“Oh shit,” Chris said as he looked in the mirror, stroking his upper lip. “What’s the matter?” said Ralph, the optician. “I just missed a spot shaving this morning. Right above my upper lip. I didn’t notice this morning, but it’s grown out now. I look like Hitler! I gotta stop shaving in the shower without a mirror. Look at this!” Chris stepped out of the bathroom and pointed to his upper lip. Ralph chuckled. “Yeah, you do look like Hitler,” Ralph said. “Do you have a razor I could borrow?” “No, but even if I did, I wouldn’t let you borrow it, that’s disgusting.” “What’s disgusting about sharing a razor? I’d clean it off!” Chris said as he held his hands up in disbelief. “I dunno,” said Ralph, turning back to his computer. “You might get blood on it.” “So? I’ll rinse it off. I obviously wouldn’t give you back a bloody razor. Who the hell does that?” “I dunno, it’s just gross,” said Ralph looking back at Chris. “Besides, I don’t have a razor, and you only have one more patient left for the day anyway. You’ll survive.” Chris rubbed his finger over his upper lip and felt the long stubble. Debra, the tech came around the corner. “Dr. Gottlieb, your last patient is ready. She’s such a sweet old lady, you’re gonna love her!” When Chris turned around, Debra recoiled and contorted her face in disgust. “Oh God!” she said. “What did you do? Why did you grow a Hitler stache?” “I didn’t mean to!” Chris said. “I just missed a spot shaving, and I didn’t notice until now that my hair is growing in this late in the day, it looks like a push broom mustache.” “You mean, a Hitler stache?” said Debra. “Or a Charlie Chaplin!” said Chris, raising his hands in the air. “This was a popular style before Hitler went and ruined it.” “It’s a Hitler stache, Doc,” Debra said, pursing her lips. She pivoted and went back to the front desk. Chris turned to Ralph. “What am I gonna do?” he said, his voice rising and tightening with anxiety. “Get going and see that patient,” said Ralph flatly. “She’s probably like 90 years old and I want to go home. She probably won’t notice anyway.” Chris grumbled and looked back in the mirror. “I mean, I guess it’s not that prominent, you have to have an imagination to see how it.” “Yeah, sure,” said Ralph, his nose in his computer scrolling Facebook. Chris flattened his white coat and took a deep breath and walked to the door of the exam room. He knocked gently before he entered. “Come in!” said a cheerful German accented voice from beyond the door. He walked into the room, trying to keep his finger covering his upper lip as if he was rubbing his nose. He looked down at her chart and saw her name. “Hello Mrs. Eichelman, I’m Dr. Gottlieb, it’s very nice to meet you.” Extending his right hand, he kept his left hand over his upper lip. She didn’t shake his hand, he thought maybe she was offended, maybe she caught a glimpse of the mustache. “Oh, Dr. Gottlieb, that’s a nice German name!” she said in a pleasant voice. “I wish I could see you, but I can’t see anything without my glasses.” Chris breathed a sigh of relief, she wouldn’t be able to see his face, nor his “mustache.” He could get through this without offending her. He put his hand down and looked at her file. “Yes, my grandfather was from Germany,” said Chris. He wanted to get off the German topic as quickly as he could. He knew his Grandfather’s past in Germany was suspect to say the least. “Oh, that’s wunderbar! Sprechen sie Deutsch?” “Ein bisschen.” Mrs. Eichelman laughed. “I mostly spoke Yiddish growing up, even my German isn’t all the great even though that’s where I was born. But your accent is spectacular!” Doing the math in his head and knowing her country of origin, Chris knew wanted to get off the subject. He liked this woman and she seemed very sweet, and likely, since she was older, didn’t get out much or have anyone to talk to. Chris had a soft spot for these types of people, the elderly who had very little family or friends, going to the optometrist was the highlight of their week and he wanted to make sure she felt welcome and could speak as much as she wanted. But not about this, not about his German heritage. “Danke schoen,” Chris said quickly. He looked through her chart. “Let’s see...you look to be in good health...a little hypertension…” “Oy, yanno, I try to keep it under control, but I’m worried about what’s happening in this country these days. It seems like the Nazis are coming back, I thought we were done with them! I was very scared to see those young boys marching with the torches.” Chris swallowed hard. “If I saw another Nazi,” she said and her voice got low and serious, “I would slit their throat because that’s what they deserve.” He laughed nervously. “Oh, I agree, it’s terrible…” said Chris. “Let’s check your vision.” Before Mrs. Eichelman had a chance to say another word, Chris put the phoropter in front of her eyes and adjusted it so that it sat comfortably on her nose. “Is that comfortable for you?” Chris asked. “I can’t see anything still,” she replied. “That’s because I haven’t put your prescription in there yet,” said Chris. “I see the big E!” she said, laughing. “I just want to make sure it’s not pinching you or pressing on you uncomfortably,” said Chris. “E. I can see that, but it’s fuzzy.” Chris rolled his eyes and entered in the prescription from the autorefraction into the phoropter. “Oh, that’s good. E,” said Mrs. Eichelman. Chris said nothing. He kept turning the knobs until it reflected her autorefraction prescription she had on her page. “E,” she said again. “That’s very clear.” Chris changed the chart on the screen to a much smaller line. “That’s too small, make it bigger please,” said Mrs. Eichelman. “I liked the big E, I could see that.” Chris grumbled under his breath and turned up the next largest line. “That’s fuzzy,” she said. “Bring back the big E, I could see that one!” “Well, I have to give you somewhat of a challenge to make sure you can see well. Can you read the letters there?” Chris asked. “H...V...O...T...Z…” she said, carefully and tentatively. “Great! Perfect!” said Chris. Then he clicked to the next lens. “Is that better or worse?” “H...V...O--” she began. Chris cut her off. “No, you don’t have to read the letters again. Just tell me if it’s clearer. Here.” He flipped back to the old lens. “This is one…” and then he flipped back to the other lens again, “this is two...which do you prefer? Which on is clearer?” “H...V...O…” she began. He blocked off that eye and switched to the other, huffing as he did. He changed the letters on the screen. “What happened? I can’t see out of my right eye,” said Mrs. Eichelman. “I switched to the left. Can you read those letters?” “I think two is better,” she said. Chris hung his head. “No, Mrs. Eichelman, I changed the letters on the screen, can you read them?” “Can you show me one again?” she asked. He took the phoropter away, he wasn’t getting anywhere. “Is that it?” she asked, squinting at him. He grabbed the clunky trial frames, rooted around his case of loose lenses. “I’m just going to see if you can see better with the new prescription,” he said, fiddling with the lens case and trial lenses. “Will I have my new glasses by the time I have to go to Temple tonight? I have a hard time seeing the Rabbi from my seat,” she asked. Her voice was so sweet and innocent, he couldn’t be annoyed with her for very long. “No,” he said, “Unfortunately, it takes a week for the glasses to be made, but you’ll have them by the next Sabbath.” “Oh, you know about Shabbat, are you Jewish too?” “No ma’am,” he said. “Oh that’s too bad, because you seem like a very nice young man. You’d be perfect for my granddaughter.” “Oh, that’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Eichelman, but I’m happily married,” Chris said as he held up his ring hand. She squinted and strained to see it. “Oh, well you’ll see it better, once I get these glasses on,” Chris said and placed the trial frames over her eyes. “Oh, these are heavy,” she said and lifted the frames off her nose. “But I can see again!” She smiled looking around the room at everything she could now see. Then she focused on Chris’s face and her smile dropped to a scowl. The skin on her cheeks turned red with fury. “Nazi!” she yelled and hit him with her purse. “What?” Chris said in confusion. Then he touched his upper lip. Mrs. Eichelman stormed out of the room as fast as her body would allow her muttering angrily in Yiddish. He chased after her. “No! I just missed a spot shaving! Mrs. Eichelman!” he yelled and ran toward the front to explain himself, but she was yelling to her daughter, who drove her to the appointment. Her daughter spotted him and pointed a finger in his face. “My mother didn’t escape to America just to deal with Nazis here. You monster!” said the daughter. She turned her mother around and guided her out the door, keeping her piercing glare on Chris’s face. “Let’s go, Mom.” Mrs. Eichelman turned and spat on the ground. “Burn in hell!” she yelled on her way out the door. Chris stood up front in disbelief as the patients picking out their glasses scowling at him. “I’m not a Nazi! I swear!” Chris pleaded. All the patients in the waiting room left, striking their angry eyes at Chris, muttering how terrible of a person he is and how they’ll never return. “You’ll be getting a bad review from me, Hitler!” cried one man. After the last patient had left the office. Debra looked at Ralph, who ran up from the lens lab to see the commotion, they both laughed.


(This was the result of an English test we had, where we had to write a short story that would make you "feel good". We had 2 hours, and this was the result) Damien was no ordinary boy, in fact, he was born on 29th of February, which means that even though he has lived a total of twelve summers, his birthday has only been celebrated three times. This has, quite frankly, made the life of Damien a living hell, whereas he is still forced to attend kindergarten. One day, when Damien was playing catch with his three-year-old “peers”, completely obliterating the other kids’ self-confidence by being such a beast of a three-year-old, he fell and badly hurt his forearm. Damien felt an intense pain he never had experienced before, equal to the level of agony Lenin had bestowed upon the people of the Soviet Union when he implemented Communism, leading to the starvation and suffering of millions. Damien rolled around on the ground, clutching his right forearm with his left hand, moaning and wimping like the “three-year-old” he was. Now, the narrator of this story, which is me, was starting to feel very sorry about Damien for putting him in such a horrendous situation, so he decided to intervene and offer a lending hand, but also to further the plot of the story in an interesting way, breaking the fourth wall and keeping the reader on edge. *wink wink* As Damien was trying to rise from the ground, with all the power his gargantuan three-year-old body could muster up, barely resisting the immense temptation of crying, he saw a sudden opening in the clouds. A ray of light shined directly on him through the hole, suspiciously resembling a biblical scene. “Don’t cry Damien, my little child. I have solution for removing your pain.” Damien looked around, confused, trying to see if anyone else had heard the deep, manly, and incredibly sexy voice that had just spoken to him. “Hush my child, don’t be afraid now, you’re the only one that can hear me. Listen closely and I will make sure your pain will be relieved.” Damien looked up toward the opening in the cloud with an intense decisiveness to follow the hypnotic narrators command. “Now, that’s more like it! Alright little thing, you see that building over there, behind the fence of the kindergarten? I wish for you to jump the fence, run across the street, and enter the building. Inside will be a series of tests. If you can complete the tasks with perfection, you will be rewarded the legendary gel of pain-removal, the most precious healing artifact known to mankind, nay, alien-kind. It has a medical power tenfold more potent than the vibrating healing crystals of your present age hipster- culture. But be careful, for you must apply it on your forearm the moment you attain it, for all the worlds-, nay, universes medical conglomerates will start an offence against you, motivated by their immense greed for money.” Damien was determined to fulfil the task, but was understandably, slightly afraid of the consequences of doing so. He started to walk towards the fence of the kindergarten and jumped over it with incredible ease, for his body was already five feet tall, but the fence was made for children who had trouble defecating on their own. He walked across the street, each of his steps filled with incredible determination, completely disregarding the traffic of the busy city. Once he had reached the office building, he looked up in awe at the sheer height of it. You see, this was no ordinary building, it was a skyscraper, and a really fucking tall one for that matter. Damien entered the building, and following was a set of tasks, so mind-boggling, so intellectually demanding, so incredibly difficult, it would be completely impossible to retell as a story. In fact, the mere knowledge of it has ascended me, the narrator, to a level infinitely beyond human, and has practically made me a god. Well, it could also be because the writer of this story is closing in on his time limit, and can’t really finish it the way he originally desired… Anyway, after completing the tasks, Damien received his legendary gel of pain-removal, and quickly spread it on his forearm, instantly removing the pain that had been tormenting him during the profound and life-changing hardships he recently had experienced. Damien was filled with an immense amount of joy, for all his problems were now solved, and a feeling of relief washed over him. This made the reader of the story, you, vindictively feel good. The end.


I’m an *old* man. Okay, I’m not that old. I’m only seventy-five. I’m being dramatic. They say that the seventies are the new fifties. But, I’m entitled to being a little grumpy at my age. I’ve earned it. When I was younger, birthdays earned you new privileges, like buying tobacco (albeit I hate the smell and only occasionally smoke a cigar, which even then I still find it mildly revolting), getting married, joining the military, voting, alcohol, and cheaper car insurance. But now the doctors inform me that, based on my age and my insurance provider, I’ve earned the privilege of undergoing another test for some disease that’s sure to end my life miserably. Every year I go in for my physical, and every year the doctor runs a complete battery; cholesterol, blood sugar, blood pressure, hearing, prostate, bone density, and on and on. I see a dermatologist annually owing to my fair complexion; a trait I inherited from my mother who had strawberry blonde hair and a spattering of freckles that ran up and down her cheeks. And every three years I have to drink that God-awful Crystal Light and apple juice concoction, shit my brains out for two days, and then get little cameras inserted up my ass and down my throat. If it wasn’t for the drugs, I’m not sure I’d enjoy it much. Or would I? When you get old, sometimes you wonder about these things. I’m not gay (and I don’t have a problem with it, mind you), but these thoughts run through my head on occasion as I get older. What if I actually enjoyed it? Maybe I would have when I was younger and a bit more open to those kinds of things. Apparently, the prostate, that little walnut-sized gland near your bladder, is also called the “male G-spot.” All I know is that on occasion, when the doctor sticks his fingers up my rectum, I get a little chubby. It’s kind of embarrassing, but if it weren’t for the sterile formality of it all, maybe I’d relax enough to enjoy it. You see, I never considered these things before. Just like every time I get some new test. It gnaws away at my mind’s ability to ignore the fact that my time on this earth is coming to an end, something my younger self never once considered as a real possibility. Where death was something that happened to other people, each phone call from my specialist inches me closer to the realization that I’m not a spring-chicken anymore, and I’m one rotten biopsy away from the grave. So, when the doctor says “you’re as healthy a twenty-year-old,” I always respond (still a little slick between the cheeks), “that’s just great, Doc.” But who am I fooling? They say that the seventies are the new fifties, but on Tinder I am old. *I’m old, and I’m creepy.* At least, that’s what all the young girls tell me. *Swipe right, swipe left?* I don’t know how we matched, because I can barely text my wife without transferring my life savings to an African prince. I joke, because they all end up in my spam folder anyway, along with my daughter’s e-mails … *why can’t you just call me on the phone like a normal human being, or God-forbid, visit once in a while? I know you have a family of your own and live a couple thousand miles away, but would it hurt to bring them down to get to know their Papa before he chokes?* Online dating is as foreign to me as *Ching Chang Chong*. Or is that too pejorative of an idiom these days? One thing I’ve also realized is that the older I get, the more bigoted and wrong about the world I am, at least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. But let me be clear, *Chief*, it wasn’t me who changed; it was the world. When I was a kid, these things didn’t have the same context. People weren’t so sensitive. I grew up in New England, for fuck’s sake. If you don’t recall, we fought to end slavery during the Civil War. We championed equal rights, and I even marched to end segregation, and now I’m a bigot? *Please*, spare me. I don’t want to get political, but there’s a reason Trump won. I don’t care much for the man, with his gold-plated shit palace and orange skin, but he appreciates what being American used to mean. In a lot of ways, those were the gold-old-days. Those were the days before Twitter, Facebook, and Insta-whatever. Things were simpler: you sent a letter in the mail and then you waited. And when you *waited* you learned patience. Kids don’t have patience these days. They want everything now, now, now. The world has changed, and maybe I’ve stayed the same. A few years ago, we decided we were going to audit an ethics class at a local community college. Being that we are retired and didn’t have to work for food, we thought it would keep us engaged with the world that seemed to be changing daily. At any rate, the professor, some snotty, high-falutin’, thirty-something who couldn’t commit to a PhD, decided he was going to lecture me about objective moral values. *Objective moral values?* What’s so objective about values these days when a man can decide to be a woman, and a woman can decide to be a Furry? *A Furry.* One interesting thing I learned in class: an employee filed an equal opportunity complaint because she not only believed she was a cat, but that she was being discriminated against because there weren’t any litter boxes for her to shit in. Can you believe that? Did the world go crazy, or am I going crazy? One of the advantages of age is that it provides some perspective. A disadvantage is that facts about the world that one picks up in one era may not apply in a subsequent one. It’s not that the facts weren’t facts, but that those facts were time sensitive. What used to be true is not true now. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. I’m *time sensitive* these days. I’m sensitive to the fact that I’m not getting any younger. But eventually, you have to move on. You have to give new things a try. You have to embrace—and I hate to sound so callous, but at seventy, you appreciate the time you had and you appreciate the time you have left—change. It is hard to move on, but, sometimes, the world changes and you just have to hang on for the ride. So, when Judith messaged me (not sure if it was through Our Time, Zoosk, Elite or Silver Singles, or whatever dating app I ended up contributing practically my entire 401k towards), it was a bit unexpected. I have to admit, it was hard. It was hard to carry on a conversation through my keyboard to some stranger in the internet ether. Hell, for all I knew, she was some Russian hacker trying to steal my e-mails. *I’m kidding.* We decided we’d meet at a local café. We’d have some coffee, maybe some breakfast, and we’d simply talk. That sounded great, honestly. Because another thing about growing old is that everyone you know is constantly dying. When you’re twenty, it’s one wedding after another. When you’re seventy, it’s one funeral after another. Your address book gets smaller and smaller over time, and conversations become few and far between. You find yourself talking a bit too much to that clerk at the grocery store, or the telemarketer who’s trying to sell you a timeshare. I give my daughter a hard time, but she has a career, a husband, and children, and I feel a bit guilty expecting anything from her beyond a call on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a wonderful daughter. She’s always trying to get me to move back to Maine, but I’ve grown accustomed to the Southern climate. They keep going on and on about climate change and saying Florida will be sucked into the ocean one day, but that won’t happen until long after I’m dead and gone. I keep telling her not to worry about me, and while she does, she knows I’m too stubborn to leave. But, daughters have a way of softening even the most hardened assholes like myself. I showed up at the Waffle House a bit earlier than we agreed. Sitting at the booth I was reminded about how nervous I was when I was a kid. But seventy is the new fifty, right? One thing I appreciate about technology is that it opens doors (both figuratively and non-figuratively). When I was a kid, you had to muster up the guts to approach a girl at the bar, an ice cream parlor, a diner, or the library. You had to introduce yourself while her and her friends pretended not to notice, but which made you even more nervous and uncomfortable. You had to invest an inordinate amount of time and resources into the act of dating that, probably, would be a waste of time in the end. It was a shot in the dark. You’d discover something about her personality, her values, her parents, her outlook, three or four dates into it, and you’d be back at square one. *Luck.* That’s what it took to find the right one. The great thing about online dating is you can weed out all those people you know aren’t cut out for you, that don’t share your worldview. It opens up the pool of dating I didn’t have when I was a kid. It’s simple math; the wider your net, the more chance you have of making the catch. Sitting there I realized I still had my wedding ring on. I hadn’t taken it off for nearly fifty years. In the bathroom, with a great deal of soap, I worked the ring backwards and forwards. The once smooth band was now sharp and cut into my finger that had grown a size (or two) larger than it was when I had first gotten married. The ring refused to budge over my knuckle. No matter how much I yanked, the damn thing wouldn’t come off. And the harder I pulled, the more I smiled and the more those crow’s feet, winkles, and loose skin scrunched up into an adolescent grin ear-to-ear. Judith ordered black coffee, two eggs sunny-side up, turkey bacon, and wheat toast. From her purse, she pulled out a shaker of Morton Salt Substitute, and that’s when I saw that she hadn’t taken her ring off either.


“What are you doing?” “Hm? Oh. Just throwing rocks.” In the middle of an uninteresting forest clearing there stood a person beside a pile of rocks. They had just reared up with a rock in-hand and chucked it uneventfully into the air, a melancholic look on their face, when another person had wandered by to see what was happening. “Throwing rocks?” “Yeah. I’ve got these rocks, see?” The person nudged the knee-high pile of rocks, sending the top few spilling to the ground. “So I’m throwing them.” “But...why?” “Why what?” “Why throw the rocks?” “Why not? What else would I do?” Another rock flies into the air, a little lower than the first. “I mean, it’s just a little odd.” “Throwing rocks is odd?” “Isn’t it? In a certain sense.” “Which sense?” “Well, in the sense that you could be doing something else. Something else with those rocks, even.” “Like what? There was a neat pile of rocks, so I’m throwing them. You wanna try?” “No, thank you. I’m still working this over.” “Not too much to work over, I don’t think. Haven’t you ever skipped a rock before?” “Well, sure. I’ve *skipped* a rock plenty of times, but that’s entirely different than just throwing them.” “Is it?” A third rock. This was the highest yet, and got an admiring nod from the rock thrower. “Of course. There’s a point to *skipping* rocks. It’s enjoyable.” “Does something have to have a point to be enjoyable?” “I think so.” “I’m enjoying myself.” “I don’t see how. There’s no point to just throwing rocks up and watching them fall down. At least in skipping, you’re trying to get the highest number of skips.” “Must the point be quantifiable? Can’t the point just be that it’s enjoyable?” “I...suppose." “Sure you don’t want to try?” A silence. Two more rocks thrown, neither of them as high as the third. “You know, I think I will give it a try.” “That’s the spirit. Take your pick.” The second person chooses a decent sized stone from the pile, testing the weight. “What are we aiming at, anyway?” “Nothing in particular. Just throwing.” “I see. So...what if you hit someone?” “I’d apologize, I think. Nobody wants to be hit with a rock.” They both threw their rocks at nothing in particular. The second person’s went a little higher than the firsts’, and they both nodded in appreciation of the good throw. “I think I get it now.” “Do you?” “I think.” “I’m glad.” Another tandem throw, nothing comparably impressive about either. “Say, what’s the point of this story?” “Story?” “It’s a way I like to think about things. If someone were writing this as a story, what would be the moral of it? What would be the point to reading it?” “Well, did the writer enjoy writing it?” “I...don’t see why not. Sure, I suppose they did.” “Will the reader enjoy reading it?” “They might, but they may feel annoyed that there wasn’t a point.” “If they enjoy it, then that’s the point. Doesn’t need to be anything complicated.” “But what if they don’t enjoy it?” “They might not. Not everything’s for everyone.” “Well sure, but what would be the point if they don’t enjoy it?” “How many people are reading this story?” “I don’t know, I haven’t really thought that hard about it. A thousand, say.” “Did one enjoy it?” “I guess out of a thousand, at least one would enjoy something pointless, yes.” “Then that’s the point.” “I don’t follow.” “If one person enjoys something, even if the rest find it pointless, it has meaning to someone. That’s the point.” By that point, the pile of rocks was just about gone. Only two remained. “So you could say it’s like throwing rocks at nothing in particular?” “Exactly. Somebody else may not like it, but as long as one person does- there’s the point.” A final throw for each. This was the least impressive throw so far, for both of them. “Well, that’s done. What will you do now?” “No idea,” the rock thrower answered.


As the man was walking in the street market he was being watched and he was nervous, he had a mission to set off a bomb that would kill hundreds of people. His name was Abdul Mujahde, he had joined Al Qaeda a few years ago in order to defend his family from the US. He never imagined he would be giving up his life in a suicide bombing, strapped with 10 pounds of explosives before he set off his mission was to blow up inside a US embassy and not leave any trace of who he was. He slowly walks into the embassy sweat on his palms cursing the people he saw as evil westerns, but then he spotted a beautiful girl finely dressed in her hijab, and he asked himself why was he doing this to kill more Muslims this isn’t what he was promised. The girl he head seen looked exactly what he thought his future wife would look like. He asked “How are you today ma’am” and she responded “I am well what can I do for you” he replies “I would like to know more about how to apply for a visa” he’s now trying to think of ways to disarm his suicide vest realizing his horrific mistake. He then ask if he can use the restroom and the woman points to the restroom, as soon as he enters the stall he takes off his clothes trying to find out how to pull out the wires anything to help at all, there it is the wires to the timer of the bomb, he pulls the wires loose freeing him from certain death. He then heads back outside and tells the woman about how beautiful she is he asks “Can I get to know your name, because you’re truly a gift from Allah(SWT)”. She blushes nervously and responds, “My name is Mayruh and it’s nice to meet you, would you like to meet me after work” the man agreed to this and will meet her there at 6 o’clock that evening, the young man comes home to his father and is filled with joy he says “father I have met the woman of my dreams, Allah has truly gifted me with a most exalted and a woman who’s a spectacle to the eyes” his father starts to cry thinking his youngest son had died or been captured, he talks to his son with anger but also joy “You’re alive son I’m so happy but I can’t believe you almost killed yourself, Allah(SWT) forbids any form of violence even against those who aren’t of your faith, you foolish kid” the son asks for forgiveness from his father saying he had been led astray from Allah(SWT) and His teachings. The son tells his father his plans and he would meet the girl at 6 and the father hugs his son for this girl had just saved his life and the father responded “son, I’m glad Allah(SWT) has blessed you with this woman for she has spared and changed your mind, for this we must truly give thanks” the father and soon then recite a dua for the first time in years and they feel the most connected than ever before calling to Allah asking “o, Allah(SWT) bless me with kids and a wife that is a spectacle to behold my eyes and to you, o Allah I will be most grateful.


\*Just a little disclaimer for good measure, this piece contains topics of Religion and bodily harm. Feel free to be as critical as possible, it'll help me to become a better writer! Thank you guys! The sun beat down on his bare back as he crawled through the rough, hot sand. The wind blew slightly, not enough to subdue the pain of his burning and peeling skin but enough to toss some sand into his already dry eyes. He was stranded, placed there not by accident but to die. With him dead so too would die his sins, and the truth. The blisters on his back, arms, legs, and face were unbearable, however that pain was now his existence. As he crawled he could feel his hands melting into the sand around him yet continued, he had nothing more to lose and so would not give up. He muttered to himself. “Please god… please dear merciful lord if you are there, protect me. Shelter me. Save me.” But nothing. The wind continued to spit sand in his face mockingly, as the sun watched on unblinking. He crawled for ten more days, he wondered when the night would come but it never did, the sun frozen at its zenith in the sky. He prayed once more. “Lord, I beg of you please end my suffering. I crawl for days and days and yet I do not die. I starve, I burn, I melt, I beg dear Lord, please grant me a peaceful rest.” As he spoke he felt the sun burn deeper into his back as if it were right against his flesh. He screamed and wailed in anguish, but his cries fell upon deaf ears. He tried to move forward, however his frail arms gave way to the weight of his body. He was far too weak to continue. “Damn you! You cruel, evil creature! You abuse the power you possess! You do not deserve it! You are not my Lord!.... Please… someone… anyone... “ In the distance, through the waves of heat that surrounded him a figure rose from the sand. Tall, thin… too thin… as if it only existed in one dimension. Like a black string connected from one planet to another, it continued to stretch into the sky until it vanished in comparison to the blinding light of the desert sun. As he stared toward the entity something became clear to him, a voice rang out in the center of his mind. “I bring your salvation, child, be lost no longer. You are found.” He felt something swell up inside him, something deep within his chest. A chill. A freezing cold began to bite at his heart and crawl through his veins He felt a strength unlike any other as he stood for the first time in what seemed like years. His focus then returned to the string, he kneeled as he spoke. “Thank you-praise you my Lord. My will is yours, tell me what would you have me do?” He watched as the string quickly slithered under the sand and began to move. The man followed as its trail stopped at large sand hill. The sands shook and parted revealing a small cave. Inside the man saw nothing but darkness as well as two small blue eyes that stared toward him. The entity held out a burned and withered had, the man took it and slowly entered the cave. “What happens now, Lord?” The man asked the pair of sparkling eyes. “Now we prepare, my child. Now we prepare for war.” The sands fell back in place as the two walked deeper into the darkened cave. Free from the burning light, and into the cold embrace of what lies deep below.


Mac the Wizard goes for coffee. (its for practice) Mac woke up groggy. His head was swimming from the previous night; a hangover loomed over the forecast of the coming day off. Mac rubbed his face with a sigh and pulled himself from his bed. It would be slow going today, a day of smoking his pipe and concocting a potion that would ease his nausea and his headache. He would listen to records and eat all the greasy food. By evening he would be human again and probably head to the bar for some hair of the dog. (Which was a literal beverage at the bar) Though before any of that, Coffee was the first step in Mac’s hangover remedy kit. And for that, Mac would have to venture into the loudness and brightness of Acre city. Thinking about the three block gauntlet to the coffee shop made Macs stomach lurch. He took his time putting sweatpants on, grey and stained and ancient. Still wearing his last nightshirt, Mac snagged his red jacket and stepped into his flip-flops, he called his hat with magic, perched it on his head and left the comfort of his apartment and descended the stairwell that would lead Mac to Acre City. It was bright, and cold, and annoying. Mac held a tight Grimace as he walked towards RISE AND GRIND COFFEE CO. A wind whipped through the city and sliced at Macs face. It wouldn’t be a long walk, but it also certainly wouldn’t be an enjoyable one. Mac needed more layers. Hung over, but not so much that He couldn’t weave a spell. Mac spoke in the ancient language and compelled the magical ether in the air and suddenly he was in a tight cocoon of warmth. Magic wrapped around him and the outside weather was eased. Mac felt like shit, but warm shit so things were looking up, until they weren’t. Mac rounded a corner and lost his footing on some some unusually uneven concrete in the sidewalk. Before he could think to react his face met the ground, intimately. His shoes flew from his feet as he crashed. He laid there splayed for a moment, dizzied and irritated, before slowly crawling to his hands and feet. He took stock of his body to see if he was injured, the result was mostly his pride, as he looked up to see a group of school imps laughing maniacally. Mac dusted himself off, collected his shoes and soldiered on. He’d only one block to go. Mac arrived at the coffee shop and the line was insane, because of course it would be. Macs head throbbed, his body ached, he needed a black coffee so hard and he was so close. He did his best to put himself into a meditative state as he queued and inched toward the counter and relief. Luckily the person in front of him only had to order 12 extra Venti specialty coffees with extreme demands, No dragon milk, extra pixie sugar, sea salt from the forbidden sea on the side. Mac fumed and glared with hazardous intent at the back of their head. (I think developing the person ordering this could be a great elaboration for this story) His time came and Mac felt like heaven had opened to him. He ordered simply, “I just need the largest black coffee that you can legally sell me.” He didn’t say it in jest. “Ultra Venti Black Coffee, that’ll be 12:66 sweetie. Can I get a name for the order? The bubbly nature of this attendant made Mac uncomfortable. “Its Mac” He paid and stepped to the side to wait. His head pounded and he was sweating from every pour that belonged to him. The new age music was barely audible over all the meetings and social media posting but Mac enjoyed the tune and felt that the energy of the day might be shifting. Coffee was coming and so too was clarity and then Mac could make beeline home and properly Vedge out. It took fourteen minutes, but for Mac it was hours, The guy who’d been in front had insisted on double checking all the coffees and sending half back for being cold. Mac nearly turned him into a ferret. But finally a heavily pierced Orcish barista shouted out. “Order For Marc!” Mac hesitated, and then claimed the coffee from the Orc, it was nearly a Gallon and piping hot. Mac salivated and clasped at the coffee. He shuffled from the coffee shop with a renewed energy, brushing shoulders with nearly everyone as he exited into the street. He spoke another warming spell and took off toward his home with an impressive gait, He made it back to his house in ten minutes, he climbed the stairs two at a time and threw himself into his apartment, the coffee had cooled from a molten state to the small window consumption Mac. Mac plopped onto his couch and raised the cup to his lips and slurped the nectar. He spilled a large portion onto his shirt as he drank staining his well-worn shirt. He drew a large knock of it. When he came up for air. His face once again wore a massive grimace. He smacked his lips in disbelief shaking his head. All that time, all that effort, all that patience. Those bastard baristas added sugar and milk. Mac shook his head; the beautiful sanctity of his dark black roast had been sullied by sugar and dairy. “Gods damn that’s fucking delicious.” Mac drained the coffee as he questioned the fabric of his reality.


Jeremy woke up, cold in his bed. The sun was not yet up. Ever since the collapse, he always had to be on constant guard. He went out and opened his blinds, peering out of his window. He checked if the fire beacons were lit. They weren’t. A sigh of relief escaped him. The beacons were lit whenever an invading army had been sighted near the town. Since the Great War twelve years ago had destroyed modern civilization, all modern technology had been lost, and groups of towns were ruled by local warlords. There had been rumors of an invading army being nearby the town, but apparently, they were false. He grabbed a candle and walked downstairs. Nobody else was up yet. He checked to see if the fire from last night was still lit. It wasn’t. He’d have to do with just fruit for this morning, he didn’t have the patience to light matches, or the time to prepare something else. He decided on a few apples and picked out a book at random from his shelf. It was the *History of the Collapse* by Jeremy Roberts. Unlike most books nowadays, written in scrawly handwriting, as if the author were anxious to finish the copy, or the older books in plain, emotionless print, this one was written in carefully crafted, italic handwriting. It was a rare artifact, bought at a bargain from a homeless man who had wanted to burn it for firewood. He flipped it open and began reading. *“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones” - Albert Einstein, 1948. The leaders of all the great powers of earth knew that another worldwide conflict would be the last, but that would not, could not stop them. The rampant capitalism of the west had driven the political leaders there to become beholden to* *mega corporations, unable to act autonomously any longer. In 2049,* *the democracy of the twentieth century was less than a façade, it was an act. Nobody* *made an effort* *anymore to hide the corruption from the common citizen, they would do, could do nothing. The eastern nations didn’t have it much better. While the Emperor of China, having dropped any façade of “President” in the 2020s, had* *effectively* *unlimited power in his country with his iron grip on technology, it was not enough for him to stop any of the upcoming changes. For he could only stay in power if his economy continued to grow, which meant continued* *conflict with the western powers. Tensions continued to rise throughout the 2030s, with the Taiwan Incident, the Internet War, and the* *Second Scramble for Africa* *all contributing to the inevitable conflict. But what sparked the war was* *yet another conflict in the middle east.* *In 2043,* *Iran, with a new fascist government in power, had invaded the rich oil fields of Iraq. Although largely depleted, corporations in the States still made enormous profits* *off of* *oil sales, profits they could not afford to lose. They pressured* *the President into declaring war. Initially, Iran’s numerical superiority* *overwhelmed Iraq’s defenses, but-* Jeremy got bored. He flipped to a random page towards the end of the book. *After the battle of Delhi had drained both India’s and China’s last resources, the last stable* *great powers* *in Asia collapsed. Popular rebellions in China, along with* *warlords taking advantage of the relative weakness of the state in India, broke the governments of both nations.* *Russia, perhaps for the best, had already dropped out of the war and was* *in the midst of* *a brutal civil war, but as they had stopped the carnage earlier, they had managed to somewhat avoid total collapse. Europe was a tangle of feudal states, and a few scatted small nations with even a few local democracies left around. After fighting off Russia and the north Africans, the peninsula had broken from the continued strain of the war, although national governments still held token power. America had still never been invaded even during the war, but the complete collapse of unity combined with the decades of hate for the government caused by* *it’s* *total inebriation to corporations* *caused an almost immediate breakdown of federal power just a few years after the start of the war. With the south Americans having long been effective puppets of the States, and the Africans being a blob of mixed loyalties to Europeans and Chinese, neither of them* *were* *stable enough to last long either.* *All major governments* *thus collapsed during the war. The diseases spread during the war as a result of biological warfare were also a contributing factor to the collapse,* *with a major portion of the world population being killed within the weeks following their release, and a steady decline thereafter. The complete destruction of the climate also lowered the total carrying capacity of the planet, and previously unknown feedback loops* *had caused a mass global cooling of the planet, devastating crops. Much modern technology was lost, and an EMP following shortly after the war wiped out any remaining hope of rebuilding to the prior technological level.* *If the governments of the major powers had prepared plans for the collapse that had unfolded, they were lost in the confusion.* Jeremy sat up. He bookmarked his page and closed the book. He wondered how with all the devices the world had had, with all the powers of the governments, they had managed to fall so much to their current state. Growing up in the shadow of the collapse, the technology of the previous world was just a glint in his foggy memories of early childhood, with it always being overshadowed by the struggles of the wars. He was 16. He got up, he was done eating. He walked outside, he was heading to the town. There wasn’t any school anymore, for there wasn’t much to teach. He would be going to buy some new farming tools in exchange of some excess produce, which he had packed. While the older generations pushed for a select group to be taught all the lessons of the old world, most did not learn much at all of what had happened before. All of the incredibly impressive, almost magical devices seemed almost like fantasy to many, and they saw no use for what they considered frivolous when there was work to be done building the foundations for a new society. What use was knowing how a telegraph functioned when they simply didn’t now? Nowadays you’d just ask the local Messenger to carry a message for you, the location they were to deliver it, and the person who should receive it. More confidential information was discussed in person, and urgent news was sent across the fire beacons. He snapped out of his thoughts as he arrived at the edge of town, and to his alarm, saw the tops of the fire beacons alight. He started running.


Everything was still that night. I'd left the cicadas buzzing though because something about that rhythm was relaxing. The first breeze of an October wind was blowing. It glided across the porch and right through my hair, cooling my forehead. The stars of the night sky were in-numerous and twinkling brightly. Barring all the mosquitoes and the humidity, I could see why people loved the south. Laissez, Mississippi and all its nature were putting on a show for the whole world to see and only I could view it. Well me and the man that crept slowly, cautiously down the stairs inside the house. Each step quickened like he was learning how to walk again. I slowly rocked in the man's chair as the steps came closer. Faster and closer. I looked to my left as he was right at the door beside me. I heard him take a deep breath and snort as tears began to roll down his cheeks. The young man with his smooth brown skin slowly opened the door and stepped out. I knew he could hear my chair rocking but he gave it no mind. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through gasps of tears. "I can smell my wife's flowers," he said. I let out a short laugh and stared at the beauty with him as I still rocked in his chair. He put his hands on his chest and took in a long, satisfying breath. "I can breath," he said. I stepped up slowly and put my arm around him. "Let's sit down," I said, "Come on Lewis." I had to nudge him backwards as he couldn't be bothered to look away from the beautiful scene ahead of him. I didn't blame him. As I helped sit him down, I took a moment to lean against the railing in front of us. I wanted to savor more of his night because it seemed to make things easier for me when I wasn't just checking off a list. *This was Lewis Morgan's night and he's earned the right to enjoy it,* I thought. Reaching into my front coat pocket, I pulled out a cigarette and placed it between my teeth. I didn't feel my lighter and then I thought for a moment. I lifted my hand out and back in and the lighter was there. The cigarette lit with a puff of smoke and I savored the drag before putting it between my fingers. I turned around to see if he was still staring out at the yard. He was. "Has it always looked this beautiful?" he asked me. I crossed my ankles and leaned back against the railing, blowing my smoke up as to not blow it in his face. "Of course it has," I said. I pointed to him with the hand that held the cigarette, "and you made it that way." His voice quivered as he asked, "I did good?" Something started to swell up in my throat and I quickly cleared it away. I nodded my head slowly, "Yeah Lou. You did good." "My wife is so beautiful. She gave me everything. I want her to see this with me," he said. "All of it seems so meaningless. The late nights spent working on cars at the shop. The fights we always had. Why did that stuff happen? Why am I realizing this now?" I took in another drag and watched a tear roll down his cheek and splash onto his suit jacket. "I don't know Lou but that isn't all that happened. You're reading the wrong chapters. What about June 5th, 1992?" Lou smiled through tears. "Tell me about that night," I said. "I could hear Meagan trying to push the trash down with her foot. I was probably fooling with some stupid thing outside when I heard her scream my name. Oh my god I ran so fast I never caught my balance until I reached the screen door," he said. I laughed, "You flew down that interstate didn't you?" "Yeah," he shared in the laugh. "I didn't even notice though. I was ready to meet Lucia." "You raised her well Lou. I think she turned out alright." "She did. I knew she would. Even though her drunk daddy didn't always give her the love she deserved." I put out the cigarette, "Let me ask you something. Through all of that, did she ever stop saying 'I love you'?" Lou shook his head. "Even after she went to college, did she stop coming home and staying up with you to watch your favorite movies?" "She thought they were stupid." "But she kept watching didn't she? One more thing. Who's upstairs right now?" Lou looked down at his hands, "She is." "She is, Lewis. She's there holding your hand and sitting beside you. Love isn't perfect. It's not a bible verse that is followed to the letter. It's not a country song about a father and daughter fishing down at the lake. Love is standing beside someone in spite of any past mistakes they might've made. Lucia did that for you and you did that for her didn't you?" "I can't remember," he said as he started to cry harder. I leaned down and put my hand on his, "Of course you do. What about the worst night she ever had? What did you do?" "Some guy broke her heart. I figured it was a girl thing. I figured she'd go to her mother and I was halfway down a bottle of Jack anyway." "But you put it down when?" "When she came in and put her arms around me and cried into my shoulder." I looked up at him, "She wanted you. She wanted her daddy. She loved her daddy and you loved her. They all loved you. They still do and that won't end now. Their love will be with you and with them for ever and ever. Trust me. I know what's on the other side and it's not the end." I ushered him down the steps of his porch and into the grass. The woods beside us began to rustle. A man, almost an exact twin of Lewis, stepped out and smiled. The man's arms stretched out and Lewis met his embrace. I placed my hand on Lou's shoulder, "You did good Lewis Morgan and you've earned the right to rest.


On a cold autumn morning, camera in hand, I set out to the park near my home in an attempt to capture the grandeur of the changing foliage. Clouds overhead dampened the spectacle of mother nature's display. The red, gold and amber hue of leaves shone ashy and dull under overcast skies. A low mist hung to the ground as if the spirits of all that had ever lived in my city were coming back to walk the earth. I had my camera at the ready to capture the hauntingly beautiful landscape around me. I snapped photos as I walked, and checked each on the digital display to ensure the lighting and framing was just right. As I looked at my last photo, a ghostly figure sat on the park bench underneath a maple tree that I had photographed. She was not there when I framed the photo in my viewfinder, but when I looked up, there she was--a beautiful, young woman in a flowing, laced white dress. Her dark hair was done up, but falling out as if from a long night. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were gray. She had black make-up streaking down her cheek, stark against her porcelain white skin. As I approached I could see her face wrenched in agony. She cried, dropping her face in her hands and her body shuddering with sadness. I walked up beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?" I said. She shook her head, wiping tears away. She crumpled her face, trying to hold back tears. "No, not at all," she said, sniffling. After I sat, she put her face back in her hands to cry more loudly. I looked upon her with pity, wishing there was some way I could help this poor girl. But what advice did I have to give? I was an old man, she was a young woman, obviously suffering some kind of heartache. I could never know what it was like to be a scorned bride. But she looked like she needed someone, so I offered her my ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, shiftly on the bench uncomfortably. This poor girl. I couldn’t just sit here in silence. She didn't respond, she just kept crying. But by the way she was dressed, it was clear to me that her wedding day didn’t turn out as she had planned. "Is it your wedding?" I asked, unsure how to bring up the topic delicately. "No," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "Today is my funeral." My heart began to pound and I straightened, taken aback. Surely, she was joking, but I could not help but notice her lifeless, black eyes when she looked at me. "Your funeral?" I asked incredulously. "Yes," she said, nodding and sniffling and wiping her tears away with her gray fingers. I decided to play along, perhaps this girl was sick and needed psychiatric care. Perhaps I could gain her trust and bring her into the nearest hospital. "Then why are you in your wedding dress?" I asked. "This is what I was wearing the day I died," she said. Her crying had paused for a moment. "I had just been married that morning love of my life. The wedding could not have gone more perfectly. We danced and sang and our families were all there, having a great time. It was the greatest day of my life." She paused. "But that night, I fell asleep in my dress and I never woke up," she said. "I don't know what happened. The next thing I knew, I was watching my poor husband struggle to wake me up. He started to yell and scream and shake and cry. He called an ambulance. The whole time I was in the corner trying to calm him, but he didn't see me. 'Jake,' I said. 'Jake, it's okay, I'm right over here.' But he didn't hear me. Then, I watched as my mother and father cried over my lifeless body. They said it was an aneurysm, and there was nothing anyone could have done for me." My stomach flipped and I felt my jaw slacken. "How did you end up here?" I asked. She pointed her finger far across the park, where I saw a huddling of bodies all dressed in black. I spotted a man crying over a casket, and an older couple weeping together. The booming voice of a preacher echoed across the misty plain. "I have been following my husband around," she said. "I want him to know that I love him. I want my parents to know that I love them too. That's why I'm here. I was at the funeral before, and I was shouting at my husband, saying 'Jake, it's ok! I love you, I'm right here! Jake! Mom! Dad! I'm right here.' But they didn't turn around, they just kept crying--and I kept crying too." I nodded. It was all so strange, I could hardly believe it. But what I did believe was that this woman was sick, and she definitely needed help, so I did the best I could. "Well, you can tell just by how sad they are, that they loved you very much,” I said. “And they must have known you loved them too. I remember when my wife died, I worried that I didn't tell her I loved her enough, but I never worried about how much she loved me. That was apparent in every day we spent together. One day, you and your husband and your parents will be reunited and you'll know for sure. But for now, take comfort in knowing that they know, just based on they way they miss you." For the first time since I met this young woman, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile that anyone could fall in love with. "I guess you're right, but it's so hard to be in this...this...purgatory right now. How do you deal with it? Why aren't you with your wife right now?" Confused, I furrowed my brow. "Well, like I said, she's passed away." "Yes, but so have you." She pointed down the path and I saw my body face down on the concrete--the camera shattered on the ground beside me.


In a humble village. One of simple people governed by gods. At the quiet edge of the world. Nestled away in a thick beautiful forest. On the cliffs edge, overhanging the ocean... Sat a house where weary travelers could rest their heads at the world's edge. Where some travelers were temporary, and others permanent. One such traveler had just made it to the small village. Just barely had he made it though. His muscles ached. His body urged him to stop, Yet his mind ran on an endless loop. An endless loop of self-preservation. He had heard stories of what creatures lie in the forest. An endless forest, full of gods and demons, a world tucked away from civilization. Stopping in the forest meant certain death. So the traveler didn't stop, he carried on, as the light began to fade from the world, as the Sun's final show of might waned, and the traveler's body was at its limit, he limped forward into a clearing. It was beautiful, as the setting sun lit the red tin roofs of the village with a golden light. Smoke trailed softly from the chimneys of the brick homes, and brought with it delicious dinner aromas. A hound or two stood a lazy guard outside a few homes. Dirt paths gently wound through the small village. Simple farm equipment sat outside most homes. Over the door of the nearest building hung a plain wooden plaque that read "Inn" "What a beautiful word." thought the traveler as he struggled to the doorway. The door was open, a single candle lit the room, and in the dim light, the traveler could faintly make out a bearded elderly man that beckoned him in. The traveler had barely scraped by, but the innkeeper knew the drill, and quickly ushered him to a room where he could rest his weary bones. As the traveler crashed into the neatly made bed, he would quickly sink beneath the waves and enter the realm of dreams. Quite some time would pass as the traveler rested, this was not the world he knew, this was the realm of gods and magic. His body had been pushed beyond the limits of a mortal body, and he would sleep for weeks in this state to recover. Upon waking, the man felt refreshed, but his stomach screamed for a meal, "How long was I asleep?" he thought to himself. But the wonderful aroma of fresh bread pulled him like a puppet on a string, and cut his thoughts short. Upon entering the main room of The Inn, the only person in sight was the old innkeeper. His silver beard flared out in every direction, like the Sun's light searching for shadows to vanquish. He was a thin old man, with a kind face, deep lines of aging ran across his face like a river carving through stone. His hair sported the same color as the beard and was thick, wavy, and long. His clothes were simple, clean, and slightly baggy on his frame. Yet even through his kind, calm, and elderly appearance, something in his eyes spoke to a hidden nature, like a spark of madness within him, capable of being released at any moment. His appearance made him welcoming, yet demanded respect. He sat at a small wooden table that had 2 chairs, one of which he sat in with perfect posture. With fresh bread in front of him, and two cups of tea already prepared, he beckoned the traveler to take the other seat. Sensing no ill will the traveler sat himself across from the innkeeper, and began eating the bread like a starving dog, only pausing momentarily to wash it down with a bit of tea. The innkeeper simply nodded and smiled as his guest inhaled the food in front of him. The innkeeper had seen many different types of people throughout the years, and most didn't have the best table manners. Upon finishing the bread, the traveler let out a light belch, as if cementing the uncouth first impression, but then took a more civilised position in his chair, and directed his gaze toward the innkeeper. "How long was I asleep?" blurted the traveler, breaking the brief silence. The Innkeeper simply replied "3 weeks". "That's impossible" the traveler said flatly. "Nothing is impossible on ground where the gods tread." the innkeeper quickly replied, and getting straight to the point, he then added, "You will spend many more weeks here if you value your life, for the forest is not safe to travel now." The traveler simply shot the innkeeper a quizzical stare, the innkeeper slightly nodded and shut his eyes in aknowledgement of the traveler's ignorance. With a deep sigh, followed by a heavy inhale, the innkeeper replied, "When the leaves speak their dying words, and the trees release them to the mercy of the wind, their beautiful corpses blanket the earth, and the lord of decay is ushered in." The expression on the traveler's face grew very stern and grave. He had heard of the gods and demons that walked the forest. That inhabited this land. That governed aspects of man, and the forces of nature alike. He also knew that staying in World's Edge for too long was dangerous, strange magics were present here and would surely affect him soon. "I must leave, I was strong enough to make it here, I'm sure I can survive the fall in the forest." stated the traveler plainly behind a slight grimace. The innkeeper seemed to prolong his stare, as if searching for hesitation, but the lone traveler showcased nothing of the sort. "Right...Then your stay here ends tommorow morning, enjoy the remainder of your stay, fresh bread will be here at the same time tommorow." the innkeeper said with sorrow in his voice. He promptly stood up, offered a kind smile followed by a quick bow to the traveler and then took his exit. The traveler was left at the table alone...With a thunderstorm of terrible thoughts in his mind. He pondered the meaning of the small poem recited by the innkeeper, he pondered his own judgement, but mostly, he pondered death. The traveler knew great strife, and had come to World's Edge to find a truth, perhaps a magical saving grace. Something to help his family back home. He was young, strong, and brave enough to make the trip. His parents were weak, his grandparents frail, and his village crumbled under a curse. Drought, famine, disease. These things hung heavy over his small village. World's Edge was not so different. It possessed a simplistic beauty, but it was a small primitive farming village, much like his own. Yet an intangible force could be felt here. In the air. In the soil. Even in the trees and leaves a strange aura was present. None of this helped the young traveler, it only gave him more questions. He would walk the village, and try to find the truth he sought. As he stepped outside the Inn, into the morning light, a picturesque moment held his senses captive. It was a brisk day, the sun shone brightly, but from afar. The sunlight glinted off of the tin roofs where it's rays pierced the cover of the treeline. A beautiful amalgam of leaves littered the ground, and in the light breeze, quite a few were tossed through the air on their departure from the tree. Golden, red, orange, copper, yellow, and a light brown all swirled together to form a beautiful palette in front of him. At the tip of the cliff's edge, spray from the river running near the village and straight off the cliff gave a pleasant ambient noise to the scene. People walked about in a lazy, but happy way, like they were generally enjoying their life. What birds remained, chirped a light tune. The entire village seemed at peace, the traveler's previous dark demeanor had been erased, his mood lifted simply from the sight of this place. He adjusted his stance, and preceded to wander around the village. He spoke to many people, he even visited the market, and the edges of the village. They all just seemed like normal people, all in excellent health, but other than that, they were just people. He heard stories along the way, but nothing he could use, nothing to save his village. He returned to the inn, very somber, in the late evening. The inn was dark except for a few candles. There was bread that had been recently made sitting at the table, and even a glass of tea that was warm to the touch still. The traveler indulged alone, in the silent main room. He sat at the table for a moment, anxious for the start of his journey tommorow. He hoped he had bought the right supplies at the market. He hoped the innkeeper's poem was simply superstition. He mostly hoped to make it home again. Drained and weary, the traveler took himself to bed. He would rest the best he could manage to. In the morning, he would brave the forest. This morning was different as the traveler awoke. There was a feeling in the air, a feeling he did not like. He quickly dressed and headed out. The innkeeper was not at the table. Fresh bread and tea was. He ate as much as his nervous stomach could handle. As he stepped into the street, he noticed a much different scene than before. A heavy fog hung over the village, and a small crowd of people stood at the clearing. The very same clearing he entered, and would leave the village through. The innkeeper was there. He walked at a calm pace to the clearing. He made it to the front of the crowd and stopped to face the innkeeper. "Thank you all for your hospitality..." he said turning to the crowd and then back to the innkeeper, "...and thank you for keeping my stomach full and body rested, old innkeep my friend." He said calmly. The innkeeper placed his hand on the traveler's shoulder, and in a hushed and caring tone said, "Are you sure that you must do this now? There is only one way this ends my friend...the gods make things happen here, that echo out to the rest of the world.. You see only a portion of their influence in your village...Here, World's Edge, the gods are everywhere. Their power is absolute.... I see much good in you, and I beg you not to leave this village, for the sake of your family and village." A long silence followed, the wind whistled lightly, and ominously from the forest. The traveler could not recall sharing this information with the innkeeper, yet this man knew exactly why he had traveled this far. It filled the traveler's head with even more questions. But he could not hesitate. "I must" replied the traveler, as he strode forth into the forest, knowing that if he looked back, his resolve would break. He simply kept moving forward, until he was sure the village was out of sight and earshot. He stopped momentarily, and took in a deep breath to clear his thoughts, then continued forward. He looked up, and noticed a few leaves falling from their previous summer home. "When the leaves speak their dying breath..." he thought to himself. The wind swept the leaf away soon after it detached. "...and the trees release them to the mercy of the wind..." At first everything was fine, but then, as if in response to his thoughts, the world around him began to shift. The fog seemed to thicken. His pace quickened slightly as he noticed the fog closing in, restricting his awareness. The fog became so thick, his vision was obscured past arm's length away. It was as if he had been swallowed by a rain cloud. He looked at the ground to ensure he stayed on the path, and it was covered heavily with freshly fallen leaves. "...their beautiful corpses blanket the earth..." The sound of the wind started to die off quickly. Birds no longer chirped. Everything fell silent. The traveler stopped, the only audible sound was his own heartbeat, and it was growing louder. The fog directly in front of him cleared. What stood in front of him was incomprehensible. It was about 12 feet tall, on all fours, and resembled a large stag. Its black rotted skin stretched tightly across a frame that was mostly bone. Living insects crawled to and fro and used various holes in the creature as tunnels and burrows. It's antlers were massive, stained heavily, strikingly symmetrical and resembled large hands with palms facing each other. It's eyes were mostly black, with a small brilliant speck of gold in the center that gave the eyes a very beady and terrifying appearance. A powerful stench pervaded the air around the creature. Heavily labored breathing could be heard from the beast, and wisps of it's putrid breath could be seen escaping the rotted teeth and nose as it's half visible ribcage would shakily rise and fall. Where it stood, all of the leaves and grass around it began to rot at a rapidly accelerated pace. "...and the Lord of Decay is ushered in." The traveler screamed, but could not hear his own scream, only the creature, he turn and ran. His legs pumped as hard and as fast as they could. His heartbeat had reached a fever pitch and his chest heaved as his powerful lungs sucked in air to fuel his escape. Only one thought existed in his mind. However, it was less of a thought, and more of a feeling. It was scrambling for survival against something that felt inevitable. It was his life summed up in one small thought. He felt like a worm, above ground, with a hungry bird hanging over him. He felt a journey ending, he felt himself ending. Then he stopped. He still heard the breathing. A voice entered his head, it would drown out every other thought or feeling. "Like a mouse surrounded by nothing, under the keen gaze of hunger...your heart beats fast my child, speak your truth, as your breath is finite." He could faintly hear leaves crunching as the creature closed in on him slowly. He didn't know what to say, yet he replied "My truth is love, my village needs me, I have to be their savior, I must.." "No. You must do nothing, your choices shape your journey, and your journey in this form must end." The deep resounding voice replied. This creature was close to him now. "My family, how will they survive, how will the village continue?" the traveler said softly. "All will be known, release your fear into the abyss from which it spawned, return to dust, and rest." the voice seemed calm, sure, and soothing almost. The stag approached the traveler and lowered its head level with the traveler. It then gently touched the tip of its nose to the traveler's forehead.... ...The innkeeper stood at the clearing still. There was a brief moment. A moment he knew well. A gentle frown crossed his face, it would stay for a brief moment. He then returned to his normal demeanor. The fog began to lift. The old innkeeper turned and slowly walked back to his Inn. And at the quiet edge of the world, the leaves would speak a soft eulogy. A eulogy for all life that was changing. Not a simple song of life's end, but a cryptic hymn of returning to the abyss.


I remembered the slime. That slime--that disgusting ooze that coated me after I had escaped its grasp was the first thing that came back to me. Then, I remembered the eyes. Long forgotten was that awful day, so many years ago. I must’ve buried deep within me, hoping it would never return to the forefront of my mind. It was supposed to be a relaxing fishing trip, just me and the sea. The possibilities were as endless as the blue ocean horizon before me. I felt freedom on the sea, and a connection with mother nature. My wife warned me not to go alone. But I wanted time to think, decompress--forget the stresses of the world and work and bills. All of my worries melted away as the sea swayed my small, yet reliable, vessel on its gentle waves. I felt like a baby back in my mother's arms, being rocked gently to sleep. The sea was my mother that day, and she rocked all my cares away. But she couldn’t protect me from all the horrors she held. I threw my line attached with a hook and heavy sinker into the sparkling water. The light plopping sound cut through the creaking of my boat and the gentle splashing of the waves against her bow. The line fell deeper and deeper into the unknown below. I opened my cooler and moved the ice aside and grabbed a cold tall boy. I popped the tab, took a sip, and waited for a bite. It's lonely out at sea. There's nothing to look out in the endless blue on blue. I regretted not bringing a companion with me. I missed home, even though I had only been gone a few hours. I thought I would enjoy some time alone. But I was growing frustrated, Nothing had bitten my line all day. The blue skies, that once made me feel free, turned gray and I felt boxed in. An awful sense of foreboding came over me. Just as I was going to head back into port, my reel began to spin out of control. The line went deeper and deeper into the sea at a rapid pace. But I couldn't stop it, the handle spun too fast. As I tried, the whirling handle nearly broke my fingers. I had two hundred feet of line and, despite my excitement of the bite, I worried my catch would take my line, rod, and reel--and the whole damn ship. Finally, I ran out of line, but the line didn’t break, nor did the rod jump into the sea. Instead, the ship started to tilt towards the stern until water filled the hull. Panic set in as I feared I would lose my boat, and, possibly, my life. I ran towards the bow, which now was some five or so feet above the water line. From there I saw the black outline of a creature crest the surface of the water. I didn't remember what it looked like until I saw it on TV, just today. All I remembered until today was the red eyes. The red eyes were the last thing I saw before my vessel capsized, bow over stern, and I was thrown into the sea. Exactly what happened from the time I was thrown overboard and when I was rescued has escaped my memory, but I do recall feelings of suffering in the lost time. My body felt like it was alight, like the ocean was made of fire. My mind was lost in darkness and confusion. I saw nothing but blackness and felt nothing but fire. It was as if the red eyes I saw belonged to the devil himself, he brought me down to the burning flames of hell. When I awoke, I floated among the wreckage. My face and life preserver were covered in the most wretched slime. It was a putrid stink that made me think, not just of death, but of the rot thereafter. I tried to wash it off with ocean water when I came to, but I wasn't able to. Even when I returned home, the smell stayed with me for weeks. A rescue helicopter found me after a few hours of floating. They asked me what happened and I could not tell them. They were visibly repulsed by my smell and they tried to wash it off to no avail. When I got to the hospital, they were finally able to remove most of the slime, but the smell still lingered. My body was covered in blistering burns. As I watched the news coverage of the discovery, my wife looked to see my horrified face. Without me saying a word, she knew that it must have been the creature that had caused me harm that day. The scientists looked so pleased with themselves for capturing this abomination. The camera panned up to the eyes--those infernal, red eyes--and my body felt like it was on fire again. I screamed in pain. My heart raced as I jumped in the shower. I tried to turn on the cold water but only the putrid slime rained down on me from the faucet. I drifted into the blackness of that day at sea when this devil attacked me. My wife pulled me out of the shower, trying to stop my screaming. I opened my eyes to see the look of concern on her face. She threw a towel over me and wrapped me up. She embraced me and rocked me gently as I shook and cried. I fear this creature may forever hold its power over me.


Many questions once nagged at the back of my head. Are we doing the right thing? Is this okay? Should we be doing this? It's taken a long time, but I no longer need an answer to any of those. I found my own reason to do what needs to be done, regardless of circumstances. My name is Elaine Marco, and I work for a special branch of the military that operates underneath the government. It is currently 4:03 AM, according to the clock hanging in my office. I look up and the digital calendar on my wall tells me the day is Tuesday, the month is August, and the year is 2302. Below that calendar lies a small glass coffee table with a coffee synthesizer and cup dispenser on the top. The coffee is old, and smells burned from where I sit; an old wooden desk, a rarity in today's world, with too many hardlight government and military reports scattered atop it. I like to think my office is big. It's larger than most, that's for sure, but I know that I could be doing much better. My eyes track down to the hardlight report in my hand. It's good news, for once. The operation went off without any trouble, and we got our guy. I sigh, placing the report on the desk, and give my temples a quick soothing massage with my eyes closed. Then why am I still so stressed? ***\~KNOCK KNOCK\~*** I open my eyes and look to my door to find my assistant standing there with several more hardlight reports in his hand. I inwardly groan, and speak. "Please, come in.", I say as I gesture him in. "There's... something that resembles coffee there on the table if you'd like." Leo looked to the coffee and to me before saying, "No, but thank you.". All with a polite smile to match. I returned the smile and looked down to see the reports in his hands. "Please tell me there's more good news in those.", I said with a bit more than a hint of desperation. I had dozens of reports on my desk already, and only one managed to not give me a killer migraine. When I looked back up, Leo was still smiling. "Actually", he began, "These reports are different. These are in regards to the big project." He gave heavy emphasis on "big". The big project or, as it's really called, "Project D" was the entire reason why this special branch existed in the first place. We were tasked with finding and collecting individuals who had something we were calling the "D" gene. What does the "D" mean, you ask? Divinity. You see, we've been hard at work creating an army of superhumans to spearhead our expansion into the stars. We need people that wont deteriorate before reaching their destination. Our top biologists and chemists have been working on a serum that will allow that "divine spark" to wake up in those people, and we will hopefully have ourselves a group of people strong enough to survive the harsh conditions of other planets. Humankind has already begun their interstellar expansion, but there's only so much we humans can do. We need something more, and that's where those with the "D" gene come in. It's speculated those who have it are descendants of literal living gods that resided among us humans in the distant past. Of course, there's no evidence of this, but the things we have been able to do with the "D" gene is incredible. Disease is a thing of the past, healing salves that mend cuts, breaks, and abrasions before your very eyes, and we've even found a way to weaponize it. Of course we have, right? Leo hands me the reports and I wave him off as I begin looking through them. According to these reports, awakening trials have been hit or miss. While it's easy to extract the "D" gene from a blood sample, and activate it in a controlled environment, it is much more difficult to activate the gene within the host itself. It appears there's been several failures, which have resulted in each carrier passing away before full activation can occur. I've seen what happens when it fails, and it's not nice to look at, let alone remember. When it fails, the body is engulfed in white fire and burned away. We don't know why the awakening rebounds in such a horrific way, but we've been finding ways to mitigate harm to both carrier and personnel. Despite this, there have been successes. I've witnessed a few of them myself. There is always a bright flash and a general feeling of calm and happiness. When it passes and we can see again, the carrier lives, though they are forever changed. Most changes aren't too noticeable, but we've had a few grow pairs of wings within months after activation. Others have acquired horns, tails, and many more abnormalities. I yawn and look to my clock and see it's now 6:42 AM. I turn to look out my window to find the sun is now rising. Time sure does fly when you're having fun. I turn back around and grab the final report, but I freeze only after the first few sentences. It had to be a typo. An error. I had to read it one more time to be certain. *'-and we have found an individual with a high concentration of the "D" gene. While most we've collected have had between 80% and 90% dilution to their gene, this one is quite the anomaly at only 20% dilution. A team is currently being put together to collect the target.'* This was something I had to see for myself.


I never listened. Throughout my childhood I was troubled--I let darkness consume me. I never listened to others, I never heard them. There was no right or wrong, there was only what I felt. It was before psychopathic corrective therapy was invented. It was before the United States implemented background checks for buying assault rifles. I had problems, but I saw myself as the hero of my own story. One day in high school, I decided to end it, and I was going to bring everyone down with me. Back then, death was exciting to me. It was a way out of my shitty existence, a way to escape the daily beatings of my father and brothers. On my eighteenth birthday, I bought an AR-15 with all the money I had saved up working at a gas station. I took it out into the woods to practice my aim. I hunted for deer. I found joy in bringing death upon beautiful living creatures. I became addicted to that feeling. After a month of practicing, I was ready. I burst into the school and started shooting everyone I could find. I took joy in their screams of pain. I toyed with them, made them beg even though I would kill them anyway. I reveled in the sight of the blood and destruction I caused before me. I killed twelve people that day. Teachers, students, a janitor, boys, girls, it didn't matter. I killed indiscriminately and with great enthusiasm. When the police finally arrived and I was backed into a corner, I took my father's handgun that I had stolen and stuck it in my mouth. As the sirens blared outside and the police pounded on the door of the classroom I was holed up in, I pulled the trigger. I felt the bullet pass right through the roof of my mouth. Immense pain radiated from the exit wound at the top of my head. I fell back and saw my blood scattered over the ceiling. But somehow, I was still alive. The police burst into the room, guns drawn, donned in S.W.A.T. gear. They saw me, eyes wide open, in shock on the floor. I was covered in blood but I was still alive. As they carried me out, I saw the carnage I had wrought over this school and I still felt no remorse, just pride. *I made this.* Doctors could not explain how I survived my gunshot wound. In the press, I became both a notorious monster and a medical marvel. My trial was swift. I watched the testimony of crying family and friends of the victims I had killed and felt no remorse. The only emotion I felt was confusion. *How am I still here? Why am I not dead?* After being convicted for all twelve counts of murder, I was sentenced to twelve consecutive life sentences, without the possibility of parole. While in prison, I attempted suicide fifteen times. First, I tried hanging. No luck. I must have done something wrong because I could breathe easily the whole time. Then I tried slitting my wrists. I didn't lose enough blood before my wounds healed. I even tried a brazen escape where I was shot multiple times. I was incapacitated and returned to a new, fortified cell. Any wounds I suffered healed remarkably fast. The self-inflicted gunshot wound, slitting my wrists, the gunshot wounds from the guards left no scars. I was invincible, but not strong. I felt excruciating pain with every wound I suffered. I was easily overtaken by guards with each escape attempt. When I turned fifty years old in a supermax on a rural plain somewhere in the midwest, it was clear that I was not aging. I looked the same as I did on my eighteenth birthday. Prison doctors and researchers studied me relentlessly over the years. They treated me like a lab rat. I suppose they felt I deserved it, knowing what I had done. At age one hundred and ten, it was clear I couldn't die. At age two hundred they tried to give me a death sentence, even though by then, capital punishment was no longer legal. But they made an exception in my case, and no one in the legal system fought it. I was injected with a lethal cocktail and I immediately fell asleep. But once again, I did not die. I woke up in my cell a week later. The prison put out a press release saying that I had died but they kept my being alive a secret. Panic would set in among the populace knowing that there was an immortal mass murderer in the prison system. After another failed lethal injection, I was studied ruthlessly. I was poked and prodded, put through immense pain, all so the researchers and doctors could find out why I could not die. All the while, I felt no remorse for the lives I took that day. I still felt I would do it again if given the change. In my over two hundred years of life, I still felt the urge to kill, but I knew I never would be able to fulfill that desire. It was maddening, I had this urge to kill or die, but I couldn’t kill and I couldn’t die! So I sat in my cell and relived that day I killed over and over in my head. It made me feel powerful, it made me feel free. Each re-imagining of the killing gave me a sick, orgasmic bliss. When I turned eight hundred and eighty seven years old, the doctors tried a new experimental treatment that intended to cure psychopathy. It involved drilling a small hole into my frontal cortex and injecting cerebral stem cells from a non-psychopathic donor. When I regained consciousness, I saw the world anew. I had a feeling that I had never experienced before--empathy. For the first time I could imagine what it was like to be someone else. When I read books, I could feel the emotions of the characters. I could connect to the experiences in movies I saw. After more evaluation, they determined I was no longer clinically a psychopath. Then they showed me the news footage from my shooting rampage. It felt as if the cell spun around me as I saw the grieving friends and family give their reports of what I had done. I vomited when I saw the video of a grieving mother shouting at me in court. I took her son away, I understood that now. I felt her pain. I took took twelve sons and daughters away too soon. I thought of that day again, as I had done before the treatment. But now, there was no feeling of power, no pleasure in the violence. I felt nothing but abject horror over what I had done. The thought of each person begging for their lives filled me with regret. I couldn't live with myself knowing what I had done. For the first time in my life, I cried. I cried like a newborn, fresh from the womb. Finally, I understood the horrors that this world can bestow upon the innocent--and I understood my part in it. I wanted to go back and save those people. I wanted to take back what I had done, but I couldn't. Everyone they knew and loved were long gone. But I still lived on, carrying the pain now, probably forever. In past suicide attempts, I tried due to boredom, just not wanting to stay in this gray cell block for the rest of my life. Now I know that I could possibly live for all eternity. Every day, I relive what I did on loop and I feel enough sorrow to make up for that which I did not feel for the past eight hundred years. When my sentence was technically up, I was denied parole. The board said they could never take the chance releasing an immortal killer to the public, no matter how much remorse I felt. The researchers stopped their experiments on me once they saw that I now had compassion. They couldn't bear to put me through pain anymore. So now, everyday, I sit in my cell, and think about what I had done. Everyday, I decide I can't live with myself. Everyday, I try to kill myself again just to end this pain, this grave remorse that wracks my soul. Everyday, I fail. If this wasn’t hell, I couldn’t tell you the difference.


(Inspired by Grimm Fairy Tales and Black Souls) Iron. That was what stuck with him the most. The smell. The taste. Red dripping from his claws, his fangs, so much crimson that it seemed to overcome his senses, blinding him with senseless fury. It was only when he saw her that he could calm down, when she cradled his head in her arms, whispered sweet nothings to him and told him that it would all be alright. They would always return in silence, as they slowly strode up the stairs to her room, closing the door with nary a word. The beast would drag himself to the wash, submerge himself in large copper basin filled with scalding water, try to wash the blood from his thick and matted fur. But the smell never faded, the taste never left his mouth. Everywhere and everything was just more blood. He’d dry himself off as well as he was able, sitting down in a large ornate leather chair as he watched her sleep. She’d always wake up, sleepily rising from the bed as she took his hand, against his protests. He’d feebly resist as she dragged him back to their resting place, lying her head against his chest as he stared at the ceiling in shame. He wasn’t fit to be here with her. Fit to share a bed with this girl who had given him so much. No maid should share their bed with a Beast. The people knew to avoid the castle, and the roads that surrounded it. Everyone knew the tale of the savage creature that walked the roads, tearing apart all in its path. And yet braver caravans and merchants still tried to cross it, eager to save time and money on investments and sales. Such a caravan, guarded by hired mercenaries and armed soldiers braved that road one fateful night, accompanied by the merchant and his family. Yet what is mortal weaponry against the Beast? What is the armaments of man against the Fangs of God? He descended upon them like a flurry of claws and fangs, his devastating jaws crunching through steel plate like it was made of paper, his sharpened talons slicing through iron blades like it was naught but the toys of children. One by one, the men fell, screaming as the Beast descended upon them, muffled gurgles as he tore into their throats and soft flesh, feasting on their entrails. The taste sickened him, and yet he was compelled to eat, compelled to fill his mouth with blood and offal until his belly swelled, roaring in rage and agony all the while. A red haze obscured his vision as he burst into the carriage, tearing through soft flesh as everything was hidden behind a film of delirium. They were naught but shapes in the red, faceless and soundless. And as he lunged for the last, his bloodlust at his peak, he stared her in the eyes, frozen. The baby looked at him with curiosity, her eyes bright and wide, innocence unconcerned by the sight of her dismembered mother, her brutalized father. She cooed with delight as her fingers brushed the Beast’s soft fur, her hands gripping it and pulling hard. The Beast shivered, every muscle stuck with a tension that could not be unraveled. And then she smiled, causing The Beast to recoil with horror, falling backwards out of the carriage as he fell into a pool of red and guts. He whimpered as he saw the faces of the men he had massacred, his stomach churning as he fought the urge to vomit. He had to run. Had to escape. Had to be anywhere but here wh—- “Adam?” Her voice cut through the night, a soft melody erasing the darkness. The Beast turned his eyes to the girl, his Belle, as she took in the carnage, the devastation around him. He shambled to her, a moan breaking out from his throat, guilt overtaking him and threatening to break him to pieces. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was neutral, her eyes barely showing emotion of any kind. But the Beast’s blood curdled at the words nonetheless, and he fell to his knees, prostrating himself before her and begging for forgiveness. For mercy. She knelt down then, her hand gently caressing his furred cheek, her eyes sweet and loving. And with that same voice that he had fallen in love with, she said this. “Finish the job.” The Beast almost choked, trying to maneuver his mouth around his own voice, thick and rusty from disuse. “Be....Be..” He sputtered, before stopping himself, and coughing thick blood from his throat. “Bel...Belle. Just....child. Baby.” The girls eyes flickered but an inch, registering the baby in its carriage for a mere moment, before flicking back to the Beast. And in her eyes, in that cold nothingness, he felt the crushing weight of his own failures. “What are you...Adam?” Her voice was steady, calm. But he could sense her displeasure. He curled into a ball, dug his claws into his arms and let the blood flow like a river from his wounds. He felt the burn as his cursed body restitched itself back together, still not allowed to die. “Do you think you can play at being a human? At being one of them? Do you think that your sympathy will endear them to you? That sparing one life will have them forget your shape...have them forget your existence?” He rocked back and forth, tears spilling from his eyes. He remembered the stones, the beatings, crawling in the streets as they screamed at him. “Look up.” He wanted to hide deeper into himself, so deep that no one would ever find him again. But he couldn’t. He was always here. He was always himself. “Look. Up.” And he did, compelled by that soft voice. And he saw no fear, no hatred. Nothing but love, and perhaps even envy. He reached his hand out for her, talons still dripping with red fluid, and she let him rest it against her cheek with no hesitation. “You’ll never be human enough Adam. Never human enough for them to love you.” The Beast sat still for a mere moment, before raising his head and howling in agreement. He would never be one of them. She nuzzled her cheek against his, and he felt so safe in her warmth. In her embrace. “But I love you for what you are, instead of hating you for what you are not. Don’t you know that?” The Beast nodded, his head lowered. She had saved him. He knew that. He owed her everything. She gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead, before standing up and bringing him to his feet. “So then. Be the Beast I love.” He trembled then, once, before his body trembled no more. He turned back to the child, cooing ignorantly in its blankets...and did what had to be done. He sat there then, turned away as Belle pulled the most valuable trinkets from the gore, hands casually picking priceless baubles from pools of blood. She gently removed a emerald encrusted locket from the mothers neck, smiling at its gleam and shine. The Beast dared not look, could not bear to look at the carnage he had wrought. But a small sigh of happiness grabbed his attention, and he turned towards the sound like a moth to the flame. For it was this he killed for, this he would die for. The sight of the smiling girl amidst the corpses, a stunning visage made only more beautiful by the tragedy surrounding it. She did not lose that smile as she slowly swayed towards him, leaning in to kiss him and run her hands through his hair. He was breathless in her presence, powerless before this tiny girl that held him like he was naught but a child. “My Beast...” she said with a burning affection in her eyes and a grin on her lips. “My Beast. My Animal. My Killer.” Each word should have stung, but they were uttered with such love, such adoration, that the Beast could do nothing but smile, almost dazed by the weight of devotion he now felt. “You have done well.” And with those words, his reason for existence was cemented, and with it, his eternal prison in her arms.


I awake, alone in a dark room. Confined to an old bed by the machines that feed me. Soaking in my own dampness. Cold sweat has settled along my brow. A heavy chill embraces my almost naked body. The darkness is cut only by a sliver of light pouring through a narrow window on a heavy door. The window is my only connection to the outside world. The outside world I crave to know again. Yet what lurks outside is what I fear the most. Voices crawl through the door. A garbled confusion of words. Other voices say nothing. They only move up and down the hall in a state of pain and confusion. I stare at the ceiling. It has seen many eyes before me. The same empty stare. Piercing and relentless robotic tones echo in my black and murky room. Voices in the hall draw nearer. Creaks of carts that carry nothing but tools of pain and the abject horror of its previous victims grow louder. They’re coming for me. The voices and squealing shrieks come closer. They start to converge into a deafening cacophony. The screams of a banshee. My heart pounds into my head. The cold sweat protrudes faster. Shrill sound invades my ears. My brain floods with fear. The hypnotic tones of the machines that feed me become a melodic harbinger, summoning terror one step closer. The noise in the hall suddenly stops. They’re at my door! The small sliver of light transforms into shadows of horror. My mind aches as it strains against the sound of the doorknob. Why do they have to do this? The groans of the metal doorknob grind into my brain as it begins to turn. There’s no escape. The sudden flood of light is imminent. The light I long for, yet hate to see. Not now. Not for this. Blaring brightness blinds my eyes. I beg for the darkness back. They come closer to my bed. My mind goes numb. Pain brings it back. The ravenous lurking bloodsuckers only want one thing. And they never give up until they get it. The anguish of the needle drives into my skin. It digs around inside me with an unquenchable thirst. More needles slip agonizingly beneath my flesh. They’re relentless. It won’t be over until they harvest what they came for. I beg for it to be quick. I pray for it to end. My knuckles and teeth clench harder with every syringe that searches for my veins. My eyes squeeze tighter, damming welling tears of affliction. Suffering shoots through me. Again and again. They stop to examine the vial. Please let it be enough. Please, God… They turn to leave. Their cart now heavier with my blood and agony. But it’s finally over. For now. For me. Terror returns to roam the halls in search of the next victim. I’m alone again. Blanketed in darkness. Cold. Tired. Once again closed off from the outside world. But now finding solace in the blackness. Suspended somewhere between the light of yesterday and the lingering dawn of tomorrow, I wonder what time it is. It doesn’t matter. They’ll be back. Time has no meaning out there. Only in here as each vague hour passes. My gaze returns to the ceiling. It stares back at me. The sweat slows and cools my brow. My breathing calms. My heartbeat slows. The pounding has stopped. The pain has stopped. The metronomic tones of the machines are now the only sounds I hear. They lull me back to sleep in a web of rhythmic vibrations, steadily counting down to the return of the ravenous lurking bloodsuckers. The return…of the overnight phlebotomists.