# 2. The Not So Great Beyond It took the better part of the afternoon for Adam to stop asking repetitive questions. Otis sat patiently through three hundred ‘why’s and ‘where’s before finally losing his cool and telling the man to suck it up. “We all got to die some time, just happened to be your day was today.” Those words had sent a cold silence into Adam that carried the three deceased into evening. No longer compelled to help by the young man’s weeping, Otis floated over to Maggie as she stared across the desert toward the setting sun. Despite the macabre nature of the hill, it provided spectacular views of the mountains, towering high and jagged above the flat expanse of dried rock. “That’s breaking it to him gently?” she asked with a hint of a smile. Otis sighed and stayed quiet for a minute, looking for something far away. “No, I’m not sure there’s a way to do that. It’s why we bet, isn’t it?” “No doubts there, but ‘we all have to die sometime’ is a bit rough.” Otis shrugged. “How about: Sorry, kid, there might be a great beyond but this ain’t it. All your friends are somewhere high above the clouds while you’re stuck here kicking around with our dusty old asses.” “It is an improvement.” A fly buzzed through Maggie’s nose, she swatted at it. It had been nearly fifteen years since losing her body, but she still hadn’t managed to kick the instinct. “Never thought I’d miss squashing flies.” “And I never thought I’d miss repairing shoes for people who hated my guts, but here we are.” Beneath the tree, Adam finally managed to float from his kneeling position to an awkward stand. A hard determination had replaced the tears in his eyes. “He’s going to run,” commented Maggie. “They always do.” Otis glided toward Adam, but the kid was already moving. Adam churned his legs as if it still mattered and zoomed across the dusty ground like an undead bullet. Otis and Maggie watched as his pale form streaked across Hangman’s Hill, heading for the desert beyond. “You really don’t want to do that,” called Maggie, putting no effort into it. “Everyone has to experience it at least once.” Adam heard neither of them and ran as fast as he could, trying to outrun whatever horrible limbo he was stuck in. Then, he hit the barrier. A blinding wall of white energy shot into the sky, soon fading to a wisp like a transient version of the Aurora Borealis. Adam flew backward, his otherworldly energy bursting and throwing up puffs of greenish white steam. “And down he goes. Good legs on him though. Took me forever to figure out how to move like that.” Otis flexed his legs as they hovered an inch above the ground, a strictly performative act that helped bring a sense of normalcy to a situation that was anything but. In the spirit world, movement was a matter of will more than anything else, and Adam clearly had that in spades. The explosive force of the barrier threw Adam backward, leaving him stunned and rotating midair. When he had recovered enough to feel pain, he let out a curse so loud that it could have cleared the desert for miles. Of course, the only people that heard it were the deceased. “Now that’s a swear I haven’t heard before.” Maggie whistled. “Alright, I guess I’ll take a turn.” She walked to where Adam was floating, still sizzling from his collision. “Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” “How? How does it hurt?” Adam’s voice was strained and filled with pain. “Not sure exactly, but most try it at least once.” “Where the hell are we?” Maggie floated down, kneeling so they were eye level. “I don’t know, but we have some guesses. Why don’t you come over with Otis and me? We’ll fill you in.” Adam tried pushing himself to a standing position but succeeded only in pushing his limbs through the unnoticing earth. He grimaced and kicked his feet, sending himself into a slow spin. “Ah, yeah, that’s not how it works here. Try thinking about floating upright, but make sure you don’t go too high. Next, you’re going to get the bright idea that you can fly out of here, but let me tell you, it’ll hurt worse.” Maggie thought about her first attempt and felt the burning sensation on her scalp from where she had hit. “Suffice it to say, we’re penned in. It’s a pretty pen – when there aren’t rotting corpses that is – but it’s still a pen.” Adam strained, floating to a lopsided standing position. “Is this Hell?” “If it is, God didn’t put anyone here to torment us except us.” Maggie smiled. “Probably closer to the biblical concept of purgatory.” She floated in Otis’s direction and motioned for Adam to follow. He didn’t move, instead looking at her with suspicion. “Oh, come on, you’re part of the club now.” Maggie motioned to the scar around her neck and tried to ignore the neat bullet hole in the center of Adam’s forehead. Lucky for the kid, there were no mirrors and he wouldn’t be able to feel it. Adam floated forward, unsteady at first, but finding his way. “As far as we can tell, we’re stuck here.” Otis made a motion to the hill. “On Hangman’s Hill?” asked Adam. “Well, as it turns out, that’s not what the natives called it. The first hangman probably thought it looked like a good place to die, and didn’t bother to read the carvings at the base of the tree, or the signs along the trail to get here for that matter.” Adam squinted at the base of the tree. “Those are words?” “Just because our forefathers were ignorant, doesn’t mean we have to be.” Maggie rolled the words over in her mind, feeling a sting of pain saying them again. “She’s a bit touchy on the subject. It’s why she was hung in the first place.” “For reading the native tongue?” “Shoshoni,” corrected Maggie. “For suggesting we’re equal with them.” “Turns out, freedom isn’t actually meant for everyone.” Maggie stopped the rage bubbling inside and thought about the memory of what it was like to take deep breaths. It helped bring her back to a sense of relative calm. “In a fitting fate, the men who hung me couldn’t read Shoshoni. This was a place of communion with the gods, and that script was meant to keep unwanted spirits out of the conversation.” “Unfortunately, we think that’s what’s got us penned in.” Adam put his head between his legs, turning his slow spin into an endless somersault. “So, we’re stuck here forever?” Maggie chuckled at the morose corpse spinning like a children’s top. In death, she had found humor in the little things. “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. You can stop that spin if you like, just think—” Adam let out a choked sob. “You’re embarrassing yourself more than usual for a man who’s soiled himself in front of company.” They might not have been able to smell it, but there was a telltale drip off Adam’s corpse as it swung lightly in the evening breeze. Adam stopped spinning and glowered at her. “You have some kind of—” “Boy, the sunsets sure are nice,” broke in Otis. “Why don’t we all take a moment and enjoy that before we return to this existential debate.” Over the horizon, the sun sank low in its arch, bathing the desert in blood red light. The blue sky turned shades of purple streaked with gold. Jagged outlines of far distant mountains became silhouettes of teeth consuming the fleeing sky. A coyote howled in the distance, waking for a night of hunting. Adam took a moment away from his petulance to appreciate the natural beauty of their surroundings, but quickly became distracted by the memory of his own corpse. Otis looked at him with genuine pity. “That’ll be gone soon enough, don’t worry about it.” “What happened to yours?” “Well…” “I think there’s still a rib bone over there somewhere.” Maggie pointed toward the hanging tree. “But the animals out here are hungry and quick. Trust me, they may not be here yet but they’re coming.” “What my tactful friend here is trying to say is that it’s all part of the cycle of life. The earth has fed you for many years, and now it’s your turn to give back.” Otis gave Maggie a reproachful look. “That is a nicer way of putting it,” admitted Adam. “Best we turn around and talk about something else.” On cue, moonlight reflected off a pair of eyes approaching from the darkening desert. Otis grimaced. “Maggie’s right though, they’re hungry. This might be the way of things, but it’s going to be gross. Why don’t we just walk away?” Adam’s eyes were fixed on the coyote. “You really don’t want to watch that.” Maggie was already floating away. Adam didn’t move. “Look, you might think you’ve seen it all, being that you’ve died and arrived on the spiritual plane, but watching yourself get eaten… No one needs to see that.” Adam remained silent. “Suit yourself, kid.” Otis joined Maggie just as the first coyote made its way up the hill. “Shoo! Get out of here!” Adam yelled. Otis shook his head. “That one’s going to be a handful.


#Hello r/Shortstories! For the last four months, we’ve been running a here on the sub. I’ve had the pleasure of watching numerous writers build an entire world from scratch, and I’ve watched their characters grow and develop as they’ve faced different challenges. I’ve seen each and every SerSun participant improve week to week and it’s been a delightful experience. I’m back again to celebrate another writer completing their serial! Let’s take a moment to say to u/mattswritingaccount! He’s been a part of the WP family for quite a long while now and an active participant in our discord. I’ve enjoyed getting to him and he’s a delight to have in the community.   ***   #Have Skeleton, Will Travel - Written by u/mattswritingaccount If you haven’t yet read the latest installments of his serial, I encourage you to check it out. Take an afternoon, kick your feet up, and dive in. **A brief synopsis from Matt:** Short version? *Have Skeleton, Will Travel* is about the life and times of a wandering skeleton that is new to this whole "undead sentience" thing. Basically, poor Larry was murdered and brought back to life to serve (albeit for a very short amount of time) as one of the mindless servants to a necromancer. When the necro died, Larry for whatever reason didn't dis-animate. And that's where we start things off. It's mainly a fun little look at turning a fantasy world on its head. - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/mattswritingaccount about Serial Writing So let’s take a few minutes to chat with Matt about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Well, I did this serial specifically to get some practice with writing humor. It's not a main focus in my personal writing most of the time, so I wanted an outlet to specifically focus on it. I wasn't sure if I could translate some of my oftentimes-dry attempts at humor to the written word. So it definitely was fantastic practice for that. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** There were two things I enjoyed about writing Have Skeleton, Will Travel. For one, I loved seeing everyone's reactions to some of the various scenes within the story. I enjoyed seeing something that I thought would be amusing hit right, and when it hit wrong - it leads me to my second thing. The feedback I got from the other writers, between comments on the threads or via SerSunday Campfire, were ABSOLUTELY invaluable. And that applies to both this writing as well as my other works. One other aspect I enjoyed about the story came from the Campfire presentations. Initially, the first few chapters were read outloud by other readers and it was fun to see how far into the story they got before having to suppress a chuckle. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge, for me, was getting in a humor mindset in the first place. I have a very dry humor honed through way too much exposure to things like Monty Python and the Princess Bride. I wasn't sure if I could DO a humorous piece at all. As to how I overcame it, well... I'm also really stubborn. So I figured darn the torpedoes and just dived in with both feet. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** For one, you definitely want to at least try it. Just like trying a new vegetable when you were a kid, you never know what's going to hit without trying it. If all else fails, you can always just shrug and say, welp, I tried - instead of just wondering "what if" forever. If you're having issues figuring out how to do a serial, you could approach it this way. If you've been on WritingPrompts for a while, you've likely written a short story or three for various prompts. Well, a serial then is nothing more than a 500-850 short story, weekly, with the same characters. As long as there is SOME tieback to the previous versions, you're already set. I HIGHLY encourage people to give it a try. It was a lot of fun that I will definitely be doing again - about the time Larry's ready for round two.   ***   Thank you so much, Matt, for giving us a peek behind the curtain, as they say. It has been such a joy to watch your story evolve over the past few months. Larry is a character that will stay with a lot of us for a long time. I wish you the best of luck on your future projects. And maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again.   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The hallways of the ship lay dormant. Not a single soul was stirring or dared to do so. It had happened in mere hours, one of the alien experiments escaped and ravaged the crew with terrifying efficiency. A few crew members still live, trying to survive the creature, but it won’t be long until they meet their eventual doom as well. Suddenly, the onboard intercom crackles to and a voice is heard. “To any crew mates that are still alive, I say this with a heavy heart, but there will be no rescue. “I have already sent a distress signal warning any vessel who comes across us to never board our ship, and if possible, to blow us all to kingdom come. I am sorry to have condemned us to this fate, but we all know it is for the greater good” The voice pauses for a long while. He is audibly heard sighing before resuming what he was saying. “It was an honor to serve alongside all of you,” the voice on the intercom then pauses once more and his voice is shaky. Taking another deep breath, the man speaks once more “If there is a god out there, may he have mercy on our souls. This is Radio Master Nigel signing off, for the last time. Goodbye my friends.” As the still playing song wraps up, the click of the intercom being disconnected is heard and the ship once again falls silent. Two Radio operators sit together in their compartment, one of them having just finished his final message. A quick nod from him indicates for the two of them to begin tearing apart the communication controls to ensure that any message that is sent out reaching for help will never be sent. When the deed is done, the two radio operators look at each other and take a seat. “Now what?” one of them asks. “Now?” The younger radio operator leans back in his chair “Now we wait until both of us die,” The younger operator who asked the question nods and too leans back into their chair. “If you’d like, I can shoot you now. Spare you the trouble of starving or whatnot” offered the older radio operator. “There’s only one bullet left though, besides, I already promised that I’d die alongside you,” The second operator chuckles at the adamant nature of his colleague. But, he still very much appreciated their conviction to a promise. “Suit yourself,” “Hey Nigel?” asked the younger operator. “Yes?” “I think I’ll try this Sinatra fellow you keep buggin’ me about” A very large smile spread across the older operator’s face. He grabbed his tablet and his headphones and swung his chair next to the younger operator, pointing out his favorite song from the artist. “Trust me dude, you are going to love this guy” “That awaits to be seen,” said the younger operator as he placed the headphones upon his head. The older operator smiles once again before pressing start on the song. In the silence, the faint words of the song can be heard “Fly me to the moon...


# 3. Another Hanging in Paradise The following month was hot, the sun’s scorching rays beating down on the packed earth and sending waves through the otherwise clear air. While neither Maggie nor Otis felt it, they did notice the stillness that accompanied the extreme temperature. Even the snakes, usually so fond of basking in the sun, crawled back in their holes for fear of being cooked in their own skin. Late summer was always that way, and brought dull boredom with it as the days went on. Adam looked up hopefully at the sound of every hoofbeat on the horizon. Whether it was a misguided prayer for rescue, or the promise of future company that wasn’t, Otis and Maggie found difficult to tell. In either case, the result was shit company and a disturbance of the tenuous peace the other two spirits worked so hard to achieve. Maggie sat in the higher bows of the hanging tree. Her ass hovered a few inches inside her chosen branch but was close enough to make the action feel real. Too much time floating through anything and everything was enough to drive someone mad. Pretending the rules of physics still applied was one of the many tricks she had learned to stay sane. From her perch, she watched the wagons and horses cut a wide berth around Hangman’s Hill and didn’t blame them – it was haunted after all. The sun made its way across the arid sky as she reflected on her death and the days that followed. Unlike the people hung after her, Maggie had been alone. Back then, the hill had been so quiet. While most of the deceased weren’t keen on talking, Maggie could hear their spirits rustling just beneath the crust of the earth. Most tried to find sanity, speaking with her and Otis for a day or two, but in the end, they all did the same thing. Six feet below the ground, thirty or so odd spirits lay horizontal with their eyes closed, pretending to be dead. Feeling particularly morbid, Maggie floated through the layers of the earth to peer in at the others, but there wasn’t much to see aside from dirt and otherworldly green energy. She and Otis had taken to calling them The Dirt Nappers. Neither of them was much for creative energy. They tried their best not to disturb them, but on the occasions they did, the spirits grew violent and became every bit of a poltergeist they could muster. One of them had moved a branch in a moment of particular passion, but Maggie had been the only witness. Maggie shook her head and floated back to the top of her tree. Watching the world slide idly by while sitting in the branches of her tree was as close to peace as Maggie had ever found. In life, there had been a profound calling for action every second to fight for every man, woman, and child on earth. In death, there was nothing to be done. Sitting and waiting for nothing was the best damned retirement she could have asked for, and Otis was right; the sunsets were fantastic. Adam on the other hand could find no such peace. He spent his days trying to break through the barrier, enduring the painful shock that went along with it each time and finding new and creative ways to curse. The sound of his cries broke Maggie’s calm and made it nearly impossible to appreciate the serenity that was her afterlife. Otis had always been good about knowing when to shut up. Adam always assumed it was his turn to talk and spewed a continuous string of unhelpful questions. One day, still sizzling from his latest escape attempt, Adam had fixated on the idea of pockets. “Why do we still have ‘em?” He pushed his hands through his pants for emphasis. “Have what?” asked Otis. “Pockets, why do we still have pockets?” Otis for his part encouraged the kid and didn’t make things any easier. “If you really want to keep yourself up at night, ask Maggie why she’s got a still-functioning pocket watch, yet I can’t fix my damned hat.” “Don’t start about the hat again.” Over time, Maggie learned that Adam wasn’t curious so much as eager for an opportunity to complain. “She has a what?” Otis laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about it, you’ll see it when we get to bettin’.” “Bettin’?” “If he asks another question, I’m going to run into the barrier myse—” Maggie stopped, going silent. In the distance, she heard hoofbeats, followed by whoops and hollers echoing across the desert. It was the telltale mix of excitement and testosterone that only came from impending murder. “You’ve got to be kidding me, another one?” Otis floated up to get a better look. Sure enough, a party of four men was riding toward the tree. “It’s that damned summer heat, puts the devil in men.” “Just in men?” “Oh, let’s not get into gender norms now, Maggie, there’s a hangin’ to watch.” Maggie glared at him but returned her attention to the riders. “I bet that’s Reggie again.” Otis scoffed. “Why don’t we just ask young Adam here.” Adam floated up beside them, struggling to maintain his balance. “Reggie?” he asked. “You probably know him by Reginald, the man that hung you.” “Oh.” Adam paused. “Yeah, he’s none too fond of me.” Maggie let out a slight whoop. “Told you, Otis. Could spot that man a mile away.” “Yes, and being right is such a lovely color on you. Now why would our dear friend Reginald want you hung?” asked Otis. “I may have…” Maggie turned toward him. “May have what?” “Slept with his wife.” Despite the circumstances, Adam still had a tinge of pride as he said it. Maggie scoffed. “To think, Otis and I were both unjustly strung up, and you’re just here because you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Well, The Hanging Tree really does take all types.” “Hey—” “Shut up, kid, it’s time to bet.” Otis watched the riders carefully. “He’s got a bag over his head, just like this one.” He jerked a thumb to Adam. “But he’s making a lot less noise, probably conserving oxygen.” Maggie looked down at the men, sizing up the victim. “This is a tricky bet.” “What are we betting on?” Adam hovered closer, still correcting for a constant, slow forward spin he couldn’t seem to shake. Otis ignored him. “You know he’s not getting enough air in that bag. Means he’s going to be quicker.” “Don’t think he does his core exercises?” “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” “What the hell are you talking about?!” Adam’s form glowed bright before settling to muted green. “We’re betting on how long it’s going to take this man to die once they string him up.” Saying it out loud made Maggie feel shameful, but not enough to stop taking mental measurements in her head. Besides, Adam would be a dirt napper before long; the crazy had already begun to eat into his brain. Adam made a disgusted noise. “Look, kid, we’re stuck, can’t do nothing about this poor bastard’s fate, might as well have a little fun. Think they’ll use a bucket, Otis?” “There has to be something we can do. No one should suffer a fate like this.” Maggie ignored him. “I’m going to say four minutes on the nose. Less if there’s a bucket, for obvious reasons.” “That is a long time to sway on the rope.” Otis thought it over. “I’ll take that action. The usual bet?” “Usual bet.” “You’re both pathetic. I’m going to do something about this.” “Have fun, kid.” Adam floated away from the other two spirits, towards the approaching party. Had they been able to see him, he might have cut an intimidating figure. The image of a spirit floating down from a hanging tree to greet bandits would have sent anyone running. Fortunately for the greasy men, confident atop their horses, they saw nothing but an empty tree. “Oh, this is perfect. You’re going to love this place, Larry” said the man in the lead with a hearty guffaw. “Bill, take his bag off.” “That’s not Reggie.” Maggie could tell immediately. The leader was too round about the middle, and Reggie only laughed once a job was done. One of the horsemen stepped down. Adam walked up until he was right between Bill and the to-be-hung. “Hey, get out of here!” he yelled. “Well this is new.” Maggie watched eagerly. Bill, a thick barrel of a man, took no notice, passing right through Adam on his way to remove the victim from his horse. There wasn’t even a shudder of acknowledgment or a cold chill. Adam yelled. “Screw this!” His spirit glowed bright once again. “How is he doing that?” asked Otis. Maggie didn’t answer, but was instead watching the horsemen, one of whom twitched when Adam’s form glowed. She couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like the man had seen him. “Holy shit,” she muttered. “I don’t believe it.” Adam paid neither of them any attention and ran full speed at Bill. His spirit reached a blinding level of brilliance and then disappeared. Bill looked momentarily sick, his hand still wrapped around the rope connected to their prisoner. Then, his arm jerked out to the side, violently, snapping the rope taught and pulling the victim off the horse. Maggie watched as the bagged man fell in slow motion with a muffled cry. He twisted, trying to right himself, but landed firmly on his head. There was a sickening crunch as his neck cracked against the hard-packed dirt. Adam reappeared in the same instant, moving at high speed as if Bill’s body had shot him out like a cannon. His spirit smacked into the barrier, sending up a huge burst of energy, outlining the upper portion of the dome in its entirety. “What the hell did you just do, Bill?” The leader hopped off his horse and walked around to where the hanging victim now lay slumped. “Ah, Christ.” Bill looked around wildly, confused. “What just h-happened?” He ran his hands over his skin as if it were someone else’s. Maggie didn’t have to look closely to understand the position of the victim’s neck wasn’t healthy. It was slumped to the side at a forty-five degree angle, and the man gave no movement other than slight twitches of his feet. “Hell, he’s still alive. No point in hanging him now, Bill. He probably can’t feel shit.” In a surprising act of mercy, the leader pulled out his pistol and shot the twitching man in the head. At the same instant, an older man appeared, lying on the ground, right next to his body, neck still bent at an odd angle. “Holy shit,” muttered Otis. “Did Adam just possess someone?” “He sure did, and you lost the bet. Time to pay up.


Barrow House is burning. *The hissing of the heat and the lapping of flames like tongues, licking at the floorboards and the walls, gargling hot stones in its hell-throat...* It has been on fire for as long as I can remember, but it never burns up or down or out or in any direction except the present: it *is* burning. Not everyone can see it burning. Those who cannot pass by Barrow House without a glance, as if it wasn't there. Only some see and stop and watch, like Mr. Wilson. They don't know if it was Mister or Missus Barrow who started the fire. Maybe it was never proved. Once— If— The fire ever stops, we'll know. We'll know for certain then who started Barrow House burning. There are proved methods: scientific methods, they say. Not that I would know about that. I only trust what I hear. Some people are afraid of Barrow House and do not come this way at all, or take roundabout routes to avoid the sight and smell, which drifts beyond the property line, besooting the neighbouring houses, which is why they are vacant. *Who would want to live in such a place?* They say Mister Barrow was excellent at what he did but was a terrible husband. They say that. Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. To this I can personally attest. *Mama, please—* They say Barrow House was an unhappy house even prior to the setting of the fire. *To this I can personally attest.* As I have told Mr. Wilson, "I feel as if I am both young and old at the same time." *...except the present.* "Remarkable," he says. "Absolutely remarkable. Now, please tell us what else you may remember. Spare no detail. Anything you provide shall be of profound importance to us." "Barrow House is burning," I say. It flickers in the night like a candle, and we are the wax. "You had stated earlier that Barrow House was not a happy place. That Missus Barrow was inclined to corporeal punishment. What may you tell us of Mister Barrow?" He was a good father. "He was a good father, they say," I say. *Mama, please—* Tongues lash Barrow House like leather straps. Mercilessly, despite their howling—of wind, whipping up the red-hot ash: *plumes and plumes…* A house like this forever cannot stand. A house cannot. "So it was Missus Barrow," says Mr. Wilson. *The great lumbers creak and crack. The furniture melts away waxen. Ear wax drooling from its mouth: an open door. The very construction hisses. One cannot endure such suffering indefinitely. The smoke*— was a relief from the heat." *Mama, please—* "Tell us." I remember now. "Yes, yes—("That's why you started the fire?")—because I… anymore…" "Hughie? Are you there? I made mama gargle the hot stones. I made her. Made her do it. Her hair flamed in black skin. *Hughie Barrow?* Barrow House is burning, and Mr. Wilson talks to ghosts. That's what they say. That's what they say.


They killed them. They killed mummy and daddy and big sis and little sis. Little sis always looked like a pig with that nose of hers and she squealed like one too when they split open her tummy. She tumbled over and looked right at Marcus, but not at him. Through him, like he was a ghost or not even there at all. And then big sis was dragged by her feet into the stable and she screamed and screamed and screamed. *I couldn’t stop them. I was afraid.* Marcus would have died too if daddy didn’t get in the way of an arrow. It struck him in the neck. He gargled blood and spattered all over him. But he told him to run. So he ran, the bad men yelling after him. He had always liked running. But where to run? To get to the nearest village he would have had to run through the bad men. He couldn’t go back that way, he would die. So he ran to the forest. The forbidden forest. The forest he was told to never enter. The forest was death. He had always padded the waters though; running along the tree line and picking up branches for the hearth back at home. It didn’t seem that scary. Peaceful if anything. But if he turned back he was dead. How bad could a forbidden forest be? The air was strange in the forest. The canopy was thick and light struggled to get through. Tree roots and shrubs and vines snaked along the forest floor so he had to watch his every step. He slowed down just a little, but still kept pace, running as fast as his feet could carry him. A scream in the distance. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, looking every which way. A scream in that direction, and then that one. Screams of pain and horror. But he couldn’t see anything. Nothing but trees. “Are they your friends, child?” The voice echoed inside his head, hollow and ethereal. He looked around once more, up and down, left and right, searching for someone. “Speak. There is… no reason to be afraid.” He felt dizzy, tired, thirsty, and hungry all at the same time. The air felt hot against his skin and his sweat ran cold, yet he spoke with a calmness he had never felt before. “No. They are not my friends. They killed them. Killed them all.” More screams in the distance. “Who did they kill?” “My family. Mummy and daddy and big sis and little sis! The bad men killed them!” “Is that so?” An apparition appeared out of thin air. It was tall, and ghostly at first but it quickly gained corporealness. It looked human and talked human, though it talked funny. It wore no clothes; its body was wreathed in twigs, roots, and leaves in intricate swirls and patterns. Marcus couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. “We have all lost much to bad men.” “Yes. All my life I have been picked on by bad men who are bigger than me. I’m sick of it!” The thing paused for a moment, it’s face absent of all emotion, the blood curdling screams ever present in the background, then spoke again, “What if I helped you?” “Helped me? With what?” It half smiled to reveal a row of razer teeth. “To get revenge.” The forest sprung into life. Trees rocked back and forth as vines whipped across the sky. Something wet and sticky splashed against Marcus’ face, and then all was calm. In front of him were three men, wrapped in vines, hanging suspended upside down a few feet above the ground. Their skins were split and crisscrossed with cuts, the muscles cut away from the bone and hanging loose. Entrails drooped freely from the belly of the middle man who choked on his own bile and excrement. A thin vine was wrapped around each of their necks, taut enough to prevent them making anymore screams, but, from the sounds of their exasperated breaths, not enough to suffocate them. The thing stepped forward with wild eyes and a mad grin. It spread its arms out wide. “Revenge, served freely.” It handed Marcus a dagger carved from bone. He took it almost without noticing, his eyes transfixed on the men in front of him. “Do it, Marcus. Vengeance is sweet. Sweet like honey.” *I can’t. I… can’t kill these people, Can I?* Images raced through his head. Of playing with big sis and little sis in the sun. How they teased him for always getting the muddiest and getting the most hurt. How his mother would always tuck him under the covers before bed. His father who was not the strongest, but always tried the hardest. And then the memories were washed away in waves of blood and fire. His home alight, smoke billowing into the air. The laughter of the bad men echoed in his mind, over and over, louder and louder, until he felt his skull cracking. *No! Make it stop!* His knuckles were white as he gripped the dagger. With a roar he stabbed the men. In the neck. In the face. The chest. As high up as he could reach, everywhere he could stab he stabbed. The vines loosened as he did so; the men shrieking cries of despair. They fell silent. His rage spent, Marcus’ fell to his knees and bawled and wailed. The thing put a finger to his chin and tilted his head and peered into his eyes. Its eyes, black but sparkling like the night sky, were mesmerising. “You have blessed and watered these grounds with the blood of your-” he stopped himself, “no, our enemies. Please, accept my invitation.” “Invitation?” his voice was croaky and distorted. “To meet my kin.” Marcus nodded and stood up. He followed the thing further into the forest, leaving the men behind. *The forest is death. But not for me.


I woke up to the thick black smoke entering my lungs, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to cough but the more I did, the easier it was to choke. I tried to cover my mouth with my blanket, that’s when I noticed the heat. I could feel my veins melting out of my skin, I could feel the tiny hairs on my arms becoming nothing more than ash on the ground, it was so bright I felt like the sun was in my room. I heard someone screaming, but the sound of everything I had once loved burn to the ground like my house was nothing more than a fireplace was too loud for me to concentrate on anything else. I tried to scream for help but I barely had enough air to breathe, I couldn’t escape. It was already in my room. I tried to get up and get outside but I felt like my body was tied down to my bed, with no energy in me to move. I tried to cry but it seemed as though all the water from my body was already out of my system. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes, everybody’s does, doesn’t it? What kind of life have I lived if I get nothing but the black smoke turning me into ash? I closed my eyes, and I gave in. At that moment, I woke up, my heart was pounding so heart I wondered if it would wake my mom up, I coughed, but there was no black smoke filling my lungs. I looked down at my bed, and back around my room and placed my hand on my chest, sighing a breath of relief, it was just a dream, I thought to myself. That’s when my little sister ran into my room, “Christian!!” she screamed, “Did you have a bad dream again?” I smiled at her, “Yeah, same one, Dotty.” I saw her yawn, her hair was messy and she was in her pj’s, then I realised I must’ve woken her up, but when I was about to apologise my mum walked into my room, “Come on Dotty” she started, “let’s leave your brother alone” she said, as she took Dotty into her arms, kissed her on the forehead and closed my door behind them without so much as a look towards me. Ever since my bad dreams started happening my mother and my relationship hasn’t been easy, I think it’s because my dad left around the same time they started, and unfortunately for her, I’m a spitting image of my father when I was his age, so I didn’t blame her for being sad all the time. I hated my dad for leaving her this way, he’s so selfish. All he cares about is his next smoke and his next bottle. After I put a shirt on, I went downstairs and Dotty was watching television, my mum was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at photographs of when we were a family. “I’m sorry about last night, mum” I said, and she sighed, still not looking my way, and she whispered, “Oh, Christian.” I knew she meant that it was okay, but she, like me, was probably sick of me waking everybody up in the house at ungodly hours. I noticed the empty ashtray on the table, she hadn’t smoked for a few days. I thought that was progress at least, when my dad was here they’d smoke like trains. Just as I noticed the ashtray, she threw it into the bin, chipping off the sides of it against the outside of the bin. I went into the living room by Dotty, she had a glass of juice on the table, so I had a sip of that, and held the glass in my hand when I heard a knock at the door. My mum sighed again as she got up to slowly answer the door, her hair looked as though she had been sleeping for a month, although her eyes tell a story of the opposite. I heard her slowly answer the door, and mumbles to follow. I got up, because I thought the voice was familiar, I stayed out of sight, behind the doorway to the living room, “Is Dotty still here?” I heard a man ask, there was a hint of something other than concern in his voice, but I couldn’t pick up what it was, and I realised it was my father, I definitely didn’t want to see him, “Go away.” I heard my mum say as she tried to close the door on him, but his boot was in the way, “Let me see my daughter.” He said sternly, more anger in his voice this time than concern. “Your daughter?” my mum spat, “That’s rich coming from you.” I couldn’t see her but I imagined her eyes now stronger, with venom, “Don’t. I made one mistake, and I will live with it for the rest of my life, but for now, let me fix this.” He begged, I could hear the desperation in his voice. “Haven’t you done enough? You tore this family apart!” I heard her choking back on tears as she screamed, “I tore this family apart? Have you even told Dotty why her brother doesn’t join us for family outings? Why he doesn’t join you for dinner? Why he locks himself in his room all day and never leaves the house?” By this time I had heard enough, I stepped into plain view although none of them noticed me until I threw the cup at the door, and I heard my mum scream and begin to cry, “You made him mad!! Get out! GET OUT!!” she screamed as she slammed the door shut and began crying, she ran straight past me and I saw Dotty about to follow her when I stopped her, “Hey, don’t. It’s okay. She just needs some space.” Dotty nodded and went back into the living room to watch tv, I was about to pick up the broken glass by the door when I figured getting paper towels from the kitchen would be easier, as I reached the kitchen I found some pieces of the ashtray still outside the bin, so I put them in before I went to go clean up the glass I just threw at the door, and that’s when I noticed it. The paper that my mum was looking at on the table was now in the bin, although it wasn’t photographs of our family, it was just me. I picked it out of the bin and almost fell down with shock when I read what it said, “Christian Darko, loving son, loving brother, gone but never forgotten. 07-05-1996 – 17-02-2012” I fell on the floor. What the fuck is this, I thought to myself. And then I remembered. My dad had come home later that night, I was still awake because my leg hurt from basketball training. I heard my mother and him exchange words before she went to bed and he came to check on me, his smoke still lit in his mouth and whiskey on his breath, “And why the fuck are you awake?” he slurred at me, “My leg hurts from practice, I’ll be asleep in a sec though.” “Did you take your sleepy pills?” He asked, trying to be concerned but too drunk to care about anyone other than himself at this point, “Yeah. Goodnight dad.” He took that as his invitation to leave, and he did so. And I heard him flick something at my door, but I just rolled my eyes, he always flicks my door before he goes to bed. It’s like a good luck charm thing his family believes in. I saw something glowing under my door but shrugged it off and blamed it on the pills, then I fell asleep.


We were there for the interview. *The* interview. The one at Vectorien that everyone wanted. Most didn’t get the invite. I did. No job title or position was specified. The invite said: Vectorien Tower / 190 / 0900 Photos don’t do it justice. It looms over San Francisco like a monument. You need to experience it personally. I was there early. We all were: sitting in the lobby. Anxiety is weakness, Emon Nakamori says. Rumor was that he would be there. I flirted with a receptionist and noted her number. Her name was Andi. Displays of confidence are one way of asserting dominance. People in low places can be useful. At 0850, we were told to enter the elevators. There were seventeen of us. The elevator took us to the 190th floor, which is the roof of Vectorien Tower. The ride was quick. The doors opened and we saw the executives waiting. Emon Nakamori was among them. The sun was blinding and the wind was powerful. We proceeded to the edge, where Emon Nakamori and the executives had gathered. The view was magnificent. “This could be yours,” Emon Nakamori said. He introduced us to everyone in turn, including Bill Rabic, the senior public relations manager. “You may be wondering for which position you are interviewing,” Emon Nakamori said. “Unfortunately we have no position,” he said. Then he laughed and pushed Bill Rabic off the building— Bill Rabic fell. We heard his screams fade. “Now we have a position,” Emon Nakamori said. Bill Rabic smashed against the ground. Someone vomited. Emon Nakamori said: “There is a file marked File-A in the lobby. Whoever brings me File-A becomes senior public relations manager. Everyone else will die. You may not take the elevator down, but you may take it up. There are no other rules. Good luck.” We scrambled for the stairwell. On the stairs we began our mad descent. A man fisted a woman’s hair and bashed her face against a railing. A woman pushed the frontrunner so that he fell and broke his neck against a wall. Soon she was dead too. Fifty floors down and it was safer to stay in the pack. Then one of them tripped me. I lost my balance. I hit another— Together we tumbled. He punched me and leapt down the stairs. I knew I could not win the race. But I had a notion. I called Andi. “There’s a file. File-A,” I told her. “Emon Nakamori needs it on the top floor. Bring it now!” I ran up the stairs. I made it just as Andi was exiting the elevator. I was out of breath. Andi neared Emon Nakamori. The pack was somewhere down below. Andi had File-A. As she handed it to Emon Nakamori, I basked in triumph. “Congratulations,” said Emon Nakamori— But not to me. “It was me,” I pleaded. “The rules were straightforward," Emon Nakamori said. Andi is the senior public relations manager. And I am dead. *We all are dead*.


“Ancient Greece was a civilization belonging to a period of Greek history from the Greek Dark Ages of the 13th–9th centuries BC to the end of antiquity (c. 600 AD). Immediately following this period was the beginning of the Early Middle Ages and the Byzantine era.” Harold aimlessly scrolled down the page, his eyes glazing over. “See you on Monday!” and with that, the weekend had begun. Harold mumbled a response, grabbed his pens, and started to pack his bag. He balled up a crumb covered page of wax paper and threw it in the trash. Before he left he took one final look at the Wikipedia article and turned his computer off. Harold drove east on route 108. Luckily, few cars were on the highway, as Harold drove like he was in a dream, fascinated and frightened by the peculiar item sitting on his dashboard. The device. A blaring horn broke his stupor and he readjusted, narrowly missing a 16 wheeler. “What am I doing?” Harold thought. “The thing probably doesn’t even work. I mean, it couldn’t work. It’s science fiction.” Harold took a right on Highland Avenue, and his mustard yellow house came into view. He sighed a relieved sigh, his thoughts having turned to disposing of the blueberry slurp which now sat in his bladder. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, he could see the lawn come into view, and his driveway, and the red door. He parked, and hesitated before deciding to grab the device. As Harold walked up to his red front door, he instinctively grabbed for his keys. “Shit.” and as he turned around, “Shit!” Harold understood that he had locked his keys inside the car. “Damn it to hell.” He glanced longingly at his red door, wanting desperately to have not done what he had just done. And then it occurred to him. Fifteen minutes passed before he built up the courage to truly entertain the thought which had come into his head. What Harold did not leave in the car, was the device that had sat on his dashboard for the last three weeks. He reached for it in his pocket; and, of course, it was still there. He was almost afraid to take it out, but eventually, he did, holding the metallic rectangle in his hands. It resembled an early iPod, circa 2001. It even had a click wheel. The only perceivable difference was the strange metallic luster, which looked like nothing else Harold had ever seen. He closed his hand around it. “This is crazy,” he thought. He looked at it again, and there it was, gleaming in that way. Harold pressed his finger down on the central button, and it awoke, suddenly displaying a series of black zeroes on a green background. - 00:00:00:00:00 He stared at them like he had a thousand times before. But this time, he slowly placed his thumb on the click wheel and gently brought it around, clockwise. One click, then two clicks. The numbers now read: - + 00:00:00:00:02 He placed his thumb on the click wheel once again, and this time, rotated counter-clockwise. One click, two clicks, then two more: - - 00:00:00:00:02 A mania took him over. The numbers dipped and changed like a slot machine and when the first column ran up to sixty, it reverted to zero and kept on climbing. Soon these first two digits were a blur, and the second two were steadily increasing, repeating at intervals of twenty-four. - - 00:00:03:21:49 Harold frowned. He turned the click wheel clockwise once more and gingerly brought the clicks to a standstill at: - - 00:00:00:00:20 The wind rustled through the trees. Harold recalled the solemn warning, offered to him by XchleiboK'a K'a months ago; "You may use it once, human scum. So use it wisely." Harold stared up at the clouds and let out an anxious whimper, then smiled and shook his head. “No way. It doesn’t even work. I’m just gonna do it, and nothing is going to happen because it’s science fiction.” He looked at the device. “This is so stupid.” For the first time, he pressed the central button. Words popped up on the screen. - Are you sure? He smirked at the warning, and defiantly pressed the button once again. “Yes, I’m sure.” Harold took a right on Highland Avenue, and his mustard yellow house came into view. He sighed a relieved sigh, his thoughts having turned to disposing of the blueberry slurp which now sat in his bladder. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, he could see the lawn come into view, and his driveway, and the red door, and himself. He slammed the breaks, and the car came to a screeching halt, stationing itself at an odd angle in the street. “What in the holy fuck!” he shouted, as he watched himself leap over to the car. “You’re gonna lock your keys in there!” Harold shouted from behind the glass. Harold’s eyes went from his keys to the device on his dashboard. “You used it?! Holy shit, I used it?!” Harold hastily parked the car in their driveway and got out, taking special care to grab his keys along with the device. Then he looked himself in the face. It was an awkward moment. “So...uh... it works, huh?” Harold waited as he used the bathroom, then when he came out, he went in and used the bathroom. “We have to figure out what we’re gonna… Where we’re… When we’re gonna go.” Harold came out of the bathroom. “I don’t think that’s possible. I think you have to use it. I used it approximately,” He looked at his wristwatch. “A minute and thirty seconds from now. You don’t want to… y’know... Cause a space-time thing. There can’t be two of us. You have to complete the chain of events.” he emphasized this with a twirl of his arm. “What do you know about space-time?” “For Christ's sake. Take it out of your pocket.” They both walked outside to the front lawn. “I was standing right… here.” Harold grabbed Harold and had him stand where he had stood. “Set it to minus twenty minutes.” - - 00:00:00:00:20 “Okay.” “Okay, well, nice to meet you, I guess.” “Yeah…” Harold pushed the button. A harsh buzz came out of the device and the screen went red. - Expired - Please Recycle :) Harold’s eyes widened. He pushed the button again, and it buzzed, he pushed it several more times. Bzzz, Bzzz, Bz-Bz-Bz . - Expired - Please Recycle :) He looked up at himself, mouth agape. A similar expression faced him. “But… It’s… I…” The gears slowly turned in Harold’s head. Harold, on the other hand, couldn't help but crack a smile, which grew into full-on hysterics. “You’re laughing?” He looked back down at the inert device in his hands. “But, Greece…” There was a blank numbness in his brain, which rose like violins in a horror score, processing the impossible situation before him. “I don’t understand.” “What’s not to understand?” He fell to the ground, unable to contain his apocalyptic laughter. An ice cream truck drove by, playing a familiar tune. In the kitchen, Harold sat at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, while he also paced across the room, mumbling to himself. He opened the fridge, then closed it, then opened it again. Ketchup. Milk. Bologna slices. Mayonnaise. He closed the fridge. “I didn’t even get to choose…” “You did get to choose. We chose what we chose.” “No, you chose that!” “You, me, us, it’s all the same.” “Don’t sit there and tell me that I made this mistake. I’m not the time traveler here! And now I never get to be...” He paused. “What was it like?” Harold looked down at his coffee with a grim smirk. “Well, I pushed the button, and then… I was standing on the lawn, the device was gone, and so was my car.” “That’s it? That’s the best description you can muster?” “Honestly, it was kind of underwhelming.” Harold stared at himself in contempt, then looked away and rubbed his temples in frustration. “What are we gonna do? Huh?! Mr. H. G. fucking Wells over here. And over here. What am I gonna tell people, I have a long lost fucking twin?” “You really wanna have this conversation?” Harold looked down at the device, and then back up at himself. Harold was sipping his coffee and drumming his fingers on the table. “Why didn’t you call Sandy? Why didn’t you do anything else?” Harold shrugged. “I didn’t think it was going to work. Would you? ” “I was gonna go to Ancient Greece...” The other Harold said, his hand still holding the useless instrument. Harold sighed. “No you weren’t. I mean, come on. You don’t even speak ancient Greek.” A moment passed. Harold suddenly stood up and walked through his kitchen past Harold. Then, with strange portent, he slid the drawer open. Harold grabbed an instrument of many uses, which he then laid on the table. Harold looked up at himself. “Excuse me?” “I’m thinking it, so I know you must be thinking it too.” Harold replied, to which Harold raised his eyebrow. “Actually, I have no idea what you’re thinking.” He said. “Really?” Harold blinked. “Interesting… Maybe that means that I’m the real Harold.” The other Harold glanced nervously at the large knife in front of him. “I think that time traveling screwed with your head.” He cautioned, as he took a step back. “You’ve got wormhole madness. I suggest you take a cold shower.” “Harold…” Harold said. “You know why you always wanted to go to Ancient Greece? Because your life is boring. You are boring. But me? I’m a time traveler.” “You’re an asshole is what you are.” Harold replied. “You want to kill me, don’t you?” “Now you're catching on. You said it yourself! There can’t be two of us! So…” "You said that!" "Did I?" Harold looked down, then he went for the knife. “Wait!” The other Harold held his hands up defensively, then he dug through his pocket. Harold was disappointed. Harold took out a coin. “We do this honorably. Whoever loses has to leave. Find a new identity, I don’t know, whatever. This is the only fair solution.” Harold looked at himself disdainfully, and then sighed. “Fine. I guess that is better than some interdimensional knife fight…” He took the coin and placed it on his thumb, then he flipped it. It came back down and he covered it before looking up at himself. “Call it.” He said. Harold looked down, trying to logically deduce the arbitrary. “Tails.” He chose, finally. The other Harold removed his hand. Heads was facing up. Harold blinked, looking up at himself, then he went for the knife. Harold, surprised, went for the knife as well and they ended up both clutching at it in desperation. Sandy took a right on Highland Avenue, and her mustard yellow house came into view. She was looking forward to a quiet evening after a hectic day at the office. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Employees squabbling. Cutbacks discussed. She imagined a warm bath and a good book were waiting inside that house. From behind the overgrown shrubbery, she could see the lawn come into view, and her driveway, and the red door, and Harold’s diagonal car. Just once, she thought, it would be nice if he could park straight.


Badu was the tenth of his mother’s children. Though the rest of his siblings were average in every way, Badu was born with only one leg. The highest-ranked elder of the town, came to congratulate his mother on Badu’s birth and gifted her with his first cane. Saying, “Until he no longer needs it”. Despite the rumours and his wonky walk, his mother and father thought no less of him. He was their son and that’s what mattered most. But his brothers and sisters did not think like his parents, and they teased him, taking his cane, and running away. There was no way he could ever catch them. When Badu was eight, he went to school, and the boys and girls there teased him too. He wasn’t allowed to join in their games or play with them. All Badu wanted to do was run, like the people at school. Every morning he looked out his window and asked the birds in the trees “You have legs but do not need them, you have wings instead, I wish you would let me borrow them”. There was one boy who Badu was the most envious of. His name was Kofi. “You will never be any good at anything if all you think about is how good other people are” Near the school there was a deep river, it was one of the only places Badu could be himself. During the running games he swam around instead. He would spend all his break in there, usually in the shallows but sometimes diving under to collect pebbles at the bottom. He then used the rocks to pass time skimming them from the bank. Swimming was much easier for Badu; he didn’t need two legs to swim. Kofi, the boy Badu was envious of, was not only fast but also vicious. Badu avoided him as much as possible when they were let out to play. Kofi was training for the big run in the next town over, all the schools from the area were to meet there. Kofi had been picked, as well as nine of the other fastest boys and girls to run in the big race. Everyone was to go with them to support them, and in class they were making banners that had their choice of winner on them. That night he went home to his mother and cried on her lap. His mother laughed and told him, “Just because you are different does not make you a bad person”. Lying in bed that night, he spotted a spider spinning her web in the corner of the room. “Please stop! I must talk to you!” She turned to face him, “What do you want to you talk to me about?” “I need to borrow one of your legs for tomorrow, just for one day. I want to run in the race, to feel the wind rush past my ears, and not to stumble on every step” The sider shook her head, “I cannot do that for you” The boy cried out, “But I have only one leg and you have eight! Why won’t you share?” The spider laughed again, “You do not need legs to achieve greatness”, and with that she scuttled away into the night. The trip to the next town was tiring in the heat of the day, and everyone was thankful to finally be there. The first competitors lined up ready to start the race. The course went around the outside edge of a huge oval shaped lake. Badu and his classmates scattered around to spend the next few hours lazing at the lake. Kofi was in the second round of races. Badu went straight into the lake, it was such a hot day there was no need to stay on the hot dirt, and it was much more comfortable to watch from there. He went to a part halfway through the course, far away from where the crowd was mainly gathered. The runners from the first race had already finished. There was an ear-piercing whistle and they started to run. Kofi quickly fell behind the faster runners. Soon the first runners were passing Badu in the water. They came in sections. So, it was a few minutes before Badu realised, he hadn’t seen Kofi yet. The last time he saw him was at the start of the race. He glanced back at the group of runners. But no, he wasn’t there either. Thinking quickly, Badu swam over to where he last saw Kofi. There was splashing in the water, but he couldn’t see who it was! All the water had brought dirt to the surface and make it hard to see. An arm came out of the water, Badu grabbed it and started pulling the person to the bank, but he was heavy. He pulled as hard as he possibly could. Finally, Kofi’s head bobbed above water. “Paddle your legs Kofi!” Together the two boys managed to get him out of the water. The two boys panted for a minute before catching their breath. “Wow! Thank you, Badu!” Kofi said Badu was too shocked to reply, their teachers came running over after seeing the chaos from the other side of the lake. “What happened? Did Badu pull you in?” They asked. “No! He saved me, I had heatstroke, I fainted and woke up when he was pulling me out, he saved my life!” They started to fuss over them, Badu had never heard so many nice things said about him before. His swimming had saved Kofi’s life. Kofi turned to him “You’re a hero!” Badu’s mother was right - his differences weren’t bad. Instead of being envious of other people’s abilities, he could work on his own, and make his own version of success.


The Inmate By: Jacob Slankard Click… Click… Click… 37-year-old security guard Rick Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned as he checked the prison’s security cameras. Click. A view of the outer wall. Click. A view of the front entrance. Click. A view of the first-floor cells. Click… Click… Click… After he clicked through all the camera feeds, Rick stood up and began walking towards the staff restroom. *I can’t wait for four am so I can leave this hellhole and get shit-faced drunk,* he thought as he walked into the staff restroom. Rick urinated, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, then looked in the mirror. “What the hell!” he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his skin in surprise. Standing next to him in the mirror was a middle-aged Hispanic male wearing a striped prison jumpsuit. Rick yanked his taser out of its holster, spun around, and aimed it at… nothing. He swiveled his head left and right, but the man he saw in the mirror was no longer in the restroom with him. Rick opened the restroom door and glanced around the guard station, but the room was empty. He shook his head and went back to the sink. *I must be going crazy,* he thought as he splashed cold water on his face. Back at his desk, Rick clicked through all the camera feeds again. Click. A view of the recreation yard. Click. A view of the visitation room. Click. A view of the cafeteria. Just as he was about to switch to the next feed, Rick saw something on the screen that caught his attention. Sitting at one of the tables was an inmate staring at the far wall. Rick was examining the feed when the image disappeared into a burst of static. “Come on, you piece of shit,” he muttered while banging on the side of the computer monitor. After a few more seconds of banging the camera feed returned, but the cafeteria was empty. *I know I saw someone,* he thought, getting up and leaving the guard station. Rick walked across the grass to the main prison building and entered. As he walked down the corridor that led to the cafeteria, a whispering sound blew through the corridor. Rick froze in place, staring at something in front of him. Standing a few feet in front of him was the inmate he had seen in the restroom and on the cameras. The inmate was about 6’2” and stout. He was wearing a tattered and stained prison jumpsuit. Rick unholstered his taser and aimed it at the inmate. “How did you get out of your cell?” Rick asked him. The inmate said nothing, only continued to stare vacantly past Rick’s shoulder. Rick took a step towards the inmate and said, “I asked you a question, inmate,” The inmate looked Rick in the eyes as a sinister grin spread across his face. Seeing the grin, Rick took a couple of steps backward. “What are you smiling at?” he asked. In the blink of an eye, the inmate started running full speed towards Rick. “Stop, don’t come any closer!” Rick yelled, tightening his grip on his taser. The inmate ignored him and continued his approach. Rick took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The prongs shot out, but as soon as they touched the inmate, he dissolved into a mist. Rick’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in surprise. “What th-,” he started to say, but was cut off when something slammed into him and knocked him to the ground. Rick rolled onto his back and looked to see what pushed him down, but the corridor was empty. Rick started to get up off the floor but froze when the lights started flickering. *What is going on here?* he thought to himself, starting to feel afraid. As quick as the lights started to flicker, they stopped. *Must have been a power surge,* Rick thought as he got back to his feet and tried to dismiss his fear. He was walking back down to the guard station when the lights went out. Rick fumbled for his flashlight, found it, and switched it on. The bright, powerful beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the inmate that kept on popping up. *I’m losing my mind,* Rick thought, then said, more to himself than anyone else, “You’re not real. You’re just a figment of my imagination.” The inmate smiled and said, “Tell me, Rick, if I’m just a figment of your imagination, how was I able to push you down a few minutes ago?” Rick’s mind scrambled to find an answer to the question but came up with nothing. “Frustrating, isn’t it. It’s amazing how you think something is a figment of your imagination and it turns out to be real and concrete,” the inmate said, slowly walking towards Rick. “What do you want?” Rick asked The inmate stopped approaching and said, “Well, first I want to get out of this body and show you my true form. Then I want to take your body and use it as my host.” “Your true form?” Rick thought out loud, not understanding what he meant. The inmate smiled, then his face started to ripple and deform. Rick watched in horror as the inmate’s face bulged out and ripped open, exposing a pale, sickly grey face. Extremely skinny and hunched over, the creature that burst out of the inmate was about 6’5” and had a bat-like face with horns curling out of its forehead. It flapped its leathery wings and whipped its tail back and forth. Rick watched in wide-eyed terror as the creature leaped across the corridor and landed in front of him. “My true form is frightening, isn’t it?” the creature said in a deep, booming voice. “Wha… Wha… What are you?” Rick stammered. The creature smiled and said, “I’m a demon.” As soon as the demon said this the building started to rumble violently, and the lights flicked on, emitting a deep red glow. Rick lost his balance and fell to the ground, his flashlight rolling a few inches away. The demon took advantage of the situation and jumped on top of Rick, wrapping its tail around his throat. As his airway was restricted, Rick began to beat on the demon with his fists. The demon chuckled, then said, “It’s futile. There’s no way that a puny human like you could defeat a demon of my rank.” Rick groped for his flashlight, grabbed it, then slammed it into the demon’s left temple. The demon moaned in pain as it rolled off Rick. Rick didn’t miss a beat, getting up and running down the corridor. The demon shook off its daze and flew down the corridor, landing in front of Rick. Rick skidded to a stop and turned to run in the other direction, but the demon was faster, its hand flicking out and wrapping around Rick’s throat, squeezing tight. “You’re in good shape for an alcoholic,” the demon said, smiling. “It’s too bad you’re about to die.” “Please… I got a… family,” Rick gasped painfully as memories of his wife and two daughters flashed through his mind. The demon chuckled and said, “Aren’t you just a hypocrite, only thinking about your family when you’re about to die. You should have thought about them when you were getting shit-faced drunk. You should’ve thought about your daughters when they didn’t get any Christmas presents from you for the third year in a row.” As a tear fell from his eye, the demon plunged its hand deep inside Rick’s chest, bones snapping like twigs, and clenched his heart. “Aargh!” Rick coughed up blood that was pooling in his throat as agonizing pain pulsed through his body. The demon’s tongue shot out and licked the blood off Rick’s face. The demon, satisfied that it had caused him enough pain, ripped Rick’s heart out of his chest and threw his body to the side. The demon lifted the heart to its mouth and took a bite out of it. It closed its eyes and savored the meaty texture of the heart, the finished it in three bites. After consuming Rick’s heart the demon began to ripple and change. The demon doubled over in pain as patches of skin appeared and began to spread all over its body. Once the skin covered its whole body, the demon stood straight up. The face it now wore was the face of Rick Thomas. The demon lifted its face to the camera on the ceiling and smiled. 1 week later… Mallory Thomas noticed a dramatic change in her husband Rick’s behavior but satisfied her curiosity with the idea that he realized his problems and received help. Life went happily on until two months later when the Thomas family mysteriously disappeared, sparking a missing-persons case that to this day hasn’t been solved. The End.


I think Grandma Mabel is the nicest person in the whole world. Mama used to say that everyone says mean things sometimes, even when they’re a good person, but I’ve never heard Grandma Mabel say a bad thing not once. She makes the best cakes and pies and tarts but the best by far is her honey. She has a big hive full of bees and they’re so friendly! Sometimes I’m allowed to put my hand inside and get some honey on my finger. The bees come and sit on my hand but I’m not afraid of getting stung because they’re Grandma Mabel’s bees, and everything about Grandma Mabel is nice. After school, my little brother Roger and I go to Grandma Mabel’s house for tea and cake. She has the biggest garden I’ve ever seen and she says we’re allowed to go anywhere we like in it, so long as we don’t upset the flowers. Flowers have feelings, Grandma Mabel says. We have to be very careful to not make them sad by doing things like not giving them enough water, or by stepping on them. Roger doesn’t care about the flowers as much as I do, but I think it’s fun to look after them. Grandma Mabel showed me how to fill up her watering can and how to get out all the nasty weeds from the flowerbed. She said I could be a gardener or a florist when I grow up! Roger prefers helping Grandma Mabel with her baking. I like the cakes and pies, but I like flowers more so I let him do the baking instead of me. She makes all these amazing cakes with the flowers from the garden, so they look all colourful and taste delicious! I would never think of doing something like that. It’s so clever. She makes sure to only take a little bit of the flowers so they won’t be upset and will grow back. We even made lavender cookies last week. I grew the lavender, which is a sort of purple-y plant with a nice smell, and Roger made them into biscuits. Grandma Mabel was so proud of us. I said to Roger that we should have a bakery when we’re older with a big garden behind it. I tried to bring back some of the biscuits to give to Papa, but he was in one of his bad moods. He hit me on my face, which really hurt, but I didn’t cry because Roger was there and I knew he would get scared. Papa said he talked to the priest and the priest said that we were children of Lucifer and that we were sinful. He called us a word beginning with b. I can’t remember what the word was but he sounded angry when he said it, so I don’t think it was a nice word. Roger asked me when I put him to bed if we were really children of sin, but I don’t think we are. I read my Bible at school and I say my prayers too, so I told him that as long as we follow God’s word we will be alright. My cheek got all hot and sore the next day, and it was hard to eat because it was bigger than usual. Then the mom of one of the girls in my class came up to me in the playground and said she hoped I was happy spreading my Devil’s filth. She said she wasn’t going to keep her daughter at a school that allowed me to stay in it. I felt secretly happy, because her daughter is Moira, and Moira liked to pull my hair and steal my food at lunchtime just because she’s bigger. Then I felt a bit bad because I saw Moira crying when she left school. I told Grandma Mabel about what happened. She got all sad when I asked her if the priest was right and said that he was wrong and that I shouldn’t worry. I trust her more than that creepy old guy anyways. On our way home Grandma Mabel’s neighbour called us the b-word that Papa said and tried to throw a dog turd at us. It didn’t hit me, but it went on one of Grandma Mabel’s flowers and she made the face that Papa makes when he’s real angry. I don’t think she was angry at me though, cause she just told us to be careful going home and that she’d deal with it. I asked her what she was going to do, and she said she was just going to bring the neighbour some honey. Honey makes everyone a bit kinder, she said, it’s so sweet that they would feel happier after eating it. That makes sense because I always feel better when I have some of Grandma Mabel’s honey. I went to school the next day, but then Miss Philips told me to go home because there had been an ‘incident’. I didn’t know what that was, so I asked her and she got this funny face. Miss Philips said that Moira’s mom had died yesterday, and Moira said that she didn’t want me here for the funeral so I had to go home. I felt a bit sad because it wasn’t like I did anything wrong, but then Moira came to school and started crying and screaming at me saying it was my fault, so I left. I promise I didn’t do anything though. God says that killing is bad, and we should always follow God’s rules. I went to Grandma Mabel’s instead. She looked a bit confused to see me because it was a school day, and Roger wasn’t there, but I couldn’t go home because Papa would get mad. I got to help her plant lots of new flowers! It was really exciting. She got a big order of some new ones just today and we planted them all nicely in the corner of the garden next to the beehive. Grandma Mabel said that she bought them because the types of flowers that bees use for their honey makes it taste different. They collect this thing called nectar, which is when you see them going around and wiggling into the flowers. Every type of nectar is different and they use it to make honey! I didn’t know it was so complicated! There were lots of different plants. Grandma Mabel said I mustn’t eat any of them, which I wouldn’t do with any of the plants anyway, but these plants aren’t good for humans. Only bees like them. There were some bright pink ones, some long skinny ones with little white flowers, some purple ones that grew upwards in straight lines, and ones with little purple berries. As well as some droopy purple ones that looked like little hats and white ones that looked like little bells. She told me all the names, but I can’t really remember them. My favourites were the pink ones though. They were so bright and cheerful! Luckily next week I was allowed to go back to school. The other kids in my class were being mean to me though. Moira had to move schools because of her mom, but I think she was already going to move because of what her mom said the other day. I don’t know why they’re all so unkind to me. One of the boys who sits next to me in English class said that because my hair is red, it means that I’m evil. I didn’t know that. I think there’s a lot that I don’t know. When Roger and I got to Grandma Mabel’s, she’d made a whole new batch of honey from the flowers I planted with her! I was excited to try some, but she said she had some special honey that was just for us and I felt really special. Because of my help, the bees really liked the flowers and had been making loads all weekend. She even got to give some out to people in the village already! Grandma Mabel’s special honey was the best I’ve ever tasted. I told her she needs to make enough for a lifetime supply, and she laughed. Then she looked a bit serious and said that the priest had died today. The sheriff said it was an accident, his heart had gone all funny and then stopped at dinnertime. “Is it my fault?” I asked. “Cause Moira’s mom died on Friday, and she said it was my fault.” Grandma Mabel looked at me and Roger with a calm look. Well, it wasn’t really calm, but I don’t know how to describe it. She hadn’t made that face before and it was a little scary. “Callie, Roger, listen to me. Whatever anyone says, you must know that they’re wrong. None of this is your fault at all, and you’re the best kids I’ve ever known. Don’t listen to anything anyone says about you.” She gave me a big hug afterwards, and she smelled nice. I think she was crying when we went home. Papa usually waited for us at home, but that day he didn’t come out. He doesn’t like us coming into his room when he doesn’t tell us to, and the last time I did he hit me so hard on the backside that it started bleeding. I called him from outside the room and said “Papa, we’re home,” but he didn’t say anything. It was a little weird. But he was probably just drinking again so I made Roger dinner and then went to bed. Everything got a little weird after that. The horrid neighbour who threw a dog turd into Grandma Mabel’s flowerbed died after Moira’s mom and the priest. The sheriff had to make a speech to the town because everyone was getting really scared, and the school sent everyone home. No one knew why people were dying. I called Grandma Mabel from the phone at home and asked her if she was scared because her neighbour had died, but she just said that she was okay. The neighbour was mean anyway. It was really boring at home. A couple more people died, like the old man down our road who’d hit me with a walking stick once. The sheriff said that everyone should stay in their houses as much as possible so that they could do an investigation, but I wanted to visit Grandma Mabel. She said on the phone that she’d been giving out honey to people to make them feel better because everyone was so anxious. I asked if it was okay for us to come and stay, and she said that would be lovely. When I went to ask Papa, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t come out of his room for a few days now, so Roger and I were getting very hungry (I’m not a very good cook). There was a bad smell coming from his room, too. It was kind of gross so we just left and went to Grandma Mabel’s. When we got there, Grandma Mabel had run out of honey, because she’d been giving it out to people all week. But we still had the rest of the jar of special honey from last time, and she said she’d make some more for us. She had such a big house, and Roger and I got our own rooms! They were all clean and tidy and smelled so nice, and the beds were all made, like when Mama was still alive. A little part of me hopes that Papa doesn’t come out of his room for a while so that we can stay as long as we want. Grandma Mabel doesn’t hit us or drink until she yells and makes us scared. She makes us nice lunches and plays with us in the garden and gives us warm hugs. She’s the loveliest person ever. The next week, four more people died. ‘Under mysterious circumstances’, Grandma Mabel said. But none of us were sad, because they weren’t nice people just like before. One of them was Miss Philips from school. They had to keep the school closed for another week because of it. I asked Grandma Mabel what she thought was happening. She said that she thinks it’s all God’s plan and that he’s getting rid of all the nasty people so only the nice ones are left. “Are they going to Hell?” I questioned. “I think so. If you’re horrible to a child, then you should go to Hell. At least, that’s my opinion,” Grandma Mabel replied. “Well, then that’s my opinion too,” I said, and Grandma Mabel laughed. Yesterday, Grandma Mabel sat us down and asked us if we’d like to go and live with her somewhere else. Because of all the people dying, the village wasn’t very safe anymore. She said that she’d talked to Papa on the phone when we were asleep and that he was ok with it. I was a bit surprised because Papa doesn’t like us even leaving the house usually, but if he says it’s okay, then it must be! We’re going to go across the country tomorrow. I’m so excited! Grandma Mabel says we’re moving somewhere sunny and warm with an even bigger house. Her sister and her husband live there, and they have grandchildren that are the same age as me and Roger. We’re even going to take the bees too, so we can make more honey together! Grandma Mabel really must be the nicest person in the world.


# 4. The Rise and Fall of Crooked Larry All Maggie wanted to do was ask Adam about the possession, but a bet was a bet. From word one, it was clear that Larry wasn’t going to last. When Maggie floated down from the top of the tree toward his position near the ground, he recoiled in shock and tried to kick his way backward. Of course, this had no effect other than making him look slightly ridiculous as he flailed midair, but Maggie understood the impulse. “Begone, demon!” Larry shouted. “God does not suffer evildoers like you!” “Christ, Adam, you killed a zealot.” Those with faith never lasted long in Maggie’s experience. There was something particularly demoralizing about being confronted with the absolute fact that, if there was a god, they had a blind spot. “I am on my way to eternal rest!” “Yeah, if that’s true, then you’ve taken a bit of a detour.” It wasn’t the most tactful way to go about it, but Maggie didn’t suffer religion much. As far as she was concerned, the word of God was used to persecute and commit heinous acts while still being able to sleep at night. There were of course religions around the world that preached tolerance, but not in the west. In the west, there was good ol’ bible-thumping, and anything else saw you swinging from the end of a rope or taking a bullet in a back alley. “This c-can’t be,” the man stammered, running his hands through one another, no doubt fascinated by the complete lack of feeling in anything. “Those men, this has to be some kind of a mistake.” For once, Maggie agreed with him. “What’s your name?” “Larry. Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God.” “How is it that you came to be in such mixed company, Larry¸ Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God?” Maggie let the sarcasm drip with every word of the man’s title. “I—” he faltered as Adam appeared over the curve of the hill, still steaming from his run-in with the barrier. “That’s the demon I saw just moments before the end!” Larry tried to tilt his head to get a better look, but found it stuck at an extreme angle. Like Adam, he also sported a neat hole in his forehead, making them look as though they might have belonged to the same sect of some obscure cult. Maggie chuckled at the notion and immediately regretted it. “Is something funny about this?” Larry found his way to a semi-upright float, swelling up with righteous indignation. He tried to adjust his neck again, but frustrated, settled for hovering at an angle to make the world look straight. Otis floated down to join the conversation. “I see Maggie’s giving you the warm welcome you deserve.” “Oh yes, Larry here was telling me all about how this is some kind of mistake.” Otis sighed. “Yeah, well he’s not wrong about that.” Adam approached with excitement and no sense of caution. “Did you see that? I was in that man’s body!” “I saw you get shot out the other side like an imbecile.” Maggie was impressed, but she didn’t want to inflate Adam’s head any larger than it already was. “Maybe next time you might save a life instead of taking one.” “YOU, DEMON!” shouted Larry. “I’m not a demon.” Adam backed away slightly. “But, look, sorry about that whole mess back there. You were about to be hung…” Otis nodded in agreement. “Kid’s got a point, and I don’t say that often.” “Why, God?!” Larry tried to look up, but couldn’t quite manage it without floating sideways. “Look, I’m sorry about that, but I think I might have a way to get us out of here.” Adam’s eyes were beaming, filled with newfound excitement. Maggie also felt a twinge of hope but did her best not to show it. “That seems like a far leap from one quick possession.” “Well, it’s a step in the right direction!” “Possession is the work of The Devil!” shouted Larry. “Oh please, there’s no Devil and no God here, just the four of us.” “Blasphemer!” Adam grew frustrated and ignored Larry. “Don’t you see? If we can get back to the physical world, even for a moment, then we have a chance of destroying the barrier penning us in .” Maggie thought it over. “You might be right, but the incantations keeping us here were made by the Shoshoni, and I don’t know how you’re going to break them.” “I’m through with this demon speak!” Otis floated in front of Larry, partially obscuring the other two spirits. “Why don’t you and I go have a talk, Larry? We can discuss the religious implications of our predicament, while these two heathens keep on with whatever it is they’re blabbering about.” He gave Larry a big smile and motioned toward the tree. Larry eyed Otis suspiciously, eventually consenting. “Whatever gets me away from him.” He jabbed a finger in Adam’s direction. “I said I was sorry!” “Let it go, kid.” She mouthed ‘thank you’ as Otis shepherded Larry away. Otis gave her a curt nod. “I’m definitely going to owe him for that one. Listen, if Otis is having ‘the talk’ with him, Larry will be gone by nightfall.” Over the years, Otis had honed the skill of talking people into the ground. As it turned out, not everyone who was hung was pleasant, and the peaceful repose the two of them had cultivated could be easily undone. Maggie would have felt bad about it, but all the spirits stayed underground of their own volition. Unlike the circle around the hill, no one was forcefully keeping them there. She waited to be sure Otis and Larry were out of earshot before continuing. “Alright, kid, how did you do it?” Excitement flashed back into Adam’s eyes. “I’m not sure. I got angry, like really angry, and the next thing I knew I was running. It felt like passing through a spiderweb or something, and then I was back in the land of the living. I actually felt the breeze on my skin.” Maggie savored the sensation that ran through her at the idea of feeling the wind. She was comfortable in her afterlife, but there were things she missed. “I could try to teach you.” Maggie reserved her excitement, knowing that if they failed, Adam would be insufferable again. “Teach me how to get angry and run at someone?” Adam rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not sure how it works but you speak Shawshanee.” “Shoshoni,” she corrected him. “Right, but you speak it, so you could possess one of the hangmen and get us out of here.” “I haven’t had the opportunity to practice in almost fifteen years. Best I could manage is basic conversation. But, assuming I could figure out a way, how do we know I’ll even be able to stay in long enough to break the barrier?” “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Maggie looked around at the desert. The last thing she wanted to do was have Adam teach her anything. The kid was arrogant, privileged, and too damned unstable, but it was hard to ignore what he had done. “Fine, but I’m not going to call you sir or show you any deference.” Adam whooped with joy; the sound more haunting than he had expected. “Let’s check on Otis.” As they turned around, Maggie caught sight of Larry’s head passing through the dirt, an expression of righteousness on his face. Otis was standing above him, muttering some words that sounded vaguely like a prayer. When Larry had fully submerged, Maggie and Adam floated over. “Didn’t know you were religious, Otis.” Otis made a shushing sound with his finger and motioned for them to float away. When they were a safe distance away from Larry’s ‘rest’, he spoke. “I went to church a few times in town, before it became clear I wasn’t welcome, but I’ve got a dang good memory. I just pieced together a few prayers and sermons that fit my goal, and next thing you know, Larry’s convinced he’s waiting for God underneath that soil.” Adam looked disgusted, but also impressed. “Damn, old timer.” “Who you calling old timer? Besides, I was saving your ass from months of religious repentance at his hand.” “Don’t worry, Otis, you’ll forgive the kid if what we’re talking about works. We’ve got a plan.


Dragons are neither mythical nor magical. Merely rare. When humans think of us, many things leap to their minds. Many of those things are untrue. Others are not. We do, for example, have a tendency to hoard treasure, but what constitutes treasure to a dragon is individual. I’ve never met one of my kind who actually hoards gold, though some do, I’m sure. I, myself, hoard books. Most dragons would frown on me for collecting objects of human origin. Most dragons would frown on me for making my lair in a human structure. But my predilection for their writings necessitates proximity to those who would harm me. I am careful not to be seen by humans and I feel no need to defend my treasure of choice. Some of them tell wonderful tales. I stretched out on the platform of the abandoned subway station in which I live, enjoying my third attempt at understanding more than seventy percent of *Blood Meridian* by Cormac McCarthy when a noise broke my attention away from the pages. An old man lay collapsed between the disused rails of my entrance tunnel. A Niagara of lank, filthy hair poured out from under his Yankees baseball cap. His clothes were ripped and dirty. A bottle in a brown paper sack he had been clutching nestled beside him. I snaked my head between the support columns lining the platform to get a closer look at him. He looked unwell. One of the thousands of “tempest-tost” to whom this city promised illusory refuge. I suppose he must have drunkenly wandered his way into my lair, likely unknowing of his own actions. No human sound of mind would walk the subway tunnels let alone chance upon the hidden entrance of my home. As I scrutinized his shallow breathing form, a well of unexpected pity opened within me. This pathetic creature posed no threat. It was clear he led a life as lonely as my own, though for him it was not by choice. I folded my wings close to my body and moved closer. I grasped his limp frame, careful not to graze him with my talons as I lifted. I lowered him to the concrete station floor amidst my mountains of books and his glassy eyes cracked open. He looked up at me, swimming in delirium, for a moment before his eyes closed again. I found a blanket and laid it over his huddled curling body. He swooned in and out of consciousness. I have read that for humans, extreme abuse of alcohol can sometimes produce hallucinations. I believe he must have thought I was one such delusion. Late into the night, he began to shake and quiver beneath the blanket. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I crouched over the sickly man. “I wish I could help you,” I said. His agitated trembling seemed to be growing worse. “I wish I knew what to do.” His eyes were open but glazed in feverish half-sight. He curled a fistful of blanket to his face and muttered. I lowered my head closer. “What did you say?” I asked. Sour tears crept along the furrows of his nose peaking above the blanket. “Said ‘m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry for what? You’re not…” I trailed off. He didn’t seem to be speaking to me. “’M sorry, mom…’m so sorry…didn’t mean t’be like this.” “It…it’s OK, son,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. “…It’s OK, sweetheart.” I smoothed some of his greasy hair along his cheek with a talon, uncertain if this would bring any sort of comfort. Perhaps my voice sounded like his mother’s, I reasoned. His glossy eyes focused momentarily on the heaping tomes stacked all around us. “Will…will you read t’me?” he whispered. “Like you used to?” “Of course, dear…what would you like me to read?” “Th’one you always read…when I was sick…Th’chocolate factory.” There could only be one book to which he was referring. I weaved my head and neck between the towers of leather and paper until I found *Charlie and the Chocolate Factory* by Roald Dahl. I carefully slid it out from the pile with my teeth and returned to the man. I transferred the book to my claws and opened it, laying my head down beside him. “*These two very old people…*” I began. His bearing relaxed visibly but his tremors aggressed. I read. I did voices for each character. I turned the book to show him the illustrations, though I’m uncertain if he really saw them. He quaked. He listened. He thanked. He apologized to his mother. To me. I voiced Charlie on the final page. “’*Please don’t be frightened,’ he said. ‘It’s quite safe. And we’re going to the most wonderful place in the world!’*” A few lines remained, but I stopped reading as the man’s movements broke my attention away from the pages. His eyes clenched shut and a few violent spasms later, he lay still.


"Harold?" "Harold!" His wife's shrieking voice circumnavigated their tiny home planet. There was no escaping it. He could be on the other side of the world and still hear: "Harold! I need you to—" "Yes, dear," he said, sighing and stubbing out his unfinished cigarette on an ash stained rock. He walked home. "There you are," his wife said. "What were you doing?" Before he could answer: "I need you to clean the gutters. They're clogged with stardust again." "Yes, dear." Harold slowly retrieved his ladder from the shed and propped it against the side of their house. He looked at the stars above, wondering how long he'd been married and whether things had always been like this. He couldn't remember. There had always been the wife. There had always been their planet. "Harold!" Her voice pierced him. "Yes, dear?" "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to clean the gutters?" "Clean the gutters," he said. He went up the ladder and peered into the gutters. They were indeed clogged with stardust. Must be from the last starshower, he thought. It had been a powerful one. His wife watched with her hands on her hips. Harold got to work. "Harold?" his wife said after a while. If there was one good thing about cleaning the gutters, it was that his wife's voice sounded a little quieter up here. "Yes, dear?" "How is it going?" "Good, dear." "When will you be done?" He wasn't sure. "Perhaps in an hour or two," he said. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, but don't come down until you're done." He wouldn't have dared. Three hours later, he was done. The gutters were clean and the sticky stardust had been collected into several containers. He carried each carefully down the ladder, and went inside for dinner. After eating, he reclined in his favourite armchair and went to light his pipe— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" "Have you disposed of the stardust?" He put the pipe down. "Not yet." His hand hovered, dreading the words he knew were coming. He was so comfortable in his armchair. "You should dispose of the stardust, Harold." "Yes, dear." He emptied the stardust from each container onto a wheelbarrow, and pushed the wheelbarrow to the other side of the world. He gazed longingly at the ash stained rock. He had a cigarette in his pocket. There was no way she— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" he yelled. "How is it going?" "Good, dear." His usual way of disposing of stardust was to dig a hole and bury it. However, in his haste he had forgotten his shovel. He pondered whether to go back and get it, but decided that there would be no harm in simply depositing the stardust on the ground and burying it later. He tipped the wheelbarrow forward and the stardust poured out. It twinkled beautifully in the starlight, and Harold touched it with his hand. It was malleable but firm. He took a bunch and shaped it into a ball. Then he threw the ball. The stardust kept its shape. Next Harold sat and began forming other shapes of the stardust, and those shapes became castles and the castles became more complex and— "Harold?" "Yes, dear?" "Are you finished?" "Almost." Harold went to kick down his stardust castle to destroy the evidence of his play time only to find that he couldn't. The construction was too solid. Something in the stardust had changed. He bent down and a took a little unshaped stardust into his hand, then spread it across his palm until he could make out the individual grains. Then he took one grain and placed it carefully next to another. They joined. He added a third and fourth. "Harold?" But for the first time since he could rememeber, Harold ignored his wife. He was too busy adding grains of stardust together until they were not grains but a strand, and a stiff strand at that. "Harold?" Once he'd made the strand long enough, it became effectively a stick. "Harold!" He thrust the stick angrily into the ground— And it stayed. "Harold, answer me!" He pushed the stick, but it was firmly planted. Every time he made it lean in any direction, it rebounded as soon as he stopped applying pressure, wobbled and came eventually to rest in its starting position. He kept adding grains to the top of the stick until it was too high to reach. "Harold, don't make me come out there. Do you hear?" Harold stuffed stardust into his pockets and began to climb the impossibly thin tower he had built. It was surprisngly easy. The stickiness of the stardust provided ample grip. As he climbed, he added grains. "Harold! Come here this instant! I'm warning you. If I have to go out there to find you…" His wife's voice sounded a little more remote from up here, and with every grain added and further distance ascended, more and more remote. Soon Harold was so far off the ground he could see his own house, and his wife trudging angrily away from it. "Harold," she was saying distantly. "Harold, that's it. Today you have a crossed a line. You are a bad husband, Harold. A lazy, good for nothing—" She had spotted Harold's stardust tower and was heading for it. Harold looked up at the stars and realized that soon he would be among them. Not far now. He saw his wife reach the base of the tower, but if she was saying something, he could no longer hear it. He had peace at last. He hugged the stardust and basked in the silence. Suddenly the tower began to sway—to wobble— Harold held on. He saw far below the tiny figure of his wife violently shaking the tower. There became a resonance. Then a sound, but this was not the sound of his wife. It was far grander and more spatial— *Somewhere in the universe a new particle vibrated into existence.