The sky is bright, it has to be. Whenever the ball of flame falls under the mountains an arsenal of bright lamps switch on, if they don’t… The shadow people have been tormenting us long before I was born but not infinitely, nothing goes infinitely. The reason behind our infinite day is that since we refused shelter to a witch when she was being burnt by the sun on she cursed us by ensuring we have to keep the light on and would suffer the pain of the sun, always . Wherever the smallest patch of darkness touches the shadow people will gather, we’ve had to demolish all of our buildings and crawl on the ground to ensure the lack of shadows and death, the last attack was just a month ago, a child, most likely 7 in age scoffed at our warnings of the shadow men and ran into the forest chasing a fox, his mother was horrified and ran in after him despite her husband’s protests, he was overjoyed when the mother and child were seen again but he committed suicide when he realized they were only wisps of smoke flitting at the edge of the forest, unable to get in. We teach our children the stories and warn them the rules, unfortunately when an attack hasn’t happened in sometime the children will always disregard the warnings as myths, and a few of those fearless children will wander off and ultimately be lost… or not, through countless losses we have realized that all the children and people who are lost are often seen wandering the edge of the forest, and the families that have lost always speak of how they are still alive and can be saved, that is until a sister of a recently fallen attempted to communicate with him, unfortunately she was brutally dismembered. Since then all speculations and theories have been kept silent and secret. And now to the present. A man has just entered the town, a man that could very much jeopardize the lives of us all. He wandered in one day, we don’t know which day of the week, we don’t have the sun setting to indicate the end of a day, its just always day, never night, it can’t be night. He came in and we decided to accept him since he seemed like a man with nowhere to go and surely without a light he would surely die, however on the first night he was here he poisoned our children’s minds, talking of huge metal towers that reached the clouds and of a land where no shadow men appear and the people fear nothing. It has been a month since the arrival of that man, even the adults have started to become fearless and clamor him for stories, I wish we could kick him out but the village thinks it’s not our right to push a man to his death, even if his thoughts and teachings are harmful to the community, however the rate of the disappearances of our children has reached the sky however the man still has power over the peoples minds by hypnotizing them and saying the children just went to his world and chose to stay, but I know otherwise and I will act on it. I have devised a plan, I will get rid of this stranger so the safety of my village will not be compromised, I will place a blanket over him when he sleeps so that the shadow men can get him and he can see how wrong he truly is, there however is one problem, there is never not at least one person awake and the ground is flat to avoid shadows so killing him would be a challenge, acquiring said blanket would also be a challenge as the town has banned anything that might cause a large enough shadow to tempt the shadow men, so I began. I started to weave and dye, roll and spin, the only sheep we had in the town have long been killed so I had to create a piece of cloth using a loom, in which would take weeks, I would work long through day without break, whenever people saw me I would tell them it was a gift to the traveler, and it was, in a sense. When I was done I almost didn’t want to sacrifice it for the disposal of the traveler but I knew I had to, you see, through the time I weaved it I had to make it look beautiful in order to fully deceive the villagers, it was a beautiful thing with lakes I’ve never seen and mountains casting long dark shadows over the land, it was fitting… in an ominous way as the traveler and his vivid stories was the only reason I know of these unseen sights. I decided to take a rest before carrying out my plan and so I laid down to take a nap, by the time I woke up most but not all of the people were sleeping, how lucky, I attempted to lift the blanket but the weight surprised me, it felt as if someone had attached lead weights to it! Perhaps it was guilt of having to kill a human life, nonetheless, I dragged it over to where the traveler was sleeping and 1…2…3! I threw the blanket with all my might onto the traveler and waited and waited, nothing. i had expected tearing of flesh and screams of agony, what was going on?! The traveler was beginning to stir and I panicked, in a hurry I pulled the blanket over myself and attempted to hide, my mind racing as I waited, I heard the shuffling of feet and squeezed my eyes shut, when I heard the traveler’s footsteps become fainter and fainter I tentatively opened my eyes and screamed in shock of what I saw. A hollow mass as dark as the night I’ve never seen enveloped my entire being, but I immediately overcame my shock when I felt the searing pain on my leg, I tried to pull the blanket off me but it stuck as if it was plastered to my skin, in pain I screamed and screamed but nobody came. Turns out I did see flesh being torn apart and hear screams of agony that night…just not from who I expected.


Back when the world was young, the morning skies promised adventurers excitement in undiscovered lands. Hilda, a tall, stout woman, dressed in nothing more than a loose tunic and short trousers, was one of those adventurers, having traveled years, far from her home in the north. She hadn’t wanted to be an adventurer at first. Her people kicked her out for her love of dancing, and every other place she visited wanted nothing to do with her. Over the years, though, she had grown to enjoy her adventures. At this time, however, she was tired and hungry and needed a place to regain her strength, and thus, found herself on the outskirts of a village. The people of this area were smaller and fairer than Hilda; quick and slender, and given to much dancing. Knowing this, she worried how she would be received, wishing she too, could dance with them. Hilda fashioned a hooded cape from her travel blankets and pulled it close around herself. She bent her knees and stooped as far as she could to appear short like the villagers and so, made her way to the market. As she passed the villagers, they carefully made way for her and greeted her politely. She nodded at them in what she hoped was a friendly enough gesture. At the market, Hilda spoke as softly as she could to hide her gruff voice, and ordered what was, for her, a light lunch. “I’d like one of the roasted hens, a basket of greens, and a loaf of rye bread, please.” The vendor looked at Hilda, and then at the rising sun. “Venerable lady,” he said, believing her to be ancient by her stooped posture, “it’s a warm morning. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable loosening your cloak?” “Oh no,” she said, “my customs require modesty, and I must stay covered at all times.” The man gathered her food and waited for payment. In order to avoid showing her large, dark hands, she said, “Take the money from the purse that hangs at my waist, plus an extra copper for your trouble, and put my goods in the sack. I lost my gloves and cannot expose my bare hands.” He took the money he was owed and put her purchases in the sack she carried over her shoulder. “I hope you enjoy that meal with your friends,” he said, “as it seems you have enough for four. My name is Henri. If you require anything else, ask for me by name.” “Thank you, Henri,” she said. “I am Hilda. Do you know where I might find a room?” “Priscilla, the shepherdess who lives at the end of this road, has a spare room,” he said, “for a low price. Tell her I sent you.” “Thank you again, and I hope your day is profitable and as pleasant as you are,” she said. Hilda made her way to the end of the road, her stooped posture tiring her and making her joints ache. At the end of the road she found a cottage next to a field where sheep grazed. A broken-down barn, fallen fences, and overgrown brush marked the edges of the field. While she was trying to decide how she would pay for lodging, the shepherdess approached. “Hello, grandmother,” she said. “Good morning, Priscilla. Henri sent me,” Hilda said. “My name is Hilda and I have travelled far.”  “Are you in need of a place to rest?” “I am,” she answered. “Are you not over-warm in that heavy cloak?” Priscilla asked. “My customs require modesty, and I must take care to stay covered at all times.” “You can sleep in the loft. It’s two coppers a night, unless you can clear the brushes from the field,” she said with a wink. “I can clear them,” Hilda said, “but I must do it at night, and no one may watch me, for I fear for my modesty.” Priscilla seemed unsure but agreed to let Hilda clear the field that night. “There’s a shovel in the barn you can use,” she said. Hilda went into the cottage and up to the loft, which creaked and groaned under her weight. In short time she had finished the chicken, greens, and bread. The bed was far too small, but she lay down curled up to sleep until the middle of the night. Rising when she was certain Priscilla was sound asleep, Hilda made her way out to the field. Once there, she removed her cloak and stood up straight. With large, clawed hands she ripped the brush out of the edges of the field, all the way to the woods. She was about to return to the cottage when she spied a wolf sneaking toward the sheep. Hilda pounced on the wolf and tore its heart out with one swipe. She left the wolf carcass with the pile of brush and snuck back into the cottage. When Priscilla woke, she found the wolf with the pile of brush. “She must have used the shovel to kill it,” she thought. She left a few coppers on the table with a note to Hilda that it was payment for ridding her of the wolf. Hilda returned to the market, to buy another meal from Henri. “Henri, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said. “You as well, grandmother. I had a very profitable day yesterday, indeed. I believe it was the smile you put on my face that made my customers happy.” They repeated the previous day’s exchange, Henri taking the money from her purse and putting the goods in her sack. This time, she told him to take two coppers for his trouble. Hilda sweated terribly under the heavy cloak, but she dared not reveal herself for fear of not being accepted. “If you are interested in a wolf pelt,” she said, “Priscilla has one from a wolf that was threatening her sheep. She would probably part with it for few coppers.” “Thank you for the news, Hilda,” Henri said, smiling broadly. “I’ll collect it later today. Enjoy your day.” Back at the shepherdess’ cottage, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or for repairing the fences. Hilda looked at the fences. “I can fix them, tonight. But no one must see me work, as I fear for my modesty.” “Of course,” Priscilla said. “There’s a hammer in the barn you can use, along with nails, posts, and rails.” That night, when she was certain Priscilla was asleep, Hilda snuck out of the cottage. She gathered the nails, posts, and rails, and carried them out to the field in one large bundle. Working as fast as she could, she tore the rotting posts out of the ground by hand and replaced them with the new posts, pounding them into the ground with a single strike from her fist. With her thumb she pushed the nails in to hold the rails in place. She was returning the left-over nails to the barn when she saw another wolf sniffing around the field. She pounced on it and smashed its head with one blow from her fist. Hilda left the wolf with the pile of old posts and rails and snuck back into bed. The following morning, Priscilla found the wolf and thought, “She must have killed it with the hammer.” Again, she left a few coppers on the table for Hilda. When Hilda returned to the market, Henri had her food ready to go, along with a bundle of cloth. “Lady Hilda,” he said, “I know you value your modesty, but that cloak cannot be comfortable in these warm lands. Please, take this gift.” The bundle of cloth was a cloak and gloves in a lightweight linen. Hilda wished she could show her smile to kind man. “Thank you, Henri. You are too kind. And with your cooking skills, you must be the catch of the village.” “It’s a small thing,” he said, “and I need room to start gathering furs for winter.” “Priscilla has another wolf pelt she would probably sell you for a few coppers.” “Thank you, Hilda. I’ll check with her later today,” he said, his smile threatening to extend beyond his face. Hilda returned with her bundle and changed into the light cloak. It hid her as well as her heavy cloak. The gloves were far too small, but she could put just her fingertips and claws in, and by being very careful could make it seem like her hands peeking out from the cloak. That afternoon, Priscilla offered the room for two coppers, or the repair of the barn. “I’ll repair the barn,” Hilda said. “But no one must watch, for I fear for my modesty.” “Of course,” Priscilla said. “I am curious how an old, bent woman with such a soft voice like yourself can do such heavy work, but I will respect your customs. There are nails, a hammer, planks, and a saw in the barn.” That night, Hilda snuck out to fix the barn. She cut the planks to length with a sharp claw and pushed the nails in with her thumb. In no time at all the barn looked fresh and new, and the old planks were piled next to it. Another wolf crept into the field, moving slowly toward the sheep. Once again, Hilda pounced, and with her claws cut its head clean off. She left the carcass next to the old planks and snuck back into bed. When Priscilla found the wolf in the morning she thought, “She must have used the saw to kill it.” Again, she left a few coppers for Hilda on the table. Hilda collected her coppers and went to the market in her new cloak and gloves. Despite not overheating, the stooped posture and bent knees were taking their toll on her. Henri greeted her with her lunch, packed up and ready to go. “I see you wore your new cloak,” he said. “It looks far more comfortable.” “It is, Henri. I can’t thank you enough.” She carefully handed him coppers for her meal, plus three extra, and took the bundle from him. “Priscilla has another wolf pelt,” she said. “I’ll go round and collect it this afternoon,” he said. “The big village dance is tonight. Will you join us?” “I love to dance,” she said. She realized, however, that she would be unable to dance while stooped over and hunched. “But, I’ll have to see.” “If your joints are too tired, there’s always a warm place by the fire to sit and listen to the music,” he said. “We shall see,” Hilda said, then returned to the cottage. “I do not have any work for you tonight,” Priscilla said, “but if you’ll come to our village dance, I will let you sleep in the loft another night.” Hilda considered it. Priscilla and Henri had been nothing but kind, and the other villagers she passed in the market each day shared that trait. “It would be an honor,” she said. The entire village turned out for the dance, held in Priscilla’s newly rebuilt barn. Musicians played a lively jig and the villagers danced and frolicked. Hilda wanted so to join them, but there was no way she could without showing herself, so she sat by the fire and tapped her toe to the rhythm. It was during the late hours of the night, the party still in full swing, when a clamor arose from the edge of the woods. A boy ran into the barn, shouting, “It’s an army! Come to raid!” “What will we do?” Henri asked. “They’ll take all my goods!” “And all my sheep!” Priscilla added. “There’s no use,” the mayor said. “We can’t fight them! We’ll have to give them what they want.” Hilda threw off the cloak and gloves and rose to her full height, her gray-green skin shining in the firelight, and her long tusks gleaming. “No!” she exclaimed in her full, gravelly voice. “I wouldn’t let the wolves take Priscilla’s sheep; I won’t let these dogs either.” She ran out of the barn, her steps thunderous, and yelled defiantly at the soldiers, “Come try to take it! I dare you!” The villagers stood stunned as she slashed and pummeled the entire army with her bare hands, sparing only the cooks, the medic, the drummer boy, and the animals. An ogre had been staying among them for days, but they didn’t know. “She’s an ogre, she should go!” the fiddler exclaimed. “No!” Henri and Priscilla said at the same time. “She has been helpful,” Priscilla said, “clearing my fields, fixing my fences, killing the wolves that would take my sheep, and repairing this barn. And she has been nothing but polite.” “This is true,” Henri said. “She has been an absolute delight each day in the market.” “We should not shun someone just because of their looks,” the mayor said. “If she wishes to stay, she is welcome as long she would like.” Hilda had been listening to all this and smiled. She did like the idea of staying in the village for a while, at least. “If she wishes to join us,” the mayor said, “she can join in this next dance!” The mayor signaled for the band to start back up and the people began dancing again. Overjoyed, Hilda joined in, her steps light and agile despite her huge size. They danced until the early hours of the morning, then Hilda went out to clean up the battle site. She built a huge pyre with the old slats, posts, and rails, and used the brush for kindling. She gave a reverent funeral for the fallen soldiers. The cooks, medic, and drummer boy were offered a wagon and an ass to leave if they chose, but having been pressed into service, they all chose to stay. In the morning, Henri and the mayor came out to talk to Hilda. “I see the army left fourteen horses, six asses, two oxen, and four wagons,” the mayor said. “Those are yours, as the spoils of combat.” “I have no need of any of them,” she said, “but would like a place to build a shelter where I can stay when I am not adventuring.” “The land between my field and the forest, which you cleared the first night,” Priscilla said, “belongs to no one. I’m sure the mayor would let you claim it and homestead there.” “Yes,” he said, “that is now your land. Do you need help building your house?” “I can do it myself,” she said, “though I would like to trade these animals for some milk goats, a few hens, and a bed.” “I can make a bed big enough for you, with a blanket and pillow,” said the carpenter, “for one of the wagons.” “I can provide six goats for one of the asses,” said the goat farmer. “I will give you eight hens,” said the fiddler, “if you can but accept my apology. I was wrong.” “I do accept your apology and will give you an ass as a sign of good faith.” Despite her protestations, the entire village stayed to help her build her house. The sawyer provided all the lumber she needed in exchange for one of the oxen. The blacksmith provided the nails in trade for a promise of the first cheese she made from the milking goats. Others provided labor, and a large lunch for everyone on the promise of Hilda not leaving too soon. So it was that in one day Hilda’s cozy cottage, and pens to hold her goats and hens were completed. The furniture maker brought the bed in his new wagon, and she had the first comfortable sleep in days. She stayed until she had traded away the last of the spoils, then met with Henri in the market. “I must go adventuring,” she said, “but I will return before the new moon.” “I had something to give you,” he said, “but if you must go, take this with you for good luck.” Henri gave her a ring he’d had made, large enough to fit her massive finger, yet still delicate in its design. “Is this a declaration?” she asked. “It is,” Henri said, “if you would have me. If not, keep it anyways, as my feelings will remain unchanged.” “Why?” she asked. “When you were hiding who you were, you were polite enough,” he said, “but no one could tell anything more about you. Now that you are yourself, you are a wonderful woman, ogre or no, and any woman who can dance the way you do is the woman for me.” “You will have your answer when I return from my adventure,” she said, her heart light. When she returned from her adventure bearing a sack of gold and dragon scales, she married Henri, and he moved into her cottage. There she lived to the end of her days, bar the occasional adventure, repairing fences and barns, clearing fields, killing wolves, chasing off raiding armies, and, once a month, dancing with the rest of the villagers in Priscilla’s barn.


The police sirens filled the night with noise and light. Red and blue illuminating the street as the yellow tape was strewn about the building. Aaron Pulitz stepped out of his old car. He took a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, pulled it out, breathed in the poison, then dropped the rest of it to the floor stomping it out with a hard boot. Aaron had never thought his career would lead him here. The bakery on 3rd Street. A small building which usually had a large window to show off the tons of cakes and other baked goods. But now it was broken through. As if something had broken out of the window. Leading away from the cracked window was a long trail of blood. Aaron had come to this place before when he was just a beat cop. He could see it now the old tight uniform encasing his at the time, less pudgy form. He would always get a cherry danish. His mouth watered at the thought. He wondered if while no one was looking he could just help himself to a little nostalgia. Aaron walked away from his car and ducked under the yellow tape to get a closer look at the window. As he approached, he noticed the looks on the other faces. Some looking away, others bent over, globs of spit and vomit dripping from their chins. He sniffed the air and had a hunch as to why. The air smelt like rotten meat and well vomit. Aaron walked to the other detective on the scene (a rookie) Dan Barns. His collar was undone and dribble fell from his chin to the small gut which poked out from his button-up, it stuck out just enough to catch the falling spit. "What happened here Barns?" Aaron asked placing one hand on Barnes' shoulder, the other clutched his waist. Barns sat with an unknowing expression. "They said this shit got bad sometimes, but holy fuck." Barnes said covering his eyes with his hands. "Alright, bud," Aaron said back to Barnes. "What is going on in there," Aaron asked pulling a cigarette from his left pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a small box of matches he pulled from his other pocket. He placed the matches back into his pocket and looked at Barnes while puffing on the cigarette, the end of it turning red. "Y-you just got to see it yourself," Barnes said getting off the hood of the police cruiser he sat on. Slowly he composed himself, pulled up his pants, and headed for the bakery door. "The cops got the call about an hour ago, some bullshit about a break-in but when they got here they saw the front window and the blood. After that, a few guys went in and came out faces white." Barnes went on as the door to the bakery opened Aaron looked around. The floor was stained red, small footprints (more than one set) lead to the window. The counters looked unclean and cluttered. Flour spilled everywhere some of it mixing in with the puddles of blood making a thick paste. "Finally I went in and well.." Barnes stopped dead and stared at Aaron, his eyes filled with fear. Aaron could feel the energy of unnatural terror radiating from him. His heart began to beat hard and adrenaline began pumping through his veins as Barnes stared through him. Aaron turned towards the only room in the place that was illuminated. He could see the large blood splatter that decorated the green wall in the doorway. A small Edison bulb hung inside the doorframe. Aaron walked on determined to figure out what had happened here. He calmed himself with thoughts of past crime scenes. He had endured. severed heads and more blood, and piss than a person should ever have to see in one lifetime. Once in the room, he saw the stairs leading down to a stone basement the blood trailed up the stairs, and in some of the puddles, he could see small logs which he finally figured to be small fingers. Small handprints decorated the walls. He continued down the tail of his trench coat dragging through each puddle as he went down. Finally, at the bottom, he stopped. His hand gripping hard against the railing which clung to the wall with rusty nails. His pupils grew small and his stomach turned. The walls were covered in blood. Chains decorated the walls each cuff too small to fit the hand of an..adult. He walked on stepping through puddle after puddle. In the larger room, there were three doors the first seemed to be a butcher's room, the walls decorated with knives, and sat on the cutting board was a slab of meat the skin of which seemed to be only a few shades darker than the skin on his hips. His mouth began to taste like every danish he had ever purchased from the shop. The second room seemed to be a kitchen, stoves lined the walls, kitchen knives and pans hung from jagged nails. The oven was opened in it was a small smoldering pie. The last door was closed but as he got closer he could smell the rotting meat. He walked to the room, opened the door, and felt up the walls next to the doorframe. Slowly he moved a finger onto the light switch. He hesitated, his heart beating. He was scared. In 15 years of work, he had never been scared to turn on a light. He flipped it on and stared. The walls were covered in blood. In the middle of the room stuck to a post was a small boy a clever stuck in his chest, holding him against the post. On the ground next to the boy was a large man wearing a mask, a pair of meat scissors sticking out of his chest a small bloody handprint engraved to the side of the blades. He stared for what seemed like forever. In the same room sat pastries and danishes, all decorated with cute little sprinkles some splattered with blood. On the table sat a large book opened to a page with a familiar picture. He stared at the book vomit falling through his lips. The book read: " Raspberry danish. Ingredients: 1. Raspberries 2. Children's blood..." Aaron held his midsection and could feel it turning and shaking. He was watching his teeth sink into danish after danish each one becoming part of the small paunch that sat on his waist. His eyes began to twitch and tear up. He turned from the room and walked back up the stairs, he walked past Barnes and the others. Straight to his car, he pulled his cigarettes out of his left pocket with shakey hands, the other hand dug into his right pocket pulling out his matches shaking a few out of the box as he dug into them. As he lit the cigarette in his mouth he read what was left on the glass window. "Bakery on 3rd: old family secret." He thought about the empty chains and the dead man. One question sat on repeat in his mind. "Where had the secret ingredients run off too?"


Cardboard shoe boxes tower high the walls of our cramped entrance hallway of the apartment on East 23rd street. The ones I need are in a large box at the bottom of this wobbly pyramid. I hold the box above it against the wall, and using my thumb and the very tip of my pinky finger, pull the green box labelled Hoka out. A voice rings out behind me, “You have ten pairs of shoes in the hallway. I think you need to get rid of a few.” “But I need to rotate my shoes to protect my feet,” I say defensively to my wife Melissa. “Ten pairs?” I can’t see her face as I’m still pushing the boxes against the wall to prevent the pile from collapsing. That would be a mess so I better simply agree. “Ok, I’ll throw one out.”

When we first met, I was a bit resentful about how controlling she could be. But lately I have been reading of the need for spouses to simply be heard. It’s understandable, isn’t it? If you wipe your forehead and say “it’s hot today”, and the person you are talking to doesn’t echo the same emotion, and says something different like “look at that Great Dane!” you will probably feel a flash of irritation. Didn’t he hear me? Does he disagree?  What did I say wrong? Still holding the stack of shoe boxes against the wall, I successfully slide it down to a safe landing. I put on the Hoka shoes with a maxi-protection extra thick stack. I feel three inches taller. So this is what it feels like to be 6 feet. “Those shoes don’t match your running shorts,” she says, frowning. This isn't negotiable. “It’s a 50 km race today. I need to wear these Hoka Speedgoat 5s to protect my knees.” “Everyone we know is going to see you. The other runners will have matching outfits. I don’t want my husband to …” I wave my hand dismissively. “Remember? The MRI showed my knee meniscus is partially torn. It's more important to protect that cushion in my knee than to look fashionable.” “You are 38 years old. I don’t think it's a good idea for you to be running this much.” “It keeps me healthy.” “Call me the second you finish, to let me know you are ok.” "Will do Lizzy." After hearing my agreement, her face loosens. "I'll make you your favorite meal when you are done,” she says, and we give each other a quick hug before I leave. Sitting in the F-Line train on the way to Central Park, immersed in the metal-against-metal screeching of the train making its way uptown, I think about why I spend so much time running. Some people practice mindfulness, or meditation, or yoga. Those don’t work for me. Two seconds after I sit down to meditate or hold a yoga pose, I wonder why I am doing this and my mind races to people and places and plans. They say in the modern world we overuse the planning part of our brain, and making us feel stressed. We only need to get a few things done each day, but that part of our brain that makes plans keeps churning and churning like a coffee grinder that has run out of beans.

Better to “live in the moment” they say. Running does that. One foot after the other. The need to vigilantly scan the New York City walkways for obstacles keeps me focused. On the positive side, people that I might feel threatening are now just scenery that goes past when I’m running. I’m invisible except to the other runners, who often give me a quick look over or a nod and a smile. Races are friendly. People from every age, gender and ethnic group are here on the same mission. Ultra marathons attract a special sort of non-conformist. No one seems to have put any thought into matching their running shoes, shorts, and jerseys in the crowd that gathers to run the Hudson Valley 50 km. I wish good luck to a few strangers, and then I see someone I know well. “Good to see you here, Joe!” I say. “Same here. I'm running this to get ready for the Hard Rock 100 in July." I look down at the black sports tape covering his left knee. “ACL tear,” he says, “The doctor told me to stop running, but I keep going.” I nod. “A friend of mine recovered from that." A white lie, he recovered from a simple ankle sprain. I hide my schadenfreude that my meniscus injury seems more manageable than his ACL. A horn blares, and then the run begins. Soon, we’re running over the George Washington bridge toward New Jersey. I see the greenery and the high cliffs created from the seismic shift that lifted New Jersey two hundred feet higher than the New York side of the Hudson River. As we climb the steady incline of the bridge, Joe gains distance and steadily disappears amongst the swirl of runners ahead. I concentrate on the rhythm of running. I try to maintain a steady distance with the woman in the pale yellow Lululemon shirt ahead of me while I let my thoughts float to other daydreams about seismic shifts, nature, and the meaning of life. We've reached Palisades Park, the halfway point, and spread out string of runners does a large meandering circle through the park following the arrows taped up at every junction. From the heights above, we descend on a trail from Hawk's Nest to the Hudson River embankment. On one downward leap, we knee wobbles, and then I feel it bend like butter and pop out to the right side in a horrifically unnatural position. In the next instant, I’m rolling down the stairs. Over and over, uncontrollably. Then the pain hits me. I scream. Laying on the ground, a few runners just go past without saying anything, but soon one of them stops and calls for help. After a long wait, I'm being transported to an ambulance in a blur of pain, panic, and passing out. An EMT gives me a sedative and everything goes black. An unknown period of time later, I awaken. The lights in the room are bright. I smell the antiseptic sharpness of a hospital. Taking in my surroundings, the first thing I notice is how cold I am and that I’m wearing paper pajamas for some reason. While I’m still taking processing what's going on exactly, a nurse walks in. “Oh you’re awake? I’ll let them know,” she says, and then leaves the room. Soon, a doctor appears, walking in together with my wife Melissa. They look at me with concern. The doctor says, “Hi Jake. While you were in the emergency room, we took a few X-rays of your legs. It appears that low bone density, combined with all the running we’ve heard about from your wife, has weakened your knee joints and hip sockets.”

He pulls out a laptop and shows me a colorful looking diagram. He moves a scroll bar and points at things I don’t recognize. I didn't realize x-rays are colorful these days. “Looking at this slide, your fall has shattered your femur and right hip socket. We will do our best to put things back together. But currently there's a chance you will never run, or walk, again.” “That can’t be true,” I say, my voice shaking. I’m gripped with a deep sense of panic. “Our physio will teach you how to use a wheelchair, and in the meantime your wife Melissa can help push you.” I look at Melissa. “Great!” she says, smiling. “Now I can keep an eye on you every second.”


This is a strictly satirical piece (and my first time writing one). I harbor absolutely no ill will toward Stephanie Meyer. Well, besides that one time she wrote a bestselling saga that spawned five movies resulting in hours of my life that I now can’t get back. /// “What’s your name?” “I-it’s Ella,” I stutter, though despite my hiccup in breath, my voice is melodious and dazzling. And seductive, too. But also, virtuous. My fellow peers at the cafeteria table look up at the exact same instant. They blink simultaneously. They all lean forward to cup their chins in their hands. And then they lock their eyes with mine, enraptured by my husky but smooth, alluring but righteous, enticing but noble voice. There’s Ike and Skylar, who both stare at me unblinkingly. The young men have eyes only for me, drool dribbling from the corners of their mouths. Their saliva pools upon the cafeteria table, dripping off the edge and onto the floor, until their shoes rest in puddles of spittle. There’s Jessie, too, who gazes at Ike. The knife she’d been using to smear cream cheese over her bagel sits clenched in her hand. Slowly, she swivels her head toward me while keeping her body turned to Ike, until her narrowed eyes burn into mine. When I look in them, I see orange flames instead of pupils. She draws her index finger across her throat as she stares at me, jerking her head toward Ike, who continues to look at me, the saliva still accumulating on the floor. So, because Jessie indicates that my death is imminent the longer I look to Ike, I shift my eyes to Skylar. But Angelique looks at him shyly, eyes fluttering between the table and Skylar over two thousand times in less than thirty seconds. So, I look at the ground, which seems to be the only safe site for my eyes to rest. They all look at each other for two minutes and thirty-six seconds, shifting eyes and looking up through their eyelashes and glancing away and not speaking at all, because teenage conversations often involve inscrutable and obscure scrutiny rather than actual human discourse. Eventually, they stop, and all turn toward the cafeteria doors, again at the exact same time. I look up. The lights in the cafeteria suddenly dim. A spotlight shines on the doors. An orchestra appears out of nowhere on the right side of the room and begins to play a slow-building, luxurious piece. “Don’t look,” Angelique whispers. She looks wide-eyed at the doors, unblinking, mouth open in a perfect “o”.

Five people walk through the doors. They are…remarkably beautiful. Unnaturally so, in fact. Actually, they’re just downright disturbing. Seriously. Like, what is wrong with them? Who looks like that? And how is nobody else in this cafeteria besides my table perturbed by their sudden entrance and sickeningly white skin and black eyes and ridiculous hair styles? As they walk in, everything slows down. Dammit. I scowl sexily but virtuously as I try to wrap my fingers around my drink to take a sip of water, but they only move at a rate of one inch per second, so it is rather slow going. My scowl is elongated well into the next scene, in which I slowly lift my head once more to stare at the five individuals. But my eyes latch onto only one. He is the last of the five to enter the school cafeteria. I stare at him in wonder. Slowly, so slowly, his head turns, and despite the spotlight shining directly into his eyes, he stares into mine. My heart thuds in slow motion as we lock gazes. His eyes are pitch black, which should be frightening, if it weren’t for his wonderfully chiseled body. Really, that’s all I can look at, so it’s no matter that blood drips from the corner of his lip and onto the floor, leaving a trail behind him. His biceps are sturdy and brawny. I have eyes only for the muscles underneath that sickeningly white skin (the color of which I ignore). And though his irises are black and he’s dripping blood and his skin is disgustingly pale and he has the darkest bags under his eyes that I’ve ever seen and when he smiles I see actual fangs, it does not matter, because his body is just simply godly. The moment our eyes meet lasts forever. I never want it to end. And for seven beautiful hours, the moment goes on. We stare…and stare…and stare… Finally, the orchestra packs up their instruments and the lights turn on once again. The five individuals sit down at a table. They sit with straight backs, not looking at one another, simply staring into space. And though they avoid gazes, I can see their hands rubbing each other's thighs beneath the table, which is perfectly normal, so I look back to their faces. The one that stared at me grips his hand––the one that is not stroking the leg of one of the other men beneath the table––so tightly that I can see it shaking and trembling. His eyes keep swiveling toward me before he glances away just before making eye contact. It’s not strange or creepy at all. “Who are they?” I whisper sexily but virtuously. “The Sullens, of course,” Jessie snaps at me, rolling her eyes so hard in her head that I see the whites of her eyes before the flames return. “Can you die now, please?” The Sullens. So that is their name. The bell rings, and I stand up to walk to my class, finally ripping my eyes away from the godly man. And, as I step forward, I suddenly trip over nothing at all, falling dramatically, the floor inching ever closer to my head–– Suddenly, he is there. The godly man. He picks me up before I can hit the floor, swinging me into the air for a moment. He sets me on my feet. “How did you do that so fast?” I ask sexily but virtuously, breathless as I stare into his black eyes. “Because I’m definitely not a vampire or anything. Just a regular guy, obviously,” he says smoothly. “Oh. Of course." “Can I suck almost all the blood out of your body until you're seconds away from death before I realize what I'm doing and somehow overcome my raw biological instinct?” “What?” “Can I walk you to class?” “Yes.” I stare into his beautiful demonic eyes, ignoring how his lips curl, displaying sharp, pointy fangs. He leans down, inches away from my nose, staring down at my neck. I’m sure it’s because he wants to kiss it. “Okay,” he hisses. He doesn’t move. He simply continues to stare at my neck. And then he leans down and sinks his fangs into it. But it doesn’t matter. He’s just too gorgeous for me to care about such a trivial issue as my death.


A/N: Trigger warning. This story contains character deaths. When you leave this campfire tonight, don’t take Goat-Man’s Bridge on your way home. Four teenagers found this out the hard way. They were out, bored with all their usual activities, and one of them dared the others to drive to Goat-Man’s Bridge so that the two couples could make out and lure the Goat-Man out of hiding. Legend has it that Goat-Man attacks couples that kiss on his bridge and shine a flashlight. Even people who haven’t seen Goat-Man have heard his scream on the bridge at night, a scream that can turn your blood to water. He doesn’t “baaa, baaa,” he screams. Everyone who lives near Goat Man Bridge knows to lock their doors when that scream echoes in the night. No one dares flash a flashlight three times on the bridge, because the Goat-Man will appear. I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Supposedly dark cults used the bridge for their secret ceremonies and somehow called up the Goat-Man. He’s been around a long time. Goat-Man has been sighted throughout the United States. Everyplace has a version of the story. It doesn't matter where our story takes place. Details aren't important. The story is universal. The journey from "On a dark and spooky night" to "The end" is as life-changing for the hearer as the people in the story. The four teenagers in our story, in Anytown, USA, scoffed at the legend they'd heard all their lives, and decided to go to the bridge after dark. The drive felt like a party in itself. They were going to do something countless people had done, but no one had done and lived to tell about it. They turned off the car just before they got to the bridge. They figured that at ten o'clock at night no one would be driving over it. They walked from their car through the dark onto the bridge, their shoes making loud noises on the wooden beams. It was a still, windless night on the bridge, with no motor noises from passing cars, not even a dog barking or an owl hooting. The two couples kissed and held each other to ward off the fear, but nothing unusual happened on the bridge. Nothing happened for many minutes. There was lots of kissing, and giggling, and talking. At one point one of the teenagers, Holly, turned on her music on her phone, but her boyfriend George had her turn it off. "This only works in complete silence," he said. "Then we shouldn't talk," Mike. the second boy, said. Scratch. Scratch. Thump. "Mike, stop," Alison, the instigator, hissed. "My shoes are killing me," he groaned. Thump. "Ahhhh." "Anyone else need to go barefoot?" George quipped. Holly shook her head. "I already am." They sat in complete silence. Thump. Thump. "MIKE," everyone yelled. "Wasn't me," Mike snapped, his voice quivering. Frightened, Alison said, “Let’s leave now.” "Oh, great plan, everyone will know we chickened out," Holly said. "None of you are posting this or livestreaming it, right?" George asked." 'Cause we all made a pact." "Uh-uh," everyone said. "Technically we haven't started yet, we could leave," Mike said. Holly raised her chin and took a sip of water. "I'm not backing out." "I got my flashlight all ready and fired up," George said. Mike raised a hand. "I'm game." Alison seemed to draw strength from the peer pressure. "Okay. George, light it up." They walked a little further before George found the perfect spot and switched on his flashlight once. Silence. He turned it off, then on again. Still nothing. A third time the light flashed off, then on. They walked past the center of the bridge, going toward the other side. Mike's attempt to hum the theme from "The Twilight Zone" got stopped in a hurry. A thick fog appeared on the bridge. The flashlight went out.

Clomp, clomp. The clatter of two hooves on the bridge, pitched squeals and grunting laughter made the teenagers freeze on the spot. Out of the fog and the dark loomed something…horns, vicious teeth in a smile. A goat’s head. A man’s naked hairy chest. Burning red eyes. Then, he screamed. An inhuman scream. A scream that could kill plants. Three of the teenagers knocked into each other and tripped over each other as they sprinted across the bridge. Alison, who suggested the eerie ordeal, stood hypnotized as the creature came closer. Gallantly, George with the flashlight charged back, his feet creaking the bridge boards. The fog jutted out and vanished the girl and boy in front of their friends’ eyes. A scraping sound made the two that were left retreat.

Concerned for their friends, they turned back to see the fog had disappeared, and so had the couple on the bridge. Only the flashlight remained, its light revealing the young couple hanging from the side of the bridge – or rather, what was left of the pair. The bodies scratched and scraped the metal sides of the bridge as they swung from one of the struts. The teenagers who were still alive screamed.

Their screams attracted a passing police car, because someone had called in the unusual activity on the bridge. An anonymous citizen, a Good Samaritan. Someone who hung up without identifying themselves. The local police found Mike and Holly in hysterics. To this day, Mike and Holly have never spoken about that night. They moved from the town shortly after that fateful night, and some say that they mysteriously died as well, because the Goat-Man followed them. Adding to the fear after that night, the police never caught the attacker, since they believed the teenagers died accidentally by slipping off the old bridge. After that night, the teenagers never spoke of their friends. Some passers-by in the weeks and months afterward changed their routes because of scraping noises outside and the ghostly outline of bodies hanging from the bridge. Then there was the clomp of those hooves… Wait. I think I hear them now.


“Aren’t you getting a little sick of this, man?”

“Sick of what?” I shoot back to Barren, confused by what he means. “Wandering through miles of wilderness? It keeps us in shape.”

“Sick of this,” he repeats, motioning with wide arms at everything around us. “At all of this. Is it worth it? It gets old after a while. Don’t you ever want to do something else with your life?”

We leave our horses behind us, heading to terrain they can’t enter. A shallow river lay before us like a writhing snake. We wade through the creek bed. Our boots are a symphony of swishing and crunching through water and river rocks. I think over his question, but a good answer escapes me. Didn’t we spend our whole life getting ready for this? This is our job, after all. It’s not like we can quit because we’re a little tired today. What about the gold? How will we support our families back home? What is he even

saying? If we leave this position, we will just have to find another. At the end of the day, at least what we do is flashy. I mean, when we walk into taverns,

people talk. “I think it’s worth it,” I say, my voice comes out unconvinced. “We’re a few of the lucky ones. We climbed our way up the ladder. We were given titles. We should be proud of ourselves, shouldn’t we? There aren’t many of us left from our village back home, you know.”

“And why do you think that is?” he counters. “I’ll tell you. Those left of us are the only ones stupid enough to work under these conditions. Everyone else, with half a brain rolling around in their head, already jumped ship. It’s a fool’s errand, Melvin. I’m telling you.”

“But we save people, Barren. That means something, doesn’t it?”

He says nothing as we continue our trek under a starless sky. The air is a thick swamp of heat. We’re submerged in the kind of humidity that makes breathing feel more like suffocation. Our heavy chainmail isn’t helping matters. I have so much sweat underneath it, I could fill a barrel. The stench is something I hope never to bring home with me. My wife will leave me for the town’s bread maker, I’m sure. Barren holds a torch in his right hand as we march forward toward the caves. The flames spit and claw at the air as they go to war with the darkness. The sounds of our swords clink against our waists as we continue to take note of everything in our surroundings. Any moment could be our last.

“And what about Vivian,” I continue to badger him, “You never would have met her had you chosen any other purpose in life. You saved her. You’re a hero! Think of your father-in-law and the land he gifted you with. You have honor where most people go hungry.”

“Land I never see,” he interjects. “A woman I never touch. Think about it. This god forsaken business takes us all over the land. For guts, for honor, for glory. It’s all sickening after a while. Sometimes,” he quiets for a moment. “I just want the simple things. Don’t you?”

“Simple things?”

“I don’t want to work for somebody else. I bring all this honor home and get sent right back out again. It’s a vicious cycle. We’re nothing but slaves with showy titles,” he kicks a large rock in front of him and watches as it skitters from the torch light into the darkness. “I missed Honora’s second birthday, Melvin. I missed her second birthday and that’s right after I missed her first one, too. She doesn’t even know her own father!”

I have nothing to say about this. He’s right. His words sink into my flesh like a blade piercing through organs. I think of my dearest Eleanor at home pregnant with our first child. This is what it will be like for me, expected to run out on an expedition any time our lord tells us to. We’re nothing more than well trained dogs. We sit when told, roll over when told, and if we’re really good boys… we’re fed treats and given pats on the head. Barren is right about everything.

“Well, what do you suggest?” I ask. “It’s not like we can return home empty handed.”

Barren lets out a deep breath, “Can you imagine Lord Ralph’s face if he had to come do what we do?”

I try and all I can picture is his blotchy red cheeks. I can see his beady brown eyes full of terror as he swings a sword around in all directions. Will he even be able to lift it? Nobility has never had to do a thing they didn’t want to do. Barren and I have been swinging swords like our lives depended on it since we were boys. Let’s face it, our lives do depend on it. Do they make chainmail in his size? I doubt the endless rolls of his stomach would fit into any kind of armor that would protect him out here. He’d die in seconds.

“He’d never make it,” I tell Barren, and he belts out a hearty laugh in agreement.

We listen to the trees groan and creak against a steady breeze blowing to the east side of us. The moving air is the only thing keeping us from being slayed ourselves by unbearable heat. These conditions

are

ridiculous, I admit to myself now that he brought it up. I consider asking if we should set up camp for the night but think better of it. The more ground we cover tonight, the faster we can return home. If we survive, that is. “All I’m trying to say is how pointless it is,” Barren calls out. “We are out here risking our lives and someone else gets rich off our backs. The last few times we returned he gave us a fourth of the riches we were promised. Trying to secure goods in town keeps getting harder and harder. The prices go up, the work isn’t getting any easier, yet our pay is never what we’re worth. We work long hours away from our families. We’re told from a young age how glorious this life will be, so that we spend every second preparing for it. We take lessons in sword fighting and compete to see who can be the best. Even if we become the best, what then? Is this really

the dream ? Quite frankly, old friend, it wasn’t what they promised. Instead, it’s rather… exhausting.”

We continue in a sobering silence. It isn’t what they promised at all. What a fool I’ve been, working myself into the ground on endless expeditions. Chasing after riches and God knows what else. Is this really the best way to spend my time here on this luscious green earth? It’s not like I can take any gold or honor with me to the grave. After we die, everything about us dies too. Some memories last longer than others, but eventually, like small grains of sand, we all drift away in the end.

“I have a dream… do you want to know what it is?” Barren asks me, voice full of thought.

“What is it?”

“I’d like to take Vivian and Honora to a place far away from here. Far away from the politics and the toxic games of nobility. Vivian’s father married her off to me like she was cattle,” Barren says, eyes dark and full of malice in the shadows of the torch light. “Four daughters, and all they are to him are bargaining chips. I see the hurt in her eyes every time she talks about him. He hasn’t visited her once since he sent her to me. I can’t imagine doing something like that to my precious Honora. This place is sick. Don’t you think there is a better place out there somewhere?” I can see he is confiding in me, hoping the weight he wrestles with in his mind can be lifted. I look for any kind of strength within me to share with him yet find myself debilitated. The truth is, I can’t see how running away will do us any good.

“No,” I tell him. “I don’t.”

In the distance, we see a large stream of fire shoot into the sky. A loud roar echoes. Our feet draw us forward, closer to the beast we’re meant to kill. We’ve been on so many of these trips now, I don’t feel fear or anticipation as we dredge toward our fate. It’s another day, another slay, and I miss sharing meals with my family. “I don’t think there is a better place, Barren. Humans are the same wherever you go,” I watch as he battles the sweat dripping down his face into his beard. “You know what I

do

think?” I tell him, as we move out of the water into a tall field of grass ahead of us. “I think if something isn’t working anymore… it needs to be fixed.” Barren gives a grunt of approval, and I can see the gears turning in his head. People think folks like us are all muscle, doomed to die young in the glory of battle. Our cleverness has kept us alive far longer than we had any right to live.

It’s true what I told him. I don’t think there is a place better than this. Even so, he isn’t wrong for wanting a better life for his family. When I think of the world I want my unborn child to grow up in, is this it? A world where the rich get richer, and the poorer you are, the harder it is to survive. Will my future son have to risk his life over and over again to put bread in his mouth? Will my daughter have to marry any gent off the street to ensure her own survival? Or something even worse, will my family only be concerned with what they can take while they are alive, and not what they can give? Is there nothing we can do to make this world a bit better with our meager slices of time?

Is this….

all humans are capable of? I shudder in fear, and not because of the beast we are headed to vanquish. No, this fear is for a different beast all together. I’m truly afraid we can’t do any better than this.

“I heard a rumor once,” Barren’s voice is low. “On how to train a dragon.”

I give him a look that says he is crazy. For the record,

he is . If there is one thing harder than asking humans to be less greedy, and to look out for each other more, it’s training a dragon.

“Rumors are groundless works of fiction,” I say.

“Not this one.”

“So, what? You think Vivian will let you keep a pet dragon at your estate?”

He shoots me a grin. One I know too well. It’s the same grin he gives me every single time he convinces me to do something stupid I’ll regret later down the road.

“No dead body, no gold. Those are the rules,” I remind him.

“You told me to break the rules.”

“When did I tell you that?”

“Moments ago! You said if something was broken it needed to be fixed. Doesn’t that also mean if there are rules in place doing more harm than good, they need to be changed?”

“What an incredible way to twist my words, Barren.”

I shake my head at him in disbelief, not that it does any good. He’s been this way since we were children. Always getting ideas in that thick head of his and running with them. Not without dragging me behind him, of course. Most times against my will. “What good will a trained dragon do?” I ask. “Where do you get these unbelievable ideas?”

“You’re telling me we should leave it like this, Melvin.

And

you killed my dream moments ago, saying there is no place better than this. It’s a bit of a dreary thought. The system here is broken, a predatory exploitation of humans and nature alike. Our only option is obvious, isn’t it, old friend? Tell me, what can two knights fix all by their lonesome? Even two who are inconceivably handsome, and wickedly cunning, like you and me.” “What are you suggesting? Things have always been this way,” I point out. “Our job is to slay the dragon. You’re saying you don’t want to? Lord Ralph will have our head’s if we stray from the path he carved for us.”

Barren gives a disapproving look in my direction, “Don’t you think it’s thoughts like those that keeps real change from ever happening?”

He has a point.

“I don’t know what change should look like, do you?” I question, my voice on the hesitant side. “Where would we even begin?”

“I think you were wrong earlier, Melvin. I really do,” his voice is steady despite the terrain becoming steep as we head uphill. “Humans are not all the same.”

We see the caves ahead of us. There are catacombs of them riddled into the side of a cliff so high we can’t see the top of it. The cliff is known as “Dragon’s Breath.” These caves are home to many creatures including the legendary

Vermillion Dragon . She is the last remaining female of her kind. Her head will fetch Lord Ralph a hefty lump of gold. Many have made it this far only to never return home again. Barren and I eyeball it like we’re returning home to see our mothers. The surroundings are familiar but we’re ready to be scolded at a moment’s notice. We have been here and back so many times the men at home call us, “Wyvern’s tongues.” Men who can slide in and out of what’s considered the dragon’s mouth

and  remained unscathed.

“It’s quite easy, isn’t it?” Barren continues. “To believe things will always go on this way. But I think there are more people like us than you realize.”

“More people like us?” I question.

“Of course,” he goes on. “People who see the cracks in the foundation of the very houses we’re meant to dwell in. The one’s who recognize it’s only a matter of time before the walls come down and we’re left with no choice but to start building again.”

We reach the bottom of the steep ahead of us and listen to the wind as it howls against a black ocean. It’s quite a climb up the precipice to Vermillion. We have only seen a glimpse of her crimson tail in all the journeys we’ve taken. Tonight, she sets the sky above us on fire with nothing but her breath. Her voice is a harrowing tale of all the men who have tried and failed to meet her. The rocks at the bottom of her cliff are like the jagged edges of a knife. One slight misstep and a man wouldn’t make it home for supper. We never worry about the climb, however. Unlike the many who came before us, we believe using your intellect is just as effective as using your sword. It was our first expedition when we found a tunnel at the base of Dragon’s Breath. A tunnel that leads to the inner workings of the cave system. It goes all the way to the top. Easy as meat pie.

“We’re guilty like the rest of them, Barren. How long have we seen the cracks, but didn’t do a single thing to patch them? No, worse than that. We continue to put more weight on the very homes that are supposed to house ourselves and our loved ones.”

His silence weighs as much as our armor before he gives a reply. “So, that’s it then. Humans can’t change. What do you think happens when we slay the last female dragon, Melvin?”

He doesn’t have to tell me, I already know. Without her,

their species will die. “I didn’t think killing a few dragons would get us here,” I say, voice somber. “People think they’re cruel and dangerous creatures. The reality is… our feelings toward them are only a reflection of our feelings toward ourselves. We’re the cruel and dangerous ones.”

“Aye,” Barren agrees.

“I hate when you push me into these places, Barren. When you know full well, there is no way out of them. It’s us, isn’t it?”

My closest friend gives me a deep knowing look. A smile pulls at his lips. It’s the kind of exchange where words aren’t needed. Only those who are truly in sync with one another can understand the meaning behind it. “Aye,” he agrees again. I take a moment out of the silence between us to consider all that dragons bring to the world. We look at their fire as devastating, reducing the lands we know to soil once more. We name them savages and kill them instead of learning to work with their kind. When exactly did humans start to believe we are superior to everything living and growing around us? It’s quite possible we dismissed the true purpose of a dragon all together. Perhaps, they aren’t raging beasts at all, but healers. It’s only out of new soil that new growth can occur.

“It’s ourselves, that’s where the change begins. Isn’t it,” I laugh. “It begins with you and me.” “You and me,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head before letting out a whistle. Many will come for Vermillion, seeking to put her head on a spike. I follow Barren into the deep recesses of the cave system before us. I follow him the same way I have many times. This time, it’s not to take a life, but to  save it.


I remember now, years later, that bittersweet day when our lives changed irrevocably forever. A heads up would have been nice. But, oh no, Mr Ugly Duckling had to be all dramatic and incredibly sadistic. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. This is the story of me and my family. I am called Sabrina Swan of the great Swan Family. My founding ancestor was of course Mr. Ugly Duckling who turned out to be a Swan. We were deemed to be special, a clan of Swans who grew up slowly like humans and attained ripe old ages like them...quite different from the other swans. So, we were something like royalty. Of course, I didn't think like that. Of course, that Silly Old Duffer probably did. Now, I had mixed feelings about this illustrious ancestor of mine. Granted, he thought that he was an ugly duck who actually turned out to be a beautiful Swan, but that did nothing to humble him or anything. In fact, quite the opposite was achieved. Oh the horror! I still remember those days, when That Old Boring Duck ( for to me a Duck he is and will always remain) called up his innumerable descendants as a flock to his miserable hideout. (I should have suspected something even then. His hideout! Somewhere to hide. How cunning he was!) He told us, day after day, the same old story of how beautiful he realised he was, after a long, long time. And how we would realise we were beautiful too, if we learn to look within ourselves and somesuch yarn similar to that. I would sit there, muttering curses and phrases like , 'you Ugly Old Bore!' To be frank, I realise now that he was a charismatic speaker. But therein ends his virtues. Bloody Rascal. I was named after the character Audrey Hepburn played in the movie, 'Sabrina'. Thanks to my dad, who was a house swan, and whose human 'dream girl' happened to be Audrey Hepburn. Hence, my elder sister Eliza, and me, Sabrina. My little brother was named Audrey. My father had realized by then that names could be unisex. I suppose if I had another sister, she would have been named 'Holly'. So, Eliza, Audrey and I grew up in that protected home environment with those occasional early dawn visits to That Old Bore when our humans slept. Why? Because that was tradition, said Mom. I knew she hated that Old Duffer as much as me. However, Eliza the Great and Good, loves tradition and history and all that - and I think that girl actually loved those visits. Audrey pretended to be sick at times to escape it. My dad needed his 'morning sleep' or so he said. (Are mornings for sleeping, Dad?) So Eliza, my mom and I visited That Old Bore most of the time because...I had nothing better to do. Sometimes my mom played hookey as well and I was stuck with the adoring Eliza. I did it out of a courtesy - no one can accuse me of being rude. It was on one such occasion that IT happened. The morning was bitterly cold and I was squatting halfheartedly with Eliza who was slightly bigger and slender and could fly longer distances than I. Meanwhile, That Old Bore droned on and on. (The same old story, how did he do it? Exactly the same words. I strongly suspect that if he had said one word extra, he feared that we would find out his nasty secret). I was dozing off as usual. That Old Bore likely wouldn't catch me - I was betting on my belief that he was half blind and well...he had a lot of his adoring and fawning descendants crowded around him. Like Eliza in the front row. Me, I was a perpetual middle bencher. Convenient to sleep if I wanted to and no clever back row targeting. I'm safe, I thought smugly. Wrong. Then I saw IT. At first, it seemed like there was a human standing, just a few yards away. In my half asleep state, I thought I had imagined it. I struggled to wake. Humans could be dangerous, and if a human with a gun sees a flock of swans like this one, it could be doubly dangerous. It WAS a human. And the human was looking straight at the flock. I grew uneasy. I was ready to sound the alarm. There was no need and basically, there was no time. Because, the next moment we were all changing into humans! It was a terrible sight to see. Necks and legs and feathers in all the wrong places. Yes, even That Old Bore got changed into an ugly old man with a head full of white hair and a strange mud coloured beard. Ew. I looked down at my hands. Yes. Hands. I screamed. I then saw Eliza, somehow, I recognized those eyes, yes, it was Eliza...running towards me. She was a fully grown up girl now, around 20 yrs, human age. "What the ***!", Eliza swore. Now, that was an improvement. My model sister swearing. There was again no time to register surprise or shock because That Old Bore had descended upon us and snarled, "You there, Sabrina! Here, now!" I scowled. Me? I didn't do this! Silly Old Man. It turned out that I did. It turned out that the Old Rascal was lying all along. He had been a human who got himself turned into a Duck and finally to a Swan. His whole romanticized story was a fake! (In retrospect, probably one part of his story was partly the truth. The swan or even the duck would have been a vast improvement from the Silly Old Duffer's human form. Ugh. He looked horrible.) Now, you may ask me, why we got turned back to humans at that exact moment. Because, surprise, surprise...Sabrina the Swan had turned 19 just then. And of course, as is usual in such cases, there was some obscure prophecy all along- about a descendant of the Silly Old Duffer that when she turns exactly 19 years of age , blah, blah, blah, then the curse would be reversed , blah blah , yada yada blah blah. Guess whose birthday it had to be that very day and that exact moment? My father always had fondly said I was born in the early dawn. Romantic, he sighed. Me, of course. How sweet. ( I could have killed that Silly Old Duffer right then. He called us to his little hole everyday to fill us with his lies? And now who's caught in between? Me! ) EPILOGUE: Human life turned out to be infinitely more complex than Swan life. But, well, atleast our family did well. The Great Eliza Dolittle lived upto to her namesake. She became a professor of linguistics. "Romantic", sighed my father again. I agreed. My Mom and Dad lived well into a grand old age. They kept swans! Strangely, we used the Silly Old Duffer's wealth. He had it stashed in various places. He was apparently once a good looking (I don't believe this part), wily (and nasty) man with supernatural skills- which he used against unsuspecting people. Turns out he was cursed for one his cunning little games that he played. And the last one he played it on, was...well, I'll tell you about that sometime later. Audrey surprised us all by settling down to a quiet life in the countryside with my wonderful sister-in-law and their lovely family. ( I personally thought he would become a bandit. No offense). Our house humans were astonished to find that their five beloved swans had just vanished into thin air one fine day. They survived the shock, though, and in due course,  my life again became entwined with theirs. And what about me, you may ask? I - Sabrina- whose birth happened to change my whole family's life- that too is a story for later. I bid you adieu.


***TRIGGER WARNING*** Details of abuse, rape and child lose. The cut-throat razor barely glistens anymore. Years of slicing, scraping and shaping have gradually worn it down. Made it obsolete. Its bluntness won't deter me though, I'll just have to cut a little harder. I turn it in my hand, a museum clerk appraising a lost relic, a murderer savouring the moment, a lover lost in loneliness. Your initials are almost worn from the walnut handle. I had it engraved specially, just for you, gold leafed, just for you. Everything just for you. Everything. The massacre streaked clown in the mirror looks so pathetic that a nervous laugh bubbles up out of nowhere. This bathroom was a haven of sorts, my safe space, cool, refreshing, running water to hide my tears, a lock to close away your anger. I eye the splintered, patched, smashed and repaired door frame, multiple screw holes never filled, a sad account of your determined strength. Some locks just weren't built to hold back your unbridled love. I run a hand through my thick red curls, gathering them as the executioner gathers his noose, hosting them over one trembling gibbet of a shoulder. They were always so overbearing, so demanding, so you. “Love your hair.” Your first words to me all those years ago. Fresh faced out of university, leaning against the packed bar like the world owed you something and you’d arrived to collect. Damn but you were James Dean cool. I tripped right into those ocean blue eyes of yours, sipping my cocktail to hide my stupid giggles at every one of your terrible jokes. Then you kissed me. You. Kissed. Me. Two years, two glorious years of sunny holidays, dancing, surprise gifts, moonlight dinners, it was everything a goddamn hallmark movie wants to be. Even a proposal before the crackling yuletide fireplace. But I said no. Perhaps my gut knew you better than I did, perhaps it could see through your slick greased hair and perfectly manicured nails to something much rougher. Yes I loved you, yes you were good to me, but that wasn't enough. I was only twenty three after all. I could hardly imagine a month ahead, never mind years. Then came one late period, two blue lines, and another reason to say yes. Small and fast. Not the adjectives you want to hear from your fiance's parents when planning a wedding, but they were the big city lawyers with the dinero so who was I to say no. I should have though. No to the proposal, to the holidays, to the kiss. To you. But that was my problem, maybe it's better to call it a weakness. I'd never been one for confrontation, always scared of violence. Still it found me all the same. I'm sure some second year psych student could tell me why. Maybe because daddy hit mommy whilst you cowered behind the sofa, they might say. If only I still cared. So they planned the wedding, the bride an afterthought, their special little boy front and center. Swollen, bloated and sore all over, simply the perfect combination for a perfect day in white. Although your bitch mother demanded I wear cream, the good Catholic that she is and all that. I forced a smile, we kissed, they applauded, we signed a registration and suddenly I officially became we. I never realised what I was signing away until weeks later. It was playful at first, make dinner wife, get me a beer wife, I would snigger and waddle to the task at hand thinking it all a joke. But the punchline never came. Ten weeks out from meeting our precious little boy and you came home drunk. Another late night with the rest of the rookies from the station. You called out my name in that disgusting sing-song as you stumbled down the hall, like you were some cheap horror villian. You never were cheap though. Sex. You wanted it. I didn't. You demanded it. I said no. You stared with a killer's glint. I made for the stairs. You pulled me by the hair. I screamed. You laughed, pushed, held, tore, forced, ripped, choked, came. I wailed, all night, until trauma and fatigue carried me from one nightmare to another. Searing, crippling pain woke me. Barbed wire tightening around my belly, kicks and punches coming from within. Something's wrong mammy, help me mammy. My child, my boy. The crisp bed sheets of the guest bedroom puddled in our blood, I…. The memory is too much, the blade clatters in the sink, I grip the porcelain edge sobbing for the child that never was. I didn't just lose a son, I lost the possibility of everything he could have been. I lost the 'what if'. I tear at the strap of my black velvet dress, three days was enough to mourn you. I'm done. Should have left you years ago, but I stayed for twelve years. Twelve, fucking, years of abuse followed by roses, slaps followed by kisses. But never an apology or explanation. You moved us half way across the country for a fresh start, so you could be a detective. What a shit one you were. And I took the brunt of all your failures. Always thinking it's the drink, or the pressure, or the grief. More fool me. The dress slinks to the ground and I stroke my yellow mottled ribs, your last and final kiss. I grab the razor, my hands shaking. There's no point waiting anymore. I hack, and slash, and slice. Red ribbons spill onto the bathroom floor, dropping like autumn leaves, the dead falling away so the new can begin. Blood runs in rivulets down my forehead, across my ears, stings my eyes. Look at me, a fucking shield maiden of old, barbarian here to stab and maim. Steam clouds everywhere, the shower washes away the blood, makeup, and phantom grief with it. Oh I put on a show for you darling. The perfect grieving wife by your fresh grave. Dripping, I pad across your pristine hardwood floors to the landing. Only two weeks ago I stood down there watching the men in white put out their little numbered yellow placards, bright flash photos highlighting the judging detective's glares. One of their own found dead. An accident? Murder? I was prime suspect number one. Of course. As I knew I would be. I descend past the remnants of shattered spindles, where you twisted your arm, the badly repaired plaster where you struck your back, the glorious final step where you cracked your head, snapped your neck ever so sweetly. My fingers touch the well scrubbed blood splatter that keeps coming through the paint. Stories tell us death smells bad, to me it stinks of casserole and flowers. I need a drink. You always told me I was embarrassing when I drank vodka, so guess what I reach for. Closing the fridge door I see Dolores' back porch light is on. Our little signal. She is awake and there if I need her. She's the only good thing that came from our move here. An unexpected friend when I really needed one. She knew the tell tale markers, big sunglasses, turtle necks jumpers in midsummer. She never pushed, only told her own story over our shared fence. Her husband came back from war a different man. Seems a uniform and gun change some people. Or gives them permission to be the bastards they always were. We bonded. She was the shoulder I cried on, the mother I never had, the best of friends. An ally. An accomplice. I wrap myself in a throw from the sofa and slide open the patio door. Swigging my booze I wander across the lawn to the crackling bonfire. Your suits, pictures of you, our wedding album, everything with you in it. Everything. Bye bye darling. I run my hand over my stubbled head, wince at one of many cuts, then laugh. "You did it then?" I don't need to turn to know it's Dolores, for a woman close to seventy she moves like a cat. You would never hear her enter your house, or cross a landing, especially if you were distracted arguing with your wife. "The neighbours are going to think I lost my mind," I hold out the bottle. "Let them." She drinks deep, smiles at me, puts one arm over my shoulder. I lean in. "Thank y–" "No, never thank me dear. Sure we were in the backyard saying our goodbyes. Remember?" I breathe deep the smoky air. "Is it working?" She asks, nodding towards the fire. "Strangely, yes." It was another of Dolores' ideas, she's great for ideas. Get rid of all that was you, all that held power or sway over me. Like a ceremony, cut it out, burn it away, until you are nothing but a shadow and ash. "So you feel better?" I tilt my head to the full moon, resisting the urge to howl, the night breeze gently caressing my bare, glistening skin. My edge is coming back. I smile, a wide deeply felt smile. "I feel free."


His name was Carl Hoag. Middle-aged, with salt and peppered hair with a beard he decided to let it grow out because as his wife said, “Reminded her of the day she met him. Carl was in the United States for twenty years, originally from New Zealand, but enough 90s action movies and a woman from across the world he met on a trip she made to his home country, made him realize that love is where the heart is. And his wife was his heart. Of course, life in America was different than in New Zealand, more difficult Carl thought at first, but hey, he wasn't one to complain. After a decade or so, he had his own chain of restaurants where he’d share his country's cuisine with curious Americans and youtube channels who wanted to advertise New Zealand’s most famous dish, the Pavlova. Years of study under his mother every holiday when she’d made the sweet creamy dish rewarded him to this day. On that day, Carl Hoag was ready to leave his restaurant that evening by himself, ready to go home and meet his wife Marina and his young son Shane, and they would have a quiet movie night, snuggled together on the sofa, eating Kit Kat minis and buttery popcorn while watching another marathon of his son’s favorite Marvel movies. Carl had to admit the blonde man with the hammer was quite entertaining and loved his character’s journey. He most specifically loved the sequel, about the dark elves, and grew to appreciate that in the darkest moments, good things will prevail. It was inspiring to him. The sun was already gone, leaving the once bright city, now in the cover of the luminosity of artificial lights. The traffic of downtown Chicago was bustling and crowds of people burst out across crosswalks and onto sidewalks carrying on a new schedule and the end of an old one. He was one of the old ones. To his surprise, however, Carl found Marina, waiting outside for him, whistling to him like a catcaller. He grinned as he turned around and through the lighting under the canopy of his restaurant’s outdoor area, she looked golden. Her blonde hair was long past her shoulders, and her gray eyes shimmered with gold as she walked towards him. Though she was in her forties, she still looked as young as when he met her. The two embraced and he found himself speechless for a minute. The light of his life. No light in the city, not the lights from the Navy Pier to the cameras flashing around its monuments, none could compare to Marina. They held hands as they walked to their uber, the rest of the night ahead of them filled with the familiarity of warmth.

Carl took a deep breath and caught in the world around him. Office buildings lit up through their windows as stoplights shifted from green to red, concrete glistened from light rain earlier, and up above, stars twinkled just slightly. Chicago was his home. A new life was now fully in light! He, like everyone else, did not notice it coming. As he went on to their ride home, he didn’t see, from block to block, the lights suddenly going away. He didn't see the stars be blanketed by inky blackness until the world around him grew silent. Like a shudder, his vision dropped and for a moment he thought he was asleep. That was until the screaming started. He heard a crash, a boom and hard metal scrape against concrete. Glass shattered against the ground and wet sacks pounded against each other. It took him a moment for his vision to readjust and for himself to view the world around him. There were accidents happening all around him.

“What’s happening?” Marina asked. Carl quickly pulled her alongside a wall as curses sounded all around him.

The two of them both jumped as an explosion suddenly lit the world in hellfire light and chaos sounded. “Omigod! Omigod!” Marina exclaimed as crowds of people pushed and sprinted past each other. The couple could barely hold onto each other as people scurried off past them. Some fell only to be toppled by others, while others crawled away from the gunshots in the distance. Carl and Marina stayed to the wall, letting passersby hoard away to safety. He looked up at the sky, but there wasn't any sky anymore. Buildings looked like monoliths of abyss as shrieking sounded in the distance. “Back inside! “ He yelled over the invisible chaos around him and he led his wife back towards the restaurant, to safety, or so he thought. Marina pulled out the flashlight from her phone and their world was illuminated by the horrors around him. Dark stains and debris littered the city around him. Shadows disappeared around corners as hunks of people pushed past one another for safety. He could hear people calling, pleading for help out in the distance. He couldn't stop. He had to keep moving. He found the doors to his restaurant and shut them as fast as he burst in. Flashlights strode across the place as he entered. Benjamin, one of his waiters, entered his wife's field of light. “What’s happening? “ “Is everyone all right?” Carl asked him. The waiter nodded and the couple went deeper inside the restaurant. Carl’s ears rang but he ignored it as he sat his wife down in the back. “Where’s Shane?” he asked her. “He’s back at home, waiting for us. I need to call him!” she opened her phone but cursed. “There’s no service! I can't even send him a text!”

Carl quickly kneeled and comforted his wife. He spoke in a tone only an employee would hear from him. “Listen to me. The city is fully out. Power outage I guess. We need to stay here until help arrives. We’re going to be okay. I promise.” he caressed his wife’s shoulders, trying to ease the jittery tension emanating off of her. She nodded and Carl flipped on his phone’s flashlight and left her in his office. He entered back into the center of the dining floor and explained the situation. People nodded and had hushed conversations in the darkness while Carl gathered his employees, and chefs and repeated the same. They all came to an agreement, and candles were lit and the restaurant was wrapped in a yellowish glow. Outside, fires suddenly appeared, opposing the figures and hunks of darkness fleeing for safety. Carl could hear sirens out in the distance.

It was an hour or so before the hectic aura of the restaurant died down and everyone grew to a silence.

Carl made it back to his office to check on his wife, then was back out on the restaurant floor as conversation stirred. “Could it have been an explosion?” someone asked “Maybe it was a storm?” “This is like in Wisconsin. Remember honey? They had a state-wide power outage.” “Statewide?” somebody replied. “What could cause that?” “A storm perhaps? Weather was just fine.” “I hope everyone’s okay.” “Did you hear those crashes?” “Where are the paramedics and firefighters?” “What a night huh?” “Definitely putting this one down in my scrapbook.” “Anybody else can't get no signal?” “Yep. Looks like we’re stuck here.” Carl stared across the floor before his spine grew cold. Out in the city, through the glass windows, he saw them. He thought his vision betrayed him, maybe a concussion he could have gotten from that explosion. He stared out into the window again and he saw them. The fires outside slowly started to wither away and with them, the lasting images of pale white figures, leaping on cars, and onto people. His customers saw the same. Some shrieked while other cursed prayed to themselves. The pale figures launched themselves onto people before the fires permanently went out, leaving the restaurant the only source of light left. “What the hell was that!” “Those were! OH, GOD.” The screaming from outside was quickly drowned out by the wave of darkness that swallowed the flames from outside. The scent of copper hung in the air, and Carl sprinted back off to the office for his wife. He burst through the door to find her still trying to contact their son, but to no avail. “What’s going on out there Carl?” “I don't know. But it's dangerous. Somethings out there, attacking people.” “What?” Marina stood up. “It's okay, we’ll be fine. But we have to stay in here, okay?” The yelling made both of them jump. They were both out of the office and onto the dining floor to see it.

An inky wave of darkness, took the candles out one by one. And with it, a person screaming for their life as pale figures grabbed them and swallowed them into the dark. Others scurried out of their seats and huddled backward closer to any exits, but with them came the entities. Tall, stark white, featureless except for black holes for eyes. They came out of the shadows themselves… Carl quickly pulled his wife away back to the office as the wave of darkness came towards them. Carl slammed the door to his office shut as the last of the screaming stopped abruptly. He and his wife looked back and forth from each other. Carl searched the office for any weapon he could find, a stapler, a pencil, anything! He could see his wife in the corner, whispering prayers. Then he stopped. He opened his ears. Nothing was outside. Not a crash, not a scream, no more sirens. It was like along with the light, the world shut off with it.

His wife screamed and Carl turned to see an entity in the corner of his office. It stopped, stared at the motionless. Its wormholes for eyes sucked away the light of their phones until the room was dimly lit. The specter didn't move more as it floated towards them. The two huddled next to each other as the tall figure loomed over them. For the first time in his life, Carl looked at Marina in a new way. The light of his life. He could see the last of their lights being dimmed out until they were enveloped in darkness. ----------------- Jeremy Childs screamed so loud, it rumbled the very mansion he was standing in. The Cowl of Astron, once bright and glittering with the very stars of the universe, of nebulas and galaxies, went dark. The shining chrome cowl turned to jet black as Black Pollux and her assistant Quartz burst into the room. Pollux caught Jeremy just in time before he fell to the floor. The two women stared at the boy, who was rambling on. He finally came to his senses and jolted upwards to the ceiling. He floated down and fell to his knees. Black Pollux felt herself shudder as she saw it. Tears welled down Jeremy’s cheeks. “It's almost here. It got another one.” “What did?” Quartz asked over Pollux’s shoulder. Jeremy looked up at them. “The darkness. It has another universe.”