It was 3am. Becky was still asleep in her bed, wrapped in threadbare pajamas and throw blankets of varying states of faded. It was cold, but she was warm. The room was dark, minus the occasional swirl of yellow as a car passed by. The loud noises hadn’t woken her yet. They would though, they always did. “Becky. Becky, wake up, sweetie.” A ray of light hit Becky’s eyes as they opened, blurring her vision. She knew the voice though. “Mommy?” She replied. “Come on sweetie. Come on, we’ve got to go.” Becky felt arms slide under her and reached instinctively for support. She buried her face in her mother’s neck and tightened her arms around her. She knew what came next. “I don’t think so!” A voice roared from seemingly everywhere. Another burst of light, much unkinder than the last, and the noises began bouncing around her head. Becky shut her eyes tightly and covered her ears. She felt herself moving and knew the path without looking. Out of her bedroom, down the hall, straight through the doorway and outside. They didn’t make it outside. Somewhere between the hall and the door and the words she knew you weren’t supposed to say to people, they had stopped and turned around. Suddenly, she felt herself swinging and heard a scream that matched her own. She tried to reach for something to grab on to, to stop herself, but her hand caught nothing and she landed flat on the ground, face first. She bit her lip and tried not to cry. That only made it worse. Her lip hurt though, and it tasted funny. Blood. It tasted like the time she lost a tooth. Unable to help it, she cried. The noises became louder. She felt herself get picked up and buried her face again. Her arms and legs wrapped tightly around anything they could find. She heard the familiar woosh of the door , barely audible under another round of angry words, and it slammed behind them. She let her breath out. It was okay. After a few moments, Becky picked her head up and looked around. They were walking towards the park. That seemed fun. She had been dreaming so nicely in her bed, and although this was colder and not quite the same, it could be fun. Maybe they would go to the park. “Becky. I’m so sorry sweetie. Mommy is sorry. She didn’t mean for this to happen again.” Becky kissed her mother’s cheek. “It’s okay, mommy.” she whispered. She didn’t like to hear anyone sad. “Would you like to play for a little bit?” Becky nodded. She had never been to the park in the dark before. Usually when this happened they went to a diner not too far away and got ice cream or cake. Those were fun times. They started off very scary, but they couldn’t be too bad if they ended with ice cream. Right? Off to the park they went. No one was playing on anything, and Becky felt like the queen of the world not having to wait, take turns, or share. She went high on the swing, went down (and up!) the slide as many times as she wanted. She played in the sandbox, and no one knocked over her castle. She was, however, very very cold. Playing seemed to help. As the sun rose, Becky became tired. She looked over at her mother, who had been sitting, smiling supportively at her from a bench most of the time. She was asleep. Becky sat next to her and pulled a long arm around her. It’s not a nap, she thought, if no one knows about it.


I post this as a warning. Learn from my mistake. I was in bed last night, scrolling through Reddit. I'm a fan of horror, and strangely I actually find it easier to sleep after a good scare, so I was browsing through short stories, clips and other horror-based content when I came across a post simply titled "**Don't rub your eyes**". As I began reading, half drifting off to sleep, I read a line that said "**I feel a slight tingling sensation in my left eye. It's almost not even there, except for the fact that I know it is**". The line took me by surprise, as I laughed at this attempt to unsettle me, only the thought wouldn't go away. I didn't feel anything in my left eye, did I? I couldn't tell if it was the brightness of the screen, or the fact that the thought was placed in my head by what I was reading, but I felt a twitch in my left eye. At this point, any sensation on my face seemed amplified, as all my attention focused .on what I was feeling. Even among being aware of all the sensations on my face I normally tune out, I was most aware of my left eye. Before long, the faint sensation became difficult to ignore, as I continued to read this story. I thought of raising my hand towards my face, when my eyes diverted to the title once more, "**Don't rub your eyes**". My heart began to race. A sensation I would normally welcome, but this was different. This felt personal. I wanted to close my phone and just go to sleep, but I couldn't. The sensation in my left eye was growing. It felt like there was dust there, or perhaps a little hair. Nothing that couldn't be solved by just cleaning it away. Yet I kept coming back to the title of the story that faced me, "**Don't rub your eyes**". But I couldn't simply leave the feeling be. I couldn't just ignore it. It was bothering me. So I made a decision. I raised my hand and rubbed my left eye, still continuing to read with my right. I could feel the irritating sensation ease up as I rubbed, and I smiled at my own trepidation a few seconds prior. It was just a story, nothing more. Whether it was dust, or hair, or imagined irritation, it was almost entirely faded away, when all of a sudden, I heard a ***POP***. In fear, I dropped my phone and sat up. The bright screen looked up at me. As my left eye cleared, I looked down at my phone, and all seemed fine, except for a strange soreness on my face. I tried to explain it as an understandable byproduct of my efforts to clear my eye. The popping noise meanwhile was surely just something to do with plumbing. Yet the strange soreness on the left side of my face wouldn't let up, as a creeping suspicion overcame me. I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, and I could feel it. I told myself I was imagining it, but I could feel it. My left eye felt further into my head than my right. In a panic, I turned on my bedside lamp. Even amidst the new lighting, my phone lay on the bed, on my leg, shining up at me. "**Don't rub your eyes**". I checked my eyes again, hoping to be proven wrong this time. Hoping I could just laugh at my momentary lapse in judgement and go to sleep. If only. My eyes felt more misaligned than before, as my left eye seemed to be retreating into my skull. Unsure of what to do, I tiled my head forward, once again facing the stupid post. The soreness did not seem to fade, and so I tapped the back of my head, hoping to coax the retreating eye back in it's place. I don't know the science behind it, but at the time, it seemed a reasonable thing to try. But try as I might, the eye continued to sink. The pain was not significant, which I found strange. Only a tangible soreness that took over one side of my face. Perhaps it was the adrenaline rush I was feeling at the time, but by now, my vision began to distort. From my right eye, I could still see my phone looking up at me, but from the left, a strange circular border began to form around what I could see. I tried to close my left eye, but with nothing to hold their form around, my upper eyelid simply dangled when I tried. I'm not sure why, but I grabbed my phone, before I jumped out of bed and ran to the nearest mirror. As I saw my reflection, I tried to scream, but the sound was stuck in my throat. The vision from my left eye began to darken as I felt it slide entirely out of its place and fall back, rolling inside my head. I could see from my remaining eye, that all that remained was a dark red, empty hole. I looked down at the phone I was still holding tightly. I read one final time, "**Don't rub your eyes**".


An elderly woman woke one night to hear sounds of laughter coming from outside her bedroom. She couldn’t remember inviting anyone, so she quickly got out of bed and made her way down the stairs to see what the commotion was. The joyful chatter began to grow louder as she made her way towards the light at the end of the dark hallway. It lead into the living room, where no less than 10 people could be found with small paper plates of food and red solo cups filled to the brim with various beverages. Christmas music was playing softly in the background of all the chaotic murmuring, and presents were neatly placed around the tree. Oddly enough, she couldn’t remember it being Christmas. She could hear her husband calling her name from the other side of the room signaling for her to come over. As she made her way across the room, she saw people she hadn’t seen in years and some in decades. She saw Ruth, her best friend from college, her siblings, her parents, and even her in-laws. She was shocked to see their faces, but they seemed quite uninterested. They waved of course, but they didn’t get up from their seats to greet her. They acted as if it was only yesterday when they had last encountered one another. When she got to her husband, he expressed how glad he was to see her awake. “You’ve been unwell for far too long now,” he said to her with a smile. She felt a bit sick earlier in the evening, so she went to lay down to sleep away the pain. She probably would have stayed asleep if her husband wasn’t throwing a party without her consent. Nevertheless, she was grateful to have a husband who loved her and people she could provide with hospitality and a good time. After a short conversation, she told her husband her intentions to catch up with Ruth. While walking over to her old friend, a dreary gray picture of a couple walking through the rain caught her eye. She thought her husband threw out the picture years ago after countless arguments over its affects on the room’s ambiance. It left her infuriated to know he kept it after all these years. She knew, however, that the only reason he put it back up was to please his mother and father who gave the painting to them their first Christmas as a married couple. His mother said that it represented a sturdy relationship even through times of struggle. She wasn’t going to confront her husband at that moment to avoid unnecessary conflict, but the issue would be brought to his attention eventually. The woman sat down on the couch next to Ruth and began to speak about how long it had been since they last saw one another. Ruth wasn’t as engaged as the woman would’ve hoped for. She remained preoccupied with other people and seemed to be ignoring the woman at times. Though she enjoyed every second of the conversation, she couldn’t help but ponder over the possibility that she may have done something wrong all those years ago, but that was simply speculation. She wouldn’t let one interaction ruin the evening after all. The talk was cut short by her sister’s voice announcing that it was time to open presents. Gifts were passed out one by one as family members tore through the wrappings to find toys, appliances, and small trinkets. When it was the woman’s turn to open a gift from her parents, she placed it on her lap and ripped the wrap to shreds. She opened the box, and inside was a blanket with the words “Home is where the heart is” in an elaborate cursive font. The woman was perplexed. “Mom,” she said, “you got this for me 30 years ago to celebrate our first Christmas in this house.” Her mother looked confused as well and responded, “This is your first Christmas in this house.” The woman took a closer look at her mother’s face and realized that there were significantly less wrinkles than the last time she saw her. It suddenly occurred to the woman that her 91st birthday was approaching and her mother would have to be well into her 110’s. She made her way over to the recliner where her mother sat and held her arm out. “Hold my hand. Please.” Her mom, who looked slightly younger than her daughter, reached her arm out to hold the woman’s hand, but her hand fell through her daughter’s. A tear fell down the woman’s cheek as she watched both her mom and dad fade from existence. She reached her hand out once more to place it on her mother in-law’s shoulder only to watch her hand fall straight through once more. She saw as the image of her in-laws began to fade along with her brother, sister, and Ruth. The only one that remained was her husband. She stared at the drab painting across from where she sat and said “That picture is still ugly, but maybe your mom is right about what it represents. We made it all the way despite everything we’ve been through.” The woman got up from where she sat, and she made her way over to her husband who was significantly younger than she was. Knowing what would happen, she hugged him one last time. For a moment, she could feel his spirit surround her, and he said to her, “It’s time for you to come home.” Her arms collapsed in, and she said, “I love you.” He vanished just like the rest of them, and in that moment, she fell to the floor and wept. While staring teary eyed into the picture of the couple standing carelessly in the rain, she began to grow quite fond of it. She saw her and her husband in it standing together through the storms of life—never to be separated. She got up from the floor and turned out the lights of her living room. One last time, she made her way down the hallway. She climbed the stairs to her room, opened the door, and found a body lying in her bed. The monitor indicating the person’s vital signs displayed only a horizontal line. The woman made her way across the cold floor to the lifeless body and kissed it on the forehead. She knew that home was where the heart was, and her heart no longer resided in that wrinkled body. The pearl inside the casing was gone, and it was time for the woman to come home. She placed her hand on the person’s chest, and it fell through as she expected it to. The only difference is that the body in front of her remained, but as she looked down at her own hands, they began to dematerialize. Soon, her entire body began to fade. She said to the person in front of her, “Thank you,” and she vanished. Some might say she is everywhere. She lives on as a thought in the minds of hundreds she touched. Some might say she’s in heaven. Some might say she is nowhere to be found, but wherever she finds herself, she is home.


This wasn’t how they said it would be. Cross them all, Rect thought to himself. Where’s the glory? Where’s the feeling of accomplishment? Where were the men revelling in a hard-fought victory, sharing the spoils of war, drinking and laughing at the thought of being so near to the clutches of Sylx, and laughing in defiance in his face. Today was not the day he would wrap his icy fingers around you, no, today was the day where we stood tall as brothers and sang aloud our joy to still be alive. But there was no joy to be shared. There was simply the grief of worn out men relieved to not have to fight any longer. They wept for their fallen brothers, and they drank to forget they ever existed. No, there was no glory to be had here, not for a common foot-soldier like Rect. He realised as he stood there, surrounded by broken men, covered in blood of friend and foe alike, still clutching the sword he had been lucky wasn’t wrenched from his hand as soon as the skirmish began, that he had been lied to. Not directly, not by anyone he trusted, but by the songs, and the stories he had been raised with. Tales of Maltior the Vanquisher in his unbreakable deep-forged armour, and Feelan the Swift, legendary for having never taken a hit, amongst many other heroes. He had been raised on the glory and beauty of war and never until this moment had he considered the harsh implications of so many deaths. How foolish he had been. His breath caught in his throat and he felt a tear begin to roll down his cheek. He suddenly realised why the Legion, on the whole, is home to the downtrodden and poor, those looking to make a name for themselves. No man who already had enough would subject himself to this terror. So why had he? Rect dropped to his knees and wept for his own ignorance. In the midst of battle, it had been fine. In that what they said is true, Baran, cousin of Sylx, had come to him. He had come to them all. There was no thought in battle, there was but instinct and the desire to survive amongst all else. Whilst Sylx fought to rip you away from the upper world, Baran did all he could so that Sylx would not be satisfied. And it had worked for some, as it had for Rect, so he wept tears of joy that he had not been taken, and he wept tears of grief that he now had to live in the terrible aftermath. But at least that was preferable, he told himself. At least it was better than the clutches of the unknown. And so, he wept, and none judged him as all who had fought understood the toll it took, and when he was done weeping, he stood and he admired the wreckage. The once impregnable city of Agrakar was smoking, its walls riddled with holes. In the name of the Queen they had torn it apart over the course of a week, with Rect and his fellow men providing the final surge needed to rip the capital away from the clutches of the T’Halash once and for all. Rect wasn’t entirely sure why they had needed this city, something about birth rights for the T’Keltin royal family, but more likely it was simply about taking the land for their own. More land, more power for his Queen. She had been there, before the final charge, smiling in the faces of the men she sent to their deaths, speaking words that had no right to build these men to such courage, but they did and those men charged willingly to their demise with smiles on their faces, Rect included. But how? How had she had such an effect on those men? Was it her beauty, or the power that emanated from her as she stood above them, clad in fine armour, blood red for her house, veined with gold for her? Rect remembered looking at her as she spoke, and he remembered feeling he would do anything; he would die happily if it only meant he had died in her service. What a fool he had been, she had taken his naivety, all their naivety and used it to twist them around her finger, to do as she willed. Why did she need to take the city? Was the cause necessary to expend so many lives? Were their lives less valuable than hers? Rect remembered in that moment, before the charge, that these thoughts had come to him, as they did now, but he had disregarded them. Of course, it was worth it, and of course he would do anything that his Queen would ask of him. She was his Queen and he her humble servant, ready to lay down his life at a moment's whim. But now stood in the wreckage, her wreckage, that she had caused, he seethed. He had shed his grief, and now he was angry. Angry at his radiant Queen for sending them to their deaths, and angry at himself for trusting in her, and believing in the idea of heroes. There were no heroes to be found in battle, simply those who had died, and those who wished they had died as well so as not to live in the broken world afterwards. Cross them all, and Cross her especially Rect thought to himself as he picked up his sword, placed it back in its sheath and turned his back to the city walls.


"Those sirens never get old. They never stop and probably won't. They haven't stopped since my earliest memory. The only constant thing in this life we share. No one knows what happened before but that doesn't matter. They left us with this ground. Desolate and infertile. Nothing grows. The sky filled with grey and white tones. While there are night and day, we never see where the light comes from. The clerics' talk of stories of this bright entity in blue colored skies covering fields of green. Structures that put what we have to shame. Spires that broke the sky. Machines that made machines. And then conflict. One not ever seen before. The cause of all this despair. But we have thrived and discovered our past before the great desolation. Tools, materials, knowledge, and worst of all, weapons. We have little but we live on. We suffer loss but we can't stop. That would be the end of the last precious thing we have. Our lives." The man downed the last gulp of his drink. Continuing spitting the bullshit the barkeep has heard before. The past this, the past that. That couldn't be changed and he knew that. They both did however one was sober and the other drunk of the alchest from the past. How ironic the barkeep thought. He asked if the man needed anything else before he left to clean the tables. The man couldn't even speak. He left and began to clean the few tables he crafted. Crude yet sturdy, like the barkeep. The creator does so in his own image. He gets caught up listening to another patrons' conversation before he realizes the man at the bar was reaching over the counter. The barkeep speaks up, "Can I help you with that?" The man looks over and pulls a bone shiv from his sleeve while rummaging his other. It's a common tool for most people so it wasn't surprising. As he pulled the shiv out, the man shouted to stay away. The few others that were in there looked on. Being threatened by a drunk wasn't new. And it will happen again. They tried to talk him down but he wasn't listening. He said he needed it to pay a debt. The barkeep didn't care but he kept quiet. The others keep talking. Finally, the barkeep spoke up. "Let me help so you don't make a mess." The man fell off his seat and threatened the barkeep, barely keeping his words together, "Stay away, you don't need to get hurt over this." The barkeep didn't care. He slowly stepped to the back of the bar and went to where he kept the payments for his services. He bent over to open the container. The barkeep began to stand and realized the man had moved almost on top of him behind the bar. He hadn't realized how tall this man was till now. He looked down on the barkeep, "Where is it?!" The keeper didn't answer. Again the man said, "Where is it!!" He lunged forward. The barkeep was ready. He stood as he came close. In the blink of an eye, the man's hand was gone. It landed on the bar counter. The man screamed in agony, collapsed, and crawled away from the barkeep clutching his now handless arm. The barkeep spoke in a thunderous tone, "Leave or I'll take an ear so you'll listen!" The man, who must have sobered up, stood and fled into the night. "Everybody out," the barkeep shouted. They listened and left as he asked. No one would disrespect one of the few people who can make alchest. When they left, he stood there, thinking. He hadn't used it in almost 30 years. The glow of his Ion blade caused a slight purple hue to bounce around the room. He stared at the blade that sat on the counter. It was about a meter in length, had an ornate metal handguard, and a matte grey metal blade. It was edged with an unknown material that allowed the weapon to produce the ionized edge. No ordinary man could obtain such a weapon, however. A tear fell from the barkeep's face as he poured himself a drink. He looked to the bottom of the glass. Looked out through the space in front of him and drank. Another vow broken. Survived through triumph, broken by experience. It all flooded back. The men who died next to him, the men who caused this. The men he killed. He broke down. It was all so close to being forgotten. He threw his glass against the wall. He could barely live with himself let alone in this fucked up place we have to call home. He sobbed for a good time. He finally composed himself, realizing he has to live on for those he lost, just long enough to walk to his room in the back of the bar and find the bed. He began the next day like any other; by picking up the mess from last night. Lucky for him the blade didn't cause any blood to drop from the man's stub. Blood is hard to remove from wood. So like most days, he finishes quickly. Swept the floor, straightened the counter, organized tables, and the like. And again, like most of those days, he's alone. Thinking. "What's the point?" he says to himself, almost remorseful. Like he betrayed his friend. But nevermind that, today's another day, and he must move on. He soon found himself alone again. Frozen. Like that day. He never liked that day. The commander kept reminding everyone. “They want your homes, they want your wives, and they want your land. They will take it if we don't stop them”. The things he did to protect what was his. He remembers the screams he heard. Almost Like a symphony when it's mixed with the slashing of weapons and the ripping of flesh as the raid occurred. He remembers watching his fellow soldier strike down a family with nothing but a blank stare. He became an empty husk of a man. Then, it was his ceremonious turn to spill blood and he saw his offering. A man, trying to escape. He chased him through the house, but he was too slow for a trained soldier. He grabbed the man. The man was speaking a different language. He ignited his ion blade… they never did bleed when he used that. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, falling over a table and knocking it over. There was a surprise underneath. A boy, maybe 7. The soldier the barkeep was did not know what he just did. He looked at his hands, not knowing he had this dangerous potential. He became a man he didn't want to. He looked at the boy and lit his blade one more time. The barkeep is knocked out of his trance. “Shit”, he said to himself. It's almost dusk and the bar was ready to be open. “How long had past?” He kept muttering obscenities to himself, cursing he let his day go away again. This happened often to him. Losing time. Nevermind that, there was something more pressing: the patrons. He opened the bar and not long after the place began to fill. More than usual. It was nice not to be alone. Drinks were being poured, conversations being made. Of course like any night, someone ruined the night and he was a familiar man. This time he wasn’t alone. The handless man from the other night had come back looking for revenge and thought he could do so through his friends. Some patrons left. The strong ones stayed and gave them no mind. He waited at the bar counter. The handless man came up and started to heckle the barkeep. What an arrogant man he was. The other men that were with him lined the counter next to the handless man. The 3 of them stayed quiet, just like the barkeep. Finally, after a few minutes of annoyance, the barkeep answered him, “Back again?” The handless man was back for what he was the first time he was here. This time he also wanted his hand. Well, the barkeep was not going to let that happen. He laughed slightly. The man was annoyed with that answer and grabbed the barkeep but the neck, demanding that he surrender the vault. The barkeep could barely get words out. The other patrons noticed and one had stepped up. This one sat in the corner all night and kept to himself. Interesting. The lonely man grabbed the handless man's shoulder, “I think it's best you let him go.” The handless man looked back and threw his hand away and nodded to his friends. The handless man let go. “Well, this is great,” the barkeep said to himself. The handless man let the barkeep go only because the lonely man had used his own blade against his friends. “Are you fucking kidding me,” the man shouted as he watched his friend catch the blade with his chest. The first man fell. The barkeep smashed a glass over the head of the handless man knocking him down. The others ran after they saw the barkeep ignite his ion blade from behind the counter. He followed them with curses as they returned to their holes. Everyone looked on as if they never saw him before. At least not like this. The lonely man grabbed the handless man, “I’ve been looking for this one for a while now.” He’s a bounty hunter apparently. The bounty hunter apologized for what he did and offered money or help to pick up the mess but the barkeep declined. The bounty hunter left without a noise after that. And that was it. Like any other night. All this action and it was over along with the night. This was not the chaos he was used to. Like other nights, he was off to bed. The next morning was different. He was woken by a knock at his door. It was the bounty hunter. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “What do you want” “I was hoping to ask a few questions as a follow up for what happened last night” “I thought your type wasn’t interested in details?” “I'm no ordinary bounty hunter, I guess.” The barkeep let him in. They took a table. The barkeep offered a drink. The hunter nodded and accepted it. “What is it you want to know?” “When did you first see him here?” “3 days ago. He came in by himself. He tried to steal from me so i defended himself.” “I'm assuming you took his hand?” The barkeep nodded. “And you let him go?” the hunter said “Yes. I had no idea he was a bounty or that hunters even came this way. The local gangs have had a hold out here for a while now” “Not anymore,” he said plainly. There was silence for a moment as the hunter wrote. “Now I have a few more questions for you and then we’ll be done” He flipped his notebook. “Where did you get the blade?” “Why does that matter?” “I’m curious,” said the hunter almost demanding “Do I have to ask you to leave?” “No. We all saw what happened that night. I'm the only one brave enough to ask about it.” The barkeep kept quiet for a moment. The hunter was a patient man. As if he waited his whole life for something. “I'm a soldier, or at least was one” the barkeep finally said. “The Unification?” The barkeep hung his head, “Yes.” “Any good stories?” The barkeep paused, “None that anyone should hear.” Another long moment passes with both of them silent. The barkeep spoke first for once. Maybe because he believed the hunter was someone who finally understood, “How about you?” What do you mean?” the hunter said almost surprised “What's your story? You're a bounty hunter with an impressive weapon, and you don’t hide it as I do. You were in a righteous war or something?” “No…,” he said softly, “I made this one myself actually. But my profession has a story.” The barkeep sat ready to listen like he had his other patrons. “It was a long time ago. I'll never forget. It was my birthday. My mother had passed before I wasn't even old enough to know her. It was just me and my father. He had gotten me a device that I could use to discover and listen to these random signals that exist invisibly in the air. It helped me find tools and equipment to make my weapon…” The barkeep kept listening and offered to get the hunter another drink. The hunter, again, nodded. The hunter took a long sip and continued, “... He tried his best and that's all that mattered. But that day is one I won't forget. We heard a loud bang nearby and my dad told me to hide. He was a soldier so he was always cautious since he had his war, he knew how to handle himself. I hid and as soon as I did he came running through the door. Soon after another set of legs entered. They were armored. He was screaming saying to leave us alone and not to hurt anyone.” The barkeep got up and went for his own drink. His first in years. He felt like it for once in his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he *wanted* to do something. He poured himself a tall glass while the hunter talked. He sat and pondered and let the words of the hunter go through his head. Not hearing anything. Finally, he took his sip. The hunter continued, “Then a faint glow appeared and a hissing noise. That man killed my father in cold blood. He fell out of the man's hands and knocked the table I was under over. The man looked down at me. He was frozen. Like he didn’t know what he just did.” The barkeep nodded not listening to what was being said. “You. You killed him” The barkeep stopped mid-sip. “What did you say?” “You remember, don’t you? That day. I remember your face. Do you remember mine?” The barkeep was frozen “Frozen again? How can you feel when you act like a monster?” The barkeep put his glass down, wiped his face, and looked at the boy. He remembered alright. Every bit of his face. “You look like your father.” “You shut the fuck up!!” he screamed as a tear ran down his face. “I'm sorry but…” “No…” The boy shouted, “...you don’t get to say that. Not after what you did. With no remorse” The barkeep was calm. Almost like he was in this position before. The barkeep said sternly, “Well what are you going to do, boy? You're the man now. You found your last bounty and you're going to cry? Yes I killed him and I gave up the blade after that day but I will do what I must to defend myself.” The barkeep ignited his blade. It was more red this time, from the overheating of the blade. “The same color as I remember,” the boy said, pulling his blade out. It was black. As dark as a moonless sky. A never-ending blackness that was the boy's heart. The barkeep walked around the counter and the boy stood up. They faced each other and prepared themselves. The boy is a vengeful mess. The soldier, ready for whatever fate was planning. They raised their weapons ready to end the years of pain for whoever won and lost. They stepped forward and swung. A slash, ripped flesh, and a dropped weapon. “I'm sorry.” the man said.


Francis wrapped his fingers around a wrought-iron swirl and winced as he pushed, anticipating the scream that followed. He’d grown used to the shrill greeting, forced to accept it really. No amount of adjusting or lubricating the stubborn gate seemed to matter, and to be quite honest, Francis wasn’t entirely sure he could tell where on the gate the noise was coming from. So, in an effort not to think about it too hard, or perhaps with no effort at all, Francis explained away the gate’s unpleasant outcry as it simply “having a will of its own.” Of course Francis did not arrive at this conclusion on his own, having too many wits about him to arrive at such absurdity. In fact, it was the previous caretaker, the rather jolly fellow that Francis had followed through this graveyard on an early autumn night, who thought up the notion that the gate had a will of its own, and gifted it to Francis, who could now use it to explain away the seemingly unexplainable. Francis hung on every word the caretaker had said that night, as that was to be his first and last day of training. It was only late autumn now, but this season had been long for Francis, and he found himself dismayed at the realization that he’d only been working at the graveyard for just shy of a few months. It felt much, much longer; he dare not even say how much. “Well, here they are,” the caretaker had announced to Francis that first night, flourishing his arm for emphasis, a smile holding up his face. “It looks like he’s introducing people,” thought Francis, “living people.” He must have looked as unsure of how to react as he felt, because the caregiver laughed after looking his way. “You should get to know them,” he’d gone on in earnest. “Everyone thinks about who they want to be when they’re alive, but no one thinks about who they want to be when they’re dead,” he had said, either immediately or not long after. The wind whipped through the graveyard and slammed the gate closed behind Francis, forcing out a screech nearly a full octave higher than one that had welcomed him moments ago. Francis narrowed his eyelids and looked against the wind, surveying the graveyard. It looked the same as it had the previous night, and the night before that, and sounded the same too - the rustling of leaves, turned stale and brittle by October’s cool winds, the sound of the wind winding between headstones, ringing bells like wind chimes in the night. The tarnished bells attached atop each headstone tinkled delicately, promising the interned below the chance to escape should they have been buried, one would hope accidentally, before they were dead, providing welcome relief to those worried about falling victim to such an ugly fate. Francis found their disturbing nature easy to overlook given their cheerful sound, he’d explained over breakfast immediately upon finishing his first official night as the Oak Grove Cemetery Caretaker. “What good are the bells if the wind blows them all day and night?” His sister had laughed curiously. “I would hate to hear those, even now I can’t stand to think of it.” His mother had interjected, her hand gestured that she’d heard enough. “They’re just bells,” Francis had. answered. “They’re just bells,” Francis repeated to himself now. The wind carried his words away. He marched off toward the tool shed. Francis felt as though he were waking from a dream when he realized the clock tower attached to the neighboring church was announcing the time. He wasn’t sure if he’d counted 11 strikes or 12. He reached for his watch to find his breast pocket empty. He let his hand fall, remembering why he’d stopped bringing his watch with him. His watch was torturing him, Francis had concluded. Of course, it wasn’t torturing him on purpose, but it did no one any good to be so preoccupied with time. It would pass one way or the other. Staring at the watch, Francis found, only brought trouble. Sometimes the boredom would creep up on him in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes he would sit, watching the needle of his pocket watch tick away the seconds. Sometimes it would put him in a trance, and the time would slip by, morning arriving in no time at all. And sometimes, one second would take two. Sometimes three. Sometimes more. He would wait, breath baited, for the second hand to tick and find that when it finally did, he would have to gasp, lungs aching for air. He didn’t know exactly how long he could hold his breath, but he knew it was more than one second, or two. Or three. Francis’s cheeks stung from the unrelenting mist slung in from the coast. His rain gear was issued by his employer, and upon inspection Francis had supposed it was of an acceptable quality, but it didn’t matter. The wet air had its ways and when the sun peeped over the edge of the water and changed the beach below from black to blue, his clothes would be soaked anyway. The wind was tenacious, maneuvering ferociously, changing directions, drenching the few exposed parts of his body and leaking under the rainproof layers, sneaking past his coat and trousers and finally clinging to his cotton under layers, ensuring a grounding and pervasive chill, that sometimes wouldn’t leave ‘til noon. A freezing gust sent dust and rust colored leaves dancing into the spotlights of moonlight that fell between the bare and barely leaf-feathered oak branches. The gust brought with it fine mist, and Francis could feel the skin of his neck wick the moisture past the tightened collar of his hood, his treasonous body betraying him. He looked back down at his boots and walked. Francis had probably seen each headstone about 200 times now, some he’d seen more, if they were near the tool shed, or along the perimeter that he patrolled, or at the highest point of the yard, where Francis liked to stand and watch the town. Not watch, stare at. He thought about the caretaker’s advice to get to know the headstones. The people, maybe. Whatever he had meant, Francis thought he’d tried, but it was challenging, getting to know people with so little information. Nevertheless, Francis did develop a favorite headstone. Person. Peter White 1855-1876 “Fisherman” That was all there was to this headstone that Francis found himself in front of night after night. Francis was just a baby when this stranger was buried here. Some nights he found this headstone to be the saddest of them all, imagining this young man, the same age as himself, all alone, with no one to write anything more on his headstone than “fisherman.” He imagined Peter waking up to the cold at the bunkhouse, climbing into still-wet clothes and heading out into the cold and wind to the harbor, with no hot barley and no one to see him off, or care if he returns. Other nights, Francis smiled as he read the inscription, imagining a young man, not lonely but free, a fisherman who spent his days at sea, laughing with the other men,, the gulls, and the tide, spending his nights and hard earned pay on Wendover Street, drinking drafts and flirting with Ms. Taylor, who, even though she’s nearly old enough to be Francis’s mother, has made her appearance in most or all of Francis’s daydreams. Francis tried to imagine what she would have looked like to Peter, serving ale as dark and rich as her braided hair. The streaks of gray that decorated her braid didn’t bother Francis, but he sometimes wondered what she looked like before them. Tonight, Francis imagined this second scenario, the happy scenario. The wind had let up significantly in the time since Francis had been staring at Peter's headstone. How long was that? He wasn’t sure, but it was probably long enough, he decided. Now that the wind had died down he might try to rake up the leaves and debris the wind shook into the yard. He began to step away, when the clock tower tolled dully. He waited, listening to see if the clock would strike again, prepared for 12 strokes instead of one. It didn’t. Francis sighed, grateful. He moved toward the tool shed, listening to the crunching, snapping of leaves and sticks as he went. The sound filled Francis’s ears, a visceral sound, each step deafeningly loud, conjuring violent images in Francis’ mind. Francis found a sick feeling brewing in his stomach as he listened. He slowed. One footstep crunched after the next, unease simmered. Something didn’t sound right. He eyed his feet suspiciously. He stopped. Moonlight bathed Francis where he stood, staring at the pool of it at his feet. He heard nothing. No wind, no rustling of the leaves in the trees, not a single bell in the graveyard rang. He wiggled his toes in his boots and listened to the twigs beneath them snap like bones. Francis felt a chill undulate from his neck to his fingertips and back. The bell tolled again. Was it two already? Francis listened, waiting for the second toll. Silence. “Fisherman” Francis read the word. He listened again for the second toll. When did he come back to the headstone? The night was still and so was Francis. He tried to regain control of his breathing, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The smell of hops and sweat and gardenias filled his nose, settling inside him. His unease, and the memory of it, vanished. Thoughts of bells tolling or tinkling, of cold, lonely nights and naked oaks disappeared, replaced by the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the warm breath on his neck. Francis dared not move, but stood there, breathing, swaying in the dark, unwilling to be removed from the fantasy that filled his senses. How long did it take for the scent of gardenias to grow faint, replaced with the briny aroma of the sea, dried seaweed and the sweat of men? The waves grew louder. Francis felt panic rising in him yet again. The delusion released its grip, Francis’s eyes snapped open. Why had the bell tolled one again? Francis thought about his pocket watch. Was it happening? It was one thing for it to happen with his pocket watch, but with the clock tower too? What had he been about to do? “Rake!” He exclaimed to no one. The bell tolled again. Francis turned and stared at the clock tower, looking as offended by the tower’s bizarre behavior as he felt. The moonlight landed on it in no particular way, and try as he might, Francis could find nothing to look at to satisfy his indignation. He turned back toward the headstone. “I’m going to rake this up now,” Francis declared. To his surprise, the wind had not yet returned and he hoped it wouldn’t until he was done. He gathered his sensibilities and took a determined step toward the tool shed. His foot met the earth with another stroke of the clock. Francis felt dirt beneath his fingertips and blades of grass on his lips. Was he laying down? He pushed, bringing himself up and tucked his knees beneath him. Peter’s headstone filled his vision. Francis moved slowly, cautiously. There was no explanation he could come up with for what was going on, but for once, he didn’t care. No, it didn’t have to make sense for him to believe it, he decided. So what if people thought him crazy! Maybe he was crazy, but it was better to be crazy than dead, or worse, he thought, unsure what would constitute worse. Francis made up his mind. Once on his feet, he turned toward the willful gate and sprinted with all his might. A bell sounded behind him. Not the dreaded tolling of the clock tower this time, but a different, more delicate sound, from a single bell perched atop a headstone. Not just any headstone, Francis reluctantly noticed, but Peter’s headstone. The bell jingled gently, but the sound met Francis’s ears like tidal waves, crashing over him and filling him panic. His mouth was dry as he peeled his tongue from its roof and let out a wail of sorts - a noise that could only be interpreted by anyone who heard it as a desperate cry for help. The clock tower tolled again. Francis stood, dazed, staring at the gravestone before him. Peter White Peter White. Peter. White. Francis thought. The name was so familiar. “Of course you know that name,” Francis said to himself. “You stare at it every night.” The bell jingled before him, a cheerful sound, thought Francis. It reminded him of something, a laugh. Her laugh. He could hear her laughing now, throwing her head back, the sound of bells rising from her throat. She was so close, touching him, her weight across his lap, her finger wrapped around a curl of his hair. He reached his arm around her waist and squeezed. She felt damp, and cold, and no matter how he squeezed, he could not feel her soft flesh give. Where she had been, Francis now caressed stone. “Fisherman” Francis felt sick. Vertigo overwhelmed him as he rose, stumbling, to his feet. He needed to get out. Once again the church bell tolled. Francis lay near the headstone, tears filling his eyes. He counted, taking stock of how many times he had tried to escape, of how many times the bell had tolled. He thought, trying to quiet the deafening sound of the bell atop Peter’s headstone and waves crashing along the shore. It didn’t matter how long he stared at the headstone, as soon as he stepped away or tried for the gate, the bell tolled. He’d even tried climbing the fence nearest him now, only to find himself back here, staring at the same headstone. His mind felt fractured, gripped with fear one second and overcome with joy the next, unable to keep these visions at bay. Thoughts of Ms. Taylor filled his mind, he could smell her, feel her, hear her laugh. They were so real, they felt more like memories than delusions. But they couldn’t be, Francis knew that. She’d never smiled at him like that, or wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest. He cursed his body, betraying him once again. Now was not the time. Francis closed his eyes and counted. Eleven. That’s how many strokes he’d heard. The bell above Peter’s headstone was ringing frantically now, a dizzying and disorienting sound. Francis covered his ears to try to think. The noise of the bell was not dampened. He clamped his hands tighter at the sides of his head, his jaw clenched. He could not quiet the noise. Francis tried to think, he needed silence! He opened his mouth and tried to scream but it was no use, he could not produce a sound louder than the bell. He rolled, hands still gripping the sides of his head, trying to find relief. He moved slowly, inching his way away, unable to concentrate on anything but the dryness in his mouth, the smell of gardenias in his nose, and the god-damned ringing of this bell. He inched away, cautiously, knowing that this would be the last stroke of midnight, dreading what that might mean. He had one more chance, before, well, he didn’t know before what. Dread filled him. A twig snapped beneath his writhing body. The bell struck twelve. Francis stood up and brushed himself off. He reached his hands into his pockets and pulled a knife from the left one, inspected it briefly, and muttered approvingly. He cut the cord attached to the bell atop Peter’s headstone. He reached his hands into his pockets again, the back ones this time, and procured a billfold. He opened it, studying the inside. “Thanks Francis,” he said, patting the crest of the headstone. Francis put his knife back in his pocket and made his way to the front gate. He swung it open noiselessly and closed it behind him. “Now,” he smiled. “Time for a drink.


There’s a nature park a few miles from my house. It has a marked trail that winds through a wooded forest. Sometimes I take my dog there for a little variety in our walks. It probably doesn’t matter that much to her though. She just wants to sniff the trees and chase wildlife. I keep her on a leash for their safety but her collar is kind of loose. If she really wants to escape, she can (and has). I’ve tried tightening it but it’s as snug as I can get it. I’d buy a smaller one but it doesn’t happen often enough to be an issue. At least not in the past. One day last week she began tugging fiercely on her leash. They teach all sorts of training techniques on how to stop unwanted behavior like that but Thelma is a husky; and they aren’t nearly as eager to please their humans as most dog breeds. Pulling is in their genes. She’s only pulled hard enough to remove her collar a couple other times. I don’t know what she saw in the woods, but it was enough to shimmy out of her collar and break free like her life depended on it. Fearing it might be a rabid animal in her sight, I chased after her. Naturally she took off at a furious pace I couldn’t replicate without a motorized vehicle. I’d soon lost sight of her but I could still hear her in hot pursuit (of whatever it was). Calling and yelling did no good. She only responded when it benefited her. Finally I caught up to her. She’d stopped by the edge of a large tangle of underbrush in the woods. She paced around it frantically, wagging her tail and circling the mound with hyper focus. I figured it was a possum or raccoon living in there. Heaven help us if it was a skunk or den of snakes. The truth was actually worse. I witnessed the tell-tale evidence of a man-made bunker before us. As I had carried her collar for the whole heart-pounding chase, I tried to unfasten it and slip it back around her neck. Whoever was living in that hollowed out enclosure in the deep woods would definitely not appreciate our intrusion. Thelma just barked frantically. She never barks unless it’s highly important to her. Like most huskies, they howl or ‘talk’ most of the time. I was already on the edge from the uncomfortable situation; and hearing her bark on top of it just added to the creepiness. She wouldn’t sit still long enough to slip the collar back on her so I could drag her away. I feared some crazed hairy mountain man would spring up from a hidden trap door and shoot me at any moment! Thelma was making things infinitely worse. She began to dig frantically at what I assumed was the entrance. I hissed at her and tried to pick her up. She wasn’t having it. For whatever reason, she desperately wanted inside the bunker; and I wasn’t going to be able to stop her. I debated giving up and leaving her. Ultimately I’m a coward at heart. I wasn’t about to be attacked or shot by some antisocial hermit living ‘off the grid’. She could fend for herself. I’d go back and get help. The authorities could deal with whatever soul was dwelling there. Just as I was about to run back to my car, Thelma slipped in through a trap door and was gone. I was torn between the pragmatism of saving myself, versus the emotionalism of saving her from whatever was down in the bunker. I’ll let you guess which side won. I crept inside the bunker slowly. I feared it might be booby-trapped or I would encounter the occupant before I could explain my intrusion. I whispered for Thelma but she was nowhere to be seen. I used my cell phone to light the way but there was a surprising amount of natural light filtering through some improvised ‘skylights’. The bunker was much more spacious than I expected. I suppose I thought it was just going to be a narrow hole in the ground. The truth was, it was expansive and incredibly well-braced. I could even stand upright. There were a number of large corridors leading in different directions. There was no telling how far the tunnels went. I called Thelma again. She finally showed her head and I successfully collared her. Just as I was about to drag her outside to safety, I was struck by something very odd. Everything felt ‘familiar’. I couldn’t shake the deja-vu feeling that I ‘knew’ something about the place! Obviously that was impossible but as I looked around the dank hideaway, I had the unshakable sensation I’d been there before. Thankful I didn’t run into the ‘owner’, my dog and I left the bunker as close as possible to how we’d found it. It was a small miracle that he was out gathering supplies, or whatever. I vowed to call the forest service and report it just as soon as I got home. I also intended to pick up a better collar for her. Obviously I didn’t want to accidentally discover any more hidden bunkers in the woods. When I got home, I looked up the local parks and forest service phone number. Somehow the first link that came up in my phone was the right one. I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain such an odd thing but when a park ranger answered the phone, I blurted out my incredible discovery. I half expected the guy to hang up on me but to his credit, he listened with no judgement as far as I could tell. I described the events of finding the bunker and the general area where it was. Then he asked if I would accompany him to locate it. Frankly, I was so surprised he even believed me that I readily agreed to show it to him. I figured there would be more safety in numbers. It was near sundown so we both agreed it would be safer to go in the morning. I met Ranger Ross and the two of us started down the trail. Thelma started getting agitated again when we neared the same area where she’d broken away before and led me to it. Just as the previous evening, she started whining and pulling hard on the leash. At least there wasn’t going to be an difficulty locating it. The ranger and I allowed her to guide us back to the source of our journey. She barked and wagged her tail in animated excitement. Once we approached the mound, the ranger motioned for me to stand behind him. He quietly unholstered his service revolver and crept up to the bunker. To my surprise, he went straight up to the hidden trap door, without Thelma or I showing him where it was. It was well hidden and I didn’t see how he could’ve guessed it was there. My suspicions and paranoia were having a field day. Had the ranger been there before? Was he somehow involved with the bunker? Even more strange, he pulled open the trap door with no apparent concern, and then a well dressed man exited! It was incredibly jarring. The man in the suit was very familiar. My knees buckled. Thelma went over to the bunker occupant and started licking him like he was a long-lost friend of ours. The ranger put his gun away. I still had no idea what was going on. It was beyond surreal. Thelma obviously knew the man and she was aquatinted with the bunker too. The ranger came over and put his arm around me in an apparent gesture of support. The well-dressed man instructed Ranger Ross to guide me inside. I was deeply afraid of what I might find there. My knees were knocking. I stumbled though the opening while my dog and the other two men led the way to whatever epiphany I was supposed to witness. Blind trust instructed me to comply. Once inside the main corridor, a battery powered lamp was switched on by one of my companions. When illuminated, I recognized the walls of the bunker. Not from my brief foray into the mystery the day before, but prior to that. Somehow my memory was only letting me remember small details, a little bit at a time. The harder I tried to force it to come back, the more my head pounded. The well-dressed gentleman introduced himself as Dr. Jackson. He explained that he was my therapist and I’d experienced a deep trauma at the bunker some time in the past, which fragmented my memory. Through immersion therapy and repetition, he and the ranger were trying to help me come to full terms with my experience. I asked for greater details. Dr. Jackson said I still wasn’t quite ready for the full truth yet, but I was making ‘remarkable progress’. He felt I would be ready in just a few more ‘cycles’. I marveled at the implications. I had apparently led rangers to this bunker in the woods many times in the past. Each time I get a little closer to accepting the unpleasant truth and releasing the block to my memory. I still don’t know what it is, but one day soon I hope to. Thelma will need another walk in a few days. I’m sure she’ll start dragging me toward the hidden truth about ‘the bunker’.


The sounds of silverware and small talk echoed inside the intimate restaurant. Jacoby looked down at the plate and back up towards Antoinette. “Do you want the last one?” She smiled and shook her head, so he popped the baked clam in his mouth. Antoinette leaned forward with a shine in her eyes. “Can I ask you something?” “Oh, that’s never a good thing, especially on a blind date!” They both laughed, and after it died off, he nodded. “Are you a superhero?” Jacoby leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Did Ben tell you that? Did he say that to you?” “No! Well, I mean kind of. He might have mentioned it to Cecilia, and she might have told me.” “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” “What do you mean?” Jacoby felt his cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and unwanted attention. “I mean, I’m not really a superhero.” “What does that mean?” “I uhh, I’m not sure what I mean.” Jacoby let out an awkward laugh. Antoinette eyed him while taking a sip of her wine. “Do you have superpowers?” There was some sarcasm mixed into her question. Jacoby squirmed in his seat for a couple of beats and leaned forward, almost coming out of his chair. “I shouldn’t do this, but…can you keep a secret?” “Of course!” Jacoby looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Yeah, I kind of do.” Antoinette waited for the punch line, and when none came, she sat straight up. “What? Are you serious?” “Yeah, I am.” Antoinette paused again, still waiting for the punch line. When she drank, she sounded like Marisa Tomei from “My Cousin Vinny,” and the accent was now on full display. “You’re sitting across this table and dead-ass telling me you have superpowers?” Jacoby remained unperturbed by her distrust. He was used to this, which was why he was silently cursing Ben. “Yup.” “Okay then, what are they?” Jacoby took a breath; at this point, he had to tell her or risk sabotaging the rest of the date. “Well, it all started one day when I was making waffles and — “ “Oh, you’re telling me a story?” Her question threw him off. “Well yeah, it’ll make more sense this way.” “All right, continue.” “I was making waffles, and I guess some batter spilled on the stove, and a grease fire started.” “Yeah?” “And I panicked and grabbed the Gatorade bottle I was drinking and dumped it on the stove, causing a huge explosion!” Jacoby pantomimed the explosion and included a sound effect. “Okay.” “And I guess the explosion, mixed with the Gatorade electrolytes and my body chemistry gave me my superpower.” Antoinette sat there, waiting for Jacoby to fill the pause or fill her in on the joke. “And that is…what?” “I have the power to throw or break any object, causing it to explode, but then it reappears good as new.” She stared at him, her frustration growing more and more apparent. “I don’t get it.” Jacoby picked up the wine glass in front of him. “Like I could throw this wine glass against the wall, and it would explode but then reappear on the table like nothing ever happened.” Silence hung like a portrait inside an art museum. Dissatisfied and confused, Antoinette’s internal censor took a smoke break. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “What do you want me to say? It’s my gift, …and my curse.” “So, do you have a name?” “Yeah, it’s Captain Explosion.” Antoinette laughed and then put her hands up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was rude. I just didn’t expect this.” “That’s why I try to keep my identity a secret.” The resulting silence was filled with the two adults drinking from their glass. Antoinette put hers down to ask, “Do you go out at night and fight crime?” Jacoby made a face. She wasn’t getting it. “No, not really.” Antoinette stared at him for a couple of seconds, and he could feel the doubt pouring out of every pore. “Let me see it.” “Here?” “Yeah, do it.” Jacoby looked around. “Nah, I don’t want to.” Antoinette’s face turned a shade of red, and suddenly she was talking with her hands. “So you’re fucking lying to me? You’re a fucking liar?” “No!” Jacoby said, his eyes pleading as he continued. “I’m not lying to you; I just don’t want to.” “Well, you’re going to!” Antoinette stood up, walked over to a large Italian man two tables over, and shouted, “The guy I’m with over there said he banged your wife!” “He fucked Judy?” The convenient stereotype leaped to his feet, and before Jacoby could plead his case, both he and the chair were on the floor. Antoinette was already halfway to the door when she collided with a waiter, projecting pasta and her pride all over the floor. Tears were forming, but screaming felt better, and she let one out before making her exit. “Worst blind date ever!” Jacoby let the embarrassment wash over and pass before picking himself up. He sat back in his chair, still dazed when the owner of the restaurant came over. “Your girlfriend stormed out of here and broke some dishes. I gotta charge you.” He handed him the bill. “Fuck me!” Jacoby threw a wine glass against the wall, causing an explosion. Instantly the glass reappeared on the table. Jacoby handed him a credit card, and the owner did a double-take. “Hey, wait a second! Aren’t you, Captain Explosion?!” Jacoby perked up. Perhaps the night wasn’t a complete waste. “Yeah, that’s me.” “We don’t take Discover.


“It’s two fucking wires!”, Virgil said to Lucky who was digging for worms. “We need worms if we’re gonna eat,” Luck replied without looking up. The two of them arrived here about a year ago when the virus finally tipped the scales and there was no looking back. The Covid-19 virus started as a local health issue in the Wuhan province of China. The world halfassly paid attention as the news story went from being a closing story to becoming a lead after the virus had jumped ship, via international travel, and became a global pandemic in six short weeks. The scariest thing about it was it’s incubation rate and how fatal it was. Four to eight week without showing signs of infection and a 90% mortality rate. Scary was being generous. “I’m fucking sick of pike,” Virgil said while digging through dirt and mud. It’d been raining for two days and everything held the water in it, even the air. “Life will change once we can harvest the garlic and onions,” Lucky replied while threading a long, fat worm out of a lump of soft clay. And we’re good for water for a while now. The tarps and drums are really working well now.” “Well aren’t you Oscar Optimist this morning,” Virgil retorted in mild irritation. “What put you in such a stellar mood?” “Garlic and onions aren’t ready to harvest but I did find something that was.” Without looking up, Luck reached into the breast pocket of his battered army coat and slid out half a very fat, very respectable joint. “You fucker! And exactly when were you planning on telling me?” Virgil dusted his hands on his camo cargo pants. Lucky tossed him the half dube and his zippo. “You know,” he said with a grin. “You rarely take into consideration my entertainment.” Virgil, squatting on his haunches shook his head slowly, his smile growing ear to ear. “We gotta find something better when the munchies kick in.” “We could raid the old man again. He’ll be asleep by nine. Maybe find something interesting. I was also thinking we should start planting berries. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries. That sort of thing.” Virgil exhales deep lungfuls of smoke, “Agreed. But blueberries are a fucking bitch to grow. Cherry tomatoes make a good snack though. Idiots can grow them too.” “Says a lot about us,” Luck said and taking the offered joint. His intense eyes wandered over the scenery. Couldn’t really be much better. The ‘old man’ was a retired horse farmer and a multi-millionaire to boot. When the ‘dynamic duo’ agreed it was time to get out of Dodge, finding this place was a chance in a million. Before the global servers went tits up, they were looking for a place in the woods, far from civi, at the end of a road. “Doesn’t ‘the end of the road’ sound a little fucking ominous to you?” Virgil commented. “That’s why nobody’s gonna go there” was Lucky’s logic. Actually, over the past year it seemed to become Lucky’s Logic. So they took everything they assumed they’d needed, which for Virgil was a lot, packed it in Luck’s pickup and drove east out of the city and hoped for the best. What they found was beyond their wildest dreams. Hundreds of acres of forest, with lakes, rivers and pastures. The old man had two barns which held about fifty horses which he cared for by himself. Fiery old guy, up at 5:00 and in bed at 21:00, never stopping all day to tend the farm. After about a month living there, Virgil and Lucky approached the old man to offer assistance in return for lodging and the single buckshot pellet that blew through Virgil’s shin still hurt when the weather changed. So much for diplomacy. Now lying in the dirt together, both supremely surprised by the potency of Luck’s harvest, Virgil was back at it. “It’s two fucking wires!” he exclaimed with as much vigor as his addled mind could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t very much. Lucky was consumed by the beauty of the rolling clouds strolling gently through the mesmerizing sky which wasn’t very mesmerizing at all. “What?” he mumbled. “Two fucking wires! He’s got about a billion watts of solar power down there. He’s not gonna notice if we nick a little of it.” “What?”, Lucky eloquently retorted. “There’s about a billion feet of wire in the big barn. We can steal a plug socket and a case, take the wire we need and bury it from here to the power relay he uses to heat his indoor pool. Then we just connect the two wires to the relay and have more electricity than we can ever use. Where’s the downside?” Lucky thought he saw elephants in the clouds. Virgil was on his back, trying to work out the math for his latest plan. “And if you say ‘What?’ again I’m gonna… fuck it. I can think of a lot of things to finish that sentence but I doubt I can even stand up right now. How the fuck did you grow that so strong?!?? “What?” That night found them putting at a joint and reviewing ‘the mission’. With no security whatsoever, it was easy to steal the wire, the plug socket and a shovel for the next mission. Night time in this new normal was pitch black, with the moon and the stars serving as the only source of light. The barn was huge. Like two football fields huge. The biggest problem was making sure the horses didn’t wake up. Especially while Virgil was humming the theme from Mission Impossible. Lucky was at the door of the tack room, where the old man kept all the horse stuff, saddles, bridles, carrots. His eyes scanning for anything but knowing full well, from past experience, that there was nothing to scan for. He literally could have been walking around naked with a headlight strapped to his forehead. “Can you stop humming that fucking song?” he whispered, not wanted to alarm the horses. “This is about as far from impossible as taking a shit.” Virgil would have no part of Lucky’s Logic. He continued to hum away. Luck just rolled his eyes. Virgil had cut off the length of wire they needed at what he calculated to be about 300 feet. But 300 feet of triple strand copper wire weighs about 100 pounds so they split it in two to share the burden. “When’s the last time you went upstairs,” Virgil asked. “I don’t know,” Luck whispered back. “Just after we got here I think.” “Wanna go have a peek? We’re not here often these days,” Virgil asked. Lucky weighed the worth of his friend’s curiosity. “Peek for what?” he asked. “I don’t know. Who knows what the old man has up there. It’s not like we’re in a rush. And I was also thinking on the way back we take a quick look for any munchies in his fridge.” Virgil shot Luck the grin that always made him shake his head and smile. “C’mon, man! What else have we got to do?” After getting the wire and shovel in a wheelbarrow they were about to steal they both ninja’d their way back into the barn and up the stairs that lead to the apartment above the barn meant for the farmhand to live in. It was completely dark and Virgil clicked on his flashlight for a second. “Turn that off!” Lucky forcefully whispered. “I can’t see a thing now!” Virgil knew Luck was talking about how regular light fucked up a human's innate ability to see in the dark. Virgil, mentally agreeing with his friend, was also content that turning on his flashlight kept him from stepping on one of the numerous barn cats. He clicked it off plunging them both back to the invisible abyss. Virgil found the door at the top of the stairs and silently twisted the knob which didn’t twist at all. “Fuck,” he hissed. “It’s fucking locked.” Lucky reached into his shitty canvas bag and gave Virgil the worn lockpick set he’d had since high school. Virgil had the door open in 10 seconds. The apartment was surprisingly renovated. Brand new everything, granite counter tops, solid wood kitchen cabinets, hardwood floors. Both quietly looked in every cabinet, every drawer. Above the stainless steel fridge, Virgil let out a low whistle. “What?” Lucky asked. “Imma turn on the flashlight for sec, okay?” Virgil asked. Luck shielded his eyes. “Just for a sec.” Virgil clicked the flashlight on then off after 2 seconds. Then he started giggling. “What?” Luck whispered again. “It’s a 60.” Virgil offered. “Of what?” Lucky asked “Looks like our old friend” “Jack?” “Yep,” Virgil replied. “Jack Daniels is joining us for dinner.” Lucky then began giggling too. “Fuck yeah!” “I’m just gonna check the bathroom then we head out,” Virgil whispered after giving the bottle to Lucky. “Sounds good”. Virgil inched his way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope, he’d secure some toilet paper. You can’t understand what the quality of life is when you don’t have toilet paper. The moonlight was peeking through the patio door and when Virgil got to the bathroom what he saw gave him pause for thought. There was tape across the door like you’d see in a police investigation. “Luck!” he whispered silently. “What do you make of this?” Lucky didn’t really care much. Though the thought of having a 60 of Jack Daniels AND toilet paper seemed to immediately become abundantly important. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Just go have a quick peek” This seemed to give Virgil the confidence he needed and he opened the door and stepped in. What surprised him most as he stepped through the door was the towering pile of toilet paper he saw on the shelf at the edge of his vision. For a split second. Having a doctorate in mechanical engineering, his brain, in lightning-fast realization, determined that the tape on the door was to keep people out of the bathroom because the floor was being replaced and the only thing covering the beams meant to hold the new floor was paper. He disappeared from Lucky’s view in a split second. He was there and then he was gone. His crash to the floor below was surprisingly muted because he landed on hay. Hay for the stallion in the stable in which Virgil now found himself. For anyone who knows anything about horses, the stallion is, by far, one of the most fearsome and dangerous animals on the planet. They’re purpose is to breed. Horse farmers purposely prevent this from happening until it’s time to happen. So you essentially have a horse, fully 1500 pounds, that is so angry because he’s horny as fuck standing four feet from Virgil. Add to this that the irate animal was sleeping and doesn’t take kindly to being shocked awake and you have a very unpleasant environment for Virgil to find himself in. And to really put the final nail in the coffin, the stable is, of course, locked from the outside. The braying and snorting of the animal a floor below him quickly brought Lucky’s attention from the 60 in his backpack to his friend in mortal danger. Still feeling the effects of the weapons-grade weed he grew, he bounded, then fell down the stairs. Sadly, he had to admit, that when tumbling down the stairs his first thought was not of saving his friend but of hoping that the 60 didn’t break as he barreled, head first, into the wall at the base of the stairs. As Lucky scrambled back to his feet and into the stables, Virgil was fairing far worse than his potential rescuer. The stallion was now fully awake and fully pissed at the intrusion to his miserable existence. Virgil knew well enough to not get behind the beast, his scientific mind knowing that a horse kick approached 2000 pounds per square inch. What he had never learned was that while avoiding the powerful kicks he did not realize that horses bite. He also was unaware that a stallion can easily bite off a human arm completely. So, in hindsight, he had to admit that he was happy, well, less miserable, when the horse decided that he could neutralize his invader by biting its head. Just as Virgil was uselessly trying to hold the stallion’s head, and teeth, away from his, Lucky opened the stable gate and punched the horse squarely in the eye. The result was madness. The stallion reeled up and brayed loud enough to wake the other horses who clearly felt the need to support their breeding seed and began to make noises loud enough to wake the dead. Including the old (but not quite dead) man. Virgil and Lucky zipped through the stable gate, locked the door, and bolted to their bounty of wire. And a shovel. Watching the farm lights come on in horror, they ran, full sprint for over an hour, down the dirt road and up the hill to their camp. Exhausted, battered and bruised and pumping on adrenaline, they both lay sprawled on their backs. “Two fucking wires!”, Luck exhaled. Virgil reached into Lucky’s battered backpack and pulled out the 60. “Shots?” he asked without raising his head. And they both lay on the ground, covered in mud and horse shit, and couldn’t stop laughing.


The students of Stephan Pastis Junior High School awoke with excitement. On the first Friday of every month, their principal, Mr. Conqueso, scheduled fantastic assemblies. Last month they saw an abbreviated rendition of the show, “Cats” performed by the members of the Sunnyside Retirement Community. A couple of months before that, the rock band, “Midnight Oil,” played for forty-five minutes. What would this month bring? Social media buzzed with rumors and innuendo. One student claimed that the great-grandson of President William McKinley would be in attendance. Another student said he overheard Mr. Collins and Ms. Leatherbelt talking about Shaft. Billy Clemantine swore that Principal Conqueso had booked the Kool-Aid Man to burst through the walls. Billy had zero credibility. So when Vice Principal Chowders clicked on the PA signaling it was time, a cheer erupted on all three floors of the building. Hell, even the teachers were smiling. Sure, some were happy to get out of teaching, but they were excited nevertheless! The faculty and administration stood in the aisles, directing traffic as students maneuvered to sit next to their best friends or significant others. They knew the drill by now, the faster they sat down, the faster the show would begin. Finally, after the last student had found his seat, Principal Conqueso appeared on the stage. As was his habit, he adjusted his tie before speaking. “Good Morning, Rats!” “Good Morning, Principal Conqueso!” “Before we get to the main event, I have a couple of announcements. Tickets to next week’s dance are still on sale outside of the cafeteria. They’re only five dollars! If you have any questions, please see Professora Biftec.” Professora Biftec stood up and waved her hand, in case there was any question of who to see. “Also, we’re still collecting for the canned food drive. We want to beat last year’s record of forty-nine cans, so please remember to bring one in. It could be a can of corn, or potatoes, or string beans, or carrots, or turnips, or salsa, or tuna fish or beans or…” Principal Conqueso looked down at the first row and saw Vice Principal Chowders laughing and let out a laugh of his own. “Or even a can of clam chowder. Are we good?” “Yes!” “Now, as you know, I put a lot of thought into these assemblies. I want them to be fun, and I want to trick you into learning something too! But of all the assemblies I’ve ever booked at Stephan Pastis Junior High, this might be the most important. I’m sure some of you are well aware of how there is a scourge running through our community right now. It’s a problem that’s getting out of hand, and I want to make sure the students who attend this school are not only informed but also alert of the dangers that are out on the streets.” The students who were already sitting up were now coming out of their chairs. Danger? What did Principal Conqueso have in mind today? “So let’s give a warm Stephan Pastis welcome! Are we ready, Marv?” Principal Conqueso looked to the side of the stage to see Marv giving him the thumbs up. The stage lights went down, and a spotlight scanned the room. Suddenly pyro went off on both sides of the stage, and the cheerful tones of U2, “A Beautiful Day,” blasted out of the speakers. The kids were cheering, and they had no idea why! The spotlight continued to circle until it stopped on a man coming out from behind the curtain. He looked to be in his early twenties, dressed in a purple cardigan and tan Dockers. He jumped up and down, then ran back and forth on the stage, causing the students to scream. At once, he stopped and shot his right index finger high into the air. He let out a primal, “WOOOOO!” and his cry echoed courtesy of a nifty headset. “Stephan Pastis Junior High! Are you ready?” The students cheered. “No, no, no. I said, are you ready?” More screams, some students stood up to make their voices louder. “I know you can do better than that! One last time. Stephan Pastis Junior High…I said…ARE…YOU…REEEEEADDDDDDY????!!!” The sound coming from the seats suggested that yes, the students were ready. More ready than they’ve ever been in their entire lives. “DON’T SAY YES TO SPS!” For the second time, the young man pointed to the sky, and pyro went off on both sides of the stage. Then, the lights cut out, and the auditorium was in complete darkness. “Coolest assembly ever,” Dave Millman yelled out to no one in particular. When the lights came back up, a man and a woman dressed as typical junior high students were walking across the stage. He had a flat-brimmed Oklahoma City Thunder hat and Criss Cross clothing. She had her hair in a ponytail and wore overalls with only the right strap buttoned. The kids saw mirror images of themselves and felt instantly at ease. “Hey Alice, have you heard the latest from Nelly? He’s lit.” “Yeah, Ted. He keeps it 100.” The kids knowingly nodded their heads. Ted stopped walking and took Alice’s hand. “You know what else keeps it 100 Alice? SPS.” Alice looked out at the crowd and paused. “I don’t know Ted, that sounds dangerous.” “C’mon, Alice, all the cool kids are doing it.” “Well, …what’s SPS?” “Let me show you.” Ted and Alice walked to the front of the stage and came across a sleeping puppy all stretched out. “Awww, is that a golden retriever?” Alice put her hands over her mouth and AWWed. The entire audience AWWed back. “Not just a golden retriever, a puppy.” The students AWWed even louder. “Best of all, he’s sleeping.” Even Principal Conqueso was AWWing. “Well, he is just a-dor-a-BLE!” Alice put both her arms up in excitement, punctuating every syllable. “You bet he is. Say, Alice, have you ever smelled a sleeping puppy?” Alice shook her head. “Here. Try it.” Ted picked up the sleeping puppy. “Give her a sniff.” Alice put her nose deep in the puppy’s ear and took a sniff. Suddenly the stage lights turned psychedelic, and “Shakedown Street” by “The Grateful Dead” played on the speakers. “Woah, Ted, I don’t feel good.” “AAAAAND, FREEZE!” The lights went off, and the cardigan man was back on stage, bathed in the spotlight. “Kids, you just witnessed Alice throwing her life away when she took that first deep sniff. It goes by many names: Odie, Rin Tin Tin, Old Yeller, Mr. Cutiepie, but its official name is SPS, Sleepy Puppy Smell. Last year ninety-one kids died from SPS.” The man in the cardigan looked to his left, and the spotlight followed his gaze to Alice. She was on the ground, writhing in ecstasy while Ted stood over her with a demonic grin on his face. The spotlight swung back to the cardigan man. “You think its all fun and games when someone brings a cute beagle puppy or a corgi puppy and tells you to take a sniff but what they’re really doing is handing you a loaded gun! Let’s watch what happens to Alice after that first hit.” The lights went out for a couple of seconds; this time met with complete silence from the student body. When the lights came back on, Alice was standing on the left side of the stage. Above her were two street signs, 42nd and 8th. She was wearing a black mini skirt, fishnet stockings, and a faux mink coat. Her hair, formerly in a ponytail, was now a rat’s nest, and her makeup streaked across her face. A man in a suit walked past her, “Hey, honey, you look like you own a dog.” The man stopped and looked at her. “Why, yes, yes, I do.” Alice moved closer. “I can tell.” “How so?” “You have kind eyes.” A wicked smile appeared in the corners of her mouth. What kind of dog?” “We have a dachshund named Judy.” “She sounds like a cutie.” “Indeed, she is. I should be going…” “Hold on, mister. What do you say we go back to your house and meet Judy?” “I would, but she’s probably sleeping.” Alice’s eyes lit up. “Then we have to go. We have to go now!” She grabbed his hand, and he jerked it away. “What’s gotten into you?” “I need to smell your dog. I’ll do anything. I’ll su — “ **FREEZE** The man in the cardigan reappeared on the right side of the stage while Alice and the businessman stood frozen. “Are you getting the picture yet? Do you see what happens when you take that first hit of SPS? I don’t think you do. I’m sure you’re thinking c’mon, what’s the harm in smelling a sleepy puppy? Well, I’ll tell you, junior! First, you’re getting your kicks from a sleepy puppy, but soon that won’t be enough. Let’s go back to Alice and see what’s become of her.” The lights went out, and the folks in the front row could hear some rustling. Instead of the lights coming back on, a spotlight started on the right side of the stage. There, a girl who looked to be an older version of Alice was sitting on the edge, holding a big ol’ tabby cat in her lap. “Oh, Mr. Scampers, I love you. I love you so much. I love…I need…I need to — “ Suddenly she scooped him up and shoved him in her face. Mr. Scampers freaked out and clawed at her eyes, causing Alice to howl in pain. When she dropped the cat, bloody claw marks covered Alice’s face. Some of the students in the front began to cry. The audience heard the cardigan man’s voice in the darkness. “But it gets worse.” The spotlight shifted over to the left, where we saw another version of Alice standing with her eyes rolling back, two gerbils shoved up her nose. “And worse!” The spotlight moved again to the right, and we saw a sketchy man in a trench coat with a mustache standing in front of a chain-linked fence. A strung-out Alice stood next to him and asked with more than a hint of desperation, “You sure you got it?” “Yeah, baby, you know I got it.” “Then, let me see it.” The man opened his trench coat and took out a gecko. He stared at her for a couple of seconds while her nostrils flared in excitement. “You know what you have to do.” Alice began to cry and knelt on the ground. “UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFT!” The spotlight moved one last time to the center of the stage, where a police officer stood next to an older woman. There was a sheet covering something on a table in front of them. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The older woman began to cry. “You know you don’t have to do this.” “No, I want to. I have to know.” The police officer lifted the sheet showing Alice face down in the crotch of a turkey. The older woman screamed and beat her chest. “Yes…yes, that’s my daughter Alice! Oh my God, my little girl! MY LITTLE GIRL!” The woman fell to her knees and looked up at the heavens. “YOU BASTARDS!” The lights went out one last time, and by now, most of the students at Stephan Pastis Junior High were traumatized. Kids were openly bawling and asking for their mommies. A couple of teachers stepped out of the room to compose themselves. A rumor went around that Mr. Hastings, the woodshop teacher, threw up in a trashcan. The spotlight reappeared, and there stood the cardigan man. “So, what are you going to do when someone offers you a puppy?” The audience stared blankly at him, the silence broken by the occasional whimper. Teachers were going up and down the aisle doing their best to console. “I said, so what are you going to do when someone offers you a puppy?” A couple of students tried to reply but were too choked up to form the words. “You know what you say?” \*silence\* “Huh?” \*more silence\* “Fine, I’ll tell you what to say! DON’T SAY YES TO SPS!” Just like that, the cardigan man ripped off his headset and spiked it, causing shrapnel to fly everywhere, while at the same time, the lights came up. Behind him stood Ted, the first Alice, the businessman, the sketchy man, the policeman, Alice’s mom, all the other women who played Alice, and all the animals. The light tones of U2, “A Beautiful Day” once again played as they all took a bow. Principal Conqueso walked back on the stage, staring out into the audience, a symphony of scarred children playing quietly in the background.


“Michael! Michael!” The elongated cries of a desperate mother rattled across the evening sky as she burst through her front doors and barrelled down her front path at a full sprint. She ran determined, through the fields and paddocks of her farms never taking her eyes off the horizon ahead. The animals were eerily quiet, pigs stood against the fence watching her as she ran, as she passed them their heads bowed as if in solemn thought. She took no note of the peculiar actions of her pigs however, she just continued to run and call out desperately for her son. “Michael! Michael” as she continued to wail, clouds behind her started to form. Light grey in complexion they posed no threat, yet they moved at a pace that matched her own. A light downpour started to fall from above, the droplets filling up the foot imprints she left in the ground in her wake. She was not bothered by the rain, she just continued to run. Her stamina never faulted, her breath never needed to be caught, she ran. Though never how hard she ran, no matter how fast her legs would move, she would never reach the horizon to catch the setting sun. This did not hinder her from trying however as she ran towards her goal. Any tears that formed and blocked her vision we quickly swept aside. A fallen down tree blocked her path ahead, but without missing a step she would leap over it and continue running, nothing could stop her will. She made it into town with fifteen minutes of solid running, though time meant nothing to her. As the path changed from packed earth to worn cobblestone her feet did not notice, they could be barefoot on ice and she would not have cared. Through paved streets and narrow alleyways, she continued her sprint. Her desperate cry for her son could be heard down every street, corridor, and lane-way of the town. People stared from their tables at restaurants as she ran past, and many started to follow to see what the commotion was about. Though her following grew she gave them no mind, as it was her son and her goal that filled her thoughts. Up a hill she ran, losing no swiftness and it was at the top she could finally see her goal. At the end of her path stood the town church. Made of old wood and stone bricks that were starting to crack, the building stood high and mighty, looking over the inhabitants of the town. She collapsed before its doorstep and let out a loud wail. A crowd encompassed her, looking on. The clouds finally caught up to the one they had been chasing and swirled high above in the sky, letting down a solid splattering of rain. “Bring him back!” she cried, “Undo what has been done and help me please!” she pleaded to the building, as she looked up she saw it standing resolute and unwavering. The building did not respond. “Please I beg of you! Bring him back!” her tears got the better of her and she sobbed into the ground. No one from the crowd moved an inch. As she continued to plead with the church, she started to become more and more frustrated with the silence it gave in return. Her sadness turned to annoyance; her annoyance turned to anger. The rainfall increased and the crowd began looking up nervously. The clouds continued to darken as the woman started to berate the building. “I have said bring him back!’ she leapt to her feet and banged against the door with her fist in a quick flurry. “Fix what you should have prevented, and you bring him back to me right now!” her voice bellowed into the electrified air. Thunder started rolling in from the clouds as they continued to swirl. The woman pounded and pounded on the door, ignoring the splinters that were lodging themselves into her fists. The thunder from above increased in volume, yet to those down below it was drowned out by the yelling woman. Those who could tear their eyes away from her could see the lightning striking the grounds outside of the town and they began to get nervous. As the woman continued to pound on the door onlookers could see the door beginning to buckle. Yet the woman did not let up her onslaught. With a final hit the lock on the doors cracked and they swung open just as a bolt of lightning struck the bell tower atop of the church. A bright flash caused all to look away. Their ears rang from the sound of the lightning striking the church and all were dazed and weary. As their vision began to come back to them and their senses returned slowly, they all noticed the rain had stopped. The clouds still darkened the sky above, but no more thunder could be heard. Their attention moved to the woman who had caused all of this, and they saw her, lying on the floor inside the church crying with a gentle sob, defeated.


Shelby was sitting on the toilet seat thinking about the phrase; “Think happy, stay happy” How can a sentence have thousand meanings? How can a phrase be so happy and thoughtful but at the same time have the darkness scraped onto to the depths of it? She broke from her thoughts when she realized that there are no toilet paper left. She called out her roommate's name; Sheldon. Shelby always saw Sheldon as more than roommates. She saw him as an individual. Sheldon meant a lot to her because of his past actions to make her life happier. But Sheldon didn't feel the same. He gave her company because of her special ability, money. Shelby's dad was one of the most successful beings on the planet Earth. He was such a loving and optimistic person even though he had the plague. Sheldon finally came and asked what was wrong. Shelby said that there wasn’t any toilet paper left. He replied with “Don't worry Shelby, I'll bring you some toilet paper. Because that's what friends do...” He couldn't believe that those were the words that spilled out of his mouth. Calling her a true friend? That was the biggest lie he ever told someone. He thought it will be a good idea to prank her in these depressing times. He remembered that one 'life hack' where a friend just used a blow dryer to prank his friend. He thought it will be a good idea... he thought no one will get hurt... he thought there won't be any consequences... He did the same as the person in the video narrated. The prank was ready. Everything was ready to go. He busted into the room and blowed the entire roll to her face. She had no time to react nor defend herself. When she finally progressed what was going on...Sheldon said “You look like a mummy!” in a happy tone. She then replied with “I'll get you back!” in an equally playful tone. Sheldon laughed as he left the bathroom. A few hours passed. She was thinking in her own little room. How can she clap back to what he did? She needed to settle things. She needed to clap back in a more gruesome way to prevent him from doing such a thing again. Then she thought it will be a good idea to visit his room when he wasn't here. Luckily, Sheldon was outside buying some groceries for his mother's birthday. She got up from her bed and slowly walked toward Sheldon's room. She opened the door and started rummaging through his stuff when she found a note that was sealed with a sticker. She opened it without second thought and started to read it. That was the time when she understood his true feelings for her. Her eyes filled with rage waiting for him to get back home...What was probably minutes felt like hours. Then he came. He opened the door and dropped the groceries to the ground. Then he saw her. He saw her waiting in the corner smiling creepily while holding a newly sharpened knife. He understood what that meant. But he didn't know that the clock was ticking for him. She got up slowly, walking towards him menacingly. Sheldon didn't have the time to react. It was done. Shelby Kudesa killed her friend in cold blood. But there was still one thing left to do. She covered her long gone friend in toilet paper while muttering “you will be needing a lot of this to cover yourself. Sheldon” then she understood everything. She understood what think happy stay happy meant. While she was getting ready for her escape it appeared. A stiff dark figure in the corner of the room standing. It spoke the words of damned souls. “You weren’t thinking very happy, Miss Shelby.” The words that travelled through her ears send shivers down her spine. She spoke “I don't understand what you're saying.” The devil kept on going: “You weren't thinking happy lately.” She didn't know what to do. Was this what fate lead her too? She repeated what she said “I don't understand-“ She got cut off by another sentence. “Do you know what happens to people who don't think happy?” It's dark horns were the only thing visible in the death of the night. “They get vanished” the last part was quite obvious to Shelby. It was all a game. Game of death and living. She woke up in a beach near a busy street. Did she got herself here? Was it all a dream? She wasn't thinking any of these things.She started to laugh uncontrollably to the feel of freedom.She was finally free from her cage.The smell of human flesh filled her nostrils.*It was time to feast.


u/SAOkirito1's writing prompt: Humanity joins the greater galactic civilization. Turns out earth is a pretty normal planet culturally speaking, but we adamantly refuses to believe that we aren't actually the brutal space orcs of the galaxy “Son of a bitch!” (He didn’t actually say bitch, but this was the closest translation I could manage.) “What is it?” C’laarc used his third arm to point at his screen: the name Johnson was flashing repeatedly. Z@m muttered, “Jesus Christ.” (This is actually not a translation, these were her exact words.) Seconds later, Johnson appeared in the lunch room with them. While most Earth media depicted teleportation as a process that involves glowing lights and synth noises, it turned out that real teleportation had the same amount of flair as copy and pasting something on your computer. “Hi, Johnson,” C’laarc and Z@m said simultaneously, trying to remain cordial despite the small issue of them hating Johnson. Of course if Johnson had learned of his coworkers dislike of him, he would’ve been elated for being proven right. And if they had known this, they would’ve happily obliged and told Johnson to *fuck off*. But since they didn’t know, they settled for only thinking it. “Hello, nice weather we’re having, aren’t we?” Johnson replied, determined to make small talk about the weather, even on a space station. Johnson- like many Earthlings- had two arms, two legs, two eyes, and the ability to piss off any intelligent lifeform he spoke to. It’s not that the Earthlings were a particularly bad bunch. Like any of the planets, their people had their ups and downs. Their ups being art, music, literature, and the internet, and their downs being war, discrimination, poverty, and the internet. To be honest, the only thing that made them unique was their inability to shut up about how unique they were. Johnson sat with his coworkers and sighed. “Have you guys heard? Another war started on my planet yesterday.” “Sorry, Johnson, that’s awful,” C’laarc said. “Yes, but I don’t think anyone should be surprised about it. I mean, it is *Earth* after all. Humanity is doomed to always repeat a cycle of violence. Look at Hitler and Stalin. They both came from my planet. The two evilest men in history.” *My planet was the home to W3122, the destroyer of five different planets, and you don’t see me bringing him up all the damn time*, Z@m wanted to say, but instead she asked, “So, do you have any plans for tomorrow?” “Nothing much. Just going to church with my family. Ha, church! What a laugh. You two must see my people as a bunch of primitive idiots worshiping a fairy tale. No wonder it took so long for aliens to land on Earth.” “Johnson, how many times do we have to tell you this? Your God is real. He’s a powerful being from a higher plane of existence that created your people. I’ve had him over for dinner once!” “Thanks, Z@m, but you don’t have to pretend that you agree with my childish beliefs. I bet you find them as silly as those flat-Earthers running around.” Z@m didn’t think of herself as a racist (she didn’t find out about the concept of race until recently), but at that moment, a part of her was hoping that W3122 would one day end Earth’s one race, the human race.