I just saw my reflection blink. It’s happened regularly, every so often, ever since I can remember. I smile back at my face in the mirror and continue combing my long, grey hair. It comforts me, especially on days when I’m feeling sad or alone or ugly or useless. That little blink. It’s gotten me through times of stress, through job changes and continental moves, through sickness and health. It got me through my father’s death and then again through my mother’s. It got me through my worst days and it lauded me through my best. I gaze longingly into those eyes that stare back from my reflection, those ones that are on my face but that are not my own. Shimmering and clear. They’re more gold today. Sometimes they’re green, sometimes more hazel, the little flecks of color moving with the morning sun, morphing with afternoon light, never the same color — never the exact, precise same color — twice. I like that about them; it makes me feel like I’m always learning about them. About him. Others don’t see these eyes when they look at me. They see my eyes, whatever those may be. Blue or brown or maybe purple, I don’t really care to know. After all, we don’t get lost in our own eyes. We aren’t soothed by our own gaze, aren't inspired by our own look. I’m inspired by his though. I wonder if he’s out there walking around with those gold, sometimes green, sometimes hazel eyes and looking in the mirror at my blue or brown or maybe purple eyes. Calmed when they blink in his reflection. Stirred when they look back at him in a way slightly ajar from how he’s looking with his own eyes, the eyes I see looking back in my reflection. I saw him once, a long time ago. Before wrinkles outlined my face and sunspots dotted my hands, I saw those eyes that I see in mirrors and glass doors and clear lakes, I saw those eyes without any reflection. It was only for a second, for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, in between subway stops at rush hour. I was standing on the train, tired and halfway-through a cold my coworker had given me, my fingers lazily holding onto the hand strap, no thoughts in my mind but of my warm bed and hot soup. I stared idly ahead of me, at the plexiglass subway doors across from me, and gazed at my reflection there. His eyes were more green that night, in the dank underground light. They squinted up ever so slightly, as if with a smile, and my runny nose felt a little bit better, my face relaxed. The subway stopped, and the train doors slid open; my reflection slid away too but the eyes remained. It took me too long to realize. I’ll always blame that coworker for getting me sick, for slogging my reactions in that moment. It took me too long to realize that the face around those now-green-in-the-dank-underground-light was not mine but his. It must have taken him too long to realize too. Because just before the doors kissed close again, I saw him jerk forward with a sudden understanding. I jerked forward too, but it was too late. The doors sealed, and the train jerked forward too. I’ve looked for him since. Searched commuters’ faces and expressions on pedestrians. But how often do you pass the same stranger twice? And how luckily often do you notice when you do? I think that was our chance, that was our illustrious moment on that tired night in the underground, and I don’t think we’ll get another one. We were blessed to have one kismet flash; who are we to deserve another? I used to think it sad. I used to curse fate and denounce its teasing tendrils. I grieved a love I lost without having. But then I glanced the mirror, and I saw my reflection blink. I never lost anything. I’ll never know my soulmate’s name, or his job, or what he likes or dislikes. I’ll never know his mannerisms or the little things that get on his nerves or if he takes his coffee black or sweet. But I know his eyes. Those ever-changing, ever-shimmering green and gold and hazel eyes that give me more than a name ever could.


When I was young, my friends and I would go to The Pink Barn. It was an isolated building past the woods that lay behind the playground of our small (almost deserted) suburban neighbourhood I remember we were all around 11-14 years old. It was our little hideout. Our place to stay when our parents would shoo us away from our cartoons. It was always sunny, where we lived. Not anything like where I am now. The days we would visit The Pink Barn always started the same: I would be the first one to be shooed out by my dad. He had to watch his football, and I tried to fake protest just so he wouldn't get suspicious. Then I'd make my way to Dennis's house. He was always dressed and ready by the time I rang the doorbell, looking at me with a smile money couldn't pay for. We'd then go to Maya's, then to Tom's house, dragging them out with promises of adventure and mischief. Things only The Pink Barn could provide. Eventually, we'd all spend a small amount of time on the playground, mostly so that Tom and Maya could check if we weren't being watched by one of the nosy neighbours like Mrs. Dachman. Once the coast was clear and a few cars passed by, we'd all book it into the woods. A few giggles and someone tripping over a branch or rock (mostly Dennis) later, the woods would make way for a clearing, revealing a green field and a vibrantly pink barn smack dab in the middle of it. It was out of place, for sure. We all knew that it didn't belong where it was, but none of us knew how much of a red flag that was. The barn was always empty. But it still had stalls and bars to swing on. Rusty bars. One thing that stood out to us was that there was always fresh hay in the barn. We would play with it and throw it around, scattering it all around the barn. But the next day, the hay would always be where it was before we touched it. Tom told us that it was because the owners came at night and cleaned up our mess. Since then, we have decided not to scatter all the hay around. But we would still play with it. It was the same thing, every time we went to The Pink Barn. Every time. Until it wasn't one day. Dad was shooing me out of the house again and I was grumbling again (as per routinely facade), sliding into my purple-pink glittering shoes when Mom yelled from the kitchen that it was going to rain later and I should be back earlier. But I was already fixed on spending the usual time in The Pink Barn, so I pretended I didn't hear her and waddled out the door, headed for Dennis's house. When I opened the door, his mother told me Dennis had headed to the playground already and gave me a bag with bottles of water. The bag he always brought with him. I took the bag and headed over to Maya's place, telling her that Dennis had gone ahead without us. She muttered threats against Dennis in a half-playful way as she put on her shoes, and we made our way to Tom's house. Tom shrugged when he heard the news and just said he hoped he made sure no one saw him. When I asked him why, he didn't answer. As Tom pulled the gates open, we peered into the barn, expecting to see Dennis belly flopping into the pile of hay, like he always did. It was his whole thing. We called him Flat-Belly-Denny because of how he poured his heart into it. It was an art to behold. But he was nowhere to be found. We searched the barn, where we could. Even around the walls. Nothing but mold, rust, dirt, hay and a strange mixture of pinkish slime paired with a black substance we had never seen before. Something was very off. Maya called the two of us back into the barn while we were getting distracted by a piece of metal buried in the ground. She pointed at the hay, not saying a word. But the tears on her eyes and her trembling knees said all they needed to. And as Tom parted the hay to reveal a bloody heart buried inside, I retched, hunching over and hugging my belly. It was still beating. Tom immediately buried it back in the hay and said that we had to leave now, in a very monotone voice. He was just about to shove me and Maya past the gate when we heard cracking. Bones cracking. It sounded like how Tom would pop his neck, but louder. And more gut-wrenching. We slowly followed the sound. Me and Maya have a fair distance behind Tom. The sound came from a stall. As he opened the wooden door, a grimey pink tendril with inky black liquid stickily hanging around it stuck itself into Tom's head. Penetrating through his skull. It took Maya's shrill screaming and her full force to get me to move from my sudden paralysis and we sprinted back home, screaming until our vocal chords gave out. Four days later, we held a funeral for Dennis and were packing to move countries. Police were called to The Pink Barn. They never told us what happened or what was in there. A day after their investigation, the barn disappeared, leaving behind a crater where it once stood. The Pink Barn was gone. Part of me was relieved, but there was a sense of dread twisting and turning in my stomach, a feeling I can't explain to this day.


Kelly slumps down into the recliner. Adrian, Dexter, and Kim watch her suspiciously. (Aleister) “So a descendent of Vandal Savage and some weird clown thing not at all Joker-like attacked your headquarters after coming through the rift, got everything?” (Kelly) “To the letter.” (Teagan) “Sajji, one of four warriors of legend that once protected their villages. Until they were corrupted by a man calling himself Savage. They were eventually beaten by a powerful mage that sealed the four warriors away in a time prison.” (Aleister) “This descendant studied the stories and eventually found a way to open said prison but time travel is unstable, unpredictable, hence we all ended up here…” (Kelly) “Seems to be the case.” (Dexter) “Remember being normal? Remember just getting up and getting ready for school and that was your biggest worry…not the fate of the entire space and time continuum!?” He storms out of the house into the backyard. Adrian stands and claps their hands. (Adrian) “Well now that we’re caught up let’s get to work. Lex, Kim you two with me and Chrys, me and Teagan didn’t want this to get ugly but it looks like we have no choice now so you two need to learn to fight. The brainiacs can work on a way to seal four dudes in a time prison and get us all home. Let’s go people, we’re losing daylight.” They hoist Kim onto their shoulders with ease and head toward the backyard. Chrys and Lex shrug and follow them. (Kelly) “They’re breaking down. Dexter too.” (Aleister) “We’re all scared Kelly. We were just normal teenagers and now we’ve been sucked into a fight we never could have seen coming.” (Kelly) “I don’t believe we qualify as normal teenagers Drake.” (Aleister) “Our last names aren’t normal, our heritage isn’t normal, we were…” Teagan sighs and begins to ascend the stairs. She sequesters herself in her room leaving Kelly and Aleister alone. (Aleister) ”…anyway debating about being normal or not isn’t going to get us anywhere. So where do we start?” (Kelly) “Finding out the identity of the other three warriors might be helpful…” (Aleister) “Helpful but impossible. It’s a centuries-old legend that has been passed down and retold through generations, cultures, and religions, who really knows which ones are accurate.” (Kelly) “Teagan said the one that I fought was named Sajji right? That’s where we start. Find the versions that name one of the warriors and go from there. It might not help us get home but at least we won’t be blindsided if…or when they come through.” (Bonus story): **Adrian and Teagans First Day in 2023** Not far from Gotham harbor, Adrian Wilson slowly comes to. Their head is a mess, their sight is blurry, and they can barely stand. The last thing they remember was being in Teagans room watching some old monster movie. (Adrian) "Tegan..." (Tegan) "Adrian..." Her voice doesn't seem that far off but Adrians sight is still a mess and standing up illicits instant dry heaving. Their hand is suddenly enveloped by the soft touch of Teagans hand. (Teag!) "I'm so glad you're ok..." (Adrian) "I'm glad you're ok too...


\_ A white Cape Town professor named David Lurie makes an ass of himself so thoroughly that his only recourse is to skip town and move way out to his daughter’s farm. One night, three black men rob the place, beat the self-exiled academic near to death, and rape the daughter. So goes *Disgrace*, the fictional novel by the South African writer J.M. Coetzee. I read it just before we left for South Africa. People love to tell you how dangerous a country this is. South Africans will say it with sorrow—what a shame things turned out this way. Then there are the tourists, who seem rather boastful about it, as if to say, Look what I survived. The country is mired in the spectre of violence, though the areas it occurs are concentrated and predictable. Violence happens where it always does: where people feel there is no other way forward. It just happens that more people feel this way in South Africa than in almost any other country. People are killed here in all manner of ways and places. Generally, a distinction is made between urban and rural murder. Inner-city killings make up the vast majority of the roughly 75 daily homicides. For the most part, they’re considered par for the course. Almost all of the victims are black. Disproportionate attention is given to what’s called ‘farm murders’, which claimed 47 lives last year. Since white farmers own nearly 70 percent of the country’s farms, some white activists see the attacks as evidence of a “white genocide” aimed at driving whites out of South Africa. As the New York Times notes, white beneficiaries of apartheid like to promote the distorted narrative around farm murders in order to solicit international sympathy. And so it was that this self-serving assertion of fact found its way into the simple brain of Donald Trump, who converted it into a race-baiting tweet. In mid-January, Eva and I started a one-month workaway on a farm much like the one described in *Disgrace,* “at the end of a winding dirt track some miles outside the town.” Like Professor Lurie, we stopped over in Oudtshoorn on the way. The landscape was flat hot dirt. Little else could be farmed here but ostriches. Against the odds, the owners of our farm had managed to sprout an oasis of fruit trees and vegetable beds. For a week we learned how to tend the property, which, on top of the sprawling garden, included two chicken coops, an olive grove, a natural pool, and a guest house. We were told who to call for power failures and who to call for snake bites. You’d tell the guy which type of snake and he’d either rush over anti-venom or order an airlift. Then the owners left for Morocco, gone for three weeks. On our first night alone on the farm, I got a zoomed-out sense of our place on a map—two dots in the middle of a big, blank space. The next day, guests arrived. They were two Norwegian girls in their early twenties who spoke a lot without saying much: “The water feels like a warm hug,” etc. I was happy they were happy. Our work was easier without added fuss from faux-spiritual European fairies. Eva made them a basket of fruits and vegetables and we cooked them a nice dinner. They told us all about the healing presence of nature. But it soon became clear that what they were referring to was nature in the abstract, for, after a day of being away from their carefully curated idea of it, the reality became intolerable. The heat, the insects, the gluten—it was all too much. And so they went for a drive. The following morning felt off from the start. For one, it was the first sky in a week with clouds. But also, the girls hadn’t come home. Their stuff was there but the driveway was empty. Then other odd things happened. The Wi-Fi went out, putting us out of contact with the outside world. An eerie silence fell over the farm and settled into everything around us. Slowly, and then suddenly, the sky filled with the sound of a laundering cement. “Is it one of those emergency helicopters?” Eva asked. Its orange and neon yellow gave it the appearance of a floating life jacket. The air thickened as the droning drew closer, heightening our sense of aimless urgency. Eventually, a message came through from a neighbour. “It seems to be theft,” he said of the Wi-Fi. Then I remembered what another neighbour told the owners a few nights before, about cops going around asking about a strange man in the area. From the hushed tone, I don’t think I was supposed to hear this. What solace is the police in this country? A few weeks earlier, Eva and I had checked into a surf house in Hermanus. It was the type of place that tried so hard to be chill that it was rather distressing. Even more unsettling was the man running it. He greeted us nervously and shirtless, then strutted around like a cock for some time. I thought he might piss on the leg of a stool in a show of territorial ownership. When he smiled, it was more of a wince, and when he talked, we wished he hadn’t. His every word and gesture sought to affirm his status as The Man. He looked like a left-handed sketch of Vin Diesel. That evening, Eva and I were sitting on a sofa in the main room of the house. She’d decided to take a deeper look at reviews of the place. There was one from a female guest who said she was sitting by the fire one night when the host and some buddy of his suddenly leaped from a bush, shouting, “The Russians are coming!” and laughing at her horror. Another review advised travellers to look up the guy’s name and see what the newspapers were saying. As Eva was doing her research, I happened to catch him slinking around the ajar front door pretending to hold a shotgun, one hand mimicking a trigger and the other clasping the barrel. Then he pumped it, aimed it at us, and curled the index finger of his trigger hand, followed by an upward jerk of his U-shaped barrel hand. Finally, he tilted his head back and yawned a silent, deranged laugh. Eva hadn’t noticed because she was face-deep in her laptop learning he’d been accused of at least five counts of rape. As for the police, they’d set his bail at $60—the price of one night’s stay at the sex pest surf house. Standing in the garden, I thought about parallel settings—ours and the one described in *Disgrace*. I thought about the book’s portrayal of the lawless vacuum of post-Apartheid South Africa, and how little had changed since the year it was written (1999). I thought about how, on our second day alone on the farm, someone had sabotaged our line of communication. I thought of the strange man in the area, and the dangerous one in Hermanus, and the lineage between strange and dangerous. I thought about the $60, and that everything has a price in this country. I thought about how to defend ourselves should it come to that and composed an inventory of lethal weapons: a spade, a steak knife, a compost heap machete. I thought about the helicopter, and about how the Norwegian girls had exactly the type of naïve and glittery disposition misfortune favours. And so it was that, as I stood there swelling with paranoia, all these thoughts coalesced into a horrible, plausible explanation for why the girls were unaccounted for on this eerie, ominous morning. The outcome of events was that the girls returned in the late afternoon—said they couldn’t sleep on the farm so they stayed at a hotel 40 kilometres away. Why didn’t that occur to me as the most plausible explanation? How did all these details, so disparate in hindsight, conspire to form such a profound impairment of sensibility? More simply: What’s to blame for my worst-case thinking? Am I reading too many gruesome books? Did I spend too much time on LiveLeak in my formative years? Have I taken too seriously my favourite journalism professor’s advice that a part of our responsibility is to get as vivid a picture as possible of the awful things people do to each other? A few coincidental occurrences shouldn’t inspire thoughts of how to kill a man with a garden tool. What I wanted to admit least of all was that I’d been influenced by the residual effect of a Trump tweet. When you’re in a country where so many conversations end with some variation of “stay safe,” you can’t help but suffer a gradual disquietude. Deep down, I always know everything is going to be fine. Sometimes I just forget.


WEST BLOOMFIELD POLICE REPORT DATE: 9/15, Wednesday TIME: 1934 LOCATION OF INCIDENT: 2200 Lake Orchard Rd., Rear Entrance of School NAME & ID NUMBER: Corporal Carrelson, 97-4 SUPERVISOR: Sargent Larry Clip OTHER OFFICERS PRESENT: Officer Berlawski PERSON(S) OF INTEREST: School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV VICTIM(S): Patrica Preston LIST OF WITNESSES: Security Officer Nathaniel Temple NATURE OF INCIDENT: Officer Berlawski and I were the first to respond to a call for an 808 at West Bloomfield Junior High School. We were first on the scene. We entered the school from the main entrance located on the east facing side of the building. From there we preceded northwest into the school’s cafeteria. A large crowd of roughly one hundred individuals were in an agitated state, all of which seemed to be emanating from a makeshift dais located in the middle of the school cafeteria. Security Officer Temple sat at the back of the crowd on a rather small table, seemingly unable to take control of situation. He debriefed us on the state of affairs up to that point. Apparently a school board meeting had become heated, escalating from a debate about the school’s choice in curriculum to what looked like a soon to be violent confrontation. I asked Security Officer Temple if he knew those most responsible for the escalation. He said he did not, only that disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston accused the School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV of “poisoning her children”. I asked Security Officer Temple if he thought any of the school board members had poisoned any of the children, or if disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston was speaking hyperbolically. “Hyperbolically? You mean exaggerated and shit? Na, I’d have heard about that if it was serious. House knows what’s up.” I asked Security Officer Temple to clarify who exactly who or what house he was referring to. That is when he informed me that he was in fact referring to himself. “Me. I’m big. A house is big. I’m House. People call me House.” I informed Security Officer Temple that I would not be calling him that and that it was his duty as a public servant to inform the proper authorities of any and all suspicious activity. As well as reminding him that the poisoning and/or endangerment of any child is of the highest priority for the West Bloomfield law enforcement. I asked Security Office Temple if I have made myself clear. “For sure.” He then offered me a fist bump, which I reciprocated. It was at this time that Officer Berlawski returned from his patrol car with a bullhorn. After several loops of the siren the crowd became quiet. It was then that Officer Berlawski asked me, as ranking officer, to address the crowd. I started by asking everyone to calm down, including the victim (disabled, stay-at-home mom Patricia Preston) who at the time was standing on very small lunch room table. This was a table I can only assume is used in the feeding of the younger elementary aged children; presumably grades K-2nd, or perhaps any under-developed 3rd or 4th graders. I advised disabled stay-at-home-mom Preston to move down from the table so that I might address the crowd further. She then informed me she was disabled because “I’ve got fibromyalgia real bad” and was in the middle of the approval process to receive disability from the state, a fact I later confirmed. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston agreed to calm down but not before issuing the following statement: “These people are teaching our children things we don’t believe in and do not condone. Kids shouldn’t be learning about sexuality and gender fluidity at this age. They are teaching our kids how to be gay and how to self-identify. No kids knows how to identify when they are that young. Hell when I was that young I’d have identified as a can of Diet Coke and a bag of hair if it meant I got some attention. Look, I don’t got no problem with the gays or the homosexuals or even the lesbians or whatever else there is, but I just don’t want state-sponsored curriculum exposing my kids to things they are not ready for. Hell I’m not ready for it so why do they expect them to be? Kids need to learn this stuff at home. Who knows my kids better than me? I should be the one that teaches my two boys, not the state. You ever been the post office? You seen how it is run? Why we letting the state decide anything? That’s what I told Dr. Pencil-neck over there and you know what he says to me? He says that actually the Post Office is very efficient and effective institution and that statistically you’re more likely to get run over by a car than loose something in the mail. So you know what I said, I asked him when the last time he’s been to post office. And he tells me he prints his own stamps. I don’t know what world this guy lives in.” With the attention of the crowd reestablished through the use of the bullhorn, I used a combination of low vocal tones and a slower speech patterns to return the crowd to their seats so the rest of the meeting might proceed. I assured them, as they found their seats, that any accusations of child poisoning would be taken serious by law enforcement. As well as threats levied against any school board member(s). Failure to comply, I warned, would result in the immediate cancellation of the meeting and possible disturbing the peace citations. Security Officer Temple found and fixed the microphone standing at the front of the cafeteria, next to the school board dais. Officer Berlawski and myself then addressed each of the nine school members individually. We asked them if they were ok to continue the meeting. Each of them assured me that they were. We then proceeded to follow up on the accusations made by the crowd with every school board member confirming they had not poisoned any children. I conferred with Officer Berlawski about the possibility that the accusations of poisoning were more symbolic than literal. He concurred. School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV informed me that the meeting supposed to end at 8pm, which was roughly 47 and a half minutes away. I asked him to continue in as non-confrontational a manner as possible. He repeated to me that it was anyone on the school board, but members of the crowd, mostly disabled, stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston, who was responsible for starting, and escalating the situation. “I don’t know how to convince these people that I know more about educating children than they do. I’m chair of the Collegiate Epistemological Society for God’s sake. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life studying human pedagogy.” Seeking clarification, Security Officer Temple injected, “Pedagogy, you mean like learning and shit?” School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV concurred that he did in fact mean learning “and shit”. He went on to inform us that the goal of the society was to “promote honest and objective education in a way that honors both teacher and student.” He also divulged that he was also a parent of twelve year old boy named Carl Abraham who attends West Bloomfield Junior High. “I just don’t get it” said School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV, “I care about this school just as much as they do. I love my child and would never do anything to endanger anyone else’s child. I have way more education and experience than any of them do, and yet they look at me as if I’m the problem. As if somehow my expertise and experience are a bad thing.” Then he looked at me, “I mean, who here knows more about policing? You or them?” Immediately I begin to feel what can only be described as a great and terrible weight fall over me. There, in the cafeteria, just in front of the dais, it was as if the anger and anxiety of everyone at the meeting was laid across my back. The room became very dark, and I felt as though I was falling into a cave. My shoulders fell heavy and my vision blurred. I thought for a moment I might pass out. I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV if he felt anything; he answered in the negative. Further I fell into the darkness, so far it occurred to me I might not ever return. I was lost and becoming more lost by the second. A thought then occurred to me that once a person is lost, they cannot become more lost. So I decided to let the darkness take me. Then, like an eagle taking flight, I was shot out the opposite end of the cave and I was transported to a tremendous height, several miles above my body. The heaviness lifted and I became lighter than air. It was as if all the light in the world went through my eyes and straight through to the back of my head. From this beautiful, lofty distance I could see everything. I could see the School Board meeting. I could see my patrol car. I could even see my neighborhood. From this height nothing seemed to matter very much. All arguments, including the one happening in the West Bloomfield cafeteria, seemed trivial. I saw conclusions and solutions fade away into a landscape of contemplation. Questions became a type of currency. Really good questions were treasured as gold. Respect and faith replaced fear and doubt. People and objects and issues are held in complete reverence, just as they are, without judgement or preconceived notions of what one ought to do. The other is simply held, like a child. From this gentle country, a secret and narrow path emerged, gathering all other smaller paths to it like a great river gathers streams. The path stretched into an endless horizon, and in that moment I possessed a deep and abiding hope. A hope so precious it might break with a breeze, yet somehow powerful enough to tear down empires. This hopefulness I saw as available to both School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston. I saw them take possession of this hope and one another. I saw them grow, both in stature and in beauty. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston quit complaining about her fibromyalgia. School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV called nesting birds. I saw them leading the rabble that was the once aggregated school board meeting into a community of believers, but not of any religion or dogma. They became a great cloud of witnesses whose faith was not for any religion or dogma, but one another. The loftiness of their ideals was matched only with their willingness to sacrifice, giving where any had need. This they did with out worry or regret, all of their faces beaming like the sun. The generous spirit of the meeting began to then spill out of the cafeteria and into the surrounding homes and neighborhoods. Soon all of West Bloomfield, then all of Metro Detroit became covered in a kind of golden haze that instead of falling downward, brought everything up several hundred feet. Soon the entire city sat as if on a beautiful hill, like it had been there for centuries. Traffic ran efficiently and without incident. Factories once again open and productive. The old Art Deco buildings downtown returned to their Ford era glory. Years of green patina fell off in great flakes of rust. The top of Book Tower glowed like a copper diamond. Below it hummed the buzz of midwestern commerce. Cars and steel and industry flowed from our center. Workers and markets were flush with cash as living wages fell like manna from heaven. I saw abandoned lots all over the city move from a light hue of grey and brown into a deep and abiding green. Acres of farm and forest reclaimed any unoccupied house or block. Saplings, corn and spruces grew up through concrete just as easily as they could grow through virgin soil. I saw walls of graffiti and vines. Great flocks of Canadian Geese nested all the way from 5 to 10 Mile Road. There were packs of wolves, hordes of field mice and even a Great White Western Moose. I saw Lions, not the animal, but the football team, playing in the Super Bowl. The band Journey performed at halftime, and when Steve Perry sang, “Born and raised in South Detroit” the noise of the fans singing cracked the roof at Ford Field so completely the game had to be postponed. However no one seemed to care as both players and fans became lost in other pursuits. Neighbors talked to one another for hours. Sinners went to church. Overworked middle managers went home early. Everyone said hello. No one locked their doors. I even saw former disgraced Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick offer a deep and heartfelt apology. He cried as his former constituents forgave him without hesitation, for everyone seemed to have lost the ability to hold onto a reliable record of wrongdoing. I so badly wanted to return so I could tell Michael, Patricia and House everything I saw. As if hearing my request, I was magically bound back to earth and into normal state of mind. But in coming back I lost clarity I had only moments ago possessed. I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston to join me outside the cafeteria was I could tell them what I’d seen in confidence. I asked Security Guard Temple to accompany us in order to act as witness and and impartial observer. We exited the building out a side door on the north facing wall. In the teachers’ parking lot I tried explaining to both of them what I had just learned to be true. I informed them of their ability to transcend and include, of their capacity to transform their differences into a catalyst for deep and meaningful change, not only for themselves, but for West Bloomfield Junior High School, for our town, for all of southeast Michigan. But my words were frustrated and flat. I couldn’t make them match my vision. After a couple of failed attempts I asked School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV if he would at least be willing to consider that parents really do know what is best for their children. He said he would be willing to consider such a position. Then turning to disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston I if she would be willing to consider the possibility that the school board, and more specifically, that School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV knows more about education than she does. She was quiet for several seconds, possibly fifteen, before responding “No.” Security Guard Temple then said, “You a cold ass bitch.” It was at this point she called him the N-word, to which School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV responded by punching her directly in her jaw, knocking her so far backwards she hit the back of her head on the front bumper of Vice Principle Nancy Hill’s Kia Sorrento. ACTION(S) TAKEN: School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV was taken in under suspicion of 1 count of aggravated assault against disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston. He has yet to be charged. Disabled stay-at-home-mom Patricia Preston’s representative is seeking the maximum sentence of 1 year in jail and a $1k fine. She and her husband are also suing School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV and West Bloomfield Junior High School for mental and physical distress. It is my understanding School Board President Dr. Michael Donavon Duncan IV is counter-suing for an undisclosed amount due to mental and emotional damages. SUMMARY: There is nothing further to report. Both parties are pursing legal settlements against one another, and the Lions are going to missing the playoffs.


On the gentle southern slope of a small mountain, near the summit, grows an ancient fir tree. It has been known to the tribe for generations, and become a part of its culture. Every generation the elders tell the young ones how it is a sacred place, where the spirits of the dead pass through. Of each generation, one of the young ones is given the burden and honor of keeping watch over the tree, to make sure the dead have their gateway. For the people of his time it is the duty of Hok'ee, a young man of seventeen winters, who was destined to guard the Fir. though somewhwat reluctantly, as he didn't necessarily believe in the old ways and stories as the elders did, Hok'ee has done his duty as tradition demands it, ever since he was selected by the shaman five winters ago. Whenever the previous guardian has children of their own, a new one is selected from the children of the tribe, to take over the task of standing watch every day, all day, and in the case of a death all night as well. Five winters it's been and still nothing has happened to change the yougng man's beliefs, possibly even to his reluctant disappointment. Even when there were deaths in the tribe, which fortunately haven't been many, Hok'ee dutifully stayed at his post all day and night but saw nothing to make him regard the tree as anything other than just that. Today doesn't feel much different, he just had a bit of a heavy feeling in his chest when he left early this morning before sunrise but didn't think much of it. Now it's a pleasant late summer's day and Hokée is spending it as usual, walking around the area, always keeping the Fir within line of sight, or whittling small pieces of found deadwood into figures of animals with his knife. Sometimes a member of the trbe comes by to visit and keep him company for a while. Those are always the easiest days, when someone else helps time go by quicker. As Hok'ee is sittting under the tree slowly chipping away at the piece of wood in his hands he finds himself getting a bit bored and loks off to the horizon for any sign of company, but there's no movement. Just a bird flies in from the edge of his vision as Hok'ee gets back to his woodcarving. When the bird makes a sound though, he looks up. It sounded like an owl, and indeed there's one perched on one of the lower dead branches of the Fir. Do owls even come out during the day? Not as far as he knows, yet this one is. It's a beautiful thing, piercing yellow eyes staring straight into his, dark feathers with lighter spots reflecting gold in the sunlight. He can't tear his eyes away, but the longer his gaze is locked with thtat of the owl the more he starts to feel a pit in his stomach grow larger and larger. A moment later that pit tears his whole chest open with the feeling that something horrible has happened. The owl flies off ahead of him as he leaves his post early for the first time to rush back to the village. Even running the viallage is almost an hour away. An hour of a mind racing, imagining the worst. an hour feeling so sick he could throw up, but with no time to stop. Signs foreshadow his fears from a distance, but he doesn't want to see them, acknowledge their meaning. The smoke is visible first, then, closer, the bloodstains on the side of the tents. Closer still, the bodies. The bodies of every man, woman and child of the tribe. As he walks through the ruin of his village Hok'ee spots prints in the ground, unlike those of bare feet or of the tribe's footwear, he sees some of the wounds of his tribesmen, small round bleeding holes. The marks of the White Devil. They'd heard stories about it from other villages who'd heard from others, but never truly believed the White Devil could be so destructive of heart. As Hokée stands idly among the corpses of his family, friends and neighbors, not know what to do, whether to run, scream or collapse, but unable to do any, he suddenly remembers his duty and a hot feeling of guilt washes over him for not being at his post. "Maybe it's not too late", he thinks and solemnly begins to walk back to the Fir. This time he walks, with his mind now empty, desolate. Time seems to pass differently, at different speeds, as he walks whole stretches without realizing he's even moving his legs while other parts of the path seem to take longer than usual. The sun is low in the sky and bathing everything orange gold by the time he comes up to the fir, but as he breaks the treeline and looks up the slope he sees no green bathing in the setting sun. The Fir has changed completely, it is bare and dead, and Hok'ee finally collapses on the bed of dead needles at its base.


My mother is a walking miracle. I'm not kidding. She shouldn't be alive. I know what you're thinking, but no, she wasn't the only survivor of a plane crash. She didn't fight off an intruder or make a miraculous recovery from a deadly disease. No, my mom is here because someone upstairs has a sense of humour. At least I *hope* that's the reason. I have a lot of anecdotal evidence for my claim, but for today's purposes I will tell you one story. The Story of the Bike. My grandfather was stationed overseas in the late 50's at Camp King in Germany. That's a whole other story, and it even includes a song, but we'll skip that and just go into the fact that army bases in foreign countries are their own little self-contained worlds and this one was no different. Mom had made a few friends a little older than her and they all had bicycles. My mother did not have a bike. But she wanted one. She wanted one so badly that she saved her allowance and begged her parents for one for Christmas. She even planned ahead and bribed one of the neighbourhood teens to teach her to ride. This consisted of my mom peddling on the grass lawn in front of the house while the teen 'teacher' read my mom's Supergirl comic books and grunted occasionally. Gradually, Mother's skill level increased as her comic book level decreased. Finally, Christmas arrived and what does she find under the tree? A brand new bike! Oh boy! Mom rushes outside with her prize and heads out to meet the rest of the b.r.a.t.s on the base and off they go to the 'Drop.' Now every kid that doesn't live in Florida has a hill or road that serves as a catalyst for speed tricks and/or blunt force trauma but this particular hill was something else entirely. It was several hundred feet high at a steep grade and at the bottom was a 90 degree turn. Beyond this was a forest. The army kids would line up at the top and one by one, they would all shoot down at breakneck speed and come to a rest at the bottom. Mother watched excitedly and nervously as they shot down the road, seemingly flying as they navigated the hill. Then it was her turn. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and pushed off on her brand new bike. Down she went. Faster and faster! It was exhilarating! No wonder the other kids loved this so much! She held on to her handlebars as the bicycle picked up more and more speed. She was soaring now. The wind whipped past her and she saw the kids waiting at the bottom of the hill for her. They were waving. Waving? She didn't have time to consider that now, the ground under her was a blur and she wasn't slowing. Why wasn't she slowing like the other kids? The bottom of the hill was close. She could see individual expressions on her friends' faces now and they were horrified. And *why* wasn't she slowing? She should be- My mother bombed past her astonished pals and crashed full speed into the trees, destroying the bike, two bones, a whole lot of skin, and every shred of pride. She lay there, unable to get up and totally unable to understand why this had happened to her. Why didn't she stop like everybody else? As she pondered this question and tried to figure out how she was going to explain this to her dad, her friends ran up. "Susan! Susan! Are you okay?" "Why didn't you use the brakes?" My mother just looked at them. She had learned to ride a bike in the grass. The bike just ...stopped when it was done. Confused, she just said, "Brakes? What are brakes?" And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I learned that common sense is dead, it didn't die yesterday, and holy shit, that's my mom and somehow I made it to adulthood.


There is a newt, laying on leaf litter, waiting for rain. Soon, it will slip under their cover, and head for the vernal pool. It’s spring now, and the pool will dry up by summer. The newt knows this, just as it knows it will rain, it can feel it in the air passing through its body. It idly listens to the birds and bugs buzzing around the forest. Though they are not idly buzzing, they are talking and singing to one another, sharing stories between trees. Unlike them, the newt is solitary, and lives in silence. It has no way of communicating from afar. But it would like to see another of its kind. An ancient memory arises. One where the newt was small, and its tail long and fish-like. It’s swimming in the vernal pool, alongside many others of its kind. The newt feels calm among them, enveloped in the warm, deep water of late spring. The clouds have exhausted themselves of their downpours, and the air is soft and wet. The newt can’t yet move on land, it can only wiggle. All the newts wiggle together, wiggling toward their destination. The memory fades, and the newt can’t remember where it was they were going. A light drizzle begins, whispering through the trees. Drops occasionally fall from their branches onto the newt. It flinches at these drops, but not with annoyance. They just mean it’s time to go. It starts slowly, first picking up its limbs from the leaves and putting them down again. It blinks twice, then raises its head. Finally, it begins dragging its body forward. This is not easy in the damp leaves, as they stick to the newt's slimy skin. Fallen twigs and lichens latch on too, increasing the burden. The journey to the pool is long. If the rain doesn’t pick up, then the entire effort may be a waste. But the newt pushes this thought aside and crawls on, getting lost in the rhythm of its body. Thinking of potential failure is pointless. Rain is never guaranteed, so the newt must try when the opportunity arises. It’s determined, by instinct and by will, together as one. At last, the wind and rain pick up, developing into a breezy shower. A low-hanging mist forms alongside this, blanketing the surface of the earth. The mist hushes the birds and bugs, they are not comfortable singing where they cannot see. Frogs take this as a sign it’s their turn, and begin producing a low chorus. Their chorus, along with the shrouding mist, consumes the forest. No sound can cut through them. The other animals must yield, and wait to be heard again. The newt is close now. Excited by the growing rains, it dives down, submerging itself in a sea of leaves. It slithers from leaf to leaf, only periodically using its limbs to stay upright. The newt can move more quickly when things are wet. But it wants to swim. Small puddles form, rising above the lowest leaves. What were once fine needles, slowly falling and hardly penetrating the soil, have swollen into plump beads, hurling from the sky and soaking everything they touch. The rain permeates the newt’s amphibious skin, but it doesn’t mind. It prefers it this way, enjoying its water-born strength. Bliss soon overcomes its body, and subsequently its mind. In this bliss, the newt forgets its mission entirely. Instinct alone keeps it moving forward. The newt stops, something has pulled it from its trance. A worm, squirming in a puddle. It writhes at the surface of the water, helplessly suspended in emptiness. Both sides of its body pull away from its center, frantically reaching for the security of the earth. Eventually, it finds a hold and begins digging. Anchored to the earth on one end and squirming on the other, the worm is like a blade of grass, being buffeted by a river's current. But unlike grass, the worm's movements are forced, and stand out to the passing newt. The newt hesitates for a moment, watching the worm struggle to attach itself more deeply into the earth. But the worm will not get that chance. Abruptly, and with little effort, the newt plucks the stranded creature. Three chomps and the worm is gone. The newt continues its journey on a full stomach, swimming across the small puddles that have formed in the rain. The puddles get larger as it goes, not because of the growing downpour, but because the land is slowly declining. Soon there is no land, and the newt finds itself floating aimlessly in the vernal pool. It is looking for something, but it cannot see past the dense mist. It decides there is only one way to go. The newt dives down. The water is clear and calm, having slowly been filled by the spring rains. There are no fish in the pool, only invertebrates and other amphibians. This is essential, as it makes the pool the only safe place for their young. The newt's eyes are drawn to movement near the ground. Other newts are there, swimming from one patch of open earth to another. Some are chasing each other, and others are swimming together in lines, with heads trailing closely behind tails. Eventually, one approaches the newt. They brush their nose against the newt's tail before descending again. The newt descends too, following them into the depths. Mostly, the newt is driven by simple curiosity. But something stirs at the back of its mind, something vaguely familiar, yet something the newt has no recollection of. The newt catches up to them. They are swimming in small circles, hovering silently over the dark earth. The newt follows their lead for a while, until they both come to rest on the ground. Slowly, the newt climbs onto their back, rubbing its chin on their nose. It does not know why it does this, but it feels like this is what it must do. It then wags its tail, releasing pheromones and awakening long-forgotten instincts. Appearance is irrelevant to newts, and to their ancient rituals, rituals that only their bodies know. They do not think about enjoying it, but they enjoy it nonetheless. The newts embrace their feelings together, allowing their instincts to become their will. The origin of a newt’s life is here, in the vernal pool, when everything is feeling, and nothing is thinking.


Imagine you are out in the wilderness, camping with your family. You need some alone time. So you walk off into the woods. There is something of a path. It may be a game trail. It goes off in a direction you have seldom travelled. Away from the camp, the lake, the anything interesting in the area. A path for someone who truly wants to be alone as they wander off into the woods. It is the middle of the afternoon, on a bright and cheery day, in a secret camp. A place your family has come for years. You don’t know how they first found it. This is the place they have always spent at least one week in the summer going back generations. You walk out. The woods are as bright as the day. Along the way you meet another trail. A wider one. Much easier to follow. Leading you deeper into the woods. There is something strange about this new path. You have moved into the shade of a thick forest now. As you walk along you start to notice that the trees to each side grow unnaturally close together. Then you notice the ruts and it clicks. This was once a road. The trees on each side have closed off light. Preventing any plants from growing where the road itself used to be. Along the way there are indents in the dirt with unnaturally sharp angles. Places where basement walls must have collapsed. Which implies that the buildings were not left behind. Only the foundations were. Then the forest opens up. Trees blot out the sun and no underbrush grows. It is getting a little harder to pick your way through. Fallen trees and branches litter the ground. Still there are flattened paths. You can vaguely guess where roads once passed. As though you are in the middle of a long forgotten town. The easiest path leads you down. Into something of a valley. Or at least a depression. Ahead the forest wall thickens. It looks like a clearing. With the leaves thick to absorb the sun. Unlike the more open space you have been walking through so far. Pushing past a large branch. A rough scratchy bit of pine with long thin needles that brush uncomfortably against your arm. You find yourself in a large open space. The first thing you notice is the church. A big black stone building with a sagging wood roof. Around it the land is covered with dying brown shrubs. You see several toppled tombstones beside what little path there is. Even in the bright sun this place seems dreary and slightly repellant. Still, there is something compulsive about it. Details start to click. You can see the main doors. But, the steeple is on the far side. The opposite of a Christian church. The windows, stained glass, are all intact. Despite the collapse of some buttresses, part of the roof, and the generally rotten state of the wood. The building slants slightly to the side. Its walls bulged and slightly twisted as the structure is slowly failing to support its own weight. Curiosity overwhelms caution. You approach the door. It looks hinged to open inwards. You are about to simply push. When you realize the wood has long rotted away from the hinges. This place does not welcome noise. You carefully lift the door inwards. Leaning it against the stone wall. Sunlight follows you. Intruding in this place. Again, unlike a church, the entrance is fairly small. Stone closes it off from the main room. There are paths to each side. You explore these side rooms. Wrought iron and dust show where benches, shelves, and hooks used to be. Changing rooms perhaps? But, what church requires costumes for the flock? You pull out your phone. Of course there is no reception here. But, it still makes a perfectly useful flashlight. The floor is a mess of dust and pine needles. The walls pale and moldy over peeling paint of some dark color. Each change room leads back to the middle. To the worship room. This place is well yet strangely lit. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass. Windows in geometric patterns that seem unsettling. Odd colors play over every surface. Stone benches in the place of pews. Most everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. Even the debris from where part of the roof collapsed. Light streams through that hole like water into a sinking ship. Highlighting a random section of stone along the far wall. As though that one brick in particular was exceptionally important. Instead of a cross. The far wall is dominated by what appears to be an upside down ankh. You make your way to the back. The room beyond the pulpit, on the right hand side, appears to be an office. Inside you find a surprisingly intact desk. Intact in that it is instantly recognizable as such. It has collapsed to one side. The wood is warped and rotten. The walls are covered in shelves. These are in even better shape. Perhaps more amazing are the books. Many of which are not merely recognizable as such. But, are also somewhat legible along the spine. Or they appear to be. Most seem to be titled in a language you do not understand. Many are covered in unfamiliar glyphs. From an alphabet unlike any you have ever seen. There are two books in Latin. And you find one leather bound volume that appears to be Arabic. On the desk is a notebook, perhaps a journal. It is in better shape than the others. You dare to pick it up and glance through a few pages. It is written in some sort of cipher. The letters, numbers, and astrological signs are familiar. The order is not. It begins to fall apart in your hand. As though no hard evidence is willing to leave this place. Or maybe that is needlessly dire and it is just paper exposed to the elements for too long. There is another doorway beyond the office. It leads to a staircase. You head back to the worship room for a moment. Grab a branch from the rubble. Then return. Wielding the branch, your weapon against the thick cobwebs along the stairs. You head up to the steeple. Your phone the only light in this place. The top does not possess a bell. Instead there is a room fifteen feet square. This place is filled with cobwebs. So thick you can hardly see anything before you start to brush them away with your stick. A stone dais in the center. Surrounded by eight wrought iron chairs. Between the chairs the walls have more windows. Once they had shutters. Those now lay on the floor. Behind the chairs are painted slabs of wood. Everything in this room is impossibly intact. The paintings are of some bizarre alien life forms. The stained glass in the windows is still geometric. There is something maddeningly close to meaning in those shapes. A small asymmetric metal box sits open on the dais. Dust and cobwebs hide it. You brush them clear to find what appears to be a snow globe. Inside is a simple representation of a creature you recognize easily. How could you not? It has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember. Everything about the shape is exactly what it must be. In the same way you know exactly what it wants. The only thing it ever wants or ever could have wanted. On the underside of the bauble is a faded yellow price tag. It reads “tree fiddy.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Do not use the word “darkness” or any major . This week’s challenge is to use the above theme and/or image as inspiration for your story. The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* &nbsp; *** #Rankings *Please be aware that we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/AliciaWrites *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Hello reddit! I just wanted to share something personal relating to Pokemon games. It turned into a little story so I thought maybe I'd post it on here because it's been weighing heavy on me. I really appreciate anyone who takes the time to read it I was in tears just writing this so, hopefully this story touches someones heart! Some people may not care about Pokemon or video games at all but I think you'll be able to relate in other ways. This is the story of Me, my love, and Pokemon Mystery Dungeon Explorers of Sky. This is a 100% true story. So let's go back to summer 2015. I was in love with a woman named Jess whom I'd known since college and we were both big Pokemon fans. Once we moved in together, we would wake up on days that we had nothing going on, which was quite often, and play Pokemon games with the tv in the background! We would play for for hours before really getting around to doing anything. It was like our daily ritual! It was 1 of the things early on that really connected us, the love of the Pokemon universe. So, 1 day I tell Jess I'm about to replay Explorers of Sky for the first time in a few years. I'd only ever played through it completely twice, as it wasn't that old of a game yet. To my surprise, she had never played it! She did play the original on GBA however. So I ended up getting it on my PC to play on the TV so she could watch me play and take turns playing and enjoying the story. Over the next few days, it was amazing to see her reaction to all the cute little things and all the great twists and turns of the plot of Explorers of Sky! I think we played it for about 6 hours a day for a week straight. All of the amazing music from the game was probably her favorite part actually. And after we finished, we would still listen to the music through the jukebox occasionally and go back to grind. So teleport us to about 5 months later, she went away to see her family but had to stay there due to her father having a serious health issue. I couldn't be with her for about 3 weeks, including New Years. This was an especially stressful time as I had no idea when she was coming back so it was pretty depressing. But when she was gone, I did another replay of that game to pass the time, and found myself really sad playing it without her. The music honestly hurt to hear. It just wasn't the same! The next winter in late 2016, life was going very well. We had got engaged on Thanksgiving, and 2 days after Christmas we went to get matching tattoos at a friends house. On the way there, out of nowhere, someone hit our car. Yeah, she died instantly, there was absolutely nothing I could do to save her. So it obviously was the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I was alone again on New Years, and all I could think about was the music from Explorers of Sky and it just stung bad. It took me almost all of 2017 to get to a point where I could even smile again. So, the whole reason I'm writing about this is because I was always afraid to play this game again, but I finally did it. My life is pretty good now, I have clean 15 months ago finally, generally am happy, but, if I was ever going to fully move on, I had to play Explorers of Sky again. I was afraid it would be really depressing but, I found myself crying in a good way with the parts relating to Grovyle and going to the future and back especially. Most of all, it was impossible not to let out tears with the Steam Caves, and Treeshroud Forest music playing. That music was just so special to us. Without her, it felt like a million bee stings going into every inch of my body. I never cry, I hadn't since 2021 but yeah, this game did it. I feel like I finally can enjoy what may be the best Pokemon game ever though, certainly one of my favorite video games ever made. I feel like she was with me the whole time I was playing it and from now on I'll always be grateful to have this game to go back and feel that connection with her, even if she's not here anymore. I've never finished playing a game and wanted to write a story about it yet here I am.


James awakens and sits straight up, “Fuck.” Sprinting straight to the garage, he can already hear the small sad meowing echoing throughout the house. “Well if you wouldn’t always try sneaking into the garage every chance you get, you wouldn't be freezing your tail off in the middle of the night.” “Meow” “Well I didn't think I had to tell you that you wouldn't be able to get back in. If you can't get out, you can't get in. Clown.” “Meow” “Get inside.” Cat prints covered James’s Ford Explorer in the garage. Windom must have been running a 5K on the vehicle from that amount of prints that were trailing in every way imaginable, like the opening scene to an old detective movie from the 80s. Once inside, Windom scurried across the house out of sight, out of mind. James crawled back into bed and looked at the time. 3 AM. Great. Let's hope we can get some more sleep before work. James glanced at the bedroom door to see a shadow quickly fade away from the slight crack that is left open for the cats to enter and leave the room at will. What was that? Naw, I must just be seeing things. I’m the only one home. That kind of looked like someone standing there though. It has to just be my eyes playing tricks on me. Windom came into the bedroom and curled up on the end of the bed falling asleep instantly, followed by James shortly after. The next day, James came home from work back to his empty house only to find dirty footprints all around the house. The tracks started outside of James' bedroom facing the door, turned around and continued down the hallway, up the stairs stopping outside of James’s roommate Alex’s room. James could see cat prints leave from there and disappear. “What is happening?” “Meow” Windom said with almost a tone of pride. “Who was in the house?” “Meow” “Why am I talking to a cat expecting a response? I really am losing it.” James turned around and started down the stairs to get the broom, “Because you’re the next on my list.” James stopped mid stride, heart racing, the hair on the back of his neck was on end. Turning back only to see Windom sitting near the door staring at James, James walks towards Alex's door knocking. Maybe Alex came home, maybe he's sick today. No answer as James feared. He opened the door to an empty room consisting of only a dresser, bed, and night stand. I need to get out of this house. Lets get downstairs, throw my shoes on, and just leave. I must not have gotten enough sleep last night. As James was returning home from his walk the sun was starting to set. The shadows from the trees started to stretch across the front yard and driveway. It was nice and warm. Your typical cul-de-sac scene playing out, kids screaming with laughter in the backyard of one of the houses, the smell of meat grilling behind another house. When Rachel approaches James. “Hey James.” “What's goin on Rachel? How have you been?” “Great, well, could be better. Have you heard or seen from Francis? Francis is James’s immediate neighbor to the left of his house, who had been off the grid for a couple of days which was slightly strange for Francis as James would see him once a day, on the odd occurrence every other day. “I haven't seen him for a couple of days now. Why what did you need?” “Well he invited me over for dinner tonight but never answered the door. His car isn't in his driveway either.” “Well maybe he ran to the store. I mean, to be fair, he is slightly elderly, maybe he forgot and went to visit family. “James, he's 50. I wouldn't count that as elderly.” “I mean, kinda. How about this, I’ll keep an eye out and reach out to you if I see him. If it gets to be a few more days without seeing him, I'll reach out to the Sheriffs and report him missing.” Rachel departed nervously without saying bye or see you later as she normally did. James wasn't too sure why Rachel was so nervous, they must have been closer than James remembered. James came through the front door and Alex was home. Alex usually came home from work and went straight to his room to sleep and wake up stupid early for work. James knocked on Alex’s door. “Bro you awake?” Alex must be asleep. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. James ate some leftover sloppy joes that had been in the fridge, then went to shower and get ready for bed. James hopped into the shower and started washing his hair, he could sense something was off and opened his eyes to find Francis standing in his bathroom. “Uh Francis, what are you doing here?” A deep scratchy voice that did not belong to Francis answered “This is what I wanted the whole time.” James remembered this voice, it was the same voice from the hallway. “Francis, this really isn't funny. ALEX COME DOWN HERE NOW!” “Alex has already been taken care of. He won’t be coming to your rescue.” “How did you get in the house? The security system is armed.” “James, YOU let me in the house. “I…… No, I would've remembered letting you in my house Francis.” Francis reached for the light switch and turned the light off in the bathroom. James, panicking, turned the light back on to only find Windom sitting there. “Meow,” “Fuck no.” James snags a towel off of the floor and attempts to exit the bathroom. Before he can exit the bathroom, Francis reappears grabbing James by the arm and pulling him back into the bathroom. Now James isn’t anything close to a fighter by any means, but he tried to be one tonight. James threw the hardest right hook that he could but made contact with the threshold feeling a pop in his knuckle followed by immense pain. Francis with a youth and strength that hasn’t been seen in a long time picked up James with no effort and threw him to the ground. Francis proceeded to punch James in the face and upper body with force that James could only imagine Apollo felt from Rocky. James was pinned and unable to get out from under the boulder that was Francis. He could feel the consciousness start to fade, when he heard “FRONT DOOR, DISARM SYSTEM NOW” followed by the loud obnoxious beeping that he has heard when he forgets to disarm the security system when he takes the trash out. Someone was in his house, but who? No one else lived here and Alex was, as Francis said, “Taken care of.” A grunt was heard followed by a dull thud and a shriek, as the weight was lifted off of James and suddenly he could breathe and sit up with ease. Rachel had struck Francis with a baseball bat that James kept near the front door. “Holy shit, James are you ok?” “Who… who is that?” James asked as his sight was starting to come into focus. “I’m glad I got here when I did. I heard yelling from the cul-de-sac and knew something was wrong.” Rachel said with a slight chuckle. “Francis must have been some….. Creature. A shapshifter maybe? I dont know, all I know is it was just Windom and I in the bathroom, then Francis appeared. Speaking of which, where did he go?” “I hit him and he took off towards the door. I am not sure where he went. Are you ok?” “Nothing some whiskey can't fix. Thank you.” Windom and Francis were never seen after that night. There were some reports that the County Sheriff had received for what seemed like years, of a man assaulting people in their houses and places of business after they had let a stray cat in to feed it and give it water. No one is really sure if the Francis and Windom duo had left town or someone had finally put an end to their rampage. All James knew was he was happy that he didnt have to worry about a elderly man staring at him while he slept.


I found the girl’s bones in the church, tucked inside the attic. They had been picked clean and were colored stone gray. The only flesh that remained on her skeleton was the skin stretched taut across her skull. It cradled her eyes precariously in their sockets, and I watched a spider wove delicate webs on her irises. Her spine had been dislodged and splayed apart. They looked like the desiccated wings of an angel who had tried to fly but ultimately had failed. I wouldn’t fail. Something glinted in the faint light. A thin gold bracelet encircled the delicate bones of her wrist. Allegra, it read in fancy script. Allegra. I knew her. I had known her. Everyone spoke about her in lovely, hushed tones. I wanted to be talked about. I wanted to be worshipped, so I sought her in the church and I found her. This house wasn’t haunted; it was infested. There were spider webs everywhere. I had come because there were rumors about a church and its deity. She granted you every wish if you were brave enough to seek her out. And I was brave. I stroked Allegra’s bones and marveled. “I’m so jealous of you,” I whispered to her. “But I can be much better.” When I heard the breathing behind me, I thought my chest would burst open. My heart wouldn’t stop beating, and acidic bile filled my throat. The Goddess emitted harsh and rattling gasps. She smelled like blood and death. She reached over my shoulder and entwined a long, furry appendage around my neck. I tried to turn and see the deity. Who was I speaking to? But it held me in place and rendered me immobile. “Not yet,” she whispered to me. “Not yet. What do you want, my dear….” She asked. I pointed to Allegra, stripped to the bone, and left to hang on a web. She hadn’t wanted it enough. She never deserved it, but I did. “I want to fly,” I said boldly. I had found my voice. “I want to fly and touch the heavens. I want everyone to know and love me.” She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Instead, she lifted me into the air and turned me so I could finally see. She was beautiful. And her beauty enhanced as she smiled at me and plunged an arm into my chest. I watched my blood spray and then sputter. I watched until everything went black. I remember flying. Yes, I flew. I flew higher than Allegra, and I went farther than anybody that I have ever known. It’s dark and empty here, but I don’t feel lonely. I would never be alone when worshipped. I can see them calling and crying for me. They sink onto tired knees and pray about me. I have become the angel. I am who they talk about. In the church, I found my wings, and my name is now a legend. You will never forget me.


After a night of fitful rest, Madeline awoke with a start. *Something was wrong!* Freezing, she listened closely. Besides her own shallow breaths, she could just about make out the sound of someone else breathing. At least it *sounded* human. She couldn’t remember ever having *heard* a Poiloog breathe, other than the strange rasping sound they sometimes made as they died. A creaking floorboard confirmed her suspicion. She was halfway to standing by the time she heard a familiar voice. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!” Catching herself before she put too much weight on her bad leg, Madeline sagged back onto the sofa. “Lena?” she sighed with relief. “What are you doing here?” “We figured it’s best to head out as soon as possible — should be able to put enough distance between us and the meeting place today.” She walked further into the room as she spoke, setting her pack down on the floor. “Then we won’t need to move on again for a while, and we can get you properly rested and healed.” Madeline glanced out the cracks in the curtains. Although there was some light breaking through, it was still the greyish-blue of predawn. “So you’re an early riser too, huh?” “When I have to be,” the woman chuckled. “But if it helps, I got a similarly rude awakening from Billie. They were very eager for me to check on your injury. May I?” “Go ahead.” Lena stooped to grab a few things from her pack while Madeline pulled her trousers down far enough to make the wound visible. The doctor worked as quickly and effectively as before, her touch firm but gentle. In a matter of minutes, the injury had been cleaned and redressed. When she’d finished packing away her things, Lena turned to ask, “Do you need anything? Food? Drink? Or are you good to go?” “Errr…” Madeline considered herself, trying to listen to her body’s complaints instead of suppressing them as she usually did. “I should probably eat something, but I think I’ve got plenty.” “Alright then. I’ll let Billie know. Then they’ll probably come and bother you so… Be warned.” A wry smile tugged at Lena’s lips. “And don’t dilly-dally.” “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Madeline chuckled. \ She was ready just in time for Billie’s face to appear at the door. “All good?” they asked. “Yep.” As she started limping over to them, they dashed forward, grabbing her bag and slipping their arm into its now familiar position under her shoulders. Soon, they were on their way. The day passed similarly to the one before. Lena kept her distance, sweeping the area they were travelling through in preparation for the slower-moving pair and keeping in contact via walkie-talkie. For the most part, that left Madeline and Billie alone. They passed the time in quiet conversation, wary of making too much noise lest they miss the hum of an approaching Poiloog ship. Though she felt as close to Billie as she ever had to anyone, Madeline realised it was the longest she’d ever spent in their company, for fear of drawing the Poiloog’s attention. They might have stayed up all night talking via radio, but never this long in person. And never while in such close proximity to each other. She could feel the ripple of her friend’s muscles under her arm and the warmth of their skin next to hers, smell the sweat built up over the day practically carrying her, and see practically every pore in their olive skin. It made Madeline conscious of what she must smell and look like. With her injury, everything felt like so much more effort than normal, and she was sure it showed. But she was equally sure that Billie would never judge her for that. That was if they even noticed. She couldn’t imagine her friend was paying her anywhere near as much attention as she was paying them, busy scanning the streets for signs of danger as they were. Over the course of the day, they paused a couple of times at Lena’s instruction. Whenever she heard a Poiloog ship, she’d let them know. Then, Billie would hide Madeline somewhere safe before retreating to a nearby building in the hope they would avoid detection. It was a system that seemed to be working, though Madeline couldn’t help but feel that they’d got lucky so far. And soon, that luck would have to run out. But, despite her misgivings, the journey passed without serious incident. By the time the sun was grazing the horizon, they’d reached the outskirts of a new city. Lena scouted out the houses again, selecting a few that she deemed the right balance of proximity and distance. While she kept watch, Billie helped Madeline into the middle of the three dwellings. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” they asked as they half-carried her to the sofa. “I feel like I should be here with you in case… Well, in case anything.” “Of course,” Madeline replied. “As much as I might enjoy your company, I do need a break every now and then!” Although it was said in jest, she instantly regretted the words. Why would she say something so completely untrue? “Besides,” she added hurriedly, “it’s safer this way. You know it is.” Billie sighed. “I just wish…” “I know. Me too.” A sad smile pulled at her lips. “But we’ve got the walkies. You can check in any time. And I promise I’ll let you know if I need you.” “Alright.” They nodded before looking around the dishevelled living room. “Do you need anything before I go?” “I’m all set,” Madeline replied, patting her bag lightly. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.” Unbidden, something rose inside her that she couldn’t bite back. “Billie?” she called out after them. “Yes?” They turned back to her, eyes wide. “I just wanted to… to say thank you.” Madeline paused, taking a deep breath before plunging onward. She’d started now, so she may as well finish. “You changed me and my life for the better when I met you. I don’t think I’d have coped without you, to be honest. And now, all this.” She gestured at her leg. “You’re a literal lifesaver. So thank you.” Billie’s eyes widened further still, boring into hers. Madeline glanced away, embarrassed by the outburst. The creak of a floorboard warned her of their approach seconds before strong, warm arms folded around her. “I’d do so much more, Mads. You know that,” they whispered, breath tickling her neck. “Thank you for being in my life.” Slowly, when the shock had worn off, Madeline returned the embrace. The pair remained like that for what felt to her like a flash of eternity. When Billie eventually pulled back, their eyes were swimming. They muttered, “Sleep well, Mads.” Then, they hurried out the door. Alone, Madeline became acutely aware of her racing heart. And then there was how her skin tingled where Billie’s arms had been moments before. In a way, she felt as if she was still held in their warm hug. But as the corners of her mouth lifted further and further, reality came crashing back. Given the world they were living in, how could she possibly be indulging a silly little *crush*? And worse still, she needed Billie. Not just because of her injuries, but because of everything else. The support. The connections. The knowledge. She definitely shouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that. Besides, from what she’d seen, Billie seemed to have a way with people. She didn’t want to just be another in a long line of conquests. Pushing the foolish thoughts out of her head, she lay back with a *humph* and closed her eyes. But no matter how much she *decided* she wasn’t going to think about it, her mind had other ideas. It looked like she was in for another long, sleepless night.


She slowly enters the cave, hand on the hilt of her still sheathed blade. Loose armor faintly clangs together with each step. Wolf fur rustles around her neck marking a trophy of days passed. Beams of sunlight shine through the cave entrance and reflect off her helmet. As she creeps closer to the back of the cave, the outline of a door lined with stone comes into view. A metal seal depicting a tarantula wasp encased in fire gleams in the torchlight at the doors center. Knight slowly unsheaths her sword revealing jagged saw-like spikes on one side and a clean serrated edge on the other. She slowly opens the massive door, careful not to alert anyone who may be inside. She removes her helmet to peek through the cracked door. Inside was a long hallway lit with torches, a tall man in a white robe walks through the hall and disappears into a side door. Knight dons her helmet and slowly enters. As she moves forward, another robed man rounds the corner at the end of the hall. His face was covered and the same symbol from the door was painted on his chest. A wolf with a red X painted on its face walked at the robes side. Its breathing heavily and its eyes dilated. Knight darts into the closest doorway before being seen. As she turns to face the room, she locks eyes with the man from before. He holds a servants platter with a strange smelling meat on it. The man opens his mouth to scream for help but before the sound could pass his lips, the knight shoved the butt of her sword into his mouth, breaking his teeth. She glided behind him quick and quiet, strangling him until he passed out. Knight rapidly rotates her head around the room making certain she is the only one conscious. After taking a few calming breaths, Knight once again peers out the cracked door. The robed man most definitely heard her encounter. He approaches the door slowly accompanied by two more with swords drawn. The sound of a growling wolf can be heard. Its thick yellow eyes fixed on the slightly ajar door Knight is hiding behind. With no other choice Knight bombards the door, breaking it from its hinges and trapping one of the robed men underneath! Knight cuts down the robe to her right with one powerful swipe of her saw blade. The wolf lunges at her sinking its teeth into her arm and knocking her off the door. Knight begins stabbing wildly with the butt of her sword in an attempt to get the wolf to let go. The other robed man helps his accomplice out from under the door and together they jump into action. Knight stands and brings her saw blade up to block the first assault and forces the robe back a few steps. Knight lets out a small grunt as she raises the wolf still attached to her arm to block the second assault. The robe strikes the wolf in the back but it wasn’t enough to shake the wolf’s grip. Knight turns the saw blade to the wolf’s neck and cuts deep, severing the spinal column. The wolf drops lifeless to the ground as blood spills from knights punctured armor. The robe to Knights left makes another attempt to swing his sword at Knights neck. Now free of the wolf Knight catches his blade to redirect it and plunges her saw deep into the robe's shoulder. Undeterred the third robe begins slashing wildly hoping a blow will land. Knight kicks his chest the moment an opening appears once again knocking him back a few steps. She pulls her saw blade from a now limp body and swipes hard removing the robes sword arm from his body. The robe still standing lunges at her as if he didn’t even feel her blade sever his arm. Knight cuts his head from his neck in a panic, confused about how he shook off what should have been a painful deterrent. She looked down at his lifeless body trying to piece together the mystery. Knight shakes her head and gazes down the hallway indicating to herself the task at hand requires her focus. Careful as not to arouse anyone else’s attention, she continues down the corridor for several feet. Nothing but the flickering sound of torch light can be heard as Knight creeps further. After some time the quiet murmur of someone talking is emanating from one of the doorways up ahead. Knight approaches the door, removing her helmet and crouching to peek through the keyhole. Inside she sees a man with robes more elegant than those she has seen so far and a pendant draped around his neck. A flag bearing their tarantula wasp symbol hangs from the wall at his back. He appears to be speaking to someone standing in front of the door. As Knight looks closer at the pendant, her eyes widen and begin to fill with tears. She stands and stares at the door with tears streaming down her face. Knight’s expression turns from sadness to rage as her helmet settles back on her head.


It happens fast, faster than they show in the movies or TV. Just a moment passes and then everything is over. Death, it’s not something I ever feared, my parents were pastors, so I have always been confident of an afterlife, but the thought of your own death isn’t something most of us linger on. But today is different. Today it happened, no pain, no long goodbyes and certainly no poetic last words. The most I got out before slamming into the tree was “Oh shit” and then I was standing here. I have to say that this is not how I saw it ending, I have survived two snake bites, a stabbing and a less than friendly deer encounter. I thought I was indestructible; I suppose most teens do but there I am lifeless and so very pale. I feel like I should panic, freak out and beg for just one more chance to live but I just can’t find it in me. This feels like the end, it’s not like I haven’t been given my fair share of do-overs and close calls. Besides this one was my fault plain and simple, I was driving too fast on a soaked back road, a mistake made by countless reckless kids driving daddy's favorite car, most of us get away with it, not all though. Today was no different than yesterday. The same routine and the same boring conversations, just another day. I had lunch made and was just begging to sit when my brother called. He was out of school early and needed me to pick him up. I begrudgingly put my plate away and grabbed the keys as I walked out the door and into the rain. Skipping over the puddles I made my way to the car and climbed into the driver's seat. It was a beautiful car, dad’s pride and joy. “You don’t get them like this, not used cars anyway.” That's what he always told me. He loved that car and did all he could to keep her pristine. I can’t say I was the best driver, but I wasn’t reckless, not because I didn’t want to be but because I knew that whatever I did to that car my father would do even worse to me. The drive from the house to the school usually takes twenty minutes, that's going at around 60mph. The rain was coming down hard then though, so I should have probably taken it a little slower today. I made this drive every day, I knew these back roads better than most of my relatives, I thought 55 mph sounds like a good compromise. We all have those ignorant thoughts sometimes. “It could never be me.” That's always what we tell ourselves. It’s not true though, what can happen will happen and I guarantee that you are never fully prepared for it. Like I said before it happens fast. I would be lying if I told you I knew exactly the moment my life was over. Maybe it was when I started the engine, maybe it was when I first felt the tires pull away from me, all I do know is that at no point in time was I in control. That's the scariest part, I could tell you all about the moment the car tilted on to its side, the anguished scream the brakes let out as they tried to stop three tons of metal from spiraling out of control. I could tell you about the moment I left the road and stared down that tree and finally found the to answer the question of what happens to an unstoppable force when it meets an immovable object. But none of that was what truly left an impact, it was how small I was, how insignificant I was in those few moments and just how little anything I did mattered after fate had taken control. I was given maybe four seconds to evaluate the situation and understand that this was it, nothing I can say will ever be able to convey that feeling knowing that these next few moments are your last. The feeling however is short lived, you feel a slight pinch and then immense darkness. Now what? Years of church and I just don’t feel adequately prepared for this moment. I wait for the stereotypical spirit drivel I was taught in Sunday School, but nothing happens. No bright light, no chorus of angels beckoning me home, hell I’d settle for the Dalai Lama offering me some tea before reincarnating me as a cricket but what I can’t bear is this silence. Just my thoughts and the blank stare of my own lifeless face as it goes straight through me. “I have to admit bud we have looked better” I can’t actually hear my voice, a bit disconcerting but far from my most pressing issue. The once pristine interior of fathers Cadillac now lies in total ruin. The leather of the seats torn by the massive shards of glass thrown by the shattering of the windshield and no evidence that the bonnet had ever even existed. I once again feel that I should be distraught, broken down in tears trying to make this right. I however, only feel an overwhelming sense of relief, mixed with guilt over the car of course but thoroughly relieved that I no longer have the responsibility of explaining to dad that his most prized possession was reduced to little more than a rubix cube on the side of some God forsaken country road. I don’t know that it’s his anger I fear so much as the disappointment in his eyes, in the words of Lt. Aldo Rain “I’ve been chewed out before.” I can handle the harshest of insults and jeers hell I’m okay with taking an ass whipping, but I can’t take being his disappointment. “Hey!” The voice is soft and laced with panic. A short stout man comes waddling down the embankment. He has a towel in one hand and his phone in the other. I don’t think either one is going to help in the current situation, but I appreciate the gesture I suppose. I didn’t see his face when he looked into the car, but I did hear him gag, part of me felt insulted. I didn't think I looked that bad, but I let it slide, I’m sure he didn’t see his day going like this either. He called the police and climbed into the cab of his car shaking, partially from the rain and partially from the shock I would suppose. The sirens didn't take too long to start slowly picking away at the silence, growing closer and closer as the rain began to fall even harder than before. They sent three patrol cars, an EMS and one Game Warden. The small man jumped out of his car and met the officers. “Are you okay?” They asked him as they sprung into action. I think there are probably more pressing matters than his wellbeing but I’m not the professional here. They eventually make their way to me, cut me from the seat and drag me out of the car. I don't know that I will ever find the words to describe just how strange a feeling it is to see yourself and not have any form of control. The closest I can relate it to is hearing your own voice on a recording. You know that's you; you know that those are your words and you said them, but no voice will ever sound more foreign than your own. “Christ, that's Nicole's boy” That was the first physical feeling I have had of the crash. My stomach dropped as if every horrible thing I had ever done was revealed all at once and now it was time to pay for them. Here I am staring down at my own lifeless corpse unfazed, yet the mere mention of my mother's name sends my world into a spiral. I hadn’t thought about them, not any of my sisters, not dad, not even my little brother. I don't have a physical body but that doesn't stop me from feeling pain in every aspect of my being, I have never feared much but not being there for the ones I love that’s one that haunts me. “He’s gone” The paramedic shook his head and loaded my body into the back of the ambulance. “I’ll notify the family, they’ll come I.'. D him” The officer leaned down into his car and grasped the radio. “Alright, we're good” The paramedic said to the driver and closed the doors to the ambulance. I’ve had my fair share of ambulance rides; most are filled with forced small talk and the basic medical questions but this one is hard. The medics casually talk about their day and holiday plans, joking about how much they hate their in-laws coming to stay for Christmas. You forget that this is their job, they see this every day and it doesn't faze them. In different circumstances I am sure that I would enjoy their company. I didn't notice much after that, we arrived at the hospital and took me into the morgue, leaving me there with the other bodies. “We just need you to identify the body” The double doors swung open and in walked my parents. Mother was beside herself, understandably so. Dad, he’s a stoic man. I have never seen him cry and I don’t know that I ever will. He held himself together for mom, but I can see it, the tears begging to be set free. Never felt so empty, so fundamentally broken as I do right now. I have taken away my parents' son, their child, their friend. I have never cared what happened to me but seeing them standing over me, watching my father kiss my forehead like he had done when I was a boy, I avoided the physical aspects of death but made up for it now. “I’m sorry” The only words I could manage as they turned away. I haven’t been prepared for anything that has happened today but watching them walk away, nothing will ever compare to that. I don’t know how long I’ve sat here now, minutes, hours, days but I’m still waiting for something. Waiting for that moment of redemption I was promised as a boy. I am a realist though, if it hasn't come by now then I doubt it will. I’ll just close my eyes, try and drift off. “Hey there boy!” The voice shook the walls, the thick southern drawl mixed with the gravelly tone that only comes from decades of cigarette smoke is instantly recognizable to me. “Pawpaw Steve?” my eyes open and there he is, albeit much younger and as healthy as I had ever seen him. He looked like the pictures hung on the walls of his house, the ones I always looked at when I was young. “Well yeah boy, I ain’t that different.” he smiled, I always loved his smile. It always made things seem okay. He placed his massive hand onto my shoulder and walked me towards the door. “Waited a long time for you son, I’ve got somewhere I want you to see.” He opened the door, and we stepped through. I left my fears behind; I knew I was going home and someday they would join me. Until then me and Pawpaw Steve had some catching up to do.