“What does this do,” Luci asked me, holding up a dandelion. “What does it do?” I echoed, puzzled. “Well, yeah. Don’t they have magic powers or something?” I grinned, “Oh. Yes, as a matter of fact. You close your eyes,” she acquiesced, “and make a wish. Then blow, sending the wispy bits off into the air!” Her nose crinkled as she thought about what she wanted. She then opened her eyes. “I’ll do it later, daddy. Let’s keep walking.” “Alright,” I chuckled. “Lead the way.” She took my hand as we continued through a picturesque meadow. The grass was long, though not overgrown, and rife with flowers. The sun shone on us from directly overhead, its heat overbearing were it not for the gentle breeze that caressed our every move. All the while, songbirds graced us with their lyrics, emanating from the surrounding maples and pines, among others. I was living in a postcard. “Do you think mommy could come here?” “I don’t see why not.” “Let’s bring her next time. If she isn’t too busy,” she thoughtfully considered. Though she isn’t that old, it seems as though a lifetime has passed since she we first met Luci. Aside from growing taller, not much has changed, however. Dimples still compliment her smile. Her eyes yet hold an innocence I feel will never fade, regardless of when she loses her childlike naivety. As for personality: loving, curious, and rather adventurous, with just enough spunk to see her through. When you’re young, the world around you seems a large and assuredly magical place. Having kids can alter your perspective, causing you to retain this sense, one that would certainly fade otherwise. For this, I’m truly blessed. “Fishies! Daddy, let’s go pet the fishies!” She hastily made her way towards a pond that was just up ahead. “How about we just watch them?” “Nooo! I want to love them like our kitty, Kireina!” “They need water, honey. To breathe.” “Can’t they hold their nose when they come up to the air like I do when I swim?” While bemused at her logic, I paused to discern in my head whether fishes even had noses. She gasped, “Look how many!” As with the flowers, there was an abundance of aquatic life. Carps, pikes, mahi-mahi, even the near-microscopic candiru of the south, they all tangoed before us. I peered over at Luci whose mouth was agape. “Just like the aquarium, huh?” I asked. Silence. Too busy trawling over the ballet taking place before her. “Y’know, I had a goldfish once.” “You did,” she inquired, dryly, her focus unwavering. “That’s boring. I want one of those!” “Ah, Oscar.” “That his name?!” “That’s their species. They actually— “No, that one! Look at its pretty colors! Way more than just gold,” she snorted. “I’m not sure what that one’s called.” “Think we ‘scovered it?” “Maybe. What should we name it?” “Hmm. Let’s name them Xi-fish. After mommy! She always looks so pretty!” “You look just like her, you know.” I smiled, rubbing the top of her head. “Hey! Don’t mess up my hair,” she protested, walking away from the pond. “Sorry.” “I bet I can climb one of those trees! Wanna watch me, daddy?” She sprinted towards the far end of the field. I sighed, admiring her tenacity. Am I really that old? “Go on, sweetie. Let’s see what you got!” We spent what felt like hours in and around the trees, howling like monkeys, frightening the birds, playing tag and hide and seek. Soon, though, we were sitting on a thick branch on the crest of a boisterous cedar. “Think I could fly?” She took a few steps forward before I wrapped my arm around her, yanking her backwards. “I think,” I grunted, positioning her in front of me, “we should leave that to the professionals.” She giggled. Then, for the first time that day, both of us sat in silence, looking out over our little slice of paradise. The sun was far to the West, the day ending as quickly as it began. Luci turned her head to look up at me. “I’m ready, now.” “Ready to go home? You must be tired.” “No, silly. To make my wish.” She reached into the pocket in her jean shorts and pulled out the dandelion. “Oh ok. Well. What do you want to wish for?” She closed her eyes once more before blowing the wisps into the watercolor sky. “Actually, you’re supposed to keep it a secret or it won’t come true.” I playfully mimicked shushing though she remained stoic. “I wished you would wake up. Mommy needs you. Tell her to come. Tell her everything’s okay.” “Honey…” “I love you, Daddy,” she said before turning around and hugging me. Soon the forestry and the fauna gave way to the four walls of my bedroom. My ceiling fan was slowly rotating. My heart sunk as reality set in. I reached over to Xi only to find she was out of bed. I sat up, wiped my eyes, and headed for the hallway. The water was running in the bathroom with her toothbrush sitting on the sink, the paste still fresh, yet resting atop the dry bristles. I turned it off, giving way to the sound of sobbing coming from Luci’s room. The door was cracked. Upon sliding inside, I noticed Xi in the middle of the floor, on her knees, clutching what used to be our daughter’s favorite stuffed bear. She looked up at me and extended an arm. I rushed over and wrapped myself around her. “You found Mr. Fluffy, huh?” “I can’t do it, babe.” Her voice broke before giving way to more tears. “She was just here. She was.” “I know, I know. But I think she’s happy now. Don’t you?” She sniffed, “She did always have the biggest smile on her face.” “I have a feeling… wherever she is… it’s beautiful. She’d love for you to see it.” Xi nodded, placing her hand on my arm.


She woke up too late, like usual. Not even the construction across the street could wake her before ten, giving her less time than she wanted to get ready. Whatever, she thought, I just need to look presentable, not as if I'm trying to impress anyone. It was a first date, which she agreed to more out of a sense of obligation than enthusiasm. It had been several months since she'd gone out with anyone. Thankfully her mother hadn't bothered her for a while about the whole grandkids bullshit, but seeing Elise with her new boyfriend/friend-with-benefits/whatever got her feeling surprisingly a bit jealous. She knows that the guy has to give good head or *something* for her to be with a guy like that. He's always wearing those stupid hats and checking the price on Bitcoin, like he's expecting to be a millionaire any second now. Not that she could judge, as she too was willing to put up with a mild amount of douchery to be able to get off and feel the warmth of someone else next to her, rather than just the glow of a fanfic-filled laptop screen and the fear that she was loud enough this time that her roommate *definitely* heard her. Oh and I guess falling in love or something would be cool too. The guy seemed nice enough from his messages, she thought as she washed her hair and got ready. Then again the bar for that is just above "hey sexi" and "whats ur snap". And even if he can hold a conversation like an adult there was no guarantee he wouldn't start some unhinged rant about how his ex was a bitch or how the homeless should all get shipped off to Mars or whatever. He had a cat, which at least probably shows he can take care of a living thing, and there were no dead fish or shirtless mirror selfies in his profile. So hey, how bad can he be. He lived out in Jamaica Plain, so he suggested they meet in the public garden for a picnic. It sounded so sweet and old-fashioned she was honestly a bit excited about it. She threw on a sundress and a big floppy hat and started her way toward the train station, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and using the other to brace her hat against the wind blowing down Comm Ave. I may freeze my tits off, she thought, but at least I'll look cute. Elise told her all men go nuts for sundresses for some reason. She waited idly on the bridge over the pond, watching a tourist family riding in one of the swan boats pass under her. The sound of a violin player drifted over from the other side of the bridge. He showed up a couple minutes late, carrying a large picnic basket. He looked just as unremarkable as his pictures, wearing a North Face and jeans. He gestured toward one end of the pond past the weeping willows, saying he had a spot picked out. His voice was deeper than she imagined, and he slowed to toss a dollar in the violin player's case as they passed. Probably just to impress me, she thought. But she couldn't help but mentally give him a point in the "maybe not an asshole" column. He spread out the red and white blanket as squirrels scurried around, and for a moment she felt like a Victorian maiden being courted by a young gentleman. He immediately brought her back to Earth by asking if she saw Black Widow yet. She did mention liking Marvel on her profile so it's her own fault, but he probably just watched it for ScarJo's ass. She did think she already caught him sneaking a look at her own, not that she was particularly surprised. Sweet, dorky men are still men after all. He unpacked the sandwiches and drinks he brought, and casually mentioned he brought a thermos with homemade cocktails and a tiny box of moscato in case she wants any. Damn, she thought, this guy is good. The conversation was nothing special though, mostly chatting about school and hobbies. He likes the typical guy stuff like videogames and craft beer, but he also knows how to sail which is cool. They were laying down next to each other at this point after finishing their sandwiches, the sun filtering through the wind-blown leaves of the tree above them. She was daydreaming about them slowly gliding up the Charles River in a small sailboat when she looked over at him. He's more handsome than his pictures, she thought. His lips looked so soft she found herself wanting to kiss him right there, and it probably wasn't just the wine talking. He deftly avoided any red-flag conversations, and other than talking about IPA's for a bit too long she had no complaints. They gathered up the picnic supplies before walking around the common and talking for a little while. A long while actually; she realized with a start that it had somehow been five hours since they met up. Well, she thought, I guess that's a pretty good sign. They said their goodbyes by the entrance to the green line, the air getting chillier now that the sun had passed behind the buildings across the common. He went for a hug instead of a kiss, which she wasn't sure to take as lacking confidence or just being polite and cautious. Either way, she found herself smiling on the train ride back thinking about the way he looked at her when he complimented her dress. She awoke to a text he sent late at night after she went to bed. "Hey I had a great time! Down to do something again next weekend, maybe dinner? If not, no worries." There's that lack of confidence again with that last part, she thought. Men with self-esteem issues are so much work to date, she may as well leave him hanging for a bit longer to make sure he doesn't instantly accuse her of ghosting and call her a dumb bitch or something. She threw her phone on the bed and got up to make breakfast, before rolling her eyes at herself and picking it back up. "Yeah, dinner sounds great.


I can’t say what prompted the idea but one day recently I decided it was best for me to stop breathing. Oh, it was a short-lived rebellion the first few times, but eventually I built up a considerable tolerance to the mindless act of respiration. Like a bolt out of the blue I came to realize my unrelenting addiction to oxygen was the root of all my problems. Frankly, it wasn’t just the cause of my own. Everyone knows the truth about the toxic air we inhale. The unapologetic need and continuous consumption of this primal element is behind everyone’s personal woes but we must arrive at that sobering conclusion for ourselves. Every chance I had, I held my breath for intermittent fasting periods. The goal was to fully wean myself from this chronic dependency until I no longer needed it at all. I built up my endurance at a steady pace but it has been discouraging at times. Just as I started to believe I’d beaten the crippling dependency, my lungs would demand another breath to ‘save myself’. With every new iteration however, my ability to go without air has increased a little bit more. Over time I started seeing things in a whole new light. The golden periods between breathing and exhaling my spent carbon dioxide changed my entire perception of things. There were longer and longer times where I’d drift into a hazy realm of nothingness. It was just a different state of being. The pale world I knew ceased to be in those brief flashes of alternate existence. In its place was a celestial plane where all problems I had in life were insignificant. I came to crave the peace and tranquillity I experienced there but all too soon; I was returned to this depressing version of reality. Each time, Tell-tale tingling of my extremities signaled the toxic opiate had reentered my body and renewed my addiction. Reoccurring headaches grew from the extended periods I was oxygen free. Only a lingering lung addiction kept me in this world. Others tried to tell me it was from deprivation itself but that was only half true. It was a lifelong dependence on respiration which created the heaving pangs of withdrawal in the first place. The addiction tried to hold me back. It didn’t want me to escape its fickle chains. The closer to freedom I got, the worse my headaches became. It was a cycle of biological slavery to breathing and I was determined to break free of it. As my resistance grew, the longer I remained moored to the other side. I no longer felt a burning ache in my lungs demanding I give in. I rapidly approached a tipping point where I spent more time in there, and less in this dimension. Bystanders saw me gasping for air and tried to offer aid, not realizing my asphyxiation was a deliberate attempt to free myself. They meant well but were unable to understand it was my intention to stop breathing and permanently dwell in the beautiful place I’d only experienced in fleeting glimpses. They labeled me mentally ill and a grave danger to myself but they were philosophically wrong. To be suicidal is to want to harm oneself. I only want to break free of my lifelong dependence to breathing. Dozens of times I’d almost escaped the limiting bounds of life but I was unable to permanently let go. At the last moment I’d panic and swallow a breath of air through my parched lips. A lingering fear of the unknown and superstitious doubts prevented me from permanently crossing over to those cerulean skies and lush, rolling hills. At last, I’ve found the perfect solution to stabilize my faltering faith and do what is necessary to achieve my goal. To your ears this request may appear unorthodox or against my own self interests but I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. This is the only way forward for me. Please understand that when I stop breathing, it will be when I actually start to live. Do not let me back out of these sincere intentions. It would only be from primal fear that I might beg you to stop suffocating me but that’s not what I really want. No matter what I do or say from this point on, please do not give in. I am not conflicted. My final wishes are to cease breathing and permanently deny my lungs of their toxic drug. Help me escape the mortal slavery of oxygen and be free at last.


It’s been a while. Her eyes murky green as we shared a glance through the glistening surface. Everything appeared in a strange hue below water. Not her. Almost like she had a glow about her face. I could see her perfectly from above as she cowered back with that sad look again. Whenever life got too much to bear, I’ve come here to her bay. I’ve come to her, and my troubles all flushed away. My mind dived into her floating coral hair. My worries drifted away like the bubbles locked in her locks here and there. And just like that I couldn’t feel pain anymore. She listened, she cared, and she understood. Always talking to her, she knew the smallest pebbles and entangled mess hiding in my depths. Those so deep that not even the golden light breaking off her skin could reach them. I knew she’s not the key and that there’s no such thing, but next to her I felt lighter, warmer. Her salmon pink smile thawed the sharp fractals in my heart even if just for a while. Soon, I became addicted to her presence. As I’m sure did she. We talked for hours on end some days. Others we just exchanged a few words, but they made a world’s difference. And wherever we could find each other – in her bay or in the wide blue world, it didn’t matter. When I was sailing on sea, she somehow knew where to find me. The swinging waves made my stomach tingle with anticipation of where would she pop up next during my trips. A silly little game of ours. We knew this was love, but no one said it. Our desires were simply never meant to be fulfilled. I from land, she from water, it would never work. One of us would always hurt too much. How could you hurt someone so close to you? However dear we were to each other, sorrow permeated into our visits. Its bitterness left a clinging taste dissolving into the back of our minds. And one day I realized, after I left her on a summer evening, I was even sadder than before I came. The sadness of leaving overshadowed the sadness of being apart. It took me like a flood. Suddenly, I was drowning, asking all these questions. Should I go see her? Is she hurting the same way? Can I help to make it go away? No. And she was helpless, too. I had to stop myself from cursing her fish tail. The tail that changed colour from green to purple with the slightest movement. The tail I fell in love with. I could curse my human legs with the same thought. But targeting her nature was easier than facing the truth. We were from different sides of the membrane, and even though it was easy to break through for a short minute, it bound us to our own realms. You have to live your life, my love. As I have to live mine. That’s what I came to say today, no need to hide behind that reef. Let’s not hold on to the pain, its sweetness is poisoning our souls. I used to think we would find a way. That one of us would give in and make the sacrifice, but that’s not fair in any way you look at it. It’s ok. We still have each other in our own bay, deep in our hearts. That place is going to be only ours. Ours forever. Farewell, my love.


When I was young, we used to spend at least a few hours almost every day at the beach. My father worked long hours, but my family had the privilege of having one parent make enough money that the other could stay home. So whenever the weather was halfway decent, and even sometimes when it wasn't, my mother would pack up our minivan with towels and sunscreen and an umbrella and a beach ball and some buckets and a cooler full of drinks and snacks and in that cramped and overcrowded space she would buckle my sister and me into our seats, and we would drive the five miles to the Pacific Way Park beach. Now this beach was gravelly and not well maintained and the water was usually cold and there were hardly ever other families there because there were other beaches not too much farther down the road that excelled in all the ways our beach lacked. You might say that these other beaches were objectively better, and maybe you'd be right. But to me, our beach was the best beach in the world. Maybe the best place, period. Subjective experience can, and often enough does trump objective fact. Our beach was better not because anything tangible was better about it, but because the time we spent there shaped it in our minds into something it had never really been. Even now, when I look back on that beach, I remember the bright, warm glow of the sun, the feeling of pristine white sand between my toes, the blue waves lapping lackadaisically against the shore. And none of these things ever really happened, not all at once, anyway. But I also remember my little sister running and screaming with joy, my mother's face staring lovingly down at me, my father laughing hysterically as we frantically tried to chase down a towel being stolen by the wind on one of the rare occasions he was able to meet us there after work. And all of these memories are real. These events happened, and now I am the sole keeper of them. I am their historian, their guardian. My parents are gone. My sister was taken by childhood leukemia a tragically short number of years after her smooth, unburdened face lit up our beach in the clearest, happiest memory I have of her. So no one knows now about our beach but me. I guess that makes it my beach. That doesn't feel right. I put all of this down as a sort of preamble to give context to the thing I'm really dwelling on and that's the fact that within days or weeks I will no longer have a husband. And the way I feel about my beach is the way I'm already starting to feel about him. He's not even gone yet and already my memories of him are turning into the warmer, brighter versions of reality, sprinkled here and there with things he really said, and moments we really shared. It's not that I'll forget about his imperfections any more than I've forgotten that my beach was actually cold and gray, but those things just sort of stop meaning anything in light of the fact that soon I won't have his imperfections or his perfections anymore. I won't have any part of him. Last night he said something to me that I'll attempt to put down for posterity. I won't quote him directly because the way he stumbled over his words and kept circling around the point he was trying to make would be a great disservice to the deep and unsettling meaning he conveyed to me. He said that tiredness can be such a different experience depending on its context. He said that sometimes, like when you're a child and your parents carry you in their arms to bed as you slowly drift off, or when you're just lazing around on a quiet Sunday with nothing to do and nowhere to be, tiredness can be this peaceful, warm thing; a blanket you wrap around yourself and let yourself melt into. But that same tiredness, the exact same physiological thing, can be a stressful, terrifying thing to endure if it comes upon you while you're at work or otherwise occupied, already overwhelmed with all the things you must do and the endless thoughts racing in your mind. Then it's this cold, harsh thing whose edges cut at you. It actively keeps you from finding peace. All of this I agreed with. I even laughed a bit at how philosophical he was being. "So deep," I think I said, almost brushing him off. But he chuckled too, so it was okay. But then the smile faded from his too thin, hairless visage and he hit me with his revelation: There is another circumstance that changes what tiredness means and how it feels, and that's dying. He told me that he feels tired now at all times, and sleep doesn't begin to touch it. He has nowhere to be, nothing to do. Sleep is a blanket, sure, but it's wearing thin. And he can't find lasting peace in rest though he rests all day. He is tired now of living. He confessed he's scared to die. He confessed he doesn't want to go, but he's too exhausted to stay. This kind of tiredness, he told me, he hopes neither me nor our son ever have to feel. I hope so too. I'm struck by something he told me shortly after our wedding when I asked him why it had taken him so long to propose when we both already knew I would say yes. He told me about his best friend John and his ex-wife Laureline. He told me how deeply and passionately in love they had once seemed and how it hadn't saved their marriage from ending. He said that he was terrified that if their love could come to an end, then anyone's could, even ours. He didn't want things to end that way. Well, they're not ending that way, but they are ending. When we said "'til death do us part," neither of us had imagined that it really would. He spent years afraid of what might happen if we got married and the thought of it ending like this had never even crossed his mind. I'm sitting here and writing all this down partly so I remember this feeling someday when I look back on these words and partly because I promised our son that I would soon return to his room with an answer to his question, and I really don't want to return to his room and answer that question. "Mommy, will daddy go to heaven when he dies?" he had asked me, so innocently, so devastatingly. We didn't raise him in a religious home. We never mentioned heaven or hell to him, but how can you keep a kid from encountering those concepts? I wonder how much happier I'd be if I had that unshakeable faith I sometimes witness in others; if I knew with certainty that his father would go to heaven, and so would he and so would I. But I don't know that. I don't know anything. "Karen," I hear my husband's feeble voice half calling and half whispering from the bed. I look over at him and he smiles. "It's okay," he says, as if he knows what I'm thinking about. I smile back and I get up and walk to our son's room. He's playing with his toys on the floor next to his bed and for all you could tell from the outside, he's perfectly content. Even though he asked such a direct question about death, I can tell that he doesn't really comprehend the reality of it. God, does anyone, really? He looks up at me with his eyes bright and I can't help but feel a tiny resentment toward him. Not for anything he's said or done but because he looks so much like his father and every time I look in his eyes from now on, I will be destroyed by the emptiness in my life that his father has filled. But at the same time, I feel much more strongly this feeling of gratitude to him for carrying a little piece of my husband in him. More than a little piece, really. Probably all the best bits. And I am grateful too that as long as he and I are both around, neither of us will be the sole guardian or the lonely keeper of the memories of his father. It's a burden and a blessing we'll share. As he looks at me with those bright eyes and that wide smile, I feel briefly hopeful that maybe he's already forgotten his earlier question. "Well," he says, "where will daddy go when he dies? And I respond in the only truthful way I can. "Well honey, I don't really know.


I am sitting here at the most popular southern style cuisine restaurant the farthest corners from where I grew up. The atmosphere is comfortable, energetic and the smells are strong of Cajun spices, heavy paprika, hot peppers, and freshly fried squash. On their specials menu I notice they have “Spicy, Pickled Peppers and Links”. Calling the waiter over with a wave of my hand I ask, “What is this like?” “It is our new idea for what to do with hot dogs, they are pickled in spicy hot sauce with hot peppers and pickling stuff I think”, he tells me with a juvenile enthusiasm that travels to the depths of his naivety of the dish. “What do you think of it?” I ask “It is very good, Ma’am. It sounds funny, but I would definitely recommend it. The recipe was something the head chef’s mom used to make, and he is from what he labels the ‘Deep South’. It does burn your socks off though!” he told me with a broad, pimply smile. Keeping a straight face, I ask him to bring me an order with whatever soda label they carry, it can be Pepsi, Coke, RC Cola, I do not mind. When I was growing up this canned treat was simply known as “Hot Peppers and Weenies” and our cellar pantry usually had a shelf dedicated to the dozens of cans from canning season. My family is from the south, and what the boy just described sounds oddly familiar. What I always wanted to be able to afford and have with this canned delight was a Coke, but my family was so poor we could not afford such treats more than once a year. The buoyant waiter brings me the plate that is professionally orchestrated with the simplest dish from my poor childhood. How someone can make a plate sing in an arrangement of hot dogs and hot peppers is beyond me, but this chef is a true artist. In the middle of the plate the chef alternated peppers with weenies, I mean links. There is a splattering of fresh cilantro and red chili flakes for a garnish with a drizzling of a chili sauce reduction in small star patterns along the rim. Waving my partially cupped hand over the plate, I pull some of the steam coming off the freshly warmed sauce towards my nose, sneezing as the spice hits the inside of my nasal passage. This smell is the smell of my childhood, thankfully it is missing the dirt, sweat, tears, and blood. Forgoing my usual knife and fork, I pick up one of the delicately cut “links” and place the bite sized piece on my tongue. The flavor of the morsel combined with the rich, spicy peppers and even spicier sauce, along with some of the garnish tastes like the hills back home during the summer months. The chef’s mom must have been related to my Gran, because this transported me back to the day I ate two jars of these things in the cellar beneath my parent’s home. Something that I was never allowed to do, these cans had to be shared with family not enjoyed on your own. I had finished the first jar before heading out to the barn to check on my favorite of the horses, Whisper. I also helped care for a handful of goats, sheep, and a coop of chickens with one turkey reserved for Thanksgiving. Ma was usually happy I went up in the midday and got the eggs. She hated making her way up the windy uphill trip twice in one day to that red, pathetic barn. I would take my sweet time to walk up to the barn, probably busy playing with the animals and butterflies along the way. When I would get to the barn I would tend to the horses who I felt were my only friends, listen to the chickens cooing and cackling as a ginormous egg gets squeezed out from their backside, watch the goats and sheep bounce around the pasture, and enjoy the calm at the top of the hill overlooking the family property. Halfway between the barn and my house is a gate that separates the pasture from the garden. The garden swoops down the hill between the top where my home is and the bottom with my Gran’s home is. On the loop between our houses, furthest from the barn, is where my uncle lives. My Pa never moved far away from his Ma, and at this time I thought I would never leave either. They have tobacco fields on the hills further up the road from Pa’s home. There were four of us kids, Pa, and then Ma. We lived in a small two bedroom home. As I think of it now, that seems really small, but as a kid it never felt that way. We had a woodstove in the center that kept the home warm in the winters. Pa has a fancy bathroom in the home now, but I grew up having to go to the outhouse in the pitch dark of night. During the summers we basically just slept in the house, too hot to live in the house. I was always out with the animals or cooling off in the spring. I can still see this little valley of ours, green and lush. Dad was a great gardener. Ma was a drunk whore, but I didn’t find that out til later. Gran did her best to protect us from her youngest son’s malicious ways and Ma’s outbursts. Something that I now look back on and can’t believe was even real. Speaking of Gran, I loved it when Gran would deep fry squash and okra. She would serve fried okra along with a jar of hot peppers and weenies to us kids for a snack in the middle of the hot, humid summer afternoons when Pa would be enjoying his amber liquid between tending the tobacco. This summer was a bit different. Ma had a lot of this homemade stuff called Shine that Uncle made, and would often stay the night at men’s houses instead of at home with Pa. Pa would tell me she is having a sleepover with them and would be back in the morning. He would tell me that it was just like I would sleep over with my friend over the hill. Now I understand what was really going on, and the look in his eyes when he would tell me this as a kid makes more sense. As I was standing in the door of the barn this day, I heard a crash from my house. Crashes weren’t uncommon in my home and this didn’t cause me alarm at first. This crash was on another level than most of them though. I stopped daydreaming to listen. There came screaming, again not uncommon; however, this screaming sounded what my brain would have thought murder was. Knowing me as a kid, I did a double check on the animals and then I ran as fast as my 11 year old legs could take me down the rock ridden, dirt path towards the house. My feet were bare, we never could afford proper shoes during the summer. As I ran, Whisper trotted next to me. I flew with wings over the gate, ran past our spring, past the outhouse, and towards the home. I halted when I saw Pa come out the door with his back facing me. He took a tumble down the stairs. It was maybe two in the afternoon, I didn’t know precisely, we didn’t have watches. He was drunk. Yelling and cursing he got himself up onto his wibbling legs and he walked back into the house. I got a glimpse of Ma, she was wearing the dress she always wore when she had a friend pick her up. I don’t recall much, but I do remember they were yelling very loudly. It echoed through the valley. The usual green truck that Ma would get in came by down the road at Gran’s house. Gran and Uncle came to their porches to look towards our home, but they then went back inside. Most times they didn’t get involved. I hated them for this. I walked around the side of the square home, it slanted down a bit towards the road to make room for a small cellar door. I opened up the door, walked inside, and went towards the little room of canned goods from last season. I sat on a stack of potatoes and let out a sigh of relief. This fight didn’t seem as bad as most had. They were still upstairs, I heard destruction, and was pretty sure I would have to clean up the broken dishes again. I felt trapped. I hear Pa yelling, Ma screaming like a banshee, and I still can not recall the words they said. I felt that anger leaking through the floorboards into the cellar, my escape and place of safety. They were mad. It felt like two different types of mad. Pa’s felt more like he was a wounded animal on the road, and Ma’s as if she was a predator that got wounded by its prey. I stood up, went to the canned shelving, and pulled down another jar of “Hot Peppers and Weenies ‘71”. I wedged open that can and devoured the contents inside. Ma would be angry if she caught me, but she was preoccupied. By the time she got done with Pa and went away with her friend for the night she would not have noticed. Something shattered above me and then all was quiet. I left my retreat underneath the violence and walked the small distance to the spring to wash both jars out. This is when all hell broke loose in our valley sanctuary. I felt time slowed but also went so fast. A crash larger than had ever been heard by these two fighting humans came emanating from the small, mustard yellow home. It sounded like two wild animals had been suddenly trapped in the home and were breaking everything, even the unbreakables, in the home. I stood up, dropping what I was holding, and turned around to see my Pa yet again flying out of the door. This time the door was not opened, he came crashing through it and landed very solidly onto the gravel that was our driveway. When he stood I could see his pants were ripped, his shirt in his hands, face was covered in blood, and one of his eyes was not able to open. He was attempting to pull his shirt back on, but I could see some distorted coloration on his ribcage. I bolted back towards the house but stopped just five paces away from Pa when Ma stood in the doorway with a skillet in one hand, ax in another, and blood all over her dress. I would have assumed Pa was dead by the look of her, but thankfully he was already standing. Her eyes were fierce, in a rage, and she flew down the steps swinging her cast iron pan towards Pa’s head with intent. As a child, I was stunned in my spot. I had never seen this behavior. To be frank, I was scared and may have even peed myself a little. She was a demon that day, she was the devil in the body of my Ma. She looked like the evil things in the night, and the sin the preacher man warned me of in Sunday School. This confused me more because Ma loved to spend lots of time with the preacher man. Pa fled backwards on his legs and arms as he stumbled back like one of those crabs we would see at the beach when we took family vacations. Ma kept running towards him, arms swinging. She slammed him on his knee with the skillet, he howled in pain, stood up and attempted to run. I don’t recall who hit who or what happened after that. I was screaming at this point. I’m sure I was screaming words, but does an 11 year old really know what to scream when they’re afraid one of their parents is about to be brutally murdered in front of them. Ma was out to end Pa, blood lust was in her eyes. After a lot of fuzzy memories, I recall a gunshot made my body rattle. Silence fell. Birds squaked. Horses whinnied. We all looked over to see Gran standing there with her favorite shotgun. Ma jumped back from the shock, her wild eyes still glowing with passion, anger, and this focussed on me. I did not know why, I still don’t know why to this day. Gran only wanted to scare Ma, it worked, but it also scared everyone else at the same time. I don’t know where my siblings are, this I just realized. She only used her shotgun for scaring away unwanted guests and those men in suits, I suppose they were also unwanted. Ma glared at me. Gran glared at her. Pa was drunk and didn’t know how to focus on anything. Ma stood taller, turned to the left a bit, blocking Pa a bit, axe still in hand but the skillet on the ground. Her gaze turned away from me towards Gran. Gran looked at me, nodded, and raised her trusty shotgun up to Ma’s chest. “Get off my land you …..”, Gran sternly said, that last word I do not remember but I assume it was a bad word. Maybe it rhymed with switch, maybe with punt, not sure. But it worked whatever Gran said. My Ma walked off down the road, one of the men friends she stayed with had been parked down there waiting for her, and I didn’t see her for twenty years after that day. She lived within a mile of my house til I got my degree and moved away. That was the last day I ate Hot Peppers and Weenies, until today. I thought Pa would die that day. He still died, not physically, but the alcohol took him in and killed our family in a crueler way. I sit here, further from that hell than I ever hoped I would be, tasting the flavors of that cellar. I will choose to remember the happy afternoons with my Gran, the times I sat with my younger siblings in that cellar and we ate from the different jars of pickled vegetables while fights happened overhead, and the moments when the family would stay out in the night and watch the fireflies because indoors was too hot. My life is littered with bad memories, but in this moment I choose the positive ones and the moments that love did envelope us. We weren’t always afraid, we had each other, and for that I am grateful for those memories of Hot Peppers and Weenies in the cellar.


I was cave diving, like I did every summer. My brother was with me, but he stayed up top. He kept an eye on my lines. He never liked caves, or swimming. I took after our dad. There was a tug on the rope in my hand and I tugged back, letting him know I was still alive. It was tied around my wrist. If I didn’t respond, my brother would reeling me back in. It wasn’t the right way to handle stuff like this, but we’d come up with a system that worked for us. These caves were new to me. I’d done all of our local ones, water caves and dry. I’d managed to convince my brother to come with me to the next state so I could explore here. He was still grumbling when we got to the entrance this morning. He’d settle down once I surfaced and we could head home. The rope tugged again and I pulled a little harder this time, thinking that maybe my tugs hadn’t gone all the way to the end. The line stilled after that. I rolled my eyes and swam a little deeper. It was like another world. The only light was from the waterproof headlamp I had strapped to my forehead. I had a hand flashlight on my belt if I needed it. But I liked to keep my hands free so I could run my hands over the rocks like I was doing now. Again, the rope tugged at my wrist. I gritted my teeth and pulled hard twice. Why the hell was my brother tugging so often? Was he really just not getting my responses? If I wasn’t careful, he’d start reeling me in. And I really didn’t want to start again in these caves. I’d gotten really far in. I waited for the tug to come again. Or for him to start pulling me through the caves. But there was nothing. I counted, reaching sixty twice before I turned and started heading deeper. My harder tugs must have reached, or I had pulled him into the water. I grinned. I’d gotten maybe ten metres further before there was another tug on my wrist. I could have sworn. I gripped the rope and placed my feet on the walls, using some small outcroppings as a platform. I reefed on the rope. There was no tension in it. There was way too much slack. There was something wrong. I started swimming back, keeping my hands off the rope. I didn’t want to pull it all the way down with me. Not if it had broken somewhere. It was my guide out of here. I’d gotten too arrogant. It had been years since I’d stopped mind mapping when I dived. Oh! I knew that clump of plant. It wasn’t often that plants grew in underwater caves, and yet here it was. I was about halfway up. The rope still trailed away around the corner, hidden by the plant. I swam closer. The rope was cut. The end floated in front of me. I grabbed it, fumbling for my flashlight. The beam of light bobbed through the water, bouncing off rocks. But the other end of the rope wasn’t here. My brother must have reeled it in. Or it might be around a corner. I just had to look. I tried to kick off and went nowhere. Glancing down at my feet, I found that the plant had wrapped itself around me. I kicked hard. Pain shot through my ankle and I saw red leaking from under the plant. It had cut me! I kicked again but there was more pain. A tendril lashed out, wrapping around my wrist. I tried to pull away, but the edges of its leaves cut into my flesh. More and more tendrils wrapped around me, dragging me closer to its centre. And with every tendril, there was more red, and I grew weaker.


I lived in a tent in some woods on land that wasn't mine. No one knew that I was there save for the birds and squirrels and deer and one hunter who passed through but thought I was just camping. Self-reliance had been my modus operandi ever since high school failed me for skipping a year and my parents disowned me for stealing their savings. It'd been a rough decade full of long winters and longer treks to the grocery store at the precise time of the week they set out stale bread and soured milk and barely-past-expiration can goods. My clothes were custom repaired name brands that people threw away because of the never-ending onslaught of fashion trends. In fact, my tent was the last thing I ever bought. It was the peak of summer's wet heat when an idea struck me. Specifically, it was a large enough branch that had been dead for several seasons but held on by the still living, still healthy, still well-maintained wood of the trunk. My head was sore for days but with the pain came the realization that timber lay all around me for the greatest expression of self-reliance mankind had ever devised. I decided to build a house. It was so obvious and easy and in accordance with my modus operandi that I felt silly for wasting ten years in a tent that bore the stench of exchange. All through July I gathered branches and limbs and uprooted some saplings and collected vines. My vision called for an ultra-spiritual, all-natural hut that would be the envy of hermits everywhere. It was going to be a squat dome nestled against a cluster of trees to minimize rain damage and soil erosion. I had envisioned a marvel of underbrush engineering that would baffle future archeologists. "How did he align them just so," they'd say, "and make the whole thing watertight?" But when the pieces came together and the vines were tied the whole thing looked . . . shabby. I don't think even the most inept hermit was going to be envious. July became August and the latter brought the heaviest rains I'd ever seen outside of my first year of self-reliance when I almost drowned in the dried creek bed I had chosen to camp in. Thumb-sized holes littered my roof and turned the dirt floor abode into a literal mud room. Luckily, I hadn't transferred many things from the tent yet so the damage was nothing to call the insurers about. So there I was, facing another winter with an untrusty tent and an opinion of anything less than a house soured. How could I possibly keep my thoughts from turning toward another attempt? But I had learned my lesson and would go contemporary this time. At first this meant using my hacksaw and knife to provide some homogeny to the otherwise unscrupulous boughs and build a thin-walled box. That fell through mid-September with only four limbs being anywhere near the quality of cut lumber. The design I'd drawn up on the back of a pastry wrapper started to feel like a pipe dream. With an exhausted body and a depressed mind I made my weekly run into town. Here there was a bit of relief as I walked away with unusual spoils. My coat pocket held greedily to the special treat of discolored chocolate I had found among the throwaway, while my fingers clutched two jugs of soured summertime lemonade unsuited for the changing weather. On my way back a little stack of recently stripped wooden siding caught my eye. The wrapper blueprint filled my vision and my mind slapped the new exterior over it. Vanity overrode sense and I dropped the jugs to pick up the stack. My arms went numb from carrying that much, but the blood rush afterwards brought forth a wonderful idea: What if I built my home from the salvage yard that was society? After all, nothing exemplified self-reliance more than creating treasures from the trash of one's surroundings. Fall began prematurely and my wanderings were filled with the crunch of leaves underfoot. Every house in town was either ancient and leaning or ancient and fallen. From the occupied abodes I gained siding, roofing tiles, and nails. From the abandoned ones I tore whole pieces of thigh-thick black lumber. After a few discouraging looks from passers-by I decided that night would be the best time to operate my recycling program. This became easier as winter approached and the sun relinquished more and more of its territory. I was puffing like a steam engine all Halloween night, dragging a crossbeam whose weight was at least the equal of my body. When I stopped to gasp, a gang of masked adolescents jumped me with rocks almost as sharp as their cruel remarks. Fortunately, they scattered once my sobs became loud enough to attract attention. I wanted to chase them down and give them the sternest explanation of my modus operandi I'd ever conceived. But the spirit of the holiday and presence of my heavy prize kept my head cool and my legs moving inexorably toward the wilderness. The blueprint hung nailed to a nearby tree as I erected its chocolate-smeared vision. My wood pile was stretched to the limit but my determination knew no bounds. Speaking of bounds, the creek that made two out of the wood's four borders turned out to be full of the most useful refuse. Bungee straps, nylon rope, and one very handy ball bearing that I used to check if things were level. The cold had already started to set in but I stayed warm working nonstop to make my dream home. By the first frost its walls were up. By the first snow I was layering a mix of shingles and wet prairie grass on the few overhead beams my scavenging had secured. Mud is a great insulator so I didn't hesitate to stuff it into every nook and cranny where I felt even the gentlest breeze. To complete the creature comforts I installed an old Franklin stove I'd found in a collapsed farmhouse and ran a pipe through the roof to vent it. Don't ask how I got the stove out into the woods, just follow the long trail of sled marks. With that installed, I had built everything to the blueprint's specifications and then some before Santa arrived. It was such a change from my previous winters. I cooked my can goods without fear of the wind blowing my little stick fire out, slept without fear of an animal outside my tent, and had room to stretch out after my weekly commute. I even started to consider inviting a guest over to admire my work and socialize. The grocery trek of New Year's Eve contained this last hope. I knew of only one other person who lived the life of a true frontiersman, though his frontier was the train yard on the opposite side of town. I would have to entice him with food, so I headed for the back of the grocery store. My journey there was slowed by the sight of fluorescent curiosities sticking out of all my former salvage sites. In the yards of occupied homes stood signs that said "No Trespassing" or "Neighborhood Watch." The abandoned ones had yellow tape strung all over their ruins: "Police Line - Do Not Cross." I wondered what kind of awful crimes had been committed in my former stomping grounds, but the chill in the air hurried me to complete my task and return to my forest manor. What surprise I felt when the train yard frontiersman was waiting at the back of the grocery store. He came up to me with the most congenial toothless smile and told how my exploits had reached his ears some weeks ago. Elated at my own notoriety, I invited him over at once and at once he accepted. Carrying our spoils in a shopping cart he'd acquired, we chatted and slapped each other's back all the way to the woods. In a last-second spark of vanity, I made him close his eyes as he passed through my home's threshold. Only when he was surrounded by the warmly lit cabin did I allow him to open them. I saw the emotion I desired: envy. We sat across from each other in twin folding chairs I had dredged from the creek and launched into philosophical discussion while the stew came to a boil. That's when a knock at the door interrupted us. I opened it to find a police officer standing there in an oversized winter coat, with his hand on an oversized pistol. Behind him stood three more men, all civilians, but armed nonetheless. Behind these men were dozens more people of every sex and age. It seemed like the whole town had come out to marvel at my work. The train yard frontiersman pushed me aside and squeezed past the officer without the latter moving a muscle. He ran up to one of the three men who then placed a wad of money in the frontiersman's hand. The police officer refocused my attention by inviting himself inside. Envy filled him so that he immediately kicked over the stew into the fire below. The cabin descended into darkness and winter's chill soon followed. I was thrust out into the arms of the three men, who then threw me onto the ground. The crowd beyond moved upon my home with tools in their hands. Hammers of every size, crowbars of every color, and expletives of every flavor tore at my work. I pleaded until I was hoarse, yet they continued unabated. What took me months to build took them an hour to destroy. A pickup was brought in to haul the pieces they found valuable. As quickly as they had arrived, so too did they depart. Cars and trucks started in the distance and carried the mob away. I was left on the hard earth, crawling around to pick up the splinters. My original blueprint stuck out of the ground like a fallen banner. I pocketed it and journeyed into the wreckage. The stove was gone. The food was gone. The roof was gone. The walls were gone. The floor was gone. They had even punctured my tent. Nothing, I was left with nothing. A pickup returned at dusk. I had settled on curling up to die from frostbite and was very upset by the interruption. I leaped to my feet, really and truly angry for the first time. With pocket knife in hand I ventured out to meet the returning intruder before I realized that she hadn't been with the last group. I put away my knife and approached her with as many salutations and verbal niceties as I could think of under pressure. She said that word had gotten to her concerning a cabin of the most ingenious design. I replied that such an assessment was correct, an understatement even, but that the lauded structure was no more. She let out an expletive and confessed that she had really hoped to see inside. I felt that I had offended a fellow architectural connoisseur. Without stopping to breathe I recounted the pillaging of my home by the barbarian townspeople. She shook her head and told me they were just envious of my self-reliance, adding that an assault against a man's modus operandi should be against the law. Tears stung my eyes in the bitter cold as thanks poured out of my hoarse throat. Then something passed her lips that sounded quite foreign to me. I must have stood there looking dumbfounded because she said it again and again and again. She got back in her truck and opened the passenger door. When she spoke again the words finally became real: "Last chance, the spare room is yours if you want it.


The wheels on Carmella’s accord squeaked as she slid into the spot. She checked her phone again to see what town she landed in on maps. Riftons, Tennessee. She didn’t want to drive anymore today and the signs on the roads told her it’d be a while before the next town. So she figured she’d stop here and get a drink at the first thing that looked like a bar. Then, when she was done drinking she could get a hotel room for the night. Kent wouldn’t mind if she stopped. He always had her leave for gem shows early to give her time not only to drive them but to give her a day of freedom before them. If she stayed here tonight and finished the journey tomorrow she could check into the hotel in Richmond and still have most of the day left to relax before the show the next morning. It was chilly outside and she rubbed the arms of her gray sweater as she entered the bar. She expected more of a transition from the afternoon sunlight outside. But the room was well lit, clean, and most everything in the building looked new. Shiny taps sat behind the lacquered bar. Brand new stools lined the expanse of it. A bartender leaned against the counter behind the bar in a relaxed way stroking a long, full, dark beard. He absent mindedly watched the television and didn't look up when she entered. She sat a few seats down from a petite dark haired beauty who got up when Carmella sat down. “What can I get you?” the burly attendant asked her. “Whatever red is good here. You can start a tab.” Carm handed him her card and he shuffled off to take care of the drink and tab. As he set the wine glass in front of her the tiny vamp returned and sat right next to Carmella. They both looked over as a couple entered and sat in a booth off to the side and started looking at menus. The man in the couple locked eyes with Carmella’s seatmate and Carm mused on how they might know each other. “Mind grabbing me what she’s got Francis?” a deep voice trickled from the wet looking oxblood lips of the girl next to her. “Sure, Angelle.” and he poured another glass from the bottle he opened for Carm. Carmella said nothing but watched as the pale creature swirled the dark liquid before taking a sip. “I haven’t had red wine in a while. Sometimes you forget how good it is.” She said looking right at Carmella. The bartender she addressed as Francis shuffled off to talk to the couple who had flagged him down. “Not much of a wine drinker?” Carmella asked dumbly. What else was one supposed to say to an unprompted conversation? Especially when the person who started it was so distractingly beautiful. The woman next to her chuckled. “No, I usually like the harder stuff. But change is good every once in a while. I’m Angelle by the way.” “Carmella.” and she offered her hand out to shake. Four more patrons come in and Angelle regards them in the same fashion as the man before. Eyes lock without a word of greeting. She turns back to Carm and lightly clasps the offered hand. Her skin is scorching… Carmella thinks to herself. “Nice to meet you Carmella. What brings you out here? I’m assuming you’re just passing through? There’s literally nothing to see here. And anyone who lives here stays. No one moves in. No one moves out. Riftons is where people are born, bred, and die.” The dark eyes Angelle regarded Carmella with were filled with humor. “Ah. Yes. I’m just staying the night. I have to get to Virginia tomorrow for work. I drove up from Texas and I just can’t drive anymore today.” “Texas? That’s a bit of a drive to Virginia. What do you do? Why drive instead of fly?” “I buy gems wholesale for a store in Dallas. And I don’t know. I guess I like to sightsee. My boss doesn’t mind. Says it almost makes no difference in expenses and he likes making his employees happy.” Carmella conveniently left out the part about her fear of flying. She’d much rather die in a fiery wreck than trapped in a giant tube of metal high above the ground. Carmella ordered another drink. As the wine flowed, so did the conversation between her and Angelle. More people arrived as time passed too. This bar was different from any one horse town dive Carmella had experienced in the past. Most established town bars were dated. But this place provided a posh hipster vibe. Everyone who came in was young. Angelle seemed to recognize the people who came in but never said a word to anyone except Francis and Carm. Eventually Carmella stopped questioning the strangeness of this all. How everything seemed to defy her expectations of what a small old town should be. She looked down at her phone. “Jesus is that the time?” she slurred out. She had been here for hours and the bar was packed. Everything was shifting and seemed to get brighter and hotter. She was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. “Carm, I think maybe it’s time to cut you off.” Angelle laughed at her above the crowd. Angelle waved down Francis. “Hey let me settle our tab. It’s time.” she shouted. Carmella giggled and grabbed her purse. “I’ve got this.” Angelle stopped her. Carm was too drunk to protest. She needed to get to a bed. The heat of the bar and the lights were giving her a headache. And they only seemed to be getting brighter. “Let’s get out of here.” she mumbled into Angelle’s ear beyond her long dark hair. Carmella slumped into Angelle and let her guide her. There were so many people. Angelle twisted and turned through the crowd supporting Carm. Her body radiated heat. It was too hot. Why weren’t they out yet? “Angelle….” Carm mumbled weakly. “Shhh… we’re almost out. It’s time. You’ll be out soon.” “Time?” Carm questioned. Suddenly the lights were too bright to stand anymore. “Stop!” Carm yelled. “I want out. I want to leave. It’s too hot. It’s so hot.” She started to push Angelle away but her grip tightened. Then everything and everyone stopped. They all turned toward Carmella. All in sync. Unprompted and unexpected. “It’s time.” Angelle reported and her body began to glow. Carmella struggled against Angelle’s gaining heat with alarm and panic. Her gaining brightness. Everyone around her started to close in. Their bodies shimmering, the luminescence gaining. Carm dropped to the ground and covered her eyes while she sobbed. She couldn’t block out the light. It was consuming the very essence of her. The heat enveloped her senses and she could no longer think straight no matter how hard she tried. Humming started around her and a uniform chant began. “It’s time. It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.” Carmella felt hands lifting her up. Then she felt her body float of its own accord. She was completely bound and she never saw the roof open above her. Didn’t see Angelle’s form next to her floating past the top of the building. She didn’t see the capsule she floated into. A bright, white, tiny sun. That night, several towns in Tennessee reported a large, unidentifiable light floating above what was supposed to be nothing but woods. This wasn’t the first time strange things came from this patch of woods. They were expansive and empty. Just trees between one town and the next. Reports of mysterious lights would happen every once in a while. No one talked about it, but the old timers in the area knew you avoided the roads which passed through those woods. People who traveled through never came back. No one ever knew what happened to Carmella. She disappeared off the map. No trace of her car. Her boss reported her missing eventually but there was no trail to follow. She was simply gone.


The Green. A continent-spanning forest filled with genetically modified flora and fauna that grew aggressively, and could only be brought to heel by fire. The predators within the Green could rip a man outside of titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor in half. Then there were the ones who could rip a man inside that armor in half. The foliage was thick, barely room enough for some men, with the only way to traverse the Green had been by foot, or by air, with ground vehicles restricted to the confines of the Corporate run cities along the coast. What patches of the old roads and byways exposed to sunlight were rare and far between. Fur and Meat were the prime resources exported by Frontiersman who wished to live beyond the security of concrete slabs and steel. With different laws to follow. Different rules to live, and die by. The Corporations traded for medicine and luxuries, as well as their blue-tinted bills in order to keep some economic wheels rolling in the vegetation-covered ruins of the Old World. Then there were the Cults. Worshipers of Mother Nature, and Primal Father, who attempt to spread a blight of humanity to their own kind in an effort to return all to the soil as they belong. Sometimes it has been hard to tell the difference between Frontiersman trying to survive, and the Cultists trying to turn you into mulch or meat. It was a hellish place out here in the Green. One was threatened by the wildlife, money, or blind religion to plants and carnivores as soon as one stepped out beyond the gates. Baldr Grimskyn was called a Hunter. Hunters were men who wore titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor, the tanks of the modern era. In the armor, he stood nine-foot-tall and was armed with a hardened titanium steel bearded great axe of the Danes in one hand, and an under-mount snub nose minigun beneath the other. The armor and the weapons were decorative, shining silver that gleamed at what little light that found its way to the grass floor, and inlaid with gold. Even the ammunition pack and the feeder that fed the fifty-five caliber, explosive tip anti-carnivore rounds matched the finery of the armor. Despite the decorativeness of the suit, it was enough firepower and augmented might to take on a small armor of conveniently armed men and women. And the Hunter in it did not want to be in the Green. They knew better than to be here. They had gotten out six years ago, after witnessing Corporate Greed and Frontier Honor clash at Buffalo. Yet here Baldr Grimskyn, or Grim as the nameplate on his chest identified him as, was, with ten Patrolman in more conventional arms following after. The Hunter was here for one reason and one reason only. There had been a murder, and Lapis-Fernum Industries needed someone outside the Corporate World to investigate it. Lives were cheap to the Corporations out within the Green, and it only meant that an asset or employee of the company had been slain by others within their Corporate World. They gave Grim the basics, Patrolman went out with a Hunter for a two-week patrol beyond the Exclusion Zone. It had been standard practice to attach a Hunter to such patrols when one expected to run into something more than lunatics or the infected. The Patrolman, composed of Red Raptor Security Personnel, returned two days later without their Hunter. Officially the Hunter died fighting a pack of Predators, giving the Patrolman time to run. Yet the Hunter’s transponder was supposedly damaged, making the highly coveted Power Armor unrecoverable short of a coordinated search. With whatever killed them still there. This was not the first time that has happened with the same group of Red Raptor Mercenaries. Hunters dying heroically saving this one group, with the Transponders somehow becoming damaged and lost. As mentioned, they were the modern-day tank, when such military vehicles had been rendered completely obsolete. Corporations would sink millions to try and recover such armor, even if it would go to the next kin, or even buy the salvage in order to keep the armor in service to their City, and their Corporation. But, Grim was not here for that either. They had not traveled far from the confines of New York’s Exclusion Zone, much to everyone’s relief in that regard. Grim, despite not having been outside of his own block for six years, picked out the first clearing of trees from the air, then had been lowered five stories to the knee-high grass of the forest floor. It was the first sign of a man-made shelter near the patrol route, and Deitric Allenwulf, the victim, would have noticed the signs and brought their attachment of Patrolman over. That had been the normal routine in patrols, seeking out human life and judging if they were hostile, or to be ignored. Regardless, such a place would be added to an ever-changing map of the Green. Currently, as Grim and their Patrol approached, it was a blank spot. Deitric had been an intense man, they lived and partied hard. They swore vehemently with every other word and had an unpleasant attitude towards those around them. The man was a jerk, a pessimist, and never had anything positive to say about anything. They were good Hunter, never leaving a Patrolman, or a Frontiersman behind, never once turning down a job even while complaining about the pay. Within the Walls, they were an insufferable prick, out in the Green, they were someone you wanted at your back. Deitric even badgered Grim, on and on, trying to get the man to go back out beyond the wall, which turned into heated arguments over why he bothered. Grim stepped around a tree that was as thick as four men in power armor, stood over Deitric’s slumped body against it, and regarded them with mixed emotions. “I should buy whoever killed you a drink,” One the Patrolman heard the filtered words, and blurted out, “Sir?” “Nothing to you,” Grim turned their helmed head forward to survey the clearing within the wood. “We are here,” It had been a residential area once, a long time ago. Grim could barely make out the neighboring houses due to the wild vegetation that clung to the domiciles like possessive children. The one that had been occupied recently had freshly cut grass and far view vines spidering up the side of a faded yellow home. Several burnt tree stumps dominated the front yard, and a tin fence could be barely seen towards the back. The door had been patched with metal, and the stairs leading up to it were made of cinder blocks. The roof had a deerskin nailed down to cover the holes from the rain. The skull of the prey-animal lay atop the rusted ruins of a car in the driveway, taking up much of the roof. It was a six-point deer, with several bullet holes decorated the side Grim could see. Wolf claws and teeth reinforced the carriage door, as long as a man’s forearm, bound together by leather strips and metal wiring. The occupants were Hunters themselves, apparently, just not as well equipped as Grim or Deitric had been. It impressed the Power Armored wearing man, who knew how tough Wolves could be in large packs. The Patrolman flooded into the area, with a few standing over Deitric’s body. One leaned over to inspect the armor, careful not to touch it with their hands. “They ripped out the transponder, and it looks like someone shot him clear through the visor with something armor-piercing,” “A Bear Rifle, point-blank range,” Grim reported. There had been no rage in their filtered voice. It had been calm, unnervingly so, as it always was in what little interaction he had with the Patrolman. Though there was a quiet rage in their tone, the Patrolmen knew it, they all knew the signs. Like one of their supervisors who was quietly berating them when a normal person would be screaming at the top of their lungs. They all could see the similarities between the armor the dead, and the living Hunter wore. Deitric had snarling Wolf’s head for a helmet, bared teeth lunging for a throat. Grim’s helm had matched their voice, calm with a studying gaze sizing up their prey. They were the same wolf’s head, simply carved into different expressions. With the same calm voice, Grim gestured with the axe towards the house. “Encircle the clearing, keep me covered,” There had been no verbal argument, but some exchanged looks with one another. They were here for the suit and nothing else. Grim approached the house and tested the door. Finding some resistance, the Hunter stepped back, and wedged his axe deep into the metal, before ripping the door, and the frame, right off the house. Crawling in, Grim found the place cramped, being nine-foot-tall in the armor, and he had to slouch ever so slightly or scrape his head on the ceiling. The floor creaked beneath the feet, barely holding the half-ton of armor and weapons, but it held. Thankfully, there did not appear to be stairs, he would need a Patrolman then, and Grim was under strict orders not to include them. The room Grim stepped into had bodies, zipped tied, and executed where they stood. Grim loomed over the bodies, mumbling to no one as he did so. “No green eyes,” Grim listed to the air as he gently, and with great care, handled the dead before him with a single power-armored encased glove, “No scaling on the skin, no Type Three. No vegetation in the wounds, or roots securing them to the floor, no Type Two,” Standing up as best they could and focusing on the zip ties, the Hunter gestured with their axe. “Zip tied, and executed so no Type One,” “They were not infected with the Dryad, and I do not see markings, or iconography to the Mother or the Father,” Then, slowly, Grim panned their helmet from one side of the room to the other, ensuring to linger over what would be valuable. “There are trinkets scattered around the room, weapons, and munitions that could have been flagged for salvage,” Stopping at a fur lumped onto the floor, Grim reached down and hoisted as much as he could up to their visor, and scanned over it before turning it loose. “Wolf pelt, I judge about six figures worth, maybe less considering its damaged, so the cause was not burglary,” With the same controlled care, Grim reached into a thick side pouch and pulled out a thin, golden chain with a heart-shaped locket at the end. Setting down the axe, and with a single digit, the Hunter opened the locket, revealing a holographic projection that flickered to life. A Father, a Mother, and a Little Girl. The house was the background, with all three wearing colorful shirts of blue, red, and pink. They were smiling, enjoying their life out in the Green despite the dangers. There were three males here, no women. The first room had what he sought, the Mother, and the Little Girl. What lay within was a nightmarish crime that, momentarily, made Grim close his eyes, and suck in a lung full of air. Yet Grim made sure to be facing the contents of the room for a long, long period of time, before backing away and exiting the house. Only two words escaped Grim’s helmed head as he passed by the Patrolman in charge, “Burn it,” and the Hunter did not linger to oversee the action. Grim headed straight back to the ropes attached to airships that still hovered above, not wanting to be here at all. The ride back had been an uncomfortable three-hour trip. Grim had to weather the journey under an Executive Cutter, latched on by cables designed for that very purpose. They had stopped long enough to scrub the power armor down in quarantine, ensuring to remove any pollen or seed from the surface of the armor. A quick search through pouches, registering contents to forms, submitting to a viral scan, tedium on tedium that Grim bore in silent annoyance. Then it was back unto the Cutter, where he would be flown directly to his home near Central Lake in the Heart of New York’s Entertainment Block. The flight over the Exclusion Zone was the worst part, and it made Grim’s stomach sink to look down between his dangling feet. Five miles of mute gray asphalt, bordering the thick gray wall and the towering City they both protected. Nothing living had been allowed to exist nor linger here with a stack of security clearances from five different corporate holdings, and twelve different badges. Spurts of fire could be seen from roving patrols of men and women who had volunteered for the work or had been volunteered. They put anything green to the flame, grass, weeds, or even stray branches fallen from the high trees that tower over the walls. Yet other than the soft glow of flamethrowers spitting fire, there was no light below. Just vast darkness that clung to one’s soul just as tightly as roots grasp at the ground. Ahead, and approaching fast, had been the comforting glow of New York City, the largest city in the Conglomerated States. It was a second Sun to Grim, who had no desire to leave the creature comforts of his apartment. As Grim was whisked towards his final destination, a communications beep warned him of an incoming call. A long, slow sigh escaped from his lips, and Grim simply stared at the indicator on his screen. He did not want to talk to this person as much as he did not want to find Deitric’s body. Finally, Grim rolled his eyes, and gruffly asked, “Yes?” A man in a corporate suit appeared on the screen, and though their face was impassive, Grim could not help but comment. “You look mad, Mimgari,” Mimgari ignored the observation and started speaking, their tone formal and business-like, with very little in the way of emotion. Mimgari was Chief of New York Law Enforcement, owned and operated by the Lapis-Fernum Industries, and was dressed as such. Behind the sharply dressed man had been a wall of flickering screens from viewpoints of Detectives performing their duties. They were too many to focus on, and it hurt Grim’s eyes to try. “The Department of Justice has finished watching your footage and rendered a verdict two hours ago. Your footage?” Mimgari paused a moment, and arched a brow, “It was, thorough,” “And?” Grim asked, knowing already where this was going. “We pressed charges for the death of a Contract Employee and the Sabotage of Equipment due to be forfeited to Lapis-Fernum holdings,” Mimgari stated, tilting their head to the side to study Grim’s reaction. There was none, the expression the Hunter gave the Corporate Law Enforcement Officer had been boredom. “The Hunter Guilds will be informed of our Investigation, and the Red Raptors Security Firm will be further penalized by association. However, because of the scene of the crime, I was permitted to investigate further in order to seek violations within the City itself,” “Vincent Doul,” Mimgari announced, holding up a data-pad and read off of it, “The rest of his Red Raptor squadmates will be working the Exclusion Zone for the next five years, they can’t afford the half-million credit fines, Vincent is the son of an Executive Member to Beltross Barony, who had to resettle here in New York after their Warehouses burned down in Buffalo,” “How sad,” Grim quipped sarcastically. Mimgari continued on without a nod, smile, or acknowledgment of Grim speaking, “Vincent posted the fine, but he is still in our custody for the moment. As of half an hour ago, Detectives found fifteen lockets like the one he tried to sneak in. They were not even hidden, just hanging over his bed like trophies. Two of them belong to women who were raped and murdered years ago, but they are well beyond the statute of limitations so all we can do is consider their cases solved. The rest?” Grim, knew exactly why, “They lived out in the Green,” “In Vincent’s words, people die in the Green every day, who cares about more plant food?” Mimgari said with a hint of disdain in a monotone voice, “When he was interviewed, he considered the half-million a slap on the wrist. Currently, we do not have a murder weapon to match the cause of death nor evidence that they killed the other Hunters, so we have to let him go,” “Of course you do,” Grim replied with a bit more disgust than he wanted to show. “Interesting, however,” Mimgari again arched their brow, “That an invitation to the Wolf’s Den was found on his messages,” Now, Grim straightened, locking eyes with Mimgari. It was the first time in the exchange that Mimgari offered any sort of smile, let alone a knowing one. Grim, after a pause, offered a single demand. “Give me his File,” Landing on the roof on the Wolf’s Den, Grim exited his Power Armor while on a Freight Elevator going down. They made sure to fish out the locket to study as they headed to their penthouse apartment to change. What they wore had been a simple, yet elegant, soft velvet blue long coat with a matching suit and vibrant green spectacles. The Wolf’s Den had been the limelight of New York’s Central Lake, an artificial lake that, according to myth, replaced a large swath of trees and bushes that once rested in the center of the city. The Wolf's Den, a twenty-four-hour establishment where the party never stooped, overlooked the lake was highly successful and almost always packed. The lines of people winding around the block were still entertained with holographic projections of vegetation decorated key locations of where they once stood. Live plants outside of an Agricultural Tower had been illegal within City Limits for as long as anyone remembered, and fewer still have ever seen a real one up close that was not already on their plate. Grim lived on top of the Wolf’s Den, and exited a hidden elevator into a virtually empty VIP room reserved for himself, and guests. In here, they could peer out into the twisting crowd dancing to the latest fad in music without being seen, nor hearing what was being played. One person, another corporate man in a suit, sat at the end of a long blue table that uniformly matched the color of the room. Seeing Grim, the man, Vincent, stood up, but Grim waved them back down, “My name is Grimskyn, I own this place,” Grim introduced himself, and opened the door to the hellish noise beyond, making a motion for someone else to approach. “And I, Mr. Vincent, owe you a drink,” “Excuse me?” Vincent asked, rather suspicious. They had just been fined a considerable amount of money and suspended without pay. Somehow they knew Grim was connected somehow. “And why do you owe me a drink?” A waitress entered and passed Grim a wine glass as she walked on to Vincent to place the cup on the table before him. Soon, the woman walked out, giving Vincent a playful grin before departing. “Wine, straight from Rome itself,” Grim explained and held up their own glass. “You killed Deitric Allenwulf, that Hunter you got fined for out in the Green,” Instantly Vincent became wary, looking at the Drink before placing it down and away from himself. “I did no such thing,” “I was at the scene of the crime itself, Bear-Rifle through the faceplate.” Grim observed, pointing at Vincent, “You should have aimed for the gut, let him die slowly,” “I take it you and Deitric were not on the best of terms?” Vincent asked nervously. “I was at Buffalo during the riots, Deitric suckered me into a job that I really did not want to do,” Grim noted, now indicating the sea of people beyond the glass, “The credits I earned bought the old club here outright, and I still had more money then I will ever need to spend,” Vincent’s eyes glossed over a moment, and their mouth gaped, “You’re Grim!” “Unfortunately,” Grim conceded with a nod of his head. “You owe me more than just a drink then,” Vincent said angrily and snatched the wine glass up to sipped at it. “Did they tell you who my Father is?” “Not really, not interested in your Father, just you killing Deitric,” Grim said indifferently, and held up their wine glass, “Thanks for killing a right bastard,” “You really did not like him did you?” Vincent asked, reluctantly holding up their glass to toast as well. “Are you even going to ask me why?” “Nope, I honestly don’t care,” Grim answered bluntly and did not partake in their glass as Vincent drained theirs. Instead, the Hunter placed it down, then asked, “How is the wine?” “Bittersweet,” Vincent grunted. Without a flourish, Grim tossed Vincent the heart-shaped locket. It was caught and open, projecting the dead in front of Vincent’s eyes. Stunned, Vincent looked up, and Grim had a golden pistol already aimed at them. Shot after shot rang out and hit its mark, unheard and unwitnessed by the crowd. Vincent screamed in surprise and then fell silent as Grim emptied the magazine with slow, deliberate shots. The elaborate pistol clicked twice before Grim tossed it away in disgust. Looming over the body, Grim snatched the locket up and spat on the corpse. “That was for the girl,” Sitting down, a small crew in corporate jumpsuits with LFI branding on the sleeves, entered the room and started to surround the body of Vincent. Before they did anything, Grim spoke up, gesturing to the corpse. “Toss that into the Green,” “And if someone from Beltross Barony comes asking questions?” one of the men asked. “File a report that Vincent went out with another Patrol, trying to hide from the Guilds,” Grim responded without hesitation or thought, “Cultist shot him dead in a firefight,” “Think that will cover it?” With a roll of his eyes, and pocketing the locket as he stood, Grim answered, their tone dismissive, uncaring if it was enough to cover anything. “First, when the Guilds find out that Vincent’s little group murdered Hunters, the Red Raptors not being able to score contracts with the Guilds will be the least of the problem. Beltross Barony Board of Directors would not dare challenge Lapis-Fernum Industries in any of its Cities, much less challenge the Guilds. Not after Buffalo.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Rainy Day** **“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” - Roger Miller** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Rainy Day’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #Feedback on the Micro Monday feature If you have not yet filled out the feedback form, please take a moment this week and fill out . Thanks in advance!   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #Spotlights - - Submitted by u/Badderlocks_ - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/ATIWTK - - Submitted by u/Lexistential-Crisis *Thank you so much for all the votes!* ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.