"A lesson to be learned, from gods once spurned, who could naught but watch, as Carthage burned." Phameas found himself saying the words out loud as he stood upon the balcony overlooking the city from the temple of Eshmun; located within the Byrsa. A huge walled citadel that sat upon a hill and afforded a view of the southern part of the city and its expansive dual harbours. He mouthed the words again in silence, as their significance dawned upon him. He had heard them before. The deranged rantings of a vagabond who had managed to infiltrate the palace and cause quite a scene before being hurled out onto the streets once more. For weeks following the lunatic had ranted and raved about the impending doom of Carthage in the marketplace, oft repeating the phrase seemingly without end. Until the citizens tired of his nonsense, and he was summarily expelled from the city. A shiver slithered up the priest’s spine as he realised how prophetic the vagrant’s words had been. It was a sentiment that had disturbed him for some time, only to be reinforced by the arrival of the mysterious stranger who prophesied their doom. And now his fears, and that haunting prediction, had become a reality. He could clearly see the city spread out before him, the terranes of homes and apartments before the citadel, out to the dual harbours along the coast, and out to sea at the vast expanse of ships that lurked upon the water. The flames lit the night like a nocturnal daylight as the fires grew and spread throughout the city, the amber glow of the inferno casting a grisly shadow over the settlement as red, yellow, and orange waves of flame burned with fury and devoured all in their wake. Phameas could not help but weep at the sight before him as he felt the warm caress of the heat, as he watched as fire engulfed the once mighty city of Carthage, and the sound of battle raged throughout the city. The fleet of Roman galleys and warships assaulting the city had deployed hordes of legionaries as they rampaged throughout the city, clashing with the defenders in savage close quarters fighting that thundered through the streets. The clang of metal striking metal reverberated through the night, the chilling song of battle being supported by a cacophony of shouting, screaming, and cries of terror as the citizens of the city fled for their lives in a desperate attempt at survival. Plumes of smoke wafted into the night sky, the smell of burning timber, brick, ash, and bloodshed invading the priest’s nostrils as he stood frozen upon the balcony, watching the slow death of one of the greatest civilisations man had ever known. The decline and fall of Carthage began with the outbreak of a series of wars with Rome. An event that was prophesised by the high priest to spell the ruin of Carthage, as he had seen a vision, a dream of a battle between an eagle and a lion in which the eagle was victorious. Warning that the lack of devotion Carthage had shown to her gods would eventually doom them all. The wars with Rome had raged over the course of a century, first with the war for control of Sicily that saw both nations navies clash in epic battles upon the sea. The result had been a humiliating defeat for Carthage, with Rome taking possession of the island and establishing themselves as a major naval power in the Mediterranean. The second war came when the great Carthaginian general Hannibal crossed the alps and invaded Italy, wreaking havoc upon the Romans on their own soil and slaughtering tens of thousands of Roman soldiers and terrorising the Roman people for a decade. The war spread across the western Mediterranean, spilling over into Sicily, Spain, and Africa itself as the Romans, desperate for revenge invaded and butchered Hannibal’s army at the battle of Zama. The devastating defeat marked the end of Carthage’s vast empire as she surrendered and all her external territories became the property of triumphant Rome. But the Romans, not content in their revenge, came to take their vengeance once more, with the total obliteration of Carthage. Once mighty Carthage, who had her humble beginnings as a Phoenician colony, and could trace her ancestry back to Phoenicia and the ancient Canaanites in the Levant, A history that had begun two thousand years before Phameas had taken his first breath. All of that had been laid waste during the wars with Rome, as Carthage had lost her vast lands and had been reduced to just the capital itself, which was now burning under the assault of the rampaging Roman legions that now ransacked the city. The priest felt a lump rise in his throat as the thought occurred to him that they had brought it upon themselves. The gods of Carthage had been born out of the mystical abyss of the cosmos by the worship of the devout; and had in return blessed the children of Carthage with wealth, power, and abundance as their own power grew. All the wealth, power, land, joy, harvest, abundance, conquests, and trade that the Carthaginians enjoyed came at the grace of their gods. But the people of Carthage fell victim to their own hubris, and in their arrogance gradually turned their backs on the gods that had blessed them with all the fruits their great civilisation enjoyed. As Carthage's wealth and power grew, so too had their arrogance and vanity, until they came to believe, in their folly, that they no longer needed the gods that had given them all that they possessed. Only now as their great city burned and Roman legionaries stormed through the streets slaughtering all who opposed them, did they realise their grievous error. The Carthaginian gods, forsaken by their spoilt and ungrateful children, were either unable, or unwilling to come to their aid when they needed them most. In ages past their worship had enabled the gods to grow mighty in strength and power among the pantheons of gods that inhabited the cosmos. But they had turned away from the gods, believing the deities their worship had birthed asked too much and required excessive devotion, born of a lust for power and an insatiable greed, driven by their own self-interest and indifference to those who had given them life itself. “Oh, what fools we are!” he said to himself, with a sigh of resignation. “It was we who were selfish and greedy! We! Who cast aside our gods, and in our pride and arrogance deified ourselves upon an altar of our own vanity! We! Who thought we could live without the grace of the gods that all other civilisations of man depend upon; and live as demigods in charge of our own destiny and make ourselves masters of heaven and earth!” He sobbed and turned his face to the stars as clouds of black smoke wafted into the sky. “Lo! Lo! Carthage who thought she could rebel against her gods and build a church to her own pride and prestige! Oh, but I must lament that our rebellion was a spectacular failure!” With a cry of anguish did Phameas grasp at his hair as he howled at the stars in anguish, tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he was overcome with grief at the destruction of one of the world's great cities, the death of the mighty Carthaginian empire, and the extinction of the citizens of this once noble, proud, and powerful race. “Baal-Hammon!” he roared; with all the strength his voice could muster. “Please! Oh great and mighty lord! If you care for your insolent and foolish children but at all, please save us from this calamity that has befallen upon once mighty Carthage! Save us from the barbaric legions of Rome who would defile and plunder what was once a shining beacon of the power of the gods of Carthage! A temple to the worship of you and your kin that crossed seas and continents! A garden for the virtuous and beneficent deities of the greatest of all peoples! Made so by the divine blessings of the greatest of all the gods, those of Carthage!” The priest shouted to the sky, imploring the gods to save them in their most desperate hour. Phameas doubted his efforts would convince the gods to assist them, he had been present at, and taken part in, the debates over the will of the gods during this crisis. Some despaired that their failure to properly honour the gods as in times of old had sapped them of their once mighty strength, leaving them too frail and helpless to come to their children’s aid. Only being able to watch and lament as the once mighty civilisation was brought to its knees and delivered the death blow that now engulfed the city. While others, enraged by the notion that the gods were too weak to help them, insisted that the gods had resolved to punish them for their arrogance by letting the legions sack the city and burn it to the ground. It spelled the doom of Carthage and in doing so the gods sealed their own fate. But were they so petty and vengeful that they would embrace their own doom just to punish the children that spurned them? Phameas moaned with despair as his stomach churned with sorrow, and his bones ached as the weight of the world pressed itself down upon his shoulders. "A lesson to be learned, from gods once spurned, who WOULD naught but watch, as Carthage burned,” he declared, watching as the fires that spread throughout the city grew to engulf entire neighbourhoods. The fighting had reached the citadel now. He could hear the defenders of the Byrsa meeting the onslaught of the roman advance as they stood their ground in a noble last stand against the invaders. It wouldn’t be long before they overpowered the defenders and came rampaging through the citadel. Then they would find him. With a deep intake of breath Phameas straightened and steeled himself for what was to come. He would share the fate of his people, the city, and their once great civilisation as Carthage and its people were forever wiped from the face of the earth. He was prepared for that, and he would meet his end as one befitting a Carthaginian, with grace and dignity. With a sigh as he stared up at the moon shining in night sky and said a final prayer to the gods.


The final entry in the notebook that I found him with: —————— “Write everything down,” it says, a part-filled notebook of weathered yellow paper. Brittle like Autumn leaves. I open the pages. A diary? No. Just events, mundane moments of a day. Every two or three pages: “Write everything down.” Does this belong to me? I take the notebook and extract the pen that is clipped to the ring binder. I do as it says. I write all this down. A bedroom, dust-covered. I walk around and try to find something familiar. Is this my room? A wardrobe stands tall and fading. Words are scratched into the mahogany: “Wear something from here.” I open the wardrobe. It’s empty. A pile of clothes lie on the floor and I get dressed into them. Flannel shirt. Jeans. They smell of wet earth. Outside the bedroom. Hallway. I shout, “Hello?” No one answers. This is my house. Maybe? Off the hallway, a bathroom. Mouldy and unclean. Rusty appliances. On the sink lies a toothbrush and an empty tube of toothpaste. I lick my teeth and taste my breath. Must buy toothpaste. On the wall above the sink, words in this handwriting, with an arrow crudely drawn pointing to a cracked mirror, reads: “This is your face.” My face. Grey beard, grey hair, grey eyes. Grey skin. I look unwell. And old. Lines criss-cross from the corners of my eyes and run in deep channels on my forehead. I must be in my eighties. I want to cry. I do not remember yesterday. Downstairs, by the front door. A note reads: “Do not let them in. If you see them, hide.” In the living room, empty cups stand like soldiers on surfaces, on the floor. Fruit flies gather in the air like cloudburst. On the coffee table, a framed photo. One half covered by a note nailed to the brown wooden frame. The uncovered half shows a face. My face? Yes, from the mirror, but younger, happier. The note says: “This is Jean. You love her.” I bend the note back. In the photo, stood next to me, a woman. Blonde hair, eyes blue and inviting, a scar on her lip. She is beautiful. “Jean! Hello? Jean are you here?” I ask the house. The house does not reply. Next to the photo, a passport. I leaf through the pages. My face again. Stony and staring. My name there: “Andrew.” Or Andy? Andrew and Jean. Andy and Jean. I do not know. I like Andy. The word feels right in my mouth. My stomach rumbles. The next room, the kitchen. Empty cans and packets pile high. I cannot see the floor. I wade through rubbish like a swamp. Mouldy food gathers on mouldy worktops. I open the cupboards. All empty. Through the kitchen window, the garden. Overgrown. A note on the back door: “Be careful, they could be anywhere.” When did I last eat? I turn to the living room but it catches my eye. There, through the kitchen window, caught in the briars, a note. It is tied by string to a red balloon that hangs low and listless. A dull red dirigible covered in the dirt of a long road travelled. The balloon seems shrivelled, a belly half-full of helium. The note flaps in the breeze as though waving to me. I open the back door, slowly, remembering the warning. Was there another warning about outside? Long grass tickles my hands. Hidden in the grass I see the body of a cat. It has been there a while, wet decaying skin lathered over dark grey bone like a liquid blanket. I grab the balloon-tied note and run inside. The note says: “There are survivors of The Wipe and we remember everything. We have food and shelter.” And then a map. Directions. I do not know to where. The Wipe? They have food. I feel my ribs. Bone, like the cat. I tie the balloon to my wrist. Kitchen to living room to hallway, I walk. Where am I? A note on the front door: “Do not let them in. If you see them, hide.” See who? How did I get here? They must be crazy. I do not know where I am. I do not know who might be upstairs. I must write everything down. To remember. I leave the house. Close the door with a soft click and run into the street. Hide behind a car, looking back. No one follows. A red balloon with a note is tied to my wrist. I read it. That’s right, food, shelter, that’s where I’m going. The directions give street signs, markers. I see none of them here. The roads are empty. I can hear my heartbeat. Cars are parked, some neat and orderly, some left abandoned. I peer into one. A person, man or woman I do not know, slumped on the steering wheel. Skin rotting, maggots stream from eyes and mouth. I vomit, acid on tongue. I run. Run run run. I see a street sign: “Warburton Street.” I know that name but from where? And then more bodies. More bodies, lying in the street. Decaying flesh and exposed bone and the smell makes me sick. I go down Warburton Street. Leafy suburb peels into farmland. In the fields, more bodies still. Horses with bloated bellies. A sound? I leap a fence and hide behind the corpse of a once-was mare. I look. In the street from whence I came runs a man. He wears only his underwear. His arms and legs are thin and knotted like rope. His belly distended. His eyes wild and his mouth foaming. “Where am I? Where am I?” he screams, hoarse and desperate I cower. Where am I? This notebook. It says to write everything down. I must write everything down. The man is over the fence. He has seen me. The balloon! Why is this tied to me? He saw it! My arm is bleeding. The man caught me and screamed at me and bit my arm. He said he was hungry. Said he would eat me. I kicked him down and ran and turning back saw him licking the open rot of the dead mare. I am glad he is behind me, but I pity him. I find a road, hedges tall and emerald all about me. A balloon is tied to my arm with a note. A note with directions. I read it. Food, shelter. I am hungry. I am on a road. I hold a book that tells me to write. I have read horrible things and desperately want to go home. I do not know how long I have been walking now. I think I have been following the balloon tethered to me. I do not trust it now. I think I was happier at home. I untie it and it struggles to fly. It slowly drops to the ground. Red against grey asphalt. I keep walking, maybe I will find help. My feet hurt. I pass through a small hamlet, four or five sandstone houses, squat and hidden among hedgerows. There is a red pillar box. There are dead bodies. In the street, there, someone breathing? A woman, skeletal, holds a bundle of cloth to her breast. I do not want to know what it contains. “What happened here? Can you stand? Can you talk?” I ask. “I don’t know. Who are you? Please, please help me,” she pleads. I do not know how, and so I ask her. “Just kill me,” she says. I cannot. I apologise and she only nods. She looks so tired, her eyes vacant. I must find help, must remember. I should write everything down. Fields now, lined with tall hedges. In the hedges, balloons. Red balloons. One or two, then more and more. Some full, some sagging, some popped and strewn like confetti. I follow the hedges round and there, a farmhouse. Smoke billows from a chimney. I walk there. Large and angular, red brick and grey slate roof, cars parked in the driveway. The door is white, paint peeling. A sign on the door reads: “Garstang House”. I know that name. Is this my home? I knock. A woman answers. She is short, with white hair, eyes blue and inviting, a scar on her lip. She is beautiful. She watches me write but says nothing. She wears a name badge. It says: “Andi.” A man brushes her aside, with a calm hand upon her shoulder. He looks at me, disbelieving. He asks me my name, watches me write. My name? “Gene,” I say, although I do not know why. He asks me how I got here, if I found a balloon. I tell him no. I do not know how I got here. He looks at me curiously now. Can I trust him? I will apologise and leave. This is not my home. He stopped me. Said I must come in, that I will be safe now. That they have food. I am so hungry. He said he was surprised that there are others. Others? That woman, Andi? Yes Andi, she is in the hall and is smiling. Other people appear from doorways, on the landing. Some wear name badges. Do they all live here? The man asks me for this book. I tell him no, that I must write everything down here. He says I do not need to anymore, that I’m safe now. That I’m home. Home? This is my home? And Andi, is she? Gene and Andi. I want to cry. I do not remember yesterday. I will give him the book. I am home now. Goodbye.


Paul paced the living room with a phone to his ear. He periodically peered through the living room blinds as the windows rattled from the revving of a red Trans Am across the street. His neighbor Willy was behind the wheel, door open, hood popped, forever tinkering. “I already talked to the bylaw officer and they told me to call you. I went through all this last wee…” A series of trebly wraps at the front door distracted Paul. “Forget it, I’ve gotta go.” Paul stuffed the phone into his pocket and attended to the visitor but upon opening the door all he found was a crow standing on his doorstep with a blue ribbon in its mouth. The crow – let us call him Ruffleford – dropped the ribbon onto the concrete pad. “Is that for me? Paul asked as he picked up the ribbon. “I suppose this is a thank you for getting you out of that bind.” Paul had released the bird from a garden net earlier that day. The missing right eye being the sole indicator this was the very same crow. The Trans Am engine roared once again, sending the blood in Paul’s veins rippling. “If you’re still in the giving mood, I’d really appreciate if you could figure a way to get that guy to shut the hell up.” Ruffleford took flight. “I suppose it was a pretty big ask.” Late that same afternoon, Paul stretched his arms and released a gaping yawn. He had taken advantage of the silence to take a nap. Willy and his Trans Am went on an asphalt excursion an hour earlier. Paul lumbered to his living room window while scraping his scruffy cheeks with fingernails in need of a good clipping. He had taken a reprieve from shaving - and personal hygiene in general - during the annual summer shutdown of his employer’s factory. In place of the Trans Am at Willy’s place was a brown Buick. A tall man in a speckled brown waist length coat appeared to be consoling Willy’s wife at the door. The consoler departed and made his way up Paul’s sidewalk. Paul prematurely opened the door, catching the visitor by surprise in a pre-knock fist formation. “Can I help you?” Paul inquired of the caller who promptly displayed law enforcement identification. “I’m Detective Saunders. I am not sure if you’re aware of this, but your neighbor across the street, Willy Daroch, has been in a fatal car accident.” “Oh my God, that’s awful!” Not a small amount of concern tainted Paul’s surprised reaction. A tinge of suspicion made him think Ruffleford was tangled up in this somehow. “At the risk of sounding insensitive, I understand there was no love lost between you two?” Detective Saunders replied. Paul twisted his expression into one of feigned ignorance; in the unlikely event Ruffleford was involved. “The widow says that over the course of the summer, you have filed at least a half dozen noise complaints against the deceased.” “A lot of help the police have been with that…” Paul stopped himself short of a verbose rant. The last thing he needed was to say something that could be interpreted as callous disregard. This unspoken cogitation did not go unnoticed by Detective Saunders. “I mean…” Paul continued, but Detective Saunders interjected “I know what you mean, but that’s more of an issue for the bylaw office.” “So I’ve been told. Are we through here, or is there something else I can help you with? I was sort of in the middle of something.” “The pillow face speaks for itself.” Paul’s face went flush, at first with embarrassment, then anger. “Look, am I suspected of something?” “It would be pretty farfetched to believe someone would go to that much trouble to stage an accident, only to show their hand by desecrating the corpse and steal the car keys, all the while remaining undetected.” Ruffleford’s disembodied shriek caused Paul to shudder. “Desecrated?” “If someone was fool enough to leak that little tidbit to the media-sphere we’d deny it. I just wanted to gauge your reaction when you heard it.” “Did I pass your test?” Paul asked. “We’re done here. Have a good day Mr. Laurence.” Paul retreated into his house once Detective Saunders turned the corner in his Buick, then reached into the deepest recesses of his closet and grabbed a handful of clothing. He then staked a pitchfork into the center of his backyard lawn and erected a makeshift scarecrow, using dead leaves as filling. As ridiculous as it may have seemed to him, if Ruffleford was involved in Willy’s death, Paul thought it best to distance himself from the avian. He barely put his hand on the patio door handle when Ruffleford cried out behind him. Paul swung around to find the bird perched comfortably on the pitchfork pinnacle. “Get the hell out of here! Don’t you understand you’re not wanted!?” Ruffleford merely inquired with his one unrelenting eye. “Alright then, you’ve forced my hand.” Paul retrieved a .22 rifle from under his bed and assembled a makeshift sniper’s nest at his window facing the backyard. He poked the barrel out the window, directed into the backyard. By this time, Ruffleford had departed. A series of trebly wraps came from the front door. Paul left his domestic hunters blind and opened the front door to find a set of car keys on the step. Paul glanced left, then right - on the lookout for brown Buick’s and the like - before picking up the blood-speckled keys. Ruffleford dive-bombed from the rooftop and scratched Paul about the head and face. The keys hit the ground and Ruffleford promptly ceased his attack, scooped the keys up, and flew over the roof with them firmly in beak. Paul raced to the backyard and scanned the skies. He saw Ruffleford hang the keys on a branch high atop a poplar tree in the park behind his house. In his mind’s eye, he could see his thumb and index fingerprints on the keychain in bas-relief. If he didn’t know any better he’d have sworn that the crow intended to implicate him as the keys dangled like chimes of culpability. An abundance of picnickers and pedestrians dissuaded Paul from embarking on the ascent. He wiled away the hours and his morale sunk like the setting sun as any hope the keys would fall of their own accord faded with the daylight. After ascertaining the position of the keys one last time as they glimmered in the moonlight, Paul began to climb the poplar. He navigated from branch to branch until he reached height parity with the keys but they were out of reach. It was then a simple matter of navigating away from the trunk. Pussyfooting across the branch as it thinned, Paul inched towards the keys. Once he was within arm’s reach, he swiped for the keys but Ruffleford emerged from behind a cluster of leaves with outstretched wings, emitting an ear-piercing cry. Paul lost his footing and reversed his journey in fast forward, cascading downwards until his body finally thudded against a patch of immaculately manicured grass. The next morning a bicycle Cop discovered the corpse and spoke into her CB radio. The right eye of Paul’s corpse had been carved out. “Looks like we’ve got another one of those “accidents”.” The missing eye was aloft, dangling from Ruffleford’s beak. In a nearby birch tree, the wily bird perched on the rim of a nest, filled to the brim with eyeballs in varying states of decay. He placed Paul’s eye on top of the pile like a macabre ocular capstone.


Lost in my thoughts, I step sleepily from my apartment complex’s steps into the cool early morning mist that has not yet been burned out of the tower blocks looking around me. Turning to my left I stop by my favorite coffee cart just a stone’s throw from my building to get my morning dark roast coffee, boiled eggs, and bagel. I stash the eggs and bagel in my bag for later and head towards my bus stop just a few minutes around the corner. Around me cars are impatiently honking their horns to nudge the sleepier drivers forward. A bus rushes past me momentarily displacing the atmosphere around it into the surrounding pedestrians. The shuffling feet of the other commuters walking towards their destination give a sense of urgency at this vital commuting hour. The rhythm of their movements are interjected with clacking of heels, phones ringing with pre-office discussion, and even some joggers singing softly to themselves. Everyone is on their way to something, somewhere, and anywhere. I love the smell of the faint aroma of dew in planter boxes; it is a moment I can pretend I am not stuck in this sardine tin of a town and imagine being back in the country with my goats. This early shift of the commuters is those of us who try to skip the jams that come if you wait one hour more. Listening to the sounds around me, I narrowly avoid getting run over by a commuter bike and, swiftly following, an electric scooter. Irritated, I yell “Excuse you!!!!” to the scooter. Scooters, the new rodents of the road. They are usually driven by tourists who do not take into consideration the natives, nor do they kindly look up the road laws and regulations. I suppose it is not the scooter’s fault but the vermin navigating them, poorly mind you, around my beloved streets. As I round the corner, I see my bus has not yet arrived. The usual hoard of commuters are all lining up and there are two new faces for this time of day. It is 6:01am; according to the watch I have worn since my early 20s, the bus will be rounding that corner anytime now. I am a few minutes early today; typically I am walking alongside it as it pulls around the corner. Looking up at the cranes, I watch as one of them moves a load of building material from the ground up into the territory of the rich. I have lovingly called the two cranes Niles and Frasier to help ease the loss of my view. About a year ago the windows of my home had a lovely ocean view. I spent many hours in the evenings and weekends watching the ferries, cruise ships, and shipping containers bring their passengers and wares to and from the city. Slowly over the last several months I have watched this peaceful view disappear due to the construction of multimillion dollar companies and their accompanying tower blocks. At least watching the lights in the windows turn off and on throughout the evening does keep me amused when the television offers reruns and misinformed, over-hyped news. Disgustingly, my once quirky and unique city has been gorging itself on the newest technology and souls of the top-performers; a consequence of which has made this city grow uncomfortably full at the waist. So much so that getting onto the commuter bus is a moment of peace and tranquility. Bus 205 flies past me, throwing my hair in front of my face and temporarily blinding me, a warning to hurry towards my stop and claim my place in line to board. The doors of the bus open and the waiting passengers start slowly filing ahead one by one. The typical commuters are swift in swiping their bus passes and filing down to everyone’s not assigned but kind-of-is-assigned seats. We all have our preference and an unwritten code to never sit in someone else’s known spot unless yours has already been taken. At least, this is how I see it. Shifting my weight from my left leg to my right, I observe the three people standing ahead of me waiting to board the bus and ready to scan their passes. I know the first person in line will board swiftly, she has travelled this route with me for the past several months. I am unable to guess her age due to the fact her wrinkles are faint, demonstrating she has known stress but it has not affected her, or she does regular botox treatments. Every day her black hair is pulled into a tight lower bun, highlighting the sharp ridges of her chiseled cheeks and chin. I have learned the hard way not to make eye contact with her. The first and only time I did, her piercing gaze caused the hair on my neck to stand up as if I were in a horror movie staring at my killer. I do envy the expensive, fashionable clothing she wears. Today she is dressed in a crisp, well tailored navy suit with gold and diamond accessories that would cost six months’ of my pay. She departs the bus in the court district. She appears unapproachable. Most likely she works for one of the more questionable law firms. Those who defend the actual guilty who have money to pay to get away with their bad doings. Maybe she lives in the same building as me. I have traveled with her almost every work day for the last several months, but we have never said greetings to one another. That is just how it is in the city, even if you don’t have body language like she does that screams “Do. Not. Talk. To. Me.” Next to scan is a short, slightly hunchbacked elderly man who must be new as I have never seen him here before. He is walking with a limp and holding firmly, white knuckles showing through, onto the railing. He gives a bit of a grunt as he heaves himself to the bus. His eyes are wide as he looks around him quickly, turning his head towards each new movement in his surroundings. Realizing it is his turn to scan his card he fumbles in his jacket pockets. Impatiently, I let out a very audible and annoyed sigh. Rule number one of bus riding etiquette: have your bus card out and ready to scan if you are waiting at the bus stop prior to your bus’ arrival. He finally procures the card from the left breast pocket of his shirt under his fleece jacket and scans the card. I would have given him a little cheer for success if the card didn’t hazard a red warning that there was no money on it. He begins to argue with the bus driver. The third person in line, the teenage boy with an overly large white shirt and ripped jeans that needed washing three months ago, quickly intervenes and scans his card for the man. This covers the man’s charge and then the teen scans his card for himself. I am shocked by the floppy haired teen’s notice of the man’s plight. The teen had been standing, absorbed into his phone with headphones on through the duration of our time in line. My turn finally approaches, I step up and scan my card. It feels nice to be completely off the rambunctious street. Given the early hour, I would not expect it to be this muggy, but the temperature has already started to rise. It is a midsummer morning; the sun has not been awake for more than a couple hours but the humidity is already drenching. Once I scan my card and head down the bus aisle, I spy that there happens to be one aisle seat that is available towards the middle of the bus. This portion of the bus is not too close to the front where people crowd around, not within smelling distance the homeless drunk sleeping in the back, two large steps from the exiting rear door, and is my preferred location. Continuing towards the seat as the beeping of other bus cards are scanned and grow fainter, I hear a deep, gravely voice booming loudly somewhere towards the middle of the bus. I scan the seats realizing this awful and unfriendly tone of voice is coming from the seat I was about to claim. The voice belongs to a man in his mid-fifties dressed in grey slacks, a patterned sweater vest on top of a purple button up shirt. Upon closer inspection the man may be in his 40’s but the unkemptness of his thick and curly hair, the stubble that appeared to be from yesterday’s shave, and bags that could hold his groceries had he been shopping made him appear older than he probably is. As I approach the seat, he continues yelling into his phone with tones I have not heard since my teenage years on the farm with an abusive, drunk father. The man’s face, the color of roasted beets served with a generous helping of chèvre and walnuts, looked as if he would explode at any moment of our bus ride together. As he talks, mists of liquid spew from his mouth towards the phone. I pause next to the empty seat, gripping the railings as the bus lurches forward, the sudden movement almost knocking the inattentive teen boy to the ground. The unpleasant man, still on the phone, noticed I was next to him, but did not stop the stream of unpleasantness and unkind words into the innocent phone. I feel sympathy for the person on the opposite side of that device as the lecture continues. He is in the middle of shouting to the recipient “... the most incompetent simpleton that I have ever had the displeasure to work with...” when he pauses as if seeing me for the first time. Abruptly, he hangs up the call. His angry features still had me questioning whether I should just stand this time. During my thoughts, the man interrupts sharply, “Are you sitting or going to continue to be a nuisance?” His loud voice carries and alerts everyone of his displeasure. With this one phrase, I’m back on the farm again and he is now my father. Swiftly as a chunky cat I plop into my seat, accidentally bumping his right elbow as I did. Muttering some apology towards him, he shoots me a glare. Once I had finally settled, the bus’ movements rocked us to and fro, inconsistently bumping us against one another. As we made our way down the road to the next traffic light, the man pulled out a tablet and set his attention to it. Glancing down towards his bag resting firmly between his feet, I see his name badge from the most elite hospital in the area. Under his name, it had the title of “Physician”. Discovering this bit of information made me pity his patients. Scanning his bag further, there was also a stethoscope, pens, brown bag with his lunch possibly, some other medical magazines, and a stuffed teddy bear. Detaching my eyes from his personal belongings, I think to myself about how he behaved and how his bedside manner must leave much to be desired. It brought to mind the experience I had just over a year ago with a physician at my primary clinic. She was abrupt, unempathetic, and gruff, much like this man I am currently sitting next to. I went to my physician seeking help in regards to mental health; I was feeling depressed and was unable to snap out of it. Moving to a new city, the abusive childhood to deal with, and a job I was unhappy in had really worn on me. I went to her for help. All she wanted to do was give me pills, not help the deeper issue. When I told her I did not want to solve the problem with medications, she laughed and asked me “Then how do you expect me to help you?” It was then I realized that you can not expect your physician to assist you in actual life if they could not throw a pill at it. Absentmindedly my eyes had wandered back to the direction of his bag; he had noticed and looked at me with his startling intense blue eyes. I felt my face flush, immediately feeling embarrassed for being nosy and staring. In the second it took me to turn away towards the opposite side of the bus, I saw him face towards the window on his left, his body structure went from rigid into a relaxed, slumped state. I started to shift in my seat and nibble at my nails; I didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in this man I a moment ago thought was the scum of the earth. His demeanor changed and surprised me. Abruptly breaking the silence he stated, “Two of my patients are dying.” He let this statement settle into the air like an uncovered sneeze. I stared into my lap not knowing what to say; I wasn’t sure the wild beast I had seen a moment ago was truly retreating. Shocked to silence, I said nothing but did turn my head towards him slightly. He slowly looked away from the window towards me. What I saw this time were the eyes of a warm, welcoming face with a tortured undertone. These current eyes belonged to a broken, desperate man; not the man that I had seen just a few minutes ago when I walked down that bus aisle to this seat. Breaking the silence with a volcanic size level of words, he went on to explain to me how he had been doing everything he could for two of his patients to get into a research study at the hospital. He was fairly sure this study would save their lives, or at least give them 5 - 15 years. This study had already been shown to decrease cancer at a much greater rate than the conventional methods that were currently approved by the FDA. He started going over the minute details of the study and lost me at stating T-Cells and Monoclonal anti- something or the other. I felt my eyes become hazy, glassy, and my brain started to hurt. I kept records at a small start up in town; I knew nothing about healthcare. Science was never my strength; it disappointed my father greatly, as he had hoped I would have been a doctor. The first time we dissected anything, I lost my breakfast and was unable to sit in the cafeteria at lunch time because of the smell of the food. The doctor kept talking to me about this study and how it helps people, but all I can honestly think about was how disappointed my family, specifically father, was in me because I never amounted to their idea of who I should have been. Graciously, he realized at some point that I had glazed over and my thoughts were elsewhere, and he redirected to who he was talking to on the phone. Upon mentioning the phone call again, his eyes caught on fire and his temple grew a new vein. I saw this reaction from a different perspective this time. He was just angry on behalf of the patient’s he mentioned earlier, but that still didn’t explain the phone call. Sure, he had two patients who would benefit from this study, but I still failed to see how this merited abusing someone over the phone. As if reading my mind, he explained the phone call was with the research coordinator at his hospital, who apparently didn’t submit the paperwork properly to the board of directors who chose candidates. Due to this research coordinator’s actions, or lack thereof, the doctor was not able to get these patients in the study. This doctor now has to go explain to the patients and their family members that they are not being entered into the study. He has to go explain to them that their last hope is lost. “This womanizer’s disorganization and selfish ambitions have cost these two people and their families those extra years together,” the doctor explains, “this sad excuse for a manager was too busy flirting with the female staff.” This passionate doctor had put in all the necessary paperwork weeks in advance, had called the research coordinator, and had phoned, met with, and emailed him weekly at first. Then he moved to daily calls as the study’s closing date was soon upon them. “The Lout was more interested in pleasing his little member than taking care of important members of someone’s family,” the doctor spoke as if he was spitting in the coordinator’s general direction. The bus stopped; realizing it was the stop for the hospital, the doctor excused himself. He looked back at me with a smile that felt like a hug, waved, and told me to have a good day, leaving me there speechless. My first impression of him changed completely; he cared so passionately and deeply for those patients that he would burden their sorrow and anger on his own shoulders for them. As I watched him step down onto the sidewalk, I realized he would carry the sorrow with him until the day he passed. He was not like I was imagining when I first walked onto that bus and heard him speaking angrily. He was protective, an advocate, and a doctor I would want my loved one to have in the darkest of days. The bus jolted forward again. The unstable teen asked if he could sit next to me as he haphazardly was already falling over me towards the window seat the doctor had just vacated. Adjusting ourselves, the teen leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. This left me with my own thoughts for the duration of my trip. My uncle had just finished his chemo treatment at an adjoining hospital. An idea occurred; maybe I should research the physician I sat with and have my uncle see him instead. I laughed quietly to myself, shaking my head in disbelief at the change of perspective I had after this man opened up and shared a snippet of what he was dealing with in his life.


The wind had killed autumn. It always started that way, cutting the leaves from the trees to fall and dry on the ground. Then came the frost, to turn the world grey. Last came the snow. The huntsman moves through pine and birch and shallow snow towards the clearing ahead, the wind covering any noise he may have made. At its edge, he lowers himself onto the ground. The cold seeps through his jacket. Across the clearing, the rabbit hears nothing. He hefts his rifle – dark wood, steel – into the firing position. The safety softly clicks as he flicks it off. Finger moves to the trigger, and sits there lightly, waiting. His world is now constrained to what he can see through the rifle’s sights. The rabbit hops to another patch of dry grass. The huntsman adjusts, settling his aim onto the rabbit again. Breathes in, then softly out, begins to squeeze- \-the snow near the rabbit erupts, a blur of motion and a shape falls upon the rabbit. Strong jaws and sharp teeth crush its neck. A fox. Deep red fur. The huntsman pauses, then sights in on the fox. The rifle speaks \- Eyes. Brown, no hazel. Soft, kind eyes. They stand together and kiss under the shadow of the bus. Her lips are soft. He can taste salt. He doesn’t understand- \- There she is, across the road. He’d walked into town in the early morning, when the birds were still singing from the branches of silver trees touched with gold, to sell the deer slung over his shoulder. She’d just stepped out of the bakery wearing a sky blue apron, dusted with flour. Seeing him, she shoots him a little smile. Hazel eyes. He’s staring and something in him aches- He quickly turns away down the street. He wants to run. \- A mound of dirt and a headstone sits beneath the old oak tree, twisting on a hill behind the cabin. He lays down next to it, onto the dry leaves. His feet extend beyond the edge of the mound. He is taller. The wind sings soft through the branches above, taking the last of the leaves and carrying them to the woods below. \- There is a song he remembers, sitting in the back of his mind. He hums it as he walks and he smiles. His rifle is slung over his shoulder as he crunches his way up the path towards the hill. Hoar frost covers everything the snow has failed to touch. Everything is like glass. He knows this is the last time he can go out this season. He keeps humming. It’s an old song, for him. The rifle stock gently bumps against him in time with his steps. The wind keeps singing through the trees. \- Now it tears and saws, back and forth, opening a hole ever wider, and the other’s hand has fallen away but the knife still cuts, back and forth and red warmth washes over his hands – \- Oh god. Cradled in his arms, his burden was beginning to cool as he carried it up the hill towards the oak tree. He begins to claw a hole in the dirt beneath it. His hands bleed, but he can’t feel it. He picks up the small bundle and gently lowers it into the hole he has made. His eyes sting. He tries to stand, but for a while he can’t, sobbing into the cold wind. He scrapes the dirt back into the hole, covering the bundle’s red fur. Finding his feet, he stands beneath the tree, unmoving, breathing in time to the wind cutting through the branches, swaying slightly as one who has roots in the earth. Then he severs them. Going to the cabin at the bottom of the hill, he takes his pack and fills it with clothes, a pencil, a notepad and his books. He steps out the door, closing it behind him. He leaves the cabin, the hill, the oak tree and the forest. He walks into town and stands across the road from the bakery, and waits. The hazel eyed girl steps out and sees him. She smiles again at him slightly. He takes a breath, and crosses the road.


The question wasn’t actually a question. Of course it was good. She just wanted her friend to agree, and then the day could go on and she could keep working on that great story, and keep working on it until something came of it and she could put it somewhere for other people to see and agree it was good. Her friend nodded as she read and when she came to the final paragraph, she smiled and said, “it seems like the kind of thing you would write.” She felt like she’d been slapped across the face. “What do you mean?” This time it was actually a question. “Oh you know. Good versus evil and all that, it’s very you.” “Like how?” she asked, again, still not understanding. Her friend had not said it was good. She had said it was like the sort of thing she would write. That wasn’t ‘good’. “I don’t know,” her friend shrugged, “it’s just your kind of thing right? Bad versus good… fantasy and all that. I don’t know.” Her friend gave her back the notebook and she looked down at it. Suddenly, her mind was full of other times her friends had not called her stories good. She remembered that time her friends had taken her note book during morning break, and she had thought they had been just so excited to see the next exciting chapter she had been working on, and she remembered coming back to a classroom and finding all her friends huddled over her notebook, and they had been giggling. She had thought they were giggling at the right times with the story, but now she realized that was not what had been happening. They had been giggling at the stories. When they had seen her seeing them and they had suddenly scattered with snickers and she had taken back the book and no one had said anything, no one had said it was good. She didn’t call it good. She said it seemed like the kind of thing she’d write. What did that mean? Her eyes scanned the page at the excited scrawls across it, looking for what it was exactly that made anything particularly ‘her’, what it meant. She read through the dialog, through the world, through the story, but she could only hear one thing echoing. It was the kind of thing she would write. “There are a lot of stories about good versus evil.” she said to her friend, and she felt like she was somehow apologising. Her friend shrugged again. “I guess so.” But she said nothing more, could not be more unimpressed. She felt shattered, realizing that she might actually have bored her. That her story had been boring. She wondered if she finished it and put it somewhere for people to see, they would not call it good. They would giggle at it behind her back. Or worse, they would nod and call it the kind of thing she would write. She crumpled the papers and threw them away.


The Crown Prince's horse shook slightly, as his entourage moved slowly through the Imperial Capital. As he rode through the streets slowly, he could see that barely anybody looked at him. If the soldiers and people weren't moving bodies and clearing houses of bodies, they were sitting down on contemplation, exhausted and upset at the devastation currently sweeping the Empire. The Crown Prince looked up and saw dozens of plumes of smoke rising up from everywhere. *Smoke from the pyres*, he thought. A couple of women ran quickly towards his horse, wailing. Some of his Guardsmen quickly stepped forward to push them back, hands on swords. The Crown Prince shook his head sadly and adjusted the cloth covering his nose and the mouth; the smell of rotting, diseased and burning flesh of thousands of dead bodies was overpowering, but he had to be seen in public, to display confidence and strength. The Purple Sickness was devastating the Empire; it was wreaking havoc across cities and towns and villages and trade routes and supply lines. Just yesterday, the Crown Prince received word that four ships which had been scheduled to bring in much-needed supplies to the Capital had seen much of its crews struck down by the Purple Sickness. Riots and mutinies had broke out and everything had been lost or stolen. The situation with the troops was worse, much worse. As of this morning, more than 12,000 of his troops had perished from the Purple Sickness. The hordes massing at the Western Boundary had taken advantage of the lower numbers defending the Boundary and were now fighting their way through, village by village, town by town. The Crown Prince tried to remain positive and upbeat and strong and determined, but his father - the Emperor - was more realistic and this had caused some disagreements. The Emperor had ordered reinforcements to return back from the Western Boundary immediately and abandon their mission of providing crucial support to the troops already stationed there. The Crown Prince had disagreed with this and urged his father to reconsider. Rerouting expected reinforcements would prove fatal for those defending the Boundary. His father had disagreed and had wanted to hear nothing more on the matter. As a result, the Crown Prince was sure that the Purple Sickness would deal irreversible damage to the Empire, probably even lead to its ultimate collapse. As his entourage continued to move slowly through the streets, the clash of swords and cries of men and screams of women could be heard ahead. Thick black smoke from a nearby fire began to decrease visibility. "We should turn back, your highness!" The Second Commander of his Guard waved back to him. "The Sickness has made them mad up ahead; they 're warring with troops up there!" Dozens of people began running away from the sounds of swords and metal clashing. The Crown Prince's Guardsmen closed ranks around him and drew their swords, looking around with heightened senses and squinting eyes. "Now, your highness!" The Second Commander screamed. The thick black smoke became thicker and thicker and the entourage now slowed down. The Crown Prince tried to search for his Second Commander but could not see him clearly through the smoke. "Stand firm! Stand firm!" He heard a voice cry from behind him. The loud and angry cries were now much closer and filled the air. "Back! Back!" He heard some troops shouting. The Crown Prince's heart began to beat quicker and quicker. *If the Sickness could not even be contained in the Capital, then what of the rest of the Empire?* He thought. His Second Commander now came into view, riding through the thick black smoke. He began to scream at the Crown Prince. "Turn around now! We need to turn ar-" A bloodied and furious man, with eyes filled with rage and murder, leapt through the air and thrust a sword through the chest of the Crown Prince's second commander. Dozens of men and troops were suddenly crowding around the Crown Prince, slashing swords and pushing bodies as bloody warfare began to suddenly fill the streets. The Crown Prince drew his own sword and held up his shield, his anxious eyes darting around at the carnage. The entourage - or what was left of it - tried to turn around, but bodies and fighting men had boxed them in. Two arrows whizzed past his helmet and struck down one of his Guardsman. Crowds of women and children ran out of a burning house and moved quickly away from the deadly fighting. Then the Crown Prince was thrown from his terrified horse and launched several feet into the air. He landed on his back a few feet away and could taste blood in his mouth. A group of soldiers - not his Guardsmen - quickly formed a circular wall around him, furiously battling the rage-filled citizens. He felt strong hands roughly pick him up and place his arms around shoulders, as he was quickly dragged away to safety. His vision was blurry, but the sound of warfare started to dim as he was dragged further and further away. Through a side street, he could see two chariots waiting ahead, with two dozen troops standing guard, swords in hand. A single Guardsman emerged from one of the chariots with an expression of fear and shock on his face. "Your highness," he said, gulping hard. "The Emperor...your father...he's dead." The Crown Prince stumbled, stun and shock hitting him with the force of a dozen shields. "What...what did you say?" "The Purple Sickness reached the palace; some of the troops turned on each other and people broke through barricades. He was...killed. The Capital is no longer safe - we need to get you to safety. The Commander has been killed as well; Trayas is in charge of your Guard now..." The Guardsman continued speaking, but the Crown Prince was no longer listening. The news was unreal and unbelievable. "How...how could this all happen so quickly?" He whispered quietly. It was bound to occur sooner of later; the growing discontent following disrupted trade and supply routes and disrupted farming; the low grain stores; the growing number of the dead and bodies piling up everywhere; the reluctance of some subjects to burn their dead or dying family members or relatives. Everything had reached boiling point and it was probably not just in the Imperial Capital, but across the entire Empire. "We...have...fallen," he whispered. "I'm sorry, your highness?" The Guardsmen leaned forward, struggling to hear the Crown Prince.


Harley and I were just walking down the street, he was wearing army fatigues, while I was carrying my tri pillow and evocca bag with the essentials in it. I'm not sure where we were, but things changed fast. It started with the silence, the dead calm in the middle of the street. Cars stopped, people looked to the skies, and a second later the world erupted into chaos, a chaos that would never end. Harley grabbed my hand and we ran, explosions surrounded us as we dodged falling debris, just trying to make sense of what was going on. We kept running until we came across a school that appeared to be untouched, but was surrounded by people, looking scared and confused. We stayed there for a little while, trying to get answers from people, but they were too scared to say much, we just caught snatches of conversation about, "it was like they came from no where." The school was packed with people, but we found a corner in a classroom to curl up for the night, it was cold and the floor hard. Neither of us slept well that night. The next morning, we soon found out what "they" were. They were monsters, ugly huge greenish monsters, and they were packing some serious weapons. Harley was a corporal in the army so he was soon pushed into being the leader of the group of civilians, and it became a war. The evacuation began. We found an army helicopter sitting in the gymnasium, no one knew why it was there but for us it seemed like a miracle, as it was just what we needed. Harley and I led the pack, he knew how to fly so he was going first, but in the rush we got separated from each other, next thing I knew, the helicopter was packed to the rim, and I was left outside. I told Harley to leave, he had to. There were too many lives at stake, and i Knew he would come back for me. As I melted back into the crowd, yelling 'I love you' over the sound of the propellers, it occurred to me that I may never see him again. And I didn't. Months later. The zone I was in had turned desolate, buildings surrounded by desert. It was a safe zone for humans, but not by much. We had set up temporary beds inside the buildings that lined the street, store fronts mostly. The school where I'd last seen Harley, had been reduced to ash some time ago, by our fighters. I had tried to locate Harley's friends, to see if they had seen or heard from him, but I could not find them. The world had changed so much in so little time. The sun was high in the sky, the sand blowing around my feet, I was walking down what used to be a very busy street. It was hot, but I kept the blanket around me to hide from the sun and severe winds. I had heard whispers in the wind, so often thinking it was Harley's voice, that now it was just a cruel comfort, of what I used to have. But even if he was to find me again, he would not recognise me, as I had lost so much weight in these harsh times. I was in a shroud of sadness and isolation. On the wind I heard him call my name. My heart didn't skip, I didn't form any hope. It was just another day, the wind being cruel. But it wasn't just another day, because in the distance I could make out a figure, walking toward me. I could not see his face through the wind, but I knew him immediately.


That night we sat aboard the refugee’s ship discussing what we should do. The temperature had dropped quickly and a cold sea air blew across the deck. Most of the islanders stayed in the hull to keep away from the breeze. However, a few of us braved the elements and decided to set up a small fire up top. Xander had decided to take it upon himself to build the fire on top of an old metal drum. He spent a good twenty minutes tenderly placing various twigs in a small pyramid before setting them alight. With the kindling letting off a gentle but steady yellow flame, he sat down triumphant. The rest of us pulled up crates and huddled around, with blanket wrapped over our shoulders, and held our hands out to the warmth. “That’ll keep us warm for a couple of hours,” Xander beamed. “Good work,” I replied. “Have you decided where you’ll go yet?” Xander shook his head. “We’re still deciding. We’ll stay until you’ve found out what you can. Besides, people are oddly happy on this boat. I don’t think I’m ever going to get a line out of Mirai’s hands.” I laughed. “I will admit I didn’t have her marked down to become a passionate fisher.” “She’s put you out of work,” Alessia smirked. “Gladly,” I said, raising my hands. “She’s better at it than me.” “Yeah. Sirad’s become obsessed with nautical charts. Eir loves the feel of the helm. And Laachlan, well he’s mostly trying to get us all to join in with his singing.” “That nightingale song’s been getting in my head,” Kurbani said, her wide smile caught in the yellow light of the fire. She paused briefly. “Are you going to take that prisoner to Ruthogrey Landfall?” The conversation fell quiet briefly. I turned to Alessia. She looked out to sea, eyeing up the distant lights of the island. “We do it,” she said. She turned to face me, but my eyes couldn’t meet hers. I sat tense, my jaw clamped shut. “We need that information,” she added. I grimaced, shaking my head. “Clandestine prison transport. Doesn’t feel right.” “It isn’t, but, what choice do we have?” “If you don’t do it, someone else will,” Kurbani added. “Sometimes, if bad things are inevitable, it’s better that they are done by good people.” “What?” I replied, turning my head. “Whoever they are, you will treat them with kindness and dignity. The next person, may not,” she spoke to the fire as if she was retelling visions. “Besides. That prisoner’s no worse off on Ruthogrey Landfall than Tima Voreef.” I paused, my tongue waiting on the roof of my mouth for my words to be conjured. “It feels like a large price to pay for that information.” “We can’t live our whole lives clean of compromise,” Alessia said. “It’s like when you're sailing. You can set a course to exactly where you want to go, but you have to play within the winds around you. Sometimes you have to tack or get shifted about by the breeze. You aren’t always making a direct line for where you want to go, but getting beaten around is fine as long as the direction is broadly right.” “I know. Let’s just make sure we don’t get blown too off course?” “Agreed,” Alessia smiled. “I’ve seen people become moralless on the oceans, Ferdinand. I promise we won’t become them.” \ The next day we sailed back to Tima Voreef. I stayed on the boat while Alessia tracked down Runar and informed him that we agreed to his deal. She returned an hour later. “What now,” I asked as she climbed down onto the deck. “He said head to the other side of the island. Bay number three. They’ll meet us there.” We left the quay and rounded the western tip of Tima Voreef. I could see the outline of Ruthogrey Landfall poking above the horizon. The small strait of water between the two islands was flat, only thin licks of waves rose from the sea. Yet the water was not calm, but tense, like a tightly pulled piece of string. Even from here, I could make out the cannons pointed out from Ruthogrey Landfall, and the flotilla patrolling the coastline. Any basic logic tells you that when a gun is raised towards you in threat, you don’t calmly walk towards it. Yet, here we were, preparing to sail towards an arsenal. I looked down the southern shoreline of Tima Voreef to a similar site. Men and women stood with rigid backs and binoculars held up, watching the enemy. Between each outpost, a large gun, the size of a person, stood anchored to the ground, pointed out across the ocean. While on the northside of Tima Voreef the quay was long and flat, here instead a series of concrete jetties jutted out into the water, each with a large number painted on its end. The boats were made of metal; steel, painted grey, and clasped together with large rivets hammered into the ship’s hull. The first few boats we passed were huge constructions: an excess of masts pointing upwards, reaching for the sky. But as we continued, the boats grew shorter and more nimble, the number and height of the masts dwindling. Then, we began passing boats with no masts at all. I scrunched my face, staring at them. Instead of sails they had long, thick metal funnels that rose from the back of the boat. “You…” I paused, blinking, rechecking my eyes. “What powers them?” I asked. “Steam and coal,” Alessia replied, glancing briefly before turning her eyes back to the waters. “They probably get some of it from Kadear,” she said with a knowing nod. When I look back at that black rock that powered so much of the industry on Kadear, it seems impossible that it could be used to create movement. I knew it was used in furnaces, to keep buildings warm, and occasionally to power machines. But the idea that it could power a boat through the water even now seemed illogical. I had never seen a mastless boat before, and I found it hard to shift my eyes from the site, my brain refusing to let it go until it could fully comprehend what I was seeing. I was jolted back to the moment by Alessia turning the boat sharply towards the quay. “Bay number three.” “You ever seen a coal-powered boat before?” I asked, staring at her disinterested expression. “No. I knew they existed. But not seen one.” “Aren’t you... intrigued?” I flicked back and forth between the impossible boat and Alessia’s eyes that remained fixed on lining up the landing. “The first time I went anywhere with you, I saw moving paintings on a wall. Honestly, since then, I kind of gave up being surprised.” She turned to me and grinned. “Guess I’m just less easily impressed.” As we entered the bay I could see four people walk towards us. Runar led the way, followed by a man and woman in black waistcoats, and lastly by the prisoner. The captive shuffled along behind them, their wrists chained and with a sack over their head, hiding their face. They wore dark blue overalls that were several sizes too big, masking any form or shape underneath. Alessia threw out a rope and one of the guards caught it, tying it around the mooring and reeling us in until we were flush against the harbour. Runar walked alongside so that he was level with the helm. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small red envelope. “Someone will probably ask for documentation out there. If anyone does, show them this.” I took the envelope and opened it. Inside there was a folded piece of paper. Unfurling it I could read a letter. *Diplomatic Immunity.* Next to the title there was a large seal stamped onto the page, the faint whiff of wick still clinging to the wax. The paper itself was smooth and silky, not rough like you would expect. Interwoven across the sheet were brief flickers of gold, seemingly part of the paper itself. There was a brief paragraph of text, before two signatures. *Joan Moreno, President of Tima Voreef* *Philomena Rubio, President of Ruthogrey Landfall* Somehow both islands had signed the document. I tried to work out the logistics of such a process as Runar continued speaking. “You’ll be accompanied by one guard. Deliver them to Ruthogrey. When you come back, I’ll get that information for you.” “I hope we can trust you on this,” I said, putting away the paper. “With all due respect, that document you want doesn’t mean a great deal to me. I’m coming out on top with this transaction,” he replied, looking to his right, as one of the guards led the prisoner down onto the boat. Runar walked over. He picked up a black box, its lid held in place with a leather clasp, and handed it over to the guard on the boat. “What’s in the box?” I asked. The guard turned to me, unsure of what to say. “I don’t think that’s something you need to be concerned with,” Runar replied, as he signalled to the other guard who started untying the ropes. “Processing paperwork for the prisoner. I would advise you to concentrate on your job, and in return, I’ll get you that sales report.” With the ropes untied, the boat gently pushed off from the harbour and we drifted out into the sea. A stiff westerly wind blew across the strait. Alessia made use of the right-angle winds and smooth seas to cut through the water like scissors through paper. I stood by the helm with Alessia looking down on our passengers sitting on crates. The guard sat in the middle, the prisoner to one side, and the black box to the other. Both of them sat perfectly still facing the starboard side. The prisoner made no pleas. They didn’t wrestle the chains for greater freedom. They just sat, waiting. The only part of the prisoner I could see were their arms that extended past the short sleeved of the ill-fitting overalls. However, the smooth, hairless skin and the smaller frame, was enough for me to deduce the prisoner was a woman. I noticed too that her arms didn’t look dirty. There were no scratches or bruises. It was clear, for whatever reason, Tima Voreef had been certain to take good care of her. “What do you make of this?” I said, leaning over and whispering to Alessia, the westerly winds carrying my words out to the sea. “Something’s not quite right. Whoever she is, she ain’t no ordinary prisoner.” Alessia tensed her jaw in thought. “The guard’s too relaxed. Prisoner too. It’s just, something’s missing.” “Agreed,” I said, my eyes locked on the passengers. “What do you make of that box?” “I’ll bet my boat that old man was lying about what’s in it.” Alessia mumbled. “‘Processing papers’. Fishshit.” “What do we do?” Alessia slowly shook her head. “Right now? Nothing. Just, see what pans out I guess.” The boat continued cutting across the channel. Behind us I could still see the guns, the soldiers, and the canons; their focus primed in our direction. Ahead of us sat the forces of Ruthogrey Landfall, poised, and ready. We were like an ant scurrying across a busy street. A small spec caught between lines of enemy fire. We made it about two-thirds of the way to Ruthogrey before one of the island’s boats approached us and signalled for us to stop. It was a small boat, maybe a quarter the size of Alessia’s, yet there were half a dozen soldiers on board. One threw over a rope, while the others watched on with wide, ready eyes. Their hands were raised at the hip, ready to draw their weapons should the moment require it. “Do you know you are currently in restricted waters?” a woman at the front of the ship barked. She wore a similar uniform to those on Tima Voreef, a black waistcoat with a white shirt. The only distinct difference was a dominant red trim to the waistcoat and her trousers. “Yes. We have a permit.” I took out the envelope, the hands of the soldiers twitching by their holsters as I moved. I showed them the letter. The woman read it and nodded as her body softened. She turned to the rest of the crew and gave a gentle downward wave as she finished reading. Their gaze shifted, and hands dropped from guns, swinging loosely by their side. “Another prisoner run I see,” she said, nodding at the woman in the jumpsuit. “Another?” I replied. “You can be on your way. You’ll likely be stopped again though.” Her prediction was correct. Another two boats came out to meet us as we sailed in. Both followed the same pattern: confused and stern looks turning to indifference as soon as we showed them the document. Despite the good winds, the stoppages slowed us down, and it was nighttime as we approached Ruthogrey Landfall. We were probably less than half an hour away from arriving when - for the first time - the prisoner stirred. They leaned over and whispered to the guard. The guard furrowed their eyebrow. They whispered back before the prisoner cut them off. The guard’s shoulders jolted back and they stood, before walking towards us at the back of the boat. “Does your ship have toilet facilities?” the guard asked. “In the cabin,” Alessia pointed to the small room behind her. “The prisoner requests to use them,” the guard said in a monotone voice. Alessia shrugged. “Be my guest.” The guard walked back down the boat and spoke to the prisoner. She helped the prisoner up and guided her along the deck, up the two steps to the helm, and to the cabin at the back of the boat. I watched them walk past, but Alessia’s eyes remained fixed forward, stuck to where they had been sitting. As soon as the door closed behind us, Alessia turned to me. “Keep an eye out. Let me know if they’re coming back.” “What?” “Here, hold this.” She grabbed my hand and placed it on the wheel. “Hold the course.” The boat lurched slightly in the crosswinds as my reactions caught up to the responsibility. Meanwhile, Alessia walked down the deck to the crates. “What are you doing?” I whispered as loud as I dare. “The box,” Alessia said. I looked at the crates. They had left it behind. Alessia bounded down to the black box, carefully undid the clasp and opened the lid. She pulled out a handful of papers as the sheets rustled in the wind. Alessia held a tight grip on them, as she leafed through the pages one by one. She stopped on a page, and walked over to a nearby lantern on the ship, leaning in to read the words more closely. Her eyes scanned the page. Then she flipped over and scanned the next. Slowly I could see her eyes widen as her head slowly drew back. “Shit,” she mumbled. “What?” I said, leaning over the wheel. “This is not what I expected.” I was about to demand an explanation when I began to hear footsteps climbing back up to the deck behind me. “They’re coming back.” Alessia scampered back to the box, opened it, and slid the pages back inside. She turned and bounded up the steps just as the door opened and the guard and prisoner emerged. “All good?” Alessia asked. The guard nodded. The prisoner said nothing. “We should be in port in about twenty minutes,” Alessia said as they walked back down towards the crate. Alessia took the wheel from my hands as they sat down again. The guard’s eyes turned to the box. She stared at it, unsure for a second, before gently retightening the clasp, and returning her gaze to the black sea in front. “You’re not going to tell me what you saw are you?” I whispered in almost silence. “Not until they’re off my boat.” The docks on the northside of Ruthogrey were similar to the southside of Tima Voreef. Large, white, concrete jetties jutted out into the sea, each with a numbered bay. Along the harbour wall, men and women stood, staring out across the channel as guns stood ready. Ruthogrey had more greenery though. While on Tima Voreef the buildings pressed up against the coast, here there seemed to be a buffer of trees between the shoreline and the town. But if it weren’t for that, and the red trim to the guards’ uniforms, you could be forgiven for thinking you had never left. We found an empty bay and gently sailed in. As soon as we arrived around eight guards trekked down to meet us. One of them threw out a rope. The others took out their guns, pointing them at the boat. Once more, I handed them the piece of paper. They read it and handed it back. For the first time, the guard escorting the prisoner spoke on our behalf. “I’m escorting this prisoner to the parliamentary cells.” The man on the quay looked back with a mirrored pose: stiff, rigid joints, posture stretched out in a line. “Very well. We’ll accompany you there.” It was strange to see this simple conversation between bitter enemies. I had expected immediate animosity. But their professionalism and sense of greater purpose took over, both sets of soldiers understanding their mission. The guard brought the prisoner to their feet before turning and picking up the box of papers. Our passengers stepped off onto the quay. Alessia and I watched them walk away, waiting till they were just far enough to be out of earshot. “There weren’t processing papers in that box were there?” “Anything but,” Alessia scoffed. She turned to face me. “It was reports. On everything. Production numbers, sales, productivity reports. A total breakdown of everything Tima Voreef has done for the past year.” “Runar is smuggling information to the enemy with the prisoner?” “Or the guard?” Alessia shrugged. “You reckon?” Alessia twitched her nose. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I took a deep breath in, the cold salt air tickling the back of my throat. “What do you want to do?” Alessia looked up to the island and the lights of the buildings that flickered between the swaying trees. “That piece of paper have a date on it?” “The date it’s signed, but otherwise, no. Why?” “No need to head back right now then. Wanna follow them?” I grinned. “Oh, definitely.


So much time had passed since the last time i smelled the man sitting across from me. To call him pungent wouldn't be quite accurate. Imagine a room full of charred meat bathing in a pool of hot blood. "Haven't you gotten enough from me?" I lifted my glass of whiskey to my lips. The man's voice came back at me smooth as silk but sharp as glass. "Well, today things are different. It is I who needs you." Here I thought I was the blind one. Years ago I was down on my luck and called on this man in exchange for my soul. One detail they leave out is that this can only be accomplished by removing your eyes, the windows to the soul. "What do I get out of this?" I intentionally kept my expression indifferent. The man wasted no time with his response. "Freedom." I fell back off the chair as my vision abruptly returned. Even in the dimly lit bar I had to shield my eyes. I could see... I could see! I heard the creaking of wood as the man climbed up from the chair. He held out his hand to help me up. The long black nails scratched my wrist as I accepted it. "Nice to see you again Lucifer." I said as I stared into the pools of tar he had for eyes. "No need to be formal with me." He sat back on the chair. "This is a simple trade just like before. " As Lucifer sipped his drink, I retrieved a locket tucked beneath my shirt. Even though my vision had been gone for years, I carried a picture of my family with me. After I sold my soul, I left them for their own protection. Now I could see the beautiful faces of my wife and daughter again. Lucifer began to speak. "Another client of mine has violated our terms. I need you to take care of them." I stifled a laugh. "So you think I'm an assassin? I know the rules anyway, if I take their life my soul will just be yours again." "No, the terms don't apply today. Heaven is blind." Lucifer emptied his glass with one final sip. I stared at the locket again. Finally, I could return to my family, things could be normal again. I could already see the look on my daughter Hailey's face as she saw me walk into the room. How could I possibly say no? "I'll do it." I said. Lucifer smiled and raised one hand to my forehead. The scent of the night air filled my nostrils, the bar melting into a dark street. In front of me stood a small house. The night was unnaturally dark. Lucifer's handiwork without a doubt. I began walking slowly towards the house, a long sacrificial dagger clutched in my hand. Lucifer was still old fashioned in his methods apparently. The front door squeaked ever so slightly as I entered the sleeping house. The scent of cinnamon greeted me. I dodged shoes and toys as I made my way towards the stairs. I stopped at the foot of them noticing that someone was asleep on the couch. A child. "Sick fuck." I whispered under my breath. How was I any better than him? If I didn't do this I'd go back to being alone and blind, drinking my life away. That was reason enough for me to continue. I ascended the stairs. I entered the room where my target lie sleeping. Inching closer and closer to the bed I raised the dagger. I loomed over the mound of blankets before plunging the dagger downward as hard as I could. Moonlight illuminated the room the very second the dagger struck, no more unnatural darkness. I caught sight of my target's face and staggered back as my heart sunk. It was my wife. Her eyes were open and she was fully conscious as I embraced her bleeding body. She turned to me and smiled, a smile laced with pain. "John, I can't believe it's really you." She was still smiling. "I'm so sorry my love." I was fighting back tears. The room was suddenly illuminated as though consumed by fire. I turned to see Lucifer standing by the doorway. Rage boiled from within me and I charged at him. He lifted a hand stopping me in my tracks. "We had a deal John, and so did your wife and I." His voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. "All she wanted was for you to see each other once again. She knew it would come at a price." "I would have never agreed to this!" I screamed in frustration. Lucifer laughed a cold, mocking tone. "It was your choice not to ask questions. Now I really must be leaving John." Lucifer crossed the room and approached my wife. She turned to me and smiled once again as a single tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you John. " She blew me a kiss. "Hailey is going to be so excited to see you." Lucifer raised a hand to her face obscuring her eyes. Her breathing stopped. The room illuminated once again as Lucifer vanished leaving me all alone once again.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings/Spotlights are Tallied While I am first through third place system for spotlights, and also submitting to the feature myself, I think it’s only fair that you guys know how rankings are totaled. They work on a point-based system as follows: - **Upvotes:** 1 point each (no cap) - **Feedback:** 1 point each (7 pt. cap) - **User nominations:** 2 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 3 points each (I select 1-3 from the thread each week) - **Bonus:** When I announce extra points for things like using an additional constraint, filling out forms, etc. This ranges from 1-2 pts. (Not applicable every week.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/red_veteran   - - Submitted by u/TheLettre7   - - Submitted by u/rare27 - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese #Rankings: Two Weeks Ago Rankings are finally here! Thank you so much for your patience. Everyone who submitted a story should give themselves a pat on the back, but I’d like to give an extra congrats to the following: - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - Platinum Award   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - Gold Award   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan - Awesome Answer Award   - - Submitted by u/bantamnerd - Hugz Award   *** ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.