I woke up after what felt like a good sleep, it had only been 6 hours according to my helmets holo-display. In that time I had travelled 168,978 kilometres at a consistent speed of 28,163 KM/H, some how managing to not be smeared to a pulp, which I can only assume is thanks to inertia dampeners in my suit. I guess the suit also has the means of recycling my air since I haven't suffocated to death yet - hi-tech shit. I've only ever seen tech like this in videos and in articles on those breaking edge tech sites the military has been pushing lately, probably trying to either scare us into being good citizens or romance us into becoming pawns for their disposal. Ever since the fucking Americans decided to put their orbital laser on display, by completely erradicating one of Chinas "secret" bases from space, the military has been looking for able bodies to throw at the war and enticing people with hi-tech gadgets they can play with is a damn good way to do it. I don't remember much from before I woke up, that's usually what happens when someone drugs you. The crew I was working with probably tried to jettisen me during their orbit and I'd picked up some speed and had been flung out into space, though why they put me in the suit was odd. If they wanted me dead, why go to the trouble of putting my unconcious body into this thing. Going over the past week of events in my head, using my augs to bring up memories as detailed as if they were a VR, I scrutinized every detail of every interaction with the crew I had. There was nothing note-worthy and no unintentional clues left for them either, whoever put me in this suit and shot me out here, it wasn't one of them. Using my augs to probe the suits systems, I found I was met with little resistance and after performing a standard integrity check, I was able to link with it. Going over system diagnostics I discovered that this really was some hi-tech shit. It had inertia dampeners, air recycling and (if necessary) production capabilities, solar cells with such effeciency that it could keep one if it's many batteries charged with miniscule amounts of light. It also constantly monitored my vitals, was capable of keeping my body alive through internal systems that kept the muscles from wasting away, it even emitted a mist that could be absorbed by my skin that gives me all the nutrients I need. Just like every other type of machine, the suits system was controlled by an AI, though this one would use it's array of internal and external sensors that it was connected to - via the suit - to keep me alive for as long as possible. Since it was an AI, I had the option of turning on it's companion mode and given that I was currently flying through space at a phenominal speed, I thought some company might not be such a bad idea. Using the channel provided by the link between my augs and the suits wireless interface, I sent a command to the suit and enabled companion mode and after an inperciptable delay, the AI spoke to me over our channel, I never liked talking with AIs like this, it messes with your head. "Thank you for turning on companion mode, I am the AI that controls this suit. Please send me your requests through our link or by speaking them, if that would make you more comfortable." It was more a thought than it was someone speaking, it was like having someone else's internal monologue in your head. "Restrict communications to auditory only," I said aloud "Is there anyway you can slow me down or even stop me?". A slight pause, almost as if it were another human, hesitating before telling me I'm fucked. "No." the cold voice coming through the speakers next to my ears. There was no point pushing the matter, it was an AI and could run millions of simulations in the time it took for me to take a breath. I noticed during my perusing of the systems functions that it had an emergency beacon that would emit a signal that could be followed, through space, to it's exact position from up to 750,000 kilometres away which is almost twice the distance between Earth and its moon, after that you would be facing some delays, most of which could be accounted for by prediction algorithims. I was hesitant on activating the emergency beacon as I still wasn't sure who put me in this thing and therefore who the signal might go to. "Who- owns you?" I posed the question, already knowing the answer, "You do." Of course- "Who built you?" "I was manufactorued by the SUNTO corporation and sold to a private buyer who made many modifications to my systems. The identity of the private buyer has been erased from my memory, at which time my ownership was transferred to you." Great. Usually when ownership of machines has changed hands, any kind of locator, tracking device or emergency beacon is automatically transferred over with it, which means that this suits emergency beacon will project to wherever my ID chip tells it to and since I don't have an ID chip, there is no emergency contact for it to send it's signal to. Fuck. "Are you capable of keeping me alive during re-entry?" "Yes - my systems have been uploaded with re-entry software and the suit has been installed with the necessary hardware. Provided there is a deep enough body of water to stop your fall, you should be able to survive re-entry." "Is there any way you can alter our course?" "No, normal steering thrusters are ineffective at these speeds." "Are we heading anywhere in particular" I asked the suit, hoping that I was sent on a specific course rather than a long, drawn out death. "It appears your trajectory may have been intentional. You are on a collision-free course for the planet known as 'Kepler 22b', I can find little information on this planet other than it is believed to be an exoplanet and a prime candidate to look for extra-terristrial life or to setup a colony." "Okay- your mysterious previous owner didn't happen to mention why they chose a planet that is multiple lifetimes away?" "I do not have any data available to answer that question, though I am fully equipped to keep you alive, in stasis, for the entirity of the journey. There is still no gurantee you will reach your destination alive - at least not in one piece." "Don't have much of a fucking choice do I?!" I muttered angrily, more for my own benefit than the AIs, "Stupid- suit." I squeezed out awkwardly as I felt the slow creep of the stasis taking hold slowing down my mind and body.


I only ever heard myself just once. I thought I would try it. Everyone around me was and, at that particular time, it made sense to say something. But what I heard from myself when I tried was less words and more the excruciating sounds of struggle, like the porcine scream of climax. My mother came rushing, as she always did, in a fit of self-importance and desperation. She said things like: “What *now?* What’s *wrong?*” There was always something with me that wasn’t right and this was a testament to that. Even when I should have been able to make a sound like any regular human being, it was wrong. I was wrong and that seemed to transcend my body because, when they finally divorced, we were all wrong. My family was not right and that was all my fault. She clapped her hands. “Today’s the day!” My mother was always particularly fond of making grand gestures about how hard I had made life and how she had the power to radically transform it. She kissed my head in a way that was intimate and distant. She set a boundary with her lips to show me she was there whilst also unconsumed. “We’re gonna get this stuff sorted.” She busied herself around the kitchen, sweeping crumbs into her palm and making a display with the dishcloth over the surface as though it was a performance of circus silks. I could see the way her hands were light as though magic lay at their tips. She was proud of herself. But more than that, she was excited. “Gosh, we haven’t had a parcel like this since...gosh, I just don’t know when. I used to have parcels all the time. You wouldn’t remember. This was before I’d even had you. There would be shoes and dresses. Gosh, I had a gift for making money stretch so far. I always had something to spend it on.” She laughed to herself, the whole while her back was turned from me. “I’ve not had anything like this for, well, seventeen years now. Wow, that’s *long!*” She turned and leaned back on the counter. She wore a top that had not seen the wash for years, not because it was dirty but rather because it was reserved for special occasions. It’s sat low on her chest, rimming half of her breasts and revealing the paleness of her skin. We didn’t do holidays. Or, rather, I didn’t so neither did she. Stood there in this way, she became alien to me. Her face was not the deep crater of pain it normally was. No contortions that came with black sockets and bloodshot eyes. There was powder on her face. Some of her bones glowed orange-gold. Her nails, no longer chipped, had a smooth sheen to them. Her jeans fit better than I had ever known them. In fact, I barely believed that she owned a pair. “I suppose,” she continued, lost in thought and daydream. “That is one good thing that’s come out of all...this. Oops!” And expressive hand leapt out in front of her and hit the tea cupboard. “I’ve not been so indulgent since I’ve had you. They say minimalism is in these days.” There was something that wanted to escape me. The memory of the first sound of my voice felt like a surfacing scar and I felt bold with it. *Fuck minimalism*, I thought instead. My mother sprang upright and for a moment I thought I might have managed to make a noise other than a squeal, but she had sensed an approaching shadow and the rap of knuckles that followed it. “Hi.” “Oh hi there!” My mother leaned in the doorway, almost as though she was teasing the delivery man to dare enter our quasi-hospice abode. “Here you go.” She grabbed the parcel from his hand like the bloodstream grabs a line of snorted cocaine. “Why thank you! Gosh, you want to know, I’ve been waiting for this for *aaaaages*. Seventeen years almost!” Through the door crease, I saw the man nod. “Ah right.” “Yeah, you just wouldn’t believe. Do you have kids yourself?” “Er, no.” “Well, when you do-” “I won’t. I can’t.” The staccato of his voice was morose. It stunk of condemnation. “Right, well anyway...I just wanted to say, you know what? Never mind. Never mind. You have a good day and...and thanks for this. Like I said, we’ve been waiting a while.” She closed the door and kneeled until her face was inline with my in-turned knees. “That was nice wasn’t it? Nice man. Now…” She drew her long fingers across the address label and down the cellotaped sides of the parcel with languid elegance. “Let’s have a go with this.” \* *We were meant to wait.* That would have been the first thing I said to her. We were meant to. Sally-Ann Bridges had said to wait for her. That she’d be away until Monday, but that she’d be back to help us out. She was excited for us, she was excited for me. She was trying to make me see that this device would be more than a violation of my privacy. It was called ‘Gayze’, which was said, predictably, in the way that mean schoolboys taunted the homosexuals. Gayze. It was meant to be funny. As though machine dependency was a joke. As though you could ridicule the existence of a person based on their inability to use their own vocal chords. For short, Sally-Ann had called it ‘The EGTD’ and she had tried a ridiculous amount of pronunciation techniques to make it sounds like a word. But, ultimately, this method was too laborious. That’s how life becomes when you have a disability; chores multiple and people have to ‘cope’. You inflict lengthiness into those who surround you. Eye Gaze Technology Device became EGTD. Multiple Sclerosis became MS. Treatment, in the form of disease modification, became DMT. ‘I love you’ became ILY on the phone or a mime in real life. I made life a way it didn’t need to be and people seemed to find it necessary to make my life more convenient. Gayze was going to make my life easier, by exerting so much of my brain energy that I would have a one in three chance of feeling excessively tired, get more headaches than normal and develop migraines. There was a high chance I would feel faint. It was more than likely that I would become irritable and my judgement would be impaired. Easy, like she said. “Come on!” The tablet was in mum’s hands. She was shaking it with a mild violence that would have landed her a jail sentence if she was more persistent and the object had a conscience. “Please.” I rolled my head away from her, which due to the curvature of the neck rest on my wheelchair, had the adverse effect of swinging it back to meet her direct eyeline. She came closer to me. “Lydia, please.” You might wonder how many times I had heard that phrase in my life. I didn’t. It had been at least sixty this year alone and we were only in March. It was a universal phrase and so many times had I heard it that I might have been lead to think using it was bonding. It was a phrase for the shower, for the car and for the dinner table. It was a phrase I could predict simply by the way my mother sucked the air through her teeth and pursed her lips. It was a plea and, also, a subtle prayer. God was also called Lydia. I wanted to make that noise again and perhaps she would worry for my safety. Perhaps she would throw the whole device away and I would be left to my own thoughts. My mother smiled and shook her head. “I knew it.” She got off her knees and slammed the door, leaving me in the basking glow of late afternoon sunshine coming through the window pane. She had been blocking it trying to get me using the device. Now, it was mine. \* “Steve, I told you; she won’t.” Those words meant crisis. After the divorce, there was a niggling sense that leaving my mother with a severely disabled child was a mistake. I wasn’t under any illusions that my dad’s life had got significantly better since he got shot of us but he found it almost impossible to fully leave, in the way that cold-hearted single fathers do. Though she hated his guts, his company was welcomed by my mother. And by company, what was inferred was that he was a ear who knew a situation better than any families with normal kids would. He could talk a lot. “Well, screw Sally-Ann!” Mum began shouting. “I shouldn’t have to raise my child with a carer. It’s embarrassing. It’s not normal!” I knew he would agree. It wasn’t normal and he had no idea of the half of it. But, from where I was set - in perpetual chair-bound-ness - no one was really trying to make this normal either. Most of the time, my mother’s instagram feed was an inaccurate record of my inexistence and, when the guilt got too much, I would feature - both of us snuggling. Lying down was the only way I fitted in. “I can’t bloody well try again...But you know what will happen! She’s so stubborn...I just want, I just want…” She began to cry and slammed the phone. She wiped my lips with a cloth and buried her head into my lap. A few moments later, she surfaced with resolve. “Right, let’s try this again.” She picked up the screen and held it a few feet from my face then she turned it on herself. “Look, it’s easy.” She winked a few times and produced a jumble of sounds. She jumped as it parroted back to her. “Ymgh,” it said. She laughed and I smiled. “What do you think that stands for?” *YMGH. Your Mum Gets High,* I thought. *Your My G Homie.* *You’re Mad Go Home.* Of course, mum didn’t hear. She sighed. “Two can play this game, if you don’t want to speak, me neither.” She stood up, hesitated and sat one last time. She sat in front of me, held the tablet screen in extended arms, and selected two words. “Say. Something.” I felt like being in one of those movies where robots use manipulation tactics to get things from you. *I didn’t do it.* This seemed funny. The silence wasn’t. Mum turned and placed the screen in my lap, breaking her vow. “Fine.” I looked at the coloured logic of the screen. Everything was triggered from the previous. Sentences strung together through probability and an eventual understanding of the user. I blinked. I blinked five times. My mother, having walked as far as the furthest point in my peripheral vision, stopped. “I. Know. What. You’re. Thinking.” She ran round to me and grabbed my shoulders. Her eyes searched for something in mine. “What did you say?” I blinked to repeat. “I. Know. What. You’re. Thinking.” A wetness came to her eyes. “Lydia! God!” I blinked to repeat it one more time. She heard fully. “And what’s that?” she said. I was silent. “Come on, come on. Here, spell it out. Spell it.” She came close to me holding the screen straight out. I closed my eyes. “Lydia, please. Tell me: what am I thinking?” My eyes remained closed. “Come on, it's a game. What am I thinking? Come on!” On the last syllable her voice went up a tone. “Lydia?” I opened my eyes. Blink. “You. Want. To. Know. What. I'm. Thinking.” Her smile was so wide it became garish, with teeth spilling from her lip. “Yes. Yes that’s exactly right, darling. Tell me what it is. I want to know.” She didn’t. She was lying. What she wanted was a daughter who would sit and help her with makeup. Whose hair she could braid and who would go for drinks with her at the Old Vincent. She wanted normal. She didn’t want my thoughts. I blinked six times. “I. Don't. Want. You. To. Know.


There are wolves fighting in my soul, one of white fur, which is now matted down with blue tears and bright red blood. One so large and mighty now so weak and small. She tries to fight them, keep them back, but they keep winning out each time. The black wolves of hate, fear, distrust and anger come at her in waves. She remembers a time when she was a lone wolf merely just watching the grey wolves until one came to her. He was gorgeous, and wonderful, so full of love and lust even through the Past’s misdeeds. She loved him, she could see a world with their own pack, but then one of the wolves of the grey pack became green, her fur growing thick with moss. Suddenly the pack of grey wolves began to darken their true colors coming forth, wolves of black and such a deep gray came forth. The white wolf still had her amazing beauty, but the fur of her lover still shone with his beautiful grey streaks but the black was beginning to fade in. she held onto him until he left her as the black fully consumed his coat. She wanted to run and hide away, but he did nothing wrong, so she stayed with the black pack, somehow grew closer to the moss-ridden wolf. She was already friends with the moss-ridden one who disliked the way the others acted towards the deep ginger male. She tried to tell the moss ridden one to stop that nothing is wrong. The moss ridden wolf never listened, so the white wolf just tried to nudge her to the right path. As time went on the white wolf realized she had become had become close friends with the moss ridden wolf who’s grey fur was so covered in moss, she was green like the oversized lizards of the marshes. So the white wolf walked a thin path taking hits from the black pack while holding the moss ridden wolf’s tears on the other. Now her fur was that of a purple hue, a mix of the red hate from the black pack and the blue tears of the moss ridden wolf. Along her journey the now purple tinted wolf met a beautiful blonde bear who walked with her only when both the black pack and the moss ridden wolf were gone. “He’s no good for you” she would say as she walked on her lumbering legs before going back to her own life in the forest beyond. This repeated for too long before one day the black laced ginger wolf snapped at the moss ridden wolf causing her to run only coming back to the purple wolf to say goodbye. The black pack laughed as the purple wolf left her path to go to her den alone. She foolishly had gotten attached to the moss ridden wolf just to be left behind like yesterday’s meal. The black pack’s fur had faded, but the darkness never ceased. That night the purple tinted wolf weep silently to herself in her den before a badger wandered her way in. “Who hurt you? Who must I hurt for you? I love you like one of my own and so who must I hurt” the badger asked, as she watched the purple tinted wolf wept before she fell asleep. The purple tinted wolf woke up to find that the moss ridden wolf had come back, but when she tried to talk to her returned friend it took a turn for the worse. The moss ridden wolf wanted nothing to do with her old purple tinted friend. She had used a raven to listen in while she was gone to find out the truth. The purple tinted wolf tried to be nice and show her she still had a friend in her. The moss ridden wolf just looked at her and just stared as she croaked out her desires, “I only want my to talk to the one I love, for no one may have him but me!”. Her fur soon became thick like that of a lizard as she stumbled towards the pack. The pack just watched her advance and they laughed, until the now lizard like wolf turned and ran. The purple tinted wolf tried to help but the lizard like wolf only wanted to talk about the ginger colored wolf. The purple tinted one had enough at this point and she snapped. “I have spent the last month trying to be your friend during this whole thing, and honestly, I don’t want to hear about the pack! I went with you to hunt and roam to get away from them but all you did was mutter and groan about the pack who you have caused to turn against you!” The lizard like wolf just stared before she answered in a low growl “I will get him back! No one will stop me not even YOU!” “FINE, you want to abandon one of the only people that cares about you? Go right ahead!” The purple tinted wolf shouted as she stormed away back to the pack who she now understood. The pack received her in open paws and even through it all the purple wolf still cares about the now lizard like wolf. She just can't be her friend, yet she still cares and so the lives of the pack and the lizard like wolf continued on. One day when the purple tinted wolf was passing a lake, she noticed she now had a black streak running the length of her light purple body.


Another in the 100 two-minute myths I'm writing here:  It was early July and the young people in Baie Verte were drinking so much, they had to post blurry pictures of themselves online, or their friends wouldn’t recognize them. The only person under 25 immune to the fever was Maxine Payne, who worked at the Legion where she moved behind the bar like she was acting out poems about water. Her hair cascaded down her back and broke over her hips as she walked away from Bill Downey, who sat at the corner of the bar, as far away from Maxine as he could get without leaving the place. Like all men over 30 on the Baie Verte Peninsula, due to zinc levels in the water, Bill suffered from venustraphobia, a rare disorder which left his nerves unable to bear the weight of beauty. A side effect of the affliction was being scared stiff in the company of single women. So, small capelin of fear teemed here and there just under his skin at the thought of the unthinkable – actually having a conversation with Maxine longer than a drink order – but he had no choice if he wanted the $25,000. That was what Viagra, a pill for men who suffered from erectile dysfunction, was offering as the prize for whoever came up with the best advertising campaign. His idea was to show a woman and man in a hotel room where, just as he starts to take off her sweater, she stops him, goes into her purse, as though looking for a condom, and pulls out a Viagra pill instead. The camera would then pan out to show a waterfall through the window with the words, *Take a Second Honeymoon in Viagra Falls.* Bill knew his idea depended on getting a woman for the ad who was so beautiful that men would have no choice but do what she said and he knew that the woman had to be Maxine Payne. To build up his nerve, he’d been coming to the legion for 18 straight nights, but even when he was playing pool with friends he still couldn’t find the balls he needed. But, the contest was closing and he could no longer avoid the conversation, so he’d been sitting at the bar for two hours pounding beer and dying in his seat. When she came back with his beer, words base jumped off his tongue and fell to their death on the bar top. In a liquid voice that came from a small spring and flowed over her tongue as she spoke, she told him his idea was so lame it needed a crutch. What men had always wanted, she explained, was both an easy way, as well as hard, and offered to meet him the next day to kick around some ideas. Within an hour of that meeting, Bill was so captivated by the breadth of her mind that he had forgotten she was beautiful, and the two laughed the afternoon away as they drew stick men and women on napkins in the corner coffee shop. Three weeks later an image of them being presented with a giant $25,000 check went viral. Six months after that a billboard appeared on the lip of town showing a couple, blurred in the background, behind a spilled bottle of Viagra pills on a hotel room night table. Over the image were the words, *One pill. One hour before,* and underneath, written in an unassuming font, *Viagra.


It's only been a few minutes, and already I'm feeling such terrible, terrible, guilt. I thought it through, planned everything out for weeks and took everything into consideration...or at least I thought I did. I guess I overlooked the consequences end of the deal. I didn't figure in how I would feel about actually going through with this. I didn't think of how I was going to get out of this mess, if and when I did go through with the plan. I tried to call my mum, but I couldnt speak when she picked up so I hung up abruptly. She's been trying to call me back, but I can't answer the phone. How would I even tell her about this? How can I tell anyone about it? If I call the police, it's game over for sure... I don't know if there is a defense I could come up with for myself that would sway judge and jurry to find me innocent. I'm not innocent.... If he would have just been a faithful boyfriend, I wouldn't be in this situation. The past two years having been nothing but lies, catching him with different one night lovers... Things of that sort. We met 3 years ago on Plenty Of Fish. Yeah, that was a low point in my life. Turning to a somewhat sketchy dating site to find someone that would make me feel important. I should have figured it wasn't going to last, but our first year together went so well! He showed me off to friends and family, said I was his girl, took me to movies, on camping trips, we even went to a couple theme parks that summer. We moved in together by the second year. That was when things started going south. The men, the women, the lying to me and making promises that it wouldnt happen again only to do it again the very next day. He would use money from my bank account to get gifts for the people he cheated on me with. Sometimes making me prepare breakfast for them in the morning, when I'd come home from working all night only to find some stranger in my house. This year I just decided enough was enough. He told me a month ago that he was going to change for good this time. I told him that if he didn't, then I'd get rid of him and carry on with my own life. He took that as breaking up, I meant it as killing him. Well, Vinny never did change and I've spent the last few weeks thinking of how I was going to handle the situation. I wore some rubber gloves and stabbed him 42 times in the chest. There is no cover for this. My intentions were to kill him and I did. I'm just sorry for what this is going to do to my mother. I did answer her call, by the way. I told her to call the police, and not ask why. I guess she listened, because I can hear the sirens in the distance. I won't fight it, when they get here. No sense in denying the truth, after all. So, for now, I'm just going to sit on my porch, knife still stuck in my late boyfriend's chest, and confess to it when they come for me.


The grey clouds began to close in over the small, desert California town of Manouri. They darkened the skies in a manner that soaked up the pouring light. The grey sky especially darkened that old, dingy abandoned house on Nabollon Street. Just on the end of a residential neighborhood, and bordering on the Deadlands; The region where the town ends and the desert truly begins. It is only populated by endless dirt, dead bushes, and tall trees that desperately cling to their lives in this dry environment. That old house stood still in the quiet winds of Manouri. Vacant for years, and not a soul dwelled within it for decades. That is, until it gained a new resident in that fateful February month. A broken window on the front of the non-home peered into the world outside, and with it was an odd man who stared from the inside. His face pure white with hair as orange as a tangerine, and long like a bouquet of freshly picked roses. His lips donned black lipstick, and each eye had three black dots drawn below them. He was a clown, and his name was Jiggles. An oddity from a far away place. Presumably chased out, or perhaps a failed entertainer? Something in his past drove him to living in the basement of that old, forgotten house by the Deadlands. Jiggles approached the door, with its hinges ready to give out at any moment. Thunder drummed outside, but he chose to ignore it. "Maybe... maybe I should venture out to see my new surroundings!" he muttered to himself. By the time the old clown made his decision, rain was pouring down, and Jiggles walked in stride with an umbrella in hand. The old umbrella was white, with a pattern of multicolored balloons that dazzled the withering parasol. While observing the sights of the neighborhood, he skipped merrily, ignoring the downpour. Finally, Jiggles slipped and tumbled, eventually falling into a nearby sewer entrance. He stood up with a disorienting pain in his head, and he raised his hand up to adjust his red nose. "Oh, now that was an awful decision!" The water had already carried the clown a slight distance from the entrance, and the disorienting feeling led Jiggles in a different direction. After about five minutes that felt like five hours, he came across an old storm drain which water from the neighboring street cascaded into. Jiggles couldn't fit through it due to his adult size, but he noticed that the grate in front of the drain could be pried with the right amount of force from the outside. Without much more thought, he thrust his arm through the drain, attempting to alert any nearby folks about his predicament. One person did hear the clown's cries. It was eleven year old Jake. With a particular fondness of the rain, he had left his home to splash and play in the puddled streets. Jake cautiously approached the drain. After all, when seeing an arm with a baggy, colorful sleeve emerging from the sewer, one can't be too careful. "Hello? Is there someone there?" the boy asked in a hushed tone. "Yes! There is someone there, and it's ME!" The arm retracted and a head arose. The white-faced, red-nosed, orange-haired minstrel startled Jake, taking him slightly aback at the sight of him. It was as if Jiggles reminded him of something... "Ah, thanks for comin' over here, kiddo! I'm gonna need your help!" Jiggles said. His voice sounded almost metallic against the moist grate, but that didn't distract from the gravelly sound that came from the clown's throat. He spoke like someone who smoked ten packs a day, but still had the energy to speak in a coherent and upbeat fashion! "This grate might be movable if you just reach your hand in and lift it up. Think you can do that, kid?" he said. Jake's eyes widened. Instantly he remembered what the clown in the sewer reminded him of; A film he had seen with his friend Bobby awhile back. This realization was enough for Jake to quickly bolt away from the sight. "Little brat..." Jiggles said, but at the same time he felt understanding of the boy's fear. Not everyone loves clowns as much as they used to. After about two hours, the old clown found his way out of that disgusting sewer. He walked back to that dingy house in his soaked costume. The floorboards creaked with each step from his oversized shoes which were now caked in sewage. His eyes were tired from all that time outside. He stumbled down to the basement where he was mainly living. There was an old, partly torn apart bed, and a withering end table at the bedside. On the table sat a doll. It was a clown doll, and it looked decades old. Jiggles began to sit on the bed to lie down, but quickly realized how dirty his suit was. "Hmm, I wonder if there's a shower in the desert!" he joked, with a light giggle. The next day, the boy who encountered Jiggles rode his bike to the local park. Jake was there to meet his best friend, Bobby. People frolicked and played in the park. Children, parents, and even dogs enjoyed themselves in a myriad of fun ways. Jake approached Bobby, still slightly shaken from the other day. "Dude, you're gonna think I'm crazy." Jake said. "I saw something in the sewer that scared the shit out of me." "Damn, what did you see?" Bobby replied. "CLOWN!!!" a voice bellowed from the park entrance before Jake could open his mouth. The two boys looked over only to see Spencer, a boy they recognized from school. "Exactly!" Jake said to Bobby. He waved Spencer over to the both of them. "What the hell happened, man?" Bobby said. Spencer attempted to catch his breath while recounting his story. He had walked to the local lake to see its peaceful, tranquil beauty. Little did he know, there was something alive in that lake. Not a fish, but a performer. A circus performer! A performer with a dirty suit that needed to be washed in the lake. While observing how pretty the tree-surrounded body of water was, the clown's head rose. Jiggles emerged with his portly, straight-standing form. It was slow, but also fast at the same time. Spencer had barely any time to think. After all, what could one think? Especially when a clown comes right out of a lake! Jiggles was fifteen-feet away from the boy. He opened his eyes and saw the child gazing at him. His bright orange hair appeared thin and frayed from getting wet, and the ancient paint on his face was cracked. "It's a nice day to float, isn't it?" Jiggles said, waving and giving Spencer a friendly smile. The boy screamed and ran like his life depended on it, straight to the local park. "Huh. Again? That's quite... peculiar." Jiggles remarked. After hearing Spencer's account of the incident, Jake and Bobby looked at each other. Jake, with a look of fear, and Bobby with confusion. "I saw the clown too!" Jake said. "You guys both saw a freaking clown?!" Bobby replied. "Ohhh holy shit guys, this is just like that movie!" Spencer huffed, still catching his breath. "Wait, so that means... we're gonna have to kill it?" Jake said. "If only we knew where it came from." Bobby wondered. Jiggles hiked back to the abandoned house. His polka-dotted costume dripped with lake water, but was slowly being dried by the cool winds. He reached the door of the dingy house. Before opening it, the clown pulled out a red balloon, blew it up, and tied it to a string to make himself feel better. The sound of the balloon alerted the attention of of 11 year old Jane, who happened to be taking a stroll on Nabollon street. "Hi there!" Jiggles happily said. She looked towards the house, only to see an orange-haired clown holding a red, drooped balloon, and smiling directly at her. "Oh, do you want this balloon?" he said, while pointing at it. Jane ran far away, yelling "HOLY SHIT!" as loud as she could. Her running took her to the safest place she knew. The park. Her panicked running and red hair blowing rapidly in the wind alerted Jake, Bobby, and Spencer, who had still been talking about the clown that they saw. The boys quickly rushed to the girl's aid, as they had recognized her from school. "Are you okay, Jane?" Spencer said. "It was the clown, wasn't it?" Jake said. Jane looked up, shocked and confused. "How... how did you... know about the clown?" The boys looked at each other. Their emotions ranged from perplexed, to scared out of their minds. "It went into that abandoned house by the Deadlands!" she proclaimed. "Now we know where to find it." Bobby said. He felt determined to put a stop to what he believed was a threat, but also felt just as fearful as the others. "We have to stop the clown. Does anyone know where we can get weapons?" Jake said. "I think my dad has some baseball bats or something. Let's hurry!" Bobby exclaimed. Later that day, the kids came straight to that old house on Nabollon Street. Jake was armed with a metal baseball bat, Bobby with a pipe, Jane with a tree branch, and Spencer with a pie. "Are we all clear on the plan?" Jake asked the rest of them. They are stared at him, likely having forgotten what to do. Jake groaned. "Spencer, you smash the pie in his face, then I'll get him in the back of his head. Bobby will hit the groin, and Jane hits him in the chest. We clear?" "Uhh... can I opt out? Please? PLEASE?" Spencer whimpered. "No way fraidy-cat! This thing probably kills kids, and we gotta stop that!" Bobby said. "Yeah, emphasis on 'probably', huh?" Jane replied. "It'll be just like in the movie!" Jake said. Bobby kicked in the door. The inside foyer was dilapidated, with creaking floors and rats scurrying on the floor. There was a near pin-drop silence filling the room. "It must be in the basement." Jake whispered. The kids nodded together and began to descend into the basement. It was illuminated by a burning lantern, and Jiggles stood in the corner, likely daydreaming. Upon hearing footsteps coming into the room, he turned out to see the children. "Oh.. hey kids! What are you doing do-" Jiggles said, before getting cut off by Spencer. The boy mustered up all his courage and rushed towards the clown with the pie in hand. The whipped cream exploded on Jiggles' face, and the other kids rushed in. Jiggles scrambled to wipe the pie from his face, and that's when Jake made his move. He struck the clown in the back of his head with the metal bat, and Bobby whacked the groin with a rusty pipe. "Kill it before it kills you!" Jake screamed. Jiggles attempted to compose himself and figure out what was going on. "What the fu-" he was cut off by Jane hitting him in the chest with her tree branch. Jiggles fell to the floor and vomited through the pie on his face. The realization hit. He had also seen something similar to this in a movie. "Do you little urchins think I'm..." Before he could finish his sentence, the children realized their stupid mistake. Jane approached Jiggles and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at first. "I am so, so, SO sorry! I kinda acted on impulse." "I'm really sorry too..." Jake said, dropping his bat. The other two boys also set their weapons down. "Okay..." Jiggles began to speak, dusting off his costume. "Just because you saw something in a movie, that doesn't mean it's true!" "Yeah, but everything was so similar!" Bobby argued. "Fiction mimics real life, kiddo. Truth is, reality tends to be more interesting." Jiggles explained. "I've seen some really intriguing stuff in my life!" "You're not mad, are you?" Spencer skittishly asked. "Surprisingly no." Jiggles said. "Sure, I just got the shit beaten out of me by kids, but at least I can say that it's a different kind of housewarming!" The kids laughed at the clown. Suddenly he wasn't so scary now that they were getting to know him. "It's like what I always say. Bad experiences become good stories!" he said. "You know, you should perform for the people at the park!" Jane said. "That's not a bad idea, kiddo!" Jiggles exclaimed. The old clown wiped the pie from his face and exited the basement with his new friends to make way for the town park.


The House was bigger than my own, by far. I knew at once I didn’t like it, even from the back seat of my dad’s tiny car. I grimaced at its high chimneys and wild garden. There was something deeply foreboding about it, something that my father was either refusing to see or hadn’t noticed. At this moment he was fiddling around with something in the glove compartment. After a moment of silence, he turned in his seat to face me. “Well? What do you think?” I turned back to The House, noticing that the large, front door had a brass knocker in the shape of a dragons head. “I don’t like it,” I replied, simply. “I knew you would say that, but you’ll learn to love it.” He couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice. “It’ll be…easier. There’ll be lots of other kids, just like you.” *Just like me? Hardly.* I twisted a strand of my curly, brown hair around my fingers. “It’s too big,” was all I could think of. My father laughed softly. “Yes, your mother thought so too. But you’ll get used to it, she knows that deep down.” We fell into an awkward silence. I knew he, like me, was thinking of the horrible incident this morning, when my mother had grabbed me just as I was heading out the door, and screamed that she didn’t want me to go anymore, she didn’t want the family to split up at a time like this. I gazed back out of the window, watching two younger girls come skipping round the corner. When they got closer to The House they sped up considerably, breaking into a run and only stopping when they reached the opposite corner. “This place is too conspicuous,” I complained. “It stands out a mile.” “Mm-hm?” He’d gone back to fiddling in the glove compartment. I tutted loudly and he looked up again. “Here. From your mother.” He passed me a small package, containing several sheets of fancy writing paper and three different coloured pens. “I think she wants you to write to her,” he said with a smile. “She obviously doesn’t trust the phone lines.” I smiled lightly, trying to look grateful but not really feeling it. “Well come on,” he opened his car door and prepared to exit. “Let’s get it over with.” *Easy for you to say*. I reluctantly followed lead, making as much a fuss as I could. My father got my cases from the boot, promising to bring the rest of my stuff over the next few days. “We don’t want to make it too obvious you’re going away for long,” he’d explained. The tall, iron gates that locked out trespassers from the grounds were ajar. A bronze plaque on the gate read: **The House.** **Miss Goldie.** I rolled my eyes. *The House? Such an original name.* “Do you want me to come in with you? Or…” he had paused in the middle of the path. “I think I’d rather go in myself, then I won’t feel worse about leaving,” I decided. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings but couldn’t think of any other way to put it. He seemed to understand though. He passed me my cases and gave me an awkward hug, negotiating around the cases in my hands. “Good luck,” he said, “and…and I’ll see you soon. Ok?” I nodded, not really believing in what he was saying. He stood for one more moment then gave me one last hug and left. I waited until the drone of the car engine faded before I turned to the door. I had to put down my cases, to reach up and use the dragons head. I waited a couple of minutes before someone came to the door. It opened a millimetre wide and a suspicious eye peered out from inside. “Who’s that?” said the person belonging to the eye. “It’s Caree. Caree Simmis.” The door slammed shut then was opened wide again by a large, smiling woman. She had wild, red hair and a friendly, ’mother-goose’ kind of face. She pulled me, swiftly, inside, closing the door carefully behind her. “Welcome, welcome,” she muttered, leading me to a large sitting room. It’s decor was the exact opposite of the outside appearance. It reminded me of a grandmothers house, not my own grandmothers but someone’s. She sat me down on a comfy, chintz armchair. “Tea, water, juice? I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee, no one likes it here.” “I’m ok thanks.” “Was your journey alright? You found the place ok?” “Yeah it was fine.” “I was so worried that you where turning up during the day, usually they come at night. It’s more discreet.” I felt foolish at that. It hadn’t occurred to me that turning up at night was an option. I tugged at my suitcase to distract me from my embarrassment. “Oh, your cases,” said the woman, noticing the fidgeting. “I’ll get Michelle to take them up to your room. We’ve had to put you on the top floor I’m afraid. The bottom’s full, due to popular demand, you see.” She stood and called upstairs. A moment later, a tall, gangly teenager appeared at the door. She too had red hair, that was obviously untamed. Unlike the woman though, she had hers lay loose around her shoulders. She was really quite pretty. “Could you take Caree’s cases up to her room please? And warn the rabble that dinner will be on the table in a wee while. Oh,” she turned back to me, “I’m Miss Goldie, but some of the kids like to call me Auntie Goldie. I don’t mind it if you do.” I nodded, adamant that I would avoid calling this woman ’auntie’ at all costs. The tall girl had lifted my cases and had now turned to Miss Goldie. “Shall I take her up with me?” “Why not? It would certainly save me from climbing all those stairs,” she stood and beckoned that I follow. “You can go up to your room and get settled just now. I’ll introduce you properly at dinner.” I forced a smile and followed the tall girl out of the room and up the tall flight of stairs. “I’m Michelle by the way,” she said. “Caree,” I replied, hating my name. “Yeah, I know. You wouldn’t believe the fuss Miss Goldie’s been making over you. I’ve heard nothing but your name for two weeks.” I blushed. “Don’t think you’re anything special, though,” she laughed. “She makes that much fuss over all the new kids. Saying that, you’re not really a kid are you? You must be, what? Fourteen? Fifteen?” “I’m sixteen, seventeen in January.” “I’m eighteen. Just turned it last month.” “Right.” We continued to climb the stairs. On the third floor, we passed a green door that was slightly ajar. A small face was peering through the crack, watching us pass with very little discretion. On noticing this too, Michelle kicked the door closed with her foot causing the person on the other side to cry out in outrage. “Oh shurrup!” Michelle snapped, continuing on the ascent. “Shouldn’t be spying any way!” “Wasn’t spying!” came the angry voice of a small, freckled, slightly tanned boy, with very short, blonde hair and a strong glare; he had stepped outside of his room by this point. “You were too! Now go do something useful! Go help Auntie Goldie with the dinner, will you!” The small boy glowered at her then glanced at me. His eyes grew wider. “Who’s that?” he asked, openly pointing at myself. “New girl,” Michelle called from the landing, “And it’s rude to point!” I forced a smile at the boy, who continued to stare, then hurried after Michelle. She had already reached the top floor, and was waiting at the brown door on the right hand side. There were only two rooms on this floor, mine and whoever occupied the second on the left hand side. That door was painted pitch black. “That’s Colin’s room,” Michelle said, watching me. “But you can meet him later, come on!” She pushed open my door and I entered my new bedroom. It was very small, much smaller than my old room. There was a dingy bed, pushed up against the wall under the window. A small wardrobe stood against the right wall and there was a writing desk against the left. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and Michelle flipped the switch, casting a dull, orangey light into the dusty room. The floorboards lay bare and the old wallpaper was peeling at places. There were no curtains on the window. Michelle dumped my suitcases on the dusty floor and strode to the bed, flinging herself onto the creaky mattress and surveying the room for herself. “So? What do you think?” I let my eyes sweep over the dull features of my tiny room. I shrugged. “It’s ok.” “Ok?” “Well yeah…I mean, it’s great.” Michelle eyed me suspiciously before exhaling. “Look, I know this place isn’t exactly luxury living, but Miss Goldie tries her best, you know? You can do up the room how you like it. Most of the rest of them already have. And you can bring in furniture from home and stuff. You’ll be fine. They all are, when they get settled.” She gave me a reassuring smile which I did not return. I was feeling lousy at her mention of ’stuff from home’. I may have lived in quite a small house, but my room was much more welcoming than this. However, I knew better than to begrudge Miss Goldie’s help so I ran a hand across the desk and nodded. “This is pretty cool. I’ve always wanted someplace I can write.” “Great.” Michelle rose form the bed and crossed back to the doorway. She stood just inside it, leaning against the frame, her arms crossed. And there she stood, watching my every move as I unpacked all my meagre belongings. Because of the spontaneous decision to move to The House, I had only been able to pack essentials, with the promise that my parents would bring more later in the week. I hung my clothes in the wardrobe, which still looked pathetically bare. I then placed my photo’s and writing presents from my mother on the writing desk. Then, I moved onto my books and hygienic products ect. Michelle then found it apt to quiz me on all my possessions. “Where did you get this?” she asked, holding up a seashell alarm clock that I had just placed on the writing desk. “It was my grandmothers. I took it from her house when she died.” “Why?” I frowned, feeling annoyed. “Because I wanted it. Something to remember her by, I guess.” Michelle replaced the item without further comment. “And what about this?” She examined the front cover of one of the first books I had unpacked and thrown, unceremoniously, into a drawer of the desk. “It’s a book,” I replied. “I can see that! But why Narnia? Isn’t that, like, a little kiddie book?” “I don’t know. I like it anyway.” Michelle raised her eyebrows then threw the book back into the drawer. I finished unpacking the last suitcase and stowed it, on top of the others, at the bottom of the wardrobe. Michelle had moved away from the door frame and was gazing at each of my photos. “Is this you?” she asked with a smile, bending to look at a particularly embarrassing photo of myself with my grandparents. “Yep, that’s me. Stupid picture, I know but…” I let my voice trail away. I had always hated that my mother framed the photo of naked, baby me with my grandparents all laughing in the background as I pulled my nappy onto my head and grinned into the camera. But when I was packing to leave it felt strange to leave it behind. “Why do you have this picture if you find it stupid?” Michelle asked, picking up a different one. “It’s the only photo I have of my grandparents.” “Are they all dead?” I nodded, realising that Michelle’s sharpness and no-nonsense tones were going to really irritate me during my stay. I yawned, pointedly, hoping it would be enough to get her to leave. “Can I ask,” she began moving towards the door again, “what do you have?” I opened my mouth to reply but couldn’t form the words. I knew exactly what she was referring to, but still found it an awkward subject all the same. “Gene Z3,” I joked, wondering if it would be enough. Not so. Michelle rolled her eyes and glared at me. “Yeah but…what’s wrong with you?” I glared back at her. I was definitely not becoming friends with this girl. I had half a mind to ask her to leave, but just answering would be as equally affective. “Sight,” I replied. “I’m a Seer…or at least in that category.” “So…you can see the future and…” “Not…really. I can see the present…things that are happening just now. And I can’t really turn it on and off. It comes randomly, you know? Like a sneeze or-” I stopped talking abruptly, sensing that she had already lost interest. Her eyebrows had gotten narrower and narrower as I had spoke. “So, what’s your…thing?” I asked, hoping to make her feel as uncomfortable as I was. As it was, she just shrugged and examined the thumbnail on her right hand. “I don’t have one. No one in my family does.” “Oh…” I tried to refrain from further questioning but doubted she would have done the same. “No one does? Then how come you-” “Miss Goldie’s my aunt. I came to help her at The House cause I thought it’s be easier than a summer job. I dropped out of school last year and became a full time worker. Guess I’ve gotten attached to this place.” I nodded, then feeling that I may as well keep going, “And Miss Goldie…she isn’t…?” “I just said no one in my family has the Gene, didn’t I?” I nodded again and a tense silence unfolded. I was glad that Michelle broke it. “Well, I’d better get going. Miss Goldie’ll need help with the dinner. It should be ready pretty soon so I’ll let you know. You share a bathroom with the third floor gang…located on the third floor. It’s the bright blue door.” and with that she was gone, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t seem too angry but I could tell I’d touched a nerve. Well so what? I thought. Serves her right for snooping in my business. As I turned back to the room I felt an overwhelming surge of loneliness sweep over me. My eyes began to water and an all too familiar lump rose in my throat. Before I could stop it, tears were streaming from my eyes blurring my vision and blocking my nose. I simply stood there, ashamed of this sudden well of emotion and not sure that I should stop it. Taking deep breaths, I furiously wiped the tears from my eyes, strode to my new writing desk and flung myself into the chair. It was only when I sat down that I noticed the tiny, square mirror, propped up against the wall behind the desk. I pulled the mirror towards me, wiped off the dust using my sleeve and examined my reflection. The skin around my brown eyes had gone red with the tears, even more visible on my pale skin. I sighed, heavily, and tried to relax myself. I didn’t want to have to meet the rest of the house looking like this. I turned my attention to my hair, which I had left loose and sighed again. It had been straight this morning but my aggravation seemed to have made it frizz slightly. It was also tangled now, as easily as it happened and curly at the sides. There was no point trying to fix it. I pulled it up into a loose ponytail, with a bauble from around my wrist and prepared to check it in the mirror. I didn’t have time to even move my hand though, when a scream from downstairs made me almost fall out of my chair. “DINNER YOU LOT! HURRY IT UP!” I recognised Michelle’s voice and felt my stomach congeal with nerves. I waited until the clatter of footsteps on the stairs below me faded away, then I rose from the chair and prepared myself to meet the rest of the freaks.


Reality is forever truly unknown, as we are all stuck with not a concrete and guaranteed knowledge of it, but rather out subjective and ever changing view of it. Sensory deprivation is a way to unleash the mind and it’s creativity. To not feel anything whatsoever will force the mind to hallucinate sensation at whim of thought. These perceptions are no different than any other, being equally as valid an account of reality as the average walk in the park. There was a life with a family. A woman and two children. She was to me what I loved most and without question or yield. The children grew intelligent and successful. They lived with us until they were in their thirties, always aiding and never ungrateful. The woman and I lived into old age with a wonderfully wholesome life to recount whenever faced with the question of how many regrets we had. There was a life without a family. It was the life of a thief. Yet, the thief was never alone, never without his accomplice. We were bound forever by a codependency, friendly affection, and shared experience were. There was never a day that we truly relaxed but never a day that we didn’t exist on our own rules and decisions. The accomplice eventually met his fate. His end was not violent. It was not disgraceful. It was not brought from the evil we had committed. It was a simple illness. A cancer that no amount of money, legitimate or otherwise, could prevent the path of. I was racked with a horrible grief as I mourned for the only friend I would ever have of such caliber. There was a life of war. I was but another soldier traveling to a land I’ve never been to to fight people I’ve never met to claim ownership of said land from people I’ve never met for people I’ve never met. I never minded the redundancy of it all, needlessly proud as I was for my country. Fighting came and I survived. Then I survived again, and again. Everyone I came to know would eventually fall but I always survived. My country praised me and the men that met death by my side. Though I was haunted by the myriad of comrades I happened to outlast, I was truly prideful given the hells I climbed through and lived to tell the tales of. Time is so subjective. I haven’t the faintest idea how much time is passing or how quickly or slowly I may be experiencing it. All I have now are these memories. All I have are these realities. I’m unsure which is real but at this point I’ve imagined dozens.


Two figures made a frantic dash from the doorway of a bombed-out tenement and, hunkering down, ran for their lives for a gap in the low cemetery wall across the street. ‘Halt! Halt you filthy swine! I said H-A-L-T!!’, the angry shouts of their pursuers, hot on their heels, rang out behind them. They kept running. In the murk of smoke and masonry dust suspended in the air, the blazing row of buildings behind them illuminated this night of shear Hell on earth in an eerie glow. The men following them upped the ante. ‘One more step and we’ll shoot. You’ve been warned!’ The running men reached their goal and heaved themselves through the hole as the angry whine of machine-gun rounds whizzed by, centimetres above their heads. The first man through, the older of the two, scrambled for cover behind the wall, dragging the younger one down with him. ‘Scheisse that was close! You alright my boy?’ ‘J-j-ja, I t-t-think s-s-so.’ He strained to stop his teeth from chattering. ‘You’re not hit?’ ‘N-n-n-no, I'm, I’m alright.’ ‘OK, lets move... Now!’, the older man growled in a hoarse whisper and pulled his companion into the murky graveyard with him as a salvo of howitzer rounds peppered the street. Their pursuers, a couple of military policemen colloquially called “chain-dogs”, were half-way across the street when the murderous rain of shells started falling. Now more concerned for their safety than catching their quarry, they too made a frantic dash for the gap in the cemetery wall amidst the screaming hail of red-hot shrapnel. The first man started to dive through the gap just as a shell detonated behind him. The force of the blast propelled him all the way through and he landed on his back, gasping for breath and splattered with pieces of smoking flesh, jagged uniform tatters and thick sticky gobs of his partner’s blood. The poor bastard was a split-second too late to save himself. Looking in wide-eyed horror at the scraps of flesh sticking to him and scraping a length of still warm intestine from his face, he vomited seeing his partner’s steel helmet land at his feet. The head, secured to it by the strap, trailed a delicate wisp of smoke. Scurrying for cover, he shit himself as three more rounds struck on the other side of the thick wall in rapid succession, smearing the remnants of his partner across the shrapnel-pitted brickwork. He’d never seen front-line action before now, before the bomb-ravaged nightmare moonscape of Berlin became the front itself. Front-line action was not what he’d had in mind when he volunteered to serve the Führer and Fatherland five and a half years previously. He’d expressly joined the military police in order to avoid the chaos and horrors of the front. He had spent the war years working hard to preserve order amidst the mounting bedlam in the capital city, brought about by the escalating frequency and severity of the aerial bombing and the ever-increasing inability of the city administration to deal with the aftermath of the raids. Until now, now that the Russians had arrived, there had always been days or at least hours in between the raids during which he was able to assert his authority. He revelled in the power he wielded in these chaotic times, doggedly arresting the many deserters, stragglers and looters that abounded, often shooting them on the spot. He gruffly marshalled shocked civilians to maintain order and form bucket-brigades to quench the raging fires that had become a daily fact of life. Though the bombed-out residents needed no prodding from the likes of him to try and save what little remained of their world. There was no respite, no escaping the front now, as there had been for him when he opted to join the military police in lieu of joining the millions of his countrymen being ground into the mud of the sempiternal Russian steppes. The artillery barrage stopped as suddenly as it had started, replaced now by a ringing in his ears, the muffled crash of large chunks of masonry hurtling into the street and the roar of the fire burning insanely out of control in the bombed-out hulks of the tenements across from the cemetery. Then he heard another faint sound beneath the ringing in his ears. The ringing began to subside and the other sound got louder and louder, until he realized it came from his chattering teeth. He clenched his jaws together in an effort to put an end to their machine-gun movement, but the spasm of his jaw muscles proved stronger than his will. Jamming the sleeve of his tunic in his mouth he bit down hard, filling his mouth with a thick section of slippery intestine that had so recently been part of his partner and vomited uncontrollably again. The retching at least put an end to his teeth chattering. When he was finally able to stop gagging he remembered his training and began breathing deeply while counting slowly to a hundred to give his body and mind something on which to focus, other than the nerve-shattering shock of the shelling. It took him until eighty-seven to calm down enough to be able to examine his own body for wounds amidst the gore from his dead partner that covered it. Other than a few superficial shrapnel cuts to his skin beneath the rends in his tunic, he appeared to be unharmed. As his heartbeat slowed his thoughts returned to the two deserters they were chasing when the artillery-salvo struck. He raised himself up on his elbow and peered cautiously around the edge of the gap in the wall to check whether a troop of Ivans was creeping up the street. Seeing nothing moving, he removed his helmet to listen for the sounds of foot-falls or tank-treads. He heard neither but knew it was only a matter of time before the shock-troops appeared on the scene. Putting his helmet back on he leaned against the wall to consider his next move. ‘Well my boy, you're sure in the shit now,’ he said to himself. The two fugitives they'd been pursuing had gotten up and run further into the cemetery in a crouch when the shelling had started, desperately seeking a place to hide. They had come upon a row of thirty or forty corpses neatly laid-out on the ground where they had been deposited and were waiting for a work-squad of POW’s to dig a communal grave in which to bury them. There were several shovels scattered among the bodies where the work-squad must've had dropped them in a panic and run of to find shelter as a carpet of bombs began creeping along the street next to the cemetery. Seeing the bodies and glancing back over his shoulder as the first Feldgendarm threw himself through the same hole in the wall by which they had entered, the older man dove for the ground, grabbing the younger man’s arm and pulling him down beside him among the dead. ‘Lay still. Don’t make a sound’, he whispered harshly to his companion who was shaking like a leaf. ‘Don’t move a muscle, no matter what happens next’. But the younger man couldn’t stop his shaking. ‘Calm down my boy, you’ve got to calm down. Our lives depend on it’. The young man rammed his knuckles into his mouth and bit down hard, burying his face in the soft fragrant earth. Pain supplanted the fear somewhat and he managed to gradually stop shaking. Looking around, the older man saw the body of an SS officer lying next to the younger man and smiled, thinking, ‘death will find you bastards wherever you are’. He put his mouth close to his companion’s ear and whispered, ‘stay here, I’ll be right over there to the left, next to that woman and those two little kids. And remember, not a movement or a sound. We’ve made it this far, and we’ll make it all the way.’ The young man, his hand still jammed in his mouth and eyes tightly closed, nodded his head. The older man crawled over the bodies next to him and stretched himself out beside the woman, the bodies of the two small children between them. His hand crept up past his head and felt around until it touched the smooth wooden handle of a shovel. He wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it closer and waited for what would come next. The surviving Feldgendarm roused himself and stood up cautiously, keeping his back pressed to the wall. He peered into the cemetery through the haze of smoke and dust for a sign of movement, but could make out nothing. Looking out through the hole in the wall to his left again, and seeing no movement in the street beyond, he started to creep among the gravestones with his MG at the ready. ‘Show yourselves you cowards, I know you're in here. You won’t get away from me. I spend my days catching traitors to Volk und Vaterland like you two. May as well make it easy on yourselves and come out with your hands up.’ The only sound greeting him in reply was the crash of a building wall weakened by the raging fire in the street behind him. He continued walking slowly, cautiously, peering into the acrid haze that hung in the air like a stinking fog until he came upon the row of corpses laid out for burial. ‘Maybe you are the lucky ones,’ he thought, ‘for you its over and you will not have to try and survive the horror that is sure to come now that Ivan is here.’ He knew the tricks of deserters only too well, knew how they hid among the huddled groups of refugees that had been streaming into the city for months, knew they slipped in among the masses of dead that seemed to be laying about everywhere since the random shelling had started a week ago, on The Führer’s birthday. Straightening-up, he walked down the neatly laid-out row, studying each body closely to see if he could recognize the two deserters among them. Passing the frozen form of the younger man, he continued on for another few paces and then a smile slowly spread across his face. On the ground in front of him was one of the bastards, he recognized him by his finely-tailored Luftwaffe officer’s uniform. He let out a low snicker seeing the man stretched-out beside a woman’s body, two small children looking as if they were sleeping between them. ‘So, there you are at last, you filthy pig. May as well get up, or would you prefer I shoot you were you lay like the dog you are?’ His face buried in the dirt, the man held his breath and lay motionless. ‘Get up you traitor, get up or I will shoot you where you are. Come on, get up. The Ivans will be here soon enough and then they’ll shoot you anyways. Unless they ship you off to Siberia along with the rest of the traitors who wouldn’t defend the Vaterlandt to the death. Don't you at least want the honour of dying from a German bullet instead of a Russian one?’ As the Feldgendarm stood over the man, the younger one cautiously and ever so slowly reached over next to him, to the body of the SS officer and felt around for the dead man’s holster. His hand struck pay-dirt and he carefully and ever so slowly lifted the flap and withdrew the Walther P38 it held, hoping to dear God it was loaded. ‘Alright you swine, have it your way,’ the Feldgendarm sneered, ‘if you prefer to die like a dog in the dirt, who am I to deny your last request?’ The man came up at him suddenly, swinging the shovel he held. The Feldgendarm took two quick steps back saying, ‘you think I am such an easy mark you fool?’, and squeezed the trigger of his MG. But the MG jammed and the two men stood looking into each other’s eyes, the hatred hanging suspended in the air between them. The Feldgendarm let the MG fall. As he pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt and his hand came up to point it at the man’s head, a shot rang out behind him. His eyes suddenly bulged out and his mouth fell open. ‘What….. was.…?’, he uttered in confusion and then coughed, gagging on the blood that filled his throat and spewed from his lips. He looked into the man’s eyes one final time and then his eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed to the ground. The man standing couldn’t believe he was still alive. As the shock subsided, he saw his companion standing three metres away with a smoking pistol in his hand and, even though he was sure there was no God, mumbled thanks to Him, just in case. ‘I've never killed anyone before,’ the young man muttered, ‘never.’ His voice choked with emotion, the older man said, ‘A second ago I thanked God, but that was a mistake. It’s you I need to thank, you saved my life.’ ‘I had to shoot him Horst, I had to.’ ‘I didn’t think you had it in you my boy. But don't let it bother you, this one had it coming. Lets get out of here now, I think I hear tanks coming up the street.’ The two men started toward the gates at the far end of the cemetery, but Horst stopped suddenly and said, ‘wait here a moment, there's something I have to do first.’ He walked over to the body of the Feldgendarm, stopped and urinated on him. When he was finished, he walked back to where his companion stood waiting. ‘Let’s find some civilian clothes and change out of these uniforms Herbert. This shit will all be over soon and there's no way I'm going to die in some lead-mine in Siberia. And neither are you my boy, not after all we’ve been through.’ **\~\~\~** Footnote: Horst was my father. He made it through the Hell of war, including the Russian Front and was saved by British captivity in the aftermath of D-Day, eventually returning to his hometown of Berlin in 1946 where he met and married my mother. Herbert was my mother’s first husband. For most of the war, he received deferments from military service as he was one of the few auto mechanics still alive that were experienced in repairing and maintaining the big Mercedes and Maybach limousines, the favoured means of personal transport of the Nazi big-wigs. He was eventually drafted into front-line service in the final months of the war, serving for a short time on the rapidly approaching east front. There he was felled by a piece of shrapnel, but survived and evacuated back to Berlin. The shrapnel was lodged against his heart and surgery was deemed too risky in his weakened condition. The surgeons kept the wound to his back open, banking on it working itself out on its’ own. He died in the Charité Hospital of septicemia early in 1946. He and my father met only in this story that I wrote in honour of them, never in real life. They were good men and I bow to them.


Patrick tried to stop smoking five times in his life. None worked, of course, because all sad people love some ciggies and, obviously, they are addictive, and also delicious and comforting as fuck, so Patrick couldn’t help but smoke two packs a day. Today, he said to himself, he would stop it once and for all. His antidepressant was working and his constant sadness was under control, even though he could not cum anymore and was being described as looking like an “emotional zombie”, a situation which made him coin an iconic phrase: “I had more fun in hell”. Noneless, he was sure this time he would not put a single cigarette in his mouth. The first method he tried was going out with his folks to smoke some weed instead. George and Mark, his best friends, were huge stoners and knew a guy in the neighbourhood who sold the best weed in the American continent, as a whole. On a side note, Patrick had never tried weed – and never wanted to, since he had an anxiety disorder which made him feel scared of everything and everyone. George and Mark were his best and only friends, the ones who he felt he could trust and who also understood what he was going through, you know, with mental illness and stuff. So George and Mark took Patrick to a penthouse in a random guy’s house, and there they were, rolling fat joints of marijuana. Turns out Patrick knew nothing about weed culture and how those gatherings worked, so he just waited while George, Mark and the random guy passed the joint. When the joint finally lied in Patrick’s hands, he kinda had an anxiety attack. His stomach was cold, full of butterflies, and his chest was achy as fuck. But then he thought to himself: What’s the worst thing that could happen? And nothing came to his mind. So he just put the thing in his mouth and inhaled it the way weed newbies do, and it didn’t take long until he had the worst panic attack of his life. It was a rough night. Patrick hallucinated, because even though few people are aware of this, weed is a hallocinogen. He had visions of demons and remembered things about his childhood he never knew happened. He shit his pants. He dehydrated and had cotton mouth. He thought he would die. But, therefore, he didn’t, but the next thing he knew was that he had Depersonalization Disorder from that traumatic bad, bad trip. So one day, at home, he grabbed a cigarette and thought about smoking it, but, afraid that it would worse that dream-like state he was living in, he did not. So he went to the doctor and was prescribed more antidepressants to try to snap out of the derealization and also asked if he could take some magic pill to stop the withdrawn symptoms. And, for Patrick’s delight, he was prescribed Bupropion, an antidepressant with the power of being able to quit smoking without suffering. “I already suffered enough”, he thought to himself. The first night Patrick layed in his bed after taking Bupropion, he took a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he had the worst nightmare he could have had: He dreamed he was being chased by gigantic cigarette-shaped humanoids who were trying to eat his brain. When he woke up, he couldn’t move and couldn’t scream – Which would be useless, since Patrick lived alone. This condition, as he would learn, was known as Sleep Paralysis and was a side effect of Bupropion. So Patrick stopped the Bupropion and decided the only way he could quit smoking without it being too risky for his fragile mental health was an online chat. He grabbed his laptop and browsed to the website where he would find his cure. A lady called Beth was designated to support him, and she was very, very kind. He started typing words about his withdrawal symptoms, but before he could predict, there he was, playing the role of the lonely guy with almost no friends and still a virgin at twenty-one. Beth tried to warn him that his personal problems were not to be discussed on online “quit-smoking” chats, but that did not stop Patrick from trying to form a bond with her, whom he already considered a “friendaphist” – An adjective he liked to use to describe friends who are very comprehensive and sweet. The days went by, and Patrick couldn’t help but imagine what Beth looked like. Maybe he was in love with her, who knows. He kept browsing the online chat in the hope that Beth would be the one to assist him, but the shuffle mode that designated the person who would chat with him was definitely not on his side. One day, he stopped trying to communicate with Beth. It was an impossible romance, just like the movies – But that didn’t mean that he stopped thinking about her. He even found a therapist, an old man who was the opposite of Beth, to try to deal with his obsession with the online chat lady. Three months of therapy went by and Patrick was dissociated, having Bupropion withdrawal and biting his nails over a platonic love – And still wanted to smoke ciggies. Of course by now the nicotine withdrawal symptoms were gone, but that also meant an immense, painful hole on his heart that could only be solved by a piece of burning tobacco. So there he was. His depression worse than ever, his loneliness hurting his feelings. There must be a way to replace the nicotine missing in my psyche, he kept thinking. So he called George and asked for help. “Why didn’t you try the chewing gum?”, asked George. Of course. How dumb he was. There is always nicotine replacement therapy to save the day. Patrick went to the drug store on a Sunday morning, and ordered two boxes of nicotine gum. He went home and chewed two of those at the same time, both containing four miligrams of nicotine – He was chewing eight miligrams. Soon enough, Patrick discovered he had regressed: He was addicted to nicotine once again, and the gum only made him miss the taste of a cigarette even more. Also, the more gum he chewed, the more nauseous he got, plus a terrible headache due to nicotine superdosing. Turns out Patrick was one of those people who simply were not made to stop smoking. When he realized that, he bought three packs of king size ciggies and smoked all of them in one afternoon. Yeah. Sometimes we need to stick to what makes us feel good, because what else is gonna save our lives, even if it also kills you.


We sat there, in the rain. I, on one table, her on another. The relentless onslaught, defeated by cloth and dreams, drained out onto the floor around us. The music, faint lulls of jazzy symphonies, filled the area. Neither of us wore rain coats. We sat, protected by the umbrellas, as though it were any other summer eve. “The weather’s not so good today”, I say, as if striking up a forgotten conversation. “No,” she says, before adding in an ethereal tone, “I’d say you’re right.”. She smiles, and then takes a sip of her coffee. A darkened, swirling mess, the only source of heat. “News said some terrible things.”, I say, taking a sip of my own coffee. “About?” she asks, off-handedly. “About you, about me. About… the rain.” I gesture nowhere in particular. “Terrible things are always happening around us. Would you say we make it terrible? Or is terrible destined to make itself terrible?” She sips again. “I’m not sure. But we don’t help, do we?” I take another sip. “We do. Not in the way others may like. Or understand.” She says with a smile. I grin. “The silver lining, I suppose. But it is our duty none the less.” I sip again. The warmth keeping my senses sharp. “We were there at the first. We will be there at the last. I just wished for… more” She sips. “More never stops at enough. It’s why we were there first.” I hold the drink in my hands. “Quite. And now, here we are. The last? Or a new first? Is that even our’s to know?” She sips again. “Well, that’s the fun of it! What happens next?” I sip again. “How long do we get to sit here like this?” she asks after a sip. “Until the rain stops, or the coffee runs cold. Whichever comes first. And that rain ain’t stopping.” I sip. “A shame. I liked it here. Even in the rain. But eventually I suppose we have to leave.” She sighs. Then sips. “But the coffee was worth the time. What little we have. An infinity and the end of eternity.” I take in the aroma of the coffee, and the feel in my hands. “So precious a thing, time. A gift that can never be ungiven. A moment that exists in the memory of forever.” She sips again before adding, “I count eight. You?” “I do. But that’s eight more that I never thought I’d get. And I must say, we didn’t waste them.” I lift my mug to hers in a toast. I take one more sip. “If this is the last time,” she says, after a few moments pause, “let us find this place again. If it is not. Let us be cursed with its memory.” She sips again, puts the mug down, gets up and walks off into the pouring rain. “Until next we meet” I say. A few moments later, I am truly alone. No one I wanted to see was there anymore. I sat there, in the rain, and after a few moments, took one more sip. “May we be cursed with its memory.” I say, as I take my final sip. I place the mug down, get up and walk out into the pouring rain.


**The Monster of Loksdale:** Rain danced on the canopy overhead. The worn path below was splotched with sloppy mud and slick rocks. Birds did not chirp, nor did a tree crackle in the gusts. Something evil abound. A beast. It wasn’t strong, but it wasn’t a swift kill either. This type of beast required skill to take down. No ordinary swordsman, bow-for-hire, or regiment from Ranae’s finest could simply strike at its heart and trade in its head in for coin and glory. It was more complicated than that. The people of Loksdale needed professional help. They needed me. They needed a templar\*. Though, given the circumstances, a beast like this would be simple prey for patient hunters or swarms of footmen *if* they weren’t so silent, so deadly. They were lanky, blue-skinned humanoids bearing jagged teeth, razors for claws, and beating white eyes that did not function. But even if they couldn’t see with their eyes, their heightened senses dulled the fact. They are called: ‘caecorum’\*. Nasty creatures, them. The best way to counter a caecorum was to ignore it. They would, in return, do the same. Not this time, however. This one made a habit out of snatching people, children mostly, from local settlements as a source of food. It needed to die. Blade’s length hidden behind my robe, hand on its hilt, I had taken on the stance of New Mundi\* and waited patiently, eyes darting to and fro. Any proper vision was limited from behind my helmet, but it was enough, all I needed. Moments went by without movement. I shifted my gaze frantically from tree to tree, bush to bush. The only sound was the deafening rain that dropped to the canopy quicker and quicker the longer I stood around. Was the beast on my left? No. Behind me? No. My right? My behind— no. My front. The monster leapt from the canopy before me, claws ready to sink deep. I dodged to the right as it landed. The quickening rain hazed my vision. I moved to strike but it was gone. I stepped back and took on New Mundi once more. I watched, waited. *Where did it go?* I closed my eyes and listened, trying to make out an anomaly in the rain. Then I heard it. Feet swishing around in muddied water. It was behind. I spun around, unsheathed my sword, and thrusted it forward with all my might. The creature's screech pierced through the sound of the beating rain. All fell silent a moment. Dark blood dripped and mixed together with muddy water. I opened my eyes. The caecorum had not met with my plate, but with the end of my sword. I had struck true. It could only nip it’s awkward teeth at me, trying to claw through my gauntlet and blade. The blow was a fatal strike to the heart. It’s life essence would soon fade regardless of mercy, but I wasn’t hired to be sparing today. I stepped a tad closer to the blue beast and pushed him off my sword with one boot. It fell, back-first, into the mud with a hard splat. It rolled onto its stomach. It didn’t dare try and stand. The wound didn’t allow it. *I* wouldn’t allow it. The general of the local fort would need a show of proof that the caecorum was dead if they are to reward me properly for the deed. Watching the rain tap and bounce from the desperate creature, I sat indecisive, asking myself only of which part would be used as a trophy, as proof. I shrugged. A head always sufficed. To get to the general who called for me, I needed to go through Loksdale\* itself. It was an old, winding settlement with few homes and even fewer people. From the tales I’ve heard, the hamlet was built long ago by the families of Ranae’s Finest\*, the regiments of soldiers that are forever tasked with guarding the Overgrowth\* from any elven incursions. Just, the thing was, there hadn’t been any elven attacks on the continent in centuries. Perhaps they remain as a precaution or perhaps they were simply forgotten about by their superiors. Maybe someone knows. “You!” I heard someone call. Was it for me? I couldn’t say. I kept up my pace through the hamlet’s dirt roads. “Templar!” The voice called again. I stopped this time. Turning around, a local stood across the muddy pathway. He was a younger man, full head of brown hair, stiff stubble, and pale blue eyes. They called him Devon. I knew of him, helped me track the monster. I also knew of what he wanted: his little girl; the caecorum’s last victim. “You find her?” He asked, stepping closer. “Yes.” I begrudgingly stated. “Well? Where is she? Where’s my Lil’ Debbie?” “Dead, sadly. Along with the others who were taken.” I replied. Devon’s eyes grew wide. He looked to the muck, unable to make eye contact again. “Dead…” He remarked. I sighed, my hand tightening around the carcorum’s threaded hairs. I hated this part of the job. Hoped I could skip it this time by not addressing it, not making amends. It didn’t work. Devon fell completely silent. He clenched his fist and step within inches of me. “Could’ve saved her if you got ‘ere sooner, I’m sure!” He blurted in a rage. “‘er blood’s on your hands, not that *thing* you hold!” He gestured toward the head. I had to soothe him before he did something rash, something he’d regret. “My condolences for not saving her. She’s been avenged, if it counts for anythin—” “It counts for not a damn thing!” He said in a brash. Devon huffed. I could smell the foul aroma that irradiated off his tongue. His tears mixed with what few droplets of rain fell from the sky. He gave me a shove backward. My free hand instinctively fell upon the hilt of my blade. A small crowd began to spy on us from nearby huts, hovels, and street corners. I could see him wind up a fist. *Damn fool.* I thought. He’d shatter a bone on pure mithril\* anywhere he’d strike. I let go of my sword and grabbed hold of his wrist before the blow could land. “Attacking me won’t change a thing.” I said, releasing his arm. He fell onto his knees and began to weep. I looked down on him a moment. Devon balled uncontrollably. I turned away and kept walking, lest another spout of anger pour from him. The folk that watched began to disperse with my departure. I hung my head low. Was I at fault? His daughter was taken three nights ahead of my arrival. She was naut but bones and gore when I found the body. The possibilities of ‘what if’ rung throughout my mind but I shook them away. *It’s not befitting of a templar to second guess an action.* As I was taught. I couldn’t let it get to me. I needed to return to the task at hand. My employer resided in an old fort forever perched on a hill that overlooked the vast sprawl of untamed wilderness that lined the eastern coasts. The one I approached was one of the oldest, built just after man found victory in the War of Unity\*. They call it: Fort Duvane, appropriately named after the first general to command the garrison. Village folk from across the continent would tell their children about about the man named Duvane. It is said that, on the first night of a blistering winter, General Duvane ordered his men to stand out in the freezing temperatures and any who caught a cold were deemed unworthy of working the fort’s infrastructure. Duvane supervised them all night and, in a twist of irony, only Duvane caught a cold, thus being removed from power. In truth, the actual Duvane had forced his men to work endlessly in the cold with little rest which lead to his men hanging their dear general on a nearby tree. Amusing how tales passed down through the generations are blurred. Even more amusing how rowdy and lawless the first ranaens were. Different time, different people, I suppose. My long walk to the garrison had been stopped by the fort’s large, wooden gate. Outside it, one guard, decorated in cloth, leather, and plate (in that order) stood, arms crossed. He spied my likeness as I approached and signaled for me to halt. I stopped at his command. He uncrossed his arms and looked me over. From his lips, the man spat a wad of gunk off to the side before turning away and banging a fist on the gate. “Templar here to collect his reward! Open the gate!” He shouted. On the other side, a man — no, two men — shuffled around, unlocking the gate before slowing pulling it open. The gate’s cracked wood creaked and groaned as if it were in pain. I patiently waited, glancing in every direction. A few moments of admiring the views passed before the gate was finally opened and I was waved inside. A lone soldier waited for me on the inside. He was to be my escort to the general; not like I needed it. I had been here once a few hours earlier. Either way, I obediently followed quietly. To reach the general’s office, we had to trek across the courtyard, up the ramparts, and along the wall to a stubby tower on the far corner of the fort where we stopped at a door. The guardsman that accompanied me banged on the wood with the palm of his hand. “Templar’s back, sir!” He shouted. “Ah, uh, good! A moment, templar!” The general shouted back. From inside came faint giggling. It wasn’t the giggling of a man but a woman. My companion guard eyed the door and snickered. “Seems the boss’s got a bit company, eh? Probably one of them wenches that works the inn down the hill.” He said quietly enough for only my ears. “Possibly.” I replied, leaning back against the ramparts. We waited there for, what it seemed like, a moon cycle, before he finally called for me to come in. I opened the door and allowed my escort to shut it behind me. On the far end of the room, passed the prestigious decor and hunting trophies, sat the general, an aging man with grey hair, garbed in crimson red armor that proudly sported the ranaen lily on the breast. He was seated behind a solid oak desk cluttered with various knickknacks. Next to him, standing shyly against the wall was a young woman— no, a young *elven* woman wrapped in a clean, white towel. She had pointed ears, a fair complexion, and a delicate frame. It seemed the general had an escort of his own. “Come in, templar, make yourself at home.” He beamed. “What’s mine is yours…! Well, maybe not her.” He slyly winked the elf’s direction. She giggled. “Here for my reward.” I stated, stepping toward his desk and dropping the caecorum’s head on its surface. A few of the general’s ornaments and papers were misplaced by the head’s sudden arrival. Faint traces of blood fell from the open neck and stained the wooden desktop. The general’s face turned sour at the sight. Looking away from the decapitated head, he opened a desk drawer and dug through the compartment a moment before setting a hefty coin purse next to the head. “There you are,” He began. “Now leave me, templar, I’ve important... *business* to attend to.” The elf giggled again, shuffling over to meet the man. I reached down and took the bag. By its weight, it was roughly two hundred coins worth. I gave the general one firm nod before showing myself out. As I neared the door, he shouted my direction. “You need somethin’ to spend it on, try the inn at Whitehorse. Wenches there know how to work a bed!” He chuckled at his own joke, the elf giggling along for the third time. I left the general to his ‘important business’ and found my own way back out of the fort. As I stepped out the main gate, I looked out to the horizon.. The sun had fallen farther over the mountains. Darkness had engulfed the wide sprawl of land around me. There’s was little chance I’d risk the backroads of the continent this late, so I scaled down the hill and returned down to Loksdale to, hopefully, find an inn that supplied a decent bed without a required harlot. A proud and well-gowned lady stood on a grassy hill, far off in front of me. She was under the shade of a tree, one familiar. I stepped toward her. A man, proud and well-dressed stepped over to join her. He familiar too. I found myself running to them, my pace quickening. They both turned and looked on in horror. The world behind me began to fall into a deep abyss. I started the run faster. *Faster*. I began shouting at the couple, but it caught me The abyss was too fast and I was too slow. It’s pressure buckled my knees and dropped me to the ground. I watched it overtake the hill and the couple. There was laughter. Then there was screams. I was helpless. I had to watch. I couldn’t turn away. The thunder overhead caused my eyes to shoot open. I lay there for at least an hour, still armored, unable to fall back asleep. Every so often the lightning from outside would light my abode in a flash of blue from the small gaps between the walls and the roof near the top of the room. It was a nice (and clever) way to air out a room, even if it makes sleep difficult during storms. Eventually I sat up. The room flashed blue again. My eyes wandered in the darkness until they caught light from the gap between my door and the floor. Someone was still awake. I rubbed at my eyes before dragging myself out of bed. The room flashed blue once again. To start the day, I stretched my arms and legs before gearing up for my return to the monastery. I redid my sword’s sheath around the waist, slipped on my plated gloves, reattached my helmet, and threw on the standard white shaw every templar wore over my armor, tying it in place by it’s loose strip of cloth that dangled just above the hips. Carefully, I patted it down, making sure the drape fell below my ankles and wasn’t caught on any plate. *Never allow your robe to snag. It could cost you your life.* As told by my tutor. He was wise. I trusted his reasoning. Told the whole class of the unkept templar that couldn’t successfully dodge a sword because his robe caught under his plate. Truly, I don’t know if it was a true story or not. Either way, I follow his advice to this day. When I was ready, I snatched up my bag of gold and quietly retreated from my room. The inn was quiet as I entered the main lodging. The light that shined under the door was the tavern’s large fireplace that crinkled and cracked in hues of orange and yellow. Two others shared the room with me. One was the innkeeper who neatly tidied her station in the light of the fire. The other was Devon who wept at a far-side table. When I questioned him the day before, he had been drinking away his sorrows. *Heavily*. It was a miracle I got him to tell me anything about his daughter’s disappearance. In fact, his vague description of the girl was the only reason I found the caecorum’s lair. Now, however, he was without bottle and mug. Seems he was cut off sometime last night before he drank himself to death. “Morning.” The innkeeper whisper over to me, interrupting my thoughts. Her back was to me as she toyed with bottles, boxes, and cups, but she knew I was there. “Morning.” I replied. “Have a good sleep?” She asked. The main room flashed blue, thunder crackled overhead. “As good as any in this weather.” I said. “Understandable. Sorry ‘bout that.” She turned, bottle of ale in hand and a towel in the other. Her green eyes and fair skin sparkled in the orange fire. Very carefully she wiped the bottle clean and sat it on the counter. “I assume you’ll be leaving now?” “That’s right.” I replied. “How much do I owe you for the room?” I started to unravel the coin purse’s strings, but her words stopped me. “Not a copper, templar.” She smiled. “You helped us enough by slaying that monster. A free room is the least I can do for you… but, ah, sure you don’t wanna wait out the storm? It can get pretty bad out there.” “I’ve survived worse. I’ll be fine, thank you.” “Well, if that’s what you wish, good luck on the way back to your temple— ” “Monastery.” I interrupted. Lightning flashed. “Of course, my apologies…” She said, trailing off. “Hey, ah, if you’re ever in need of a place to stay, and you’re in the area, you’re always welcome here.” The frown she wore turned into a smile. “Be well and may the Eight watch over your travels.” I offered over a bow before turning over my room’s key and making off toward the exit. However, just before I got to the door, I stopped. From across the way, Devon’s sniffles mixed with the sounds of rain. I tried to ignore it, ignore him. but I couldn’t. I gripped the doors handle and attempted to pull it open, but I couldn’t. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t do anything, my mind focused on his demeanor. Lightning flashed. I found myself at the man’s side, the only place my body would take me. He had not looked at me yet, but he knew I was there. “What do *you* want?” Devon said in rugged tone. Without a ‘hello’, I reluctantly tossed the bag of jingling gold on the table. His ears perked and his eyes wandered over. “Your daughter’s body is just inside the Overgrowth.” I began. “Take a group of men, follow the dirt road, and make a left when you reach a crossroads. She’s… well, what’s left of her, is there, just inside the underbrush.” He slowly looked up as I spoke, his tears subsiding. Devon went to speak, but my words came over his. “The coin is for the tab you built up drinking down all her booze yesterday.” I pointed toward the innkeeper who had been intently watching us from behind the bar. “Anything left over, use it and buy your daughter a nice casket, one from the capital. Spare no expense. Understand?” As the words left my mouth and he slid the hefty pouch away from my reach, I found myself second-guessing my actions. My hand formed a fist. Should I have done that? Maybe only half the coin was adequate. The grandmaster certainly wouldn’t be pleased I come with no coin… *again*. “I… I don’t know what to say.” Came Devon’s voice. “Don’t have to say anything,” I responded. “I’ll already get an earful for allowing you to run off with my coin.” Without another word, I strided away and met success in exiting the building this time. At least someone would be happy.