her brush head, ran it under the tap, and applied some toothpaste. Chloe grinned, "Never send a man to do a woman's job!" As Chloe pushed the head of the toothbrush into her mouth, she pressed the button 'ON' button and the toothbrush sprang to life ... but it was not the steady buzz she was used to. The pitch of the toothbrush was rising and falling ... a tune from deep in her memory ... a lullaby. From Nonna? She felt both frightened and consoled. Attempting a return to normalcy, with her mouth full of foam she garbled, "Yeah, I think the battery is going." Jake was irritated, "It's not battery-powered. Are you done yet? " He was standing next to Chloe with the uncapped tube of toothpaste already in his hand. As soon as Chloe set the toothbrush down Jake snatched it from the counter, without changing the head, and immediately began to apply the paste. When he did the brush head sprang to life and splattered toothpaste all over Jake's shirt and tie. "Goddam this thing!" Jake was angry but undeterred. He shoved the toothbrush in his mouth, growling and gurgling as he did. No sooner than he did, his eyes opened wide, and a look of terror spread over his face. He was choking. Jake pulled the base of the toothbrush from his mouth, but the brush head was missing! Chloe grabbed the base of the toothbrush from Jake and it stopped vibrating, but she could still hear buzzing! She looked at Jake. The buzzing was coming from inside Jake's mouth! Jake was turning blue, and his knees buckled. Staggering backward, he hit the counter and fell to the floor. Chloe leaped at him, straddling his body, and pushed her hand into his mouth. Her fingers flailed wildly inside his mouth until she felt the base of the brush head at the back of his throat. The plastic was slippery and vibrating wildly. She couldn't get hold of it. Jake's head was now on the floor and she was pushing hard at the back of his throat. Jake gagged as if he were about to throw up, which pushed the brush head forward, and Chloe was finally able to get her fingers around the plastic stem. The vibration stopped. She pulled it from his mouth. For a second, the room was very quiet. Chloe became alarmed. "Jake! Jake! Are you okay?" Jake's eyes opened slowly. Chloe looked at him, then at the toothbrush head in her hand. She grabbed the countertop and pulled herself up. Jake soon appeared next to her in the mirror. He was badly shaken but had thought to grab the toothbrush base from the floor. It was now buzzing once again. He looked at his assailant and a wave of anger surged over him. He cocked his arm preparing to rifle his buzzing enemy into the mirror. "NO!" Chloe shrieked. "Don't!" She reached up and gently took the base from Jake's hand, and the vibration stopped. She took both pieces and slowly moved them together, inserting the brush head into the base. Tipping her head downward toward the newly joined pair, she said very quietly, "I can still use them." Jake's eyes narrowed, and he forced a smile ... but then his face softened. His lips pursed and he let out a gentle whistle. "We're going to be late. Fuck my teeth. We need to go." He turned to walk away, then stopped and turned back to Chloe. Looking at her in the dim light of the bathroom he said softly, "You're right. It's time for me to move out." Again Jake turned to leave but stopped. "And, I remember that lullaby the toothbrush was playing for you. You know what I’m talking about? You sang it to me the first time we slept together."


My people fear the forest.

Why?

I don’t know. No one in the village or in my family has ever told me why. All they say is “do not venture past the forest’s edge,” or “your fate will meet you if you traverse the forest’s domain.” Sometimes they simply say “you will die if you dare enter the forest; do not go in.”

Naturally, one would be skeptical. Why shouldn’t I enter the forest? What on earth could be in there? The forest seemed friendly enough. Birds could be heard happily singing in the branches; sometimes a little rabbit could be seen poking out of the brush; deer sometimes fed on the outer rows of trees.

I pondered these things as I gazed into the beautiful forest. Thousands upon thousands of trees grew there; bushes grew and flowers flourished; animals of many, many species took refuge there. What was so dangerous about it?

No one really knew what was so dangerous about it, but legend had it a pond of liquid diamond laid in the center of the forest. That alone made people think menacing, supernatural beings lurked there.

A charming whistle floated on the breeze.

It came from the forest! My curiosity piqued; I squinted to see the forest’s edge clearer. All I saw was a gorgeous doe silently eating berries. Her ears flicked up as the whistle sounded again. She lifted her head and looked at me.  Something grasped my attention. Entranced, I walked closer and closer to the forest. The doe’s emerald eyes seemed to read my mind and pull me in. Leaves crunched under my bare feet. I looked down. I was in the forest.

I looked up––the doe was gone.

Nothing happened to me.

I chuckled to myself. So, it was all a myth. There was nothing to fear in the forest. I walked further. The worst that happened to me was a small splinter that stuck in my heel. I pulled it out easily and continued walking. Deer stared at me and birds greeted me with sweet melodies. Rabbits and squirrels looked at me, astonished.

Sleep began to overcome me; I knew not how long I had been walking. My heel ached, and I wanted to rest. I leaned against the trunk of a strong oak and settled in amongst its fallen leaves. The edges of my eyelids longed to meet each other; they became heavier as sleep enveloped me.

Sweet, calm darkness swallowed me.

••••• The summer breeze brushed past my sundress as I walked down the lane. Pebbles stuck between my toes and to the bottom of my feet. My hands were folded behind my back and my hair fluttered in the breath of the wind as I walked along, lost in thought.

I heard the hunter’s dogs barking in the distance and the trample of dozens of horse hooves; it was the shouts of the hunters themselves that shattered my daydreams like glass. They always shouted when they rode home––like the group of overgrown hooligans they were––but this time, it was different. The shouts weren’t those of joy and a successful hunt.

Alarm seized my body and I felt numb as I heard the name they were shouting.

Lorcán.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Emotion pumped adrenaline into my bloodstream. I began running as fast as I could. Fear constricted my lungs and throat, making it difficult to breathe. I tripped over a large rock and tumbled heels-over-head into the brush.

Dazed, I picked myself up and continued running. It was at least five minutes until I came in sight of the village. I heard wails and mourning as I approached.

The scene unfolded before my eyes: A ring of hunters stood around a deerskin cot. Woebegone women covered their faces with their hands and rocked on their knees; cries leaked through their fingers and rang in my ears.

I saw my father leaning on his staff, looking sorrowfully at the cot. His eyes were becoming red, and I could see tears building and trickling down his face.

He looked up. I locked eyes with him. I didn’t need him to say anything. I knew it was Lorcán. I knew he was dead. My father held his hand towards me. He wanted me to come. Fire bubbled up in my soul.

Lorcán was the only one who could comfort me––but Lorcán was gone now.

The fire rushed into my legs and burned my body and mind. There was nothing I could do now except run.

Run from the dread.

Run from my family.

Run from the village.

Run from the pain.

Sharp wind pricked my face as I ran. My legs ached and my head spun. The pounding of my feet against the hard ground hurt my head.

Before I knew it, I stood before the forest. The very same forest my people feared––had feared for generations. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to disappear.

I darted into the forest and ran farther.

A large root missed my attention. I felt something snag my foot and pull me down. The last thing I saw was a rock––searing pain filled my head, and then– Everything went black.

••••• Gold, creamy light shone on the ceiling. Something wet trickled down my forehead.

I opened my eyes.

A girl was standing beside me. Her big emerald eyes seemed familiar to me; her skin was fair as white lilies. Brown freckles were scattered along her slim cheekbones. Long, fine, fawn-colored hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in simple doeskins––however, none of these things seemed out of the ordinary until I noticed her ears. They were placed where ears were usually placed on a human, but they were soft doe’s ears.

The girl smiled at me. How are you feeling, Little One?

My heart skipped a beat. The girl hadn’t moved her mouth at all, but her delicate voice rang in my head like sweet bells.

Who are you? I thought back to her.

I am Inerys, a simple doe-girl. I saw you in danger, so I rescued you. Her thin eyebrows furrowed as she looked at me. I sense you are troubled. What has chased you into the Starlight Realm? The pain of Lorcán’s death rushed back. I looked away as my eyes welled up with tears. I lost part of myself, I replied shakily.

The one you call Lorcán? Yes. We were preparing to be wed. He was my best friend. There’s no sense in living now that he’s gone.

Inerys wiped my forehead soothingly with a soft, wet rag. Do not despair, dearest. You feel sore over your recent loss, but do not quit. Your wounds will be healed soon––your head was quite injured after your fall. Good things are in store for you, if you wait.

I wondered what Inerys meant. I didn’t wonder for long, though. Inerys gave me food that seemed to dissolve my physical pain and help me sleep.

I didn’t know how many days I spent with Inerys, but they passed like a dream. She told me of many wonderful things in her world. She chronicled the adventures of the deer-beings, the tricks of the fox-folk, the arts of the rabbit-people, and many others. After many moons, Inerys finally told me the Legend of the Diamond Pond. I sat up eagerly on my cot as she told me the tale.

Long, long ago, began Inerys in her soft, magical voice. Artemis, the Mother of the Animal-Peoples, created the Starlight Realm. We are her children; Artemis created us because she was sick of human folly. Artemis promised the Animal-Peoples’ safety by laying a curse on any outsiders who entered.

The only law the Animal-Peoples had to follow was this: Never touch the Diamond Pond.

Naturally, humans would be quick to break this law, but the divine ancestry of the Animal-Peoples keeps their thoughts unstained; not one of our kind had ever laid a finger on the liquid diamond of the pond.

Artemis told us that those who touched it would see their future, but would suffer their worst fear.

A shiver ran down my spine when Inerys finished her story.

Can you take me to see the Diamond Pond? I inquired.

Inerys sat back in her rocking chair and thought. I do not know, Little One, she said slowly. Your human nature will make it very dangerous.

Please, I implored. I promise I won’t touch it.

Very well, Inerys consented dubiously. Remember what will happen if you touch it.

The next day, Inerys and I set out. She turned into her native doe form and let me ride her soft back.

We walked for a few hours. I noticed that the chirping of the birds slowly died away until there was silence.

I no longer saw rabbit and squirrel beings scuttling around; sneaky fox folk were nowhere to be seen; every now and then, I saw a silent deer-person wandering around.

The forest became darker and darker as Inerys and I walked on. The only sound I heard was that of Inerys’ hooves.

I became tired of watching the forest trailing by us and looked down. Inerys’ shoulder blades and muscles rippled under her hide as she walked. I drifted off into memories of Lorcán as I rocked to the rhythm of Inerys’ steps.

Little One, look up, I heard her say.

When I looked up, my eyes were met by a crystal white light. It was the purest light I had ever seen.

Inerys walked closer, and the Diamond Pond came into view.

It was about ten yards in diameter; the perfectly circular shore was littered with sand-like diamonds.. A beam of moonlight shone on the pond. The liquid diamond filtered the light into rainbows that bounced around in the pond.

I slid off of Inerys’ back and walked towards the shore.

I could hardly believe my eyes. The diamond light drew me in. I felt the diamonds under my feet. I looked back at Inerys.

Do not touch the water, she said. You know not what will happen.

I looked at the water. A vision of Lorcán flashed across the surface.

He was riding towards the forest!

Why did I see him in the Diamond Pond?

What if the water was the way I could return?

I looked back at Inerys. I saw panic in her eyes.

Thank you, Inerys, I said. I love you. I’ll miss you, but I’ll always remember you.

I ran back and hugged her neck. I dashed back to the shore before she could morph and catch me.

I fell to my knees and reached forward, touching the surface of the diamond water.

My hand felt as if I was holding it to ice. I drew my hand back from the cold, but two hands reached out of the water and grabbed my ankles.

I shrieked in surprise. The hands dragged me into the water. I tried to cling onto the shore, but the diamonds filtered through my fingers.

My head went under, and I couldn’t see anything. Fear, excitement, sadness, anger, pain––every emotion and physical feeling I had experienced flashed through my body and soul. Everything seemed to tie itself into a knot and climax. I couldn’t feel anything. I was dead.

••••• “Kaorí! Kaorí, wake up!”

Familiar voices surrounded me. Someone snatched me up and held me against them.

“Kaorí, my darling, please, wake!”

I thought I was dreaming––it was Lorcán’s voice! I opened my eyes. I saw Lorcán’s panic-stricken expression.

When he saw my eyes were open, he cried with joy and kissed me. His warm breath blew over my face and neck as he caressed me. I laughed––I don’t know why. It felt like the only thing I could do at the moment.

“Lorcán, Lorcán, you’re alive!” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and meeting his lips with mine.

“Dear, I was never dead! It was you who almost died!”

“What? But I saw you––you were lying on a cot. People were crying and wailing. I ran into the forest and saw the most wonderful things.” “Kaorí, it doesn’t matter now. We’re both here. I want you to tell me about your adventure when we get home. You look spent and exhausted. Come rest with me.”

Lorcán lifted me up onto his horse’s back and jumped up behind me. I looked back. A doe stood in the shadows of the forest’s edge. Her emerald eyes met my brown ones. I lifted my hand and waved. The doe bowed her head.

Have a safe journey, Little One.

The doe disappeared into the woods.

“Who’re you waving to?” Lorcán asked.

“A friend I met in the forest,” I replied.

Lorcán turned and peered into the dense forest. “I don’t see anyone.” “She’s there,” I said. “On the edge of the forest.”

I watched the distance between us and the forest increase. An odd feeling crawled into my head.

“Lorcán?” I said, alarmed. “Lorcán, what is happening?”

Everything around me began to fade away. I tried to cling on to pieces of Lorcán, but nothing helped.

I screamed his name, trying to find my way around the darkness.

••••• Someone held me down. I was flinging my arms and legs, trying to get free.

“Lorcán!” I screamed. “Lorcán!”

My screams echoed in my head. Where was he? He was just by my side!

“Kaorí! Be still!” Someone’s voice broke through the black chaoticness.

“Kaorí, he’s gone! I’m sorry!”

I knew it was my father’s voice. He held me down and tried to calm me.

“Where’s Lorcán? And Inerys? Where are they?” “Lorcán is dead,” he replied softly. “Who is Inerys?”

I grew still under the calm of despair.

Lorcán was gone. Inerys was probably gone as well––or never existed.

I remembered her comforting words. Good things are in store for you, if you wait. Lorcán was gone now, but I had to keep living. My love for him would never die.

He would wait for me in the Diamond Pond.