CW: mentions of pet death, physical violence/harm, blood It may have been a 10-inch tall porcelain statue, but it meant everything to Jack and his family. It was white, shaped like a dog, and decorated with tiny painted pink and purple flowers that circled its neck like a collar. Its eyes were painted black and seemed to be alive, watching over the family with benevolence. It had been given to the family after their dog, Buster, had died in his sleep one night. Ever since then, the statue had become their most prized possession. Jack was dreaming that he was running his fingers through Buster’s orange and white fur when he was awoken by his mother shaking him and saying, “It’s time to wake up. The Redfields are coming over.”  A surge of anger chased away Jack’s tiredness. The Redfields were an older couple who were the richest family in town. They were known for their greed and inability to care about anyone, even each other. People suspected that they only married each other for the money. Jack pushed aside his threadbare blanket and got out of bed. After putting on a pair of worn trousers and slipping a red shirt over his head, he left his room and walked to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Redfield were sitting at the table, looking at him with disdain.

“Can’t you hide that disgusting scar somehow?” was Mrs. Redfield’s first comment. Jack shifted his head to the side to hide his glare and let his messy black hair cover the crescent-shaped scar under his left eye. He had gotten it after he had accidentally cut himself trying to steal food from the Redfields’ enormous pantry, which was the size of one of the rooms in his house, and the couple never let him forget it.

Jack opened his mouth to answer when, after his parents and little sister had sat down at the table, Mr. Redfield said, “You know why we’re here, Mr. Blueridge.” “For the last time, we’re not giving you the statue!” yelled Jack’s father. “It’s not for sale!” “A pretty statue like that doesn’t deserve to sit in your filthy house collecting dust,” snapped Mrs. Redfield. The Blueridges’ eyes widened. “What did you say?” growled Jack’s mother, clenching her fist so hard that her knuckles turned white. “It’s just the truth,” Mr. Redfield said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. Jack wanted to punch him right in his stupid, ruddy face. “Beside,” he continued, “you’ll get more money from the statue than you could ever make yourselves.” “But it’s really special to us,” said Jack’s sister, Annalise, who was only six years old. She sniffled. “Why are you being so mean?” Her big eyes filled with tears. Jack put a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning to the Redfields. “It’s not for sale,” he asserted, repeating the words his parents had told the older couple time and time again. “We’re not going to change our minds.” Mrs. Redfield sighed and shook her head, her graying brown hair bobbing. “It’s a shame you can’t see reason,” she told them, her voice almost a whine. “I feel so sorry for you. Living in all this”—she looked around the cluttered, dusty house—“must be so hard for you.” If faked emotion was money, the amount in her voice could provide for the Blueridges for life. Mr. Redfield stood up, and his wife followed suit. “Well, we should be going,” said the former. “You—you haven’t even eaten yet,” said Mr. Blueridge in confusion. “You said you were coming to eat, and—” “We changed our minds,” Mrs. Redfield snapped. Before the Blueridges could say anything, she and her husband stomped out of the house, letting the door slam shut behind them. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Jack was trembling with rage, his teeth gritted so hard they hurt. They would pay for this. That night, Jack climbed into bed. Ideas of revenge swirled in his mind as he stared up at the cobweb-filled ceiling. He was wide awake. Hours passed. The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway penetrated the silence of the darkened house. Right as Jack’s eyelids had begun to feel heavy, he heard the floorboards creak with heavy footsteps. He shut his eyes, staying perfectly still even though his heart was pounding. None of his family’s footsteps sounded like that. The footsteps came toward his room, and he briefly felt someone watching him before the floorboards squeaked in the opposite direction. There was a sound like a heavy object being moved, and the noise of the footsteps dwindled. After the thudding sound of the door shutting, there was complete silence, save for the clock’s ticking. Just when Jack was falling asleep, sunlight shone through his window, temporarily blinding him. He sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. A cry pierced the air, followed by loud sobbing. Jack ran into the living room and found Annalise gazing at the mantelpiece in horror. “The statue! It’s gone!” She ran to Jack, wrapped her arms around him, and cried into his shirt, her tears staining the fabric. Mr. and Mrs. Blueridge joined them, their eyes wide and their cheeks wet. Anger surged through Jack’s veins. You’ll pay for this, Redfields. Even if it kills me.

One night, Jack stood outside the metal gate of the Redfields’ picturesque white mansion. The rain beat the ground, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. Jack gripped the bars of the gate in one hand and the handle of his umbrella in the other. Every time lightning struck, accompanied by a loud crack, Jack slammed the umbrella handle against the lock of the gate. His heart was pounding with fear and his nerves were crackling with energy, causing his whole body to tremble. Finally, after almost an hour, the lock broke and the gate swung open. Jack sprinted across the vast front yard, dotted with small oak trees and neatly-trimmed bushes. A clothesline was hung from two trees on the right side of the house. A servant was gathering the laundry hanging from the glinting wire while trying to avoid the pouring rain.

Jack swung the umbrella at the servant’s head with such force that the man dropped the laundry and hit the trunk of one of the trees, falling unconscious. Clutching his umbrella and ducking low to the ground, Jack ran up to the house and peeked into a window.

He found himself looking at a dining room with a table in the center that stretched almost from one end of the room to the other and filled with silver plates and ornate wooden chairs. Perpendicular to the table was a gilded fireplace with flames crackling loudly inside and a white painted mantelpiece decorated with various pictures, figurines, and— A porcelain dog statue. Jack’s heart leaped. He attempted to open the window, but he soon discovered that it was locked from the inside. During lightning strikes, he summoned all his strength and thrust the point of the umbrella at the glass until the glass shattered. He dove inside the house, shards crunching under his feet. He raced to the mantelpiece, dropping the umbrella and reaching out his hand to grab the dog statue. In his mind’s eye, he saw Buster turning toward him, smiling and panting, his tongue lolling— Gunshots echoed in the silence. Bullets hit Jack’s chest and stomach. He collapsed, blood quickly staining his shirt and the floor around him. The pain was all he knew. Mr. Redfield came into his field of vision, holding a rifle. Mrs. Redfield was at his side. While she grabbed the statue and checked it for damage, Mr. Redfield glared at him. “Dirty thief,” he growled, spitting in Jack’s face. He smiled evilly. “Now do you know not to mess with other people’s belongings?” “It… belongs… to us!” Jack gasped, anger joining his pain. “Curse you… curse you!” “The curses of the dead have no meaning,” said Mr. Redfield, leveling the rifle at Jack’s heart and pulling the trigger. *** Not long after the blood had been scrubbed from the floorboards and the window had been repaired, the mantelpiece found itself in need of a good dusting. Duster in hand, Mrs. Redfield attacked the painted wood until there was not a mite of dust to be found. When she turned to clean the dog statue, its painted eyes moved to look at her. She screamed and dropped the duster. “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with it!” she told her husband one night at dinner. Mr. Redfield shrugged. “You’re probably just being delusional. Besides, we can’t get rid of it. It’s a beautiful statue, and we worked so hard to get it.” “You’re right,” said his wife, nodding. There was no use in arguing with her husband. Both of them gazed proudly at the porcelain statue.

All of a sudden, Mr. Redfield gave a loud cry.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Mrs. Redfield.

Her husband pointed a shaking finger at the statue. “It moved! I swear, it moved by itself!” Mrs. Redfield followed his finger to the statue, which had moved three inches to the right seemingly on its own.

One rainy night, the Redfields had invited the Greendales, another well-off family, to dine with them. The Greendales complimented the statue with more vigor than the Redfields thought necessary and kept gazing at it over their wine cups (or water, for the kids), so between bites of caviar, the Redfields made sure to inform them, with venom dripping from every word, that the statue was not for sale.

Then, one of the Greendale children, a six-year-old boy, interrupted the conversation by saying to his mother, “Mommy, why is that statue floating?” His mother chuckled. “Don’t be silly. Statues can’t float—”

The rest of her words were swallowed by a shriek as she saw that the statue was levitating a few inches off the mantlepiece.

All of a sudden, the statue’s eyes flashed red, lightning crashed, and the power went out, bathing the room in darkness. Everyone screamed.

Eventually, the servants were able to get the backup generator running, and the house was once more filled with light.

Although the Greendales finished their meal, they never dined with the Redfields again.

“That stupid statue!” raved Mr. Redfield, pacing up and down the bedroom he shared with his wife. “Because of it, those Greendales won’t talk to us anymore! It’s cursed, I tell you!” “That’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time!” cried Mrs. Redfield, wringing her hands. “Should we get rid of it?” Mr. Redfield turned on her. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “You want to throw away this thing, this beautiful thing? Are you insane!?” “Are you insane!? Have you forgotten when the statue levitated in front of”—she quickly thought—“ five people, not including us!? How about when it moved on its own or when it looked at me!? I don’t want to get rid of it any more than you do, but I’m starting to think that keeping it around wouldn’t be such a good idea—” There was a loud crash, followed by a scream. The Redfields followed the noise into the dining room, where a servant girl was pressed against the wall, chest heaving. The remains of a chair littered the floor next to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she panted. “I—I was just going to mop the floor when one of the chairs— it threw itself at me! And that dog statue— it was— its eyes—” Her voice dissolved into sobs.

Mrs. Redfield looked at her husband as if to say, See?

Mr. Redfield looked at the statue over his shoulder. It appeared to be perfectly normal. But the way its white paint and the little pink and purple flowers that encircled its neck reflected the light and the way its eyes seemed to sparkle made it look like something from heaven.

He and his wife would later learn that it would become something from hell.

The next few months were littered with smaller incidents that caused the Redfields no less anguish than a power outage or a tossed chair. Things would mysteriously disappear and turn up days later in strange places. Doors would open and close of their own accord, and sometimes one of the Redfields would hear footsteps behind them, only to find that no one was there.

The number of people who came to visit the house dwindled until the Redfields rarely received guests anymore. Everyone was saying that they wouldn’t eat with the Redfields even if you paid them.

Things got to a point where the Redfields ate in their rooms and told the servants not to go anywhere near the dining room.

The strange incidents continued, but the Redfields couldn’t bring themselves to throw away the statue. It had become one of their most prized possessions, whether they liked it or not.

One evening, the Redfields were forced to step foot in the dining room for the first time in weeks because the town was having its worst cold spell since 1987 and the dining room was the only room in the mansion with a fireplace.

The couple seated themselves as close to the crackling flames and as far away from the statue as they possibly could.

None of the servants were allowed to warm up with them. They were the most important people in this house, heck, in this entire town! Why should mere servants be permitted to share in the warmth of their fireplace? Right after the Redfields felt significantly warmed up, they moved to leave when the dog statue began to vibrate. Mrs. Redfield groaned. “Not again…!”

Then, despite the flames, the room was blanketed with a sudden chill. The Redfields began to tremble with fear.

Suddenly, words appeared on the wall to their right, written in fresh blood dripping down the white and mint-green wallpaper.

YOU’RE DEAD.

“Run!” gasped Mrs. Redfield, pulling her husband away from the fireplace just as the flames inside swelled, setting the mantle alight and quickly spreading throughout the area, surrounding the couple. Smoke filled the air, and the room became stiflingly hot.

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Mr. Redfield. “You didn’t seem to be cursed before! How have you become something straight out of those stupid movies!? ANSWER ME!!!” The flames engulfed the table and chairs and rapidly spread to the ceiling, eating up the wallpaper and concrete with supernatural speed and power.

Then, blood began to drip from the walls, slowly at first but then getting faster and faster until it seemed to rain down on them. They screamed.

“Are you possessed!?” Mr. Redfield shrieked at the statue. “Like that doll in that dumb franchise!?” “Who!?” cried Mrs. Redfield. “Who are you!?”

Then, pieces of the ceiling began to fall around them, lights shattering and debris hitting the ground and exploding into smaller chunks that pierced their clothes and their skin. The two of them bolted for the door, but an unseen force pulled them back to the fireplace, which was somehow mostly intact.

A small chunk of concrete hit the statue’s pointed face.

Mrs. Redfield shrieked loudly and pointed a shaking finger at the porcelain dog.

The debris had given it a small crescent-shaped scar below its left eye.

“IT WAS YOU!” the couple screamed, sobbing. Their legs gave out, and they fell to their knees. “CURSE YOU, CURSE YOU!!!” The blood trickling from the wall by the fireplace formed words. THE CURSES OF THE DEAD HAVE NO MEANING. Meanwhile, holes appeared on the statue’s chest and blood began to drip from them. Gore continue to sweat from what was left of the walls and ceiling. The fire had already consumed the kitchen and was now spreading to the rest of the house. Smoke was filling the Redfields’ lungs and the heat had gone beyond oppressive, but the couple was still staring dumbly at the porcelain dog. Finally, the Redfields stood and moved to flee, but a piece of the ceiling fell in their path. Turning, they bolted to the window, but more debris dropped in their way. Mr. Redfield looked back at the statue, which was perfectly intact. He recalled the number of times he and his wife had traveled to the Blueridges’ house to convince the family to sell them the statue. He remembered how the beautiful porcelain dog had caught his eye, how it had sparkled in the sunlight. He met his wife’s eyes, and he knew she was remembering the same thing. They turned and sprinted back to the fireplace, sweating profusely and breathing hard. They reached out their hands toward the statue. They were close, so close— Then, the rafters collapsed, crushing them. The last thing they saw was the dog statue gazing at them and smiling maliciously. *** It didn’t take long for the story of the Redfield hauntings and the fire that had killed everyone inside the mansion and burnt it to the ground to become public knowledge. The statue was the only thing that was recovered. It was intact except for a chink below its left eye. A poverty-stricken family called the Blueridges came to claim the statue, sobbing with joy. When asked if they felt malignance coming from it, they answered that they only felt benevolence. An ecstatic director latched onto the idea, and a new movie called The Dog Statue was released the following year. The profits were given to the Blueridges, and they became rich, living in a mansion that soon became the forever home of a little puppy named Sammy. At the Blueridges’ request, a photographer took a picture of them outside their new house with the statue. The family kept the picture on their mantlepiece.

One day, the Blueridges were looking at the photo. They noticed phantom footprints in the grass next to them, one set human and the other set canine.


For Len it very much seemed like the end. There he was, on the outskirts of Zelnoss, digging his own grave as two thugs were holding him at gunpoint. Him, an orphan thief no more than 10… all because he got “too nosy.” However, he could not help it. His father was murdered and he was just a maker of Bags of Holding. Forced to live on the streets and steal to survive. Asking anyone and everyone if they knew anything about his father… and this time one of the gangs felt he was asking too many questions… he wasn’t even sure if the gang killed his father in the first place… and yet here he was… that said, though, he had a plan to get out of this situation… he just needed to find the right opportunity. “Come on, hurry up,” said one of the mangy gang members as he sat on a stump a few feet away. Pointing his blunderbuss at him. A faint hissing sound could be heard from Len’s hat but Len whispered: “Not yet, wait for my signal,” and the hissing faded away. “What was that?!” the man on the stump demanded, tightening his grip and aim on the digging boy. Thinking he was insulting him under his breath. “No-Nothing, sir,” answered Len timidly. Although in reality he was just faking. Under less impoverished circumstances Len hated being dishonest. However, he learned that acting a certain way would aid in his survival… and acting timid was one such way. “Lay off him, Gerrick. Pretty soon he’ll lay down and never get up again,” his lankier compatriot, a flintlock rifle resting on his shoulder, spoke up. Soon the both of them chuckled but even here Len did not give the signal for whatever was in his hat. As he continued digging he noticed small stones in the dirt and planned on snagging one in his next shovelful of dirt. His slight of hand would allow him to do so without being noticed. Finding a good size stone, he planned to grab it on the next shovelful he poured out. However, he would not get that chance. For just as he unloaded his next bit of dirt, the ground shook… and a pillar of flame shot out from the middle of Zelnoss. “What in the world?!” said the lanky gang member. His friend sitting on the stump darted his head at the pillar as well. “Durga,” Len said under his breath and a long, flat shadow shot out from under Len’s newsboy hat, bit the distracted gang member with the blunderbuss, and returned under his hat just as quickly. His body seizing. Blue veins bulging on his neck. In the next few seconds he slouched over. Dead. Just before the lanky gang member was about to turn his head, however, the shadow struck again from under the boy’s hat. This time wrapping around the lanky gang member. Coiling around him until the gang member found himself face to face with a Great Bolt Snake… before it bit his head and wrenched it off. Len reflexively looking away from the snake’s kill. With the head gone, the snake retreated at a blinding speed… and the headless body fell forward. Len darting out of the way as he saw if falling into the grave he was digging. Just narrowly avoiding the bloody stump at the top of the body. Despite the macabre state of things Len could not help but let out a short chuckle. The grave was going to be used after all. What’s more, he allowed himself this chuckle not out of any dark, sinister reasons… but to prepare him for what he was about to do next. Although he did not relish the idea, Len gulped… steeling himself… as he went about checking the headless man’s pockets for anything of value. His resolve to survive and find his father’s killer was just that strong. To his good fortune, he found two golds, five silvers, and eight coppers. Relieved to be done with his looting, Len moved on to the dead man on the stump. Although reluctant at first Len steeled himself once again as he went through the man’s pockets. Alas, the take was not that good. Only three silvers and five coppers. The man also had a pocket watch… but the condition was questionable at best. Seeing that his blunderbuss was in better condition than the watch Len went about moving the gun, freeing it from its now dead owner, and putting the gun’s strap over his shoulder instead. His looting done, Len finally looked in the direction of Zelnoss… and found a hellscape instead. … Five Minutes Earlier … Grieg had just finished closing up his dungeoneering shop and school and was on his way to his room at the inn. However, just as he turned away from the door… all the buildings around him went up in pillars of flame. Including his shop. Where most people might have panicked Grieg was more… irritated. He had just set up his shop and had been doing well the past three months. That said, Grieg was hiding a secret from everyone in Zelnoss… and that was the fact he was not originally human. Before he named himself “Grieg” he was a mindless Mimic guarding the vast fortune of a long deceased wizard. That said, a “miracle” occurred and he gained sentience… and found himself dreading and abhorring all the adventurers he had devoured. As such, as by way of atonement, he decided to leave the dungeon he had been in for millenia… and decided to open an item shop… that also offered schooling on how best to explore and complete dungeons… But alas… that very shop was burning and would soon be, literally, up in smoke. Although he could put out the fire, if he so chose to, it was his fervent wish to live as a human and not reveal that he was anything but. As such it was this feeling akin noblesse oblige… this feeling of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” that annoyed him so… However there was yet another source of annoyance for him: the fact that all the lives he was trying to save from dungeons seemed to have all been snuffed out in a single day. As such, operating on what little hope he could muster, he went out searching for survivors. Sensing no one was around, Grieg reached into his mouth, which lead to a separate dimension that acted as his “stomach” when he was a Mimic. Now all that occupied its seemingly infinite space… was the wizard’s treasures. He was never sure if he did it out of spite or respect but he consumed all the wizard’s wealth… which also included Relics that could help with his rescue efforts. With such being the case he went for an ornate wardrobe that was in the midst of many other priceless trinkets and artifacts… and pulled out four Cloaks of Protection. Cloaks that would afford the wearer protection from the elements as well as boost their body’s regenerative abilities. “Overtake,” he spoke to himself as he chanted a spell that boosted his speed. Soon enough, his running form was overtaken by a white silver aura… and he scoured the burning streets for whatever survivors he could find. As he did so, turning down street after street, trying to detect whatever mana he could detect he could not help but ask himself: Just what had happened? As to where all this had started… that would be at the town’s church… at the town’s center. Moments before the pillars of flame overtook the town of Zelnoss, a bruised and battered 7-foot-tall youth was carrying a healing maiden to the church. Her closed eyes, looking as if asleep, betrayed the fact she had been dealt a grievous wound on her back. A wound that, one would think, would bleed more heavily however she seemed to only bleed a few drops at a time. Regardless, the 7-foot-tall, 15-year old youth known simply as “Moose” moved as quickly as his injured body could up the church steps. “Priest! I need you!” said Moose as he burst through the church’s heavy doors as if they weighed nothing. “Oh? You are back, are you?” the priest said as he turned away from the organ to see the two figures approaching. “What are you talking about? I need you to heal Amerald, she’s hurt!” Moose continued on as he rushed down the aisle past the pews. “Ah, but you see,” the priest responded, “I wanted you all to die in the first place so no. I will not be healing anyone today… or ever.” “Wha-What?” Moose replied, taken aback at what he was hearing. Thinking back to the quest he, Amerald, and two others were on… it should have been easy… killing goblins… however those goblins were far stronger than level 5… and as a result, the other two perished and he and Amerald just barely survived. “You mean… you sent us on that quest to die?!” Moose bellowed in anger. “My, so there is a brain amidst all those superfluous flesh and bones. Yes, my dear giant, I wanted you to die,” the priest answered, his face taking on a sinister grin. “But why?!” Moose demanded as he bore down on the priest, as if charging him, forgetting Amerald was in his arms. However, he soon found himself stopped by an invisible wall. One that encircled him and Amerald. “‘Why?’ So I can prepare for the coming of my master,” answered the priest. Despite all his attempts Moose could not break free from the magic enclosure he found himself and Amerald in. Looking down, he found they were on top of a magic circle that now glowed a bright red. “And although I intended to have this town’s budding warriors and sorcerers die in an unfortunate ‘accident’ during a novice-level quest… it looks like you will get to fulfill a far greater role after all.” “Oh yeah?” Moose questioned, punching to no avail against wall, looking to his fist as if he was expecting something but it was not happening, “and what’s that?” “AN OFFERING TO MY LORD ALZERESS!” Before being overtaken by flame, Moose saw the floor glow a burning red and it was right in this instant that Moose dove for Amerald. Trying as he could to shield her from the flame. A great pillar of flame then broke out of the church’s ceiling… and all the other buildings in the town. All the flames seemingly reaching the heavens as they burned. The priest, meanwhile, could not help but laugh with maniacal glee. “Ahahahahahaha, yes! Come! ALZERESS! THIS IS ALL FOR YOU!” he declared as he outstretched his hand to the church’s organ… where a tear in reality was opening. Looking in, one could see a void and a maelstrom of vapor. The tips of those vapors occasionally showing tormented faces… for all these were not vapors… but tormented souls… All owned by Alzeress, The Soul Plunderer… Whose figure was approaching from within the tear. A massive, brutish figure, with large horns and wings. Whose body might have been the darkest of pitch were it not for the souls illuminating his dark frame… and glowing purple eyes. “Yes! COME! COME LORD ALZERESS!” the crazed priest called out. The dark figure then approached the edges of the tear and, finding the opening smaller than he was, used his own arms to tear it more. Just as he made it to his ideal size, Alzeress’s gaze turned to the pillar of flame behind the priest... and looked on in horror. “What in the darkest Hells have you done?” the priest heard his lord ask, the voice seeming to reverberating directly into his mind. Looking in the direction of his gaze the priest looked to the flame pillar and saw the outline of a figure holding a body in its arms within… However, this was not what seemed to frighten his lord… for the standing figure within… seemed to have the same glowing eyes as his lord. His, however, was a blood red color that burned brighter than the flames that enveloped him. Switching the injured maiden to one arm, the figure within the flame merely reached out with his free hand from within the flame… and it vanished. In the next instant another tear in reality appeared and a brutal looking arm of deepest crimson extended from within it. The scars covering it more war torn than any battlefield. It was reaching out for the priest and, seeing this, the priest then turned to its summoned lord and pleadingly called out to him: “Lord Alz-” however what he found was the palm of his lord obscuring his vision… before being crushed by it. “Forgive me, Lord Irathzul,” said the dark Alzeress as he bowed from within his own tear in reality. His hand to his heart in a show of sincerity. “My time is nigh,” Alzeress heard a rumbling, reverberating voice speak from the tear where the blood red arm was extending from, “none shall impede my Descension,” he heard the voice once again before seeing the arm pulling back into the tear. “O-Of course, you will have no interference from me, Lord of Blood, Herald of Unfulfilled Rage, Swayer of Demons, and God of Berserkers. May we meet under more amicable terms when next we meet,” responded Alzeress as he closed his tear with his own hands but not before plundering the soul of his devout worshiper. With Alzeress’s tear closed, the flame pillar within the church, as well as those outside, all died down. The invisible wall that had barred Moose and Amerald also vanished and so had the flames. Before they would even realize it, however, the two of them passed out. Their wounds burned shut. Outside, the fires returned to normal and the buildings would continue to burn until dawn the next day. Thus far, it seemed as if Grieg, Moose, and Amerald were the only survivors of Zelnoss.


Imagine life as a TV program where, at any moment, you could press a button to change the channel when things were not going your way. No longer would you have to endure discomfort or displeasure. With a remote control, you could effortlessly switch to a different scene, a new plot, or even an entirely different life genre without leaving your seat. Are you facing a difficult day at work? Just flip to a scene where you are on a tropical vacation. Are you encountering a challenging relationship issue? Change to a narrative where harmony and understanding prevail. The remote control becomes a powerful tool, allowing you to navigate life's difficulties easily and comfortably. Every moment could be curated to your liking in this fantastical scenario, offering a seamless transition from one pleasant experience to the next. The stress and unpredictability of daily life would be replaced by a tailored sequence of events, each chosen to bring you joy, satisfaction, and peace. It would be a world where your desires and preferences shape reality, managed from the comfort of your favorite chair. But it is not. I am living a lie, ensnared by deceptions from every direction. The world around me feels like a carefully constructed facade, each layer adding to the suffocating weight of falsehoods. For the first time, I wish that the devastating truth I uncovered was just another lie. Unless, of course, the fact itself is a cruel fabrication designed to wound me even deeper. In this turmoil, I am in an endless argument with the universe. I have long since abandoned the belief in a higher power; the notion of God became meaningless to me years ago. It was around the time of my first or second attempt to end my life. Who is counting anyway? The exact number does not matter; what matters is that those moments stripped away any remaining faith I had. Now, I face an unbearable paradox: I must relinquish the things that bring me joy. Despite my immense love for what I do and the countless hours of effort I have poured into it, I cannot continue—not from my current position. The harsh reality is that the environment I find myself in is stifling my passion and potential. The only viable solution left is to leave it all behind. Giving up what makes me happy feels like a betrayal of my very essence. It's not just about abandoning a job or a hobby; it's about letting go of a piece of my soul. The thought of walking away from everything I have worked so hard for is daunting and disheartening. Yet, staying means suffocating under the weight of lies and an environment that will never allow me to thrive. I decided to stop doing stand-up because there was no place for me at the top. I am turning to writing, my true love. It's a difficult path, but there are fewer stumbling blocks than on a stand-up comedian's path. I am not saying I won't miss making people laugh, but I can't function with so much anger inside me. I have never been so angry. Not even when I discovered that my parents had abandoned me, not even when I lost my teeth when I lived as a homeless person. I never felt the anger that I feel now. The glass of tolerance has filled to the edge. Now, I am going to look for a job. It won't be something I'll love and enjoy, but it will take my mind off stand-up and the whole mess. At least I will be calm for a while. Maybe people will ask about me—and perhaps they will not. Not because I was not worth being remembered but because comedians were already ready to jump in my place. Let them. Nobody is irreplaceable. Today, it is me; tomorrow, it can be them. That is life. True, I got new teeth—but at what price did I pay for them? Sometimes, I wish I hadn't even gotten them because, thanks to them, people look at me differently; they behave as if I got a new personality with new teeth. I did not. I am still the old me, just in a better, more pleasing-to-the-eye version. So why doesn't anyone notice me? Why am I sidelined? Why am I an observer of other people's success and happiness? Is there any point in that? I am tired, my friends, of asking questions and looking for answers. Sometimes, it is best to let everything go. And that is what I am doing. I am letting go and hoping to find peace. One morning, I walked into the comedy club, and all eyes were on me. Whispers followed me to the dressing room, a sense of dread gnawing at my insides. I spotted Jerry, another comedian, leaning against the wall. "Haven't you heard?" he said, his voice a mix of pity and curiosity. "Everyone's saying you're quitting stand-up because you had a breakdown. They're saying you're too angry to keep going." My heart sank. The rumors had started, and I was the topic. I had not spoken to anyone about my decision. The truth was, I was stepping back because the environment was suffocating me, not because I had lost my mind. But a hint of vulnerability quickly spiraled into scandal in the cutthroat comedy world. That night, I walked up to the mic with a storm brewing. The audience watched, waiting for me to crack. Instead, I channeled every ounce of my anger into my performance, turning the rumors into punchlines. "People are saying I'm quitting because I'm too angry," I began, pacing the stage. "Well, maybe I am angry. Maybe I am angry at a world that thinks it knows me but doesn't try to understand. Maybe I'm angry because the truth is too heavy to carry alone." The room fell silent. The audience, used to laughing with me, was now listening intently. "But here's the thing," I continued, leaning into the mic. "I'm not quitting because I can't handle it. I am stepping away because I deserve better. We all do. And if that makes me crazy, then so be it." Walking off the stage, I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. The rumors would continue, but I had taken control of the narrative. I was no longer just the topic of gossip; I was the author of my own story. These days, I feel like I am wandering through a maze, utterly lost and scared, like a bewildered child. Every path I choose seems to lead me astray, returning to the same desolate starting point. Sometimes, it feels like I'm not moving at all while the world shifts and changes around me, leaving me stranded, voiceless, and motionless. I am besieged by conflicting decisions, overwhelmed, as if I am attacked from all sides, bombarded by deafening screams, yet unable to discern the right course of action. I must confess that I have faced worse trials before, yet somehow, those trials seemed more bearable. Should I sever ties with the life that's altered my existence, granting me treasures while robbing me of dreams—albeit temporarily—or should I muster the strength to contend for acceptance in a society that fails to recognize my true worth? Or should I start a new? There are so many choices and so much weight on me, and I am in this - alone. The onset of the club's new season was meant to herald a fresh beginning, and I eagerly anticipated it, having spent the years proving my mettle to myself and others. Yet, reality delivered a cold, bitter blow. Not only did I fail to attain what I yearned for, but I also lost what little I had. "Be patient," they say. "Keep proving yourself, and things will change." But haven't I been doing exactly that for the past ten years? Must I continue to prove myself, biding my time for an elusive opportunity? How much longer must I endure this trial, and for whose validation? Anger, fury, and disappointment swirl within me, threatening to consume my very being. You cannot dangle the promise of my dreams before me only to snatch them away—it is cruel. I possess knowledge, talent, perseverance, and a deep love for my craft—aren't these qualities worth something in the end? I am exhausted, drained to the core. I feel like Don Quixote, mistaking windmills for lofty dreams. They drag me deeper into the abyss of despair and sorrow, and I succumb to their pull as if I lack the strength to resist and a reason to fight. Is it the solitude that weighs upon me? It never troubled me before. I was accustomed to solitude, or so I thought. But things have changed now. The stone in my chest has vanished, leaving behind a void. "I've lost that lovely feeling..."


[TW: fictional book burning] If a ticking bomb under the table propels a plot forward, so too will a deadline on the wall spur the creation of literary excellence, Keith Highfield thought as he signed the death warrant of the Highfield Library. The intricate interplay between danger and creativity is a delicate balancing act. After The Hobbit was published, J. R. R. Tolkien spent 15 years writing the Lord of the Rings. Keith would give himself the same amount of time to complete his own novel, High Tower. At the offices of his family’s legal firm, Levi & Strauss, Keith signed the contract on the bottom line: If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published a New York Times Bestselling book by November 30th, 2023, The Highfield Library will be dissolved. The next day at the library, he peered into the antique mirror hanging next to the notice. He saw rapidly graying eyebrows, and a once handsome jawline sagging into the jowls of middle-age. “What’s that sign?” a young woman asked. In her bare feet she walked across the room’s thick carpet and studied the document. “2023?” she asked as if the date was so far into the future as to be science fiction. “A deadline, perhaps farther away than your age, Cassie.” She returned to slumping in a chair on the other side of the library, pulling out a thick paperback. Cassie was the only teen who visited this private library, the daughter of a professor who held family membership. Her father taught at the business school, which explained her interest in YA fantasy—an escape from the pressures at home. Everything about business was about achieving 'success'. Keith abhorred the field. If he could draw one of them into the arts, that would be a glorious victory. The sound of his book closed resonated through the room. “All good things must come to an end,” he announced. The title was proudly displayed: The Children of Húrin. Cassie lifted her eyes from the pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. “A writer must immerse themselves in works of greatness,” Keith said, his bushy eyebrows bouncing with joy. “Turambar just emerged victorious over the mighty dragon Glaurung...” Cassie looked perplexed. “The book is part of the Lord of the Rings..” Keith explained. “I think I’ve heard of that.”. “You should delve into it, starting from The Hobbit.” “Is it similar to Harry Potter?” “Harry Potter? A jejune book for children, or for adults who don’t read.” Cassie pondered her own age. Her mother regarded her as a child, despite the fact she didn’t feel that way herself. “But a writer must stay current.” Keith said. A teacher must stay positive to hold the attention of youth, a lesson he learned from years of lecturing. “The weighty prose of Tolkien would not sell today. The trick is to write with short sentences, as Raymond Carver taught us.”

Cassie winced at the mention of Raymond Carver. The night before, at Writers Sharing Session, she read an excerpt of her short story, as she said the final sentence, “The orthodontist smiled,” from the back of the room Keith blurted out “Copyright infringement!”

He claimed Raymond Carver used that sentence in his book Cathedral, written back in 1981. Now Cassie wondered how she could write anything at all with many sentences already copyrighted. Keith gave a talk of his own. He stood before the eight members of the Highfield Literary Society, and said, “In Raymond Carver’s novel Cathedral, the motif of the cathedral serves as a metaphorical sanctuary, symbolic of…”

(Cassie’s mind wandered away, until she heard the unmistakable rise in pitch of a speaker nearing their conclusion)

“...serving as a guidepost on our collective journey, reminding us to embrace the transformative power of human connection and understanding.” The room clapped politely. A ten-minute time limit and free drinks meant they were mostly still awake.

That year, after learning about Raymond Carver, Keith had spent three months rewriting High Tower, transforming lengthy literary allegories into short declarative statements.

He forged ahead and wrote another twenty chapters, plotting out character backgrounds, family trees and personal ambitions of the 13 point-of-view characters, one from each kingdom. At the same time, a New York based children's writer, recently employed on the staff of Clifford’s Puppy Days, an animated series aimed at toddlers, busied herself writing on her days off. In the distant future, a hundred American teenagers who speak as if they grew up in modern day West Virginia have a battle to the death in a reality TV program. A TV program remarkably similar to Survivor, except for a larger downside for the losers. 2009 On a spring afternoon at the Highfield Library, Keith Highfield looked up from Gravity’s Rainbow. With a successful year of writing under his belt, he wore an expression of pure contentment. “My book has been progressing well since I started using short sentences!” Cassie looked up from her book. “You mean like the Hunger Games?” “No. like the magnificent prose of Raymond Carver.” “The book you told us about last year? “ Cassie asked. “The only thing I remember is someone going to the orthodontist.” “-and I learned to eliminate every adverb, like Raymond Carver did.” “Adverbs? What exactly are those?” Cassie asked, winking. “Perfection is overrated. The Hunger Games is on the New York Times Bestseller List, you should take a look at it, Professor Highfield. 100 children fight to the death. What a plot!” Keith studied the book cover. Keith had 14 years left to write. Plenty of time to adapt to new trends. Once he jotted down the title, Cassie returned to reading this barn burner. In secret, Keith read the Hunger Games in the span of two hours and came to understand the allure of fast pacing.

He soon found himself laboriously rewriting all thirty chapters of High Tower.

Intricate stories of court banquets and jousts were rewritten into relatable stories of hunting foxes and cooking rabbits.

Descriptions of kingdoms, political systems, and ancient lore became awkward conversations between characters who had no apparent reason to discuss such things. It was a masterpiece. 2010 Erika, an administrative assistant at a small British university in a distant suburb of London, was enamored with the characters of Twilight. Despite having never written before, she began to pen a romance based on the characters. She wanted to continue the excitement of the story, and perhaps entertain a handful of readers on a Twilight fan fiction site.

Her story quickly spread in popularity through word of mouth. A publisher got into contact and made an offer. Due to copyright issues, she needed to change the characters’ names. Erika opened her word processor, and performed a find and replace. There were now 1,503 mentions of Anastasia Steele, and 3,734 of Christian Grey. Erika also had a fondness for writing with adverbs. “Christian Grey is very, very handsome…” Cassie said aloud in the Highfield Library, paraphrasing the book. “Excuse me?” Keith looked up from his John Updike novel. “Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear as she—“ “Enough,” Keith interrupted. Recollecting his composure, he studied the book’s cover. “50 shades of grey? That’s an odd title. Not very colorful.” Cassie ignored that and returned to reading her book. Keith thought it must be yet another cliche page turner marketed toward young women preoccupied with romance.

That weekend, while browsing at Labyrinth Books, Keith noticed many young women buying books, but very few old men. He soon found himself reshaping the lead protagonist of High Tower, Mandolf, from being a kindly Professor of Magical Spells at Humshorn University, into being a younger sexually aggressive wizard (one who might have legal problems in future decades).

High Tower’s plot structure also shifted from being a Hero’s Journey into that of being a Totally Unnecessary Moral Quandary. 2011 Keith watched Cassie walk across the thic carpet of the Highfield Library toward her usual chair. She was wearing shoes. She had become aware of the dust mites and microbes that lurk in old libraries. Yet, the library was still preferable to being at home with her parents, who constantly asked her about KPI and EBITDA and other meaningless acronyms of business school. As she took a book out of her bag, Keith asked, “What are you reading?” “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” “What is it about?” “It’s from Sweden.”

“Is it?” Sweden is a country, not a plot. “And the author is dead,” Cassie added. “ Hmm… ” Keith thought about how to use this information. Despite his role as a Professor of Classics, he embraced adaptability. He could assume a Scandanvian pen name, one with diacritical dots above certain vöwels. However, he was unwilling to die to thrust his work into the esteed canon of literary history. He decided to let this trend pass him by. 2012 - 2021 During the next nine years of his residency at the Highfield Library, Keith would fully rewrite High Tower five times. Inspired by The Fault in Our Stars, he reworked his novel to have Eldenon, the young protégé of Mandolf, die at the halfway point. This involved cutting 170 pages, altering the result of three wars, and leaving a dozen plot threads hanging at the end of the book. He then took High Tower a step further, incorporating the plot devices of The Girl on the Train. Utilizing the opportunities given by an unreliable narrator, he added a final twist exposing Mandolf to have been unconnected to the main events of the novel, and to have been at home at his castle nursing a hangover during the important battles that determined the fate of Logarosia.

After coming to know of the breakout success of Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, Keith introduced a multi-ethnic cast into his Precambrian high fantasy world. And then, perusing Where the Crawdads Sing, he infused it with a rural American slang and sensibility. Finally, after a reluctant, belated reading of The Song of Ice and Fire—forced onto him by incessant chatter about the HBO miniseries (he didn’t watch television) — he became a vocal advocate of George RR Martin.

Keith tore up all the new revisions of High Tower he wrote after 2009, and returned to the original draft of his epic fantasy novel. A story told through multi-character third-person perspective, famly trees, weighty prose, rock solid world building, and the extensive branching of royal family trees. After finishing the last line of his edit, he sent a completed version to Harper Collins and awaited their response:. 2022 Keith looked out the window of the Highfield Library. From their sanctuary’s 2nd floor windows, Keith, Cassie, and the other members of the Highfield Literary Society had watched the events of the previous 14 years move past below them.

Fashion trends came and went, selfie sticks appeared and disappeared; the sounds of domestic conflict, of faraway gunfire, the protest marches of the BLM movement, occasionally reverberated through the library’s reading room, but nothing touched the lives of those who sat there. A slight pain Keith felt in his toes, a pain he felt most acutely when he sat in the quiet library, gradually spread to the other joints of his body. A doctor introduced by the university clinic told him these were the symptoms of arthritis. He soon found himself needing to rely on medication to sleep through the night.

After seeing that Keith Highfield was showing signs of depression, the university health system introduced him to, coerced him into joining perhaps more accurately, the Living With Pain (age 50+) support group. Keith hadn’t heard back from Harper Collins, and with his current health struggles, didn’t know if he had the energy to do a rewrite all over again. He looked up on the wall, “ If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published….by November 30th, 2023 ”. It felt as if life had moved on around him and left him in the same spot.

Keith Highfield set up a meeting with Levi & Strauss to discuss the plan to dissolve the Highfield Library next year. 2023 Keith had sent the final draft of High Tower to twelve publishing houses. None had replied. He sat pondering his future, and the action he was planning to do that day. Cassie looked up from her trade paperback novel. The lines of her face were beaming with youthful mock disgust. “This new book by Colleen Hoover has wooden characters, flat dialogue, and cliche stereotypes. It’s sad how low the standards have dropped in fiction writing.” “Do I hear jealousy, that green-eyed monster which doth mock us?” Keith asked her. “To thine own self be true.” Cassie had learned a basket of Shakespeare quotes over the years from the odd characters who inhabited the library. “So true,” Keith said. “But I’m afraid the trends in literature are moving too fast for this old man. I haven’t had any responses to my book.” “Trends change,” Cassie said. “The only constant is change” Cassie also found herself quoting meaningless truisms as old people do. Maybe she had also given up on finding truly original thoughts, and found it easier to use someone’s else’s. “I haven’t been able to write for months,” Keith lamented. Being a teacher, he had never showed vulnerability to his students all these years. “Write what you know,” Cassie said encouragingly. “Thank you for your suggestion, but,” Keith pointed toward the 15-year-old notice on the wall: ( If no member of the Highfield Literary Association has published…) “I hope the foreshadowing was sufficient.” Cassie got up and looked at the old notice. The date on it was today. Keith pulled himself from his chair, went over to the nearest bookshelf, and pulled a volume off the shelf. A cloud of dust swirled into the air. Inspired by Fahrenheit 751, Keith had intended to burn down the library, but fire safety regulations had shifted over the last fifteen years. The lawyers also cautioned him about the intricacies of the family trust structure. Keith had found a loophole. “There’s no better time…” Keith said. With renewed vigor, he grabbed an armful of books and rushed downstairs. Cassie rushed after him. Keith stood in front of the tributary of the Millstone River that ran behind the building, a small canal really, and proclaimed, “by the power invested in me, I declare the Highfield Library dissolved.” He threw the books in his arms into the canal. Keith had done his research. The books were biodegradable and would dissolve rapidly. “Are you allowed to do that?” Cassie asked. “Yes. It’s in my contract.” “Ok then.” Cassie watched him go up and down to the library, throwing armful after armful of books into the canal. After a while, she went back upstairs herself, sat in her usual spot, and opened Lessons in Chemistry on her Kindle. The other members of the library that day were also reading e-books. As Keith hurried taking arms full of dusty old books down the stairs, the receptionist smiled at Cassie. “It’s a good thing we’ve converted out inventory to ebooks.” When the last book was gone, Keith departed from the library without saying another word. The lawyers had told him, from the wording of the contract, he had the legal right to “dissolve” the books, but the property that housed the library itself, and its use as a gathering spot for readers, was guaranteed in perpetuity by the Highfield family trust,

After Keith’s meltdown, life went on at the Highfield Library pretty much as it did before, minus the dusty books on the shelves, and the presence of Keith Highfield. 2024 Cassie felt a sense of growing loneliness. With fewer members visiting the library that year, to push aside the deathly quiet, she began writing. There was an idea she always had in the back of her mind. After releasing a successful teaser on WattPad, she received an advance from a publisher. It was to complete Genders of the Galaxy: a cozy SciFi harem romance set in a speculative Bangladesh, with seven genders competing for the attention of one General. Cassie’s novel appeared on the New York Times list of The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of 2024, described as cheeky yet compassionate, and ‘the shape of SciFi to come’. After dissolving the library, Keith Highfield had given up writing and turned his attention elsewhere. He became more active as a member of the Living With Pain support group and soon found himself curating the fake news streaming into their social media forum. Of the alternative therapies he had tried, only one had shown any effectiveness. He decided to put together a guidebook for the group, and after interviewing several of its members, finished it two weeks after he began. Having spent 15 years working on an epic fantasy novel, writing non-fiction came easily. Despite not having discussed the guidebook with anyone outside his support group, a publisher came into contact, and the next year, Higher Education - The Medical Marijuana Revolution at Princeton (with a foreword by Cassie Chowdhury), was published to critical acclaim and reached #1 on the New York Times non-fiction list, a spot it held for sixteen weeks.


" Do you know about Quantum Physics?" Professor aked the question , I was waiting that someone would stand now and give the answer while playing game in my phone but suddenly I felt the gaze of everyone was on me, I slowly raised my head , only then I found that professor was asking this question to me. I immediately stand up and muttered "me?" " Yes you Mr Ayush" he replied calmy. I started rubbing my hair, patting my head , pretending to remember something while he was continuously staring my each moves. " You mean the quantum physics that we see in the Antman movie?" I said in excitement as if I got the answer. " This is not the answer of my question" he said rudely. " Yes I know obviously.. you need the describtion of Quantum physics." I said while frustrating because I didn't know the answer. " Yes.. then start, I don't have much time" he said while looking at his watch. " Ah.. Quantum physics.. Quantum physics is a fantastic branch of physics through which we can go in any time...I think all the branches of physics should be as fantastic as Quantum... I think quantum physics is the king of all the branches of physics." I took a long breathe after answering the question while everyone started laughing and I felt like a celebratory of our class but His eyes on me become an ice cold. " Do you think Quantum physics is all about the time travel?" His volume raised by few decibals, I gulped and said " Professor..movie had showed only about the time travel and nothing else.." I said innocently and didn't know why whole class started laughing again and his gaze become more cold. " Ohh so you only know about time travel then in which time do you want to go..past or future" he asked me in calm tone but his pursing lips, chewing words , told me that he was very angry at that time but who cares , I replied " Future." " But I would like to go in the past " he said. " Why?" I asked though I had no interest in his wishes. " Because I want to stop your parents to give birth to a rascal like you.." he shouted on me. No professor says like this but he was different from everyone. He could even abuse us before everyone. Whole class started Laughing at me. This time I didn't feel like celebratory but a joker. I was angry, I said " You want to go in past just to kill me, but do you know what I don't need to go in past or future, I can kill you in present too." Though I was joking but I said this word in serious tone so that he would be scared of me and will not dare to insult me before everyone. I rushed out of the class in middle.

I was coming out from college when I heard that Principal was calling me in the office. I went there and he scolded me for misbehaving with professor. He also told me that if I want to attain the class, I would have to bring my parents next day. " This old man..he really complained about me.." I cursed him in my mind but I was frustrated as I was going to be scolded by my parents. I thought about it after returning home and came to the point that I would apologize to the professor and request him to talk to principal not to call my parents as my parents were too strict. They used to give me long lactures on my small faults and now this was a huge scandal for them. I rushed to professor's home. The door was open, So , I directly came in but there was no one. I kept wandering here and there then I saw the door of study room was open, I went there but professor was still not there but I saw that there was a secret door behind the bookshelf which was open. I didn't hesitate for a second to enter that room. I was stunned now.It wasn't a room but a huge lab. There was so many equipments but one thing that amused me a lot was a circular machine. Strange type of rays were sparkling around it. I went there in excitement and saw that there were few buttons to set the date. I had seen many sci-fi movies. I could guess that this was the time machine. My eyes and mouth were widely open in shock. An idea came to my mind and I set the date of 20 years hence. I choose this date because my father kept telling me that being a father of teenager kid is not easy. So, I wanted to know how would I be being a father. Everything around me changed, this home had become a lab and there were many scientists roaming here and there. I saw an identity card of someone lying on a table. I stole it, and run out from the lab. The outside view was completely changed now. There were many changes. Buildings had become the skyscraper, home had become the building, car models were also changed. I saw the workers in the shop, they were using many machines in their work , road was also different, there wasn't any dig in the pitch. My city had undergone a huge development. I liked it, " I love you future." I screamed. First thing that came to my mind was my home. I rushed towards my home and knocked at door. A lady in her Thirty's opened the door. I must say she was very beautiful. She was not my mother, I guess she would be my wife now. I thought to tease her.." Hello Darling..do you remember me?" I said while pulling her waist towards me. I know she would remember me how could she forget how her husband looked 20 years ago but she was stunned. I thought she would be stunned to see me young. She was staring at me coldly but I didn't care of her gaze and rushed in. There I saw a girl, may be her age would be 16 or 17. I walked up to her and hugged her. I was so happy that I had a beautiful daughter in future. She was outstanding but then my gaze fell on her mini skirt. " Which type of dress you are wearing huh.. How can you let our daughter to wear these types of dress ?" I scold my wife to let our daughter wear such dress but the little girl stared at me coldly " Who the hell are you to decide what I should wear and what not?" She sneered but I hugged her again " I'm your father silly girl." I gave a kiss on her forehead. " What is happening here honey" a sound came to my ears and I let go of her and turned back. There was a man in his fortys standing behind me..

" Dad..this man is saying that he is my father" little girl pouted. He stared at me coldly then looked towards the lady " I told you to keep an eye on your daughter..look she is cuddling with her bf before our eyes and playing tricks on us... and you how dare you to touch our daughter before us..I will smashed your face now."

"Wait what.." I didn't know how to explain..they were thinking that I was the bf of their daughter whom I had been considering my daughter. " Honey..I know her ver well..he is not her bf..he is another man." The lady told to the man who was going mad on me..." Yes of course..I'm his father" I shouted. " What ..then you and this man had a relationship..how can you do that to me he must be 15 years younger than you.." the man again become mad on the lady. " O please..Are you insane? How could he be the father of our daughter? He must be less than 25 years and our daughter is 17 years old..I think he came here from a mental hospital." The lady shouted on him and then glared at me coldly.They were busy in fighting with each other and I got to know that this was not my family. They were someone else.

" Hello Mr..can you please tell me where is the owner of this house..Mr Ayush sharma and his parents? " I asked him restlessly as I was dying to see my family. " Mr Ayush..you know him? His parents sold this house to our parents..after then I didn't see them."

I was stunned. My parents would die but wouldn't agree to sell this bungalow as there were many memories of our forefathers.. " Why..?" " You don't know? Ayush sharma had murdered his physics professor and for his bail his parents sold this bungalow but unfortunately they lost the case... What a demon he was..he killed his professor only because he had scolded him in the college."

I was shocked, sad , frustrated after listening this, I turned to leave but I heard a voice " Hey handsome.. would you mind to go for a dinner with me?" I glanced at the little girl who was trying to flirt with me whom I was considering my daughter few minutes ago. I didn't reply her and rushed out. I was in rage, disappointed,sad. I started pulling my hairs due to frustration, how much excited I was to see my future but at the end what did I find? People are remembering me as a murderer.How could I murder someone? I felt extremely bad for my parents. How much they would have suffered because of me. I shook my head and rushed towards the professor's home that had been transformed into a lab. Fortunately, I had stolen the identity card of a scientist, I went in easily and came in front of that machine again. I couldn't bear this that people will remember me as a murderer in future. I set the dates of present time and again pressed the ' start' button. Soon I felt like I'm grinding in a big machine like earlier and again everything changed around me and then I was back. I started calling my professor but suddenly my shoes hitted something and I looked on the floor, I was stunned. Professor was lying on the floor dead. Someone had shot him by bullets. His body was filled with blood and his eyes were widely opened. I was scared now. I thought about future then recalled that I had touched many equipments there, then it was obvious that police will find my finger prints and arrest me for murdering my professor due to the small fight between us. " Shitt..what should I do now..?" I asked to myself then professor's word came to my mind that he would love to go in the past. My hands and legs were shaking now because of this horrified scene but the fear that was haunting me more was being called a murderer in future. I again went in front of machine and set the time of today's morning when I rushed out of the class. Soon everything changed around me and I run towards the college and stood there where I was standing at that time. I saw that professor was going towards the principal office, may be he was going to complain about me. " Professor" I called him, he turned back. " Professor I wanted to tell you something.." I said while breathing faster but he glared me coldly. " Professor you won't believe but you are going to be murdered by someone at night and I'm going to jail in the accusation of murdering you."

" How dare you..you are threatening me that you will murder me then go to jail?" He shouted at me. He took this wrong. I was telling him the future but he thought that I was threatening him. " No..you are taking me wrong..Someone else will murder you." I said firmly but he stared at me coldly and turned to leave.  " Professor listen to me carefully..May be someone knows about your time machine idea and that's why he will kill you after stealing your idea..you don't have much time.you will be murdered tonight." I screamed

" How did you know about my project huh.." he grabbed my collar while asking me. " I know everything professor, I have seen your secret lab and also the future..I travelled through your time machine." I said. " You must have watched a sci-fic movie again..Get out of here..I haven't made any time machine now..It's incomplete now then how could you travel through it." He pushed me away from his way and left. I hit my head with wall out of frustration. This man was too stubborn. He didn't want to listen me. He didn't know he was going to be killed and not only that because of him, my whole family will suffer and I would be called a murderer in the future. He was as rude and arrogant as the professor Hunk of Ant man movie. I felt pity for Scott to endure the arrogance of Hunk as I was also experiencing the same because of this arrogant old man. At night , I was restless, frustrated, in rage because I know that at this time professor was going to be killed by someone. My subconscious mind was telling me to rush toward professor's home to save him but another voice was stopping me as if I go there but couldn't save him then I will be charged in the accusation of his murder. The night passed by twisting and turning in the bed and finally the sun risen. I rushed towards the college and went straight to his class only to find that old arrogant man. When I entered the class I saw him giving lectures on Quantum physics. I can't explain in words how happy I was to see him there. May be it was the first time when I was happy to see that arrogant man. I walked up to him and hugged him. " Oh professor, You don't know how happy I 'm to see you alive." I said while whole class was staring at me blankly. He smiled " Why..? Were you thinking that I would be dead?" He winked at me and again said " Wait for me outside..I'm coming"

I came out and waited for him eagerly and finally he came out. " Professor.." I greeted him, he smiled. " I know there would be many questions in your mind..but first of all I would like to thank you for saving my life. Yesterday , when you told about what you saw, I didn't believe you because my machine was not ready yet but at evening I figured out what I was missing in my machine and I finally got the point and could made my machine perfect but then I remembered what you told me at morning, I checked my lab and found that there were too many tracking devices and hidden cameras. Someone was monitoring me and I knew that he must be my old collogue who had known about my research and secret lab. If I hadn't checked that and completed my machine he would send his goons to kill me and stole my idea but as you had told me the future so I didn't complete the parts of my machine. Now I'm going to somewhere else to finish it and then I will register my name to the research department of our country..After that I won't care if I die.. " He explained me calmly and I took a sigh of relief. It meant that I changed the future and now I wouldn't be called a murderer in future.. " Quantum physics is really the king of  physics, isn't it?" He said while winking at me.


La Cuillère D'or was no stranger to couples. In fact, it welcomed them with open arms, a delighted handshake, a flourish of the violin, and two delicate flutes of champagne. After all, nothing makes a person feel more at home—and loosens their wallet—quite like a light buzz and a dreamy classical number. The authentic French dining experience was a highly sought-after commodity, especially for the romantically entangled, and nobody knew that better than the staff of La Cuillère D'or, or The Golden Spoon as their more phonetically challenged guests called it. This particular couple was different, however. While they did fit La Cuillère D'or’s target demographic, they were not part of its usual clientele. They were not a part of each other’s usual clientele at this point either. A night out on the town at a fine French restaurant meant little more to either of them than a Band-Aid to an amputee. But then again, perhaps there was a certain naïve romance in the idea. The man in question—a civil engineer with a swaggering gait and wit to match—wore a gray blazer, matching pants, and a clean white shirt, a fashionable cobalt blue tie around his neck. His firm, calloused hands toyed obsessively with the cuffs of his sleeves, like a butterfly trying to fight its way out of a cocoon. Though he was built like a truck, the man had a naturally kind-looking face, ensconced though it was in a well-kept beard of curly brown hair. The dark-haired woman across the table from him—an elementary school teacher with an eye for flash and a heart for substance—sported a stylish navy-blue swing dress with a slim black belt at the waist, complete with a pair of silver heels. Around her neck was a small silver chain necklace, though it often spent its time twisted around her fingers instead. She had spent much of her time at the table either nibbling on the mesclun salad she had ordered or looking through the menu from behind her glasses, reading through the same four items ad nauseam. Her gentle eyes and comforting smile belied her tight grip and sharp jawline. If he was a bear, she was a panther. “And for you, madame?” their server said, meeting the woman’s eyes. “I suppose I will have…” Gwen glanced back at the menu, biting her lower lip. “…the lobster bisque, please. Thank you, Jean,” she said, handing him her menu with a smile that could kill a man at forty yards. “The pleasure is mine.” Jean, his cheeks flushed as could be, gave a slight bow and retreated to the kitchen. He failed to notice Gwen’s empty champagne flute before his exodus. Though the dining room was overflowing with elegant music and the sounds of good-natured laughter, this table remained silent. With no menu to distract her anymore, Gwen glanced around the room, her fingers clasped tightly around her necklace, hoping for something to spring to mind ex nihilo. She was quickly running out of places to look when Tyler’s robust voice tentatively broke through her panic. “So… how are things at the school?” he asked. She hadn’t expected it, but even now, his voice slowed the beat of her heart. There was a warmth to it that she couldn’t place, like he meant everything he said with the entirety of his being. “Oh, great,” she replied. “We had a bit of a hiccup on our field trip this week, but we’ve been making good progress with the kids overall. They’re a wonderful group. We’re studying the Civil War right now.” Tyler breathed an internal sigh of relief. He knew the opening was going to be the hardest part of the evening, but it was nice to know they could still have a purely mundane conversation, though it hardly felt mundane when Gwen said it. “Any problem kids this year?” “Not as many as there were last year, thank God . Those kids made my kindergarten days look peaceful. ” Gwen shook her head, exhaustion leaking into her voice. “I don’t think I could do that again.” “I don’t think anyone could go through dealing with those little monsters again. Didn’t you say one of them glued another kid’s head to a desk?” Gwen put her head in her hands, muffling her voice. “Oh, gosh, don’t remind me.” “I mean, how does that even happen? Why did he do it? What glue did he use?” Gwen laughed loudly as Tyler looked on and smiled. It had been a long time since he’d seen her like this. Too long. “I don’t know, Gorilla Glue maybe?” she replied with intermittent chuckles. “Whatever it was, I’m sure it would make a killing on the infomercial circuit.” Tyler rubbed his thumb and forefingers together greedily. “Introducing,” he said in a mocking tone, “for the first time ever, a limited-time offer of Little Timmy’s Face-Melting Adhesive! Just three easy payments of $10.99!” “Shut up, Tyler!” she said, trying and failing to suppress another fit of giggling. Tyler found her failure to do so even more amusing and joined her in mirth. Gwen wiped a tear from her eye and collected herself. “Yeah, fourth graders are weird sometimes. They think differently from us in a way. I remember one time Stephen was talking—" “What was the hiccup?” “Sorry?” “The hiccup. You said there was a hiccup on the field trip.” “Oh, nothing, really,” Gwen said, looking down at what little remained of her salad. “We were at the zoo, and this boy Johnny got separated from the group. After about five minutes, Stephen—Mr. Jacobs, rather, and I noticed we were missing a head and decided to backtrack. I was so scared someone had taken Johnny or that he’d fallen into a habitat, but I found him right next to the otter enclosure. He didn’t even notice we’d left. Said he just wanted to keep watching them. Mr. Jacobs was counting heads every two minutes for the rest of the trip.”

“Wow, that sounds terrifying,” Tyler said, pulling at his cuffs. “Good thing he had the best teacher around to make sure he was okay.” Gwen rubbed the back of her head. “I’m not sure I was all that…” “Now that I think about it, this Johnny kid sounds like a certain someone whenever we bump into squirrels at the park,” he said, glancing out of the corner of his eye. “A meteor could hit the planet, and you’d still be watching those little guys.” He chuckled. “What? They’re cute!” she said defensively. “I’m a sucker for the vertically challenged, apparently.” “Yeah, no kidding.” The air of amusement in Tyler’s voice diminished. A grin remained on his face, but it did not reach his eyes as it had moments ago. “Had a guy like that on this bridge job a while back, actually.” “Like what? Short?” “No, no. Oblivious.” “Oh, right.” Gwen pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “We’d be in meetings, going over survey reports and all that, and this guy—Aaron was his name—can’t even be bothered to listen,” Tyler said, shaking his head. “He’s just playing Clash of Clans on his phone and staring out the window, contributing nothing. And he still got paid the same as us who all had to work overtime on that job, staying late into the night and barely getting any sleep to pick up his slack. Infuriating, right?” “Absolutely outrageous,” she said dryly. Great. Another scintillating work story. How original. “Exactly!” he said, his hand gestures growing more exaggerated. “We let him know, too, hoo boy . But see, here’s the thing. Rumor was that Mick—he’s our supervisor. I think you guys met at that one barbeque we had at Eric’s for Thanksgiving. Tall guy, thick beard, always wears his phone on his hip like a gunslinger?” “Sounds sorta familiar.” Gwen rested her chin on her hand and looked just over Tyler’s shoulder to the couple behind him. They were holding hands. When was the last time we did that? Was it…? Wow, was the last time really the Fourth of July? That’s— “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, the word on the street was that Mick was ‘close friends’ with this punk’s dad .” Tyler took a final sip of champagne from his now empty flute. “And this guy was no joke, this ‘friend’ was some bigshot suit in the local government who promised to include Mick in his cabinet or something whenever he runs for mayor.” “Wow,” she muttered. When was the last time he touched me, even? It must have been recently, right? It must have been, especially given the competition. Knowing him, there’s no way he’s not worried about— “I know. Crazy.” Tyler sighed. “So, this guy—who couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a map—gums up the whole project, complains the entire time, barely contributes anything, and eventually just leaves without a word. I thought somebody else on the team must have killed him or something out of sheer annoyance. Ned in particular seemed pretty pissed at him, and a guy like him has the stones to do it too. Not like anyone would’ve ratted him out if he actually did shoot the worthless sack of shit.” “Tyler! ” she snapped. The curse had woken her from her haze. She glanced around at the other guests, praying they hadn’t overheard. All of them seemed unaffected by Tyler’s lack of decorum. Seemed. He chuckled nervously, his palms raised as if to deflect any and all responsibility for what had slipped from his mouth. “I’m kidding, Gwen! Relax! Nobody killed anybody, okay? We found out later he quit, citing a ‘toxic work environment.’ That’s it.” Gwen did not look satisfied with the story’s conclusion. Tyler cleared his throat and continued: “Mick chewed us out too, although that only made us think he was in bed with Daddy Warbucks more than we already did. Never saw the poor bastard again after that. Swear to God. I hear he’s actually doing pretty well for himself now.” She closed her eyes and rubbed the creases of her forehead between her thumb and forefinger with disdain. “Can we talk about something else? Gosh, you’re so… rude , sometimes.” Tyler watched her intently for a moment until a little bemused grin poked through his placid exterior. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry; I forgot that my hyper-stressful job that lets us eat out at places like this isn’t entertaining enough for you.” His voice dripped with resentment, barely masked by his steady tone of voice. Anyone else would have missed it. “It’s not about your work, Tyler,” Gwen said, enunciating each word. “It’s the fact that you always just complain, complain, complain whenever we’re together. It’s annoying.” “Not true.” Gwen scoffed. “Y’know, I wanted to have a pleasant dinner with you tonight. I really did. Just a quiet night out with my boyfriend, maybe talk about a movie or something. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t come out to hear you bitch about your job for the millionth time.” Tyler sat quietly as Gwen spoke, shaking his head. “Apparently, that was too much to ask…” she muttered under her breath. She picked at the last bit of her salad. Tyler’s ears perked up as the obfuscated words crashed against him. The tie around his throat felt tighter and tighter every second. “I tried, Gwen. I really did. I just wish you would extend the same courtesy to me. But you only hear what you want to hear. You only see what you want to see,” he said. His hands emerged from his lap and gestured to the extravagant room around them. “Why do you think we’re here tonight, huh?” he continued. “Why do you think we spent the whole drive here listening to the Spice Girls? Why do you think I wore this tie? It’s not because I love Italian or because I just adore 90’s pop or because I’m a big fan of the Windsor Knot. Tonight was like this—I was like this—because it’s what you wanted, because it’s what you like.” “Right, because God forbid you look even a little presentable,” she spat. “If it weren’t for me, you’d always look like you just stumbled half-naked out of a dive bar.” He clenched his teeth, more aware of the serpentine cloth coiled around his neck than ever. He loosened it with a powerful tug, glaring at Gwen. If she wanted to do this here, he wasn’t going to pretend anymore. She shot back with daggers of her own. Her fingers hadn’t approached her necklace in minutes, choosing instead to dig into her palms. Her lips twisted into a cruel sneer, but she didn’t utter a word. Tyler spoke up in her stead, his voice maintaining the same restrained contempt it had held before. “If that’s what you really think, maybe I’ll just quit. I mean, I certainly don’t need the money, and you, swimming in a metric ton of gold doubloons as you are, definitely don’t. “I’m looking at a promotion with better pay right now, but that doesn’t really matter. I could’ve turned this job into a city manager position someday, but, no, you’re right. I should go straight to Mick’s office tomorrow morning and say ‘Y’know, I would’ve loved that promotion, but my girlfriend thinks my high-paying job and all my friends make me a big meanie. So, I must resign effective immediately. Sorry, Boss.’ Would that make you happy, Gwen?” Her cheeks were as red as the lobster in the meal she’d ordered. At this point, Gwen knew the other guests had overheard their spat, but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was winning. She had tolerated his provocation before, but not this time. “No, what would make me happy is having a boyfriend who isn’t completely self-absorbed! Who appreciates and understands what I do! Who doesn’t spend what little time he spends with me talking about his disgusting friends!” Her chest heaved as she lashed out at the man across the table. “You have the unmitigated gall to say that I’m the selfish one when you never ask about me or how I’m doing or what I want for the future? When you refuse to be seen with me romantically in public? You’re just a petulant, self-centered child!” “Please, you’re the one who doesn’t appreciate anything.” “That’s bull, and you know it.” “You take everything I do for granted!” “I want to support you, Tyler!” “Keep telling yourself that.” “But you make it difficult to do that when every word out of your mouth is negative! It’s suffocating! You’re suffocating!” “You want to support me? Is that what you’re doing? Telling me that the way I dress makes you embarrassed to be seen with me is supporting me? Taking my credit card behind my back to go buy gifts for yourself, that’s supporting me? Getting drunk off your ass and gushing about how amazing Stephen Jacobs is is supporting me?” The color drained from Gwen’s face. Did I really do that? She felt like she was going to throw up, but she steeled herself. True or not, Tyler had only himself to blame. “I knew this was a waste of time. You’re so far gone—" “Answer the question.” “—that you can’t even see how hard I’ve tried to make this work. You only see what you want to see.” “Answer the question, Gwen.” “I’ve put up with more of your crap than anyone I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. You’re lucky I only ordered the bisque.” Gwen stood from her chair, her lip quivering. All eyes in the restaurant locked onto her, at least those that hadn’t been observing already. Tyler stood to match her. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just dodge the question! Make me the bad guy! Classic Gwen move!” “I hope I never see you again!” she screamed. “You read my mind!” Tyler shouted. Gwen leaned across the table. “In case that skull of yours is too full of your own bloated ego to understand, allow me to dumb it down for you: we’re done. Sayonara, asshole.” Gwen turned her back on the man she once thought she loved and stormed toward the door. Hushed gasps and conspiratorial whispers followed her retreat. Tyler clenched his fists, sweat pooling in the grooves of his palm. His shoulders shook with barely contained tremors. “Thanks for the help, teach! Have fun shopping at Walmart!” She turned, incensed. The man standing across the room was a total stranger now. Strands of his once prim and proper hair were dangling in front of his face, covered in sweat. His handsome face was twisted in a mask of abject hatred for the woman he once would have traveled the world for. Gwen’s face looked much the same. A barb of her own failed to manifest in that moment. Perhaps it was the eyes of the crowd or her overwhelming embarrassment. Perhaps it was the memories flooding her mind in droves. Perhaps it was the tie she’d bought for Tyler that now dangled limply from his neck. Whatever it was, Gwen could not bring herself to attack anymore, and though she didn’t know it, nor could Tyler. The pair stared at one another for a moment from across that room, eyes glimmering with a maelstrom of conflicting emotion. For but an instant, each understood the other for the first time in a long time. No more words would pass between them. No texts, no calls, no emails. No more would Gwen run her fingers through his hair. No more would Tyler wrap his hand around hers. No, this moment was the end for the two of them. In that place called La Cuillère D'or, something died, and no one was sad to see it go, save the two who put it in the ground.


One day, Lisa was walking past a dig site. "They have been digging there for years. I wonder what the archaeologists are looking for," Lisa thought as she walked by. "Hello sweetie pie!" said her mom as she walked in the house. "How was school?" "It was okay," replied Lisa with a sigh. "What happened now?" asked her mom. "I got a C- in my math test." "It's okay. It just means you have to study more," explained her mom. "You always say that," said Lisa in her mind. "Uh. Mom, can I go to the dig site?" "Sure pumpkin. Just be careful!" her mom replied. "I will!" Lisa shouted from the door. When Lisa arrived at the dig site, she saw some sort of pillar with an opened book that was floating on top. In front of the pillar was a mirror. Lisa read one of the pages out loud. "Look through a m irror, Looks be changes, Think of you your loved ones, Look up." Lisa thought of her older sister, Isabelle. When she looked in the mirror, she looked different. She looked like Isabelle. But when she looked down into the puddle at her feet, she looked like regular Lisa. She heard someone coming, so she quickly ripped out the page and ran home. "I wonder if it works on any mirror," she thought. "Look through a mirror, looks be changed, think of your loved ones, look up." She did exactly what she did at the dig site. She looked in her bedroom mirror and once again, she looked like Isabelle. "Dinner's ready!" shouted her mom from downstairs. "Coming!" Lisa hid the page in her backpack. When Lisa woke up the next morning, she searched her backpack, but, the paper was gone. "Where is it!" Lisa turned her bedroom upside down looking for it. Then she saw a note on the mirror. The note said, "You have stolen from the fairies, so we took what is ours back. As a punishment, the Queen of the kingdom has tangled your hair. Good luck!" When Lisa tried to brush her hair, it was tangled. "This is awful!" exclaimed Lisa as she tried to undo the tangles. It took her hours, but she finally got them out. Lisa didn't find the book back at the dig site, but she did find fairies. She said she was sorry for stealing from them and would never do it again. The next day, Lisa found another note on her dresser. "You are welcome to the kingdom whenever you like, Lisa. Just call the fairies and they will show you. Signed, the Queen." "I get to go in a castle!" exclaimed Lisa. "Oh fairies, where are you? Can you please lead me to the kingdom? I want to meet the queen. She invited me." All of the sudden, three little Brownies came out of their hiding spots. " So that's where all the cookies went ," thought Lisa. "We are here to lead you to the kingdom," said all the brownies at once. Lisa followed the Brownies through the forest until they stopped at a gateway. At the top was a Peris . Lisa thought there would be knights at the gate, but there weren't. "Where are the knights?" she asked. "They are here. You just can't see them. They are Will-o'-the-Wisps ." When they entered the throne room, there was someone holding a bowl of water next to the Queen, who was a Kappa . "You can go back to the lake, Selkie ." The Selkie left the bowl of water with the brownies, went into the water, and turned into a seal. "Ah, I see you got my note," said the queen gently. "Yes, your majesty," replied Lisa in a shaky voice. "Please, join us for dinner. Guards, prepare the young lady for dinner." Lisa felt someone tugging her and bringing her to a room full with clothes. "Pick what you like," said a voice out of nowhere. Lisa settled on a purple dress with a pink bow. "Wow, it's 5:00 already. Seems like time passes faster here." Ding, dong, rang the bell. Lisa went to the dining room to have dinner. There was a stage with jesters on them. They were dancing and telling jokes. "Why did the melon jump in the lake? To become a watermelon." Everyone laughed, including Lisa. After dinner, Lisa followed the jesters to see where they practiced. The room was small and dark, with photos of the queen. "I'm done with telling all these jokes! I want a real job!" said the first Djinn . "Don't worry, I have a plan," said the other Djinn. They didn't know that Lisa was eavesdropping on them. "So we first take out that Selkie. Then get a towel and wipe all the water off the top of the Queen's head. That way she won't be so powerful. Then we kill the queen and become kings. Sound good?" asked the second Djinn. "Yes," said the other. Lisa ran to the throne room. "I have to tell the Queen. And quickly." "Your majesty, I overheard your jesters planning to kill you," said Lisa. "I suggest putting them in the dungeon, but who am I to tell you what to do." "Yes," said the queen thoughtfully. "Guards, find the jesters and put them in the Dungeon." As a reward, the Queen gave Lisa a beautiful amethyst amulet that allowed her to understand animals and give her access to the fairy kingdom whenever she wanted. Glossary Brownie - Brownies are small and friendly little people that help with household tasks at night. They expect to be rewarded with sweets. If you offend a brownie, they may destroy things in your house Djinn - Arabian shape-shifting fairies. Kappa - A Japanese water creature with webbed hands and a bowl on the top of their head. When the bowl is full of water, it is very powerful. Selkie . - Seal-like creatures that can take form of a human out of water. Peris - Small fairies with wings - how most people describe fairies. They are often friendly towards people but sometimes can be a nuisance. Will-o'-the-Wisps - Most people think they are the spirits of the dead. If you come near a Will-o'-the-Wisp, they vanish. This spirit fairy usually appear as a flame.


I am eight years old.

I’m nineteen.

“Come on, get ready. We’re leaving.” “I have all my stuff by the door, Mom. Mom, can you help me put my sleeves over my gloves? Mom, what time are we supposed to be there? Are we leaving now, Mom? Is Baby Savana coming?” “Oh that’s right! Do you need help with anything?” She smiles at me, hoisting her bag filled with styrofoam cups and thermoses of hot chocolate to her shoulder. “Let’s go.” I sit, all scrunched down in my seat. Mom helps me buckle up because my hands are rendered useless by the gloves. It is hot with all these layers: undershirt, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, jacket, not to mention the heavy boots hanging at the end of my likewise entrapped legs. I am hot and thirsty before we get there. It seems to take forever. Mom says it’s only supposed to be five minutes but she must be wrong. I’m wearing leggings under my jeans, a t-shirt, and jacket. My gloves are in my pocket along with my toque, I’ll pull them on when I get there.

Our whole homeschooling group is here! All of my friends! We laugh and chatter and run for the pile of sleds that Daddy is taking out of the back of the van. Alex gets there before I do and takes the good one. We have to take the one-seaters instead, and I am left with the thin plastic one. That’s okay. It goes the fastest. We run for the hill— or trudge, rather: all of us equally encumbered by our loving mothers. We get out of the Armada and I put my seat down to let my siblings in the back out. They all grab sleds. I take the thin plastic one, used to the occurrence. I’ll get the big one later on. I challenge Mom with a race to the hill. She just laughs, and I march along to the hill, following her and Dad. Then Alex rams into my side and takes off running. I glower at him and chase him across the hard snow, then lose my traction and end up on my rear. He asks if I’m alright. I remain on the ground till he turns around and helps me up. We make our way with wiser speed towards the hill where our siblings are already halfway down. We get on our sleds and holler until one of the dads pushes us off. We wanted to race, but only one dad was near at the time, so we got pushed off separately, but there is still room for competition. Who went the farthest? We do a couple rounds, sweating our way up the hills and screaming our way down. The hill is huge. It only takes a couple seconds to get down. The path up, though, is a different story, struggling through the slushy path with our bundled bodies already hindered, dragging our sleds and not even talking for need of oxygen to our muscles.

I sit down on my sled and shove myself to the tipping point. Just as I get going, I feel hands on my shoulders. Someone shoves me but holds onto my right shoulder just a bit longer. I spin away down the hill, catching sight of Alex tumbling after me for several yards, grinning maliciously. Apparently, scaring me was worth the fall. I let out a scream of delight as my world revolves around me while I fly forwards.

“Daddy, can you spin me?” He does, and I shriek, holding on to my sled for dear life, when a thought comes to me. I pry my fingers off the handles and thrust them valiantly into the air. For a moment I am the bravest kid in the homeschool group, before my sled stops short and ejects me onto my side. I roll to a stop, spitting the gritty snow out of my mouth, and try to get my bearings, then get smacked on the cheekbone by my errant sled. Tears start to my eyes, but Marian and Sara come down nearby and help me up. They assure me that I looked pretty cool before I fell.

Climbing the hill is easier now. It’s not nearly as high as what it used to seem like. I can keep up with Mom now. Tyler asks if we’ll pull him up. We both laugh and inform him that he can use his own legs, but we slow down graciously so he doesn’t have to walk up alone. Phil charges the hill as we reach the top, holding a long sled in front of him, and takes a running dive. I laugh. There is no way I could do that now— I have become way too sensible. Fear would stop me. Also, my womanly assets are a bit of a deterrent.

I grip the long sled that I have stolen from Alex tightly and dive over the edge of the hill. The idea that this might be foolishness has not yet entered my mind, only exhilaration and adrenaline. I fly headfirst and land on the sled. A grunt escapes me as I make contact with the packed track. Sailing down the hill is marvellous. I get some snow in my face, but if I keep my lips pinched and eyelids scrunched so I can barely see, I am fine. I make my way back up the hill and find Nathan at the top, waiting for a sled. His little brother, Elijah, or Elisha, I could never remember, leaps down the hill the same way I did. He tries to stop him but can’t, then warns me seriously that going down on my stomach could be dangerous. I point out the obvious fact— that I am dead yet and in fact feel quite fine. He nods and says I will never know until one day I go to a doctor and find out that I have broken something inside of myself by hitting all the rocks and ramps with my stomach. As a fellow eight-year-old, his word is nearly gospel, so I resolve not to do it again.

“We’re all done now, you can go for one more slide.” I beg Daddy to push me, and he says that he supposes he can push me one more time. I ask him to do it harder than all the other times so I go even faster and maybe break the farthest record. I come up short and disappointed, but when I get to the top, every feeling is put aside for the hot chocolate in styrofoam cups that is sure to get spilled over my gloves. I resolve to take my last slide in silence. It is a strange feeling, flying along in the brisk air, and I whisper a thanks to God for a fun afternoon. The sun sparkles on the snow we haven’t trampled, and I can’t help it. I break my resolve and let out a whoop of pure joy. It was inevitable.