When you die, it’s not how they describe it in church or anything. It’s nothing like that. There are no white fluffy clouds or golden gates. No one comes to bring you into the afterlife. When you die, it’s much colder and darker than any of that. The night I died was one of the best nights of my life, of course all the way up until I was dying. It was late summer, the air was warm and damp; the rain clung to the air and gave it a musty smell. The cicadas were wild with song and it brought me so much peace and happiness that night. I went to the last party of the summer before senior year started; it was at a campsite in the woods by the creek. I remember I saying goodbye to my friends not knowing that would be *the* goodbye and of course, they never saw me again. I took a path that lead out of the woods to the parking lot that my car was parked at, going alone was the biggest mistake I had made. With being in the woods, one would have thought I would have heard him coming. I should have been paying attention, I should have noticed the footstep on the leaves and the way the sticks cracked and the leaves of the bushes moved. I should have felt him coming up behind me; I should have felt him watching me. Unfortunately for me, I was never very observant of my surroundings and I never had the slightest idea of what was coming. He grabbed me from behind and put one thick hand over my mouth so my screams were muffled. An arm curled around my waist and I was lifted off the ground and carried off into the darkness that the trees created. Don’t think for a second that I didn’t fight back. I did fight for my life with every ounce of energy I could muster up at that moment. It was like I knew it was life or death, I struggled and I gave him hell. Don’t think for a second I didn’t try to survive this. I hoped that he would do whatever he was going to do then he would let me go. I hoped that would be the end of the ordeal and I prayed that I could just get back to my car and get home. Of course, my hopes were dashed and my prayers went unanswered, otherwise I wouldn’t be here telling you any of this. Instead, he carried me deeper into the bowels of the woods where he took the liberty of ending my existence, like I meant nothing more than a fly on the wall and for what reason I had absolutely no idea. When we got to a remote enough area for his liking, he threw me down like a sagging bag of cheap dog food and got on top of me, his knees pinned down my arms, one hand gripped my face, the other digging around in his back pocket, and all I could do was look up at the man that was about to kill me. I tried to study his face just in case I made it out alive so that I could at least give the police a description; his dark eyes were the first detail I could make out in the moonlight that managed to slither in through the thick canopy above. They would have been eyes that I could have fallen into and gotten lost in any other time. Warm brown, like chocolate. He was young, maybe mid to late 20s, he had a strong jawline and a pointy nose. Really, he wouldn’t have been a bad looking guy had this not been the way we had met. Then all I can remember is one swift and fluid motion of his arm and a sharp pain in my throat that felt cool at first, and then became boiling hot and sticky. Everything started to look fuzzy and became darker, I felt so cold, and yet hot as the gash in my throat erupted like a soda that was shook around too much. I could feel my life spilling out all over the damp earth and myself, the puddle beneath me was growing and my strength was waning. It all happened so quickly and just as quickly everything went black. They say the last of your senses that goes when you die is your hearing. That, my friends is true. After I lost my sense of sight, my sense of touch went and I could no longer feel the sticky discomfort of my own blood splashing my face and chest. I did however, feel him tugging on my soiled hair, I could feel the same blade that tore through my throat slice through my hair, creating a trophy for him as if I was some four point buck that he'd mount over the fireplace. Soon after that I couldn’t smell the pungent metallic odor of my own blood anymore, I lost the taste of blood bubbling in my mouth, but I could hear him get up and walk away, leaving me to die alone like I was nothing more than trash. I had never related so much with a disposed, antler-less deer that you'd spy on the side of the road before that moment. I honestly never thought that I would, but no one really thinks that they'll die like this. Deers don't, even in hunting season, and neither did I. The cicadas above never once stopped singing. It happened so quick and just like that I slipped away. Being dead is a strange feeling, kind of like falling in love or driving by yourself for the very first time. It’s weirdly free, like you can do anything or go anywhere in the world that you want. No restrictions; just unbridled freedom. I won’t go into details, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, but I will tell you that it is much colder on the other side.


“Hey lady! Your truck is on fire!” “I’m a man, asshole!” The two drivers exchanged the finger most prominently associated with *fuck you* before John’s eyes started to well up from the smoke. “Cindy, for Satan’s sake, can’t you put that shit out?” “I’m trying, John! Don’t yell at me!” “Hard not to when I’m going seventy and can’t see the shoulder to pull over!” John hit his steering wheel in frustration and grunted when they hit *something*. He just prayed whatever it was it had already been dead. The smoke seemed to clear for a moment and John looked over to see his passenger blowing on the small blue flame between them. This, as his mentor would say, was a teachable moment. The rules to arcane magick were simple: don’t practice distracted, and always keep a counterspell on lockdown in case of shit hitting the fan. Or spontaneous fires in truck cabs. “Blowing on it ain’t gonna help. That’s fucking *hellfire*.” “I know what it is, John. I’m the one who summoned it, yeah?” Another car passed them honking. John eased over to the right praying this road was laid with those rivets that woke you up when you fell asleep. His right two tires came off the shoulder and hit grass. He rode the car to a stop and looked over. Cindy had her coffee held up over her head, fucking priorities. John wrenched the cup from her hand and poured it over the fire. This somehow made things worse. “Saints alive! Was that vodka?!” Cindy only managed a sheepish smile before going back to blowing on the fire. Her full lips fluttered outward on the exhale and she made a soft raspberry noise. John rolled his eyes heavenward and started mumbling the first spell he could think of that might be appropriate. Cindy sucked in a startled breath and on her next exhale she spit out white flecks of snow. “John! It *hurts*.” “Keep blowing!” He continued the mantra both in his head and on his lips. In a couple of minutes, the flame had shrunk, but now his copilot was turning blue. John reached to the back cab and grabbed an empty can. He cut the top off with his pocket knife and shoved it over the last flame. “There… that’ll seal it for now.” Cindy didn’t respond. John looked up to see her eyes starting to freeze over. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Five minutes later Cindy sat outside the truck in the July sun with blankets and a temper hotter than the pavement. “You *coulda* killed me, John!” “You about killed both of us!” Cindy’s shoulders sagged. John could see the beads of sweat on the back of her neck, but her arms still wrapped around her core trying to warm herself up. He kicked a rock off the shoulder and watched it fly down the embankment. *Shit.* Sitting next to her, John threw his arms around her middle. “I’m sorry, babe. I was—I was just scared. That’s no excuse.” “I’m only leaning on you ‘cause you’re warm.” “I know.” The sun started to drop in the sky. They’d have to get moving soon. Take that thing back to John’s mentor and figure out what the hell to do with it. “What were you tryin’ to conjure anyway?” John asked. He felt Cindy’s body go rigid. “Well…” Her saucer sized brown eyes looked so innocent among the constellations of freckles on her face. “I sort of got a new pet. A, uh, hellhound.” John’s free hand clenched hard into the pavement and he tried hard not to let the anger rise back up in his voice. “You know, I hear those are pretty fu—pretty big, babe.” “This one’s just a pup,” Cindy said. She smiled to herself and cast her eyes down at the road. “He’s tiny. Maybe the size of my fist. You shoulda seen him when I first summoned him, John. He’s great.” “I’m sure he is.” By Lucifer, he needed to have a sit down with her. If she was going to be summoning demons, she couldn’t just be a dabbler throwing around magick all willy-nilly. If there was one thing in this whole damn universe he could count on, it was Cindy keeping him on his toes. “Hey, John?” “Mmhmm?” “That man who called you a ‘lady’ was a dick. You’re the handsomest, manliest man I know.” *Damn, how does she do that?* “Sometimes I don’t know,” John admitted, though to what end he wasn’t sure. “Well, *I* do. And I’m gonna remind you of it until the day I die.” The sun was going down fast, and the sky turned ruddy. John wondered just how long she would go on reminding him, and he prayed that the devil took him first. He got up and shook off the road dust, then helped his girl to her feet. He thought about magick—about how nothing comes from nothing—and when he looked at Cindy, he wondered how the hell he got something so beautiful when he wasn’t even complete himself. Back in the cab, Cindy used the blanket as an impromptu mitt to handle the can. They rode on without talking, hands occasionally reaching out to touch the other person. Just as the moon began to smile down and the stars peaked out, a muffled howl broke the silence.


fingers through her hair. Her muscles flexed as she plowed under the weight of all that black hair. She rubbed her scalp back and forth, feeling the skin shift over her skull. She felt something peculiar – a pimple sized bump. She picked at it, scratched it until it came off under her fingernail. *Bugs…*she thought, bringing her hand in front of her face, waiting for her eyes to focus in the pre-dawn light. She didn’t see anything under the fingernail. She reached back into her hair and tried to find another bump. Through the window, she saw the first light of morning bleed red into the dark dome of night sky. Thirty minutes later and the courtyard outside the window was washed in pastel colors. Long shadows started their slow retreat into the trees and buildings of the dormitory cluster. Shubra hadn’t found another bump. *Not bugs...* she concluded. She turned away from the window and looked at the man in her bed. He was snoring softly, lying on his stomach, his face turned sideways on her pillow. Light through the window cast an oblong rectangle over the fine white skin of his upper thighs. Shubra stared at the rectangle of light until the sun rose higher and it moved to his buttocks. Then she had another thought – *Nice ass.* She shook her head slowly, chasing the numbness away. She went to the bathroom where she splashed water in a coffee cup and drank it down. She filled the cup again, and again drained it with a breathless series of gulps. She took one look at herself in the mirror, realized in a split-second that she wasn’t ready to deal with that yet, and stepped carefully back in to the bedroom. Her eyes went from the muscular form of the man on her bed, to the nightstand where a pile of joints lay cold in an ashtray, to the bottles of Stoli on the floor, and finally to the kit that contained the paraphernalia they had used to shoot up heroin last night. Shubra saw the needles and thought – *Aids….* But no, this guy seemed pretty clean. From Norway, actually. Hadn’t he said he was some sort of royalty there? Not bragging about it, almost embarrassed. Like he had to have an excuse for being so rich. Shubra’s eyes fluttered involuntarily, and a blast of pain tore through her head. She sat back down on the windowsill and wrapped the curtain around her naked body. She shivered even though it was already growing hot outside. The worse of the migraine finished fast leaving a dull ache behind Shubra’s eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She worried that that Norwegian would wake up and find her crying, think she was a case. But she just didn’t have the energy to wipe the tears away. She looked at the man’s back. He was huge through the shoulders with a narrow waist and, again, a nice, firm ass. His legs were so long, the calves and feet hung off her bed even though he lay diagonally with his head as far up as it could go in the opposite corner. He was big, no doubt about it. Shubra remembered undressing him last night, stoned and feeling sexy as she knelt before him to pull down his underwear. She actually fell on her haunches when his penis sprang free. Oh yes, he was a big boy all over the place. The head alone looked as big as a baby apple. And the shaft was as long as her forearm. He’d smiled sheepishly, almost apologizing for his size. “It is a family curse,” he’d explained, “or a blessing. Depending on who you talk to.” Thinking about it the morning after, Shubra leaned more towards blessing. It had been a little awkward when, during foreplay, he’d put it in her face – talk about intimidating – but once the actual intercourse started, her orgasms came hard and they came fast. It truly felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. Like her body was being burned into ash by a sacrificial fire. Then the ashes caught a gentle breeze and blew away. Of course, that could have been the drugs. Which brought her back to – *Aids*. *No*, she concluded, *he’s the future king of Norway. He wouldn’t have aids….* The sun continued to rise, and the early-birds took to the courtyard. From the window, Shubra watched a few of her peers stroll lazily through motes of dusty, tree-filtered sunlight. They wore backpacks and munched on pastries, drank coffee from thermoses and water from bottles. Two boys passing each other stopped for some conversation; ended it with laughter and a hearty pat on the back. More tears leaked from the corners of Shubra’s eyes. *Future king of Norway*…. The truth was she couldn’t even remember his name. It was some fucked up Scandinavian thing ending in “udski”. She rubbed the inside of her elbow where he’d inserted the needle. She knew absolutely nothing about him except that he happened to be at her favorite club last night and he was uncommonly handsome, rich, and well-hung. Then another memory came to the forefront of her mind. When she had retrieved a condom from her purse and the Norwegian shook his head. “It has been tried before,” he’d said, holding his enormous penis up for her to see for herself. Shubra struggled to fit the condom over the head of his cock, wrestling with it like a child trying to fit a circle into a square hole. For his part, the Norwegian seem to enjoy the struggle until the rubber sprang away and slapped him in the chin. They had laughed and laughed. But she never did get that damned condom on the prick. Shubra wiped her face with the curtain and, after a few body racking sobs, she forced herself to stop crying. She would have to go to the University’s free clinic again. Get tested. It was just so humiliating, sitting in the waiting room with the poor students. But she couldn’t go to her family doctor. It would get back to her father. Light flashed from the courtyard. She looked out the window, scanning for whatever caused the flair. It happened again, and Shubra whipped her head towards the source. She saw her father standing between two trees, holding a machete at his side. *Impossible!* Her father was in Dallas, four hours away from Houston. It couldn’t be him…. She leaned forward and saw that, in fact, it wasn’t her father. This man was thinner and had more hair. He looked younger too, without the deep, dark character lines on his face that her father had. Otherwise, they could be twin brothers. The stranger slowly lifted his head and looked right at Shubra. She clenched the curtain to her chest. She noticed that he wore an old fashioned korta, the sleeves of which were stained brown and the skirt was horribly shredded. He bared his teeth and pointed the gore-coated machete at Shubra. Sunlight caught the helm of the machete and Shubra was momentarily blinded by the flash. Shubra flew to her feet. The curtain pulled away from her body and she stood naked at the window, rubbing her eyes. When she focused them again, the mysterious man was gone. She leaned out the window, frantically searching through the trees, but he wasn’t there. She sank back to the window sill and kept looking until she calmed down enough to figure it had been a drug induced hallucination. *Guilty thoughts, that’s all.* She closed the curtain, tied it at the bottom so no sunlight could get in, and sat with her hands between her knees. The Norwegian looked so peaceful lying on her bed. She studied his profile; the milky white complexion of his skin, the blond scruff on his jaw…. She remembered his eyes being ice blue. Impossibly blue. She had an urge to see those eyes again, to lose herself in the arctic pools. Shubra lowered herself gently on top of the sleeping giant. His skin felt sticky in the morning heat as her breast pushed against his back. She wrapped an arm around his chest and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He opened his eyes slowly and Shubra saw that they were indeed blue. Very blue, but also red and puffy from a long night of alcohol, drugs and sex. He smiled though, and that was enough to melt Shubra’s heart. He rolled over and held her close. She burrowed her head into his massive chest. He smelled good; musty, earthy. He circled his hands over her back a few times, and then started snoring again. Shubra smiled and sighed pure contentment. She had been prepared to give him sex, but this was all she really wanted; to feel safe in a man’s arms. She dozed off dreaming about lush green valleys, forests full of snowcapped pine trees, cold blue waters, and a royal castle perched upon a majestic Norwegian hill. **Shubra sat in** the waiting room of the University’s free clinic. It was crowded, as always, and most of the people there shaggy looking and poor. Shubra had thought she was dressing down when she’d put on the denim blouse and stone-washed jeans before leaving her dorm, but a furtive scan of the room told her that even the sandals on her feet cost more than the entire wardrobes of the other people waiting. Feeling out-of-place, Shubra tried not to make eye contact with anybody. She looked at the posters on the wall; public service announcements warning against smoking, drinking, and – there you go – promiscuous sex. Shubra folded her hands in her lap and waited. It was deathly quiet in the room. Only the whisper of book pages being turned, an occasional cough, and the disruptive event of a name being called to see the doctor punctuated the interminable silence. Shubra closed her eyes. Time passed – hours, minutes, it was too hard to tell. She allowed herself to doze lightly, just alert enough to recognize her name when, or if, it ever got called. As she drifted in and out of sleep, Shubra heard a faint, rhythmic *ping* noise. Like a metronome. Or water dripping on ceramic. At first it was soothing, and Shubra lost herself in the sound, but after a while it became irregular, the *ping* happening out of sequence. It became jarring. Shubra lifted her head and opened her puffy eyes to look for the source. She thought it might have something to do with the air conditioning system. She checked the ceiling but didn’t find any signs of water damage. She looked to see if there was a wall clock that might be off, but there wasn’t. As she continued scanning the room, she noticed another young Indian lady sitting across from her, looking even more out of place than herself. This one was dressed like an Indian Princess! She wore a stunning silk Sari – white as cream with veins of gold sewn through the fabric – and her hair was done up in jewels and ivory. Her arms were heavy with bangles and her hands painted red with henna. *She’s in an acting class*, Shubra thought, *in costume for some stupid festival.* There, at the feet of the costumed girl, Shubra found the source of the nuisance sound. Blood dripped from under the girl’s sari, hitting the charms on her ankle bracelet. It alternated from drops to fairly heavy streams, causing the irregular pulse. Shubra noticed that the gorgeous sari was soaked through and thick with blood around the girl’s lap. It stuck to her crotch and the insides of her thighs. A puddle of red engulfed her dainty bare feet. Shubra stood up and was about to scream when the student intern entered the room. “Shubra Sastri?” a young man in a white smock asked, the door banging against the wall as he pushed it open. Shubra gasped. She looked at the young man, then back to the costumed girl. For the first time, the girl had raised her head, so Shubra could see her face. She was beautiful. Her eyes were large and sorrowful, pleading with Shubra. She lifted a henna-red finger to her lips and motioned for Shubra to *be silent!* Shubra ran to the young man, grabbed his arm, and pointed to where the costumed girl was sitting. “Help her!” she cried, “She’s bleeding!” But the costumed girl was no longer there. The seat was now occupied by a disaffected young man with a goatee and a Houston Cougars baseball cap. He arched an eyebrow at them then went back to reading ESPN the Magazine. “Who’s bleeding?” the attendant asked. Shubra frantically searched the room, studying faces, getting quizzical looks in return. “She was bleeding. There was blood all over the place….” Shubra muttered, hanging on the attendant’s arm. The pressure of a migraine headache started building behind her eyes. The attendant led Shubra into the back rooms, assuring her everything would be fine. Just fine. **“She’s crazy,” Biju** told Rachel handing her the clipboard, “Or strung out on dope or something. Look! Look at my arm!” Biju rolled up the sleeve of his white coat and showed Rachel the marks the patient had made with her fingernails when she’d grabbed his arm. Rachel noticed the half-moon crescent bruises on the bicep, but they didn’t disturb her half as much as the arm itself. “My God Biju,” Rachel held his arm up by the elbow and inspected it, “you’re lucky she didn’t snap the bone. Do you have any muscle at all on your body?” Biju took his arm back. “I happen to have a runner’s physique.” “You have a pencil’s physique.” “I am pretty sharp,” Biju joked. Rachel groaned as they came to the patient’s room. They started whispering now. “So why did she come here? Most people don’t come to the free clinic because they are ‘feelin’ a little crazy today’.” “She wants testing for STD’s,” Biju summed it up succinctly, “specifically AIDS. The ‘Morning After’ pill too. I asked if she was using drugs and she said ‘no’, rubbing her elbow the entire time.” “Shit,” Rachel frowned, raising the clipboard to her face. “I hate when they lie….” “What’s wrong?” Biju asked, noticing Rachel’s expression. “I think I know this girl. Shubra Sastri. We went to the same church.” “You want I should get a different resident?” “No….” Rachel answered slowly. “No…. I guess not unless she asks for one.” “Were you friends?” “Quite the opposite, actually. There is some sort of feud between our families, so I’ve never even really talked to her. I assume she hates me though; she always looked down her nose at me when we were growing up. What the hell is she doing at the free clinic anyway? Her family is loaded.” “She probably doesn’t want anybody to know she’s a strung-out slut-junky.” “Biju!” Rachel snapped. “Well, she surely didn’t come here for our fast and courteous service.” “And nobody ever will as long as you’re around.” Rachel sighed. “I’ll give it a shot anyway. If she doesn’t want to deal with me, she’ll just have to wait for the next resident to come available.” Rachel waited until Biju disappeared around the corner before grabbing the door knob. She looked at the clipboard one last time and flashed a wicked grin. “Shubra Sastri,” she whispered, “my my my.” Rachel squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and stepped into the room with authority. Growing up in the close-knit Indian community of Dallas, Shubra Sastri had always been the pretty one, the popular one, the rich one, the one who was going to lead a great life. But in the examination room of the free clinic, pretty, popular and rich didn’t mean a whole lot. It was all about who wore the white coat in here. At first glance, Rachel assumed it was a different Shubra Sastri. The girl perched on the edge of the table, hunched over with her arms hugging her stomach, a mess of tangled hair obscuring her face, looked far too wretched to be the bitch-on-wheels Rachel remembered from home. But when the girl lifted her chin, Rachel recognized the unmistakable features of her schoolyard rival. Even without makeup and hair style, and with the stress of emotion lining her face and leaving her complexion spotty, Shubra Sastri was still a strikingly beautiful girl. She had the fine-boned features of a fashion model; sharp cheeks in an elegantly angular face tapering to a dainty chin. Hell, she even had the ridiculously perfect beauty mark hanging just above and to the right of her sensual lips. To Rachel, as well as most other women, Shubra Sastri had the type of beauty that made them shout – “Unfair!” Shubra looked at Rachel with such anguish and fear in her large, almond shaped, black eyes that the young doctor felt unaccountably guilty – taking pleasure from another’s suffering. Then again, maybe it was all just karma in action. “Shubra Sastri?” Rachel asked, trying to make her voice sound deep and impersonal. Shubra looked at Rachel, studying her, and then replied in a mousy voice, “Rachel?” “Yes. I’m a resident here.” Rachel retrieved a pen from her smock and clicked it open, putting the tip to the clipboard. “I understand you’re having some tests done today?” Shubra didn’t answer; she just continued staring at Rachel. “I, um, guess I should let you know that there are other residents if you’re uncomfortable with me.” Shubra surprised Rachel by standing up and embracing her in a tight hug. “Whoa there,” Rachel exclaimed, holding her arms out to the side, “This is…. I’m not…. I’m a resident here….” Rachel protested, until she felt Shubra’s body tremble. Then she brought her arms around slowly to complete the hug. “I’m scared Rachel,” Shubra sobbed, resting her head against the larger girl’s shoulder. “There there,” Rachel said, patting Shubra’s back. The embrace lasted far too long for Rachel’s comfort. She started thinking of ways to break the hug, but Shubra just kept sobbing, pressing her face into Rachel’s smock. Rachel felt the damp of tears and snot soak all the way through to her shoulder and decided that was enough. “Okay,” Rachel said, putting her hands upon Shubra’s shoulders and gently pushing her way, “Let’s see if we can get you cleaned up a little.” Rachel sat Shubra on the examination table. She grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped Shubra’s eyes and cheeks, then held the wad under Shubra’s nose and told her to blow. The snot was clear and watery. No signs of infection. Rachel stood at the sink, washing her hands. “Well, your mucus is coming out clear anyway. That’s a good sign. Of course, it doesn’t mean much as far as STDs go, we’re still going to have to tests for those. Have you experienced any painful discharge? When urinating? Shubra?” Shubra wasn’t listening. Once again, she was wrapped up in herself, clutching her stomach and gazing at the floor. Her shoulders rose and fell with every breath. Rachel sighed. She picked up the clipboard, drew a few circles on it, then set it down again. She stood next to Shubra and reached out a hand tentatively. She touched the back of Shubra’s neck, then slowly started pulling the thick tangle of hair away from the right side of her face until she could see her eyes. “Shubra, I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.” “There was a girl in the waiting room.” Shubra said, reaching up to clutch Rachel’s hand. Rachel sat next to her on the table. “Yes, I heard about that. You thought you saw something?” “She was bleeding.” “But there was nobody there.” “She was there.” “Shubra, you’re under a lot of stress right now….” “When she looked at me I didn’t recognize her at first, but now I know who she was.” “Oh? Well then, we can call her and make sure she’s okay? Do you know her phone number?” “It was me, Rachel. I was the bleeding girl.


1. where do we begin... i guess, if i had to say, it would start in my home. if home is what they say, if home is a place of comfort, then home is what it was. so i hesitate to bring it up. i am unclear as to what it means to be alive in that place. if part of me is here, i survived, while part of me will always be left behind, broken glass on torn bed frames, still it lives in there. in those crevices in my mind i don’t care to visit. that i won’t visit. if that is home, then it’s the perfect place to lay down my heart. 2. it’s a school day. i remember because mom woke me up. i am five, or four, and there is that smell of morning. i don’t smell the morning anymore. i went into the kitchen. breakfast was served: eggs with cut up hotdogs. we get ready to leave. there in the closing of the car door, i hear it. softly, at first, a hummingbird wasn’t this quite. then, at once, an eruption of sound came from behind my seat. i covered my ears as mom opened the door. “what’s wrong?” i don’t answer. i wouldn’t even know what to say. 3. i am eighteen again. eighteen and drinking shit beer with shit friends that i’ve partnered for a lifetime. these are girls. these are guys. these are the people i would kill for and lose with. we are out of town. the city limit miles behind. the sky is growing dark. i turn, stumbling over to piss. my eye sight is foggy, i can hear Mike shouting “don’t go too far!” with my dick in my zipper and my hand on a beer i start to pee into some bushes. how does it always know, when i am alone or afraid? i hear it... a soft humming of wind and voices. it’s as if all these people crammed into a room, speaking in whispers. then it shouts. one voice among them louder than hell. always in that same place. in that place right behind your peripheral vision. i turn around as fast as i can and trip with my dick still out, spilling beer and embarrassment all over my jeans. it was Mike this time. he laughed, high as a kite “you alright man, you look pale” i put myself away as he helps me up. i spook around trying to see clearly. looking all around as if nothing had just happened. 4. it was my eight grade graduation. my mom is looking proud in the audience. for a while there, i wasn’t sure i would make it. i wasn’t sure i would walk with my class. this was two years after the accident. i had developed behavioral issues and was removed from my classes due to anger management. they wrote me up this plan. this plan that would get me back on the road to success, they said. as i sat there waiting for my name to be called. a man stood in the back of the cafeteria where they hosted our event. he didn’t look like a parent. he didn’t look like a person, really, as i blinked twice before looking at him again. my name was called. i stood up to walk over to the principle to receive my certificate... the humming began. the sounds of those people faded. my mom looked so proud of me. so proud. as i screamed, he handed me my certificate. his hand was made of leathery black skin. his face was featureless. and his eyes. those empty shark gazes as we touched. my skin turned cold. i blinked twice. and he was gone. the principle stood there “good job” i looked around, the crowd of parents and teachers clapping for the next kid who stood up after me. and my mom. so proud. so pleased. 5. it was raining outside. i always loved the rain. i would get up early and chase the dog through the mud. we had a big backyard. as big could be for me, age seven or eight. i ran around barking. i loved the rain in those days. i loved the mud and the wet earth smell that crept up from the ground. the rain began to pour harder. my dog stopped and stared. “what’s wrong boy?” “why did you stop?” he began to cower. his tail coiled up under his butt as i bent down to grab him. he was whimpering. i couldn’t tell what was wrong. the rain pouring down. and even in that whitewall of water, the humming began. i looked up. and there he was. only a few feet in front of me. he didn’t look wet at all. the rain didn’t touch him. and his eyes were fixed upon me. “what do you want?” he raised his skeletal hand. black as night. black as the color of the void must feel. lifting only four or five fingers. i blinked twice. my dog found it’s voice and barked. i blinked twice before falling over into the mud and ground. i sat there and cried as the rain came to a sudden halt. 6. it was summer once again. twenty-one and in the back of a mustang with the top down. the song playing was eighties rock. for whom the bell tolls, time marches on... for whom the bell tolls. Mike was driving and Hector was in the front seat. i was waving my hands in the air. all of us singing along to the song. Hector turned to me, handing me a shooter of Jameson, before handing one to Mike. we were coming up on the big drop. the little dipper, we coined it. it was this patch of road that went up and instantly fell down. Mike was going thirty-five as he approached it. we blew past the speed marker: 25. he pressed his foot down on the gas. we jumped up to sixty in half a second. the little dipper ahead. i closed my eyes. threw my hands up after we all slammed our shots. we came up the slope and flew over the drop. time stood still. time wasn’t constant in this state of being. the music died. the car disappeared. and thats when i saw him. waiting at the bottom of the road. as if he’d been there all night. he was always there. Mike swerved. Hector flew out of the car. his body a rag doll. i grabbed on to the seat belt around my waist. we slammed into a ditch and the car made this awful noise. crunching up like a wad of tin foil. “did you see that?” “where’s Hector?” we got out of the car. shouting for Hector. “Mike, do you see it?” “see what?” i pointed. we both froze. he was standing over Hectors body on the asphalt. he leaned down and touched him. he visibly touched him with the red tint of tail lights lighting his hand. Mike ran over as i froze. “help me!” i couldn’t move. 7. i was snorting blow with these two girls i met at the bar. they were both laughing and taking bong rips as i emptied out my bag on a movie case. i cut up some lines and rolled up a twenty dollar bill. “i want next” one of the girls said before coming over to sit next to me. i snorted my line. the lions share of a line. and my nose began to burn. “who wants shots?” the other girl stood up and walked into the kitchen of this shotgun style apartment. the girl next to me took my rolled up twenty and snorted loudly over the movie case. “do you always do your blow on a weird movie case?” i looked back at the movie. and there he was. a shadow covered in white. i panicked. “we have to leave” my arms turned pale. my legs began shaking. she reached over and grabbed my leg. i blinked twice as i met her face... it wasn’t her sitting next to me anymore. 8. Hector didn’t die from the impact to the road. Hector was hurt, covered in blood that wasn’t his own. the report said he died from acute organ failure. he was still alive when we got to him that night. he looked at Mike and started to tear up. he reached over to me as i slowly walked over “it’s you...” he croaked. “it’s always been you...” 9. i shut my eyes before remembering that home. that house where time floated by and you floated along. if there was life there, it surely swam alone. i began to see it, unwillingly. i didn’t want to see. i blinked twice and there i was: twenty-six. successful. in a career. in a house under my name. with a car out front. i sat in that house alone. even though i knew, deep down, that i was never, truly, alone. it began with a frenzy. i smashed the walls with an axe and then began on the decor. i walked over to the stove. began to light everything that was remotely flammable. i entered my room. chopping the bed frame, ripping the curtains as the fire in the kitchen began to spread. with the smoke filling up behind me. i walked into the bathroom and slammed into the mirror. and as i fell to my knees, there he was on the floor... 10. the day of the accident was a mistake. i didn’t fall from the quad, no, something pushed me. i was going twenty before it swept me off. the last memory of my youth escaped me. my final moment was full of fear and regret. i was eleven or twelve. i was there and then i wasn’t. he looked at me, as my brain began to swell. internal bleeding. he looked at me and i looked at him. a creature without a face with a sharks gaze. it was hungry. and i knew it was time. i reached out and it took my hand. i fell through the world as the earth escaped from underneath. left behind. who was the man in the mask... 11. we left Hector at the front doors of St. Mary’s hospital. we left him there and ran. Mike’s uncle picked us up a block or so away. we were covered in blood and he didn’t ask why. Mike cried. he looked at me “why did you tell me to leave him there?” i couldn’t respond. i had no words. i began to cry harder. the alcohol fueling a bursted rage. a fury locked up in my throat. my eyes stinging. my nose backed up with snot. we left him there on that concrete slab just outside the automatic doors. i forced Mike to listen. Hector was gone and the faceless man took him. Mike didn’t believe me. even after the funeral. that was the last time we ever stood in the same place. Hector was gone. only his tombstone remained. 12. you can run from it all your life. you can run away and graduate and have a family and kids. but his surviving words still read: a beloved son. and the days taste stale. the food is always dry. and the faceless man is there... watching. waiting. i need only look in a mirror. 13. end.


The Diner  The Robo-waiter charged the booth like an Olympic figure skater. It coasted right on up and made a perfect, abrupt stop barely an inch from the table's edge. A pleasant male voice coming from the automated attendant asked, "Are you folks ready to place your order yet?" Seated at the table were a man and a woman, both sixtyish and presenting a countenance common on folk that have hardened against an environment of scarcity and worry. The woman lowered her menu and looked across the table at her dinner partner. He folded his menu and gave the woman a quick nod. She asked their mechanical waiter, "What's your special today?" The automaton started up a display on its chest showing a video of a delicious looking dinner, and answered. "Ma'am, we have country fried steak and American fries, drizzled with gravy, with a side of fresh steamed, garlic-bacon green beans. Today's special comes with your choice of coffee or soft drink, and a dinner roll or biscuit." The woman customer noted a hint of southern accent from the machine's voice, and thought to herself "nice touch," as she said, "Yep, that looks real good. I'll have that, please, with some coffee and a roll." "Make that two," said the man. "Only I'll have mine with a biscuit and a Coke." He gathered up the menus as the woman handed over hers. He passed the menus to the robot who put them in a holding basket, located where a human waiter's leg would be, using one shiny metallic appendage. Meanwhile, it deftly filled two water glasses, and a Coke glass with another arm which seemed to have a drink spout for each beverage on offer. The automaton then inquired, "Ma'am, would you like your coffee now?" The woman thought for a moment and replied, "Actually, no, could I have my coffee after we eat?" "Certainly, Ma'am. Will that be all for now, folks?" asked the robot. "Yes, thank you." she said. "Uh, yeah, I guess that does it." replied the man, then went on to ask "Any idea 'bout how long 'til we can expect to get our food?" "Four, to four and one-half minutes, sir." the waiter answered confidently. The man let out a soft, slow whistle, a look of surprise on his face. "Say, that's pretty fast." "You can say that again." said the woman, as the robot rolled off toward the kitchen. She looked around the diner. It was busy. Every table had customers, a few more sat on a bench by the door waiting for vacancy. Their waiter was already rolling out a delivery to another table without even slowing down. It just swung by the food station and swept up a large tray of meals. The woman said to the man, "Gee, maybe I should have worn roller skates here. Anyhow, that waiter tires me out just watching him race around. " "Imagine it does." said the man. "Did you hear how fast he, it, said our meals would be out here? Under four and a half minutes? I couldn't a kept up cookin' at that pace, busy as this place is today." "Yeah, it sure is busy," the woman said, "I guess people go out to eat more often now." "Well, won't we?" the guy asked back. "Now that we get the Freedom Dividend? Shoot, we can eat out twice as much as we did before." "We never went out to eat before. What in the heck you going on about?" she replied. "Yeah, I guess your right. Well, we sure can now. One thousand dollars a month, for you, me, Tommy. That's an extra thirty-six thousand, each year, until he decides he wants to get his own place. Then, still, that's twenty-four grand for just us. Man, President Andrew Yang came along just in time too. We sure were hurtin, and what with automation taking people's jobs everywhere, and them self driving trucks." As he finished his thought, the man looked over the kitchen at the automated cooking machine that was flipping burgers, lowering fry baskets, and drizzling the gravy over their dinner plates. "Do you miss working the kitchen?" she asked him. "You know what, Alice, sometimes I do. But, I think things are better, now. More time for Tommy now. He and I are enjoying refurbishing all those boats for people. He has a real knack for it, ya know? I'm try'n help him much as I can. But, even though he has a passion for it, he never would have made a go of it, as a business I mean, had that UBI not kicked in. It just wasn't steady enough work. It was too hit or miss between projects. It sure is working out well now though. Folks got more money for things like boats, now." he said. The woman nodded and said, "Mrs. Coleman wants me to clean her house on Mondays and Fridays. And, I can start writing that novel I was always going to write. Besides, look how well this old diner is doing without us, Mel." Mel looked around the diner and began, "Yessiree, the time for man to trudge and toil for his dinner is over at long last, I reckon. We can't even keep up with these machines on our best day. We sure gave it a heck of a run though, didn't we?" Alice patted his hand and looked Mel right in the eye and reassured him, "Mankind created the machines. They're the product of our labors. Honey, we aren't being replaced by machines, we're being served by 'em." Just then the waiter zoomed up to the table again and deposited two perfectly cooked steaming hot plates of food onto the table, and said, "Enjoy your meals folks!" as it rolled away.


(I got the idea for this from a writing prompt that said “Start a story with a sentence and then end it with the same sentence but in a completely different tone.” I also wasn’t sure if horror was exactly right, but I think so... here we are.) I knelt to the tub and slid my hand into the warmth, sighing, utterly content. I needed this. It had been such a long night at the hospital; being head of trauma had its perks, but last night was not a shining example. As I lowered my stiff, aching body into the hot bubbles, I could practically feel the stress melt off me. Legs relaxed and the little girl who swallowed a battery evaporated from my brain. My back relaxed into the lavender soak and the old woman who fell on the stairs breaking most of the bones on her left side bounded out the doors in my head. The pregnant woman who had gone into labor at her son’s band concert washed away with my hands, and the young man that had leaped from a building on a frat dare slipped out of my thoughts as I completely submerged myself. I let the bath jets kick on, creating a perpetual loop of bubbles. And hour later and I sat toweling my hair off at the foot of our bed. “Want to talk about it?” Liam asked as he ran his sturdy hands down my tense shoulders. Do I? I wondered to myself. A pause. Yes. Turning to look at him, I remembered a laundry list of reasons I love him. Deep green eyes that are always warm, how he never asks how work was because it’s never good, the way he never falters even when I’m at my worst… I could go on forever. “It was rough…” Liam nodded, solemnly. “I’ve let most of it go, but…” I trailed off, glancing behind him. He glanced back, following my gaze to the dresser mirror. “What’s wrong?” Concern seeped into his voice, hanging heavily in the air. “It’s just… been a long night.” I smiled half-heartedly. “Thought I saw something in the mirror.” I proceeded to tell Liam about the last patient I’d seen last night. He was brought in just after midnight. The kid was only 12. His father had found him in their attic covered in carvings — pentagrams, scratches, and other markings no one recognized were etched into his exposed skin and all over his back. Dad claimed the boy had gone to bed at 9. Dad had stayed up working and was headed to sleep when he heard deep chuckling and small whimpering from the closed attic. Their house had a pull-down ladders — no way the four-foot-nothing child had opened it on his own. But dad had a feeling and went to check his son’s room to be safe. It was good he did. When the boy got to the hospital, his temperature was problematically low and he’d gone slightly delirious with pain, probably exhausted too. He kept addressing someone in the corners of the rooms, occasionally screaming to get out, sometimes whispering to come closer. We’d stabilized him though. He was given painkillers and sleeping medicine then his wounds were stitched, dressed, and meticulously watched by the nurses. He would be fine, but he’d have the scars forever. Hospital policy in these cases is pretty clear; social services was called, police were brought in to interview the father who hadn’t even his son since they arrived, and hospital security posted a guard at the room door at all times until we heard otherwise from the authorities. It almost felt cruel. My gut told me this wasn’t child abuse, but that wasn’t my job to determine. Liam, of course, listened intently. He asked some questions, but ultimately let me get the whole story off my chest. “Is that everything?” he asked cautiously. “You still seem a little frazzled.” I pondered for a minute. Was that all? What am I not saying? Then it hit me. “The boy,” I said, “he coughed up blood all over my face.” Why hadn’t I remembered that? Liam pulled back a fraction of an inch. “It’s why we ended up sedating him.” “Are you okay?” “Of course.” I waved the questions off. “Full blood panel on both of us immediately following. I’m on mandatory 72 hour leave while samples culture, but it’s not like he had ebola.” I smiled, full and vibrant this time. “It’s a mini vacation.” “I’m sorry I’ll miss most of it then,” he laughed, pulling me to lay normally on the bed. “This meeting is what I would have at the bottom of my list of shit-I-could-do-this-weekend.” He wrapped his arms around me and I let my head hit the pillow, sleep taking me as I whispered how much I loved my husband. When I woke up, I was alone. The curtains were drawn, but some of the midday light peaked through. There was a folded piece of paper on the nightstand. Off to Chicago. I’ll call when I land at O’Hare. Dinner has been ordered and I’ll see you tomorrow night. Love, Liam I don’t know what I did to deserve that man, but I will forever be thankful for him. I got up, started coffee, took a quick wake up shower, poured coffee, and sat down in the living room. I grabbed my controller and powered everything up. Sipping my coffee, I watched the procession of startup logos -- Samsung, PS4, PS4 warnings, pentagram, PS4 startup menu -- wait. I blinked. Pentagram?? Power down everything. Wait a minute. Power up TV. Normal. Make sure input is correct. Power on PS4. Logo. Warnings. Startup menu. No pentagram. Probably just still waking up. Everything is fine. I downed my first cup of coffee and poured a second. For a few hours, I played video games and forgot all the work stress and the pentagram until a sharp knock at the door brought me back to reality. It was 6:30pm. The sunlight had all but disappeared. A second knock. I scrambled up and managed to open the front door before a third knock came. Pizza. Liam knew just what to do to cheer me up. “Tip is already included,” the delivery girl I’d seen a few times before said. She handed me three boxes - one pizza and two small long ones. “You guys enjoy.” “Just me tonight,” I said smiling. “Have a good night.” I handed her another $5. She looked confused, glancing behind me then towards her car then back to me. She smiled hesitantly but said good night and left. I raised an eyebrow. She must have expected Liam because his name was on the receipt. Closing the door, I headed back to the living room and… I backtracked to the hallway mirror. Was that someone walking behind me as I crossed in front of it just now? I walked back to the front door, then back to the living room, watching the reflection as I went. No. Must have been the shadow behind me that caught my eye. As I sat back down, I grabbed my phone. I hadn’t heard from Liam yet, but I know his company often gets flights with long layovers to save money. Liam probably checked the bag with his charger. What was I going to do with him? I chuckled. I tried calling anyway. “You’ve reached Liam. Please leave your message here and I’ll r̵etu̡r̨n҉ y̶ou̖̫͞r̘͎ ̸̹c̵a̤̥̲̹̝̫l̥̫l̹̺̫̱̱̫̺̀ a̛̪̩͘s̫͇͚̤͘ ̢̗̻̱̥͕̣s̟̘̻o̶͍̮̫̮͎̻̺o̸̗͓̺̖͡ń̖̹̠̥̞̣̬̝͔ ͖͇̞̠̘̯͈͢a̶̹̪̦̲̠̞s̥͙̗͇͈̖̩ ̢͚̯͢I̷̡̖̻͉͍̹̜̜̤͖ ̸̶͉͚̟͉̞̻͉͈͘c̡̖̣͍͜a̷̯͇͇͈̩̺n̢͍̖̯̳̟̯̞̲̱.̨̳͓̦͔͖̦̟̀͘ ̸̛҉̬͔͓̞̼T҉̶̗͕͕̙h͉̤̟̭̫̯a̷̶͇̰n̳̗̼̯̩̰̻͚͞k̡͎ͅs̴̥͕͎̞̻͟͝.͎̜͙̪̞̟̝” ̫̫̟ The audio got weird. Words scratched apart and jumbled, then the call disconnected. Did he power on his phone? I redialed. “You’ve reached Liam. Please leave your message here and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Thanks.” Beep. I hung up. Definitely not on. I decided to message him on Facebook. If his laptop was connected, he’d see me on and maybe we could chat. After sending him a short thank you with a picture of my pizza, I dug in and turned on a movie. Rom-com, of course. I could use a- was that one of the symbols from the kid’s arm? Just now? On my rom-com opening credits? I put down my pizza and skipped back. Starring…. Nothing. No weird symbols. Just actors and actresses and directors. I blinked a few times, rewound one more time, then slowly went back to eating dinner. Probably time for real sleep after this. I ended up dozing after dinner. I woke up to the final swell of the orchestra as the couple said “I do” and kissed. Camera panned up to the perfect sky, and credits started to roll. On my phone, I had two notifications from Facebook Messenger. Liam: Hey you. Glad pizza is good. I’m on layover in Denver. Charger is in my suitcase and my phone died. :( I’ll call from hotel. Love you. Liam:⛧ H̷̞̞̥̬̘͉͍̘̞̥̻͐ͧ̌ͩͦ̃ͬ̀͢e͒ͦ̋ͮͩ̄͐̌̽̌́҉̵͖͉̥͈̰̭͈̥̥͖̯̣͇͕ ̵̼͚̲̻͇͓͕̘͈̙̜̱̠̦̳͎ͥ͒̒̅́̋̏͂̐̀ͫ́ͪͯ̈̅͡ͅi͕̩̮̪̝̝͎ͦ͗͛ͮ̂ͨͥͩ̄̀s̛̛̭̟͕̤͔͋̇͛̈́ͅ ̨̆ͦͩ̿̃ͨ̐̎̓̈ͭ́̅ͧ̉͋̚̚͝҉̸̪̩̹̟̙̝͍͘hͨͪ͌͛͂͗͂̂ͯ͋ͨ̇̓̇̒̆҉҉̰̫̥̪̻̲̦̙͟ͅe̎̊̊̉̈ͦ͒̂͟͠͠҉̯̬̻͇͉̹͚̱̤͇͍̗͖̠̟ͅr̵̢͓̖̠̼̘̦̞͙̹̻̬̭͎̗͙̻̲̮ͥ̎̂̈ͪͫ̀ͤ̽̄̈ͤͨ̃͒ͯ͂̀̚͡ͅē̛̦͎̗̖̠̊ͩͤ͐̆̐̑̈́͒̎̾̀͘̕ ̸̙̳̪̦̼̳̜̰̩̰̩̘̮̞͍͎̈ͬ̈́̀͗ͫͨ̕͟͢͠w̌͂̀ͬ͌̑͐̽ͮͯ̄̎̆̚҉̠̹̜̻̭̀̀i̧̾ͬ̂̊̆ͩͦͭ͆҉͔͙̖̖̥̙̫̀ţ̶̛̝͚̺͓̘̠̌̏͑̎ͧ̌̑͒ͦ͒ͥ̀͆͌ͫͅḩ̤̣̠͇̿ͫͩͭ̽̋͋ͭ͋͛͘͘͡ ̘͙̘̦̫̣̠̥ͤ́ͪ͆́͐͌ͩ̅͑͑ͤ̌̇̕y̡̙͍̠̝̰̪̻̫̥͎̗̹̯̟͇̥̦̓ͧ̓ͬ̓̓ͩ͗ͯ̀̚͝͞͠ͅò̶͇͎̝̟͙̗̰͖͚͙͇̱̮̟̀ͫͥ̋̿̉̊̃ͯ̑̏̕̕͟ͅų̷̩͕̬̩̳̩͇͓̘̳̻̙͎̄̃̅ͭ̐̇ͪ̀̒ͪͤ̿̅̐̈́̇͠.̈ͫ̒̓̈́́ͨ̅͊ͣ̈ͥ̕͜҉̢̥̟̤̙̻̰͎͚͚̞̻͉̙̫̦̭ ⛧ The second message had two pentagrams surrounding dozens of incomprehensible words and symbols. I blinked. They were still there. I took a screenshot, closed the app, and reopened the messages. The symbols and gibberish had changed to real words. Liam: ♡ Hope you enjoy your movie and alone time. ♡ Rubbing my eyes, I sighed. Time for bed. I turned everything off and headed upstairs, ignoring the chuckling and shadow that crept behind me in any mirrors I passed. As I laid down, my phone started to buzz. I sat back up. A local number was calling me. Why so late? It was almost 9pm. I silenced the ringer. If it was important, they’d leave a message. That night was restless. I kept moving and dreaming of a shadow behind me. I dreamt of living in my video game, all stealth and assassin. I dreamt of killing someone. I woke up with a start. I had a voicemail from last night. It was 3:30am. There was a message in my email from the hospital telling me the boy with the cuts had died. “Don’t laugh, it’s rude,” I told the shadow in the mirror. I listened to the voicemail as the shadow and I walked into the bathroom. “Hi, this is Lisa from Liam’s office. Liam never made it to the airport and his phone goes straight to voicemail. You’re his emergency contact, so we just wanted to check and make sure he’s alright. Thanks!” Liam’s green eyes stared up at me from the bathtub, no longer vibrant and full of life. A huge gaping wound glistened on his neck. My shadow friend nodded with approval as I set our phones on the sink counter. I knelt to the tub and slipped my hand into the warmth, sighing, utterly content.


As he battled the waves, the wind roared loud and hard, only his 17 years at sea was keeping the boat afloat. The main sail was ripped from the deck, and he had no power from engine. He made make shifts underwater sails at either side of the boat that he lifted to steer. The white of the sea was blinding, rich with hopelessness. He tied himself to the deck, staring at pure fear. He screams at the top of his voice, “come ahead you won’t take me easy”. Gripping onto the steering wheel, white knuckles and grit teeth. As huge wave crashed into the front of the boat, rising it up so high he is dangling from the wheel. But still he refuses to let go, only his will power, and the love for a challenge was keeping him going. As quick as the boat raised up, it came crashing down the other side like a roller coaster. Slowly his boat was filling up with a watery death, he holds the wheel with his knee, grasping at the water pump, he cranks away. As he looked ahead, he could see a very faint grey outline, he knew it could not be water as it was not moving. He laughed with the roar of a lion; the storm had been taken him to land. Only time would tell if he could make It, he had no clue where he was, but he knew his chance of survival would increase with sold rock under him. This only spurred him on, cranking the pump faster his eyes only showing the very narrowing of gaps and the salt water stuck his face. The silhouette of the land grow in darkness and size as he gets closer. The boat stops with a massive crash, he is throwing from the wheel. he knew he is a rock, he had very limited time, his mind was saying can I swim the rest, how far to shore, will he need supplies from the boat, where was he. He could he the boat ripping her self apart, no time to think, he starts to untie himself. The knots are tight after the sudden pull from the throw. His fingers were sore from cold and water, his knife was out of reach. He rushed back to the wheel as he could hear the air rushing out the boat, quickly he starts to cut. As he turns around the whole front of the boat was just under water. He keeps cutting as fast as he can, the water is up to his ankles at this point. The fear was settling in, like a cloak of death. His heart was pounding and his wide open, his brain was firing neurons making it hard to focus. As he is pulled under, the water seemed clam, as it pulled him under more. He could not feel the cold, he was running on pure adrenalin, as he cut in to the last of the rope. He finally cuts him self free, as he looks up at the dazzling light of the surface, he pulls the cord to his life jacket. The rush to the surface only allowed him to wake up to how bad his situation was. The storm was still in full force, but now with his eyes lower, he could not see anything. Just water beating him from all around him. Only to be struck with the same rock that sunk him from behind on the head. His head was ringing, he was starting to fall asleep, his head was shutting down. Slowly he gave into demise. After an unspecified time, he could hear water crashing into the shores, his head was still in pain. The sharp rocks sliced into is hardened flesh. he did not want to make any sudden moves right away; he had no clue what was broken. He slowly checked himself out, apart from a few cuts and his painful headache, he was fine, lucky escape he felt. As je pulled himself onto the rocks, he could see he was in a cave, the sea was still in full force, with no chance of swimming out, he decided to give himself a bit of time to sort himself out a bit. His head wound, was worrying him, he could feel blood, but had no clue what was going on back there. He rips his sleeve off his shirt and wraps it around his head. He squints his face as the pain increases while he does it. He looked behind him into the darkness of the cave, he did not know where it went, but he had very little options. The current of the water would likely kill him if he went out the way he went in. He took out his flip lighter and sparked it, it took a few try’s but it soon sparked to life. The cave had some depth, his small light source barely pierced into the darkness. His footing was not the best and he crouched into the walls of the cave, with one had over his head and one on the ground. He pushed on until he comes to the wall at the back of the cave, no other light, no wind from anywhere but behind, he knew it was a dead end but there might be an underwater passage. He felt this was a bigger risk that trying to go out the front. He was really stuck in a rock and a hard place. He makes his way back to the front of the cave and sits down looking out into the sea. A miracle is what he needed. No escape, no supplies, and an unknowing injure to his head. “Checkmate” he says, accepting his fate, he smiled looking out the cruel mistress of the sea. He felt no regrets and enjoyed his last view of life.


This is a short story, and a true story.  I would like to preface this story with a warning. Tripping in public can get you into serious trouble, obviously. Do not try this at home unless you have some experience with psychedelics. That being said, I myself can't trip at home. When I try I end up leaving as soon as the come up is over because I feel the need to go out into the world and see it with new eyes. I had been preparing for this experience for some time, I had done something similar with a friend before. But at a small museum at a low dosage (of shrooms). This was a very different kind of place. This was the most popular fine arts museum in the whole region, and naturally, I was a bit nervous. I took the pills in the museum bathroom, for those of you who don't know what exactly 4-aco-dmt is, it's a novel psychedelic that converts to psilocin when ingested, so it's almost indistinguishable from mushrooms. During the come up, I walked around a part of the museum I had already seen (sober). They were mostly masterpieces by old European renaissance painters. Mostly stately portraits of stern gentlemen of status, which was why I figured this would be better to do before the trip actually started. When it did hit me though it hit me like a truck, I had never taken this much of the substance before and suddenly my attention shifted from the art to the other visitors. They seemed almost like wax automatons capable only of awe and nothing else, they slumped and staggered while they looked at the masterpieces which were the results of lifetimes of work by exceptionally gifted individuals that were far beyond a normal person's ability and understanding. I snickered quietly because well, first of all I was one of these beings, which was hilarious, but I also realized that everyone would be far too occupied with the pieces to notice that I was on another planet right now. This calmed me, I could do this. Now that the trip had set in I decided to go to a different section of the museum, one dedicated to the art of ancient central American and African cultures. For this I would have to go outside first, and it was raining. I figured I was no wuss and would not need to get my coat, the rain felt light and made me ready to go into the next phase. I only had to ask for directions on the way to the building once which I considered a great success. Upon entering I was first greeted by a section of art that dealt mostly with household items and furniture. I felt kind of insulted, I had not come here to spend time in a sort of glorified Ikea. It took me some time to find where the actual old, ethnic and religious art was located. But when I did, oooh boy. I stomped around a little because there was no one else in this section right now. A glass box with about 30-35 masks marked the crown jewel of the mesoamerican art exhibit and it made me think about the roles we choose to play in society, and a new appreciation for the antiquity of the idea of, say, different 'flavors' of people. In my mind, every mask represented an ancient equivalent to modern professions, or something like a cluster of Jungian personality types. But which one was I? What mask would I have donned in one of those ancient ceremonies? I did not know the answer. And it set me off a little. A looming aggression began to boil. Then I laughed at how obvious I was, the aggression wás the answer, clearly I would have been a warrior. With the warrior spirit in mind I walked into the next section, which was an African exhibit, mostly of wooden effigies but also of old black and white pictures of the people that belonged to the tribes where figures like this had been traditionally made. Now these men, they had been warriors, not by choice but by necessity, and the greatest of them had had their likeness carved into wood and clay, and their images and spirit had survived through the ages. I felt weak and ashamed. I used to be in better shape than this and at a time had been disciplined enough to have earned that epithet of warrior. But I had grown complacent, sedentary in my job, trading hard runs for sunny-day walks and grueling sparring sessions for doing a few squats and calling it a day. But I still felt a strength within me. 'I'm still young,' I thought to myself. 'There is still time to become a better, stronger and smarter me.' I felt liberated, I could see a clear path ahead of me. I had to stop eating crap, stop drinking every weekend, and dedicate myself to physical and mental training, for my own sake. Surely this had been the peak of the trip, surely this was the revelation of the entheogen. Little did I know, we were only getting started. I went back to the main building. Took a little break and drank some water, I was starting to feel a little more normal again. I passed a section dedicated to Chinese porcelain. There was a woman explaining the process of the lost art of true traditional porcelain making to an uninterested but polite teenager. She was at least seventy years old but she moved her hands when she spoke and everything she said was full of passion and vigor. I decided that she was, or had been, a teacher in some sort of capacity. To talk about a subject in such depth and to make others enthusiastic about an arcane subject requires a certain skillset that I was sure she had developed over a long career. She was almost comically short, but not because she was hunched over. She looked very healthy for her age and I'm sure she used to be a beautiful woman in her prime. She caught me listening in on her little lecture and she lost the thread of what she was saying. The look in her eyes said: it's been years since a man has looked at me that way. It didn't take her long to recoup and continue her story after a few umms and I left for the next exhibit, a little embarrassed, but also somewhat amused. The next exhibit featured more modern paintings, mostly from the last century, and statues as well. And I understood why people had made these things, to enrich their own lives and the lives of those who might enjoy their work. Some of the works held such passion that I found myself wondering what would have happened to the person that had made it if they had never picked up a paintbrush, would they have sunk slowly into depression and lived a life without purpose? Or were the people that had made these works so exceptional that they would have excelled at whatever path they might have chosen in life? It was an impossible question. I remember standing in front of a painting by an artist I had never heard of before for what seemed like hours, his name was E.J. Hughes. It was a scene of a grey beach with a stream and a treeline, there were all sorts of hidden treasures in the painting but I have not been able to find it on the internet, sadly. It was one of the best modern paintings I have ever seen and I could imagine myself stepping into the painting and living on a cottage besides that beach for the rest of my days. I was sure this E.J. Hughes and I would have been great friends. Sadly, upon reading the information next to the painting (which in my state was no small feat mind you), I found out the man had died in 2007. I exclaimed an audible 'FUCK' through the gallery. People were looking at me, including the floor's security guard. Part of me wanted to say: 'What, are you not moved by art? Then why do you come here?' But I knew that drawing more attention to myself than necessary would be a very bad idea. I moved on to the next exhibit. When I entered there was a recording of music by Mozart playing. And the leftmost wall was completely cluttered with paintings. I felt tired and sat down on the bench facing the wall so I could take it all in. Most paintings were scenes of Austria and Germany. A horse pulling a carriage through snow, a maid churning butter. The music and visuals of brilliant rays of sun that shone from the paintings lifted me above myself somewhat. It made me think of my youth and teenage years in Europe and the stories my grandmother used to tell me, I could feel myself slipping away and I think I even cried a little. THIS was the peak, of that I was sure, either that or I was about to trade the physical for the ethereal forever and die on the spot. I remember being afraid of dying but I did not panic because if it were to happen there was nothing I could do about it, and why waste my last moments on thoughts of panic and fear, why not enjoy the beautiful music and sights that reminded me of my home country that I had (perhaps foolishly) left behind? I remember thinking: 'Don't close your eyes, whatever you do, don't close your eyes, for as long as you can. Make the moment last.' An overweight Russian man and his family sat down next to me and the spell was broken. I felt relatively normal again and stood up to go get some water. I was glad I had survived. I went to do a last round of the classical paintings, one biblical scene was so intricate that all I could do was wonder how a person could make this with mere hands of flesh. A man my age who stood next to me seemed to share my opinion, we exchanged looks and for a moment I wondered whether he was as high as I was, but I dared not ask. Security came in and requested us to leave, the museum was about to close. I had been inside the museum for over seven hours, but to be honest it felt like I had been there for half a week. There is no good way to end this story. It's been a little over a week now and I still think about certain moments from that day sometimes. I haven't told anyone about it because I feel like no one would understand. They might think I'm a damn lunatic. So instead I decided to share the story on Reddit.


I wake up early one morning in October. I’m ecstatic! Today is the day I’ve been looking forward to since last year, when my sister got that message on her birthday. I couldn’t wait to get my message. Being the youngest in my friend group, all of my friends also already got their message. I turn on my phone, and, nothing. Not a single message. Well, it’s only 6:00 A.M., maybe future me is still asleep. I get up out of bed and start getting ready for my day. I shower, get dressed, make my bag and go downstairs. When I go into the living room, everyone is waiting for me, yelling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”. I thank my family as they hand me cake and presents, when my little sister comes up to me and asks “Well, what does it say?”. Everyone turns to me. “Oh, uh, I didn’t get it yet” I reply, “I guess I’m still asleep or something. Everyone looks worried. “What do you mean still asleep? He’s sending a message from the future! It doesn’t matter what time it is here!” My sister says. “Yeah, I guess” I mumble, starting to worry. ‘Why wouldn’t I send my past self a message?’ I think to myself, ‘Everyone gets a message from the future on their 15th birthday’. I go to school, where all my friends wish me a happy birthday, and talk about how we’re going to celebrate tonight. I don’t mention the message to anyone. By 12:00, I start panicking. What if future me got depressed and decided to end it all? What if I become a junkie and OD? What if I messed with the wrong people and they made me disappear? What if I’m broke and homeless and can’t even afford a phone? Crazier and crazier ideas run through my mind as the day goes on. By 9:00 I’m officially freaking out. I’m getting ready to goo out, getting dressed and heading out, walking to my best friend’s house, where we planned to meet up before they take me somewhere to celebrate. All night I’m watching my phone, waiting anxiously, but, nothing. At 12:01 my heart sank, I feel a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. “That’s it” I say “I’m done”. I go home an hour later and break down crying. What could have happened to me? What have I done? A month later, I’m still thinking about my birthday. I start to get the realization that if my time is so limited, I may as well live the best life I can. I decide I’m going to start working hard at everything that I do. I’ll study hard, work out more, eat better and live everyday as if it’s my last, because it may very well be. I wake up early one morning in October. I’m ecstatic, because today is going to be a great day, just like every day these past 11 months has been. I turn on my phone and suddenly, a message pops up. It reads: “Dear Drew, Happy birthday! I’m sorry you didn’t get your message last year, I know how you felt. You see, I know the path you were going down. One of self loathing, self pity, depression and self destruction, and you were taking no actions to improve you situation. I knew you needed a wake up call, and that was the best idea I had. I want you to know that I’m a very happy person nowadays. I have a great life, and I’m surrounded by people that I love, and it’s all thanks to the path I decided to take when I was 15. Proud of you, and wishing you a happy birthday, and trust me, this is a very happy one, Drew, 2049” That was the happiest day of my life.


He was a captain of the guard. He held his pike in his hand. They had defended the walls of the city for a thousand days. With his men he guarded his ruler and the people within. Dawn was breaking. The invaders had amassed three armies and the city was at last surrounded. The sun was rising as it always did. 'Savages.' said the young soldier standing at the Captain’s side. 'A comforting thought, I am sure.' said the Captain. 'You have any sympathy for them?' 'You have none?' 'None at all.' The walls of the city stood taller than any others the Captain had seen. The ancestors of his people had built them from sandstone. The banners of the invaders fluttered miles below. 'How can they repulse you from so far away?' the Captain said. ‘May I speak freely?' said the soldier. 'You may.' 'They storm their way across the land taking city after city.' 'And?' 'They are barbarians, Captain. The thought of what they would do to our home is what I find repulsive.' 'How are the military academies these days?' 'Excuse me, Captain?' 'You must have come from one of them.' 'I did indeed.’ ‘And did they teach you about our enemy?' 'They taught us of their brutality and greed.' 'Which they called the truth.' 'Which is the truth.' The invaders were setting up their cannons. The Captain knew the signs of an oncoming bombardment. 'You look upon them with admiration.' said the soldier. 'Do not guess my feelings.' said the Captain. 'Though on that count, you are correct. I admire them.' 'Such talk around your superiors could get you executed.' 'That is why I talk to my subordinates.' He heard his fellow captains barking orders at soldiers elsewhere on the walls. He gave no such orders. Every soldier under him was already in their place. He had lined them up facing the sun as it crested the distant sand dunes. It cast a warm and yellow light over them. Some bowed their heads and spoke a prayer to the gods. 'At your academy, did they ever tell you the two questions a soldier must ask?' said the Captain. 'No.' said the soldier. 'The first question is 'Who is my enemy?' That one you know the answer to.' 'Of course. What is the second?' 'The second is, 'For whom do I fight?' Have you asked yourself that?' 'I fight for our people.' 'For the ruler of our people.' 'He is the will of us all made flesh. To defend him is to defend all.' 'A lovely doctrine. Where did you learn it?' The soldier paused. 'The academy, I suppose.' 'And whom do you think ordered them to teach it?' 'It is their belief. They teach it to us of their own will.' 'Don't play at being stupid.' 'I'm not.' 'You know the answer.' ‘I have told you the answer.' 'You lie to yourself.' 'And why would I do that?' ‘For protection. It is what soldiers do.' 'So what is the answer then?' 'Our ruler has told them to teach you such nonsense.' 'Nonsense, you say? You doubt your ruler and your faith now? 'I have never doubted the ruler’s connection to the divine. I am doubting his connection to the people.' The Captain could hear the chiming of alarm bells. The people of the city were being forced awake. His ears picked up the cries of children. They did not know the extent of the threat beyond the walls. It made no sense to them why they had to leave their homes. 'I fail to understand your point, Captain.' the soldier said. ‘What is confusing you?' 'How your points relate to each other. You say I fight only for our ruler. You also say I should admire the enemy.' 'The two are entirely connected. 'You still aren't making sense.' 'I am. You just need to think about it.' 'We might die today. Do you want to waste our last hours on riddles?' 'You might learn something. You cannot waste time if you are learning something.' ‘Can you be a more direct teacher?' ‘Very well. Do you know why I have been so successful as a soldier? Why I was promoted to Captain?' 'I would say it is your skill in battle. Now you have me doubting myself.' 'Rightfully so. That is what many believe. It is not the case.' 'Then how did you succeed?' 'I overcame the belief which burdens you.' 'That being?' 'The belief that the cause I happen to be fighting for is somehow special. That I have fought for the right reasons. I realised I was not fighting for justice. I was fighting for whoever ruled over me.' 'Our ruler wages war in the name of justice.' 'And profits handsomely as a result.' 'We are all enriched by the ruler’s gains.' 'Are you still not tired with your doctrines?' 'With reality? No. Now, on with your lesson.' 'Once I could see my own cause in that way, I realised I was viewing it through the eyes of the enemy. Then, I could appreciate how they saw their cause as being righteous.' 'Again, you show sympathy for brutes.' 'That is what you call them. Were you from among their ranks, how might you describe your mission?' The ground shook beneath them. The invaders had fired the first cannon volley of the day. It had hit the base of the walls. From what the Captain could see the structure was still holding fast. The soldier spat in the direction of the cannons. 'Were I among them, I would bay for blood. I would scream and holler and dance under the desert sun wearing only warpaints,’ said the soldier, ‘because I would be a savage.' 'Can you see them doing such things?' ‘They act civilised now. Wait until they overrun us. Watch how they treat the innocent people caught in their bloody path.’ 'I have seen it done before.' 'So you admit that I am right?' 'I have seen it done by my fellow soldiers. It was their butchery that revealed to me the courage of the enemy.’ ‘Now you speak like a traitor.' ‘I am telling you what I have seen with my own eyes. Besides, I cannot be a traitor. I am not scared. Traitors are ever fearful.’ 'How can you not be scared when you believe the enemy is courageous.' 'If I know they share my courage, I know they share my worries. As I know you share mine as well. The difference between us is that I do not think of them as monsters. That is why they do not scare me. They are only human. Humans are easily killed.' 'You think I fear them?' 'You spoke of us being overrun. You expect us to be defeated.' 'I feel only pride, even in defeat.' 'That which every worried soldier tells themselves. I have seen people die. I have killed people. The last feeling you see in their eyes is always fear.' 'So you say.' 'So I know.' The soldier did not reply. They both looked out. The Captain thought the sun to be particularly beautiful that day. 'So you admire people you see as ordinary?' the soldier said. 'Yes, I do. I admire them much as I admire you.' 'You might as well compare me to a starving alleyway dog.’ 'It is a great compliment. Place yourself amongst them once more. Imagine facing these walls of ours. They cannot see us. The walls obscure our faces. Their every detail is exposed to us.' 'Your point?' 'Would you not need incredible bravery to dare lay siege to this city?' 'I suppose.' 'And there you have it. My conclusions are all part of a whole. Our ruler is a profiteer. We wage war in his name. They know this. I also know this. Thus, I realise that our respective rulers are no better than each other. They are told the same lies as us and the same truth stands. As a product of this, I know that they are humans. They have bravery, which I respect. They also have fear, which I can abuse.' 'I believe I understand it now. Though I still do not care for it.' 'Neither did I, at first. You will come around.' 'We will see.' The Captain stumbled when the next round of cannon fire hit the walls. He regained his balance and leaned over the edge to watch the invaders. They had broken through. In the midst of the conversation he had ignored the sounds of orders. Around him, soldiers raced with pikes in hand. They were going to reinforce those defending the point of the breach. In each face he spotted the same confidence that the young soldier beside him had been sporting. 'Let us see if this really is an army of savages.' the Captain said. 'Or an army of men.' said the soldier.


As a preface, I started writing again after a long while because of D&D. This short story is an excerpt from the journal of a bard who met the mythical heroes of Tarkan, The Wyldguard, while they were still flesh and blood beings. Names and races are from D&D but do not follow the main canon of D&D. Enjoy, constructive criticism welcome.  My time with the Wyldguard has proven interesting to say the least, it is a wonder to have proper parchment to write on again. While I was imprisoned by them for justifiable reasons, I took to composing and chronicling even though I had no ink or paper.My initial time among them was short, as an anti-magic field soon revealed what I tried desparately to hide. I tried to plead my case but they would not hear me, calling me scum and a deceiver. I was on the cusp of getting a thrashing when suddenly a suit of forest green armor wielding a greatsword appeared over my prone frame in a silvery mist. I thought I was surely about to be smote by this seemingly animated creature when I noticed it had taken a protective stance over me and it was snarling visciously.Then, in a low, calm growl, it said, "Stay your blades pups or come see how I deal with scavs. I saw this one aiding the wounded from OUR clan and I will NOT see another healer dead this day. She will continue to aid the wounded in the medical chambers. Any who cause her harm will answer to me. Remember that looks are deceiving." It was then that he removed his vine-laced helm and I gasped and so did others who were seeing him for the first time and did not know him. I knew him though, I had heard the stories.Standing tall at around 8 ft, his frame was massive but he held himself like a tightly wound serpent ready to strike at any moment. Jet black fur covered him head to toe and with a short crest of hair atop his head that was a brilliant silver. His face was dignified, wise, and stern. His right eye was the color of steel with a gaze just as sharp. His left eye seemed like it had been slashed out in battle and bore three scars the covered the left side of his face. They glowed against the sleek fur with a faint orange light. It was when I saw that wound I knew. The Ravenous Traitor, who rose up against the great Gnoll warlord Yeeongzhu. The Gentle Alpha, who was raised by the Archdruid Melora and rode into battle as her Furyvine. The Ensaring Fang, who stole away gnolls to his own clan. The only gnoll in existence who had ever risen against The Clan and lived. His true name lost after being exiled, he was only known as Slag the Kinslayer. In my shock at seeing Slag, I failed to notice myself being gently lifted up by a pair of strong hands and found myself looking up into the huge grin of the kobold punter, Pelor. "Come on then, Bahamut's sent for you, all hands, scales or not on deck she says," he said before leading me through a series of vine covered hallways to a large room with many tables occupied by wounded. Pelor brought me towards the back where we found Bahamut finishing up with a patient. She motioned for me to sit, her eyes clear and surprisingly warm. "You know healing magic?" she asked in Draconic. "Y-yes," I stammered in kind, "I am trained." "Mm, no doubt," she said, her eyes appraising me. "What was someone like you doing at that port?" "Fleeing. I...I am not welcome among my kind. I was left to die," I answered, pulling down my tunic a bit to show her the top of the scar on my chest where I had been stabbed. Her eyes narrowed a bit at that. "I see. One more question. Can you read this?" She held up a scrap of parchment written with the word "key" in the language of my people. It wasn't an odd question, most of my people were illiterate, too busy fighting for the glory of the empire and all that. I was one of the odd ones in the clutch. "Yes," I answered simply. She broke out into a warm smile at that. Pelor broke in, "Come on now Bahamut, you know I can't speak your language well yet. What's the story?" he asked a bit peeved. "Our new friend here is a trained healer it seems. She will be put to work tending to the wounded. Assign her a guard, one Dragonborn and one of Grummush's men if you please. We don't want a scene like earlier, I remember what it was like when the Metal Clans and Slag's kin came to join the Horde." She stood up and gestured me to follow. "What's your name yuan-ti? Can't have people just call you scaleback, we'll have another brawl on our hands." "S-Saldana...Saldana Brokenscale," I answered.  Bahamut's eyes and mouth widened the slightest bit, "......I see. Welcome Saldana." Then she hugged me. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* I could still feel the tension in the air when I entered the medical hall. People stared at me but said nothing. I assumed it's because of my guards that escort me everywhere. Rushak, a mountain of an Unok, Kalesh, a bronze Dragonborn of the Metal Clans, and her diminuitive kobold companion who only went by "Drek". I understood Bahamut's reasoning for these specific guards. The Dragonborn Metal Clans and the Unoks had faced significant resistance when they first entered the alliance of The Wildguard due to their nations' proximity to the Empire. It was only after a strikeforce of Unoks, Dragonborn, and Kobolds came to the rescue of a besieged fort on the Golden Sea that The Wildguard fully accepted them into their ranks at the command of Melora. My guess is that my escorts and their peoples had faced their share of discrimnation and suspicion. My skills as a healer kept me relevant, or so I thought. When I wasn't in the medical hall, I was confined to a small, spartan room and allowed access to my journal. Kalesh, Rushak, and Drek rotated guarding me while I was in my room. Rushak was a quiet and reserved person, always courteous to me but very duty-oriented I think. Kalesh was an amicable Dragonborn who seemed to take his job very seriously, as if he had something to prove. He was the most harsh to anyone who gave me trouble while I worked. The Kobold, Drek, was an amusing little fellow. He usually stayed silent and helped me with my work, surprising me with his extensive knowledge of healing and anatomy. He was also the one who would put my patients at ease if they were wary or harsh with me. I can safely say I began to feel comfortable around these three. The days had become routine during my...isolation, though Bahamut would frequently visit me and speak with me about healing or some such minor thing, until one night she asked me to accompany her above ground outside. I followed, not really having a choice. As we walked out into the night, I happily took in the sight of the clear sky framing the Three Sisters, then noticed that there was a group gathered nearby in the clearing that served as a courtyard or training ground depending on the day. As we moved closer, I realized I was in the presence of the entire Wyldguard. All of them were there, Kord the halfling, Silvanus the elf, Pelor the goliath, Moradin the dwarf, Grummush the Unok, Dacia the human, Slag the Furyvine and the head of the Wyldguard herself, Melora. I immediately froze in shock. This group had started as a mercenary group that favored helping the commonfolk in the Freelands, only to rise to lead the resistance against the Empire. Though the rest of the group was fairly well known, all that was known about Melora was that she was the most powerful Archdruid in the known history of Tarkan. Her gaze locked with mine as Bahamut and I approached and I could feel myself wilting under that steely gaze. This woman was fierce and wild, yet held herself with an almost....animal-like grace. All of us stood in silence until Melora said something that surprised everyone present. "Saldana Brokenscale, Tarkan has need of you. Will you join our ranks to save it?"All members of the Wildguard present went stockstill with perplexed looks on their faces, save Bahamut, Pelor and Slag. "Now hold on a fucking second Mel, why should we agree to this?" growled Moradin the dwarf, cracking his knuckles. "Easy there Mory, she has been doing good work and her guards seem to like her," said Silvanus. "She has skills we need you runt, you know that. She is skilled in healing and can read the tongue of the snakes," Kord answered curtly. "Who are you calling runt you midget?" snapped Moradin. "Both of you knock it the fuck off. Your height fight is tiresome. Lady Melora, how do you know we can trust her?" asked Dacia, who seemed like he was battle ready in the dead of this night. "Saldana, please show them your mark," Bahamut suggested softly. I looked around at those gathered, noticing there was no malice in their eyes to my extreme surprise. Instead, they were looking at me with curiosity. It was then I realized that I was probably the first yuan-ti they captured alive, as the warriors of my people would rather take their own lives than be captured by the "lesser" races. I hesistated for a second, then pulled my tunic down to show them my mark, the mark of a race traitor. It is a jagged scar right above my heart, with a brand around it that read "traitor" in my language. "I am....different from my people. I only wish to learn and chronicle what I see. This was deemed unacceptable by my clan as I sought to learn about the free peoples and their cultures. At first they sought to turn me into a spy." Some of the members present bristled at that, only to be quieted by Melora in an instant. "I resisted, I never wanted to conquer, I only seek the true history of Tarkan. I was betrayed by my clan when they learned I had refused to enter the Shadowskins. My refusal was....petulant, I made a scene and was branded a traitor to the Empire and given the name Brokenscale. I was then branded and run through and thrown from the top of the Black Walls. I managed to survive and immediately fled here to the freelands. I mistakenly thought I could hide here, but the Empire's reach is farther than I realized," I said breathlessly, relieved to finally tell my story. The Wyldguard murmured among themselves for a few minutes until Melora stood and walked up to me. I forced myself to meet her intense gaze and saw she looked at me with a pure kindness and understanding in her eyes. I immediately felt at ease, feeling a warmth to her presence. "Saldana Brokenscale, you have been through much. You have stood against what you believe to be wrong. Tarkan has need of people such as you. The Wildguard needs an asset like you. Will you join our ranks and fight to free this land and it's peoples?" As she finished, she pulled out a lute, my lute, taken when I was captured, and held it out to me. "Yes. Yes, I will help you," I said, accepting the lute. "I will aid you in any way that I can." "Excellent," said the archdruid, breaking into a beautiful smile. The other members rumbled their approval and began moving away, leaving me with Melora and Bahamut.


I wake up to find myself in a strange alley. The walls seem to be made of brick, but their blue, and seem to illuminate themselves. The graffiti on the walls depict strange symbols that seem like they change shape and color every second. I realize what’s happening and quickly check all my sense. I can hear a soft ringing, my vision seems fine, there's a metallic taste in my mouth, there’s a sweet smell in the air, I can’t feel my sense of touch. I quickly get up and look behind me. There’s a bed inside a orange dumpster. The dumpster seems to be darker, as if it was absorbing light. I quickly check my pockets as the ringing in my ears gets louder. The only thing I pull out is a key that I don’t recognize. I turn around and I see it. It stares at me with his non-existent eyes. My heart starts pounding, it starts dragging his feet on the ground as he rounds the corner. “Follow it.” or that’s what she said to do. I slowly step towards the opening where it was standing and stare into the dark abyss of what was outside the alley. As I take a step into the abyss my sense of touch returns and immediately starts to register pain. I try not to yell out in pain, doing so would alert it that I didn’t find this place naturally. Suddenly it felt like something was watching me. Something was watching me, waiting for me to scream out. After five seconds the pain softened, now only feeling slightly sore in a few places. I suddenly felt myself being lowered into the abyss, when I was engulfed in darkness I felt my eyes close and then I blacked out. I awake in a forest. The trees seem to grow higher than any I have ever seen. The sky is a dark green and the ground around me seems normal. I once again quickly check all my senses. However this time it feels normal. I get up and see it sitting on a rock, watching me. It raises his arm and as it does so a tree starts to sprout out of his fingers. The tree quickly falls apart and it becomes sad. It starts to cry though he sheds no tears. I can hear it cry out for his parents but he isn’t making any noise. Suddenly the trees start to rot away, leaving nothing but a barren field. It looks up at me and gets off the rock. The rock breaks revealing two trapped skeletons within. It suddenly breathes life into them, and the skeletons get up, they start dancing and yelling at each other. They never want to see each other again but also cannot be separated, they both loved and hated each other at the same time. I sit down and it comes to sit down next to me. We watch as the two skeletons act out scenarios for hours. At the end of the final scenario the skeletons sit down next to each other and hold one another before the life it gave them leaves their hollow bones. It turns to me. I black out My hearing returned, despite still being dragged through the winds of the dream world. I hear the sounds of my subconscious as the being carrying me doesn’t make a sound. I can hear thoughts that I buried deep within the back of my mind attempting to talk to me, trying to break free from the prison that I locked them in. Then I hear her voice “.. the Greek philosopher had discovered a entire realm though he did not realize it… the Roman philosopher took his great grandfathers teachings and re discovered the dream realm, quickly learning it’s secrets… When he presented his findings the Emperor dismissed him as nothing more than a madman and sent him off… He continued to explore this dream realm until Ego-death got to him and his physical body died…”. The last part would’ve made me shiver if I had my sense of touch. Ego-death, I’ve seen what happens to people who undergo it. It’s just one of the risks of entering the dream world. The possibility to lose a sense is also there, or your ego getting hurt but not outright destroyed. Suddenly I hear something in a language I don’t understand and my hearing is once again taken. I awake in a bed. I check my senses. They all seem fine, but at the same time they feel a little off. I get up out of the bed and look around. I’m filled with nostalgia as I find I’m in my room from my childhood. Lego scattered in the floor, a messy dresser containing old clothes, old wind up toys lined up on a shelf, but something’s off. Just something about everything feels wrong, but I can’t determine what is wrong. I’m not given much time to think about it as the closet door opens. It comes limping out of it and motions for me to follow him. I take a step forward and it turns around, walking into the closet. I follow him into the closet and as I enter it the door closes behind me. It’s dark inside the closet until I see a faint glow from a place where the wall has been falling apart. I get on all fours and manage to fit through the small opening. The floor and walls start to feel like flesh the more I move through the small opening. It starts to smell of blood and eventually I start to see the light getting brighter. At the end I exit the small hole and find myself in a small alcove overlooking a giant chamber made of flesh. In the center a heart is covered in a black goop. Underneath the mass are being like him, bags of flesh around a base of bone with a mass of flesh that uses electrons and chemicals to control these bags of flesh covered in skin. They seem to gather black goop that falls off and use it to paint various things on the wall. I stare at the black goop on the heart and notice that the reflections on it are changing. Its telling the story of a boy who was very caring and showed compassion to everyone. He would often play in the forest behind is home, but would always come back. One day he wandered too far into the woods and got lost. He eventually saw a group of rabbits in the distance and went up to pet them before realizing there was something else nearby. Suddenly a pack of wolves jumped out and attacked the rabbits. All the boy could do was watch as the rabbits where eaten. He curled up into a ball and started crying. Eventually his dad found him and brought him home. After a few months he was once again lost in the woods and saw animals killing each other again. After he got older he started to see it and look at it as normal. He realized that this was nature and it needed to happen, animals killing each other for the greater good.. Eventually he grew into a man and became a man of science. He started to not see everything in black and white but also lost his sense of morality while doing so. He started seeing life not as something to be protected, but rather a means to meet the end of bettering mankind. He started to break down everything with science. When he was old he started to question whether he had made the right decisions. Ultimately he couldn’t say due to morality being so subjective that even he couldn’t say whether he was right or wrong. He was wrong and right. I turned and saw it crying before blacking out.