"Blasted!" yelled Magnolia. "You just can't do anything right can you?" she said, her voice laced with anger. He had only been working there two days and he already managed to mess up just about every task he's been given. "I am so sorry i promise it won't happen again." he said, his voice sounded childish as he pleaded for her to give him a second chance. "Out!" she boomed as she pointed to the door. Her wings fluttering in annoyance. He left the store, his head drooping down.

Everywhere he went people muttered vain things towards him. He wasn't surprised, he was one of the only humans in a fairy tale world. He thought it would've worked to coexist but he seemed hopeless at this point. "That's just great." He muttered as he kicked the ground beneath him. Hatred rising in him as he thought about his father. Why, of all people, did my dad have to be the one who fell in love with a human? Sixteen years ago his dad journeyed beyond their small town. During his travels he met a woman and they fell in love. Will didn't bother to remember the rest because whenever he thought about it he wanted to hurl. Even though his father passed a few years ago he still couldn't bring himself to forgive him. He hated the thought of true love, mainly because it's what made him an outcast in his own home. He had grown up in Fairy-town yet he was treated like a stranger his entire life. He also hated the fact that their town had such a basic name. "Watch where you're going!!" he heard someone yell, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a car swerving in the road in an attempt to not hit him. He staggered back in surprise as he realized he had walked into the middle of speeding cars. He ran as fast as he could to the other side without getting hit by oncoming traffic. He put his hands on his knees as he heaved in breaths. He looked around and was met by faces of disgust staring back at him. Usually he was able to ignore them but today was different, today it stung more than usual. People walked by without giving him a second thought muttering one single word under their breath. "Outcast" Something about the way they said it always angered him. It was as if he was imposing on their home. He continued walking, keeping his head low as he tried to ignore the looks of disgust that were thrown his way. He just wanted to go home and hide away. He had thought about running away a couple times but always found the idea stupid and pushed it aside. If he couldn't keep a job for more than two days how was he supposed to run away? He had no money, no resources, he hadn't even been outside of town before. As he opened the door to his home he was instantly greeted by his mom. She gushed over him as she pulled him to the dining room table and set a plate in front of him. He was relieved that at least not everyone hated him. He could always count on his mom to be there. "How was it? Spill spill spill!" her voice laced with excitement as she brought a pot to the table and sat down. "How was what?" he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he spoke. He knew what she was referring to, he just didn't want to talk about it. "Your second day on the job!" She said as she plopped a scoop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. "Actually i'm feeling kind of tired, i think i'm just gonna go lay down." he said, as he pushed out his chair then pushed it back in. Her face lost its excitement yet held its composure. "Oh okay. That's fine. We can talk about it later." she said, faking a smile. His stomach turned as he saw her disappointment. He hated seeing her upset but he just didn't have the heart to talk about it right now. He gave her a slight smile as he turned and walked up the stairs. They had a modest house. Hardwood floor, two stories. They lived semi close to the edge of town which is just how he liked it. His home was the one place that he didn't feel like an outcast. It was the one place where he felt normal. He opened the door to his room and was relieved to see the familiar setting. His desk was cluttered with crumpled pieces of paper and littered with pencils. Books were stacked on the floor by his bed along with a few shirts here and there. His bed had been neatly made despite the messy room. The blinds on the window were pulled fully down, darkening the room yet the door brought in light to the messy world. As he entered he felt along the wall for the light switch. He turned it on and flung the door close. He plopped himself down on his bed with a loud sigh. After a couple minutes he heard a knock on his door. He sighed and sat up as he prepared to greet whoever was about to come in. His mom slowly opened the door as she peeked her head through. "Hey" she said softly. He smiled faintly but didn't reply. She came in and sat down next to him. Her eyes danced across the room. "I'm going to your fathers grave if you want to come with me." she looked at him with pleading eyes. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he couldn't lie to her. "I have a lot of stuff to do-" he said with regretful eyes "Maybe next time." She smiled at him and patted his leg before she stood and walked out. Stopping in the doorway and looking back at him. "I'll be back soon." and with that she closed the door and left. He let out a sigh as he walked to the window and watched her drive away. He let out a heavy sigh as he left the room. He needed something to distract him so he decided to go out and look for another job. He knew it was pointless but he at least had to try. He skipped down the steps and walked towards the door. He hesitated before opening. Debating whether or not he should go. Without thinking about it more, he twisted the handle and marched out the door.


I thought he was dead, but there he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me. It can’t be. My mind was racing. I saw them bring his body up from the boat. It was a boating accident right before our wedding. He had insisted he wanted to have a bachelor party on a boat, middle of the sea. I wasn’t comfortable but he had insisted. Think about it, no naked girl would be popping out of any cake, he had laughed. There were eight on the boat and my brother was one of them. He had hired for a whole night, Friday. The plan was for the group to return on Saturday and our wedding was on Sunday. The relationship has not been easy for both of us. He was very good looking, had a high paying job as an investment analyst and an attitude to match. I was just a country girl, who had arrived at the city, lost. I was offered a job as junior copywriter at an advertising firm. It was a dream for me to work for the advertising firm. It was during one of the events organized by my firm for his investment company that I had met him. My dislike for him was instant. Maybe I just disliked handsome men. I was told that I needed to liaise with him for the press release for the event. Tried calling him a few days before but when the line got through, he just said that he was in a meeting and that I should call later. Many more calls and I still could not get the press release from him. I tried calling the firm’s PR lady, however, she was also unable to help as he was the person to approve the contents of the press release. Finally, when I got him on the line, he tried to brush me off again and that was when I said `Actually, I am standing outside your office and if I do not get that document now, I am barging in.’ It was a threat, no doubt, but it worked. He looked up through the glass door of his office, saw me standing with my hands on my hips and within next ten minutes I received the press release. `You must be very tired,’ I heard a voice and turned. There he was with a glass of champagne in his hand, giving me that cocky look. `You must be very tired for you have been running in my mind since that day,’ he completed his sentence and started laughing. Such arrogance! I just moved away to another corner. The event was going well. Guests were mingling, networking. I saw him talk to groups of men in rich suits. It was almost midnight. I went searching for my boss. She was talking to a few people from the investment firm. I called her aside and told her that I was leaving. She asked me to take a taxi as it was nearing midnight. I nodded and turned and wham! I bumped into him. He must have been eavesdropping, for standing that close. I apologized and walked out when I felt someone pulling me back. It was him. He smiled and started leading me out of the room, holding my elbow. I felt like a little child being dragged away after doing something naughty. Tried pulling my arm away but his hold was very tight. I didn’t like it but walked quietly. As soon as we were on the pavement outside the hotel I shrugged free. `What’s wrong with you?’ he demanded. `I just want to talk to you.’ Some girls who walked past us looked at him and whispered something among themselves. I felt a little jealous but kept a straight face. `I need to go home,’ I said. `I will drop you off,’ he said signalling the valet. In a few minutes, the valet brought a gleaming black BMW. He opened the front passenger side for me to enter then walked to the driver side and sat down. I told him where I lived and half hour later he dropped me outside the house that I shared with my housemates. As I was about to get down he casually leaned and kissed me, full on my lips. Shocked, I almost stumbled. The following few months saw him drop me off after work. My housemates were green with jealousy. He was like the hero out of Mills and Boons romance novel. Tall, handsome and rich plus he knew how to manipulate women. A few times he tried to get me to his house. I said no. He asked me why. I told him that in my family, the women do not go to men’s house before there were any type of ties. He understood, I presume, for the next day, he proposed with a diamond ring. I was shell shocked that it took me a good 60 seconds before I said `Yes’ to him. So, I was his fiancée. With the new relationship in place he asked me to move into his home, a sprawling home on fifteen acres of land outside the city. He had a stable full of high breed horses, a few more expensive cars. As soon as I started living in with him, things sort of changed. I had an expensive car to drive to and fro work so he didn’t drop me after work anymore. I also dined with many of his clients after work. Those people seemed to have some kind of business dealings with him. Many a night I had to be up to help him type documents or send emails. Although I was quite aware of what was going on, I did not have the full picture nor I bothered to ask him. Life was good and rich. I kept my salary aside and at times helped my parents and brother back home. My parents worked on our farm while my brother was pursuing his degree in engineering at the university in a city nearby. One night after sending off the last email, he sat beside me on the sofa and casually said let’s get married. I turned and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow. I said okay. The next few weeks saw me coordinating the wedding preparations. My best friend Debby was of great help.  He was immersed in work, that at times we hardly met for days. Something kept thugging at my heart for I felt it was strange that he spent long hours alone in the study, talking on the phone and at other times just sitting, staring at the night sky. The wedding drew closer. My mum was very happy. She had her own list of invitees. Dad had his, so did my brother. Then a week before the wedding, he told me that he wanted to have his bachelor party, at sea. At sea? I argued. He argued. Finally, I gave in when he promised to include my brother in his list of invitees for the party.  The group left on Friday evening from the city pier. I received a photo from my brother showing the group having fun under the night sky at sea. There were only men. No naked women prancing on the deck. My phone kept ringing but I didn’t hear. I had a very late night, putting things in place for the wedding the next day. Finally, I woke up from my deep slumber and picked up the phone. It was an unfamiliar number. Hello? The voice on the other side said so many things that my mind could not register. I only heard `Come to the city pier. You need to identify someone’. How I reached the city pier, I had no idea. There were ambulances and police cars everywhere. A Coastguard vessel had docked in. Paramedics were bringing someone on a stretcher. Oh, my God! It was my brother. My heart almost stopped. He had burn marks on his arms and they had put oxygen mask on his face. I stumbled and felt someone hold my arms, steadying me. I was in a daze. Then they brought him up. He was all burnt. I could only see the engagement ring on his left hand. That was his. The Coast Guard chief told me that they tried to revive him on their vessel but he had died on the way back to port. I was trembling. No, tomorrow was our wedding. How could he go like this? The next few days were all in a daze. Instead of a wedding we had a wake. His funeral ended and I moved out of his house. What happened after that, I have no idea. I returned to my parents’ farm and stayed there ever since. It has been two years. My brother had a difficult recovery but the family supported him. He did not want to talk about the incident. All he said was he was asleep when the boat went up in flames. Yesterday I returned to the city to attend a job interview. There he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling. He gestured me to walk with him. I paced faster and reached his side. He took my hand into his. We walked in silence for a moment, then he turned to me and asked,’ Have you moved on?’ `Do you think I could move on? I did not know what happened. Our wedding became a wake.’ `I came to put your mind to rest. You needed to know.’ We walked a good ten minutes. The street was crowded, so we had to weave through throngs of people. At times, allowing people to walk between us. He told me that the blast on the boat was planned. Something about an investment gone sour. The client was not happy. He found out that the client was linked to a cartel after the deal fell through. But it was too late to recover the investment. But when he discovered an unusual device on the boat,in the galley, he had covered it with his own body so the damage to others would be minimal. Yes, he was the only fatality that night. The rest seven including my brother survived, though some had bad burns. My eyes welled up. Tears started streaming down my cheek. I wanted to hug him badly. Two years of not knowing had finally come to a closure. I turned to hug him. Only I was there and the crowd. He wasn’t anywhere. I looked around. There were people everywhere but not him. Who did I just speak with?


Evelyn had always felt like something was off in her life. She had a nagging sense that reality was just out of reach, like she was living in a dream. She thought she was going crazy until the glitches started. At first, they were small. She would catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye that wasn't there when she turned to look. Shadows would stretch and twist in unnatural ways. But as time went on, the glitches became more frequent and intense. Evelyn sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. It was just another typical day at the office, or so she thought. Suddenly, the cursor on her screen flickered and the image on her screen distorted before her very eyes. She rubbed her eyes, thinking it was just a trick of the light, but when she looked back, the distortion remained. Panic set in as she tried to exit out of the program, but it wouldn't budge. The screen flickered even more violently, and strange symbols and letters she couldn't comprehend appeared on the screen. Suddenly, the computer shut off on its own and the lights in the room flickered, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Evelyn's heart raced as she got up from her desk and tried the light switch, but it wouldn't turn on. The room was plunged into darkness, and she felt a cold hand wrap around her neck. She tried to scream but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the lights flickered back on, and the cold hand vanished. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She told herself it was just her imagination playing tricks on her, but she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The rest of the day went by in a haze, and Evelyn couldn't focus on her work. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, feeling like something was watching her. Over the next few days, the glitches continued. Her computer would randomly shut off, objects in the room would move on their own, and she would hear strange noises in the middle of the night. It was as if her reality was starting to unravel, and she couldn't trust what she was seeing or hearing. Evelyn tried to talk to her co-workers about what was happening, but they just looked at her like she was crazy. She started to feel like she was losing her mind. One night, she was lying in bed when she heard a strange sound coming from her closet. She got up and cautiously approached the door, her heart pounding in her chest. She slowly opened the door and was met with a terrifying sight. Her clothes were floating in mid-air, as if they were being held up by an invisible force. She backed away in horror, but the clothes started flying towards her, wrapping themselves around her body like tentacles. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the clothes dropped to the floor and everything was back to normal. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She knew she had to get out of her apartment and get help, so she packed a bag and left in the middle of the night. She stayed at a hotel for a few nights, but the glitches continued to follow her. It was as if something was trying to keep her from leaving. Desperate for answers, Evelyn turned to a paranormal investigator. The investigator told her that she was experiencing glitches in her reality because she had stumbled upon a portal to another dimension. The portal was unstable, and the glitches were a sign that it was starting to unravel. The investigator warned her that if the portal fully unraveled, it would mean the end of her reality as she knew it. Evelyn was horrified, but she also felt a sense of determination to fix the portal and save her reality. With the help of the paranormal investigator, Evelyn discovered that the key to closing the portal was to confront the source of the instability, a powerful entity known as the Glitch. It was said that the Glitch was a manifestation of all the fears and negative emotions in her mind, and it was feeding off of her fear to grow stronger. Evelyn was skeptical at first, but as the glitches became more frequent and intense, she knew she had to face her fears and confront the Glitch. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. She entered a realm of pure darkness and felt the Glitch's presence all around her. It whispered dark thoughts in her ear and tried to manipulate her, but Evelyn stood her ground. She refused to be consumed by fear and instead channeled her inner strength. The Glitch appeared before her in its true form, a being of pure darkness and terror. It towered over her, threatening to consume her, but Evelyn refused to back down. She faced the Glitch head-on and used her courage to break its hold on her mind. As the Glitch was defeated, the portal started to close. The darkness lifted, and the room was flooded with light. Evelyn opened her eyes to find herself back in her apartment, but everything was different. The world was clearer, and the colors were brighter. She felt a sense of peace and calm she had never felt before. She realized that by facing the Glitch and her fears, she had not only saved her reality but had also freed herself from the negative emotions that had been holding her back. The glitches had been a test, and she had passed. From that day on, Evelyn lived life with a newfound sense of purpose and clarity. She no longer felt the fear and uncertainty that had consumed her before. She had faced her fears and had come out the other side a stronger, braver person.


All the king's horses and all the king's men came to help and here I am hiding. The longer I sat at the edge of the pond, the more I hoped that none of this was true. That my time with Alwyn, Tessa, and Merlin was only short-term. That I had a home to return. That I still had a family. But no matter of time there could ever do what I needed. Especially with Merlin being eerily quiet, waiting for my answer. My mother always told - used to always tell me everything would seem clearer after you slept on it. I never understood it and Merlin’s question made me think this was the only thing she ever got wrong. I had slept on it and I still didn’t know if I was going to talk to Arthur.

And Merlin ‘patiently’ waiting wasn’t making it any easier. He kept fiddling with his collar and cuffs. If he wasn’t doing that, he was tossing stones into the pond. And if he wasn’t doing those, he was opening his mouth to speak before remembering he promised not to explain anymore that Arthur wouldn’t push, he understood what I was going through.

How could he?

He didn’t know me. Didn’t know my people. My neighbors. My family. The closest people to him didn’t burn to death. Didn’t have their farms and shops and homes taken away in the dark of night.

Not blindsided by faceless, nameless people.

"Why don't we see if they have breakfast ready?" he interrupted, taking my hand. "I guess," I mumbled, letting him pull me to my feet. Fortunately, Tessa and Alwyn had breakfast started: *. I didn't need to talk nor did they. At least for a little longer. "Have you decided?" Tessa asked, taking our empty dishes.

"Maybe." "What about Arthur scares you?" What a stupid question. And I explained it as such. "Alwyn hates him. Merlin was nothing but annoyed with him. And you… you couldn't get me away from him fast enough. What was I supposed to think about him!" They all sank in their chairs. “Please don’t misunderstand us,” Merlin started. Following the line around the table, Tessa continued, “We weren’t sure if you were ready for visitors.” “We wanted to give you the choice.” He pushed himself away from the table and walked to the window. “And to do that you need to know the facts.” “Arthur Pendragon,” Tessa said, “Knight of Camelot and heir to the throne.” “And Alwyn didn't always get clenching red when he saw Arthur," Merlin laughed. "He used to live with my mother and us when we were young."

"Really?!" I mean living with an elf, a fairy, and a wizard was one thing but a prince was a different kind of special. "What happened?" Merlin shifted his gaze up to the window. "That's a long story." "I found out he is the son of the man who killed my mother," Alwyn drone to the window. "But… and trust me… he's not his father's son. Like you." All of this was a horseshoe to the face. A knight. A prince. Roommates. Bring up my father like that. But it made their point. “I’ll talk with him. Only if you come with me, Merlin.” “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He grabbed my hand. He held my hand the whole way to the knights’ campsite. None of them looked at me. Not even a sneak peek.

I wanted to turn right around. I don’t think I could have taken their condolences but a greeting would have been nice. The only thing keeping me moving forward was Merlin’s unmovable fingers knotted with mine.

We came upon the largest tent. A small ring of knights met in front. Someone was barking orders sending knights to different villages around mine. When they dispersed, only Arthur remained.

"I'm glad to see you," he said, "let's take a seat inside." He spread his arm out towards the large tent. I clenched harder to Merlin's hand. My feet wouldn't move. Merlin squeezed my hand back then began walking. I was not going to be dragged in front of a prince. He knew that. My feet knew that. And now I was moving.

Merlin lifted the flap up for me. I was met by a table and chairs.

How? How? How? echoed in my head. It made no sense. And I hope I wasn't standing there too long thinking about it as Arthur pulled a chair out for me. "Thank you," I said, pushing back some of my fly aways. "Thank you for meeting with me." He pushed my chair in. "Why don't we start somewhere simple," he continued as he and Merlin sat: him across from me and Merlin adjacent. "Do you know when the fire started?" My head started shaking before I could think. "Some time during supper. The whole city was in flames by dusk." His next question was shocking and definitely not simple. "Where were you?" My gaze jumped to Merlin. What Merlin did was the same. "She was with us the whole night." Arthur went still. I could see the cogs moving. "Who was the first person you saw when you came back to the village?" Finally, a simple question. "A stranger on horseback." "Could you see him well? Was anything unique about him or his clothing." I closed my eyes. The only thing I could see was a nightmare, a hellish black horse with fire in its eyes. "The horse was in the way." "How about the next person?" That brought up something strange. All I could see was Equuleus nuzzling his head into my basket. And then I heard a man. “I’ll get on that as soon as possible.” “The man at the market,” I mumbled. “Excuse me?” Arthur said.

“There was a stranger in town before the fire. He talked with her. He was in the fire?” “No, no. Maybe. But he wasn’t the next guy. But the crest. They had the same cross and ribbons and feathers.” “And a griffin?” Arthur asked. I stared at him and I guess he got what I was saying. “A lion with wings.” “Yes,” I sighed, “ the man in the market had two.” “That sounds like the kingdom of Éadrom,” Merlin explained.

“Yes.”

They continued to mumble but all I could do was stare at Arthur’s crest on his armor. “But the man in the fire,” I interrupted them, “he had dragons like you.”


August 1948: ROY So far this month, skinny Roy Parr, all 127 pounds of him, has unearthed three chunks of petrified wood—a bit crumbly, not the shiny spars in the Field Museum nearby in Chicago, but real enough, multicolored pink and brown and crystalline white—plus various hunks of charcoal and driftwood, some tan pebbles, and two Indian arrowheads.

Today Roy is digging again. He knows he’s too old for this, but he burns with curiosity. An inch below where he was digging yesterday, he finds two objects almost touching. One is small and shaped like an arrowhead. But those he found before were sharp and made of brown rock. This one is metallic and has blunt edges. Roy rubs it on the leg of his shorts. It shines up to the color of an old copper penny. He wonders why someone made an arrowhead of metal. The larger, heavier piece shines up to a brighter copper color. It is a rounded lump, flattened on one side. Roy perches the flat side on his palm. Now it looks like a little statue, of a sitting person with a huge mouth eating something. Is it a talisman of luck—a one-armed man eating a long, nourishing loaf? Or is it an omen of starvation and despair—a monster reduced to eating its own arm? He turns the lump over. Underneath is an indentation full of sand. He snaps a twig off a cottonwood, teases the sand out of the hole, and finds that it is a deep slot. He wonders if the arrowhead would fit into it. He wonders if the combination is magic. Roy’s father, Mel Parr, has given Roy a head for magic. They both needed something to replace Roy’s dead mother, yearned for something deep and mysterious to help ease their loss. Magic, tribal magic gave them a love to share. It started when Mel showed Roy the deed to the land on which their little bungalow sat, how it was passed down from the Potawatomis.

The elder Parr learned tribal legends from a half-blood Potawatomi named Anson Eagle who lives on Miller Beach. Mel and Anson work together, white collar jobs in the rolling mill at Gary Works. Anson told Mel and Mel told Roy of the tribe’s beliefs—in the two spirits, Kitchemonedo the Great Spirit and Matchêmonedo the Evil Spirit, of the Seven Grandfather Teachings, and of the Great Chain of Being connecting past, present, and future generations… and that the mission of the people was embodied in their name, Keepers of the Fire, the counsel fires that the Potawatomi made to keep peace with their relatives the Chippewas and the Ottawas. They united to smoke the pipe of peace—the calumet . Soon Roy begged to meet Mr. Eagle. Mel worried that he would lose his special bond with his son, but he introduced them and hoped for the best.

They first got together that June in Marquette Park. They fished in the morning and lounged in the afternoon by a picnic table to grill dinner the old way, skewered on sticks over an open fire. The bluegills weren’t biting, so they ate Mel’s store-bought pollock. But, over the glowing embers, with their bellies full of charred fish and some roasted marshmallows, Anson got expansive with the curious boy. He told Roy how his tribe used to fish the very same river. The lagoon in the park was an isolated remnant of the old Calumet River. The slow, winding stream and its boggy boundaries used to provide wild rice, too. His forebears plied it in the warmer months, using spears for the mighty sturgeon—as long as a man—nets for trout and perch; and beating sticks for wild rice in the fall. The women farmed and collected berries and wild plants. Their specialty was grinding sweet calico corn and vegetables into cakes to wrap in basswood leaves and bake on hot embers.  The leaves made the cakes smell like wild roses.

Come winter, Anson said, the tribe trekked east to the woods of Michigan to trap and hunt deer, bear, moose, elk, even foxes. They followed the old Sauk Trail, now paved over into U.S. Route 12 running through Gary. “The highway that goes past our house?” Roy said.

“Yep,” Anson said. “You go to school on a Potawatomi trail. It ran all the way to Detroit.”  “Winter,” he said, “was also the time for setting down the tribe’s beliefs and stories on scrolls of birch paper. The Potawatomi wrote for hundreds of years before the Europeans invaded.” Roy was astounded. “Tell us a story!” Anson smiled. A story he loved was of Wisaka the Trickster. Wisaka was raised by Grandmother Earth in great poverty. He remained scrawny, roaming the land until one day he met a fox. Wisaka told the fox he would be poisonous to eat. But, Wisaka said, if the fox helped him build a lodge, he would bring a bounty of food. When the fox had built the lodge, Wisaka said he would provide food by turning into a woman and charming the chief’s son in the neighboring village into marriage. He took two elk kidneys, tied them to his chest under his coat, and sashayed into the village, calling himself Nanabush the Beautiful. The chief’s son was entranced, and a wedding ceremony soon took place. But when the village showered the couple with gifts to leave for their honeymoon trip to ‘her’ lodge, Wisaka / Nanabush told them ‘she’ feared a ravenous fox had invaded it. The village’s braves armed themselves and followed the newlyweds, carrying loads of dried venison and trout.

When the fox smelled the food coming his way, he licked his chops with pleasure. But when the braves unloaded their provender, the fox could see their carrying sticks were spears. The fox ran away keening in fear. Wisaka cheered with the braves, waving his coat in triumph. When his false breasts were revealed, the chief’s son and the rest of the braves ran away screaming of Wisaka’s betrayal. And Wisaka had provisions to last the whole winter. To use one’s wits to survive was the lesson, Anson said. Roy heard only that a weakling can use creativity to become a hero. Such a tale might seem quaint to people like the Paars who live in the middle of the 20 th century in a frame house rather than a wigwam, on a street paved with black cinders—slag from the blast furnaces—rather than on the shore of a stream. But their neighborhood, Indian Hills, has kept its age-old surroundings of sandy fields and dense woods because of its remoteness from the trendy beaches, the smoke-belching steel mills downtown, and the stores on Broadway.

Indian Hills owes its sandy surface to recession of the Big Lake over thousands of years. That has left a foot or more of what everyone in the neighborhood calls sugar sand. A bit farther from the street, dunes rise and a wood of maples, beeches, and oaks. To Roy the sand is the mysterious provider of treasures. The greatest of them now lie in his hand. To appreciate their potential, he recalls Mr. Eagle’s story of Wisaka. Could a weak child really fool a fox, a brave, a chief, even a whole village? Roy wants to believe the story. He’d love to share it and his new treasures with friends. But he has no friends, sees no one his age during the summer. He tells himself he doesn't care, he has magic.

Roy thinks as hard as he can about someo ne more important than friends—Wisaka. He hungers for adventure too much to wonder whether the statuette is of a lucky man or a desperate monster, or whether magic comes from Kitchemonedo or from Matchêmonedo. He whispers fervently, “Wisaka, help me. Send me!” and inserts the arrowhead into the slot. The sand, the hills and the woods blur into a vortex, a swirl of colors. A cacophony of warrior howls and fox screams assaults Roy’s ears. The sweet rose aroma of burning basswood leaves fills his nose. And everything turns black. August 1810: NIKAN “ Cigwe '!”—Thunderbird! —Nikan shouted in Neshnabek, which we call Potawatomi. He pointed at a large black bird ruffing its tailfeathers. To the old man, such enthusiasm was childish in a sixteen-year-old. “ Co, m shike' ,” he said. “No, it’s a turkey.” He sighed. “You have turned away from what growing men must see, must do.” Crouched in the stern of his birch bark canoe, ash-wood paddle in hand, he spoke again to the boy in the bows. It was more courteous this way, with the boy not having to face him. “You have become a dreamer.” The boy kept paddling and craning his neck to see the sights. It was August, and the Grand Calumet was running slowly.

The man dug his paddle into the water, turning the canoe to avoid a snag. “Do you deny it?” “No, grandfather. But…” He trailed off.  “But what?” “But I love to dream! Of the bear and the elk. Of what the whippoorwill’s call means, and why the dove sounds so sad. Of how the pheasant got its beautiful feathers.” “That will not help us face the Sauk or the Ojibway in their war canoes. Nor will we eat if the Pokagon take our game. If all young ones sat around like you, our people would vanish.” “But grandfather. Medicine Woman says we are all joined together, that we must love and respect all beings. How can I fight—kill—humans if I believe Medicine Woman?” Grandfather huffed. “Medicine Woman has no need to gather food. It is brought to her for giving us wisdom. A man cannot live on wisdom alone. He and his family need food in their bellies. A man must learn to tell the clouds of wisdom from the rain and snow of the real world.” “But, grandfather, don’t clouds become rain and snow?” The old man threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Nikan. Yes, all is connected. And all that grows matures in its own good time. And you—" he chuckled— “you may be too clever for your own good. Or maybe you will become the next Medicine Man. Shall we speak to Kwe’ Wapun, whose words you revere, and ask her if you will become our next healer?” Nikan beamed and threw his hands in the air. “Yes, grandfather!” “A grandfather’s recommendation must be taken seriously,” The Medicine Woman said, seated with Nikan and Grandfather by the evening fire outside her wigwam. “But the test is what counts. If you cannot pass the test, you cannot become a man of medicine—ever. Are you sure you want to dare the dream hunt?” Nikan said, “I am not a boy, Kwe’ Wapun.  I am old enough and sensible enough to ask of the dangers.” The Medicine Woman nodded approvingly. “It is no small thing to go without food for three days. It is a test of bravery to wander alone without the company of the Neshnabek for that long. Who knows what animal might hunt you? If it be a spirit animal, what kind of magic might befall you?” “Does magic come from Kitchemonedo the Great or from Matchêmonedo the Evil?” “A prudent question. I will answer it with a tale of Wisaka the trickster. It was a time of drought. Wisaka’s people—our people—were dying of thirst. Miles upstream, Wisaka had seen a dam made of reeds, branches, and mud. A lake lay behind it. The Frog People had built the dam and were luxuriating in their water. Wisaka took on the form of a coyote and spat in the dirt. He rolled in it until he was coated and filthy. Then he trotted south to show himself to the Frog People.

“‘Take pity on me,’ he cried to their chief. ‘Let me wash in your bounteous waters.’ The chief said, ‘Get to it! You look terrible. And you smell even worse!’

“Wisaka dove into the lake. He swam underwater and dug into the dam. Tossing reeds and branches aside, he dug until he made a hole. When his lungs were about to burst, he popped through the hole and swam down the new stream all the way back to his people.” Kwe Wapun stared at Nikan. “Did Wisaka’s inspiration—his trick—come from the Great Spirit or from the Evil One?” “From the Great Spirit! Kitchemonedo took pity on his people and saved them.” “But what of the Frog People, who no longer had water to grow their crops and feed their many mouths?” Nikan had no answer. “Perhaps you will learn of good and evil on your last night of praying instead of sleeping. But I warn you: it can make the faint of spirit go mad and tear their hearts out or cast themselves into the deep.” To his credit, the boy sat still awhile. “I know of death. Were it not for grandfather, I would be an orphan. The raids, the sickness, the shortage of game… our village does not grow as the years go by. But you have taught me that the Neshnabek will be everlasting. Someone must say those mighty words to the next generation. Perhaps it takes a dreamer.” “Anak … maybe,” Kwe’ Wapun murmured. She raised her eyes to heaven. Would this dreamer be the one? In Northern Indiana, a boy-man on a spirit quest cannot hide in a cave at night. The limestone that erodes into caves lies deep in the Calumet region. Wind, ice, and five thousand years of time have created long spits of land that cover most of the area. Spits grew west from Michigan and, later, spits grew east from Illinois creating a huge, corrugated wetland. The land also grew vertically. Beachgrass started it, holding grass in its roots and sheltering sand grains and seeds with its leaves against the wind, until cottonwoods grew and were themselves covered by mighty parabolic dunes. That was where Nikan hoped to find a safe spot for his last night of the test. His goal was the highest dune in their territory, Mt. Tom. It was a struggle to climb the two-hundred-foot hill, especially barefoot, as the singing sands parted with his footfalls. The soughing sound with each step was the only comfort in his long battle up the steep, 33-degree slope. Nikan fell onto his hands and knees now and again, breathless, when the sand gave way more than expected. Moonlight illuminated the dune just enough to keep his feet out of the sharp-edged beachgrass that covered most of it. He reached the open top of the dune dizzy with hunger, too exhausted to take another step. But when he stopped watching his footing long enough to look up, he was amazed by the beauty of the night. The moonlight made the foaming breakers wash ashore from the Big Lake in moving lines of glowing white. The sounds of their collapse on the shore mirrored his panting. The sand on the shore stretched in great curves east and west. He raised his arms to match their arcs. The Big Lake cast a coal black shadow all the way to the horizon. Stars beamed above, swaying this way and that in the summer heat. Not a cloud marred the inky sky in which they swam. Nikan let the world wash over him, through him. He lay on his back, spread his arms wide, slid his fingers into the cool sand, and stared up. A shooting star flitted. Soon more came, wider arcs in yellow and orange. Nikan was enraptured. But when a big, bright green one headed his way and burst before his face with a thunderous boom, he cried out in fear. “Who’s there?” a voice called out—in English. October 2030: ELDON Elaine Trich, the slim, Eurasian former nun who served as chief ethics officer for the Genocide Project pointed at the image of Roy. “He made it! Now bring him back!” The image of Roy walking along the ridge at the top of the dune at night looked eerie until one got used to it. The flat screen showed his face as orange, his swinging arms in lurid yellows. The grasses around him looked mauve. Only the sandy shore was in natural-looking tans. The tans were much the same as those out the window, a view of Lake Michigan’s southwestern shoreline from a conference room in a luxurious high-rise. CEO Eldon Muntz turned from the screen to look down his nose at Elaine. His wide-eyed boyish face belied his intent. “Inane, tell me again. Why are you with us?” “It’s Elaine ! You know perfectly well, Eldon. And, clearly, you need ethical guidance. Claiming Roy gave informed consent by pushing the key into the slot is self-delusion.” Hernan DeSoto, the chief of IT and, at age 45, the elder statesman of the group, said, “He did invoke magic—he wanted to go somewhere. The question is, are we going to leave him in 1810, and make him stay? Do we go for data on the Indian Relocation, or is the technical feat enough for now?” Elaine said, “Bring him back to 1948 where he belongs! The rats never survived more than two jumps with their maze-running time intact. For God’s sake!” They had thought it a master stroke when Hernan produced the arrowhead-statuette combination. The simulation of native copper was superb. The tranachron-transmitter combination in the lump was invisible. Its infrared holo-camera gave weird images, but it worked even inside Roy’s pocket. And it allowed the illusion of agency by a simple action of the person holding it. Eldon raised his hands for silence. “Look, everyone, we don’t have to decide today. Let’s see what happens--whether the boys bond. We have all the time in the world.”


I've never seen the light of day. I'm not sure what the birds sing about. I don't know what the smell of oak trees are. The feeling of soft moss growing on the tall pine trees. The taste of wild berries. I have never seen the planet known as the Earth. I was born in a spaceship, a whole civilization of people who, too, have never been to or seen the lifeless planet. Since that day... I'm only 16 years of age. Now, I do have a family, however, the ship segregates each member by age. Little babies (newborn-2 years) Children (3 years-12 years) Teenagers (13-19 years) Adults (20+) I've never met my mom, nor dad. If I even have any... I never met anyone that is related to me. It's hard.. I don't know anyone here. I feel, alone. I've been following the rules for years. Not one time have I been in trouble by the Galactic Guardians. They are scary when it comes to rule following.. If you do anything that is even in the slightest of wrong, you'll get your ass in an escape pod and go back to Earth... We were never told what exactly happened. They just told us that Earth is a dreadful place. So much dangerous creatures. Horrid water serpents lurking beneath the waters. Their exact words, "the perfect punishment" I've never seen one person come back to the HQ who was told to be sent there. That was my life... One day changed it all... All I did was accidentally push some girl down. I just needed to use the bathroom. Next thing you know, I'm in the dreadful pod... I was tossed in by the guards.. I never thought I'd get here... I wish I could go back in time and just avoided this... So I thought.. That ride to the abandoned planet was only an hour away (by ship) but it felt like I were there for ages. There's no opening to see the glistening stars in the sky. I feel like I'm trapped. What did I do to deserve this? I feel the pod shaking, at first like a nice little shimmy dance performed by the pod. I got a little nervous. I didn't really start getting extreme panic until I felt the pod going faster and faster approaching the ground as the moment felt like it was in slow motion. I braced for impact. I may not see the ground, all I need to know is that this was it... I'm never going to see the bright stars again... It went black, it was silent. I opened my eyes ever so slowly. I just froze.. Should I open the doors? Should I stay.... Should I- TTSSSSSSSSSS All four of the walls bloom open like a graceful rose. I thought I would die right then and there.. To my surprise, I was surrounded by humans... They surrounded the shuttle, staring at me in awe. I just stared at them back.. They all looked so.. Happy? It's so roomy, and lively.. It was beautiful.. "where are we?" I asked "why, you're on Planet Earth" a survivor says with a smile I sat there, confused It was nothing like what the Galactic Guardians explained at all. They said it would be nothing but a monstrosity. No life, No clean air, no plants or food... Nothing but a lifeless planet. One thing I have noticed at this moment... On this planet, we aren't alone, the people who just told us the harsh fantasy, came to be the beautiful reality. It may not always be that way, but it was a beginning, my beginning of my new life. I broke down, I cried until I couldn't anymore, I was just so relieved. This couple pushed through the crowd of people to see the newest member of the family. They seemed to be the leaders.. They looked like me... They give me a look that I will never forget, hope. They looked at each other in shock and I could just feel the happiness  radiate off of them. They just ran up to be and hugged me... I didn't know who they were, I was tense. They called me a weird name, I was confused, what are these crazy people talking about? They shown me pictures of a baby, a woman holding the baby was the lady who walked up to me. Next to her in the picture was a man, that was next to the same lady. They both were in the picture.. I didn't trust them.. until i saw the baby... I was me.. It looked exactly like me...I couldn't believe it it was my family! I never thought I would meet them. They were sent to this Planet because of me. They've never felt more thankful that i came into this universe. They've lived her for 16 years...all because of me. That day on I never felt better. I wasted my life on a ship that just was fearful to what happened and if it will happen again. I still don't know what happened, but I'm damn sure that this was my life, and I am never going back to that stupid ship. One thing I'll never forget is that I don't have to live in fear anymore. The little mistakes that happen there, is shipped down to paradise. And if this is a punishment... This is truly the perfect punishment. I just wish that the citizens that lived in that hell hole knew how wonderful this place really is. All of my life, I've been living in fear because of the theories on the Planet. I may have lived my life feeling hopeless, but I have found myself here. Now I can say that I've seen the light of day. The bird's beautiful song. I know what the oak trees smell like. The touch of the soft moss growing on the pine tree's bark. And the taste of sweet, sweet wild berries.


Moonlight. It shone an icy-silver layer of velvet over absolutely everything, bleaching out all distinct shape and colour and light from life until it appeared effectively as a clinical, slumbering world. Morbidly surreal in its new flatness, illusions conjured out of the darkest depths of the unknown mind, flesh abandoned nature, turning to polished stone and gravel until they lost their viscosity, becoming pools of mirrors laid flat against the palm of emptiness. Silence descended upon the edge of abyss, ensconcing the guarded area inside in a spherical atmosphere of an almost sacred reverence - not even the shadows of the night dared to desecrate, nor did the napalm stars above. There was a certain sort of sterility to this place of night, fake marble, and shaded sterling, that made the echoing voicelessness simultaneously fragile and calcified all at once. The bone-white tableaus, gleaming side walls of the structure shimmered in contrast to the waking moments of twilight - shades and smears of dark pressed against light, both illuminated by the reflection of the moon and hidden within the grasp of a layer of expertly twisted emptiness.

The lack of life echoed throughout, stern and unforgiving. No night bird twitched, nor did any footsteps crackle against the ground. No breath stolen away at midnight. No manner of comfort, nor was there any hide or tail or hair of any movement. Just complete and absolute stillness. Perhaps it was this absence of humanity that venerated and raised the precious grounds far into the heavens; ethereal and pale in its terrifying beauty. Like a raging storm, it was devastatingly consuming. Like a raging storm, there was a moment of calm before it shattered. The air regained its charge from among a lifeless sea of burnt-out candle husks. It moved tentatively at first, the gentle whisper of wind, before confidence strengthened its bones and banished all doubt. It gathered in ferocity and power, raw and sparked the slightest bouts of a feeling that is both unnamed and universal; fear and awe entangled in one melding mass, unable to tell where each one began. Because, above all, it was simply not human. An important distinction, it was. When people placed something so seemingly otherworldly upon a pedestal of terror and awe, it is usually for a good reason - it’s instinct that brings forth the fear of the unknown, as well abrupt knowledge that the strongest predator in the room is no longer themselves. To bow before the greater being; humanity’s most precious gift and curse. There’s a second in between, with that gut-wrenching, stomach-churning pull, that cements in this realisation.

The fabric of the natural world is seen all around.

The seams and stitches of the supernatural are not. Inside, housed inside the thousands of rows of ancient rowan and ash trees - branches, planks and platforms, all of which were the spindly limbs and reaching arms of the creature nestled in between its cradle of parchment and paper and quiet passion - the stacks of books glimmered pale; a mimicry of the fair moon so high above. Spines pressed against each other, hard and soft, worn and new. Unless one picked up a book and opened its pages, not a soul would bear witness to the fleeing footsteps of a million words so lovingly scrawled.

This is our design, the unspoken words seem to say.

Like the art of children, it was more than just colour, air, flesh and light. It was the handprints of a thousand authors all at once laid out for the world to take delight in; separate and indistinguishable together, imbued with passion and a rare strength that displays with a flourish the best of humanity. Quiet beauty, and icy steel, co-existing side-by-side. The redemption that the people so desperately needed - to know that there is in them the ability to create, as well as to destroy. To wield the weapon or have the courage to lay it down. The books may have been the flesh, but the people who cared its living blood. The care and love so painstakingly poured out, forged from the purest parts of the heart, pumped through the heart of the structure. It gave the library clarity, gave it a semblance of peace and breathed life into stale stone and inanimate things. It was an intrinsic pattern, threads tying together a board of pins - like a spider’s web strengthening every fibre crafted until there was a core of steel and unshakeable knowledge seeping into every pore that it was surely unbreakable. Sticks and stones may snap or crack, but not a cavern system of bound and woven ties welding everything together. The paper cut-outs that the children hung in a corner gazed back at the scattered decor of the reception desk with bright smiles that rivalled the sun.

It’s alright, they say. We’re not perfect, but that doesn’t matter. The clocks click silently from the walls, hung above their perch like a stern parent or all-seeing teacher.

Behave , they say wearily, but there’s unmistakable fondness in their shifting face. There’s silence, but there’s also life now. It’s a music that cannot be heard - a soft, whispering cadence that envelopes the room in feathery touch. It glides down, pressing kisses to the air, leaping off polished banisters and embracing everything in its strangely intense warmth. The rhythm of it soars, dips, sways and waltzes throughout - a chaotic plethora of noiseless happenings simultaneously existing all at once. It’s in a thousand wordless conversations, as well as the deep understanding of a kinship that binds all things inside that mysterious, curious space. We’re here, they seem to say. The murder mystery book clings onto the hug of its sibling, a thriller of some sort. They discuss blood splatters, and murder weapons and motives amidst conversations of how, ah, creative humans could be when provoked. Beside them, the book with that antagonist that was a killer dentist who used dental polymers to murder sighs as the other two chuckle once more at it’s ridiculous plight.

At least, it growls, I didn’t use a brick . Two rows behind, another crime book glowers at that. The gardening book exchanges ideas with the crochet one. Art runs in their ink, after all, and one must always strive to be the best that they can.

Crochet plants, the yarn book chirps happily. Put the plants in crochet holders , the gardening book counter-argues. Several rows in front, Thomas Harris’s Hannibal Lecter looks around, and contemplates the best way to consume its fellow paper. *** The library hums a song beneath its breath, as the first rays of dawn began to peak. You cannot see us , it sings, an orchestration of carbon and light filtering through, but we’re still here.


“Hey yeah, I wanna shhh, baby. Here I go, here I go, here I go again. Shhh shhhh ba-doop.” “Yes, here you again,” she remarked to herself through gritted teeth. For the last two hours she had been listening to this man turn Salt N Peppa into a quiet joke that was ironically not quiet at all, the cadence of his deep voice crescendoing and decrescendoing as he roamed up and down the many lanes of bookshelves. All she wanted to do was put her head down and finish this project. Is the library not the place for this exact situation? Peace N Quiet was what she needed. Not Salt N Peppa, though she was not too above humor to realize that salty was definitely what she was becoming. What was he even doing here? He clearly had no concept of how a library is to be utilized. “Shhh Shhh ba-doop.” The voice became louder as it moved to the shelf behind her working space. That was it. She had had enough. Someone needed to tell this man that this was a library and a place for quietude. With this new resolve, she got up from her desk and skirted around the shelf to face this intruder of silence. “Excuse me,” she said, sternly. The man paused with his task, glancing down on her. “You’re excused,” he said, angling to the side, leaving space for her to get through, which was a necessary movement. The man almost filled up the entire aisle with the breadth of his body. More disgruntled now than ever, she opened her mouth to rebuke this man, but then left it hanging open with no words. At that moment, she noticed the book he had been placing on the shelf. The top shelf, she might add, with no assistance of a stool. “Excuse me,” she repeated, but with different intentions this time, getting distracted from the original purpose of her operation. “You’ve already said that,” the man noted, turning back toward the shelf, and continuing on with his task, “and I’ve already permissed you.” “First of all, that’s not a real word,” she stated. “But second of all, that there is fictional historical romance novel,” she continued, pointing up at the book he had put on the shelf. “Astute observation,” he smiled. “Did you get that from the title, Love in the Time of Cholera , or from the fact that it’s one of the more critically acclaimed novels in history?” Even though his voice was kind, and his disposition genial, she could not help but read between the lines of someone who was being sarcastic. “Clearly, you have no observational shrewdness of your own, because this is the health section,” she stated, gesticulating to the many books in the area, as if this would be enough to prove her point. “10 points to Gryffindor!” he exclaimed, clapping his hand against another book still in his arms. She looked around, horrorstruck by this outburst. Does this man have no awareness, no concept of the literal unspoken rule of the library? “Why are you putting this book here? It doesn’t belong,” she whispered, frustrated, her voice coming through clenched teeth, like the quieter she spoke, the more she could make up for his noise. “Hmm,” he observed, in what she perceived as fake ponderance. “Last I checked, Cholera was a disease that one would want to avoid in order to be healthy.” “It’s fictional,” she replied. “Cholera?” he asked, now smirking. He had finally decided to drop his fake pretenses. She sighed, exasperated that she was even arguing a fact that she knew that he knew what she had meant. “You know what, I don’t care,” she said. “All I wanted to do was to come over here to tell you that you’re being too loud, and if you could please keep quiet so that some of us can work in peace, that would be appreciated,” she responded. “If you want to upend the entire Dewey Decimal System for some form of personal amusement, then you know what, that’s up to you,” she rambled, turning on her heel to go, but then turning back around. “I mean really what is the point of this? Did you get lost? Or do you think someone is going to see that book and think, this is what I’ve been looking for? I’ve always wondered about Cholera and how it relates to love." At this point, he was leaning against the shelf, clearly amused at the frustration he had caused. “I think this book’s creation is proof that someone has thought about cholera and how it related to love,” he pointed out. “That’s not the point,” she stammered, taken aback by this logical argument. “So, you made a point that is not a point?” he countered, his fake ponderance returning. “Ugh,” she grumbled. She wanted him to understand that it was wrong. Everything about him was wrong, from his singing in a library, to his displacement of books, to his misuse of words. “The book is fictional,” she stated slowly. “This section is not. It doesn’t belong here, quite like you don’t belong in a library,” she retorted. “Do I not?” he questioned, smirking again. “Why so? Perhaps you’re not a fan of my singing?” he continued, turning around. He began putting another book on a different shelf. “Well that’s a start,” she said. She did not bother looking at the other title, lest it perturb her further. “Maybe it’s the song?” he suggested, turning his head toward her with a smile. “Being a larger man with an exceptionally deep voice, I could never quite pull off the subtle sassiness of the artistic female. You do not want to see me attempt Beyoncé.” “How about you attempt no one,” she recommended. “I can attempt that, as you say, but I make no promises. When the words call…” he trailed off, in a fake mystifying trance. “Then you read them in a book. Not out loud,” she interjected. “So the spoken word is less meaningful than the written?” he countered. “Maybe not less meaningful, but more permanent,” she stated, moving to grab the misplaced book off the shelf, which was too far out of her reach. “And they should be easily accessible, which starts with them being put in their rightful place.” “Ah,” he said, again in the mystified voice, while grinning at her inability to get to the book. “So I don’t belong because I put books on what you perceive is the wrong shelf?” “What I perceive?” she questioned, flabbergasted. “It is not I that perceives this. It is fact, like this section should be.” “I wasn’t aware that systems were fact. In fact , I believe Dewey was an innovator, and innovation is almost like the antithesis of fact. Innovation is creation, brining into existence something that wasn’t there previously.” “So you’re a self-proclaimed innovator?” she snorted, stepping off her tiptoes, and giving up on retrieving the book. “Saving libraries from the tedious nature they’ve become accustomed to, are you? A new system in a new era. What will you call it… The Reality of Fiction System?” “Ah see, you do have ideas,” he mused. “Not necessarily good ones,” he added, raising an eyebrow at her in a studious glance, like he was taking her System suggestion into real consideration. “But all ideas start as scraps before someone can make sense of them,” he replied, giving her a doe eyed look of fake encouragement. “Someone already did,” she noted. “With that attitude, he never would have, and you’d be looking for your library book based on oldest to newest. Good luck finding the next George R.R. Martin book in that system, a book squished somewhere before Harry Potter, but after Lord of Rings. Although,” he added, pausing. “By the time you found all the corresponding books in the series, he may actually finish it. Then it’d be the last book, making it much more accessible, as you are so fond of.” “This conversation is going nowhere,” she stated. “Good thing it’s not permanent then, isn’t it?” he observed, amused. “Yes, my only saving grace,” she scoffed, annoyed with herself now for letting this drag on. “I’m going now. Please keep it down, and please show some respect with the books. If not for the patrons that are looking in the section, then at least for the librarians who have to fix what you’ve done,” she finished, pleased with her final admonishment. And before anymore could be said, she turned and walked back to her desk, sitting down with a sigh of relief that it was over. How anyone could be so unaware, was beyond her. Maybe, just maybe, she could finally work in peace and quiet. She reached for her closed book with satisfaction at the now silent space around her, flipping it open with vehemence, accidentally knocking her water bottle to the floor. She panicked as it clonked to the ground and rolled noisily into a table leg. As she hurriedly reached over to pick it up, her elbow knocked her book off the table, causing a loud thump as it fell gracelessly to the floor. She quickly bent to retrieve both fallen items, stretching for her water bottle, which had sidled itself on the other side of the table. Just as her fingers trapped the loop on the top of the bottle, her butt knocked the edge of the chair backward. She quickly turned, watching it weeble wobble in uncertainty. Should it stay or should it fall... Forgetting her water bottle in her hand, she swiftly grabbed for the unstable chair, once again dropping the bottle with a clunk. In reflexive horror, her hands went to her face, releasing the chair to its tilted position. And fall it did. With a thunk louder than that of the book or the twice fallen water bottle, for it had managed to collide course with the tin trash can to the edge of her desk, creating a reverberating memory, echoing every fallen soldier before her. “Excuse me,” a familiar voice said from above her. She looked up to the man she knew was there, and for the first time, she saw him fully frontal, facing her. As she scanned to the top of the mountain before her, she frowned at his chest. There, plainly visible in this light and in this position, was a name tag. The inscription of the library’s name and logo engraved next to the name. “This is a library, ma’am. I’m going to need you to quiet down. People are trying to work.” And like the etching on the owner’s name tag, the man walked away, a smile etched onto his face.


  ‘’Raj, how long are you going to stay home, and just keep working on your laptop???’’ Chris yelled.    ‘’I know but I feel better when I am up to date with my cases and my emails,’’ answered Raj.    Both have been close friends for quite some time. They know well each other. Chris is a gamer. Spends a lot of time playing games on consoles. Especially adventures, and first-person shooter games. Call of Duty for example. Raj is a movie buff. Not movies on Netflix at home. Movies at cinemas. At one point, he was watching seventy movies a year in theaters. That was more than one movie a week! He would then write down on an Excel spreadsheet the movie he had seen and write a little review about the movie with a rating out of ten. A review under two hundred words. Till the pandemic hit the world in March 2020… then it all ended. He was forced to work from home also by that time. Both have been living together as roommates for a few years now.    ‘’I know you work hard, go above and beyond, and you are a perfectionist. However, you need to rest. Take you mind off from work. I know lately you have not been going out due to the pandemic. I know you love working from home now. You are saving time and money, and because you are already home, bored, you just keep checking your work emails and your pending cases. Clients will wait. You are not paid to work 24/7. You need to leave some tasks for your peers also. You are not paid more to do their work, ‘’ said Chris.

  ‘’I guess…you are right. It is not just about the money, getting paid or not, for the extra work. I enjoy my work. I am troubleshooter, I am an analyzer, I am a logician…my brain needs that type of work. Not sure how to explain to you. It is more for me, not only to help the clients, or my company. I desire to be the best at what I do,’’ replies Raj.    ‘’I know your personality type. I know what stimulates your brain. You see, cinemas are still closed. How about you start watching some on Netflix or Amazon Prime. You are subscribed to both services. I would always come to you to ask about movies. If a certain movie was worth watching on the big screen or at home. How about you watch at least one movie a week at home, write a review, give a rating, and list the movie on a spreadsheet? As you used to do. You took your hobby very seriously. I know also you enjoy talking about movies in general. About cinema. About stories. About plots. About acting. About actors.’’   ‘’I think you are right. Maybe I should get back into one of my favorite past times. You know, going to the movies for me, is like an escape from reality for 2-3 hours. To be sitting in a cinema hall, lights off, even if it is empty, for me, is like being in paradise. Every 5-6 movies, I make sure I do get also some buttered popcorn and Coca-Cola. I would not abuse because it can be quite expensive and I don’t want also gain weight.’’ Raj puts his work laptop on sleep mode. While Chris is getting ready to launch Netflix on their tv set. Chris seems happier about this movie night than his friend who is a movie buff. Chris is browsing by genre.    ‘’Would kind of movie you are looking forward to watch?’’    ‘’Tonight…how about a new arrival on Netflix. A new movie…’’    As Chris is going through a list of new movies that were added to the database of Netflix, Raj is getting ready with a bowl of popcorn and some Coca-Cola. Our friends, found a movie. Titled, The Vanished. A mystery thriller. It is Friday night. They already had supper. It is almost 9 PM. By the time the movie ends, it will be bed time.

‘’All set Raji boy?’’    ‘’Yes Sir! Thanks for doing this movie night with me. I needed a change. I was spending way too much time on my work laptop when it was not even required. I can’t wait for the theaters to open and enjoy a good movie on the big screen.’’    ‘’Soon my friend. We all need to be patient and do our part to minimize the impact of this pandemic,’’ says Chris.    ‘’I know. You are right. All of us, all human beings, we need to chip in and do what is best for the human race as a whole.’’

As the movie starts, total silence in the living room. Raj is in some kind of a hypnotized state once a movie starts. Especially if it is a good story, with some great acting. After 15-20 minutes, our movie buff friend can tell if a movie is going to be fun to watch or if it will be a disappointment.    It is almost 11 PM. The movie just ended. Raj did not utter a work during the movie. It felt like he was in a cinema where he is not supposed to talk to anyone. Chris was happy. Raj looked at Chris with a big smile. Our amateur movie critique was satisfied.    ‘’I feel unstressed. Tomorrow, I will do my movie home work. I will show it to you also so you can tell me what do you think about it. A rating out of ten, list the movie title, a short review, and save it on my personal pc. I feel like I am back in the game. One day, maybe, I would like to be a movie critique. The last time I saw a movie was six months ago…’’ ‘’Raj, buddy, even though life has changed on a global scale, we must stay united, and we must help each other. During this difficult times, mental health is even more important,’’ replies Chris.    As another day starts, Chris wakes up, and sees his friend Raj, on his personal laptop this time with a cup of chai, with his glasses on, getting back into movie viewing and movie reviews. Life is never easy and sometimes, we need to indulge in little things that can bring us joy. And, not to always wait for everything to be perfect to enjoy something.


Isabella heaved a sigh as she slammed her car door closed. She clicked on the lock and sashayed into a five-star restaurant. The glimmer of lights had nearly blinded her eyes when the usher opened the glass door for her. As expected of Barnes Hale, he would’ve chosen the most ostentatious restaurant for their meet-up —or what her mom called a ‘date’. Anyhow, she refused to acknowledge this meet-up with Barnes Hale as a date. She didn’t understand what in the world her parents had seen in the stupidly privileged man in his mid 30s. Sure, he had the money and the business, but there were other men with such things, so why the Horrendous Hale? As the usher had chauffeured her to the table where the bastard resided, Isabella thanked him and sat across the bearded man. The first thing he did was tapping his index finger on his gold watch, clucking his tongue, and shaking his head. “Late for five minutes, Isa, where’s your manner? Is this supposed to be my future wife?” Oh, how much did Isabella want to smash his gold watch—or better yet, his face. “Well, pardon me, Sir. I have some important business to take care of,” Isa replied, not without stressing the word important.

He chuckled and sighed. “How’s your business?”

“Good, thank you,” Isa answered. He smirked and opened the menu book. “Heard from your mother that it isn’t well. Are you lying to your future husband, Isa? How am I gonna take over if you’re not honest with me? Are we gonna base our marriage and business on lies?” Isabella wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. She could feel her anger and her common sense boiling. How dare he say it as if she was just a temporary nuisance in her own company? She had been attacked by a case of insecurity because some people really did think that she was not worthy as her father’s successor, but in spite of that she was not going to let some dull boastful man belittle her.

“Mr. Hale, even if my mother said that, it’s not something that I couldn’t handle. Even if my business hits rock bottom, trust me when I say that I can handle it myself without needing your involvement. I’ve managed to survive for years after all,” she said and smiled. Obviously, the smile didn’t reach her eyes because why would she? “Oh, please. As a good beau, I shall remind you that the world won’t be too kind to the likes of you. Women are too easily swayed, after all. Yes, too simple-minded.” He sneered as he clicked the button to call the waiter. Isabella wished she could flip the table, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t succumb to what Mr. Hale had assumed—that women are simple-minded and easily triggered by their weak spot.

“You shall see, then, Mr. Hale, whether or not I’ll keep my word,” Isabella said, a challenging smile plastered on her lips.

Due to the typical arrogant privileged jerk he was, Isabella could only sneak a peek at the menu book once the waiter had arrived and taken Mr. Hale’s order. Isabella quickly ordered one sirloin steak and a glass of orange juice. She would much prefer to have champagne or wine, but she didn’t want to be drunk in his presence. She needed to keep her honor intact if she were to be with him. After ordering, they sat in silence, wholly wrapped in their own rectangle world called smartphone. As much as Isabella hated it when some people were tinkering with their phone during hangouts, she couldn’t help but thank the existence of the small rectangle world at this moment. It was much better than needing to talk with a venomous being such as Mr. Hale. “Hey, El, where are you?”

Isabella creased her brows, wondering what the hell was the cuckoo man talking about, but she realized he’s talking on a phone.

“Just bring the files to me here, I’m in the restaurant I told you about yesterday.” A pause, then, “No, no. Just bring it here, this shit takes so long.” He finished his call and noticed Isabella’s raised eyebrows. “Business thing, Isa. Maybe you can learn one or two things from me while I’m dealing with it here.” Isabella scoffed. “Maybe I’ll learn how to be an ass.” He glared. “Watch your mouth, bitch.” Isabella phew-ed. “Guess who should watch his mouth too.” When their orders arrived, Isabella didn’t wait and just quickly shoved the juicy steak into her mouth. The sooner everything’s done, the better. No matter how good the steak was, she couldn’t enjoy it because the one sitting in front of her was too disgusting a being. So Isabella kept shoving and shoving food into her mouth, with an occasional sip of orange juice, until another person came to their table. “I’m here.” Judging from his voice, it was a he. And so, Isabella looked up from her food and found a man, closer to her age than not, standing there with a stack of files. He put the thick files with a bang beside Mr. Hale. The sound rattled the table and Isabella’s heart—and seemed like Mr. Hale too because he was wheezing. The man showcased a smile toward Isabella. “Hi, I’m Elliot, Mr. Hale’s secretary. Pleasure to meet you.” “Pleasure, I’m Isabella,” Isabella returned. Mr. Hale had just finished his cough when he raised his voice and bunched up Elliot’s collar. “Fuck El! Who the hell told you to throw it down, eh? Wanna die?” Isabella had never wanted to punch someone so much. If anything, Isabella despised those who treat their employees, especially ones who were loyal, like trash the most. She had stood from her seat to push Horrendous Hale away from his poor secretary when Elliot said, “Would you mind your manner, Sir? I could sue you for assault if you touch me.” “Well, I got the money. I could pay any damage. Who’ll win now, shithead?” Isabella’s temper rose. “Hey—”

“Surely, your reputation won’t, Sir,” Elliot replied. With that, Mr. Hale stared at him with a killing glare before he let go and pushed him aside. “I’ll find some fresh air untainted by a bitch and a shithead.” “Are you alright, Sir Elliot?” Isabella asked as he smoothed his crumpled collar. “Please, just call me Elliot, Miss. And, yes, I’m alright. How are you?”

Isabella knitted her eyebrows and snorted a laugh. “Me?” “Yes, are you alright being with such an awful man? He’s a ticking time bomb, say anything that hurts his pride and he’ll fight tooth and nail with you,” Elliot said and sat on the unoccupied seat. “It’s worrisome, especially for a woman as wonderful as you. I could never thank you enough for trying to stand up for a mere secretary like me.” Anything that hurts his pride, Isabella thought and nearly laughed. He always stabs at others’ weakness, and yet, for some reasons his shall not be touched?

She continued gobbling down her food while she asked, “It’s no problem, but will you be okay? Seems like he’s not done.” Elliot fixed his glasses. “No, it’s fine. We’ll be fine if we’re smart at handling his outburst. It’s probably one of the requirements to live in the same space as Mr. Hale.” Isabella chuckled. “Agree. I will not let his jabs get to me if I can help it, and normally I can.” Elliot smiled, flashing his dimples—she just noticed. “Mr. Hale talks a lot about you… well, bad stuff mostly.” Isabella rolled her eyes, of course. “I used to think that Ms. Isabella is a superficial person—” “Oh gosh, what did he even say?” Isabella cut as she sliced the last of her steak and put it inside her mouth. “Something untrue, I believe, because Ms. Isabella here seems far more wonderful than how he makes you,” he said. “Pardon my impudence, but I don’t understand why a woman as amazing as Ms. Isabella would be with Mr. Hale.” Isabella sipped her orange juice then said, “Arranged marriage, most definitely.” “But you deserve so much more.” Isabella sipped her juice again as she sneaked a glance to Elliot. He’s staring at her deeply with his hazel eyes. He’s serious, she realized. Of course, I deserve more, but what should I do with my mother…

“No one should tie a knot to such a disrespectful person like him. He needs to learn first to respect others. If you’re about to tell me that I’m also tying myself to him through work, at the very least work isn’t forever. Marriage, however, is forever,” he said.

True, and true. Maybe it’s already time for her to put aside her mother’s wish for once and let her see for herself the reality of it. Surely, she wouldn’t force her daughter to marry a violent man, would she? If her mother thought she’s lying to avoid marriage, well, didn’t she have the proof right here?

“Will you help me, then, Elliot, if I say I would talk to my mother about this? Will you be as helpful as giving a testimony about Mr. Hale’s true nature? My mother never believes me because he’s been acting sweet and gentle in front of her,” Isabella said while dabbing her lips with a tissue. Elliot replied, “Certainly I would, but how…”

Isabella rose from her seat and took a name card from her purse, she handed it to Elliot. “Contact me. Your help would mean the world to me. Oh, and I will help you too if you want to resign from that tyrant.” Elliot gazed at the name card and quickly hid it inside his pocket when he saw from afar that Mr. Hale had come back. “I will, Miss.” When Mr. Hale came back, the deal was sealed and Isabella had left the dinner. It’s quite normal for her to leave early while Horrendous Hale was finding some sort of ‘fresh air’. She just hoped that Elliot would be okay while they worked together to wriggle out of the tyrant’s hand.


Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order. Dr. Eleanor Lee stepped outside of the Amundsen-Scott compound and felt the icy wind chill the sensitive membranes in her nostrils. She was accustomed to the cold and although it was -12 degrees celsius, she quickly felt overheated in her thick orange suit. It was a balmy day in January and the sun dipped in the sky, but refused to set at 10pm. Dr. Lee didn’t mind working at all hours. After a few months, night felt the same as day and was only differentiated by the numbers on her wristwatch. As a meteorologist, she tracked the temperatures precisely and was more than a little surprised by the relative heat. It was summer after all, so the increased temperatures were to be expected, but this was exceptionally toasty. She fretted and stressed about the effects of climate change, but Dr. Lee harbored a secret thrill that she was the one witnessing such a dramatic shift. She had already authored more articles than she could recall, but she knew this was the Big One. The coldest place on Earth was much warmer than it should be, and she was there to document it.

“Dr. Lee!” said Dr. Lars Kristiansen. Except for his bright orange snowsuit, he was barely visible leaning out of a door at the other end of the compound. Dr. Lee called back a greeting without raising her voice. Sound traveled excellently at the south pole.

“Green just came back.” His cheerful voice carried across the barren white landscape. Dr. Lee waved her hand above her head in acknowledgment and trudged across the packed snow towards the compound, jotting notes on her clipboard as she walked. She stepped inside and stomped the snow off her shoes, hanging up her parka as quickly as possible. She was beginning to sweat. Dr. Kristiansen buzzed around Dr. Arne Green, who was carefully unpacking an ice core onto a laboratory table. The opaque tube of ice glistened. The delicate sample was just three inches in diameter, but was over a meter in length. The frosty imperfections in the silvery cylinder were striated with debris. Dr. Colleen Carlson, head of the glaciology team, wore a twisted expression of pride at the discovery mixed with terror at its implications. Dr. Kristiansen had been waiting impatiently for this sample to return. For the first time, glaciologists were able to drill into a portion of the Thwaites Glacier that had never been exposed in human history. Multiple teams had been sent to the glacier to explore the melted and thinned area before it sloughed off into the ocean. Dr. Green was grim and Dr. Kristiansen was glowing. “We sent off the larger sample to Argentina,” said Dr. Green. “It’s already on board the plane. This is the secondary sample, of course, for immediate study. Another sample was delivered to the Argentinian compounds. The largest sample, as I said, has been packed and put on a plane to Argentina already. This is only a small sample of the newly exposed area. The temperatures at the glacier have risen so much that this sample is actually much further inland than we were hoping for. The portion my team was sent to retrieve has actually already calved.” Dr. Lee, only marginally interested in the distribution of samples, nodded along. The verbose Dr. Green’s habit of repeating himself wasn’t particularly missed while he was at Thwaites. “Dr. Green,” said Dr. Lee, “what was the ambient temperature at the time of drilling?” “Four degrees above zero,” he replied tersely.

“Above?” repeated Dr. Lee. Dr. Green clenched his jaw and nodded mutely, allowing the words to hang in the air. “I’d like a shaving of this location immediately,” said Dr. Kristiansen, excitedly pointing to a greenish location near the bottom of the sample. He was a biologist specializing in phycology, so Dr. Green was prepared and shaved off a tiny sample. Before Dr. Green could begin rehashing the origins of the sample, Dr. Kristiansen dashed off with the rapidly melting ice.

In his laboratory, he promptly set the sample under the microscope. He gleefully observed the algae-rich ice, knowing his work was groundbreaking in more ways than one. The longer he stared and measured, the less certain he was about the greenish goo. Squinting, he observed that the algae was not preserved, but actually still living and thriving. In fact, cells had begun to multiply before his very eyes. “An extremophile!” he breathed. Dr. Kristiansen began taking extensive notes, working deep into the darkless night. The next day, Dr. Kristiansen woke with a headache. Assuming his late night and hunched posture were to blame, he eagerly returned to the algae sample. To his surprise, the sample had grown significantly despite the proper containment procedures. The overgrowth touched a nerve and Dr. Kristiansen swept his arm across the table, crashing microscopes, files, and samples to the ground. He couldn't understand what had happened. Why the overgrowth? His head ached. What was that green stuff? He felt hot. Why was he in a laboratory? He grunted in confused frustration and stomped out of the room. Dr. Schroeder, a meteorologist on Dr. Lee’s team, poked his head out of the door to investigate the source of the sounds.

“Dr. Kristiansen?” he said. There was no response from his coworker stalking down the corridor.

“Lars?” Dr. Schroeder stepped cautiously from his laboratory and into the hallway.

“Is everything alright?” Dr. Schroeder said just before his coworker smashed a microscope over his head. Blinking with tears and blood streaming over his eyes, he attempted to sit up, but Dr. Kristiansen kicked him in the stomach. Over and over. Curled on the floor, Dr. Schroeder spotted one of his teeth on the other side of the hallway. “Eleanor!” screamed the bleeding man. Dr. Lee flung open the heavy door, took one look at the carnage, and slammed it shut again. She pulled the emergency lever and called for medics.

Dr. Kristiansen, having silenced Dr. Schroeder, roared in frustration and pulled at his hair. His pupils were dilated to black spheres. His skin was red and hot. The medics arrived with a stretcher and emergency kit. Dr. Kristiansen broke into a run. He landed on the military-trained medics and tore into them with his fingernails. They attempted to subdue the biologist, but the damage was done. A trail of broken bodies littered the hallway. Dr. Green burst from his office. His eyes were as wild as his coworker's. He did not glance down at the chaos unfolding. His fists balled and his shoulders flexed as he rushed into the fray.

Inside her office, Dr. Lee had ducked behind a desk and clutched a phone to her ear, the twisted cord trailing across the room. "I don't know! No. He just, he went crazy! No, I don't know what set him off. It was like his brain melted or something. Yes. Yes. I will. Please hurry," she whispered into the receiver.

Dr. Lee covered her ears to block out the shouting and crashing in the hallway. After a long while, all sounds stopped. A pair of heavy-booted feet approached her door. "Eleanor," called a familiar voice. "Our ride is ready. The sample's packed up already, too." "Thank you, Colleen," she replied. Dr. Lee shrugged into her parka and carefully opened the door. "Who else is coming?" "Erik, Denise, Mari, and Sven got out as soon as they heard. Three of the people on Denise's team… tried to help." She shuddered. The doctors hurried through the compound and out into the frigid wind. The emergency plane whirred and stirred up snow.

Dr. Lee complained of a headache as she boarded the aircraft.


With suitcases in hand, you head to the station. This is the last thing you have to do before they let your best friend go. You’re not allowed to open the suitcase; they said if you did, you would die. You’re not allowed to call the police; they said if you do, your best friend dies. And you know not to. They could be watching your every move. In fact, they have been. They have intelligence everywhere. They kidnapped her and demanded a ransom of, oddly enough, only $200. You had thought it was a mistake, but they insisted $200 was correct. A $200 ransom payoff was possible. And your best friend is well worth that amount. When you showed up to pay however, nobody was there. The only thing you could see in the abandoned lot were two suitcases, notes on each. The expensive one had a printed note that read, “Do Not Open. We will shoot you.” The cheaper one had the following message: Deliver the $200 to the abandoned bank lot downtown to get the key for this suitcase. Take both suitcases with you. Lose one and you die. You have exactly half hour to do so, or she dies. You alert the police, she dies. Time starts when we say it does. Better hurry :) You picked up the suitcases and headed back to your car. One of them was lightly ticking, barely audible. You felt a slight whirring inside it as you walked. You gingerly placed them in the back seat, not knowing what was inside, and drove downtown. A twenty-three minute drive, with some speeding. As you were driving, your radio was scanning stations, playing only white noise. Over that noise you can hear a repeated message: “We are members of the Mask. We are an anti-government authoritarian body. We will gain control. We have intelligence everywhere.” You turned your radio off and put in a CD to listen to. “Not my favorite, but it’ll have to do,” you said out loud in a nervous stutter. With the CD playing the third from the last song, you pulled into the abandoned lot, driving past a largely overgrown shrub, only to find nobody there. You look around and see nothing out of the ordinary. You decide to drive around the back and then you see another message, this one spray-painted on the wall. “Keep the money, and buy some good music. Here’s your damn key, motherfucka!” You took the key from the wall. The key was still sticky from the tape as you placed it into the lock on the cheaper suitcase. You opened the suitcase to find the following message, exquisitely handwritten: Your final steps: 1. Spin around three times and then look inside the bank window. Play nice :) 2. Go to the train station. There are two close by. Pick the closest one 3. Go to Lot C and park in Spot 33 4. Take the other suitcase and follow the arrows marked on the ground 5. Place the suitcase next to the indicated support beam 6. Go back to your car and await further instruction You spun around and looked inside the bank window. Somebody was inside. They were smiling at you. Directly at you. They nodded, bringing your attention to the gun pointed right at you. They casually lifted up a sign that read: Leave now. No police. Remember, we are always watching. With suitcases in hand, you head to the station. This is the last thing you have to do before they let your best friend go. You’re not allowed to open the suitcase; they said if you did, you would die. You’re not allowed to call the police; they said if you do, your best friend dies. And you know not to. They could be watching your every move. In fact, they have been. They have intelligence everywhere. You leave the abandoned lot and make a right turn. As you’re making the turn, you realize you should have turned left. Your right turn was not right. The closest place to turn back around is about a block away. You drive the block and go to make the turn. The CD has stopped. Your radio starts to fizz again. This time all you can hear is the white noise and a barely audible, “Somebody messed up,” repeated over and over in a robotic and monotone voice. You turn your radio off and decide to drive in silence. Upon arriving to the train station, you park in lot C, spot 33. Just as instructed. You get out of your car, rereading the note as you do. You look at it again. Onto step 4. You follow the marked trail. Arrow after arrow you walk, carrying the ticking and whirring suitcase. It starts to weigh on you. Mentally and physically. You place the suitcase inside a red circle. And it sinks in: the circle is drawn in blood. Your heart sinks. On the way back to your car, you see a few other people leaving the station. They look nervous and defeated. Once back at your car, you hear a phone ringing, it’s sound a bit muffled. It’s not your cell. You open your car door and the sound gets louder. The sound is coming from inside the suitcase. You find a ringing phone in a hidden compartment. The ringtone is excruciatingly loud now. You answer it. Your best friends says hello. Your heart skips a beat; she’s alive! You manage to stutter a hello back. She says she has to go, that it was only for proof of life. She says “goodbye, see you soon bestie” and a robotic voice takes over, “Look behind you,” and then the phone clicks off. You look behind you to the train schedule board and watch a video feed on the screen; it’s been hacked. A large knife can be seen. Engraved on the side are the words “somebody messed up.” The camera pans out to show eight people bound and gagged, sitting on their knees. One by one, they are beheaded. You can’t help but watch; your eyes are frozen to the screen. Your best friend is last to go. You begin to cry as the suitcases explode in unison sending the station tumbling to the ground.