CAUTION: Language and grisly images and reality TV Nothing had happened at the mansion seemingly in forever . Which kinda, sorta was the whole point. “I don’t give a fuck about manatees,” Mason growled. He then glanced anxiously down at the headset hanging about his neck with his $350 readers and the wood-gripped director’s lens finder that supposedly had belonged to John Ford. He’d hoped for a gig on Yellowstone or at least Yellowstone 1972 , and after some flunkie for Taylor Sheridan told him who John Ford was, figured it might help give him some street creed with the Paramount-Plus folks. It didn’t, and he’d never yet used the thing. There were apps for that now, as if Soul Survivor remotely required technique or artistry.

Chest pounding, he flopped back in his Adirondack. “Swear to God, if my mike had been hot just then, I’d have fed you to the sea cows. Even if this is CBS, the whale-humpers on Twitter would have cancelled me quicker than MAX killed Batgirl . Fucking labradoodles of the sea.” Cayl took a measured beat. She’d been discovered by Jeff Probst after her work on Netflix’ Rudderless: Death of a Dolphin , which Probst had streamed while attempting to lure narrator Paltrow onto Glamping With the Stars . “Look, while we’re waiting out the strike, we could shoot some footage of the gang cooing over the manatees. Like you said, people love the, uh, fucking things – I could work up a stringout, maybe on the lines of the alliances forging a temporary truce after the blowout last ep. Harmonizing with nature, all that…shit.” Mason peered out over the ocean. He didn’t get it – he truly didn’t. But he could see it even without fucking John Ford’s magic kaleidoscope. It’s why they’d picked this location on the coast, aside from the fucking ghosts which had yet to show their fucking dead faces and the tie-in with Paramount’s new King miniseries. Public interest in the supernatural – at least among Viacom/PP’s prime demographics -- had surged following the president’s claim to have been visited in the Lincoln Bedroom by the spirit of Ronald Reagan urging closed borders and the sale of the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge amid a wholly inexplicable spike in Fairbanks and Juneau polar bear attacks. Paltrow’s 60 Minutes comments on the matter tanked Glamping , opening a prime Wednesday slot for Soul Survivor . Which had gone on hiatus four episodes in, amid the network editor/programmers’ strike and the incident that had occurred moments after the network cut abruptly from the live feed to the highly touted NCIS: Key West/NCIS: Chicago crossover accidentally aleady in progress. If you rewatched the network feed, you could see Probst glimpse away without dropping the shit-eating grin. Mason pushed out of his porch chair. “Yep, sure, let’s go shoot some fucking sea cows. Oh, c’mon; you know what I fucking meant.” ** Actually, as Mason squinted down, he decided labradoodles had more intellectual bearing. But Cayl was right – the standard collection of beautiful morons Probst had gathered this time were entranced by the dumb cows. Cows with a Harvey Weinstein face and, well, Harvey Weinstein’s physique. The strike had stifled Mason’s creativity. More agile than Weinstein, though -- at least the enfeebled, bristly version of Weinstein the attorneys had rolled past TMZ during the trial. Had he directed it, he’d once told Cayl, he’d have lost the Goodwill walker with the day-glo tennis balls.“Looked like a fucking Lifeline commercial. Nobody thinks Harvey buys his lube and rohypnol at Costco.”

Cayl could but silently concur. One of her greatest attributes as an assistant producer, Mason acknowledged. Right this minute, in fact, Cayl was silently assessing the trio of West Indian manatees cavorting at the edge of the ancient pier as Mason rallied the seven remaining contestants. “This is what the late Coach Hayden Fox would have called a team-building opportunity,” the two-time Emmy short-lister began soberly, assuming these Gen-Zers only knew Craig T. Nelson as Admiral Hornblauer on NCIS:KW/Chi/Hawaii/Vegas – if they even watched scripted shit any more. “I know we’re all pretty still pretty dazed by recent events, and I appreciate everybody keeping the faith while our brothers and sisters in the Editors Guild negotiate a workable contract. Word is, a new contract could be announced by week’s end.” Truth be told, there’d been a virtual network blackout since The Incident – given the unaired debacle in Episode 4, a blessing in disguise for Mason. As for the “talent,” there was a seemingly unending supply of high-end food and drink, the unprecedented on-air hijinks and Venn Diagram fucking that had dominated Season 3 had set most of the gang free of their external obligations, and nobody was in any hurry to leave even a ramshackle, ostensibly haunted Shangri-La. The NDAs had scarcely seemed necessary, and there’d been no inquiries or edicts from Probst or Network. “For right now, though, let’s set rivalries and alliances aside. Nature has given us a gift—“ Cayl snorted; Mason glared. “—and we thought we might capture this moment of contemplation and reconciliation for the winter premiere. Or, you know, the spring or summer premiere, or whenever. There’s no restrictions on shooting, as long as nothing goes into post-production. ” Mason paused, looked down into the blank, bovine faces, then turned back to the manatees. A bristled snout popped above the water, nostrils flaring, and the director moved back a step. Cayl had set him straight after his previous threat, but he didn’t trust anything that big to stay true to its vegan vows. “So what’s say we start the day with a moment of silence for Trey?” A couple of the assembled ghosthunter/warriors frowned, looked out to the roiling ocean and the rocky beach where a flamingo and a gull were tussling over a dead tarpon, back up at the mansion, trying to define that something that seemed to elude them. Then all seven heads dropped into an attitude of prayer Mason had neither requested nor was permitted to request under network HR standards. “Jesus,” Mason muttered, compounding theproblem. Cayl communed with the sea cows, who seemed oblivious to her human presence. ** There was a truly ancient comedy on one of the implant streams — you could still find it if you were really determined, and if you could put up with the big hair, the outdated P9 references, the clunky coincidences and indecipherable callbacks that demanded the distractive FNote Track, and its quaintly sweet snark and naive notions of friendship and loyalty. Re had seen it but once, at the post-coital urging of an NYU broadcast history student he’d banged maybe 30 years before. A “cult classic,” a “social phenomenon.” It had in fact been a fairly tasteless affair, as it turned out , making light of the near death of a whale for the purposes of promoting a sociopathic liar’s sexual ambitions. Re’d interned with the Global Oceans Rescue Federation, and they’d parted company over breakfast, both agreed, none too soon. Based on amicus filings by the World Wildlife Foundation, Greenpeace, PETA, and Seaworld’s See Cetaceans campaign, the episode was permanently pulled from streaming archives along with the infamous “We had a deal with the squirrels” episode. But Re had savored and thus retained one quip delivered by the grandiloquent sociopath “George.” “The sea was angry that day, my friends – like an old man tying to send back soup in a deli.” The last true deli had been bombed by an extreme No More Methane cell following the U.S.’ fifth rejection of the Paris Global Climate Treaty, soup had all-but-vanished from restaurant menus amid the potable water shortages of the ‘40s, and in three decades watching the Atlantic become its own bouillabaisse and climate shifts rendering meteorology a dead discipline, Re joked (or considered joking) he’d never seen anything BUT an angry sea. There were so many things wrong there, but as a result, it was theoretically nostalgic. Re nonetheless had booked this coastal cruise as his sabbatical gift – a celebration of a life aquatic, as some old Wes Anderson movie had put it, with his guilty avocational pleasure. Processing his mother’s estate, he’d come across three boxes of OG pulp-paper books. While it took some adjustment deactivating his Kinductive Reader implant and fending off the stares on the Metroways and the Impossible Coffee shops, Re rapidly became addicted to the works of Stephen King. The late 20 th Century/early 21 st author had specialized in the horror genre, and had been a key social force in the years leading up to the Second Civil War. After an attack by a deforestation protester on the Times Square food concourse, he’d inloaded the collected digital works. He’d never devised how to disable the background audio track on the bone-conductive Kindle chip, but tolerating manipulative strings and creaky terror FX seemed a small price for keeping Re’s cranium intact. “To your left, you’ll see one of the highlights of today’s Tour,” his Carnival-synched implant murmured. Re perked and stared out the bubble’s hull, above the water line. The old estate was as virtually displayed on the website – a 19 th Century behemoth, weathered but steadfast and daunting on a bluff above the rocky shore. With one significant difference. The latest photo on the site had been taken in the early 2030s, and the fire-scarred clearing just west of the mansion had long-since healed over, if not the west wing itself. “I don’t know if any of you are old enough to remember the television series Soul Survivor, though I’m sure you history buffs are aware of the events of October 24, 2027, and the scandalous legacy of Brookridge Manor. It was here that nearly the entire cast and crew of the paranormal reality show perished in a fire bombing/shooting spree by Trey Reedus, an apparently disgruntled contestant who’d been ‘ghosted’ during the program’s Tribal Séance only moments before. Reedus, a photographer from Ocala, Florida, had been savaged across social media platforms days before for manufacturing a deepfake video of Kellem Brookridge, the manor’s original owner and lumber tycoon, walking the halls of the mansion. Unfortunately for Reedus, Brookridge had died peacefully in his sleep in 1886 after losing both legs in an 1843 sawmill accident.” A man of his time, Re reflected as a pod of dolphins glided below his feet. Reedus, not Brookridge. The Floridian’s photography had primarily appealed to lonely and libidinous web crawlers, and Trey was a member of several now-extinct cultural appreciation groups known for scrawling geometrically skewed swastikas on overpasses and synagogues and waging White God’s battle for the community expulsion of such literary terrorists as Judy Blume, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Schultz, James Baldwin, and, of course, Father Stephen.

Soul Survivor ’s screeners apparently were as well-read as Mr. Reedus, who as they later discovered also had a tendency toward badly filtered transphobia and misogyny. He had, nonetheless, been able to translate the writing on the wall, or Walls, as it were, and managed somehow to quickly stockpile guns and incendiaries in 21 st Century rural America after a failed Instagram campaign decrying “cancel culture” failed to command more than a few thousand likes and concurrent online threats against “the network Jews.” CBS carefully affirmed its steadfast commitment to the First Amendment, “if not to the specific views expressed by Mr. Reedus,” but the execs liked their viewership old and scared, not proactively psychotic. Luckily, Probst and Co. were able to hang their caps on outright fraud, which even by that point was a technical deal-breaker. Well, luckily . “An investigation into the tragedy revealed that the local realtor who leased the historic mansion had for years fraudulently claimed the Brookridge manor to be haunted, by her own admission to pursue historical landmark designation and improve resale appeal without having to make key code upgrades. At the same time, the families of the seven remaining contestants, crew members, and producers filed a multi-billion-dollar suit against CBS, Paramount, and the late Probst’s production company, and with public outcry narrowly edging demand for more of the same, competitive reality ended nearly overnight. As for Trey Reedus, authorities confirmed through dental records that charred remains found in the gutted parlor of the mansion were indeed the arsonist/murderer’s.

“And ironically, because of his actions, Brookridge Manor was restored to the National Registry of Paranormal Sites 10 years ago, after an EPA hydrothermic research vessel spotted what looked to be trespassers on the condemned property, heavily dressed and without respiratory gear despite record October temperatures. In photos taken by the crew, the dozen or so trespassers could not be identified, and the crew could find no corresponding human heat signatures... The implant went silent, and for one moment, Re was concerned he might have to have the cortical chip recalibrated or even replaced. Then the AI voice returned, slightly and artificially breathless, with an edge of synthesized wonder.

“Oh, my. We have a real treat for our Carnival Paranormal Reward guests today. If everyone could please focus their attention on the pier to the left of the mansion…” Re swiveled as the bubble rose a few feet above the waves. His heart quickened as he spotted it. A half-ring of figures, absurdly disturbing in jeans and flannel on a typical 120-degree October morning. He adjusted his glasses, and could make out that their heads were bent in, what, prayer? Officiated by a short, thin man in an expensive looking down vest, who stood out from the young, svelte men and women seemingly absorbed in his evey word. Several yards away, at the edge of the decipit old dock, a crouching ninth figure looked up, and Re looked abruptly away, uncertain whether what he saw under its shock of red hair was a refractive trick of the superheated water or some veil between spatial, temporal, or dimensional planes, or what he almost certainly knew it to be. Re suddenly felt something nostalgic. Empathy. For this creature, for the seven eternally lost souls seeking, what, release, mercy, forgiveness, just an acknowledgment of something, anything beyond?

“The ship biologist informs me an aggegration of manatees has gathered at the shoreline, and although we have no way of confirming it, it would appear the entity you see at the end of the dock is attempting to interact with them. Now, of course, manatees are not at all uncommon in this area – global boiling off the Florida coast forced a number of species northward, and with recreational boating and commercial fishing curtailed along most of the Eastern Seaboard and their habitable range extended, manatee numbers have grown nearly tenfold over the past decade alone. Recent research indicates that like dolphins, manatees may be particularly sensitive not only to sounds beyond our grasps, but also to spiritual energies. Who knows?” Like a weak digital signal, the figures on shore flickered and eventually glitched out. Re fell back in his seat, incredibly both disappointed and…relieved. “Our captain informs me a rapidly moving hyperthermafront is moving this way, so we’re going to head on out. Just to remind you – complementary high-resolution photos of this morning’s occurrence are now available on the forward deck. We at Carnival’s King’s Tour of Paranormal Maine hope it made your voyage even more supernaturally special.”

Re smiled despite himself. As the horizon darkened in prelude to the next onslaught, the next overture building to a crashing finale, he was heartened by the notion that there might be another stage, a life after extinction. As the bubble settled back into the cradling sea, Re glanced at the rising depths beneath his feet to find a trio of bristled, bovine faces staring right back up at him, curious perhaps, perhaps pitying. The manatees trailed the bubble as far as their considerable bulk and meager stealth would take them, and as the small aggregation disappeared into the murk, Re tapped his left temple, brought up his library, and, in a moment of impulse, bypassed King for something by Melville.

** Cayl looked up as the manatees abruptly pivoted toward the open sea. It all began to come back to her again, as it did more times than she knew, as she watched what appeared to be a huge bubble rise from the rough surf. Mason and the Beautiful Morons were still eulogizing the psychotic monster who’d somehow caused all this and praying for, what, a timely end to the strike and short network/viewer memory? Cayl shuddered as she reached out again to the pod or whatever they called a herd of sea cows whose GPS had gone woefully haywire, catching sight of the skin running from ruined nails into her jacket sleeves. The trio was about to bolt, and Cayl leaned over the dock to catch one last glimpse. The lack of a reflection didn’t register, and as the manatees retreated, she instinctively turned toward the house, toward the black hole that looked like some gaijin had emerged from this off-kilter ocean and taken a bite for the road. It was watching her, again, she realized. A mass of charcoal and dried blood, one arm now perpetually merged with a twisted, barely recognizable piece of metal. The redneck’s wet dream, Cayl mused, flipping it off two-handed. The briquette-thing’s jaws unhinged, and it mouthed something, vestigial lips pursing on the first syllable, popping on the last. Same thing it’d said to her leaving the Séance Circle for what would be his posthumous 15 minutes. “Wow, who writes your dialogue, you fucking overdone putz?” Cayl Rosenweig muttered.


I apologize for going off prompt a bit.  My story does not take place in the Wild West, rather in the hills of east Kentucky, but I think you'll enjoy this disturbing tale nonetheless. The landscape of eastern Kentucky is worth seeing if you enjoy scenic places and Olive Hill is certainly as quaint as any small town can be tucked into a tidy corner of the Western Appalachian Mountains.

There is a country road, simply known as Road #2 that meanders through the rolling hills until you happen on a small hamlet called Forgotten Corners just past Sawbones Gap.  There is a reason why this place got its name, but if you are fascinated by ancient lore, this small section of the hills will bend your mind.

Those of us who have been here a while, know of this strange phenomenon I am about ready to reveal to you.  So put another stick on the fire, cozy up and let me tell you of a place in the hills known as Sawbones Gap. Washington Irving wrote of a place called along the Hudson River in New York where a man lay down for a nap and woke up twenty years later.

His story, like most told, does have an element of nonfiction amidst all the fiction.  Same with Sawbones Gap.  Moonshiners have been running that country route for as long as I can remember with hairpin curves and winding roads that seem to disappear into the clouds, Route #2 is a favorite because experienced moonshine drivers can easily elude the authorities, because, let’s face it, most of them patrol cars are not detailed the way runners are done up with engines that seem to run on Kerosene or maybe jet fuel.

There have been legends of runners who are known as ghosts up there by those chasing them. One day one of the better known runners, Beau Mondone told me of Sawbones Gap and Forgotten Corners just beyond that landmark.

Beau is one of my regulars at my dinner opened when my dad got out of the service and on the wall by the cash register is a black and white photograph taken back in 1955 when a young drifter happened by. He told my pa that he was from Mississippi and he was headed for Memphis on account he just signed a contract with Sun Records.

My dad served him up some of his best fixings and asked the young man to pose with him for a photograph.  And that’s how that photograph of my pa mugging it up with Elvis Presley got there.

“Can I tell ya something, Bill?” He asked me as he finished up his Roadkill Stew.

The stew isn’t really made from roadkill, but the name is sort of a favorite as my regulars will shout over to the short order cook, “Rustle me up some of that Roadkill stew woncha Russ.”

Newbies and travelers let their jaws drop at the request for the stew and this gets a good snicker from those who know.

Russ Mullins, my lead short order cook will dice up some squirrel sometimes when he’s been out in the woods for a weekend, but for the most part the meet is pure beef, but not some of the finer cuts if you know what I mean.

So I pull up a chair to Beau’s table and lean on over to him so he can talk to me without other folks listening.

His face gets this ghostly white all of a sudden and his voice gets kind of croaky like a bullfrog sitting by a pond, “Have you ever been to Forgotten Corners?” “Can’t say I have.

That road is a deathtrap.” I blow air through my two missing teeth making the gap whistle as I do. “Yeah, well I run that road quite a bit when Shane tells me his home brew is ready for distribution.” Beau takes out a cancer stick from the pack rolled up in his shirt sleeve and lights it with his Bic lighter.

After blowing a cloud of smoke in the air even though I’ve gone non-smoking in my dining room, I do not get all hyper if someone lights one up on occasion. “I went up there last night after sundown.  I’ve been told by bretherend not to do that, but Shane pays good, real good.” “So I’ve heard.

Ain’ never had the ATF sniffing out his stills.” I nodded knowing his reputation for caution to the trade.

“Anyway, I hardly ever notice that small knothole in the hills, but last night I picked up a cherry top so I stopped into the cafe just before you get to Sawbones Gap.

And this guy with a flattop and whitewalls comes strolling on up to me ready to take my order.  There was this big old mirror filling up the entire wall behind the counter where he was standing.

Pretty routine if you asking me, until I notice the mirror.” “What about it?” I shrugged trying not to appear bored. “The only one reflected in that mirror was me.” He paused, “That flattop soda jerk was nowhere to be seen.”

I laughed, because screaming would alarm my other customers, “What was he?

Some kind of ghoul?” “It would seem to be so.” Beau sucked on his cigarette for a minute it seemed like, the red glow at the end burned over half way down toward his nicotine stained fingers. “‘Cept Roy Dauers told me something that made my hair stand up on end.”

“Yeah, what?

You know Roy is a burnout from Vietnam.” I shook my head. “Yeah, but he’s one of the best in the business.

Hallucinating or strung out on other mind bending substances, I would trust him until the end.” Beau gave me a glare from his cold gray eyes, “Roy said them people live by a different clock.”

This was a strange statement by any stretch of the imagination, but Beau who never gave into urban myths or any sort of poltergeist bunk, was telling me that Forgotten Corners was a nest of ;paranormal activity.

There were enough stories of moonshiners turned serial killer using axes and other sharp objects to cut up their victims into little bite sized pieces.  The hills were always fertile grounds for creepy tales of bizarre behavior and horrible happenings.

“Time?

What do you mean?” I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall over the kitchen porthole where orders were placed as a bell was rung. “How many minutes are in an hour?” He asked without batting an eye.

“Sixty minutes.

Has always been sixty.” I shrugged and blinked my eyes. “What would happen if there were, let’s say, sixty one or two minutes in an hour while everybody else counts sixty minutes in an hour?” He snubbed out his cigarette in his glass of water that was half full.

I laughed. “Are you nuts?” “Wish I was.” He was not joining in laughter. “So you’re telling me that this place has extra minutes on their clock?” I asked still humored by the thought. “Something like that, yeah.” He was dead serious and this made me stop laughing. “This is nuts.

Time is the one constant we all have.

Gravity is another.” I pointed out feeling like my elementary teacher Miss Gibbs. She made us recite these basic facts during our daily chants. “Thirty days are in September, April, June and November, all the rest have thirty one except for February and that has…” “What was the world like before we had the Gregorian Calendar?

Really screws up the historical facts, but once the standard is set then everything becomes clear, but what if there were pockets or corners in this world that didn’t follow the rules or standards?” His voice was strained and his eyes looked like they longed for the lids to close. I began to run what he was saying through my central processor on top of my handsome forehead.

“There were no clocks in the place.

None of the people had reflections or shadows following them.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop to his chest.

“Why?” I put my hands together on the table in front of me.

I glanced over at Russ wearing his toque sitting lopsided on his bald head, but he gave me a thumbs up to let me know all was well.

“I asked.” He closed his eyes again. “And…” I cued him on.

“He told me that their shadows have not caught up with them in time.” He spoke through his clenched teeth.

“Wha?

Shadows?

Time?” I shook my head in disbelief. “He told me that Sawbones Gap there is this vortex, a black hole that sucks in small amounts of light and time and because of that, their hours have more minutes in them.” He put his hand over his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, “Shadows and reflections show up later.

Much later, because the time warp, like a ripple in the water, catches up later.” The last part of his explanation was swallowed by his own mouth as if saying this aloud would make this freakish phenomenon a reality.

I had heard others talk about Sawbones Gap stating that there was a strange sensation when you drove through the rocks resembling a football goal post.

Some of those who had been out on Route #2 said that there were strange waves fluttering through the rock formation resembling the refraction of rocks when heat rose up out of the desert rocks.

Some even told me that their engines began to pull as if the vehicle did not want to pass through gap.  It all seemed like urban legends to me, but then I had never gone up there.  I had no reason to.

My pa told me that I would be wiser to leave the hills to the moonshiners.  But now as I heard Beau tell me his story, I began to feel that I had to go have a look for myself.

As Route # 2 empties into the Olive Hill, a picturesque town that would look quite right on a postcard, but once you travel past the first hill, Route #2 changes personalities from a rolling rural road into a twisting deadly snake winding through the oak and pine trees that seem to smother the scenery with dense canopies that block out the sunlight in many places, giving them the appearance of dark sinister places capable of dispersing evil.

Some places receive such sparse sunlight that the rocks and pavement surfaces never seem to completely dry off.  Beau rode shotgun as I drove.  He asked to come with me when I told him that I had to see Forgotten Corners and the shadowless inhabitants. About twenty minutes of driving, the road got rougher, pots holes were everywhere and tree roots pushed up against the blacktop creating cracks and bumps that we seemed to catch each and everyone of them.

“There it is.” Beau pointed to the rocks on either side of the road, “Sawbones Gap.” He told me Sawbones Gap was named after a surgeon from the Civil War who afterwards, moved up into these hills to escape the memories of the carnage he had lived through for four years. He was very successful in his seclusion as he was never seen again.

The popular version was that he was killed by a wild animal he encountered trying to gain entrance to his cabin. There seemed to be some sort of electric field running between the two rocks as the area beyond the rocks was blurred by whatever force was active there.

Beau told me to drive through it and I did, but as I was warned the car shook as I drove between the two rocks of Sawbones Gap. “Are you feeling any different?” Beau asked. “No, not really.” But when I looked in the rearview mirror, I did not see my reflection and I gasped. “No reflection, eh?” He shook his head. “What does that mean?” I was almost afraid to ask, but I knew it was a question I needed an answer to.

“I’m not sure.” His face went white and bloodless.

It took twenty more minutes before I saw a sign posted for Forgotten Corners and in all my time in Kentucky, I had never heard of this place.

Surely with a name as strange as Forgotten Corners, someone must have noticed the novelty of the name.  Driving up to the dinner where Beau had stopped the previous evening, I noticed the parking lot was empty, but as I drove up the dinner appeared to have customers inside. Getting out of the car, I was stunned by the absence of sound. As soon as I turned the key, both of us were immersed in a cocoon of silence. I looked at Beau and saw he was looking back at me.

He offered a quick shrug as we walked toward the door to enter the dinner.  Even our footfalls were silent as we walked up the wooden stairs and Beau opened the heavy glass door.  I heard Beau gasped. “Mr. Mondone, good to see you again.” The young man in an apron greeted him. “You were working here last night when I came in.” He stammered. “Yes of course.” He smiled, but it seemed out of place.

Beau was right, the young man did not have a reflection in the wall mirror, but then neither did we.

Beau saw it too, but I shook my head when I saw he was going to question the young man. “Can I get you something while you look over the menu?” He handed both of us laminated menus. “Yeah...where is my shadow?” He asked abruptly. “Mr. Mondone, I believe I explained it to you last night.” He said patronizingly as he removed his pad from the pocket of his apron. “Shadows and reflections are locked into another time.” Simple.

End of story. Or was it?

Beau flopped down on a stool in front of the counter and put his head in his hands. “It doesn’t work like that.” He nearly moaned. “Here it does.

It has to.  We are behind.

Our day is twenty five hours long.” He crossed his arms over his clean apron.

“Over the years that adds up.  Even if our clocks were a minute off, in several years we would be a couple of days behind.” The young man patiently explained, but instead of offering comfort to this strange atmospheric reality, it just upset Beau even more.

I had to admit this wasn’t sitting well with me either. The pie in the case seemed to fade until there was nothing there but an empty plate. “No, it does not work like that.” Beau slammed his fist down on the counter, but there was no sound.

A few seconds later we heard the silverware rattling noise of his fist hitting the counter.  My mouth went dry. “You see, neither one of you really belong here, but you chose to drive through Sawbones Gap and once you do that, you become part of our world.

If you stay for a while, you will begin to acclimate to our time.  Stay one day and the next day will be twenty five hours long.” He did not take his eyes off of Beau who was sitting with his head bowed, his eye fixed on the floor knowing that if he looked up he would scream.

“The longer you choose to stay here, the more you will find yourself adjusting to our time.  I have been here for over one hundred years.”

“Noooo!” His shout was lost in the tick of the clock that went tick...tick...tick...tock. He put his hands over his ears. “Beau, I think we should go.” I suggested. “This is crazy.

All of this.” He picked up an empty coffee cup that was heavy ceramic and flung it against the clock.

The clock exploded without a sound.  Glass rained down all over the young man behind the counter, but he just stood there smiling.

After a moment or two the loud sound of glass violently shattering sounded. “Delay!  Why is the sound delayed?” “I told you.” He assured Beau who was beginning to have a nervous breakdown.

I found it difficult myself to come to grips with what was going on.  How could two places operate in different time dimensions within the same area?

This strange reality like the glass in the face of the clock was raining down all over us, covering us in this unsettling actuality. “I can’t take it here for another minute.” Beau stated as he stood up, “C’mon Bill, let’s get out of here.”

“Where do you think you are going?” The young man’s face sported a very sinister smile as we took a step toward the door where we came in. “Back to where we came from, junior.” Beau snarled. Suddenly the young man began to laugh and his laughter filled the dinner. “What’s so funny?” Beau asked as his laughter began to unnerve us both. “You broke my clock.” He pointed to the faceless clock dangling from the wall. “Yeah, so?” Beau shrugged. “What you destroyed was your passage back to where you came from.” He sniffed nodding toward the shattered timepiece where even the numbers were no longer legible. “You destroyed your only means of leaving Forgotten Corners and passing through Sawbones Gap.

You see Ol’ Doc Blanchard who found Sawbones Gap works as my dishwasher.” An ancient man with long beard and scraggly hair poked his face out of the kitchen and gave us a quick wave.

“All the people who come to Forgotten Corners must obey that clock you destroyed and without it you have disrupted the delicate balance-” I heard Beau scream pointing at the parking lot that was completely empty.

Upon noting my car was no longer parked out front, I gasp as the young man concluded, “ -you can never return to where you came from, because in destroying my clock, you have both now both citizens of Forgotten Corners. Welcome.”

An hour later I heard the scream that came from deep inside my guts and exited my open mouth.


I rolled in bed, tucking my blanket under my chin silently. No matter how hard I tried, sleep refused to claim me. My brain attempted to focus on the slight whisper of wind through my partially open window, but it proved to only disturb me. I stood. Awkwardly, as if afraid, I quietly walked towards the small shaft of moonlight to peer out into my wide, tree-lined yard that was barely lit. I watched for several moments, observing the swaying trees and the howl of a particularly strong gust of wind. Somewhere, a barn owl who'd and trilled. I was almost settled on going back to sleep, my imagination hopefully slumbered, but I found that a light caught my eye right as I was turning away. My whole body jerked back to the window, nearly knocking my beloved plants over that resided on the windowsill. Way out on the opposite side of the yard, our small shed light had flashed on, pale as the moon. It was a motion sensor-activated light. My eyes scoured the land before it, scrutinizing every bush and plant and tree. My eyes even swept up to the treetops to see if any bobcats might've scampered past and up to safety. I had no such luck, and after a few moments, the light blinked off and the yard was once more a shadow. Sometimes the trees set it off, I reasoned. Or a pinecone had fallen and the sensor had caught the movement. With one last sweep, I returned to my bed, wrapping the blanket firmly around my shoulders. The owl cried out again. Apprehension crawled around my shoulders and back. Though I'd seen nothing outside of the window, my mind still wandered in its semi-sleepy state. What could've been out there? What set off the sensor? Why am I still awake? I rolled, and, glancing at my phone, found it to be almost one in the morning. A silent groan rolled through me, and I almost missed it. From the slight crack in my window, a rasp reached for my ears and clapped a hand over my heart. My covers were thrown back in seconds without even thinking, my legs awkward with adrenaline as a spike of fear shot through me. Following the rasping noise was that of a quack; my ducks, outside in their pens, were sounding the alarm. Something was outside. The owl trilled before going silent, but a glance out my window revealed an empty yard. The one look wasn't enough, however - from my room, you could see the whole front yard, but the ducks and chickens were stationed to the right of my view. Continuing with painstaking quiet, I shifted out of my room and into the adjacent office. A scant glance to the hallway leading to the rest of the house revealed a room bathed in soft light from a monitor, the blinking light of a coffee machine, and the faint glare of numbers from other appliances that told the time. The house was asleep, and so should I be. I was wasting time. Safely ensconced in the next room, I tip-toed to the window nearest my animals and crouched, peering out with squinting eyes. It was far too dark, the faint smudges of color from my ducks only informing me that they lay crouched in their small pool. I hadn't realized I'd hid myself behind the wall like a barrier before I realized I was waddling away in a crouch that I only stood up from when I thought I couldn't be seen through the window. No part of me could know what was out the window, but my gut was clearly telling me that I didn't think it was good. I winced as my feet stuck to wooden flooring, creating a slight sound as my fear-warmed feet separated from the ground only to press down again. I was creeping out into the living room. The entire house was eerily silent and empty, nothing like during the day when even the lonely living room still seemed lively and welcoming. Now everything was awash in shadows and darkness, a faint peek of moonlight coming from the wide windows of the living room. I was looking for my father's flashlight - his favorite one that could shine all the way across our acreage of yard even on the darkest of night. Problem was that it was safely trapped in the pocket of his jacket, and to get to the jacket, one had to cross only the creakiest of floorboards in the entire house. The warped wood in front of the fireplace. I bit the inside of my cheek, but found that the danger outside was more important than getting caught. Still, my feet were hesitant and testing as I stalked across the floor and towards my father's coat. I shifted the fabric to and fro in the dark, hands searching silently while my ears opened to the noises of the house. My fridge made a slight whirring, the coffee machine trickled some water, a clock clicked the passing seconds. My hand wrapped around the flashlight. I sighed with relief, turning to go quickly. My foot clamped down on the loudest floorboard, the sound of it groaning slipping through the house with quiet warning. My stomach dropped out. Nothing so much as moved. Continuing with much more caution, I found my way back to the office with little difficulty. But still, I found myself crouching before approaching the window, allowing only the barest slip of my face to peer out. In the dark, my eyes still could not pertain anything. Silently, my arm reached up and aimed the flashlight before clicking it on. I had to shield the reflection on the window to be able to see anything as the pens were gathered with light. My eyes scanned hastily, noting the craned necks of my ducks that glanced at the strange light, the reflection of water from the troughs, and the chicken coops devoid of chickens since they slept in their roosts. There was nothing. With the bright light, I could see more than hear that the ducks were still quacking and rasping. I frowned. "The ducks who cried coyote," I muttered, switching the light off with a dull beat of my heart. The adrenaline still rode through me as I returned the flashlight and crept into bed. Once more, I pulled the blankets high, this time cottoning my ears to the faux warning cries of my ducks. At some point before I fell asleep, I noted that the motion-sensor flickered on through my window again. But I was too tired to check this time. *** The next morning, I woke to a massacre. It started with a yawning stretch, my feet swinging off my bed and onto the carpet of my room. I glanced tiredly out my window before beginning to clamber away and get dressed. I paused. Had I...? Turning around, I glanced more closely at my yard. Indeed, I had seen correctly. Beautiful white feathers and down were strewn across the green lawn, a clear path from somewhere to the right of my vision all the way to the shed and the forest beyond. My eyes traced the path in disbelief. Halfway across the yard, the density of the feathers lessened considerably as if the animal had started to weaken. Around that point, a good chunk of blood-washed wing lay clumped in the grass. My heart stuttered - my mind reeled; I wasn't sure I was breathing. Utter disbelief clung to me like a fog as I dashed to the office and looked out the window I had last night. This time I did not crouch; for there was no danger any longer. It had already passed. There, along the chicken-wire nearest to the pond, was a gaping hole clogged with red feathers that should've been white. Two other ducks - the last surviving ones, Donald and Daisy - lay around their water trough and food, sleeping lazily as if nothing had happened. Chickens milled and clucked around their own food. All was normal except for the one missing duck who seemed torn apart across the yard. The motion-sensor. I'd seen it go off. Felt something odd. Even the ducks had warned me of their impending danger; and I'd ignored it all. No, that wasn't true. I had looked out and seen nothing. But had I really looked? Had I glanced around the area surrounding the coup? Had I flashed the light at the smaller upper field to check for the flash of watching animalistic eyes? Had I checked the treetops for a feline figure awaiting its pray? No. I hadn't. And I hadn't even thought to try and wake someone to actually check. It seemed my window of opportunity last night had shut firmly close, and I had to tell my parents of my failure to latch on to it.


[TW: Substance abuse and profanity] Despite the darkness of night covering Copenhagen like a thin blanket, the city did not lie dormant. Big metal hearts and long chains lit up the streets, revealing people’s red noses and smiles as they pranced around. Sara marched hastily past the crowd. Her pulse pounded in her ears; the only rhythm in all her hectic thoughts. The eyes were glued to the phone in her hands. The cold bit her slender fingers pink, but her knuckles remained white as she clutched the phone. On the screen was a route navigating her through it all. Finally, she came to Studiestræde, where only a few lights from bar windows illuminated the black brick walls. She ran over to the bar, Masken, where a guard stood outside the door. He smelled pleasantly of cigarettes, which mismatched his unpleasant grimace. Sara forced the friendliest smile she could muster at the time: “May I come in?” The guard: “ID.” Sara: “Please, I’m not going to drink, I’ll be in and out in no time.” Guard: “No ID, no entrance.” Sweat on her forehead froze to ice in the wind. Sara returned to her phone to text mom. And as her lungs inhaled one deep breath, she held it while typing: “I forgot my ID, can you find my passport and send me a picture of it?” Her mom did as asked and sent a picture of Sara's passport. Apparently, that wasn't good enough for the guard and Sara had to download her health insurance card so he could have a look at both. Finally, he let her in. Sara darted through the entrance, but before she could feel the radiators heat, a man shouted: “Go away you crazy bitch!” All the air her lungs had been holding like two balloons, all of it was punctured into one word: “Shit!” At the bar stood Emma towering over a trembling man, laying on the floor beneath the tall girl. With foam out of her mouth, Emma snarled at the man. A whole crowd of drunk people stared at the spectacle in the corner of the room. Sara weaved her way through the small blockade of spectators so she stood a few meters in front of Emma. “Emma, please, let’s go.” Emma gave her a look that could burn down a city: “Fuck off Sara!” Sara’s blue eyes met the dark brown ones, not with hate or anger in them, just disappointment. The kind of disappointment that planted sadness and hopelessness in a garden. Emma let her eyes wander to the fat sack on the floor. The blood dripping from his nose contrasted with his winter-white skin. Then at her knuckles, all painted scarlet. Emma walked passed Sara, pushed her way through the crowd and exited the place. Everyone’s attention either turned to the door or back to their alcohol. Some laughed nervously at what had happened, others started talking about it as if a murderer was loose. Sara put a hand on her heart; it was the only band-aid she had for the weeping organ. A small breath was freed and she left too. When stepping back out into the cold, she saw Emma standing there texting on her phone. Sara spread her nicest smile again and called out: “Emma!” Emma glanced back with the same sour face as before. With her fuck finger out, she turned around and started trudging down the street. Sara had to gallop up to reach her: “Wait!” Emma: “Leave me alone.” Sara: “Can’t we just talk?” Emma: “Can’t you just fuck off?” Sara: “I’m worried about you!” Emma: “Good for you.” Sara opened her mouth to say more, but one of her snow boots got in front of the other and she fell. The left leg scraped the asphalt. Emma stopped: “Sara! Are you okay?” Sara sat down on the road and pulled up her pant leg to see some rosy lines: “It’s okay, it’s just a scratch.” Emma reached out her hand to help her up and Sara took it. Emma’s hand was nice, soft and strong. When Sara stood up, she couldn’t quite put weight on her left leg. Emma: “Can you walk?” Sara: “Yes, I think so.” Taking a step, left leg first, she felt a jolt through her leg. But as she always did, she bit her cheek and continued to approach Emma with faltering steps. Emma just stood there. Sara was now millimeters away and their breaths mingled together in a single cloud. Sara: “See!” Emma shook her head and rolled her eyes: “Come here.” With her back turned, she grabbed Sara’s legs and pulled the smaller girl up, piggyback style. Sara instinctively grabbed Emma's neck, bringing the warm hair to her face. Normally, people wouldn’t want someone else’s hair in their face, but something about the nice smell and the warmth made her feel safe. Then they started jogging off through the dark street. Sara: “Where are we going?” Emma: “To the grocery store, they probably have Band-Aids.” Both went silent after that. They continued like this for a few minutes. The pace slowed to a walk, but the grip remained sturdy. It felt like she could sit there safely forever, close to Emma. Sara: “When we get to the grocery store, I’m going to buy some cigarettes.” Emma: “You really need to stop smoking at some point, it’s not good for your lungs.” Sara: “Says the alcoholic.” Emma: “At least I know I have an addiction, and I’m trying to turn away from it. I’ve been sober for three months now.” Sara lost her voice. Three months of work, lost. That feeling of disappointment flooded everything again and began to water the sadness. Emma must have sensed it, because she whispered: “I’m sorry I went out for a drink.” Sara: “Is it because of your parents again?” Emma: “I wish I could say yes, but in reality I don’t know. The Christmas dispute was probably just an excuse to drink and get into a fist fight.” Sara didn’t say anything, because what do you say in that moment? Emma continued: “My parents don’t understand why I continue to drink and demand an answer, but I barely know it myself. I don’t know why I’m an alcoholic. I don’t know why I am the way that I am.” Sara: “You are not a bitch, if that’s what you think.” Emma: “Thank you.” Sara tried to get a look at her face but couldn’t see it for the hair. She gently ran her fingers through it and tucked it behind Emma’s ear. When Emma looked back, Sara could see her reflection in her eyes. They saw each other for the first time that night. They saw each other for the first time in a long time.


Allan Richards sat in the driver’s seat of his parked rundown sedan as he checked the copy of the invitation he had printed out earlier that morning, verifying that "Community First United Church of Christ" was indeed the appointed location. For a long moment, he considered hitting the key in the ignition and coming up with some kind of explanation of why he couldn't make it, but eventually he instead removed it from the console and, with a heavy sigh, swung the door open. He walked toward the front of the venue, catching sight of signs declaring today to be claimed for the wedding he had been invited to. He was just beginning to squirm awkwardly in his not-too-well-fitting rented suit when a voice barged its way across the parking lot toward him, "Allan! Hold up brother." He turned around to meet the forceful greeting head on, his gaze lighting on the shape of a face that would look familiar if not for the layer of beard fur that clung smartly around the contours of its mouth. "Michael?" he offered up a query in place of a greeting. The broad-grinning bear of a man removed the hat that hadn't changed since high-school from his head and—giving Allan a short, performative bow—placed it over his heart. "The one and only," he confirmed his identity. Allan couldn't help but grin, the familiar antics of high school serving to abate his nerves somewhat, "I'm pretty sure there's more than one Michael." His friend took on an expression of mock horror, "Where? Point them out to me, and I will beat them up for daring to use my name." Then, the moment of silliness-as-handshake passed, and Michael gathered up a more serious presence. "It's great to see you, Allan; how long has it been?" "Graduation; haven't seen any of you since graduation, except Jenny." "Really? Damn. Well, you look..." he trailed off, and Allan could almost see the working of his brain as he took in his old friend's disheveled appearance, "Good'," he finished, erring on the side of a polite falsehood.  "Thanks," Allan accepted the words of kindness and absolving Michael of the white lie, "You're looking fine yourself.” Michael seemed almost poised to say something further when another voice called out to them from the front door, "Oi, what're you two blockheads dawdling out in the parking lot for? The wedding's not gonna wait for you, y'know?" "He's right, let's get inside," Michael said, motioning his arms as if to sweep the two of them toward the entrance. Inside the hall, Allan cast his gaze around the assembled attendees, finding no one that he recognized, save for a pair of men with bright orange hair even after all these years. "Well get over here," the one who had stayed thin after high school called over to Michael and Allan. "We’re coming, we're coming; keep your tits on Charlie," Michael called back as he led their way over to the fiery-haired pair. Upon closing the distance to a more socially acceptable speaking range, he declared, “Good to see you too, Sam," and the other man received the greeting with a polite tug or the corner of his glasses’ frames for want of a hat to tip. Allan was amazed at how different the "twins" now looked; Charlie looked almost the same as ever, the only evidence that he hadn't simply teleported to the current date from graduation being the presence of a moustache that ought disqualify him from ever setting foot on an elementary school campus, while Samuel looked almost middle-aged already, his clean shaven-ness doing little to counter-act the effect of carrying around an extra fifty or so pounds. "0l' bookworm here was just telling me about the research he's been doing for his master's thesis," Charlie pointed to Samuel while miming a yawn. "Oh, how's that going?" Michael asked with polite curiosity. The man with the academic's physique responded with a good-humored snort, "Fine, I guess," he swilled his drink in front of them as if to say the liquor was the source of his claim, "Can I get you two a Drink?" "Sure, I'd take some liquid courage, " Michael responded. Allan stared at Samuel’s drink for a moment. "No, I really shouldn't.” His reply drew worried stares from the rest of the group for a moment, until Samuel simply nodded. "Okay, one wet one dry, then," he said as left the huddled friends. Michael quietly drew Allan toward the nearby corner, taking on the fatherly affect he had sometimes worn back when they were in high school, and Charlie politely turned his attention onto a program on the nearby table. "What's wrong?" Michael thrust the question directly at Allan once they were sequestered away from everything else, "You care to talk about it?" Allan held the question at arm’s length first, an emotional dagger threatening his heart, but Michael's piercing, care worn stare eventually won cut, and the corners of his eyes let a subtle stream of tears slip out, "It's just… seeing how well you've all done for yourselves these past few years, and all I've managed to do since high school has been dropping out of college and pissing away my health..." he trailed off into a fit of quiet sobbing. Michael put his hands on Allan's shoulders in lieu of a hug. "Hey now, easy does it," he cooed in reassurance. When Allan had managed to calm down, he asked "Okay, now, how have you really been?" Allan took a deep breath to gather himself up. "After mom passed, I... I fell apart. Took to drinking and didn't stop, not until a few months ago," he finally confessed. Michael looked into his friend for a moment before turning away, his brow furrowed with guilt. When Allan's single mother had passed away, Michael and all of the others had been busy studying or traveling, so Allan had been left attending bis mother’s funeral alone. "We really have been shitty friends, haven't we?" Allan reluctantly nodded. "I'm going to do better, WE’RE going to do better by you going forward, but you can't keep keeping your struggles to yourself, okay?" Allan paused for a moment, then nodded again, more assuredly this time. "Right. Now, today belongs to our friend Jenny; you ready to get back in there?" Allan nodded once more, finally with a sense of confident forcefulness. With Allan's emotional state seemingly stitched together well enough to proceed with the evening, Michael pulled them away from the corner and led the way back to where they had left their friends.  "You know, I always though Jenny was gay, but turns out she was a girl,” Charlie mused to Samuel. Samuel took a sip from his drink, "I won't lie, I was kinda shocked when she transitioned, but you gotta admit, she sure looks a lot happier now then she ever did as a guy." He idly looked around and caught sight of the pair returning from their emotional sidebar, causing him to give Charlie a quick nudge in the ribs. "Is everything good, you two?" he asked, directing the question more at Michael. "Yeah," Allan interceded in answer, "good to go." Samuel accepted Allan's answer with a firm, almost congratulatory nod, then handed the second drink he was holding over to Michael. Michael accepted the drink but—glancing over at Allan—refrained from taking a sip. Instead, he cast his gaze down at the picture on the table announcing the marriage of Jenny and Frederick Condran. "When we promised to be the best men at each other’s weddings, I guess we didn't consider that the first of us to get married would be doing so in a dress." Charlie had a sheepish grin creep across his lace, "Well, Jenny's technically not the first of us to get married." When the other three looked at him with simultaneous expressions of incredulous inquisition, he began, "So are you guys familiar with the annulment process, by chance?" *                      *                      * The ceremony went off without much fuss, the proceedings being relatively stripped down in accordance with Jenny and Frederick’s more pragmatic sensibilities. The "I do's" were declared, the cake was cut, and eventually the festivities progressed to dancing, freeing the attendees to spread out less formally, leading Allan to work his way to the edge of the party, hoping to slink off without causing any grief to Jenny or their friends. He had almost made it to the door when Jenny came trotting over, her dress heels making a conspicuous clopping sound as she went. “Going so soon?” she asked once she was close enough to not have to shout. Allan turned halfway around, a bit too ashamed to meet her face on. “Uh, yeah. I think I better go.” They stood there together, a pregnant pause enveloping them in awkward tension. “Okay,” she finally accepted, “but could you maybe stay for just a few more minutes? I really wanted to get a picture with my bros.” Jenny had playfully allowed her voice to dip into a masculine register for ‘with my bros,’ forcing Allan to hold back a short burst of laughter. Turned around fully, meeting his old friend in the mascara-burdened eyes. “Alright; I can do that.” She pulled him into an embrace before he had a chance to protest. “Thank you,” she whispered into the crook of his shoulder as she held their bodies together. After a long moment, Allan relaxed and committed to reciprocating the hug; shortly thereafter, the embrace ended. “And thank you for coming; I really appreciate it.” “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he replied with a confidence that would have surprised the man he had been of that morning, for now he knew he was truly glad to be there, with and for his friends. Jenny smiled, then took him by the hand, leading the two of them back into the party in search of their friends and a photographer.


The elderly woman diverts her attention for a moment, just a moment, to the beauty of her surroundings. Her gentle eyes take in the water around her, the delicate ripples which stimulate one another in a sort of domino effect. She remembers playing dominoes as a child. She recalls the delight her toddler self would feel when she would poke that first domino, sending to lot of them falling down. The thought of fallen dominoes reminds her of a heartwarming scene she had witnessed at the camp, roughly a week ago. Three of the members, girls aged four, five and six, had joined hands and swung around and around until they had felt dizzy. They then collapsed onto the grass, giggling. The woman’s grey eyes twinkle as she remembers the joy which the scene had brought her. It made her heart feel full. The woman closes her eyes for a moment and listens to the chirpings birds in the inland trees, to the refreshing winds gently pushing along their canoes, and the steadfast movement of the river. “Are you ok?” The elderly woman opens her eyes and smiles down at the source of the timid voice, a young four-year-old boy sitting in the canoe alongside her and the other children. “Yes love, I’m alright.” She pats the boy’s wild locks of hazel hair. He beams up at her. The elderly woman lifts her gaze from the young boy and watches another canoe, only inches behind their own. The canoe, also filled with a set of young children, is being led by a man around the same age as the elderly woman; he was in his seventies. Her husband. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “Oh, look!” the young woman says to her husband, pointing a finger at the winding river. There are two canoes, one led by an elderly woman and the other by an equally elderly man. She spots two canoes, each filled with young children of different races and ethnicities. The children appear to be happy and intrigued by the big friendly river and the mysteries it masks under the deep waters. “Hmm?’ her husband says absent-mindedly, laying down blissfully on the outstretched picnic blanket. He sits up and his blissful demeanor is opted for one of surprise. “Huh, I wonder who they are,” he muses, also intrigued. “They’re likely part of some sort of camp.” “Careful honey!” the young woman suddenly calls out, gently reaching for the arm of her toddler. The carefree boy had innocently been making his way over to the shore of the river, fascinated by the canoeing children. Together, the young family watch as the two canoes slowly but surely make their way down the massive, twisty turny river. ---------------------------------------------------------------- As the elderly woman stares down at the chatting young children in her canoe, each one almost swallowed whole but their lifejacket, she feels a familiar pang of sadness. That sadness is caused by a familiar reason. How sad it is that all of these children are less than six years old , she thinks to herself, listening to the children’s laughter. Actually, most of the children were exactly six years old , though a few were younger. Orphaned at such a young age. She herself had been orphaned at the age of sixteen, and at the time she had thought that to be a very young age. She had been devastated when the orphanage had brought over these incredibly young children to participate in their specialized camp. She couldn’t help but feel grateful that she had been able to share fond memories with her parents in her short time with them. A few of the children, the youngest ones, didn't remember their parents at all. The elderly woman watches them huddle curiously around a young boy and the pretty rocks which he had collected when they had been on shore. The proud young boy is the same child who had asked her earlier if she were alright. The child displays his prized possessions. “That one is pretty!” says a five-year-old Malaysian girl. The local orphanage sponsored children from all around the world, and particularly dealt with very young children. The girl’s parents had passed away when she was only two years old and she didn’t remember them well. Shyly, she points to a brilliant red rock in the group and says, “May I touch it?” The young boy nods and, with a smile, he hands the rock to the excited girl. “That rock is really pretty!” the elderly woman agrees, admiring the beautiful shade of red. Red is her favourite colour, the colour of love. “I like that one,” says a six-year old boy, sponsored from Egypt. He points to a simple looking, smooth grey rock. It is similar in shade to the woman’s own eyes. “You can touch it,” the young boy says, handing it to his Egyptian friend. “Maybe you will find more cool rocks when we return to shore,” the elderly woman says and the children nod their heads eagerly. The kids thoroughly enjoy being outdoors, to the delight of the elderly couple. The beauty of nature is so often overlooked ; the elderly woman had said to her husband. Suddenly, the elderly woman notices that one child is not part of the huddle around the rocks. A five-year-old girl sits a little further back in the massive canoe. Her eyes are fixed on the river waters, a pair of eyes which had a mature aura about them that made the Indian girl seem far older. Her eyes dart back and forth fascinatedly, as she follows the twisty turny pattern of the massive winding lake. Sensing the elderly woman’s gaze, the Indian girl turns to face her, fixing that same mature gaze upon her. The woman smiles. “You like the river?” she asks and the Indian girl nods. “It’s like a snake,” she says in a low yet crystal clear voice. The elderly woman chuckles, “It really is.” “How’s it going you lot?” Startled, the elderly woman turns to find the second canoe has moved forward so that it is now on the left side of her canoe, opposed to just behind it. Her husband chuckles. “Scared you? Sorry, didn’t mean to.” With a crinkling smile, he gazes at the children who all peer up at him adoringly. They love him. He has a way with them. In that same shy voice, the Malaysian girl asks, “Story time?” The elderly husband beams down at her. “That’s right love. That’s why I canoed over here. Would you all like to hear another story?” The children nod eagerly and the elderly wife smiles. Her husband is a retired pilot and a very good sailor so he has plenty of old stories to tell. The children soak them up like a sponge. “Tell us a scary story,” the young boy with the rocks says, looking up cheekily at the massive figure of the husband. “Oh, but not too scary,” the Malaysian girl shudders and I chuckle. My husband smiles thoughtfully and says, “I’ve got a scary story for you but it has a happy ending. Would you like to hear it?” All children nod. “Alright then.” As the two canoes steer in a snake-like fashion along the rivers, the husband begins. “This happened to me when I had just become a pilot. I was really excited. I had wanted to fly a plane since I was…” he smiles at the young Egyptian boy and pats him on the head, “…your age. I loved planes. I wanted to fly them so badly and I finally could. “ The elderly woman smiles to herself. She’s heard this story before. “I decided to take my best friend for a ride. He actually had no idea that I was becoming a pilot, I wanted it to be a surprise. When I told him I got my license, his face was priceless,” the old man chuckles, remembering his old friend. “I had asked him where he wanted to go and he said anywhere. He just wanted to fly. We decided to fly over Oklahoma. It was only a half an hour flight from here, easy stuff even for a beginner. We hopped in the plane and we were off. “ “Ok…la…homa,” says a three-year-old girl, spelling it out carefully with the same meticulousness of a baker icing a cake. A sudden droplet of water lands on the nose of the unsuspecting elderly woman, and she looks up at the sky in surprise. Rain? She waits a few moments but no more droplets fall. She turns her attention back to her husband and smiles at the eager looking children. The younger handful of the children couldn’t always really understand her husband’s stories but they loved crowding around him and listening all the same. “Yes, Oklahoma. I should have known,” the man says cryptically, then goes on. “Anyways, we were really having a good time. The sky looks so beautiful up close like that, and everything down below looked so small. The houses and trees seemed so tiny.

We were enjoying the view when I noticed something. The skies had grown a little dark, they were grey. Then I saw droplets of water falling from the sky; rain. It was raining-" “I love rain,” says the four-year-old boy, owner of the prized rock collection. The old man nods and smiles, crow’s feet and dimples coming into display. “So do I, boy, but I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy it that day. At first, we didn’t care. Just a little bit of rain. No big deal. We kept flying, chatting, joking around. Then, I heard it. The first roar of thunder. That’s when I realized how much darker the skies had grown.” “A thunderstorm?” says another six-year-old boy, a quiet sort from South Africa. “Scary!” shivers the Malaysian girl. Suddenly, a shower of rain strikes the surprised group and they look up at the sky. It’s raining. “Uh oh,” says the elderly husband, turning to look at his wife. “Maybe we should return to shore. The kids will get soaked and we don’t want anyone catching colds.” “I agree,” she smiles down at the disappointed expressions on a few of the children’s faces. “Don’t worry, we can go rock hunting again, instead.” The two canoes began to turn around, winding down the river in the opposite direction. “Um…are you going to tell us your story?” asks the South African. The elder husband’s eyes brighten. “Yes, sorry! So, it was raining, like it is now. Then, we heard thunder. I remember being afraid but trying to hide it. I was only a beginner pilot, remember. I didn’t want to fly through a storm. That's every beginner pilot's worse nightmare. There was nowhere to land, however, so I had to keep flying. I remember the thunder had sounded so loud. Fierce like a lion. It was scary. It was getting harder to see, too. The sky was completely dark, as if somebody had painted it black. My hands were shaking a little but I was trying to stay focused. But then…there was lightning. Big flashes of lightning. Right in front of me. That’s when my friend and I looked at each other in fear. We didn’t want to get struck." A sudden rumble echoes above the group. The rain is falling down more forcefully. There is another rumble; thunder. It is still a long way back to shore. The elderly couple exchange a glance. The elderly woman remembers learning something at a young age that most kids her age had known. It’s never a good idea to be in water during a thunderstorm. Noting the fearful expression on the faces of the drenched children, the husband says calmly, “Don’t worry. We’re heading back to shore.” Suddenly, his eyes light up as a he remembers something. He turns to his wife. “The tarpaulin!” He stops canoeing for a moment and bends down to open a hidden compartment built into the floor of the canoe. A small blue tarpaulin is found, folded up neatly and ready to be used. “Of course!” said the wife with a laugh. “I forgot about it.” She pulls out tarpaulin from her canoe. “We had packed this just in case. Here children, you can use this to cover your heads so you don’t get wet.” Their fears forgotten temporarily, the children laugh as they use their little fingers to drape the tarpaulin over the heads. “I used to make forts with my blanket,” the Egyptian boy smiles. “Like this.” Ignoring their own drenched bodies, the elderly woman and husband try to pick up the pace with the canoeing. Thunder roars above them and the children huddle together under the tarpaulin, fear having returned. The husband looks up at the sky, fear on his weather-worn face and he prays silently that lightning won’t strike the water. Suddenly, the Malaysian girl gasps and points a trembling finger at the clouds. “Lightning!” she says in a quivering voice. The husband turns and sees another clash of lightning, fortunately going from cloud to cloud and not cloud to ground. “Don’t worry,” he says, gently. "It’s just hitting the clouds, not the water.” It was a tense ten minutes to shore but at last, they gave a cheer of relief as they made it. “Hurry into the camp!” the elderly woman instructs the children, the moment they reach land. The children don’t need to be told twice and, dropping the tarpaulin, they hurry to the humble, home-like building which resides only metres away. The couple pull the two canoes far inland and hurry to join the children. As they do, the elderly woman turns back just in time to see another bolt of lightning illuminate the sky. She shudders and hurries inside. To their surprise, they find the children surrounding a young family, a husband, wife and very young boy. The only worker in the building, their young twenty-five-year-old grandson, comes to greet them. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “I told them to come inside and take shelter!” says the young man who let the young husband and wife in with their toddler. The young husband and wife are surprised to see the elderly couple and children they had spotted canoeing earlier. The elderly couple smile at the younger one. “No problem at all, don’t worry!” says the elderly woman kindly, smiling at the young family. “Would you like something to eat?” “Oh, I think you should dry off first!” says the young woman with a laugh. The elderly woman glances down at her drenched self and at her husband. She grins, “You’re right.” “I think you and the children should all dry off,” the grandson says amusedly and, agreeing, the group head off. The grandson is left with the young family. “Are they orphans?” the young husband asks quietly and the grandson nods sadly. “Yes, they are. Our camp is paired up with a local orphanage which specifically deals with very young orphans, under the age of six or so. Sad, isn’t it? We try to give them a little bit of fun and companionship in their lives. My grandparents are really amazing and the children love them. It’s wonderful.” “Those poor children,” the young wife says, suddenly clutching her toddler tightly. The child squeals in surprise but giggles at his mother’s affection. “Would you look at that,” the young husband suddenly says, pointing outside with a laugh. “The storm has already stopped.” Sure enough, the dark skies had been replaced with a glorious blue canvas. Sunshine was already beginning to beam down on the earth once again. ---------------------------------------------------------------- “Why, the storm is gone!” the elderly husband says as the crew returns downstairs to join the grandson and young family. “Can we look for rocks again?” the Malaysian girl asks, a shy hand clutching her arm. “Yes, it looks like the storm is gone! Anyways, if it starts to rain again, we can hurry back inside.,’ says the elderly husband. With a smile, he turns to the young family. “Would you like to join us?” “We would love to,” the young husband returns the smile. The lot of them head outside and smile up at the glorious sunshine. The world was peaceful once again. As the adults watch the children laugh and play together, looking for the most unique rocks, the Egyptian boy shyly approaches the elderly husband. “What happened…in your story?” The elderly husband beams down at the boy and slings an arm over his shoulder. “Well son, it was pretty scary. We could hardly see a thing and we were afraid of being struck by lightning. Nowadays, we have great technology and our planes can generally handle being struck. Not in my day, though. But…” the elderly man finishes with a smile. “We survived. We made it. I couldn’t see a thing but I managed to keep the plane flying straight and we didn’t crash into anything. We managed to land. That’s my moral for you, kid. Always be faithful, always have hope and stay positive, no matter what life throws at you.” The boy nods, “Thank you.” With that, he joins his friends. The sunshine beams down on the happy scene.


"So what's the catch?" "No catch. Just you, me, and KC going to a bank." "Sawyer." "In ski masks." "Sawyer!" "Okay. Okay, man! God, you're so pushy. Ya, ya we're gonna rob it." "Sawyer!" "Come on, dude. I need the money, bad. You know who this business goes, sometimes you're down and sometimes you're-" "High?" Jack finished, grabbing the spliff from Sawyer and stomping it under his foot. "Dude!" "That's what happened at your last job isn't it? You got high and screwed up?" "Jack-" "So you need me to come in and take charge for you so you don't screw this one up?" "Well, when you say in charge, what exactly are you imagining?" "You want me to be you're fucking sponsor? What? I just follow you around and take lighters from you?" "You're my oldest friend." "No, Sawyer! I'm the only one that could put up with your shit!" "Chill out, dude." "God, I should have seen this coming! I got out of this stuff, man! I started over. I promised Angie I would leave this behind." "And you wouldn't be breaking any promises." "What are you talking about?" "Getaway car." "No." "You want a piece of all the action? Fine, fine. But your cut ain't getting any bigger-" "I'm out." "Jack, please! I-I'm in serious trouble. It’s The Gaters." "You went to loan sharks before me?" "You just said you put it all behind you! You made a promise to your girl!" "No. No. I'm out. Don't you get it? You go to me first! You ALWAYS go to me first. Fucking shit, man! I-I promised-" "Angie." "I promised you first." "You're in?" "One ride. Getaway car." “You got the J-Man back in, dope.” “Just shut the door, KC.” “Ouch, J-Man.” “And throw that out.” “It’s just a little beer, it ain’t gonna hurt anything. You know I can’t do these things sober.” “Try.” “Cool it, guys. We need to plan this one out.” “What? Not cool, Soy.” “Jack’s involved this time, KC. We got to be professional.” “I always am.” “Let’s go over it one more time,” Jack started, tracing the map with his finger. “4:55 pm: KC and Sawyer go in and tip the contact. At 5:10 KC makes a distraction while Sawyer slips in the back using the door that the contact opens. 5:20: KC will get a message from Sawyer when he has the money. KC will go through the front, and Sawyer will find me in the back. I drop Sawyer at his apartment, and I never see you to again.” “Harsh. dude,” KC said. “Get that thing out of your mouth.” “Seriously, Soy?” “Listen to him. We go sober for this one. Jack’s the law.” “Damn right I am.” “All right everyone, get out.” “That’s cold, J-Man.” “Just relax, KC.” “No, Soy. What’s got this guy acting like frosty the fucking snowman? That guy was warmer than you and he was made out of fucking snow.” “Sorry, K.C. I just want to get this over with.” “Huh. Bye,bye J-Man! Try not to get us arrested!” “He’s just a kid, Jack,” Sawyer commented once KC had gotten out of the car. “A kid shouldn’t be in this business. He won’t be a kid for much long- if he doesn’t get himself killed first.” “Hey man! He chose this. Kid came to me a year ago in deep, deep shit, and I pulled him out. He’s loyal and has a good head. It ain’t my fault if he realizes the world isn’t perfect.” “Is that what your first boss said to you?” “I’ll see you on the flip side, Jack.” “See you on the flip side.” 5:25 “Where are you, Sawyer? Get in this damn car right now.” 5:30 “Hell.” 5:32 “Get your shitting hands off me!”

“Sawyer Maddison, you have the right to remain silent.” “This is just a whole misunderstanding fellas.” “Uh huh. You have the right to an attorney.” “Let’s just talk this out.” “Anything you say can and will be held against you.” “Jack! Jack! They’ve got him!”

“He knew what he was getting into, kid. Get in the car.” “I can’t stay in here!” “Yes you can, Kid.” “He’s your best friend. How can you just leave him?” “He told you that?” “Well, ya. I mean, isn’t he?” “It’s complicated.” “Why? Because you got lucky and landed some office job? Because your parents earned some cash and got you into college? Me and him ain’t got that. We don’t got some fancy degree. This ain’t some rebellious phase for us. It’s do or die, man. Kill or be killed.” “And if I let you go back out there you’re going to get yourself killed. Sawyer wouldn’t want that.” “How would you know what he wants? You left him, man! You got up and left him in a ditch! I’m all he’s got, and he’s all I got. I can’t leave him.” “You have to.” “Unlock the car, Jack!” “KC-” “Unlock the fucking car!” “What’s your plan? You’re going to jump two cops? That’s not the same as robbing a bank.” “I don’t care.” “You should.” “I don’t!” “I’ll get you into college, Kid. You can crash at my place.” “Like I care about college!” “Whatever you care about, I’ll get it to you. But if you go out there, you’re going to get killed, and you’ll never be able to have any of it.” “I only care about Sawyer! Now unlock the car!” “I’ll pay for his bail and make sure he gets a fair trial.” “You know that won’t happen!” “I’ll get him a lawyer and-” “You’ll run away again, man! You’ll leave him just like you left before and those white collar judges won’t give a shit about him!” “He made his choices, K.C.” “No he didn’t! He’s not the one in deep with the sharks. It’s me! He was just protecting me! Now open the car!” “Well, I’ll be damned.” "So?" "Well, I'll be damned."


Adam teetered at the cliff edge, looking down into the murky waters below. How ironic that something as silly as a fear of heights would mark his downfall. No, he wouldn’t let this be his Achille’s heel. Holding his breath and looking straight ahead just as he had practiced, he took off at a run and plunged off the edge of the cliff, instantly feeling the scream leave his mouth as his stomach plummeted with the apathetic force of gravity. Crashing on the waves below, he felt a mixture of relief along with the sting of his thighs hitting the surface but with only moments to spare, he shook off the shock and swam his way to the caves on the other side of the cliff face.

The cliff dive marked the 12th hour of the race - he had passed the mid way point. Apart from a few hiccups along the way, everything was going according to plan, so far. But Adam was careful not to let himself rejoice too much just yet - he still had a long way to go and the obstacles would only get more grueling as he progressed. He checked his smart watch and saw that he was making good time, although he had no idea how far his opponents had gotten. For this was no ordinary obstacle race. The Battle of Death was quite literally a test of human skill, both physical and mental. 24 grueling hours of obstacles that were not designed for the faint of heart. Not only did contestants have to be in prime physical condition but their mental and emotional limits would also be tested, in more ways than one. Adam had been preparing for the race for almost a whole year. For him, as for his opponents, winning was the only option. The alternative seemed worse than death. In the distance, he could almost make out the sound of the race being broadcast over the loudspeakers and his thought of Anna, no doubt watching him with frayed nerves.

******************************************************************** She watched the scene from the tiny television screen of their studio apartment with clasped hands, watching a tiny Adam battle his way into the sea cave. Anna was not religious or even remotely spiritual but for the past 12 hours, she found herself secretly praying to some higher being that Adam would make it to the other side, unscathed. Commercials came on and she rose to make herself her 10th cup of coffee. As she stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, the commercials promoting the Battle of Death came back on air. She had seen it at least a dozen times but she could not bring herself to mute the screen, so she let Dean Harper’s irritating voice fill the room with updates she already knew about.

“The Battle of Death has entered its 13th hour, folks! The mid way mark has been surpassed, and our contestants are alive and well! I repeat, alive and well! No deaths have been recorded so far, a record in the past three years. June, do you recall last year’s contest, when Bill Rowland fell to his untimely demise just 2 hours into the race? Phew, that got some heads turning!” “How can I forget, Dean. After failing to make it up Hover mountain, Bill lost his footing and crumbled on the rocks below, marking the earliest death to ever be recorded in the history of The Battle of Death. And the shitstorm the press stirred up with that one made it all the more memorable.” Dean’s co-reporter spoke of this man’s death with such gusto, it was as if she were sharing a particularly juicy tidbit of gossip with her friends over brunch.

Anna soon tuned out the reporters empty babbling and her thoughts drifted to Adam again. He was safe, for now. There was still a good 11 hours to go and anything could happen. He was ready for it, he had assured her, he had been made for it even. Winning the Battle of Death would sate his thirst for fame while solving all their financial troubles.

“But at what cost?” she remembered the countless arguments, her screaming at him to try and make him see reason.. “You could die losing and even if you do win, your injuries could be so serious, not even the best doctors would be able to fix them.” “Life is all about taking chances, baby. I could die or get injured just leaving the house for work.” He wasn’t wrong there. The air had gotten so bad in their district that they could not leave the house without masks on and when the chemicals weren’t trying to infect their lungs, there was the very real possibility that either of them could get hit by one of the Cold war missiles, which had gotten increasingly more common lately, or involved in a hover bus accident - how many of those were they up to per day, again? Either way, life in Commune 9 had become increasingly morbid and death sniffed at their ankles at every corner.

The shrill whistling of the tea kettle brought her back to herself and turning her attention to the screen again, she saw that the focus had turned to one of Adam’s biggest opponents - Chase Brown. She made for the remote to turn the volume up as the camera zoomed in on Chase, battling the infamous Dragon of the North, while fire surrounded him on all sides.

This meant that Adam was ahead of Chase, having already successfully lulled the beast to sleep some 40 minutes earlier. Anna felt her heart leap in spite of herself, clutching a freshly brewed mug to her chest.                ***************************************************************** The sea cave was damp and poorly lit; the dark and humidity weighed in on Adam from all sides as he waded his way deeper into its gaping mouth. The next obstacle was a mystery to the contestants but Adam had a pretty good hunch of what would be awaiting him at the end of the passage. Koi fish tickled his feet and he realised the salt water was making him thirsty again but there was still another hour to go until the next water station.

When he finally saw the faint glimmer of a lantern up ahead, Adam braced himself for the inevitable. Approaching the light source, he heard the ruckus in the cage before he saw it clearly. The creature whipped around abruptly as it sensed him getting closer, and all Adam could see were a pair of bright red eyes without irises staring blindly at him, like glowing rubies demanding attention.

Don’t look them in the eye! Adam remembered his training and the instructions his mentor had relayed to him but at that moment, his mind was taken over by a force stronger than he ever imagined. Flashbacks, painful memories from his childhood then his teenage years presented themselves, clear as day in the gloomy depths of the cave. His father dying, the numerous failures in his dwindling acting career, his failed romantic relationships and friends that had betrayed him along the way. The images hit him like a brick to the face, replaying over and over again like a faulty tape, and he found himself clutching his head in pain, moaning for it to stop.

Fight the bad with the good.

He knew what he had to do. It took all the energy he could muster, but he summoned the happy memories from the recesses of his consciousness: getting his degree, acting in his first play, Anna, especially Anna. Keeping his eyes shut, the searing pain in his head began to subside and he found himself clutching for the drawstring bag tied to his belt and poured its contents into his palm. Edging closer to the cage, he could hear the creature growling now, getting ready for its next meal. When he felt close enough, Adam threw the powdered substance at the cage and heard a squeal of pain. Opening his eyes, he saw with relief that the glow had gone out in the monster’s eyes and it thrashed about the cage, half-fish, half-rodent and every bit as terrifying as he had imagined it would be. He took aim with his blade and delivered a blow to its side, reducing its violent movements to mere, involuntary jolts as it lay on the floor of the cage. Then reaching in, he made for its eyes and carefully extracted them from their sockets, feeling slime ooze over his fingertips. *************************************************** It was the sound of the phone ringing that woke Anna with a start, and as she stared dismally down at her coffee-soaked t-shirt, she realised the TV screen had gone blank.

“Hello?” her voice was distracted as she frantically looked around for the remote.

“Anna, have you seen the latest BoD updates? He’s made it to the third obstacle before the final!”

Her brother’s voice was shrill with emotion and when Anna finally got the TV back on, she saw him, her Adam, making his way through the arid remains of the rain forest, looking exhausted and poorly, but not hurt in any visible way and still very much alive.

She turned up the volume and Dean Harper’s voice over came on: “And here we see one of our final 2 contestants making his way cautiously through what has become of the former Amazon Jungle. He’s looking pretty tired, worn out even but seems to be in good spirits. And that’s saying something, considering the last 2 grueling obstacles he had to face. That sea monster was no joke! What do you reckon, Hannah?” “Agreed, Dean! For me, it was the insects crawling all over him in that enclosed vent. I’m shuddering all over just thinking about that!” “Well, he’s still got 3 more obstacles to get through and Chase is ahead of him again. It’s always these crucial last few hours when anything could change in the Battle of Death.” Melissa knew what was coming next. Fingering the emerald pendant around her neck, she suddenly remembered her brother was still on the line. “He’s got this. This is where he’ll bring it home. I can feel it.” ********************************************************************************* Sweat beaded on his forehead as Adam threaded through the swamp, wondering ironically how it could still be referred to as such when all lifeforms, plant and animal, had long been wiped out centuries ago because of the change in temperature, leaving nothing but a bleached out version of its former self that was controlled by a laboratory. Three more to go. Just three more.

The next obstacle was by all accounts easy for Adam. All he had to do was find that tree. He whipped out his compass and watched the needle reset. Just a bit further East. The shrill cry piercing the air told him he was getting closer and sure enough, he reached his destination within less than 100 meters. Adam had always been a good climber and now as he skillfully made his way to the top of the tree, the rough bark scratched at his palms and edged him on. The bird was exactly where he expected to be, perched in its nest, ever vigilant. It was both blind and deaf, rendering its other senses stronger and it felt Adam approaching, sniffing the air through its foghorn beak, and started up a fresh series of squawks.

“It’s OK buddy, I’m a friend not a foe.” When Adan was within touching distance he gently blew in the bird’s direction. One puff, then two and on the fourth, the creature seemed to calm. He reached out to stroke its feathers and it gave into his touch. When its beak opened again, it was a tender melody, almost a song that emerged, and as the tune grew louder, the vortex appeared in thin air before them.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

He gave the bird a last tender pet and leaped off the branch, jumping head first into the gaping hole in front of him.

Two more! He could almost taste victory.

Landing on his feet, Adam shielded his eyes from the gray sunlight as the vortex closed behind him. He could already feel the air prickling his skin and the chemical stench stinging his nostrils. He whipped out the hazmat suit from his rucksack and hurriedly dressed, putting the headpiece on first, knowing that all it took was a few extra minutes for the hazardous atmosphere to start wreaking havoc on his body.

The place was an arid desert, without an oasis in sight. The quick sand made it hard to step forward but up ahead, he could just about make out the burly figure of Chase, already busy digging, so he broke out into the closest thing to a run he could manage.

As he got closer, he saw Chase bent over, shovel abandoned to his side but something was off. He wasn’t wearing his hazmat suit. Boils had erupted all over the exposed parts of his skin and when he turned to look at Adam, he saw that his face was horribly inflamed almost to comic proportions. Upon registering who Adam was through the slits that remained of his eyes, Chase began to dig quicker, flinging piles of sand this way and that with his paw-like swollen hands. Adam could not bear to see him like that; he reminded him of his father on his deathbed after his stint in the Eco wars. Thinking quickly, he rummaged around in his backpack and produced a silvery blanket… it wasn’t as effective as a hazmat suit but it was better than nothing.

“Here, take this!” Chase looked first at the blanket in surprise then at Adam suspiciously. “It’s pure I swear. You’ll be dead within minutes if you don’t.” He took the blanket and wrapped it around himself making sure to give maximum coverage to his head and face.

“It’s somewhere around here. Signal picked it up. Help me dig. Can’t use the shovel anymore” Adam obeyed, reaching for the shovel and within minutes, he felt the clink of a hard metallic surface. As both men lifted the chest out of its sandy grave, the lid popped open of its own accord and a hologram of a man's elaborately bearded head appeared in front of them. "Congratulations, comrade! You have reached the final obstacle of the Battle of Death! Now, listen carefully, to- but what's this?" Magnified by the hologram, the large green eyes looked in bewilderment from Adam to Chase, then - "TWO finalists? This cannot be! Well, it's never happened before, but I suppose - yes it could work." Addressing the confused men in front of him again, the bearded man spoke with more authority this time: "Gentlemen, congratulations on getting this far, but know that there can only be ONE winner of the Battle of Death! So as you progress to the final stage, know this; this is NOT a team activity - every man for himself." Both men looked at each other then nodded in agreement. "So, without further ado - please make you way to the vortex. God speed and good luck!" Adam started towards the vortex, which had opened up again behind them, but before he had even reached it, a curtain of black surrounded him. The desert, the hologram, even Chase, all were gone and he suddenly stood quite alone in a dark and empty limbo. ****************************************************** Dean's voice was calm and reassuring as it echoed off the walls of the tiny apartment. "We seem to be having some slight transmission issues, folks, but nothing to worry about. The action will be back on before you know it. Let's cut to some of the most recent highlights in the meantime, while our technicians work on getting everything back to normal." But, as Anna felt the emerald suddenly burn into her skin like a hot iron, she knew something had gone very, very wrong.