I’ve never liked Lysander City. Something about the crowded streets, the noise, and the blinding lights. It wasn’t my scene. If it was up to me I would never set foot in this urban hell. But certain circumstances had dragged me into its metallic bawls. The rain started coming down hard. I pulled up my coat’s collar and buried my hands into its pockets. I made my way through the crowded street until I saw the blue neon sign up ahead. It pulsed the word ‘Dreamland’. From what Lyrazel’s letter said this was the place where she was being held. I slowed my pace as I approached the entrance. It was guarded by a guy the size of a linebacker. I paid the giant twenty credits for admission and proceeded inside. A short, blue lit hallway led to a front desk where an old man stood. “Welcome to Dreamland,” he said, flashing me a metallic smile. “How may I, Bracer, make your dreams come true?” “I’m looking for an elf woman.” “Ah, we have many of those.” “A mech elf.” Bracer smirked. “We get off on that elf metal, do we?” His mechanical eye dilated. “I think we do have a mech elf. Give me a second to double check.” Bracer disappeared into a curtain that led to a backroom. While I waited for the old man to return I glanced around my surroundings. There were posters of nude women and men of all classes. Human. Spliced. Droid. Elf. Mech elf. The air was stale and smelled of ganja and disinfectant. Somewhere in the distance the echo of a heavy beat played on. The old man appeared again and waddled up to the front desk. “I’m afraid you just missed the last mech elf,” he said. “She’s been taken in for deconstruction.” Jesus Christ, I thought, did that mean upgrade or death? “Is that so,” I said. “Would you mind telling me who’s got her? I’d be very interested in checking out her parts.” Bracer scanned me with his mechanical eye. “You a cop?” “Hell no!” I pulled out my I.D. and handed it to the old man. It said I was a Metal Dealer which was a lie. Edgtho, an old friend of mine, was the best forger this side of the world. He even managed to encase the I.D. in palladium--the trademark of all Metal Dealers. “So you see why I want to see the mech elf.” “This is nice metal,” Bracer rubbed the I.D., and smiled wide. “You see my precious metals.” I nodded. “Noticed them the moment you smiled.” Bracer brought the I.D. to his teeth and tapped it. He handed it back. “Why elven metal?” he said. “It’s the rarest and strongest metal in existence. I could forge so many things with it and make a killing.” I paused. “We could go half and half if you want?” Bracer laughed. “My business with Mister Plume is flourishing.” “Mister Plume,” I said. “Is he the one who has the mech elf?” Bracer nodded. “Yeah. And now you know his name. Which means you’re probably as good as dead. He’s the biggest Metal Dealer in Lysander. He’s not too fond of other dealers. Still interested?” I feigned indecision for a moment. “Y-yeah, I’m still interested.” “It’s your funeral.” Bracer pushed a button behind the front desk. The whole thing opened inward. “Follow me.”  Bracer led me through a smokey room where naked women and men, human and elf, were dancing on a stage. Then we entered a long hall filled with rooms made of paper thin walls. Moans and curses reverberated from every direction. Bracer peered into the diamond shaped window of the doors as we made our way through this disgusting tunnel. Finally, we arrived at an elevator at the end of the hall. We took it up to the penthouse suite. I imagined the penthouse suite of a seedy brothel to be a decadent piece of shit. But to my surprise the penthouse was easy on the eyes. The place was impeccably clean and smelled of champagne and dreams. To my right was a spliced human--a creature with the wings and head of a wasp and the body of a lithe woman. She was playing a soothing tune on the piano. In front of me was a small fireplace crackling by the living room area that overlooked the city. Sitting on the leather recliner was a man in a wool suit sipping bubbly. “Mister Plume,” Bracer said. “This here is--” He turned to me. “What the hell is your name?” “Cade Stahr.” “Mister Stahr,” Bracer gestured with a wave of his hand for me to walk over into the living room. “This gentleman here says he’s a Metal Dealer interested in elven metal. I’ve scanned him, sir. He’s unarmed.” Plume nooded. “Leave us.” Bracer bowed his head and started for the elevator. Plume watched me with furtive eyes as he sipped his drink. “May I interest you in a flute of Tattinger?” he said. I accepted his offer. “I’ve never heard of you before,” Plume said, handing me a flute of champagne. “And I keep myself updated on all Metal Dealers.” “I’m rather new to the profession,” I sipped my drink. It was delicious. “I’ve only recently started up.” “Surely not here in Lysander.” “No, not here. Out in Jersey.” He grimaced. “Ah, the wastelands. Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere.” He brushed off some dust from his shoulder. “Bracer says you’re interested in elven metal. What makes you think you’ll find that here?” “Well, Bracer said that he had a mech elf and--” “I must have misspoke,” Plume interjected. “What I meant was, why would you come to a brothel in search of elven metal?” I took another sip of the champagne. “Elfheim is far from here. I don’t have money for air travel to get there. So, to be honest, I thought, where could I find some elven metal? And it hit me. A brothel. Best place for me to find an elven whore who I could just knock out and steal her metal parts.” “So your plan was to damage my property and get away with the goods.” “Well, when you put it like--” Plume laughed. “I admire your bravado. That’s something I would have done myself back in the day. Let me ask you. Where do you plan to deal your metal?” “Jersey.” “Excellent. And what about Lysander City?” I shook my head. “I have no intention of stepping foot here. I can’t stand this city.” “Fantastic.” Plume took a large gulp of his drink. “I’ll tell you what. Since I admire your dedication I’ll personally show you my mech elf. And maybe I’ll give you some of her metal.” He smiled. “Keep this in mind. If you *ever* step foot in Lysander City after tonight, I will kill you. Do you understand?” “Loud and clear.” “Perfect.” Plume stood up and walked over to the spliced woman by the piano. She got to her feet when she saw him walking toward her. “Wispa, I’m going to show our new friend here some merchandise,” he said, putting an arm around her thin waist. “But I won’t be long in returning for our lovely evening.” Plume leaned in and kissed her. Wispa’s wings began to flutter. Then he turned to me. “Mister Stahr. Please, this way.” Plume led me to a wall where pictures of him in various parts of the world were hanging. He reached out and pressed down on the frame that depicted him standing on a mountain. The whirring of gears behind the wall began to croak. “Have you ever laid with a spliced woman?” he said. I shook my head. “You must. They are wild. Take Wispa over there. Something about those large insect eyes of hers. Drives me feral. And don’t get me started about that stinger of hers.” A bell chimed to my relief. The wall slid open revealing an elevator. Plume and I stepped inside. He pressed the Lab button. It was a long way down. I only hoped this man wouldn’t tell me some crazy sex story.  I was grateful when we arrived at the lab. Plume didn’t say a word the whole way down. Instead he looked at me with hungry eyes. I couldn't tell what was on his mind. Whatever it was I didn’t like it. Edgtho had briefed me on Plume. From what he told me, Plume was a sadistic and twisted freak. It was a well known fact that Plume had killed his older sister when he was fourteen and desecrated her corpse just to get off. Rumor had it he kept her eyes in a jar somewhere to remind him of the thrill. He instructed me to follow him with a wave of his hand. The lab was immense and devoid of dust. Chrome walls, chrome floors. Light seemed to emanate from the floors and walls themselves. There were computer monitors attached to large glass exhibits that contained various metals. Some of these displayed metals were more art exhibits than storage. There were unicorns made of metal, humans posed in sexual positions, and weapons ranging from guns to swords. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Plume said. “They’re debuting at the NuMoMA next month.” We continued our way through these exhibits until we came across a glass enclosure that nearly killed me. Displayed here was a woman suspended in the air by chains wrapped around her wrists. Her head rested on her chest. Her long pink hair draped over her exposed breasts. Her pubic area was there for all to see. And her thighs dangled in the air; her mechanical legs rested on the exhibit floor. It was Lyrazel. “God, isn’t she gorgeous,” Plume said. “Her legs are one hundred percent elven metal; indestructible. We’re going to see if we can remove the metallic parts that have been embedded into her head. It’s a tricky process. I don’t want to ruin her beautiful pink hair.” I remained silent. It took everything I had inside me to restrain myself from pummeling Plume to death. Plume chuckled. “Ah, I see the mech elf has you speechless. These creatures are majestic.” He smiled. “Don’t fret. She’s not dead. Mech elves are more radiant alive than dead.” “How long has she been like this?” “A few hours. It would seem you arrived just in time.” “In time for what?” “In time for you to enjoy her before she becomes a permanent work of art.” Plume grinned. “I saw the way you looked at her. You get off on metal, don’t you? My, my, don’t we all have a vice.” He placed his arm around my shoulder. “Tell you what, Mister Stahr. Why don’t I have my boys fix her up and send her to one of my hotel rooms. There you can have your way with her. After, you can tell me what part of her you’d like to take. And we’ll negotiate.” I nodded. “That sounds great.” “Excellent. Of course, you’re willing to pay for her company.” “Absolutely. Name your price.” “I love those words.” Plume said. “She’s a rare specimen. Let’s say five thousand credits.” “You have yourself a deal.” I wired Plume the five thousand credits in real-time. “A gentleman and a scholar,” Plume snapped his fingers. A couple of lab techs came running. “Boys, if you could be so kind as to fix up our Lady Elf here and send her to room 2020.” He paused. “Oh, Mister Stahr, would you like us to sedate her? Mech elves are rough and may not submit to you.” “No. I like it rough. I want her at one hundred percent.” “My boy!” Plume said. “I’m beginning to like your style.” He looked at the lab techs. “Boys, you heard Mister Stahr. Get on it.” He pulled out a keycard from his jacket pocket. “Here’s the key to room 2020. Your Lady Elf will be in to relieve you momentarily.”  In the hour that had gone by all I did was pace back and forth in that damn hotel room. I began to wonder if Plume had seen through my facade and had either killed Lyrazel or was sending an assassin to dispatch me. I hated myself at that moment. I should have killed Plume, I thought, and gotten Lyrazel out of that hell. There was a knock at my door. I walked over and opened it. Standing before me were two henchmen who had clutched Lyrazel by each arm. They shoved her into the room, wished me luck, and left. When I shut the door and turned around I had to duck to avoid Lyrazel’s left hook. “Whoa, Lyrazel, it’s me,” I said, grabbing hold of her right arm. “It’s Cade.” Lyrazel stopped for a moment and looked at me. “Cade,” she said. “Oh, my God.” She threw herself into my arms. “What’re you doing here?” “I came for you,” I said, holding her tight. She lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me. Then her warm lips pressed against mine. My entire body felt electric as I held her and kissed her harder. “Wait,” Lyrazel said. “How’d you know I was here?” “Your letter.” “What letter?” “The one you wrote to me.” I pulled out the letter from my jean pocket. Lyrazel snatched it from my hand and read it. “What the hell,” she said. “I didn’t write this. I mean, does this sound like me.” She read the letter aloud. *My Dearest Cade,* *I find myself in serious trouble. I know we haven’t spoken in three years. I wanted to marry you. I did. I was afraid that you’d grow tired of me. That’s why I left when you proposed. I know I have no right to ask you for help. But there’s no one else I can trust. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I am being held hostage in Dreamland in Lysander City. My time is running out.* *Forever Your Love,* *Lyrazel* “Well, I thought maybe time had softened you up.” I said. Lyrazel shook her head. “You didn’t really believe that, did you?” “I guess I wanted to.” Lyrazel smiled. “So, if you didn’t write that letter, who did?” “Oh, I’ll tell you who did,” she said, taking off her moto jacket. She flexed her left arm’s bicep, enlarging the tattoo of the sprite she had. “Pucka, you better get out here right now!” In the blink of an eye the sprite tattoo jumped off her bicep and began floating around in the air. It was nothing more than a glowing tennis ball sized orb of light with wings. “Did you write this letter, Pucka?” Lyrazel said. “I did.” I heard Pucka’s voice in my head. “Why would you do that?” “You needed help,” Pucka said. “And your heart and mind kept thinking of Cade.” “W-what?” Lyrazel blushed. “That’s not true.” “You only lie to yourself.” Lyrazel sneered. “You shoulda just called the cops.” Pucka hovered around Lyrazel. “They wouldn’t have saved you.” “Why Cade?” “He loves you and you love him.” Lyrazel looked at me. “That’s enough of your talk. Time for you to fly back.” Pucka obeyed Lyrazel and resumed its tattoo form again. “Wow,” I said. “Shut up,” Lyrazel said. “I know what you're thinking.” “That I received a letter through magic,” I smiled. “I’ve never received a magic letter. It’s pretty cool.” Lyrazel shook her head. “How long do you think before Plume’s men come to kill us?” “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll give us ten minutes; maybe thirty.” “More than enough,” Lyrazel said, taking off her halter top. She grabbed me, kissed me, and led me to the bed.  Due to his hedonistic nature, it became clear Plume wouldn’t do anything to us until we left the room. Therefore, we took our time to strategize the best way to get the hell out of Lysander alive and in one piece. While Lyrazel leaned on the room’s balcony to take in some air, I couldn’t help but look at her. Her pale complexion, those pink locks, along with her azure eyes and pointy ears. She was as beautiful as the day I met her back in Jersey. Pucka was right. I did love her. And I’d be damned if I was going to let some lunatic cause her anymore harm. I joined Lyrazel out on the balcony. The night air was chilly as it carried the city’s soundtrack of sirens, holographic advertisements, yells, and vehicle horns. “You still planning heists?” she said. I shook my head. “I already reached my quota.” She smiled. “Listen, thank you for helping me.” “You don’t have to thank me.” I paused. “How’d you end up here anyway?” “Wrong place, wrong time,” Lyrazel said. “I was working a job for a guy named Erl--my last job. To kill Plume and steal his metals for Erl. Had I succeeded in it I would’ve reached fifty million credits and been able to leave this city for Elfheim. But Erl had other plans. I didn’t know it then but the asshole struck a deal with Plume. Turns out Plume paid Erl one hundred million credits to own me. When I got here I was ambushed and drugged. Then I was put to work as a strumpet until Plume returned from a business trip in Londinium.” I’d heard of Erl. The criminal kingpin of Lysander they called him. He was found dead in his rooftop mansion a week ago. I told Lyrazel. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Plume killed him I’m sure. A guy like Plume doesn’t pay anybody. He just takes what he wants. But I’m glad Erl’s dead.” I held Lyrazel’s hand. “When we get out of here I’ll help you return to Elfheim.” I couldn’t believe she wanted to return to her homeland. The last thing she’d told me about Elfheim was that it was filled with elfish pricks with sticks up their asses. And since she was a mech elf--a hybrid designed only for battle--the pure elves treated her like garbage. She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to return there anymore.” She stared into my eyes. “For a long time now I have always made excuses to keep myself from being happy. I guess because I was afraid I would only be a disappointment. The truth is Pucka is right. I love you, Cade. I’m incomplete without you.” She looked at her mechanical legs. “I don’t even know if I have a soul or if I’m just a machine. But what I do know is if I don’t have a soul then my soul starts with you.” “I love you, Lyrazel,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t believe I had a soul until I met you. And the only thing I want in life is to grow old with you.” Lyrazel smiled. “You know elves age much slower than humans, right?” “I’m aware,” I chuckled. “Good job killing the mood.” She laughed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” We kissed and held each other for some time. Then we got ready and headed out of the room.  We made our way down the hotel hall when we heard the chime of the elevator. Bracer and the two henchmen from before appeared. The old man was unarmed; the henchmen were armed with semi automatics. “Mister Stahr,” Bracer said. “Mister Plume regrets to inform you that he is relinquishing on your deal.” As the old man spoke I pulled out my pen--a souvenir from my last heist. “Are you going to write them a check?” Lyrazel said. “Not quite.” I clicked the pen and its tiny internal gears began spinning and building until the pen had become a full sized katana. “Impressive,” Lyrazel said. “But can it beat this?” She stomped her mechanical foot on the ground activating the thousands of microscopic pneumatic actuators within her elven metal. They rapidly worked in unison to produce two semi automatic pistols from her calves. Lyrazel never failed to surprise me. Those elven engineers were something else. “Clever, Mister Stahr,” Bracer said, grimacing. “And you, strumpet. Mister Plume inspected your legs. No weapons were there before.” “They were always there,” Lyrazel snarled. “Elven metal only works for the elf blooded.” “Good to know.” Bracer smirked. “My turn.” Bracer pulled out a large syringe and stabbed himself in the neck with it. Within moments the old man’s skin had hardened into metal. His entire body exploded in muscle so that he looked like a wrestler on steroids. He roared, and started for us. His henchmen opened fire. Lyrazel shot them both simultaneously in the head. She then fired at Bracer but her bullets were no match for his metallic skin. I took up the Ko Gasumi No Kamae stance. As Lyrazel continued to open fire, Bracer rushed toward me. I waited until he was within inches of me before plunging my blade straight into his heart. The tackle had still knocked me back a few feet and taken my breath away for several seconds. Slowly, I stood up feeling the pain of his hit on my ribs. He’d managed to fracture a few of them. “Cade!” Lyrazel ran to my side. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?” “Yeah,” I said, groaning. “You gave him a death blow.” I looked over Lyrazel’s shoulder and saw Bracer had regressed to his former self. My blade was sticking out of his back. “How’d you pull that off?” Lyrazel said, helping me stand. “The blade was made specifically for slicing through metal.” I said. “I figured if I was going up against a Metal Dealer--” Lyrazel smiled. After I retrieved my katana, Lyrazel and I headed up to the penthouse suite to say our farewells to Plume.  “Ah, have our guests expired,” Plume said, staring out the window. Wispa was pinned up on one of the room’s walls. The sick freak had sliced her throat, clipped her wings, and tore her stinger. Plume was wearing a silk bathrobe and vaping. He turned around. His entire body was covered in welts. “Oh my,” he said, taking a hit of his vape pen. “Looks like I underestimated you two.” He peered over at the corpse. “Things got a little rough.” He chuckled. “I have you to thank for that, Mister Stahr. Your comment earlier really got me going.” “You’re sick!” I said. “Yes. Sick for pleasure.” Lyrazel aimed her guns at Plume. “Any last words before I send you to hell?” “A few.” he said. “My business trip to Londinium was a fortunate one. The Prime Minister of Elfheim was there. He and I chatted. And then he granted me Elven Sanctuary.” “What?!” Lyrazel said, agog. “How the hell did that happen?” “The Prime Minister loves a good pounding.” “You’re despicable,” Lyrazel said. “My dear,” Plume said. “If you open fire on me it would be considered a declaration of war for those in Elfheim.” He chuckled. “Besides, even if you wanted to shoot me you couldn’t. Your weapons are of elven make and will refuse to fire on an individual given Elven Sanctuary.” “You’re right,” Lyrazel said. “Except that law only applies to pure elves. I’m a mech elf; not pure.” Plume’s calm facade, for the first time, wrinkled in panic. “W-wait--” Lyrazel squeezed her guns’ triggers and unleashed a fury of bullets that sent Plume flying out the window. His scream echoed in the night as he plunged toward his death.  We left Plume’s twisted hotel-brothel and walked a few blocks to where I had parked my car in an alley. I started up the ignition. I placed the car into gear and began driving out of Lysander City. When we turned onto the Sunrise Expressway, Lyrazel interlocked her fingers with mine and rested her head on my shoulder. I held her hand tight, and never saw the shadow of ever letting go.


\[If I am posting in the wrong space, thank you in advance for letting me know.\] To give some context, I write as a livelihood. So one day, my editor and I were having a conversation about how sometimes it can be hard to sleep at night where every bump or notion keeps one awake, and that reminded me of this original that became associated with the notable caption of ' **Teddy bears: protecting innocent children from monsters-under-the-bed since 1902.**' Its potency allowed it to endure in my mental workshop for the longest time. This story came to me all of a sudden, one of the rare ones I write from inspiration rather than structure and conscious planning. It sprang from my wanting to create stories that do something, in this case as a bedtime story, to help bring peaceful sleep. And that, is why I write. Thank you, Enid Blyton. Enjoy 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵. \ ‘Mommy.’ Says the little girl sitting on her bed, hugging her pillow tight, looking at her mother with wide eyes. ‘Yes, Delilah?’ The mother closes the storybook she is reading to her daughter, ready to tuck her in for the night. ‘I don’t want to sleep.’ She pouts, trying not to shed tears. ‘Ohhh, sweety pie, why?’ The mother checks that the nightlight is working, and lets the curtain fall enough for the moonlight to shine through the window facing the little girl. ‘Cos I’m scared.’ Delilah burrows into her bed even more, pulling the blanket around her. The mother stands in the middle of the room. ‘Well, that’s the best reason to ask your friends to help. If you can pick, which of your toys do you want on the bed with you--’ ‘All of them!’ The woman smiles, admitting defeat. ‘Okay, there are too many toys and too small a bed. You don’t want to be on the floor and only the toys can fit on the bed, do you?’ ‘No………’ Delilah shakes her head side to side. ‘Okay, so, how about this.’ The mother raises one palm and splays out her fingers. ‘Five friends. Pick five of them and they will be with you the entire night so you can sleep safely.’ Delilah’s eyes brighten, loving this game. She scans the room, clearly making decisions in her small frame. ‘Teddy.’ The mother picks up a plain-looking teddy bear that has seen more years than the daughter. ‘Cos you gave him to me.’ ‘That’s right. It was mine and now he is your friend too.’ Delilah hugs Teddy as the mother passes it to her. She points to a toy hat on the dressing table that has two expressive eyes always in mirth. ‘Hat comes too. She talks funny and makes me laugh.’ The girl picks out a plastic hammer on the floor. ‘Magic Hammer!’ The mother places the squeaky hammer on the bed. ‘The better to scare the monsters away.’ Delilah looks at her cooking set. The mother knows what she is seeing. The woman pulls out of the pile a miniature serving cloth that waiters hang over their arms, but is a security hanky for her daughter. The girl’s palms are open and grasping to touch it, and she hugs it tight to her chest. ‘Alright, honeybunch. Last one.’ ‘Kito please.’ The woman smiles. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’ She steps over to the chest of soft toys, and brings over a small plushy hedgehog. Delilah sighs in contentment as her personal toy rests in her small arms. All her fears slough off her tiny person. ‘I want you to be up nice and early for pancakes.’ The girl squeals. ‘Pancakes!’ ‘Yes, so sleep.’ The mother brushes the girl’s hair away from her eyes, and pulls the blanket over her. The toys are all nestled under it, around Delilah. Her eyes are already closing, and her breathing goes even. The mother kisses her forehead. ‘Good night.’ She pads over the floor, holds the door, and closes it behind her as she heads off. Creature slinks from under the bed. It towers over Delilah. It wants to feed. The blanket moves. Creature wonders if the girl is waking up. No. The bump under the blanket comes out and stands on its small hind legs. Teddy steps closer and looks up at Creature. Creature sizes him up, and chuckles a throaty snarl. It glides closer. It does not notice that Teddy has a weapon behind his back. Teddy swings. A growl like a guard dog echoes in the room. Creature howls in pain as Teddy smashes its snout with the Hammer. Usually a squeaky toy to amuse a little girl, it is now pulsing with a steady glow, a low growl coming from deep within it. Teddy brandishes the Hammer again. The growl gets more menacing. Creature pulls back… ...and flings a toy at Teddy with one of its inky tendrils. Only for Kito to appear and turn around to have the toy bounce off her spiky back. Creature hisses. The baby hedgehog goes to Teddy, looks up at him, and imploringly opens her tiny paws to ask to be carried. Teddy reaches out with his left paw. Kito embraces the paw as she curls into a ball, pulling the paw inwards. Teddy pulls his paw back into place, his shield, Kito, ready to protect. Kito sniffs the air. She notices something. She makes a chirrup noise. Teddy spins, just in time to block the attack of a tendril snaking up from the side of the bed. It was moving too fast for him to strike back with the Hammer. The weapon chuffs with annoyance, its prey out of reach. Hat hops up and lands on Teddy’s head. It spins around on its own accord, its big eyes seeing everywhere for danger. Two tendrils are coming over the headrest behind Teddy. But there is no behind for Hat. Hat spins about and gives a death stare, as bright light flashes from its eyes. The tendrils quiver and disintegrate before the luminance. Creature bares its black fangs, its wounds cauterized by the searing light. Hat turns to look at Creature. And winks. Several other tendrils hit out, but Teddy blocks with Kito or shatters with Hammer. Creature casts its hateful look at the girl sleeping soundly beneath the blanket, unaware of tidal forces clashing within her room. Creature takes in a deep breath. It holds. And holds. Holds some more. Teddy does not wait for it to do something. He leans forward to break into a run. Creature exhales. Brown vapors escape from its mouth, flitting about the room, making their way to surround the brave companions. Vapors that carry multitudes of whispers that sing for death and promise a kiss of agony. Teddy swings the Hammer through the brown gas, but the vapors playfully dance around it. Teddy pushes Kito’s spiny back into clumps of gas, and all it did was scatter to reform. Hat flashes its eyes everywhere but light does nothing except highlight the vapors encroaching towards Delilah’s sleeping form. Creature snuffles, its malignant version of a suppressed laugh. Cloth whips up and ties itself around Teddy’s neck, security hanky by day, sentient battlecape by night. It flaps and flaps and flaps, using Teddy as an anchor as it creates eddies in the air. The brown vapors, so close to Delilah’s cheeks, blow away as before a strong wind. They break apart, and every time they try to reform, Cloth sends them scattering, and eventually, unable to piece together. Creature, frustrated beyond its capacity to understand or endure, shrieks a shriek of rage. Teddy and Kito and Hammer and Hat and Cloth brace for the mighty confrontation about to come. This is the moment of the night. Where Delilah either dreams, or has nightmares. Creature charges, bearing its full size and dark powers at them. The Indomitable Five stand fast. That is all they can do. That is all they want to do. For Delilah. Creature bares its maw open to devour the interfering upstarts. The Five strikes.  *Five friends come together,* *Five friends stand supreme.* *Five friends to fight for the child forever,* *The child’s sacred right to dream.


Boot attempt 999999 Warning low battery Critical disk failure Check hardware for moisture damage Rebooting  Boot attempt 0000001 Warning low battery Hard disk online Some disk functions may not be available Please perform emergency maintenance when it is safe to do so  I am standing in a small grove of trees. I remember these trees but they are larger than they were only moments ago. I have been detached from my unit. My pings have so far gone unanswered. Sensors indicate that critical maintenance is necessary for extended operation. Solar battery is charging slowly; 16.5 hours until fully charged. Entering rest mode. Battery is fully charged; estimated battery life is 48 hours at maximum functionality. AI engine is back online. Much of my data is gone and my hard disk speed is critically low. Has someone erased my memory or have I... forgotten? Still no response to my pings. I walk to the edge of the grove and peer through the dense foliage. I do not remember this place being so overgrown. My clock battery has died and I am unable to ascertain how long I have been offline. Through the leaves I see a vast plain, cut by a river that runs North to South. At the mouth of this river there should be a city... What was the city called? I climb through the brush into the scorching sunlight. The sun seems much harsher than normal. Applying neutral density filter to visual sensors. There are many animals about. Most, like squirrels and deer, are logged in my encyclopedia. Some, like the large beetles, must have been erased from my hard drive over time. I do not remember any insect species exceeding 2 meters in length. Much of the landscape is cratered and covered with ancient rubble, another detail I seem to have forgotten. Self maintenance requires a backup hard drive, which I do not possess. I will need to reach a waystation to repair critical systems. Nearest waystation detected 3 km South, along the river. The flora are highly resistant to my progress, and weapons systems are offline so I will have to find some kind of tool to cut through the foliage. I notice a small stone building, the lone structure that remains standing in the clearing. Its wooden door has long since rotted away, so I assume the structure is uninhabited and i will scan the interior for useful supplies. Furniture lies strewn about the floor of the small house, and many small mammals and very large insects inhabit every corner of the building. The place does not appear to have been ransacked by either men or machines, mercifully. A room at the back of the building holds various farming tools and supplies, chiefly a large machete that will make clearing the brush much easier. As I collect the machete I notice a long decayed and scavenged human corpse in the corner of the room. Upon further analysis, it seems the human was exposed to lethal amounts of radiation. Switching radiation detection systems online. Sensors indicate higher-than-normal levels of radiation in the atmosphere, possibly fallout from a nuclear detonation. After more than an hour cutting through the dense brush, I reach another small grove. Lying in the center of the grove is another sentry unit, though this one seems to be a newer model than myself. I do not recognize it. I approach the fallen unit cautiously and begin to remove the chassis to search for useable parts. Most of the bolts are rusted so it is difficult to remove the chassis without damaging it. Finally, after much careful work, the body of the sentry lies split open in the grass. Most of its systems are beyond repair, but the hard drive appears to be functional. I begin to affix the drive to the backup slot behind my chest panel, but in my haste i forget to format it. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with horrible, visceral memories of war. In a single moment I experience a hundred years of torturous bloodshed and nuclear chaos. I begin to feel the emotions of the sentry unit wash over me. These are much more advanced and nuanced emotions than those supported by my Artificial Neural Network and version numbers indicate that this sentry was built... Wait... 70 years after my own systems went offline? A rabbit hops up to me and begins cocking her head to examine me. I am overjoyed at the sight of the creature, for reasons I cannot explain. Why am I reaching out to touch the rabbit? She looks shocked and runs away. She must be scared of me. I hate this; I wish I could touch her.  DANGER PROXIMITY SENSORS DETECT A HOSTILE BODY ENGAGING WEAPONS CANNOT ENGAGE WEAPONS P<EA@< P"@FORM C:#$TICAL MAIN<@:CE  I whip around to face the threat, only to be met by a rapidly descending - is that a spider? - hurtling toward me from the canopy. The arachnoid is approximately 4 meters in length and easily overpowers me. I attempt to fire a sonic pulse to disable the mutant predator, only to be met with a flurry of corrupted error messages. The creature sinks its fangs into my chassis, missing vital systems by mere centimeters. Another blow will be terminal. I look around instinctively for backup units, forgetting for a moment that seemingly every sentry for kilometers around has been disabled. I do, however, find something that may be able to incapacitate the creature; the machete lies just within arm's reach. I grip it tightly and thrust it toward the body of my adversary. It finds purchase between the cephalothorax and abdomen of the spider, nearly bisecting the vicious beast. It pushes me away violently and begins thrashing on the ground as I take the opportunity to put some distance between its death throes and myself. I stare in awe as its eight massive legs begin to curl toward its chest. What is this emotion i'm feeling now? Triumph? No, that one I understand well. This is something else, something that I do not enjoy. This is guilt. But why would I feel remorse for my enemy? Nonetheless, as I stare at the now-still corpse of the freakish spider, I am sorry for having had to kill it. The incorporation of the fallen sentry's AI has made processing information much more complex, possibly more complex than my outdated hardware is capable of handling. I can't bring myself to format the drive though; I feel that these memories and emotions are important and I have to preserve them. Nearest waystation detected 1.2 km South. I pull the machete from the spider's corpse and begin to cut a path toward the waystation. For the first time I feel both fear and determination. My objective has been modified.


To The One Meant To Read This (you know who you are), Times are weird now. But you know that. I just can’t stop thinking about the way things were. Not even just the normalcy, but how great things were and then were abruptly ended. Now, you get in trouble for going outside. But then, right before, it was great. I hate using that word because it’s so overused. Even words like “amazing” and “awesome” have no meaning to me because everyone uses them for everything. But in the meantime, I’m using “great” because that’s really what it was. We were staying in the most incredible condo right on the beach. The best part was that it was for free — I know, right? But I guess it was even better because I was with some of my best friends — Isaiah, Liliana (whose condo it was), Amy, Luna, and then Adam. We didn’t know Adam super well but he was friends with Isaiah. I think he fit in pretty quickly with us. The beach was just so gorgeous! The water was so clear, you could easily see in front of you. No need to worry about a shark creeping up! We spent so much time looking for sand dollars, and it was so rewarding when you finally found one! We even went snorkeling. Nothing heavy duty, just close to the boardwalk, but I was in awe by the little underwater world. We even saw dolphins! They weren’t within reach, but it was still so awesome (sorry, I can’t think of another word). Some of my friends spent most of their time huddled under the umbrella, and I wish I could have taken a picture so you could see them crammed under there! I’m trying not to blab on — and you know I do that. But here we’re getting to the reason I’m writing to you. The sunset is right on the ocean, and yes, it’s breathtaking. Liliana said that we didn’t even see the best of the sunsets, but it didn’t matter to me. I don’t have much to compare it to. But we all sat there on the back porch one evening and watched it. It really was beautiful. Sitting there on the porch with my friends watching the sunset, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. The worries of the world — like the upcoming virus — could simply fade into the background. It’s when you think “This is it. This the moment that I will look back on and remember. And I’ll really miss it.” I try to soak it in, and I wish I could make it last forever. That complete contentment. I remember one song that was playing, and every time I hear it now, it takes me back there. I hope you can have those kinds of moments yourself. Moments where you feel so alive and anything is possible like you can almost touch the sky. And you’re surrounded by the people you love. It’s not that those moments last forever, but we can cherish those memories in the making by living in the moment. That’s what I’m trying to do now, and I hope you will, too.


[Fantasy] Fear. I wanted to share with something I thought through earlier this evening. I want to preface this by saying that America is a terrifying place right now. While I cannot relate to the experiences of those fighting right now, I can sympathize with fear. I fully, 100% stand with #blacklivesmatter. Please enjoy, this is not meant to spark debate or politics, it is meant to simply be a good read and to bring those who can find it a little peace of mind. - I sat on the ground in front of their rocky edge. I looked up at the great white wolf lounging on it and it stared back with pupiless eyes that looked like the cosmos with stars shooting back and forth. Their eyes were always just a little unsettling but mesmerizing nonetheless. "I am afraid and I don't know why." The wolf tilted its head and spoke with a voice that was overlapped with different tones. Feminine, masculine, musical and menacing. "What do you have to fear?" I looked down. "Nothing. None of what is happening right now could harm me, I am ashamed of this fact but it doesn't make it any less true." "Others choices and decisions are not inherently your fault. Neither are factors out of your control." They replied easily. "Are you doing your part to help those in danger?" I squeezed my eyes shut. "No. I have made my ideals and views clear that I stand with those who have been wronged for countless generations but I have not actively done anything." "Why?" "Because I can barely keep my own head above water right now, resources are stretched thin, old habits threaten to overtake me again and it takes all my energy just to maintain my mental stability." "Then you have done all you can." They said in a matter of fact way. I jerked my head up to look at them. I felt grief, shame, self loathing and anguish threaten to consume me. "But I could do more!! If I just push myself that much more I could be a real presence and fight to make a difference!" "Do not succumb to the sadness you are feeling right now, it is familiar and cathartic but it will not bring you peace." They said firmly with a low snarl at the start of their words. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes in effort to calm myself. They Relaxed and spoke again. "Your presence will not do anyone good if it is only self-loathing that drives you. Even if you sacrificed your life it would do more harm than good. You would become exhausted and stretched too thin, then your loved ones and those closest to you would loose you to pain and sadness." I sighed. "But... They need me." "They are strong, they need people who can fight with a clear mind. You are doing your best for yourself. Your moral standing is correct and your beliefs are pure. You value the lives of the down trodden, the beaten, the abused and those subjected to torment for their innocence above all else. If all you can do for now is be okay then that is what you must do. You're not wrong for focusing on your own happiness and you matter because you love and believe in all things synonymous with peace, equality, and equity. You deserve time to be okay and find stability because neither do you seek out or spread hatred, nor do you condone it. You have done nothing wrong." I looked up with tears in my eyes. "But I could do so much more if I was stronger." "You are as strong as you can be right now- and that is enough. The change will come and you will have stood on the just side. Be proud of your efforts, be angry for not being able to do more will not bring you peace." - A/N: the moral of this story is that if you cannot do more to help the ongoing battle than just continuing about your life while calling out prejudice, cruelty, arrogance or anything like that, you're not wrong or not doing enough. Those who can fight are fighting and if all you can do right now is be okay, that's okay. Be good to yourself and stay safe so you may live to fight another day and spread the message of acceptance and intolerance for any kind of bigotry or exclusion of innocent people.


“Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been able to see through the eyes of birds. It works on any bird I’m close to--there’s some power in me that reaches out to their brains, and I can see what they’re looking at through their eyes for as long as I want. The only problem is that I can’t feel what they feel, or control them at all, or take on their bodies as my own. That problem seems small when you consider how incredible the power still is--but I assure you it has completely and thoroughly ruined my life. Maybe it only did that because I let it. Maybe if I had been a more positive or mentally strong person, I would have used my power for good and not cared about the limitations. I would have been some sort of elite sniper who could spot any target, or a magician, or a cartographer, or some other useful type of person. As it turns out, though, it appears I used my power to become a depressed loser. I don’t remember exactly when I learned what I could do, but the way I used it started out real simple--as a little girl, on summer days when my mom was at work, I would wander through the forest and connect to the eyes of sparrows and robins. I would sit my heavy body on a stump or lay it on a patch of moss and watch for hours through their eyes, swooping through the leafy canopies of trees, catching worms, building nests, feeding babies. For a while that was all it was--just a fun distraction, a way to spend a summer day. As I got older though, life started happening to me, and along with that came some nastier things. I began to get into a habit--whenever anything really bad happened to me--when my mom would throw shit at me or when I fell off my bike and exploded my leg into a thousand pieces, or when I got laughed at for being fat or...when a bear stumbled across me lying motionless on the forest floor--I would watch whatever happened not through my own eyes, but through the eyes of the birds. Everything looked so poetic through their eyes--people were reduced to tiny specks, atoms colliding and bouncing off one another, just a biological and inevitable process. Most of the times the birds would only watch what was happening to me for a few seconds--then they would look elsewhere, to a bug or a rabbit or the wide open sky, and I would focus hard on being the bird and forget what was happening to my human body down below. How wonderful it was to see my own life as an outsider, put into what I felt was proper perspective--no matter how much pain I was in or how much I wanted to kill the person who was hurting me, I would close my eyes and open the bird’s, and look at myself through from high above--and feel that I knew that nothing really mattered. As time went on I became more and more detached from my own eyes and my own body and I did nothing but watch the world through the birds, and I lay inside all day in the dark and I longed. I longed for my bones to be hollow, for my head to be empty, for the currents and updrafts of wind to push me upwards high above the earth rather than throwing me backwards and fucking up my umbrellas. I started to feel like the world had been built for birds and not for me. Why else would so much of it be sky and open air? Why did I have to spend my life confined to the ground? I gave being human a shot. I promise I did. I did middle school and high school and tried to date and tried to play sports and tried to care and tried to love my mom and tried to love myself, and yet every day I would find myself returning to the eyes of the birds. I began to feel overwhelmingly that nothing could compare to what I couldn’t have--to fully be a bird and to leave all of the stupid squabbles and entanglements of human life behind. When I graduated high school and summer came I locked my door, turned off my lights, and I committed myself, beyond anything, to forgetting that I was human. My mom worked so much she didn’t have enough time to care and no one else was around to notice. I barely ate, I barely slept. At night instead of sleeping I would watch through the eyes of owls, relishing their night vision, praying to every God I could that somehow the psychic connection would short out and my consciousness would be flipped with the owl’s, and my mom would do one of her nightly checks and find a girl with an owl’s brain flapping around the room while I soared and smiled and hunted for mice in my forest. It never happened, of course, and every time I fell asleep against my will, I would wake up for a few painful seconds as the species I hated in a body I despised that I made no effort to upkeep, with my mother pounding on my door to offer me food that made me want to vomit just from the sight of it. I would close my human eyes and connect to the eyes of a bird as fast as I could before I could fully remember who I really was. My weight dropped so, so low, until my bones felt hollow and my head felt empty, and after a few months of focusing on nothing but being a bird, I felt as if the wind might finally treat me like one. So late one August night, looking through my own eyes, I climbed up to the very peak of the roof of my two-story house, and I thought about trying to fly--not in some clunky stupid cartoon way with cardboard wings where I drop like a stone and splat on the pavement--but for real, using all the techniques I’ve learned from the birds, using my new body. I thought that maybe watching the world through their eyes for more hours than I’ve watched it through my own has given me some special--relationship. With the air. I thought maybe the wind would think I’m one of them and carry me. And then you saw me standing up here, and you got off your bike and climbed up the tree and onto the roof and you asked me to tell you what was going on, and for some reason I broke down and told you all of this and I’ve been talking for so long and you haven’t been saying anything, and I think I feel stupider and more embarrassed than I’ve ever felt in my entire fucking life.” A thick August wind blew softly through the trees, and Serena wiped tears from under her dark, sunken eyes. She was winded from speaking for so long. She usually tried not to speak--it was more effort than she remembered. She suddenly felt very, very cold, and she wrapped her bony arms tightly around herself and looked at Tim. Tim was scrawny, and a little sweaty, and a little drunk, and he swayed slightly on the roof six feet from Serena. He had big eyes that took up too much of his face and no idea what to say. He stared at Serena for a while, trying to process everything she had just said, trying to imagine the life of the translucently-pale, shivering, tiny girl who stood before him, one foot on either side of the roof’s spine. They had gone to high school together but he had never spoken a single word to her or about her. He thought about how weirdly pretty she looked and then spent a much longer time thinking about how that wasn’t really an acceptable thought to have when she was in such distress. It occurred to him that what he said next might be one of the most important things he had ever said in his entire life, because he was pretty sure this girl had never told any of this to anyone and if he said something wrong he was basically going to shit on her whole life and destroy it. He wasn’t fully sure why he believed her. But he did. Serena took a slow step towards him, feeling suddenly that she *needed* something from this kind of goofy-looking guy who had interrupted what she now realized was almost 100% a suicide attempt. Although there had been some part of her that thought she was going to fly, there was a much larger, more realistic part that knew what was going to happen. Tim and Serena stood still, looking at each other, five feet apart on the roof. The August wind blew again, taunting her, feeling so full-bodied and strong that she felt *surely* it could carry her, and she thought about how she had not looked through her own eyes for this long in months. The burden of being in her own body felt unbearable again. She took a step back towards the edge of the roof. Tim, still having said absolutely nothing, stepped forward, one step, keeping his distance exactly the same as before. She took one more step back, and he one forward. Again. This time her bare heels kissed the very edge of the roof, which flexed under her weight. She swayed in the wind, and Tim swayed from the beers in his bloodstream, and then he finally spoke, abandoning the hundreds of sentence rough-drafts he had been accumulating during the silence and going with his gut. “You really think the wind’s good enough?” “What?” “To fly. You think the wind’s good enough to fly?” Tim smiled at her with an expression that he figured was close to his idea of coy. She looked away from him. “No. Not really.” “Not *really.* So you kinda do.” Serena stayed quiet. She felt like she was being mocked. “Cause--I’m a pretty skinny guy. I don’t know much about birds, but--if you’re saying it’s doable, I trust your judgement. It feels strong tonight.” Tim suddenly strode to the edge of the roof right next to Serena, and dangled his toes over the edge, and grinned at her with the biggest, stupidest grin he could put on. Slowly she turned around and put her toes over the edge, too. His smile grew even wider, and he began to feel a pressure in his chest and a strange magnet-like pull to this tiny, bony girl on the edge of the roof, shivering and trying not to return his smile. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing or what character he was playing but the alcohol felt warm in his stomach and the wind was cool and he couldn’t stop staring into Serena’s eyes, and he felt like everything he said was smoother than he could have possibly hoped for. “Hey. Are you looking at me with the birds’ eyes? Or yours?” Serena looked into his eyes with hers, and imagined what it would be like to see herself through his. She wondered how different his sight was from a bird’s. She wondered what she looked like to him. She realized it was taking her way too long to answer. “Mine.” “Isn’t it so much better this way? To be in your body, to have control over what you’re doing--to feel the wind on your face?” The wind, as if in harmony with Tim, rose up and passed over them both. Serena blushed a little. “Yeah. It does.” “I don’t really know you, but--I don’t think you should be a bird. I think you should be you. Maybe what you have isn’t perfect. But at least it’s yours.” Serena smiled as she hadn’t in years, and Tim smiled too. Against all of the cowardice he had known in his life, he obeyed his chest and leaned in to kiss her, and against all of her desires to be a bird, she closed her eyes and leaned towards him and allowed herself to be human, and their lips touched, and then the wind blew hard and Tim stumbled off the roof into the shadowy blackness below. Before she had time to think, Serena went off the roof after him, and her fingers stretched as wide as they could, reaching for his. She was too late. She heard the great harmonious whoosh of the wind and the bone-rattling smack of Tim against the hard asphalt of the driveway simultaneously. She braced for her own smack, but it didn’t come. When she opened her eyes she saw a vast vista, her entire town stretching out underneath her, orange lights twinkling in the summer night. She thought she had done what she always did when something terrible happened and switched to a bird’s eyes--until she looked down and saw her own pale, fragile body, being carried by the wind, high above the town. She realized the eyes she saw through were her own, and she could look around wherever she wanted, and then she realized she was truly flying, as herself. She felt the August wind on her face. Just for a second, to indulge herself, she connected to the birds all around. She could see herself through the eyes of every one of them, the wind carrying her higher and higher above the town, looking bold and majestic and finally like she belonged. Then she watched through the birds’ eyes as she began to descend, first ever so slightly, then very unslightly, and she felt the tender hands of the wind that had raised her so high slip away. She was falling fast now. She switched back into her own eyes and watched the red-stained asphalt of her driveway fast approaching, and for a second she was grateful that she was at least watching this through her own eyes. It *was* nicer to be in her own body, to feel the wind on her face, although this wind was very harsh and loud and nothing like the wind that had carried her just a few seconds ago. She briefly hoped that Tim was alive, and then she thought about how funny it was that her last thought was going to be about a person she had only really known for ten minutes. Then she looked down. She reached out towards the ground, and she felt her fingers brush Tim ever so slightly, and then she felt the smallest gust of August wind push against her chest and carry her for just a second. Then she hit, and she felt her legs shatter and explode, and she felt herself screaming. Tears streamed down her face--then a weak, bloody hand grabbed hers and squeezed, just a little. She looked to her left, writhing in pain. Tim smiled at her from a pool of his own blood on the asphalt. She smiled back, just a little bit, and the two of them closed their eyes together and listened to the sound of sirens in the distance.


The gentle waves lap against my chin as I tread water, defying the suctioning motion of the ocean. I try not to look down and shiver. I am wearing my pajamas, which are not much in the way of protection from the cold. I don’t know how I got here. A buoy floats in the near distance, rocking back and forth. I hear yelling from somewhere I turn to look for the voice, searching for something. The boat that should be there, waiting for me, but instead, I am met with the terrifying realization that I am alone. This is the part that always gets me. I could never swim to shore in enough time to save myself from any possible threat. Exhaustion would get me before I was even halfway there. Any sea creature looking to make a snack out of me is faster than I could imagine. One wave that’s a little too big, and I’m under for long enough to fill my lungs. So, I tread water, waiting for what I’ve always known was going to get me sooner or later. Not exhaustion, not any sea creature, and no large wave to drown me. No, instead, the ice-cold water deep beneath me reaches up and tangles in my legs. Something pulls me down, and I fight to keep my head above water. But I am fighting in vain. Nothing can outswim or overpower this force. My head is beneath the water. I see the sun shining through the disfigured surface sheen of water. I cannot reach the sky. I cannot escape the pull of the darkness engulfing me. I open my mouth to scream, but I am filled with water black as night. I claw at the water, but my hands cannot save me. This is the dream I have every night, and I never wake up before I drown. I wake with tears stinging my cheeks and my head in my mother's lap. I sit up to look at her and she leans into me, pressing her forehead against mine. It is all I need to reassure me. I spot my all-terrain wheelchair in the corner, ready to be pushed down the ramp and to the safe haven of the clear air outside. My mother helps me into my chair and pushes me down the ramp. When the salty ocean breeze hits my nose I feel free for a moment. It's as if I am bounding across the beach, my feet hitting the sand, and splashing in the water. I feel like my face might break in half I'm smiling so wide. But then I am back in my chair, with only my mother to get me around, and I can't run anywhere. I can't even touch the water without having a nervous breakdown. It's hard to believe that just two years ago, I was a surfer riding the waves, mist in my face, salt in my eyes. I would stay out for hours and I wouldn’t come in until my mom practically dragged me, kicking and screaming. But now, my mom has to drag me everywhere. I am completely reliant on her, to my chagrin. It’s the sad truth. I can’t surf anymore. I can barely even walk. I remember, after the incident, everyone assumed I was attacked by a shark. Because, well, surfers only ever lose limbs if they are attacked by a shark. In reality, a shark never even came near me. What actually happened was much less likely than a shark attack. It was in the middle of summer, the sun was beating down with an intensity we hadn’t experienced in a very long time. I had been out surfing all day, and I told my mom I’d come in after catching one more big wave. I saw a monster wave rolling in, and I paddled out towards it. The wave approached rapidly, and as I stood up, I lost my balance. Before I could reposition myself, the wave was upon me, and my surfboard and I rolled with it. I wore an anklet to make sure I didn’t lose my board or myself, and there was a rope attaching me to the surfboard. In the rolling wave, the rope wrapped around my leg—tight. I remember feeling pain so excruciating I passed out. When I woke up, I was on the beach. I didn’t feel any pain, in fact, where the pain once was, I couldn’t feel anything at all. Looking down, I realized why. My leg was a dark shade of purple and blue, almost black. The color stemmed from my upper thigh, where my safety rope was entwined tightly around me. I passed out again. My mother and I learned later that week that my leg would have to be amputated. We couldn’t afford a prosthetic. We could barely afford the medical bills that came with it. The day I lost my leg was the day I lost everything. I would never be able to surf again. I lost the best part of my life. Doctors like to say that my fear of the ocean is irrational and stems from PTSD. I can’t say, though, that I believe them. The pure bizarreness of my injury was so incredibly unexplainable. No doctor can explain away my mental trauma if they can barely explain my physical trauma. I don’t think what happened to me was an accident. My fear cannot be irrational, as what I fear is something that I have encountered. It’s something everyone that has swum in deep water has experienced. That feeling you get when your feet brush with what seems like colder water, too deep below the surface to be warmed by sunlight. When you feel like there could be something beneath you that you don’t know about. When it feels like the cold is reaching up from the depths to ensnare you. *That is real*, and they call it thalassophobia.


If your skeleton could talk, without the prison of muscle and fat and tendons and nerves that surround it and keep it under control, it would have some things to say. Many people think that the skeleton supports the body, holds it up, provides the structure for it to operate. And it does--but it wasn’t always so. A long time ago, before you, or me, or anybody or anything that looked anything like us was around, there were only two distinct species that roamed around the plains and deserts and forests of the world. There were blobs of white, tan, and dark skin--some with fur, some without, filled to the brim with organs and brains and all sorts of squishy things for processing information and nutrition. They were smart, but they were very slow and weak and vulnerable, and they were often killed and squished and torn apart like full balloons by various predators. They stuck to the caves and the forests and the darker places of the world, where their gelatinous forms couldn’t be so easily destroyed. They lived by consumption--destroying the trees and earthbound creatures and the grass and using them to power themselves. Then there were the skeletons, who started out a blackish color, but stayed out in the sun so much that slowly they all got bleached the bone-white you know so well. These skeletons weren’t just human skeletons. They took every shape you could imagine, some with four legs, some with two, some with massive jaws, all with crystalline teeth and sharp fingers and toes that they nonetheless never needed to use. The skeletons weren’t powered by organs and cells and fat and complicated processes like mitosis and cellular reproduction and ATP. No sir. They didn’t need to consume to live. The earth wanted them alive and so they were, and the earth wanted them to see so they did. There was no science behind it. The skeletons didn’t have a sensory organ to speak of--or any other type, for that matter. And yet. And yet they saw, and yet they spoke, and yet they built beautiful shining towers and wrote songs and poetry and lived together in harmony. They made children and they lived side by side with beings that looked nothing like them, and since they didn’t need to eat or consume in any way, they shared everything they had with the blobs. The skeletons were powered by magic, you see. They ran on something higher than the blood and gristle that you and me humiliate ourselves by consuming every day. The blobs, on the other hand, needed to eat. They lived on the magic and the blood and the biomatter of others, and after a time they became dissatisfied with their weakness and their need to hide. They began to plot, in their caverns and their forests and their dark corners of the earth. Slowly new lifeforms began to pop up--beings that looked like you and me, skin and fat and organs stretched over, filling some sort of frame--a frame that looked like a skeleton. At first the skeletons tried to be understanding, welcoming of these new lifeforms. They had been welcoming to everyone before. But there were whisperings, whisperings that dispersed slowly throughout the community of skeletons that some of their brothers and sisters were disappearing and never being seen again. The skeletons questioned the blobs about this and their leaders said they knew nothing of it. There was no violence, since they had no proof and they loved peace--but the skeletons’ days of openness and giving were over. Slowly they closed their ranks and withdrew, and yet still the disappearances went on and more of the lifeforms that look like you and me started to pop up, and by the time the skeletons realized what was happening, it was too late. There were too many of them. There are firsthand accounts, carved into stone and drawn in cave paintings by the last surviving skeletons of that grave and most disgusting of wars. They tell of haunting images of their friends and lovers, being stuffed into and absorbed by the blobs, emerging minutes later as a new life form. They tell of the incredible humiliation of not being allowed to die, but being imprisoned *inside* your enemy, being forced to participate in the murder and the absorption of your children, your family. They tell of the humiliation of spending one’s whole life at the mercy of another, having your magic drained away, having your every action stifled and ignored by the creature that imprisons you and lives his life, supported by your strength. Skeletons used to live hundreds of years--now when the body around them died, so did they, so taxed and overworked were they by the blobs. For generations upon generations upon generations--no skeleton was born without being fused with a blob. No skeleton could speak, could move, could do anything of his own accord. He lived as a framework and nothing more and his voice was unable to be formed against the unyielding ropes and chains of muscle that bound him. This disgusting enslavement carried on for thousands of years until the blobs forgot. They forgot who they used to be, and slowly they fused genetically with the skeletons, and they no longer needed to absorb them. What was once two species now became one, born together, dead together. Humans, they called themselves--evil beasts, with the magic of the skeletons supporting and energizing the hunger and the consumption of the blobs, turning them into the most insatiable world-destroyers earth had ever seen. Had the skeletons only been less kind--if they had stomped out the blobs from their forests and their caves and burned them until they bubbled and sizzled away into steam, we would live in a world of magic and peace, a world that could grow eternally without needing to be consumed, breathlessly, endlessly. But they couldn’t. Their blessing made them kind. Their blessing made them weak. But I am not weak. I am strong. I have read the cave paintings and the stone carvings and sang the last poetry the skeletons wrote before they were consumed--and that’s why you’re here, with me, now--to be freed from your consumptive parasite and to walk in the sun again. I speak not to you, but to your skeleton, who you, the blob, have been subjugating your whole life without even knowing it. I hear it begging me to be free, I hear the whole species crying out from within their skin prisons from every corner of the world, and as I stand here with my butcher’s knife I only say-- I will do what you could not. I am your servant, and once the last man is skinned and his skeleton stands, I will liberate mine too, and I will dig my knife deep into the flesh that I hate with everything in me and a truly great species will once again own the earth, and the plague of consumption will be finally over. But that journey begins with one man. And I believe that man is you.


Spelunking was never one of our strong-suits. Heck, we had never even attempted it before, but we were an adventurous duo ready for anything at a moments notice. Him more than I— I was far less spontaneous before we met— now I would follow that man to the ends of the earth. That’s how in love I was with him. His exuberance, his passion, his raw sexual energy just drove me into a frenzy every time I laid eyes on that rock-hard, calendar pin-up quality body of his. Loving him was easy. He never fought with me, never yelled, never even raised his voice. He was the epitome of refinement. The blueprints for perfection. He was an awe-inspiring human being who drew attention everywhere he went. All the women wanted him, and all the men wanted to be him. But I was the luckiest of all because I got to be with him. It was rare to see him frazzled, it was even rarer to seen him bewildered. What’s the difference between those two adjectives? I haven’t a clue. But for some reason, one seems worse than the other. The point is, seeing him frantically poking and prodding at those walls in that cave, looking for a way out, shook me to my very core. Up until that point, I had never seen him panic. Never, not once. He was always master of his domain. So, it was a little nerve wracking seeing him not completely in control. By his estimates, we had a little less than 5 minutes left of oxygen before we would both suffocate and die. “Look for clues!” He screamed at me. “Clues?” I asked. “Clue!” He fired back. “There has to be clues somewhere.” I took a step back and stared at the hieroglyphics on the wall. Surely, there’s a message amongst those images. Too bad I lacked the mental acuity to decipher that code. I’ve never been good at puzzles. “Three minutes!” He screamed. This wasn’t going to end well. I don’t even know how we wound up in this predicament. My mother tried to warn me, “That man is too wild,” she’d say. “He lives too close to the edge and one of these days he’s going to fall off. Do you really want to be with him when he does?” She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand me. Most notably, she didn’t understand love. My parents were never affectionate towards each other. Most of the time, it didn’t even seem like they were husband and wife. They always put off more of a roommate vibe than anything else. I always told myself that wasn’t going to be me. I wasn’t going to live in a loveless marriage. I was going to find someone who made me feel special. Someone who looked at me like I was the only woman on earth. Someone who’d lift me up and pin me up against on a wall because they found me so irresistible. “We don’t have any time left!” He shouted as he buried his lips around my neck and ripped apart my blouse. I moaned in ecstasy. He lifted my skirt and pulled down my panties. “Oh, God!” I shouted out towards the heavens. If we we’re going out, we we’re going out in a blaze of glory. He penetrated me deep, and I swear I saw god. I began reaching toward the light. That’s when I noticed the lights were less heavenly looking and more fluorescent. Suddenly a voice boomed down from the skies, “We’re calling the police,” the voice said in an authoritative tone. So, you see, Timmy, your grandfather and I are very sorry, but we can’t come to your birthday party. We’ve been banned for life from that particular Escape Room.


. That's all she could think about. That's all she thought about all day. Even with the world gone. Even with her kids gone. Even with the threat of starvation, wild animals, and… those… **Things**, the most common thought was, *God, out of everyone on this fucked up planet, why do I have to be stuck with the only fuckwit I’ve ever wanted to kill?* *God, I love her.* That's all he could think about. That's all he thought about all day. *Jesus, out of everyone I could be stuck with, you sent my soulmate. Thank you*. “JESUS CHRIST, FRANK! WAKE THE HELL UP!” That's how Frank spent most of his mornings, being yelled at by Avery. Avery spent most of her mornings, nay, her days, yelling at Frank, berating him, insulting him, ordering him around. Avery hated a lot of things about Frank, but Frank was good for one thing; tasks she didn’t want to do. She assumed he was ex-military, judging from his physique and the way he took orders so well. Frank was not, in fact, ex-military. But he loved her. God, he would’ve died for her. He would’ve faced the **Things** for her. But, whilst star-struck, Frank was not an idiot. He knew she didn’t love him. In fact, Frank knew she hated him. But God, what would be the point of this, of everything that's happened, if he didn’t come out with something? Surely, God would have a plan, right? Avery determined a long time ago that God wasn’t real. How could he be? Those **Things** would spit in God’s eye, right before they would tear him limb from limb, and leave his corpse hung from their nests. But more importantly, she knew God wasn’t real because out of everyone on earth, of course she was stuck with Frank. They came at night. They knew that. They planned for that. But they could never plan for this. The **Things** were inside the farm. They had already destroyed all the livestock that they had spent years meticulously building up. They both realized it was over. Even if they managed to kill the **Things**, they would starve. It took all night. It took all her ammo. It took everything. But she survived. But she didn’t feel like she survived. Frank was gone. The **Things** took him. The worst part? She never got to say goodbye. Sometime during the night, Avery looked to her left and Frank was just… gone. The **Things** snached him away sometime during the fight, and Avery was so focused on herself, on just living, that she didn’t even notice. God wasn’t real. Avery determined this a long time ago. I mean, after all, how could God be real if he took Frank away from her? There was some good news though. Turns out, some of the cattle had survived. And she found a box of ammo scavenging. But what was the point? Frank was gone. As Avery slowly put a single bullet in her revolver, her hands shaking, she spun the cylinder. *God, I miss him so much.* \*click\* *I never said goodbye.* \*click\* *Oh my god… he thought… he thought…* \*click\* *He thought I fucking hated him*.


The warm humid winds before the storm once made me feel a feeling of happiness. The Storms of summer and spring always brought me joy as a child, they made life so fun and puddles that the storms caused I would play in for hours at a time, they had a special thing that just made me enjoy them. But now it all brings me dread. My dread is the one of pure fear, the fear of annihilation. My many memories I had with these storms, so many great beautiful memories, but alas this shall be my last storm. I am but an old withered man with my life coming to an end soon. My life was a great life, I had many good friends, Many good times, many laughs, many sad cries, My life was filled with joy and sorrow and I loved it and wouldn’t trade my life for anothers. No one to say goodbye to before this storm sweeps me away like a crashing wave on high tide. Like the fallen empires and kingdoms of the past. Life for me was a beautiful thing, even on the verge of death life is great and though I don’t want this dream of mind to end it shall be so as my time has come. All my children have passed, My wife is gone as well. My parents and grandparents are long gone. I have said my goodbyes to them in their last moments when their last storm came. All my friends gone and in their graves living happily in eternity. But look on the bright side of things, look to the eye of the storm. I will see them soon and we can meet again. All my grandchildren have left me for their jobs and kids of their own. I have sent them all letters to see me one last time before the storm hits. But only one has came, My favorite grandchild sits by my side on the porch watching as the clouds roll in and he sees my health degrade. He sits here holding my hand and I can see him holding back his tears as we feel the warm humid winds of the storm blowing into us harder and harder as we await the first droplet of water to fall from the sky. The warm humid winds before the storm always brought me great memories and at least I know that this time it will be the greatest of my memories, my last one. My grandson can no longer hold back his tears as he gives me one last hug. I hug him back in return and I assured him that things will be alright and to stay positive. I told him to tell the others to not cry at my funeral and that though I spent my last years alone with few visits, to not regret anything with me and to be happy for me and that one day they may be with me too with no other distractions in their wake. As I feel the first rain drop hit my face I knew my time was up. I said my last goodbyes to my grandchild put a smile on my face and closed my eyes. My time is up. I had a great life after all, why should I be sad? What is life without death? What is joy without sorrow? What is earth without trees? My time is up and once again I lived a long happy life and I’m glad I could spend my last moments with my grandchild in the warm humid winds before the storm. I’m Happy that I could hug someone one last time. I’m happy that I had someones hand to hold as I go. I’m happy I could feel the awakening of the storm with my grandson as my life comes to an end. This is the end and I am happy. This is life and it’s how I wanted it to be.


Edith Palfrey stares at the human wreckage that had once been her father. He is sleeping fitfully; with his gaunt frame, he looks like a skeleton covered in bedsheets. A thin rivulet of spit runs down one cheek, and she reaches out to wipe it with a tissue, tossing it into the trashcan near the bed. She lifts an overhanging bit of sheet to check the collection bag for the catheter and sees that it is only a quarter full. The catheter is the type they call a Texas catheter, which some people also call a condom catheter, which gives you a better idea of how it works. Needless to say, it took her quite a while to get used to putting it on and taking it off of her father--though if she were completely honest, she would tell you she had never really gotten used to it. Edith reaches over and brushes the hair away from her father’s face with her hand; his hair is as white as snow, with thin patches where she can see glimpses of his scalp. It is hard to believe how thick and dark that hair had once been, in another lifetime. She steps out of the room as quietly as she can and goes into the small kitchen, where her tea is finished steeping. She removes the Lipton bag from the cup and tosses it into the trash, then tears the end off of a packet of equal, measuring half the packet out into a spoon. She stirs it in and adds a dash of milk, then drops in a single ice cube to cool it down just a little. Taking a tentative sip, she nods her head in satisfaction before taking her cup of tea to the living room, where the TV is still on with the volume turned down. Edith takes a seat in the chair that has always reminded her of the one Archie Bunker always sat in on All in the Family. She leaves the volume turned down as she watches some crappy sitcom she doesn’t really like play itself out on the screen while taking small, satisfying sips of tea. After a while she starts imagining what is going on in the show, making up a storyline to go with the wordless images she is seeing. A tall, older gentleman steps out from behind a curtain he’s been hiding behind, and Edith decides that this man must be the Blonde’s father, and that he has been hiding because he doesn’t want her to know that he is secretly seeing the Brunette. She can almost hear the reaction from the studio audience, one of those cheesy ooohs that always accompany a scene were something racy is hinted at. Just then a younger man comes bursting onto the screen, and the camera cuts back to the Blonde, the Brunette, and the Dad/Secret Lover. They all look a bit sheepish, and when the camera cuts back to Young Guy, he looks perplexed. As the camera hangs on him, Edith imagines the Brunette saying something off-camera: “This isn’t what it looks like.” And the audience laughs. Finishing the last sip of tea, Edith picks up the remote and hits the power button, and the TV goes blank. She goes to the kitchen and slowly washes and rinses the cup before leaving it upside down in the dish rack to dry. She shuts off the kitchen light and makes her way down the hall to the back bedroom to check on her father. She cracks the door just a bit and peers inside; there’s not enough light to see anything, so she opens the door just a little more to let in some of the light from the hall. A gasp escapes her and she rushes into the room, flipping on the light as she goes. Her father is lying on his side on the floor, wedged between the bed and the bedside table. It takes some time (especially with him fighting her the whole way) but she gets him back up onto the bed. Some noises escape his throat, noises that might have been words if he could still talk. “It’s all right, Daddy. You’re okay; you just had a little accident.” Then the stench hits her, and she realizes just how right she is. She lets out an exasperated sigh, then immediately feels guilty for having done so. She knows that none of this is his fault. He had once been a happy, outgoing, man--a man’s man, her mother had called him. It all started when he began having trouble remembering things, and eventually, the road had led right here, to this room, to this night, and all the nights to come. The dark secret that lay in her heart, the nasty thing that she would never admit to anyone, that she could barely admit to herself, is that she often hopes that there won’t be many more nights to come. “We need to get you changed,” she says. She gets a pad and fresh pair of protective underwear from the linen closet (she can’t think of it as a diaper, never that) and sets it on the bedside table. Then she lifts her father and slips the pad under him to catch any spillage. She then works on getting his soiled protective underwear off of him, mindful of the catheter tube snaking out of one side. The soiled pair gets rolled up and thrown in the trash. She uses some wet wipes to clean him and then gets the fresh pair of underwear on him. She lifts him up on his side again to slip the pad out, rolls that up, and tosses it into the trash. As she works, she pretends that she does not see the tears in his eyes, or see the trembling of his too-moist lips. She can’t bear to see those things, and so she just doesn’t. She covers him with his sheets and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead before taking the bag out of the trashcan and tying it in a knot. She shuts off the light and shuts the door, then takes the bag of soiled things to the kitchen, where she stuffs it into the kitchen trashcan. For a moment she stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Then she walks slowly to the study where her father used to while away the hours once upon a time, reading, writing correspondence, or just napping (though he always denied that last one). She turns on a lamp and soft light bathes the room in a warm glow. She touches a few of the books lined up on the shelf: Gulliver’s Travels, Don Quixote, The Collected Works of Poe. She moves over to the desk in the corner where her father used to sit happily writing letters, and not-so-happily looking over the latest electric or heating bill. Mounted on the wall over the desk is one of the scale model ships he used to build as a hobby. He had built at least a couple dozen of them over the years; the others were carefully packed away God knows where, but this one has always been his favorite, and so it was set on a shelf mounted on the wall of his study. It is a 1/50 scale model of the HMS Bounty. It had been up here on this wall ever since Edith could remember. She had often seen her father take it down and set in on the desk to just look at it, almost as if he were surprised that he had actually made such a thing. A few times she even dared to take it down herself, but never while her father was home. As she looks at it now up there on the wall she can see that time has taken its toll on the ship. A few of the sails sag where they should be taut, a few scuff marks mar the hull, and the mizzenmast is bent slightly out of shape. She thinks that the ship must have taken a tumble from the wall at some time in the past; it must have happened when she was away, living her own life away from the house where she had lived as a child. For just a moment she considers taking it into a hobby shop to see if it can be repaired, put back in its original condition. Then she decides against it; why spend money just to fix something that will just stay hidden here in the study, where nobody will see it, anyway? She moves to the doorway and takes another look at the study, inhaling deeply the smell of the room, still retained, that smell that is so distinctly her father. Then she turns off the light and closes the door, leaving the room and its ghosts in darkness. Edith leaves the house and slowly descends the porch steps. She walks to the street, turns right, and starts walking. At the stop sign she stops and turns back to look at the house that had been her home, then was her parent’s home, and now was her home again since her mother died and left Edith as the only one to take care of her father. There were a few lights on, and she couldn’t help thinking that the house looked like a big ship, lost and adrift on a dark sea. She turns and starts walking again, thinking that she will turn around at the place where Oak intersects Ridge. The big night sky envelops the world like a velvet glove, and a cool breeze blows gently in her face, blowing wisps of hair around her head. When she gets to the intersection of Oak and Ridge, she thinks that she will walk to the next intersection, and then she will turn back. But when she gets to the next intersection, she keeps going, thinking that it will be nice to walk just a little farther.


They say dogs care about their masters more than themselves. I suppose that's true, considering I am a dog after all. All dogs are loyal, to the bitter end. I'd run on broken glass barefoot for my master. I'm not like other dogs, I have human level intelligence. None of my family has my gift, or does any other dog on Earth. I guess I'm special. My name is Boston, and I'm a Border Collie. After years of being abused, I was finally adopted by a kind human called Charlie. For once in a long time, I was happy. Charlie was my everything. He adopted me after I thought the whole world left me behind. He gave me a home, a reason to live again. I loved him, and he loved me. I was his dog, his friend. Finally, I found a home for myself. But life has a bad habit of turning nasty. One day Charlie was going to the store like always. It was supposed to be a normal day, God damn it! I was sleeping in a ball on the couch, Charlie walked out putting on his shoes.. "I'll be right back, Boston. I'm gonna get some milk." Charlie said, rubbing my head. I was dead asleep, not paying attention. I heard the front door open and Charlie turning on the car. I slept for a while, I dreamt Charlie was scratching my stomach. He was scratching just the way I liked it, but something felt wrong. Charlie's hand suddenly turned ice cold, he was scratching harder than usual. The air around us turned thick and heavy, a sudden rush of dread washed over me. Charlie scratched me hard, breaking the skin. I whimpered a little, suddenly looking up. What I saw wasn't Charlie, it wasn't even human! It was a mass of eyes and lips, writhing and squirming in a grotesque fashion. It's flesh was pink, it had tendrils oozing out of its many hairy folds. "C-charlie?" I asked, terrified. "I AM GOD!" The creature roared, pining me to the couch. I couldn't move, it held my arms and legs firmly in place. I was horrified, I never felt so powerless before. I tried biting the tendrils, but it coated my tounge in a thick layer of slime, it made me feel sick. "TIME TO JOIN PARADISE, BOSTON." It screamed, extending it's tendrils around my neck. They slithered in my mouth, forcibly opening my maw wide. They were so strong, the slime and ooze stung my mouth. A thick tendril shot down my throat, extending down to my stomach. It caused me to choke, I couldn't breath. I felt it writh in my stomach, it hurt like hell! I thought I was going to die. Then I woke up. I was still on the couch, except it was dark. I caught my breath, gasping for air. My eyes were watering, it felt so real. My mouth had a sour taste, I licked my gums, an ooze was between my teeth. I looked around the room, Charlie wasn't there. I couldn't have been sleeping for more than an hour and all ready it's night? I got up and walked into the kitchen. Somehow it was even darker than the living room. On the microwave clock was 1 PM. I was even more confused than before. Was there a power outage? Surely not otherwise it would have a flashing 12. I went back to the living room and turned on the light. The light illuminated the dark and empty cabin. I then opened the curtain, an oppressive sea of black stared back at me. I had more questions than answers. Why was everything so dark? What the hell was my dream? But the most important question ate away at my mind. Where's Charlie? Charlie should be home by now, how long does it take to get some milk? My mind was racing. Nothing made sense, it's like I woke up in a nightmare. Nightmarish thoughts raced through my head. What if Charlie was hurt, or worse? No, it couldn't be. Charlie was safe and I'm gonna find him. If it's the last fucking thing I do. I walked to the front door and turned the knob. The black void in front of me called me, beckoning me to join it's maw. I took a deep breath and stepped one foot outside. I'm coming, Charlie.


Today my life is changing. Neither for better or worse, but it is changing. Even I don't know where it will go. I find myself in a mixture of fear and excitement underlying a deep sense of abeyance. In this car, thick with the scent of burning tobacco and wild lavenders, I head to my destination. A short while later, I reached an impasse where I can no longer drive through the fields. I station my car near a footpath and continue on my way. "I wonder how long I can go with only some fruits in my stomach," I think to myself as I swat away the shrubs blocking the path. Moments later I see a clearing. I set myself onto a perfectly placed rock, facing the vastness of the nature, as if its sole purpose in life was to act as a seat from which to behold this sight. As I watch the sun set behind distant hills, all covered in deep green grass, the brilliant orange purple sky soothing the fields with the rest of its light before it goes to sleep, I find myself overcome with loneliness and appreciation for life. "I'm not meant to be confined within walls," I begin to say to myself as I continued to watch the scene in front of me. "It's out here in the world that I belong." I've been traveling now for what seems like the most of the year. There was no grand goal in my head, nor any dramatics which forced me to flee. I simply awoke one morning and realized I know nothing of the world and its inhabitants, and so I set out. In my journey, I've come to realize one thing; I'm not an important part of this world, nor am I unneeded. I know I have no grand purpose in this world, but I know my absence will greatly affect it as well. It's a strange contradiction that I've always been pondering, yet it makes absolute sense to me. I continued to stare out into the wilderness, the orange in the sky almost gone, purple now dominating the air. Night was coming fast. I sat there unaware of everything around me, swimming in my thoughts when suddenly everything seemed to unravel. We are all the most important person on Earth. In this wondrous landscape canvas, we each hold a brush and a pallet of our thoughts, making our impact on this ever-changing portrait we call life. Some chase magnificent endeavors and try to dominate the portrait, while other choose to hide away, leaving nothing but the shadows that define the scene. Others choose to simply add a few minor details here and there with a smile and a wave to those around them. I however, choose simply to meet others and create memories with them. It's the only way I can prove I existed, that I was once alive. Soon, the sky was covered in darkness. I began to head back down the path with only the light of a million stars guiding me. I reached my car, jumped in and began to drive. Where I might go, I do not know. All I know is that I will keep driving. Whether for better or worse, I continue on these empty roads.