A gem can not be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. Sejong swept his books off the shelf. Rain pelted the world outside. The king opened one of his many works, the spine of it splitting under his force, and read off a page. Nongsa jikseol , methods of cultivation in agriculture. A guidebook to farming in Korea’s geography. Words that could keep his people from famine. He threw it into the rain.

It splashed against the mud-coated field, water distorting the ink. A second book followed, sliding against the ground, into a puddle. A third. A fourth. They piled in the courtyard, works he had commissioned to better Korea’s people. To educate the illiterate. Worthless. What good is knowledge that can not be read? Music echoed inside the palace. String instruments, a wavering bamboo flute, the quick beat of a drum. A compliment to the heavy rain. On his way to his chambers, Sejong passed a woman humming along. She sat on the wooden floor with a script out in front of her, writing out poetry, stopping to bow. The king raised a hand in dismissal. The woman’s poems would do nothing for their culture, written in Chinese characters. A waste of paper—none other than the privileged could read it. The words would have no meaning for the common people. He stepped into his chambers. Lamps glowed with dim flames, and rain tapped against the roof. His wife stood, her smile fading at the sight of seeing the king so tired. She hurried over and guided him to sit. Her dress, red and gold, flowed behind her. “What worries you, my husband?” Sejong exhaled. He considered himself a scholar, yet his kingdom could not read or write.

“There are voices I will never hear,” he said. “Farmers who don’t have the wealth or status to learn to read. Children who cannot grow into scholars, and workers who can’t write their concerns. My people lack the gift of education, and I lack the means to educate them.” The queen took his hand. A soft, calming touch. “And what shall you do?” she asked. He ran his fingers through his beard. Sejong took time to think, then turned his head to the queen. “My people need a new system of writing, and I will craft one for them myself. A script a wise man can acquaint himself with before the morning is over, and a fool can learn in the space of ten days.” At dawn, Sejong sat alone in a common room. Sunlight shone through the open windows, ethereal motes of dust dancing in the light. Scrolls, ink, and books surrounded him. Panels of artwork—birds and flowers—enveloped the room. Sejong spent the morning reading of phonetics, of alphabets with fifty letters, and others with seventy.

Too many relied on complex lettering. He would keep his simple for the busiest of men. Around midday, he painted hundreds of symbols. He started with one stroke of the brush, ㄱ, ㄴ,ㅣ. Two strokes for ㄷ, ㅋ, ㅅ. Three for ㅎ,ㄹ,ㅈ. Never going above four. He hung papers upon the walls, blocking the sunlight. He crossed out any he deemed too complicated. Servants left food outside the door as he worked. By dusk, he walked through the courtyard, stars glistening above. Sejong spoke words to himself. He singled out their noises and pointed out the vowels. Oak, oath, oasis. Yam, yarn, yang. Water, wasp, wary. He pressed fingers into his mouth, feeling his teeth and tongue move at the pronunciations. His lips separated for a shh noise, but closed for ph . Some required more air, others less. The days passed, and a concerned adviser sought him out. “The dynasty will not agree with your choice,” the adviser said. “Knowing Chinese is what puts them above the common man. Your choice to create this script will cause an uproar, your majesty. It could divide our kingdom.” “Let it be so,” Sejong said, looking up from his script, “as I will no longer be cut off from my people. Understand it is not knowledge that ruins the world; it falls to those pointing fingers for selfish gain.” Dozens of sheets lined the walls. Ink stained his hands. Crumpled-up papers littered the room, drafts he deemed failures, too complex. His wife told the council members he had fallen ill, and he needed time to recover as he crafted his script. Sejong spoke until his throat grew sore, attaching noises like ‘ ch’ and ‘ tah ’ to some symbols while discarding others entirely. He kept his work common and crude, strong and tough, easy and efficient. He had to write letters that would last a thousand years.

The vowels remained as lines and dots. A silent ‘ㅇ’ shape came before each to signify an open mouth. Consonants followed suit. ‘ㄴ’, an ‘n’ sound, signified the tongue touching the back of one’s teeth. ‘ㄱ’, a ‘kuh’ noise, showed a raised tongue blocking air from one’s throat. Lingual, dental, molar and glottal sounds made up for his script of twenty-eight letters. Seventeen consonants and eleven vowels, blocked together for organization, compared to the thousands needed for Chinese. He wrote short sentences from top to bottom. Candles melted down beside him. Incense burned, releasing the scent of sandalwood throughout his chambers, and Sejong sat cross-legged on the floor. Weeks of work came down to reading aloud. 남자는 인내했다 - The man persevered.

The language flowed off his tongue like water. He presented his script to the council at first light. Two charts, one for consonants and the other for vowels, each letter with its phonetic equal written next to it. Easy to follow stroke orders. He sat upon his throne, royals whispering before him. “Chinese characters,” he said, his voice echoing in the throne room, “are incapable of capturing our unique meanings. Many of our common people have no way to express their thoughts and feelings. Out of my sympathy for their difficulties, I have created a set of twenty-eight letters. “They are very easy to learn, and it is my hope that they improve the quality of life of all people.”

Not a soul agreed.

They shouted their concerns. The Chinese would perceive it as a threat. It would be the end of Confucianism. Korea’s social hierarchy would fall. The scripts would have to be burnt, down to ashes, to prevent an uprising. The dynasty erased the twenty-eight letters and deemed them a worthless use of time. Yet, for the good of his people, Sejong persevered. He taught the language to any who wanted to learn. In turn, they carried it throughout the land. Women found their voices, teaching children the simplicity of the symbols. Men stood straight, proud to have a language of their own. Monks wrote prayers in the sand. Merchants kept records of their stock, and artists could sign their names. The letters birthed poets, playwrights, and philosophers. Astronomers learned to write the names of constellations. Winemakers created labels. Apothecaries devised written names for their medicines. Sejong ordered for his books to be rewritten. The dynasty failed to suppress the flow of knowledge—Korea’s illiteracy ceased to exist as the letters blossomed within the country. The script billowed in use after Sejong’s death, four years later, as the great king ushered his people into a golden age of culture and literature. A land where every soul could read and write. Where all could learn the teachings of the wise.


     Remis gazed past chalet windows, up the hill to where several hot shots were out doing extreme flips on the half pipe.  He was just as crazy as those kids and loved to challenge his abilities and style, not so much for the audience, which seem to always appear after a while, but more for the few like him, who also lived to develop new and different maneuvers. The sheer joy of trying or perfecting a difficult jump, flip, or aerial challenge, was what Remis lived for. The swirl of steam escaped from his mug into his face as he watched the next generation display their skills.

There was a storm forecast for today, but like the other enthusiasts out there today, he decided that there would be fewer bodies on the hill, allowing for more time and less interference. He was right of course only the crazy snowboard enthusiasts who longed for days when the hill was nearly empty were out to enjoy it. The other end of the hill held the usual skiers, an entirely different crew, or at least that is what Remis, and most boarders thought. Skiing is for conventional and less exciting athletes, unless you are a jumper but you’ll not find that kind of dare devil on this hill. He couldn’t believe his eyes, was that a double or triple back slide, Remis wondered as he squinted to get a better look.  Damn, the kids were getting pretty young these days, it seemed they were fearless. Remis, nearly twenty-four was ancient by snowboard standards but he loved the sport and for the last fifteen winters he was still competing. Beaver Valley was close and less crowded and it even had a decent half pipe, so it was a good place to practice. Just as he drained the last of the hot chocolate and felt sustained for the remainder of the afternoon, he noted the lights flickered. Hmm, maybe the storm warnings were true, thought Remis as he headed to the hill. Storms did not scare Remis, they were always saying how terrible weather was going to be, only to be wrong ninety nine percent of the time. People were so easily influenced these days. He was about to attempt his latest quest, to land a triple back slide cork, which most of the younger boarders were practicing these days, when he heard a “Hey Remis,” behind him.  Matt Johnson, his boarding partner for many a season and someone he’d gone to high school with, slid beside him. They often arranged boarding trips together and even though Matt wasn’t his caliber when it came to maneuvers, he loved boarding as much as Remis did. “Hey Buddy, when did you get here, I didn’t see you earlier.” I got off early today, due to the storm warnings,” Matt said, rolling his eyes. “The winds have kicked up a bit and everyone is up in arms. I thought, why not do a few runs.” “Yeah, I know, my parents tell me that I really don’t know what a snow storm is, and I have to admit they might be right,” Remis smiled, “the lights at the lodge flickered a few times but that happens here all the time, right?” “Yes, the hydro situation here is always in peril,” Matt grinned, making his whole face look amused. He had one of those youthful faces, a perpetual teenager, freckles, pale blue grey eyes, curly blonde locks and a wide grin that took over half of his face. The only thing he was missing, were pimples. The pipe’s lights came on just then and Remis looked at his watch, 3:30 pm. “That’s a little early isn’t it?” Remis asked, frowning. “Yes, a tad, I’d say, but I see that some clouds have moved in, these are probably sensor lights and it is getting a bit dark. Ooh, the storm, it’s coming,” teased Matt as he slowly descended down the pipe enjoying a gentle sweeping side to side, to start his session. Remis however, contemplated his newest challenge. If he thought the activity through in his mind, he somehow managed it more easily. He found that pre-thinking his anticipated movements, proved better results and improved techniques. It was like meditating his movements and once he imagined himself landing it, he opened his eyes and took off without hesitation. When he landed the jump perfectly, he smiled triumphantly, but he failed to see that the skies were getting darker still. Boarders began leaving the hill. “Wimps!” thought Remis as he unstrapped his board, getting ready for another run. “Do you think we should call it quits,” asked Matt, “the wind is getting wilder,” He was looking a little concerned as he scanned the sky. The snow whipped up, making it harder to see, and the lights are flickered a few more times. “Maybe there really is a storm coming.” “One more run,” said Remis, with a devilish grin on his face, “one more perfect landing and I’ll have it committed to memory! Five is my lucky imprint number.” “Sure, sounds great,” Matt replied, not sounding as excited as Remis was right now, “one more and we’ll call it a day.” Snow had drifted in on the half pipe and even though Remis landed the last four runs, he could see that this one might be a bit impeded, but he began his meditative state while Matt was strapping his board on. One of his straps was frozen and he had to stop to clear the ice build up. This took a few minutes and once Remis opened his eyes he began his moves automatically almost like he was in a trance. He looked down the course, placed his goggles and adjusted his chinstrap and did a mini jump to start as he began his run. Matt watched from the top of the pipe, and he knew something was not right when he saw Remis head into the slope on an angle. He watched him hang upside down much too long, with not enough force to continue the curve needed for this maneuver, his eyes widened as he watched his friend, come down awkwardly hitting his helmeted head on the icy run. Matt sped down immediately, to where Remis lay now not moving at all. He knelt down beside him, but seeing him limp like this was frightening. “Hey Remis, can you hear me?” You took quite a tumble there, landed right on your head. Can you hear me Remis?” Not a word, not a sign, he took off his mitt and placed his hand before his nose, and he could see his chest rise and fall, but he knew enough not to move him and instead looked around to see if anyone was nearby. “Damn!” He couldn’t see a soul out here. Everyone had left the pipe already. Matt could see a few people up near the skiers hill and yelled out to them “Help, help, he yelled, I have a man down,” yelled Matt, but no one heard him, the wind was becoming wild and the hill was emptying of people fast now. Luckily Matt had on a bright yellow coat and he jumped up and down trying to get someone to notice him, he waved his long arms above his head trying to capture just one persons eyes. It worked, a young boy looked over at him just as he reached the lodge door, and he pulled a taller persons coat, pointing in Matt’s direction.  Soon the supervisor was next to Matt asking him what happened.  “He was trying this trick and something went wrong, he landed on his head,” Matt said worried. “He’s still breathing but he’s definitely out.”

“Okay, said the big man, “don’t move him and he left to get more help.” He returned with a sled and straps and two other people, what seemed like an hour later, to Matt. The supervisor, Oscar, was built like a warrior, and he was totally in charge as he approached Remis. “So, it seems the ambulance can’t get through, apparently the weather is much worse in town, visibility is down to zero and choppers can’t come either but I’ve been told what to do so lets get him onto this sled but first we have to put on this collar. He’d pulled out a padded neck brace while his assisters seemed unsure Oscar, walked them through the procedure. He had one of the men hold his head while they slipped on the collar and secured it with Velcro straps. “Now on the count of three we will move him onto this stretcher in one quick smooth movement,” said Oscar, the leading the trio. And with the countdown they managed the transfer perfectly. He was fastened to the sled and brought to the chalet, and for the seventeenth time, Matt repeated, “Hey Remis, can you hear me?” Once inside, Matt became even more concerned, “We’ve got to get him to the hospital, but how?” Oscar, was oversized in every way, hands, head and body, all looked gigantic to Matt. “We’ll have to call the ER and talk to one of the docs there.” Although he was big, Oscar was worried, Matt could tell by the sweat on his brow and the raised bushy eyebrows. The lights flickered again, and the remaining fifteen skiers and boarders, the die-hards who to attempted to leave the parking lot, but who returned due to white out conditions, frowned as they looked up to the lights. Oscar had his phone on speaker as Dr. Murphy, the ER doctor, asked about Remis, “Is he breathing?” came a loud clear voice. “Yes,” replied Oscar, “his chest is moving well.” Can you check his pulse? Just feel his wrist and see if the heart rate is normal. Do you have a stethoscope? Sorry Doc, no stethoscope, but I checked his pulse at his wrist, and it feels strong. Okay, good, you have him in a neck collar? “Affirmative,” said Oscar confidently, “He is strapped into the sled at present. He can’t move.” “Okay, do you have an oxygen tank there just in case?” asked Dr Murphy. “No, Doc, no oxygen tank,” said Oscar looking a bit more worried with every minute that passed. Okay, lets check his pupils, open his eyes and see if the pupils are the same size, instructed Dr. Murphy Oscar opened both of Remis’ eyes, and they were the same size, no differences. “The pupils are equal, I think , I’m really no expert,” confessed Oscar. “Is there any medical person here,” Oscars voice, boomed . “I’m a paramedic student,” came a tiny voice from the back of the room almost as a question, and a pale faced young man walked toward the table. “I’m afraid I’m relatively new to the program,” he continued sounding apologetic. “Okay,” came Dr Murphy’s voice, “young paramedic, what is your name?” “I’m Eric,” his voice had gained some volume. “Eric, do you know CPR,” asked Dr. Murphy. “Yes, I do.” replied Eric, as he checked Remis’ pulse. “His heart rate is about 70 beats per minute and strong at present, his respirations are 16 and he is definitely unconscious at the moment.” “Can you check his pupil responses Eric, I just want to make sure his brain in not injured.” Eric took out his phone, turned the light into Remis’ eyes, “Yup, they are equal and look to be normal size but both are very slow to react.” “Okay, we’ll have to keep an eye on that but can you check his abdomen, to make sure there is no swelling there? I’m worried about internal bleeding.” Eric undid his jacket and snow pants, the procedure was slow as he gingerly proceeded. Eventually he was able to say that it didn’t look like he had a distended abdomen. “Also no abnormalities to his extremities that I can see,” said Eric, now feeling like he needed to add what he knew. “Okay, just keep an eye on him, call me the minute things start to change, and we’ll keep trying to get someone in to help out,” he added optimistically. Remis looked peaceful and was placed on top of a table where he was now surrounded by concerned faces, each looked as helpless Matt himself felt. Oscar sighed wiped his wet brow and looked at Matt, “we need to watch him and hope that help comes soon.” Time dragged, and people came up to Matt, not sure how to help or what to say which was awkward and unproductive. Matt felt helpless and yet he became aware that Remis seemed to be there somewhere in the atmosphere. Matt was not religious, especially. Raised christen but certainly not a church going sort, he did, however, believe in life after death and had many a conversation about it with his friends. It had always comforted Matt that Remis felt the same way about the after life. As he stood there beside him, Matt felt that Remis was there also and very much alive. He watched his chest rise and fall; he looked so peaceful, without a worry, just, blissful. The lights flickered several times and then they went out completely and the lodge fell into darkness except for the fireplace. There was a unified gasp from the people in the lodge who now realized that their cell phones were the only access to the outside world and screens lit up the room as everyone began to text their loved ones. After several moments, Matt suggested they turn off their phones, as there would be no way to charge them, now that the power was out. Matt managed to call Remis’ family to inform them of the situation. He was almost in tears before he ended the conversation telling them he would call as soon as things changed. He felt extreme fatique, emotionally worn out. The winds howled now, and everyone was painfully aware that the poor bastard on the table was in trouble. Matt and Eric did not leave Remis’ side. They were offered hot chocolate by some of the by standers, some of whom Matt recognized as frequent patrons of the lodge. Oscar kept checking back and asking if they needed anything, and the crowd gathered around the fire and tried not to stare at the young man on the table. Matt asked Eric, what he thought was going on with Remis, hopeful to have something positive to hang on to. “So many things began,” Eric, trying hard not to be an alarmist. “He could have sustained a spinal fracture but it wouldn’t necessarily cause him to be unconscious, while a brain bleed might, but it could be just a severe concussion too, so there’s that. At this point he is stable, but unconscious. Lets keep our fingers crossed that an ambulance can get through.” Oscar’s phone rang and startled a few people in the lodge. He’d put the phone on speaker just in case Eric was needed. “How’s the patient,” asked Dr Murphy, he sounded tired. “The same,” said Eric quickly, “still breathing well, still unconscious.” “We tried sending snowmobile out but the storm is just too crazy, we can’t see a thing out there. I’m going to ask you to keep checking his pupils, and heart rate Eric, let me know when things change, we will continue to try to get help out to you.” The next three hours passed with Eric and Matt taking turns checking Remis’ pupils and heart rate, and all the while Remis seemed to be in a deep sleep. The storm continued to rage outside, Oscar found candles, and the lodge looked almost pretty with several flickering lights, snow laced windows and the tangerine flames in the fireplace. How long would he stay like this Matt wondered, as he rechecked his pulse. “I’m right here buddy,” Matt whispered in Remis’ ear. “I won’t leave you, not ever.” He held Remis’ hand tenderly, and started talking to him as if he could hear him. “Remember that time in Mrs. Collins class, when we gave her such a fright by making those animal noises when she turned to write on the board? God, I thought we were in big trouble but the class cracked up because she kept looking out the window looking for a cow? We probably should have had at least a week detention but she let us off. What a sweetie she was huh?” Matt seemed to be in another world as he spoke to Remis, and then suddenly it was like he could hear Remis voice, “Don’t worry Matt, I will be okay, thanks for being here with me.” And with that Matt thought he felt a twinge from Remis’ hand. A mere reflex maybe, but something for sure, something positive. Oh thank god, thought Matt, he’s going to be okay. The peaceful look was now a full-fledged smile. Such relief Matt had not felt for a long while. Matt was grinning now, and he nudged Eric who had been watching the fire, “I think he’s coming around,” he said softly. “He managed a week grip in this hand.” Eric checked his pulse, then checked pupil response, “Shit, this is not good. His pupils are not reacting at all now, and his pulse has dropped considerably, we need to call Dr Murphy now!” Matt saw that Remis’ chest was barely moving now, “what does all of that mean?” “It means he likely has a brain bleed and we don’t have much time. Matt, he may die.” Eric was trembling. The minutes were a jumble of voices, Dr Murphy, Eric, and Oscar but Matt witnessed his friend depart. Everything was blurred except the strong feeling of peace, of quiet and harmony. Matt gazed at his friend’s face and realized that the light was fading from his face. He had already said good-bye.


Tommy's birthday was on February 29. He's turning eleven this year and his mom said that he could either celebrate on the 28 th or on the 1 st . He liked that he was given a choice, honestly, he didn't really care when he would celebrate as long as his friends could come over and eat cake with him. But the idea of deciding when his birthday would be appealed greatly to him, he could exercise his free will unlike others whose birthdays were fixed and predestined. He felt special. He decided to tell his mother that they would celebrate on March 1. They celebrated his last few birthdays on the same date so it's fine by him. It's not like he could conduct a party on midnight, but hey, that's a great idea. If his friends could come over on the night of the 28 th and they stay up late until 12 midnight, they could celebrate his birthday accurately . But it would be way past their bedtime. His internal debate was interrupted by his seatmate, Linda, who was leaning towards him. "Hey Tommy, what're you thinking about?" she whispered with a knowing smirk on her face. Linda is very talkative and extremely nosy. "Just my birthday," he answered. Tommy found out in the beginning of the school year that the best way of dealing with Linda is to just answer her first question, then after a few follow-ups, she'll lose interest if you answered fast enough. The more you tried to hide something from her; she'll get more persistent and will not leave you alone until you unwillingly spit it out. So he braced himself with the follow-up question. But Linda just shrugged and returned her attention to their math teacher. Tommy was shocked by the sudden indifference. Linda never passes up the opportunity to ask follow-up questions. Even when there is a teacher in front of the class, she never restrains herself. But Tommy guessed whatever Mr. Graves was discussing in front was more important and interesting than his birthday. After class, his friends Jeremy, Dan and Bryce, approached his desk. They've been classmates since kindergarten and Tommy never had other friends except for the three of them. Jeremy, the noisy one, appointed himself their leader the day he broke off the fight between Tommy and Bryce back in first grade. It was not Tommy's fault, he just reprimanded Bryce for littering in the classroom and Bryce got angry. All of that was behind them now, Bryce is their friend and then there's Dan, who almost never talks. Linda could never get anything from Dan, Tommy chuckled. "What's so funny Tommy?" Jeremy asked. Bryce has an arm slung around him while Dan hovered behind them. "Nothing. Let's go to your house later, Dan." Tommy turned to Dan, who nodded. Bryce whooped and thumped him on the back. "Great idea bro!" They all loved going to Dan's house. Dan's an only child and has rich parents. His bedroom has the coolest video games, which makes it a perfect hang-out place for them, plus their housekeeper is really pretty. Her name's Esther and she made them all the snacks they need while they're playing Call of Duty or Minecraft. "When do you think should I celebrate my birthday, on the 28 th or on the 1 st ?" Tommy finally asked his three friends. "Well if you're asking me, I say we celebrate it on February 28. So we get over it by March." Jeremy said proudly. "But we always celebrate it on March 1 st ." Bryce whined. He hates changes just as Tommy hates breaking rules. "His birthday is February 29, so it's only fair that we celebrate on the month of February not March, you dummy." Jeremy's getting agitated, he hates to lose arguments just as Dan hates carrots. Bryce was about to protest that he's not an idiot when Dan suddenly spoke. "Technically, Tommy doesn't have a birthday to celebrate this year so this argument is pointless." he said seriously. "You mean, I should not celebrate my birthday? No cake, no way!" Tommy protested. He loves cakes and his birthday was just an excuse to binge-eat. It's February 28. Tommy went to school and was listening to Mr. Graves' lecture for a change. "Hey Tommy, are you celebrating your birthday today?" Linda whispered to him. "I'm going to celebrate tomorrow, March 1 st ." he said to Linda. "But what if you die today and you never had the chance to celebrate your eleventh birthday?" Linda morbidly asked. Tommy frowned. "I promise you I won't die, would it help if I invite you over?" "But your other friends are going to be there and Bryce is such a slob.... "Tommy hoped she'd say no, he didn't want to entertain Linda and her questions on his birthday. "You're my friend Tommy, so I'll be there. I'll bring you a gift, look forward to it!" she said excitedly and Tommy sighed. He guessed his mother's cake is the only thing he'll be genuinely looking forward to on his birthday. After school, Tommy walked in silence with Dan. Bryce was picked up by his mom at school and Jeremy took the bus. Dan stopped and asked him. "Your party's tomorrow, right?" "Yeah" Tommy answered. Dan seemed to ponder this for a minute then unexpectedly asks him another random question. "Do you ever think about your dad?" His mom never liked it when he asks about his dad. She'll only answer vaguely and Tommy also hated asking because it makes her upset but he just had to know. All he knew was his dad "went off and died" when he was four. Tommy only have fuzzy memories of him, like his smile, when they were walking hand-in-hand and when he would hum while he was working in their old shed. Tommy knew in his heart that his father was a good person. Unfortunately, good people always had to go first. He's not saying that his mom is bad or evil; she's just uptight and aloof. But he loves her nonetheless. "Of course I do, but it just makes me wonder why he's gone so I stopped thinking about him like always." Tommy answered and waved to Dan when he reached his street. This is where they separate ways. "Just be careful, okay?" with that, Dan tapped his shoulder and continued walking. They could not go to his house today because his mom has visitors coming over and Dan has to be a good boy and help them entertain the guests. Tommy entered the house. "Mom, I'm home!" He called out and realized that his mom's not in the house. He walked towards the fridge and saw a note from his mom explaining to him that she has to go to a last minute business trip and she was really sorry to miss his birthday. She said she'll make it up to him on the weekend and they'll celebrate for two days. His mom also said to take care of himself until tomorrow and to frequently check his phone because she left Tommy a message. Sure enough, his mom did leave him a message and he always forgets to listen to them. So now he's alone in the house, it's almost his birthday and he remembered Dan's words. He can't believe he tortured himself for nothing when his mom could easily make the decision for him. After listening to his mother's frantic messages, Tommy calmly ordered pizza and watched the TV. He couldn't sleep after getting tired of the shows so he decided to wait for midnight to come and wish himself a Happy Birthday. He locked himself in his room and sat by the window looking at the yellow moon. It looks sinister to him. Maybe it was just his imagination but he saw someone dart from the trees outside. There was no sound, just the eerie moonlight shining from above, darkening his thoughts. Suddenly, he was floating and he looked at his hand. It was fading and only a quaint outline remained. Tommy felt his head swimming and wondered if he was drunk from the can of beer he erroneously drank earlier. No wonder adults are always light-headed, they always drink beer. But no, he is really floating. He was now out the window, light as a feather then he glanced back at his body which was slumped on his desk by the window. Did I just die? Tommy tried to think of the probable cause of his death while invisible and levitating on their backyard. The pizza delivery guy! He poisoned me. Or is it Linda? Was that a threat during math period? Am I really gonna die without celebrating my eleventh birthday? Tommy then tried to think of the pizza delivery guy's or Linda's reason to kill him. And when he thought of Linda, he was teleported to her bedroom. Teleported, apparated or sucked into nothingness then spat out into a place-whatever it is, Tommy still felt lightheaded and slightly nauseous when he floated beside his friend's bed. Her room was covered in pink wallpaper; there was a full-length mirror on the corner and the usual desk and drawers. Linda clutched her pink blanket during sleep. Her dark, curly hair was fanned around her face on the pillow and her mouth was half-opened. Her hands then flew to her neck, as if trying to prevent someone from choking her. Tommy looked around the room and he can't see anyone or anything that might be hurting her. Linda's legs started flailing and Tommy panicked. I have to help her . The moment he touched Linda's wrists he was sucked in a spiral again. Spinning, invisible and disoriented, what has become of him? Tommy found himself in a hazy meadow, acres of pastel-colored tulips surrounding him. Is this the Netherlands? Tommy looked to his right and there was a big windmill attached to a barn. At the foot of the windmill was Linda, screaming for help. She was being attacked by something that looks like a man. Tommy crept towards the two of them and upon closer inspection; he saw that Linda's assailant is a man who has horns on his head. He had to help her or else the demon is going to kill her! Tommy concentrated and looked down on his hand. It materialized and he was holding something that looked like a bow. It is made of shimmering gold and becoming heavier every minute that he's slowly becoming un-invisible. The bow was as long as his arm and the string looks sturdy and delicate at the same time. He automatically reached around his back and found arrows nested in what felt like a quiver. He took one arrow and strung it on the bow. The movement felt natural to him, as if he'd been practicing it all along in his life. He aimed at the head of the creature attacking Linda, pulled and released the arrow. It whooshed on his cheek and when he touched it, his hand was smeared red-he had cut himself. But Tommy went to check on Linda first, the demon lay sprawled on her feet with the gold arrow buried on his forehead and was slowly disintegrating into dust. "Tommy! You saved me!" Linda was wearing a beautiful, emerald green dress in this dimension and on her head was a glittering tiara. Tommy held out his other hand to help her up. "This is just a dream, right? I'm trespassing in your dreams Linda." Linda is touching her neck tentatively, feeling for wounds. Her neck was red but there was no blood, her dress was rumpled and dirty from her struggle with the demon. "Well, you could say that. But my dreams are my parallel world." She straightened her dress and checked her charm bracelet. Tommy was bewildered. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I live in two worlds: the one where you are my seatmate and this one where I am a princess hunted by demons." Linda removed a charm from my bracelet and handed Tommy a silver crescent moon charm. "So this is real? Why am I here?" Tommy's bow and quiver of arrows disappeared and the moon charm glowed. Linda shrugged, she pointed to the far horizon where the spires of a castle was visible from where they are standing. "Well, you're not the only one from the other world who managed to enter here. Some were unable to return to the other world. Most of them were living in the castle; your dad was among them." Tommy did not know whether to believe this dream version of Linda or run towards the castle at full speed. "I-I don't believe you. This is just a dream!" Tommy took a step back from a worried-looking Linda. "I don't blame you for not believing. I would love to bring you to the castle so you could talk to everybody but you have to go. You may not be able to return to your mother if you stayed here further." Linda grabbed his hand and led her inside the barn, where she reached inside an old, full-length mirror. Tommy was still absorbing everything in his mind and when the mirror glowed violet and seemed to swallow Linda and then him. He felt the same spinning sensation he felt upon entering Linda's dream world. They stepped in her room and she was wearing her pajamas again, Tommy was slowly fading and becoming invisible again. Linda faced him, placed her hands on his disappearing shoulder and then she spoke seriously: "Remember, everything is real. Keep the charm and you'll be able to go back on your next birthday. Next year's a leap-year, right?" Tommy tried to nod, but decided to speak when he remembered he's slowly turning invisible. "But, I have so many questions. You have to answer them." They heard footsteps coming to Linda's room. She jumped into her bed and covered herself in her pink blanket. "Ask Dan, he's been there before. Now, go home. I'll see you tomorrow." she hissed at him. The door opened and a sleepy Esther entered the room. "Mom!" Linda shouted. Esther is Linda's mother? And what about Dan? What else is he keeping from him? "Just another bad dream?" Esther hugged her daughter to her chest. "No, it's real! Tommy was there, he saved me. Look, my charm is missing!" Esther held her daughter's wrist and inspected the charm bracelet which was missing a charm--the moon charm I was holding in my invisible hands. "Tommy? The one with the birthday on a leap-year? He must be very special." Linda nodded and burrowed further in her mother's embrace. Suddenly, Tommy's hand was glowing and he was teleported back in his bedroom. Then, everything went black. ***** The sunlight streaming from his windows jarred him awake from his sleep. Tommy was unsure whether he just dreamt all of it, but no, he is still holding Linda's moon charm in his hands. He is back to his old, boring self.

I don't have it anymore . Tommy looked at his hands and shook his head in disbelief. Well, he'd had enough adventures last night and thank God next year's a leap year. He got dressed, ate cereal and walked to school. Everything is normal. When he told Jeremy and Bryce that there will be no party later because his mom's out of town, they offered to take him to their houses to celebrate but Tommy said he'll pass. Tommy was just glad that he's back and he'll see his mom tomorrow. He doesn't have to decide when to celebrate his freakin' birthday or visit people's dreams. But he didn't entirely hate the experience, it was kinda cool. And he'll definitely come back next year and find his father. He tried to talk to Dan earlier but he came late to school and he's not answering Tommy's texts. What else does he know? He has to get answers from either Dan or Linda. Linda, who also came late to school carrying a mysterious box and was ignoring him since her arrival, who is she really? Why and how does she know his father? His reverie was once interrupted by Linda. "Pssst! Meet me at lunch by the oak tree, and bring your friends." She whispered to him. Mr. Graves didn't notice her. Linda pointed at the box by her feet. "I brought your gift" she then winked at him and pretended to listen raptly to the unsuspecting Mr. Graves. At lunch, the four of them approached the table by the oak tree behind the school where Linda was waiting for them, smiling while shaking her head. "Good thing you didn't die yesterday, Tommy." She held out her hands which were holding the box from earlier. Tommy lifted the lid and saw a cake with the words "Happy Birthday Tommy" written in white icing. "My mom made it; she said leap year babies are really special. It's carrot cake!" Tommy murmured his thanks while Bryce and Jeremy eyed the cake suspiciously. Dan rolls his eyes and says, "Esther must really hate me." He shared a look with Linda. Tommy chuckled and accepted the fork that Linda was handing him. "Hey, you're the one who suggested that I don't celebrate." He will definitely have a talk with the both of them later, but for now; he'll just eat a cake peacefully.


“Did you hear about Senator Wickam’s wife?” I turn toward the voice to find a woman I don’t know who’s apparently talking to me. Though I have no clue who she is, I know something about her because she’s wearing a red tube dress at a charity gala. Which tells me she’s not especially charitable. She’s only here to show off her gym-toned body and the breasts her husband is probably still paying for. She blinks and takes a half-step back. Her eyebrows would’ve shot up if there wasn’t so much filler in her forehead. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else,” she says. It pains me to smile at that, but I do it anyway. I’m intrigued now. “No, please,” I insist. “I’d love to know what you heard.” She hesitates and finally seems to decide it’s okay to gossip with a stranger. “Well.” She glances around to see who’s within earshot. If only she knew. “Nancy Gardner—do you know her? She’s Robert Baldwin’s stepdaughter. Anyway, Nancy just told me that she has herpes. Said she’s wearing a ton of makeup to cover up the…you know.” The woman waves vaguely at her own bee-sting-puffy lips. “The breakout. ” “Really. The senator’s wife?” Red Dress Lady nods, wide-eyed. “Nancy says she must’ve given it to her husband. Her mother’s best friend’s niece saw the senator at one of those dreadfully dirty little clinics on the south side the other day.” That reminds me of a line from Spaceballs , and I swig some of the champagne I’ve been absently holding to stop a giggle. Giggling simply isn’t done at these things, darling. “How awful,” I commiserate. “Isn’t it? After all, men are supposed to be the pigs.” She laughs with a nervous edge, as if she’s just remembered she isn’t talking to whoever she mistook me for. She scans the politely mingling crowds. “Oh, there’s Marabeth,” she says, her gaze focused on no one in particular. “I’d better go speak to her about our luncheon this week. Have a lovely evening.” She skitters off before I can wish her the same. Her red dress vanishes somewhere toward the stage where the droning keynote speaker has already come and gone. I’ve forgotten everything about him, as I’m sure most people here have. Senator Wickam’s short, animated speech before the keynote was far more engaging. His impassioned plea to help tonight’s spotlighted charity had nearly all the women here whipping out their proverbial checkbooks on the spot, or demanding their husband’s. The fact that he looked like a cover model had only highlighted his power of persuasion. Funnily enough, he didn’t mention his wife giving him herpes. I decide to investigate this rumor further. Unfortunately, I don’t know very many of the people at this ultra-fancy shindig. I really should attend things like this more often. Rub elbows and all that. The problem is that I’m not invited to many “work functions.” However, I’ve done my homework. Or at least as much as possible from the comfort of the internet. I know, for example, that it’s too risky for me to discuss this topic directly with Nancy Gardner, but her frenemy Lillian Vail is a safe bet. I spot Lillian by the chocolate fountain, talking to an older couple. She’s wearing a seafoam-green dress with gold spangles and an asymmetrical skirt that balances the single long sleeve on top with the other shoulder bared. Not exactly classic fashion, but still far more tasteful than that other woman’s screaming red sausage casing. Lillian lifts an eyebrow when she notices me approaching. I can see her struggling to place me as a polite but faint smile arranges itself on her glossy lips. I’ve only met her once before. At the time, I could tell it wasn’t particularly memorable for her. Maybe she simply thinks I work for the charity, and she’s preparing to tell me that she gave at the office. The couple she’s chatting with realizes her attention has been slightly diverted. They follow her gaze, and I squirm inwardly as I recognize the older woman. Her name is Hazel something-or-other, and she writes an entertainment column for the Tribune . I really don’t want her attention tonight. Fortunately, it turns out Lillian doesn’t either. As Hazel squints through her glasses at me, the green-garbed socialite takes a big step away from the journalist and the man I assume is her husband. Lillian flashes a patently false apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I really must talk to my friend here,” she tells the couple. “I’ve been waiting for her to arrive all night. Toodles!”  Such a bold lie. One she clearly doesn’t care whether she’s caught in. “Hello, darling.” Lillian greets me with exuberance, slings her sleeved arm around my shoulders, and steers me away from the couple. After we’ve passed a few small groups and we’re out of earshot, she lowers her arm and huffs a short breath. “You can’t even properly call that woman paparazzi. Insidious old bat,” she mutters, then smiles at me. “How are you, Charlotte?” I blink slowly, surprised she remembers my name. “Bored out of my mind,” I reply—an expected sentiment that gets an expected chuckle. “You know Nancy Gardner, don’t you?” The flash of a feral expression before she smooths out her features tells me she’s the right person to ask about the rumor. She’ll give me the ugly truth. Since I need no further confirmation, I go ahead with my opening conversational gambit. “Apparently, she’s telling people that the senator’s wife has herpes.” Lillian stares at me. One corner of her mouth tilts up a fraction. “Is she, now?” “That’s the rumor.” A snort strangles itself in her throat. “Nancy Gardner wants to sleep her way to the White House.” Lillian directs her intense gaze across the room. I follow it to find not Nancy the White House Tramp but Senator Wickam himself. The stunning blonde woman beside him wears a little black dress and too much makeup. His hand rests with a proprietary firmness at the top of her ass. A white-coated waiter stops before them with a tray of bacon-wrapped scallop bites on cocktail toothpicks with colorful pops of ribbon on the ends. The blonde snags one and playfully wiggles it. After a quick remark we can’t hear, he opens his mouth, and she feeds him the hors d’oeuvre. They seem far too in love for Nancy Gardner to come between them. With or without herpes. Lillian rolls her eyes. “Anyway,” she says. “Apparently, Rosalia Shaw told Robert Baldwin that she saw…” She pauses to steal another glance at the couple across the room. “The senator’s wife banging their groundskeeper in the greenhouse. And since Nancy has the IQ of a raw steak, she translated ‘potential affair’ into ‘venereal disease.’” The look she’s giving me is both apologetic and curious. She’s well-bred enough to know how tactless this conversation is, but at the same time, she’s wondering if I have anything to add to the rumor mill. Especially considering she’s aware that I must know the Shaws. What she’s told me is interesting and potentially useful. I feel that I have a social obligation to offer something in return, but I need to be careful. Nancy Gardner is not the only one who has plans for the senator. Finally, I offer a sweet smile and tell her, “I happen to know that the Wickams don’t even have a groundskeeper.” She roars with laughter, and I manage to join in. After she calms down, she places a slender hand on my arm. Her skin is ice-cold. “Can I get you a top-up?” she asks, nodding to the barely-touched champagne glass I’m still holding. I frown at the fizzing liquid. “Thank you, no,” I tell her as I scan the crowds for someone in particular. There’s one more step in this rumor chain I want to hunt down before I make my move. “Speaking of Rosaria, have you seen…ah, there. Will you excuse me, Lillian?” She nods. “Of course. Lovely to see you, Charlotte.” I return the sentiment and head for the open bar, which is the first place I should have looked for the Shaw in question. Who doesn’t even notice me when I’m standing right beside him. “Hello, Gregory.” He lifts his head slowly and gives me a bleary blink. There is no sign of Rosalia, which is not unusual. At any given event, she prefers to deposit him near the alcohol and seek the company of absolutely anyone who’s not him. “Charl?” His smile is sloppy but genuine. I have to ignore the ache at seeing him in such a state. He knows he’s an alcoholic, and he wants help to break the addiction, but Rosalia won’t let him join AA or speak to a therapist. She insists that it would be embarrassing if people knew her husband needed that kind of ‘girly help.’ I’d hoped he wouldn’t be this trashed yet. He may not be able to fill in the missing rumor chain link, after all. But I’ll ask him anyway. And I need to ask him quickly, because the senator has just spotted me talking to his neighbor and best friend, and he’s headed this way to intercept. * * * Long after the gala ends, I let myself into my darkened, silent home. I’m still thinking about the sandwich-board chalk sign I passed on the way out, thanking the biggest donors to the Consortium Against Domestic Abuse. How the charming, handsome Senator Wickham’s name topped the list. I needed to see that happen. To hear him speak with such ardor and conviction on the topic, to watch him throw so much money into the cause. It cemented my plans. Now I know I can do something about my…situation. My feet ache, and my clutch purse is heavier than usual. I want nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for as long as possible, but there’s something I need to do first. Because I did manage to track down the source of the rumor—Gregory Shaw told me everything about Rosalia and the ‘groundskeeper’ thing. So instead of plodding upstairs to the bedroom, I head for the living room. I see it right away. The shape in the wingback chair beside the fireplace. The long, trailing shadow propped next to it. In spite of my churning stomach, a smile appears on my face. “Jack,” I call meekly. He doesn’t stand. Not at first. Instead, he speaks without moving. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what time it is. Are you going to bother making up an excuse?” I don’t reply. I’m busy mentally going over everything I still have to do. After what I heard at the gala, what I saw, I feel…empowered. That’s why I don’t even flinch when he shoots from the chair, the long object clutched in his right hand. He’s promising pain with his words, with his movements, with that. But I am not concerned. I’m thinking of makeup and how thickly it must be applied to the face to cover bruises. I’m thinking of a dreadfully dirty little clinic on the south side where the underpaid doctors will accept money in exchange for not reporting evidence of violence to the authorities. I’m thinking of a man who isn’t a groundskeeper, who made the mistake of trying to comfort a woman in pain within sight of his scandal-panicked spouse. I’m thinking of a knock-out blonde in a little black dress…who is not the senator’s wife. “Did you hear me, Charlotte?” I snap to attention, nearly giddy with the realization that Jack Wickam has screamed at me for the last time. And he will never hit me again. “Of course, darling,” I tell him, one hand already inside my heavy clutch purse. “I heard…a rumor. That someone in this house was going to learn a lesson tonight.” There’s a savage gleam in his eyes as he taps the end of his weapon in a palm. Softly, softly. “Wouldn’t you know it?” I continue when he says nothing. “For once, the rumor is true. And it’s a very important lesson, isn’t it, Jack?” “Oh, yes,” he says in a dangerous purr. As if he’s enjoying my apparent acceptance of my fate. “Too bad you won’t be able to put it into practice after you’ve learned it, Senator. The learning itself precludes it.” My mad grin eclipses his rage as a sliver of confusion eases into his eyes. I bring forth the heavy object in my purse. The ‘excuse’ that made me so late returning from the gala. “Tonight’s lesson is that you should never bring a baseball bat to a gunfight.” The explosive sound of the senator’s wife reclaiming herself rings out through the house, and I hope it wakes Rosalia Shaw next door. She’ll get so much gossip out of this.


(Content Warning : Terminal Illness) The sky shows no emotion whatsoever. Like a canvas painted in black, what’s a night with no stars presented? Stating an unchanging solemn mood, it draws a stoic expression from anyone who has their head facing up. The bustling city becomes a new artificial light source, but it’s just different, different in so many unspeakable words. Longing minds anticipating the celestial glimmer decided to just succumb themselves inside the busy work life, feeling their euphoria buried under the bright buildings, replaced by traffic jams and people’s streams. “Why are you so heavy?” “Gravity, friction, ground elevation, additional weight, your sloppy stamina...” Carmen heaves a helpless sigh, continuing to push the wheelchair uphill while the person sitting on it lets out a mild chuckle. Her sweats trickling down her tee later reaches out towards the swaying flannel shirt. The rough rocky paths and wild grasses poking out everywhere aren’t helping at all. Reaching the top clearing, she topples down with her limbs stretch wide. “We’re here, Fens.” The called girl remains silent, mindlessly tugging in her sweater after feeling the cold night breeze. They exchange no more words. Carmen’s rapid breathing is the only thing keeping the air from dead silence. Up there, the whole town is in their view, as if it can be grasped in a scoop. Under the dark sky, they wordlessly enjoy this rare panorama. Feeling the need to break open a conversation, Fens weakly lifts her camera shoulder level with her thin arms and takes a quick shot of her buddy. “You look...stupid.” Upon hearing the shutter, Carmen switches her position into a sitting one. She manages to catch the thrown polaroid then jokingly snorts at it. “An unearthly scenery is waiting for you to capture it yet you wasted a film on a stinky dummy.” “I’m warming up for the highlight.” Fens cranes her back to adjust the camera settings until a ring from her pocket disturbs her. “Finally.” The line connected once she laid her phone on the ground.

“G’day girls, Marcus here reporting from behind the power station, all systems checked, we’re ready to roll.” Carmen hides the boiling urge to smack the boy from miles away, instead, she signals him to wait for the cue first. While Carmen and the opposite line keep their conversation going, Fens fiddles around her camera, sitting quietly on her lap. Her thoughts are swirling inside her head, suddenly all her buried emotions flushed out. She reminisces on her last days on Earth with a few weeks left. She thought she’s ready to face the inevitable calling of death but no, she isn’t. All the things she hasn’t accomplished, the minimum amount of photography subjects she possessed, tons of activities she wants to do when her sixties approached. No, all her wishes will eventually fade in her twenty-two years of living. Silent tears flow down her plump cheeks under the night sky. Carmen catches her head hanging low and cuts off Marcus immediately. “Fens, Fens, you okay? No, no, you shouldn’t be crying this soon. Deep breathes, deep breathes.” Her actions turn soft towards the sudden change. Pulling back Fens’ messy blonde hair, she gently wipes off the tear droplets with her slender fingers. Carmen crouches down her knees a little, helping the latter to lift herself up. “Am I allowed to leave the wheelchair?” Fens’ chimes in between her hitched breath. “Yes, yes, no problem. The grass is as warm as your seat with a touch of nature. Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Once Carmen succeeds in laying her butt down slowly on the ground, she makes sure to keep a close distance from her. With a soothing pat, Fens begins to calm down. “Hey, Carmen. Is everything okay? Did you ditch me to take a dump?”

“Dang, I forgot he’s still here.”

The three break into laughter. It was nothing as funny as a comedic theatre or comical skits but they just, laughed. Nearing another peaceful ambiance, an ear-piercing ‘boom’ erupts from the phone causing the connection to buzz a static disruption. Following the explosion, the city lights die down like a domino effect until the edges leaving everyone in darkness. “Marcus, what’s that bang? Why is it dark now?” Fens asks the other side with a tint of worries in her tone.

“Yes, I’m fine. The bomb was supposed to be a last escort in case the hacking didn’t work and I sort of accidentally blew it up, well at least it’s dark now- I gotta run, the guards are catching up soon. Don’t worry about me and enjoy your time and the stars of course.” “Will he be fine?” Carmen assures her Marcus will be doing just splendid, knowing he’s the ‘John Wick’ of the campus. “Will the people in the hospital be fine? Will there be fires caused by circuit error or something?” Fens’ rants won’t stop at this point which later will develop into her overthinking about all the dangerous possible outcomes because of their stupidity in order to appreciate the shining milky way. “Girl you need to chill. Hospitals have generators remember? See, see, the little light there?” For the nth time, Carmen lulls her from her demeaning thoughts. The natural lights start to show themselves from above. Minutes passed, their forms become visible to the naked eyes. It’s a heavenly sight, the galaxy shining as bright as ever. Another tear threatens to fall from Fens’ orbs but she ignores it and snaps a couple of shots. The glimmering dots merged with the dark purple shades bring a satisfied smile. Seeing the happiness radiating from her friend, Carmen grins widely. “You know what, Fens? You should stop overthinking about literally everything. Easier said than done, right? See the stars in the sky, there are a hundred thousand million of them in our galaxy with the Sun being one of them. The universe is such a powerful word that contains an endless possible amount of life out there, us merely being a speck of dust scattered, a tiny bit of atoms inside it.” “That seems like a nice way of saying not to make a big deal about my upcoming death. And, those stars are dead, we’re only seeing the light traveling into Earth.” “No, no, don’t be so pessimistic. I’m just saying that the world is a vast place. They’re too busy to care about you, about Marcus, about us so you shouldn’t waste time caring much about them. Does this make you feel better? C’mon, Fens. Don’t keep me waiting.” Fens scooted closer, accepting the warm embrace from Carmen. For the first time in her life, the sky lits up, an astounding view leaving her mouth agape emerged. Constellation and the milky way shone on her, finally. She felt this cozy sensation mixed with comfort as they hug together. She’s happy that Carmen is here, Marcus is here. She’s content with her tranquil life. She’s happy to be alive.


Jameson pushes the curtain back with the barrel of his gun, he glances out at the sea of white. The snow has stopped for now but it is a stark reminder of how unforgiving this land is. He looks over his family, trying to ensure confidence with his protective stare but the feeling of desperation creeps in like the frigid draft from between the cracks. The tales of the mythical stranger appearing this time of year plagued Jameson's thoughts. How was he to know when? At what time of the night does this demon come. The sun had been down for at least two logs now, it was late, but he could not let the flames die, nevermind banking the coals for the cold, cold night ahead. "How long do we have to wait husband? The kids are exhausted." "Send them to bed mother, Garrison and I will keep watch." Jameson replies, motioning to the sleeping area. "You know the little ones are terrified, they won't be able to sleep at all." Mary Elisabeth replies in a whisper, adjusting the blanket surrounding the baby in her arms. Garrison enters the dimly lit room after scouting the sleeping room. With axe in hand he stands at attention by the fire. "Father, you should lay with Mother and the children, I will keep watch, we can take shifts." Garrison's tall, limber body glides over to the window and peers out. Jameson contemplates this strategy for a moment when his concentration is broken by Emma, the middle child. "Who is it Father? Who is coming for us?" "It's nothing!" Snaps Jameson "It's just a tale from the old country, theres nothing to be worried about." Jameson places his musket next to his station by the window. He picks up Emma and tries to comfort her. "Hows this young one? Mother will tell you an amazing story about our travels across the great sea to start our brand new life and you can fall asleep while your brother and I make sure we have something warm to eat in the morning, we'll sit and watch the fire tonight." Emma leaning on Jameson's shoulder replies "But I don't want to go to sleep, I'm scared he will come get me in my dreams." "Come now lass, no more scary stories." Jameson demands "That is but an old tale of the Kruger from the old country, he cannot get you here so far away." "He comes in your dreams Father, you could be anywhere and he can still get you." Emma resists. Jameson reaches out his hand to the seated Mary Elisabeth. "Come now ladies, time for bed, your brother and I will keep the fire lit." After ushering Mary Elisabeth with baby into the bed, Jameson lays Emma down next to them. He kneels down face to face with his daughter and in a soothing voice promises "Now you be a big girl and stay here with Mother and your sister. Theres nothing to be scared of, you have your brother and I out there watching over." "Yes Father." Emma timidly replies. Jameson exits the room, pulling over the curtain as Mary Elisabeth and children get situated in their beds. Jameson returns to his post by the window and glances out again, noticing the snow has started once again. Garrison stares intently at his father, taking a hefty gulp from his horn of whiskey. Observing the fear in Jameson's eyes, Garrison wonders what could possibly terrify a man who had spent days out in the freezing wilderness, tracking a deer to feed his family. Who knows what horrors he saw out there ponders Garrison as he takes another pull, passing along the vessel to his father. "What is it Father, really?" Garrison pleads. "No one knows son, not really anyway, it comes in the night." "So it is the Kruger!" Exclaims Garrison. No, no son, tis a tale as old as time but goes by many names. Old Stewart said that a shipmate had seen it once when they were out on a merchant ship, in the vast of night. The shipmate told Old Stewart that this demon flies from house to house in one night, on the wings of devil dogs in a sled made of bones." Jameson continues "This Demon steals your provisions and brings coal. No one knows what it wants or why it does such things." "He brings coal?" Questions Garrison "But we can use that right?" "No son, this coal is said to burn only smoke as black as pitch, tis of no use to us." "How do we kill it?" Garrison asks resolutely. "I'm not sure we can son." Jameson states as a matter of fact. Jameson takes another pull from the whiskey and passes it back to his son and sits back for a moment. The fire begins to burn a little brighter casting an intense light throughout the room. A distant sound brings the men to their feet. Garrison tightens his grip on the axe handle, motioning the head of the rusty axe towards the fire, alerting his tired Father. Garrison now realizing that his Father had been up for days with this routine, watching over his family every night for weeks. Jameson stares blankly up towards the ceiling trying to see with his ears. He looks over at his confused son "It is like the Angelus of the church, a thousand of them!" Garrison exclaims, staring intently at the window. "I know this sound." Jameson recalls. "The Hessian immigrants had them in their dances in the town square back in Shoreditch." "Stand fast! It comes as but a specter!" Jameson grabs his musket and props it to his shoulder. The flames of the hearth are crawling higher and higher, a welcoming column up the radiant chimney. The men standing wide-eyed and unsure of what to do next. Emma, startled by the noise, peers out behind the curtain. Her eyes become fixated on the size of the dancing flames. "Back into the room with your Mother!!" Jameson demands, shouting at his hypnotized daughter. Garrison lashes over and pushes Emma into the room. He holds his finger up to his mouth desperately trying to command silence from his erratic Father. Garrison points to the ceiling with the axe as they hear footsteps on the roof. Jameson's eyes are nearly popping out of his head, trying to be quiet "It must be a hundred men up there...an army...we are no match." The men are still as they wait in terror. A silence washes over the house for a moment then a maniacal laugh rips through the air. "HO HO HO!" It screams A rock bounces down the chimney and the fire explodes outward from the hearth, a plume of black smoke engulfs the room. Garrison lunges toward the fire and takes a mighty swing with his axe, chops through the smoke, and hacks at the stone as the head of his axe flies off. Jameson flies back to his musket, knowing it was a mistake to leave it by the window. He hurriedly cocks the hammer and unloads a screaming blast in the air. In an instant, almost as soon as the muzzle flash has rescinded, the tumult is over. A portion of the wall between the rooms has a hole blasted through it and Jameson becomes terrified of what he might have done. He drops the weapon as he rushes to the threshold, pushing Garrison out of the way. Garrison, reels around and is quick behind his father, also weighing the possibility that his father might have just shot his mother and sisters. Jameson opens his mouth to call out but is taken aback with such confusion and relief that he cannot believe what he is looking at. Garrison pushes his father to the side to get a clearer look. He takes a step forward and with his footfall his sleeping sister awakens, raises her head and with a rub of her eyes asks "Father is it still night time?" Emma is now cradling a doll that he cannot remember ever seeing before. Mary Elisabeth and the baby are still asleep but now the baby is clutching a small carved wooden dog. The men try to regain themselves. "Back to sleep little one, it will be morning soon." Jameson whispers as Emma is happy to lay her head back down. The men turn from the bedroom and try to look around the house, trying to asses any damages and perhaps find a meaning to what just transpired. Jameson heads to the kitchen area to inspect any changes. The carrots and biscuits have been taken but beside the shelving unit lies a shiny new axe. Jameson picks it up and walks toward Garrison with the handle extended. He hands it over to Garrison knowing in his heart that it was granted to his son. They hear the bells once again and run to the window to see if theres anything of their visitor that they can still see. They can't see anything from the window so they rush outside. They observe no tracks in the snow and stare once again at the roof to see if theres anything from all the footsteps they heard. The bells jingle again and Jameson and Garrison locate the sound from beyond the roof. That laugh rings out again. "HO HO HO!" This time it seems more jovial. They wonder if it was like that before, might they have heard it differently? Up in the distance they see the silhouette of a sled being pulled by reindeer through the sky. A large man sits gracefully in the sled and raises his hand, waiving at the astonished men. Standing frozen in the snow Jameson and Garrison are beyond comprehension of what they are seeing, all they can do is wave back.


Author's Note: Hello! This story has been a bit of a whirlwind. I just joined Reedsy two days before this is due. I wrote over two thousand words, but somehow half of it didn't save, so I has to re-write the majority of the story. It may be rushed, and it may be of poor quality, but I think I learned from this experience. Enjoy! Trigger Warnings: Minor Mentions of Alcohol abuse, subjective dialogue, etc. Lulu Stadnik, the little girl with the little bow flopping up and down in her black sea of hair. But now, little Lulu is left in the dull-lit room with her dull hair, in contrast to her bright bow and the bright lights that flickered on and off over her head. The lights flickered and blinked with a dying energy, the girls overactive mind pictured teensy little googly eyes and mouths on each tiny bulb, gasping for air, there last breaths. Until they die out. Because the Party is over, and little Lulu is left to clean up the big teenager’s mess. The girl with the dashed and freckled face, with flowing Black hair billowing downward in unorthodox spirals hugging closely to her cheekbones. Little Lulu with her lopsided jaw and stubby legs. Lulu and her puffy lips and perking ears and chipping nails. That's why Lulu was left out of the big kid party, with the 16's and 17's and even a few 20 somethings. In a house with two older siblings, Priscilla, and Derik. Ugly names, but proportional faces. Cool kids. She was a dork, a geek, for lack of a better term. But stubby legged, short, freckle faced Lulu was dull enough in the head just like her hair to think that a lack of an invitation was due to her age. Young Lulu, not freckle face, or even the U word. U g l y Someone with a house so clustered and crowded between smoky breath and parties every other night wouldn't be as lonely as little Lulu? But she was alone, left alone to clean up the big kid’s mess. Well, to say she was alone would be a fabrication of the truth, and who wants that? Ben, "Benny" Tangent, the tall, fellow freckle faced basement dweller, with bony limbs and a slanted facial shape. Shaggy blonde hair and Hazel eyes, a plain lime green polo tucked into tan khakis. He, along with Lulu, thought they were guest to the prestigious Big Kid Party, Lulu even wore a hand-me-down dress from her aunt. A murky white dress, more like a crooked weaving of rags with a thick coating of dust, and a shredded edge remaining in dangling strands. But, nonetheless, the two pals were met with a finger pointing to the basement door, exiling them to the deep depths of boredom. "The trash bag is, pretty full..." Benny bellowed across the room. He heaved a white garbage bag, packed to the absolute brim with crumbled cups, with splashes of an 'unknown liquid', shattered glass, LED Lights, and chipped edges or corners of furniture that is no more. "Pass me another one will ya?" He called. "Yeppers- lemme see... Yeesh, we've already gone through a whole box! Party must have been..." "Wild?" He pressed his foot onto the bottom of the bag, and sharply jerked the two ties of the bag upwards and pulled them into a tight bow. "Pretty much, well. The basement was fine, at least we got-ta hang for a bit, ya know?" "Yeah, where's your crazy siblings at?" He asked curiously. But Lulu simply shrugged in response, eyes darting upwards to an upper layer of LED Lights, strung in a transverse wave like pattern and held up with duct tape. She crossed her brows and pinned her fist to her hips. "Stupid tall people..." "What?" "Oh! Nothing." She glanced over at her tall friend, but little Lulu was stubborn. She extended her arms upwards and hopped, like a baby birdie who just, couldn't fly. Yet she mistook her stubbornness for persistence, a frequent delusion for the youngster, and she indeed persisted. "You need help with tha-?" Benny started, but abruptly Lulu shook her head. She furrowed her brows and stretched upwards again. The dull haired girl and her dull brain couldn't comprehend her surroundings, the obvious hints to just, give up. She refused to acknowledge the existence of chairs, scattered across the room, that she could simply prop against the wall and step atop. She neglected the existence of her friend Benny, tall Benny. Decent Benny. Benny with his blonde hair and hazel eyes, and his top test scores and his gaming victories and... "Dude, come on. Just let me-" "no-No-NO!" Lulu stomped her foot down and pursed her lip. She looked like a child, throwing a tantrum. But she wasn't a child, she knew that. She needed, to know that. The girl flung her arms upwards and hopped up and down, her fingers extending upwards and tightly clutching the air. She made a few audible squeals, her curls danced around her face violently as she gritted her teeth. Her face turned red after a few moments, a mix of frustration and embarrassment. She swung her arms up as the lights twinkled and shook above her. She leaped up, legs thrusting back and forth. “Alright…” Benny pulled a few stray locks of hair away from his eyes, tucked behind his pointy ears. He leaned down and snatched another white plastic bag from the small pile, perched against the back of a wooden chair. The bag swished as it spread apart, and he started to toss some empty party cups and pressed a couple dozen shards of glass scattered across the marble floor into a pile. His eyes darted back to Lulu, flapping her arms up and down and squirming midair. “Pfft- ya look like flappy bird.” Benny was town proclaimed, ‘King of the Arcade”. The boy could click and crank those chipping pastel buttons and levers as if it was witchcraft. At the top of all those notorious leaderboard screens, his name was plastered in white bubble font with tacky flash animations lining the edges. Little Lulu with her dull hair and dull brains had stubby little fingers that couldn’t twitch and turn like Benny’s could. Little Lulu didn’t have her name between flashing and flickering animations in bright letters. “Well- I’ve almost got it…” She murmured to herself, her face now inflated and pulsing red. Little Lulu with her short tempter, all over an insignificant strand of LED lights, dangling above her, taunting her in abstract loops and curves. Little Lulu who couldn’t even clean up after her big sibling’s party. Even though the two couldn’t clean up after themselves, and the two made it apparent not to tell Aunt Marge, meaning Lulu couldn’t tell Aunt Marge, not that she would believe her. Lulu had to clean up the mess, otherwise the crumbled cups and smashed furniture would be somehow blamed on her… and her aunt would be returning home in less than an hour. “Dude, it’s almost 7- your Aunt’s gonna be home, just go help me with the rug spill and I’ll do the LED lights later….” Benny started but was met with a piercing gaze. “No. I’m-getting these lights down…” She said with an abnormal raspy tone. Lulu had always felt equal to Benny, even though he was smarter. And looked better, even with his slanted grin and long, dangling limbs. But Benny was a fellow basement dweller, he liked wacky cartoons and having mature conversations around subject matter in books and satire and dorky little comic books and movies. But yet, Benny was taller, he had a solid 4.0 while Lulu was hanging with low C’s in most classes. “Come on, let me just…” “no-No-NO!” Lulu shouted, panting, fingers clutched into fist as she stomped up and down like a child. Her hair flung around in a spiraling whirlwind, black locks whipping her eyes and lower cheeks. She paused, realizing she was throwing a fit, like a toddler who lost her favorite toy. She wasn’t a child, not like everyone said she was, a whiney brat. After a moment, she exhaled and released the tension in her limbs, looking back to Benny with a pursed frown. She glanced up at the LED lights, but rather then try and reach them in a desperate hop, she knelt down and felt her limbs collapse to a sudden relaxed prediction. She slowly tucked her knees into her chest and pinned her back to the sandy tan painted wall. “Gee- Lu, it’s just some lights, what’s the big deal?” Benny crossed his brows, stepping over to Lulu and slid down into a crisscrossed pose. When Lulu gave no response, other than burying her cheeks in the palms of her hands. “This is, about more then, the lights, isn’t it?” “No… yes, I dunno. I guess first it was just about, not being able to reach them… but you can reach them.” “So? It’s not a big deal.” “To you maybe! Because you’re Benny! Perfect Benny!” “Wha-?” “Stupid Benny with your stupid smooth blonde hair and, and smart brain and… stupid games! And your- uh… I dunno…” Lulu felt a short flash of guilt at what she just spat out to her best friend. She switched shades from red to pale white, until she shook her head and perched her head on top her kneecaps. “I-I didn’t mean it…” “I know you didn’t.” Benny said with a slight shrug, fiddling with his foot and smacking his lips to ease the tense silence. “I, I guess I feel kinda, worthless, compared to you.” “No-No don’t say that. Were both geeks, it’s how we…” “But your like, king of geeks! Good at games! Good grades! And your stupidly perfect! Stupid Benny with his stupid… You pry have like, all the records at the Arcade! And me? I’ve got nothing… all I can do is throw myself an unwarranted pity party…” Benny tensed up, unsure of how to reply. After a few moments of a swelling silence, he exhaled slowly and pressed his lips together. “Stupid Lulu.” “Huh?” Lulu pulled her smooth black curls out of her face and crossed her brows. “Stupid Lulu! Stupid Lulu, whose always able to wake up with a smile on her face!” “That’s not an accompli- I know what you’re doing.” “And her stupid curls that she can always iron like, perfectly! And her stupid feistiness! She’s like, the best one on the debate team!” Lulu blushed, “I was kinda great last trial.” “Yeah you were! I don’t care if you struggle in school! Who cares! I mean, whoever cares, and says something about it! I’ll punch them with my, really weak arm.” He smiled, a wide, goofy smile, like one sloppily painted in bright red on an exaggerated emoji. Lulu giggled, and glanced back up at the lights, they looked less taunting, more cheerful, like gentle flickers in the plain tan room. “I’ll stay here all night until you get them down if I have to. Cause you can do it-…” “Nope.” Lulu smiled upwards at the twinkling shades of the rainbow. “Keep them there, I’ll keep them there.” She smirked and pushed herself to a standing. “Let’s clean that rug.” Benny nodded and snatched a wet rag and tossed the other to Lulu. The stared at the large ‘juice’ stain on the floor, grinning with crooked and sloppy smiles. Little Lulu, and tall Benny, with there freckled faces and goofy grins, cleaning up the imperfections of the room. And it was perfect.


Ananya bit her cheek just hard enough for the salty sweetness of blood and saliva to wash across her tongue. The pain and swelling receded as she released the flesh to meditate on the flavours that skimmed across her tongue. “Eat, child.” Velka’s scolding was muffled through Ananya’s cotton-stuffed ears. “You will never learn the flavours of the world if you do not experience them.” Ananya focused on the coolness of air flowing across her tongue as she quelled her frustration with a deep breath. She was one-and-twenty this past spring. No longer a child, though the news had yet to reach Velka.

Eyes still closed, Ananya reached for a bowl in front of her. She’d caught a glimpse of the offering before she’d taken up her place in the small ceremonial hut, though that glimpse offered no clues. Each bowl bore a hodgepodge of foods that had been mixed and mashed and mixed again until its contents took on a shade of brown, grey, or beige. Ananya’s task was to identify the ingredients within each dish; to attune to the flavours of the world. Once she had distinguished the flavours and their sources, she would meditate on clan Gartvrung’s future alongside Velka and Naritsa. As one of the clan’s three oracles, their meditations would guide their dreams. Dreams that, if carefully nurtured, would steer Gartvrung from danger. Ananya was honoured to be an oracle. The Sensati—oracles of the five senses—were only born to the northern clans, and only one clan one hundred years ago had ever claimed all five senses among their Sensati. But Ananya was a Linguata, a Sensati of the tongue, and it was well-known that taste was the most useless faculty through which to divine a clan’s future. That did not stop Velka—the clan’s long-standing Aurata—from chastising Ananya to eat. Velka attuned to her divinations by listening to the fire crackling, cloth and skin chafing against the rough rugs on the packed-dirt floor, and the chatter of clansfolk passing by outside. Ananya’s attunement was not so pleasant. Holding her breath, Ananya took a delicate sip of the soup-mush in one of the bowls. She gagged.

There was something fatty and lumpy to the mix, a dried herb like thyme or rosemary and…she gingerly moved her tongue through the sickly silky mixture.

Yes, there was definitely something rancid in there, lending a sour, musky flavour to the slop that clung to her breath as she inhaled. It would not be the first time that the clan’s cook tossed a mish-mash of inedible scraps and long-forgotten dry goods into one of Ananya’s attunement soups. Hoping that Naritsa, the Vidata, was looking elsewhere, Ananya did her best to quietly spit the food back into the bowl.

Someone snorted—undoubtedly Naritsa—and Ananya felt heat crawl up her neck and cheeks. “If you are laughing, then you are not attuning,” Velka said with practiced disdain. “If you are not attuning your senses, child, then you are risking the safety of all that depend on you. What will you tell our people when someone lies dead because your sight was consumed elsewhere?”

“Forgive me, elder,” Naritsa whispered. Velka scoffed. “Ask not for forgiveness from me, but from Gartvrung.” “How do I—” “Shush, child! Focus on your attunement and stop disturbing mine.” Ananya did her utmost to conceal the smile blooming across her lips. She could not know if Naritsa saw but— “Eat, child!” Ananya prepared herself for dreams just as she did every night. She bathed with the other Sensati in the hot springs, plaited her hair, and stuffed her ears with cotton. Once the candles in her family’s hut were snuffed out, she began the Linguata meditations: drawing her tongue from cheek to tooth to palate. As she did so, she was meant to dwell upon the clan’s future: Would Gartvrung’s stores last through the coming winter? Would allies or enemies poison their elders or leaders?

For Ananya, the practice felt utterly futile. Assuming she predicted something more pivotal than a future meal, she had few means of determining when a prediction would occur. One year, she successfully predicted that the cook would serve stale bread for a feast. She realized the prediction was manifesting moments after the bread was served to over a hundred of their closest allies. She informed the cook, triggering an argument between said cook, who wanted the bread removed, and the chieftain, who didn’t want to appear disorganized or sloppy. Ultimately, Ananya and the cook were the only two who noticed the bread was stale. The chieftain had done his best to ignore her since. So, this night, when Ananya’s thoughts drifted away from clan matters, she held very little concern that it would lead to the Gartvrung’s downfall. In any case, her thoughts weren’t terribly unrelated to the clan’s future. Simply put, rather than meditating on the taste of her own mouth, she meditated on the taste of Darvik’s. The chieftain’s son had kissed her two days ago, and the memory of that kiss still glazed her tongue even as she drifted off to sleep. For as long as she could remember, Ananya tasted the future in her dreams. As a baby, she dreamt of the warmth and creamy sweetness of her mother’s milk. When she got older, she tasted dirt and snow and all the other things that young ones stick in their mouths. For the last five days, she had dreamt of herbal stews, the delicate sweetness of watered-down mead, and sour berry tarts drizzled with syrup. These predictions were always correct: the clan’s cook had served the same meal for dinner the past four days.

Tonight, though, she dreamt of something else. A salty, warm, musky flavour that coated and filled her mouth in an unfamiliar way. It clung to her tongue and palate long after, and was only washed away by a sweet, burning acidity that left her tongue numb. The numbness lingered for some time, until a burst of salt, heat, and metal washed her senses. The dream repeated itself twice more than night, broken once by her usual dream this week—this time with particularly tart berries and watered-down syrup, which indicated that the cook was finally running out of the provisions required for this week’s meals.

Ananya spent most of the next day puzzling over the new dream and each flavour it conjured. Her inspection of the cook’s stores revealed very little, though she was certain the second flavour was a particularly strong brandy concealed behind three barrels topped with bushels of sage. Ananya nearly missed the bottle, which, she surmised, must have been the goal: there was no dust on the bottle and it appeared half-drunk. This small victory gave her hope, but the other two flavours remained mysteries despite her best efforts. She considered speaking with Velka—the older woman had surely tasted many things in her fifty years—but that conversation would inevitably lead to an examination of Ananya’s thoughts and meditations. While this would not usually be an obstacle, Ananya would be forced to admit that she had not meditated on the clan’s future in quite some time. Unless, of course, the elder considered Darvik’s dimpled smile and broad shoulders to be of critical importance to Gartvrung’s future. No matter, Ananya’s dreams and predictions had never held any importance for the clan. She sorely doubted that would change anytime soon. Darvik returned from the hunt two days later. He was covered in blood, grime, and a dusting of snow, but Ananya saw only his beaming smile and the redness that dappled his cheeks. He winked at her as he passed, and she nuzzled into her scarf to hide the blush it elicited. She forgot the strange dream that plagued her sleep, her mind consumed with the curve of Darvik’s lips and the strength of his arms. That evening, as the sun gilded the snowcapped mountains and glittered across the frosted ground, Darvik led Ananya into the woods. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but you for the last four days,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers as he reclined against a towering pine far from the village outskirts. Ananya tasted his breath as it clouded the small space between them, the memory of their kiss a flurry across her tongue. He cupped her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. Ananya’s heart fluttered like prairie grasses caught in the late autumn breeze.

“I want more, Ananya,” he said. Seduced by the savoury tang of his mouth and the heat radiating from his body, she nodded. She hadn’t a clue what ‘more’ entailed, but how could anything objectionable arise from something as sweet as this? Her breath caught as he traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “I want you to taste me, dream about tasting me,” he muttered, his breathing skimming her neck and jaw. A coy smile tugged at her lips. “We’d have to do a lot more kissing.” Her breath caught as he nipped her earlobe.

He chuckled into her ear. “It’s not my mouth I want you to dream of.” Ananya smoothed her skirts and ran her hands along her hair, patting away her frayed edges. She took a breath and sucked her tongue at the lingering taste of him. He’d taken his pleasure with her and then claimed business elsewhere, leaving Ananya hungry and wanting and empty. She swallowed her shame and picked her way back to the village, all the while mulling over their tryst with a hollow heart. Darvik was more interested in her dreams than in her .

That evening, as the other clansfolk prepared a feast, Ananya joined the Sensati in their attunement. She was just as distracted now as before, and despite Velka’s prodding and scolding, ate very little of her grey sludge. The elder shot her a look of concern before slipping out of the hut and into the dancing lights and music of the village centre.

“Let me guess,” Naritsa said, joining Ananya in the doorway. “Darvik lured you into the woods to act out one of his little fantasies?” Blood rushed furiously to Ananya’ cheeks. “There’s no shame in it. Well… not for you. He did the same to me last month.” She heaved a sigh. “I suspect that if Velka were a decade younger, he’d have tried with her, too. I swear that boy’s mother dropped him as an infant. If only I could see the past as well as the future, I would prove it.” Ananya snorted. “He does have a rather oddly shaped head.” Naritsa smirked and covered her mouth to suppress an obscene giggle. “That’s not the only part of him that’s oddly shaped.” At the feast that night, Ananya and Naritsa sat on a log by the bonfire, trading swigs of brandy stolen from the Cook’s kitchen and grimacing as it seared its way down their gullets. With time and inebriation, their snickered gossip about Darvik and the other young men of Gartvrung grew boisterous.

Eventually, Darvik could no longer pretend to ignore them. He appeared flattered, at first, but it soon became clear that they were not fawning over, but ridiculing, him. “Ladies,” he said on approach, sizing up the small women from the log they slouched on. “Sensati,” Naritsa corrected, drawing out the word. Ananya held back a drunken giggle and snorted loudly instead. Darvik noticed. “Sensati.” He began anew. “Whatever you are talking about seems unbelievably amusing. I’m sure we would all like to join in your merriment, if you would tell us what it is you find so entertaining.” He beamed as he spoke, but the stiffness in his eyes and jaw betrayed him.

“You would not find it so amusing,” Ananya said, her jaw clenched as stiff as ice. “Oh?” Darvik said, crouching down before them to meet her eyes. “Why so suddenly upset?” A wry smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Something leave a nasty taste in your mouth?” Ananya’s nostrils flared, her heart raged against her chest, and she opened her mouth. The words on the tip of her tongue would have soured his mood and seared his pride. But she didn’t speak them. Because, suddenly, there was an arrow protruding from Darvik’s throat, his blood spurting into her mouth, across her chest, and over the glowing, fire-lit snow. Naritsa shrieked. Ananya froze, every hair raised at the familiar warm, salty, metallic flavour that coated her tongue. Darvik clutched at his throat before crumpling to the ground. As the chaos quickly unfolded around her, Ananya had a brief burst of pride: she’d finally predicted something useful.


I sat down on the cool, prickly grass, letting the harsh wind of the night blow my long black hair into my face. All I had to see was the soft glow of the moon, which dimly illuminated the small hole I had just dug in the back corner of my fathers backyard. Laying down my rusty shovel, I breathed in the cool midnight air, letting the freezing air fill my lungs and make me shiver. This feels right, I thought, untying the sweatshirt knotted around my waist and putting it on to cover my goosebump covered arms. With careful hands, I grabbed the small tin box next to me and gave it one last hard look. The colorful drawings of ponies and children which had once adorned the box had long since rubbed off, leaving nothing but a swirl of red and yellow. No amount of weathering, however, could scratch away the small engraving on the bottom which read “Good luck on your adventures- Mom.” Yeah, no one is going to miss this, I thought, and I gently placed the old tin box into the small hole in front of me. I stood up and grabbed my shovel before pausing. I looked back at the undervalued object, lying in the cold dirt, and finally realized the weight of what I was doing. I had been planning this for a week, but not once had I thought about what would happen after this box and its contents were hidden from the rest of

the world. What if I never come back here again? What if my father finds it and yells at me? What if no one finds it, and it slowly rots away in the mossy dirt becoming riddled with rats and bugs. That image in my head was almost enough to convince me to grab the cold box out of the grass and run back into the warmth of my home never to think of the hole in the ground again. But there was a little voice in my head, telling me that this was a good idea, that this would be worth it, that I would look back on this day with nostalgia, and not regret. So I left the old box where it was, and slowly began to cover my prized possession with the mound of dirt which had haphazardly formed as a result of my digging. Bit-by-bit my box was being hidden from the rest of the world. The more I covered it, the more I felt ready to let it go. After a half an hour, the box was completely out of my sight, but I continued to fill the whole until it looked exactly like it had when I began my digging. My hands were covered in splinters from the rough wood of the handle, dirt was splattered all over my legs, and sweat dripped down my face. I took one last look at what I had done, saying one last goodbye to the object which now sat half a foot under the ground, hidden in a small tin box which no one but I would miss. I leaned the rusty shovel on the side of the garage, praying no one in the house could hear the soft thud it made as it hit the aged tin siding. I then casually walked back into the house, hoping no one would care about the new patch of dirt which had magically appeared in the backyard overnight. I’ll just say the dog was digging for a bone. I carefully opened the squeaky sliding glass door which stood between me and the rest of my family, and stepped quietly into my house, walking into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway. Even in the dark, I could see the trail of dirt which was left behind me and I sighed. I’m going to have to clean that up later, aren’t I? Once I was in the bathroom, I wet a soft washcloth, and washed off the dirt which caked my skin. All my scrubbing splashed wet dirt onto the white subway tile, so I grabbed a paper towel, and wiped the mud off the walls. Once I was done, I cleaned up the dirt trail I had left from my walk into the bathroom. I walked across the first floor of my house with soft footsteps, cringing whenever the time-worn floorboards creaked. I arrived at my room, stumbled past the cardboard moving boxes stacked on my floor, and climbed in between the fluffy blankets which covered my bed. I calmly drifted to sleep, with the memory of placing my time capsule into the ground fresh in my head. Every day, archeologists dig through the ruins of ancient civilizations, looking for artifacts which might tell them what those people were like. They spend 8 hours a day searching for what are essentially ancient, slightly broken time capsules. These little time capsules tell the stories of those civilizations which are no longer standing, stories which we can no longer hear in person. When it came to choosing my own artifact, I wasn’t really sure what to choose. Finding a single object which can tell your story turned out to be a lot harder than I expected it to be. After a lot of thinking, I finally found the one thing which truly represented who I was.  -10 years later- The spattering of the outdated U-Haul’s engine could be heard from anywhere and everywhere in the neighborhood. The rusty truck pulled into the neglected driveway, and the front door opened, letting out a small Beagle which proceeded to dart down the street, chasing after the squirrels and birds which sat in the trees. His owner, Marcus, went running after him, and grabbed him as he stopped to smell the lamp post at the end of the street. “Come on, Buster, let’s go inside,” he said, picking up his furry dog, and carrying him to their new house. Marcus opened the thick wooden door, cringing at the loud screech it made when it was pushed. The time-worn floorboards creaked as he made his way toward the back of the house, and the sliding glass door let out a small squeak as it was opened. Marcus put his dog down on the overgrown grass, and left him to play around in the backyard while he started to unpack his belongings, bringing life back into the cold and empty house.

A half an hour later, Marcus checked on his dog, and found him digging in the back corner of the yard, kicking up dirt onto the rotted wooden fencing. “Hey, Buster, stop that!,” Marcus yelled, running across the backyard as the prickly grass rubbed against his bare ankles. He pulled his dog away from the hole he had dug. He looked to see what his dog had been digging at, and noticed the glint of something metal hidden under the dirt. He grabbed at the metal, and pulled out an old tin box. He examined it with a puzzled look, and traced his hand over the inscription at the bottom. “Good luck on your adventures- Mom,” he read aloud. “Huh”. He opened up the box, and looked to see what was inside. He reached his hand into the box and pulled out a small photo. The photo showed a young girl with long black hair, looking up from inside a ditch with a shovel and brush in hand, smiling from ear to ear next to her mother. “Aww, thats cute,” Marcus said. “Is this what you were looking for Buster?,” he said, turning to his dog with the tin box and photo in hand. He looked at the objects in his hand once more.

“Hey, this is actually a really nice tin,” he said. Marcus gently placed the photo back in the box and walked into his house. He wiped the dirt of the tin box, and placed it onto a shelf which was mounted to the wall in his living room. “Perfect,” he said, taking a step back and looking at his newest decoration. And just like that, the box had

finally found its home.