TW: murder Midsummer, and the sun was dipping behind the broad-leafed beeches, staining their crowns with crimson. Up on the downs, shadow was mantling the recumbent fields and shrouding the hedgerows and thickets in night’s cool embrace. From somewhere in a hawthorn tree, a blackbird shaped smooth, rich notes into twilight melodies.

From his bedroom window, Peter watched the sunset in silent anticipation. One of the longest days of the year was drawing to its close and his wait was almost over. He glanced over at the torch on his desk. Picking it up, he pressed the button on its casing and a pale glow emanated from the bulb.

Good. Working fine.

Peter looked back out towards the downs, which stood now in silent silhouette against the night sky, rising in the distance above the tile roofs of the houses opposite. The sun had vanished into the dark earth like a tomb and the stars were winking into their places on the violet horizon.

“Peter?”

“What is it Mum?”

“Come down and help with the washing up.”

Peter jumped off his chair and headed to the kitchen, submerging his hands in the warm soapy suds as he scrubbed furiously at the dinner plates. Again and again, he stole glances at the clock on the wall. The big hand hardly seemed to move. Peter sighed in annoyance.

“OK Peter?” His mother asked as she entered the kitchen, putting the kettle on the boil.

“Sure, Mum.”

“You ought to take yourself off to bed soon. It’s getting late for a school day. I’ll finish the rest.”

Peter nodded and said goodnight, climbing the stairs back to his bedroom. Pulling the door to, he sat back down at his desk and reached for a magazine to leaf through as he waited. Again, he found his glance repeatedly drawn away from its pages to his bedroom clock.

Ten o’ clock. Quarter past ten. Half past. Quarter to eleven.

Outside his door, he heard his mother’s footsteps creaking on the landing. The twang of the bathroom light pull cord and the rhythmic brushing of teeth. Another twang as the bathroom light was turned off. More footsteps across the landing, to his mother’s bedroom. The door closed shut. Then - silence.

Minutes passed. Clutching the torch in one hand, Peter tip-toed to his own bedroom door and slowly cracked it open, peering out into the shadowy landing. Carefully, stealthily, he crept through the darkness and down the stairs, towards the front door. His heart in his throat, his chest thudding, he lifted the latch and eased the door open. Peter paused, peering over the threshold. From beyond, the night stared back at him. With one last look back into the gloom of the house, Peter stepped out onto the street and quietly closed the door behind him.

Under the dull orange glow of the street lamps, Peter stole down the road, casting careful glances about himself as he did so. His steps sounded heavy and oppressive in the night stillness. The lean shape of a fox trotted briskly across Peter’s path, stopping to look back at him before disappearing into a dark mass of garden hedge.

“Psst - Pete!”

Turning, Peter saw the figure of a teenage boy lounging beside a lamppost.

“Chris!”

“Nice one, Pete,” Chris said, ambling over to join his friend. “Gave your mum the slip then?”

“Yeah, just about. We’d better get up the Ring, then - how long we got?”

“About an hour until midnight.” Chris checked his watch. “Yeah - let’s get going.”

The two boys walked at a quick pace, down another road and then up a path leading between trees which leaned in close upon them. As they walked uphill, the trees grew thicker around them until they were in woods.

“You know my dad always said there used to be a tunnel which led right from our street all the way up to the hill fort on the Ring,” Chris said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was all one big estate in the old times. He said the entrance to the tunnel was hidden in the manor house that used to be there, and that there was buried treasure right at the end of it. Apparently when they came to demolish the house, the workmen found the tunnel and tried to explore - but they were scared away by the huge snakes guarding it. House was knocked down and the tunnel was never found again.”

“I’d not heard that one before.”

“No? Dad used to tell me all the stories. He said that magic was still alive on the Downs. You know that this was one of the last pagan places in all England? The magic was something left over from the old times, Dad used to say. Ghostly highwaymen and strange lights in the night sky, that kind of thing. It was Dad that told me about the Midsummer Tree.”

Peter looked over at Chris as they continued to walk. It was hard to make out his expression in the shadow.

“Oh yeah?”

“That’s right. I think he liked to scare me and Sarah with it when we were little. He always liked the creepier stories, Dad. And Midsummer - Dad said that this is the day of the year when the walls between the worlds were at their thinnest. When the spirits walk more freely on the earth.”

“Reckon we’ll see them tonight, then?” Chris asked, off-hand. Even as he spoke the words, he was aware of the hairs starting up on the back of his neck.

“Who, the dead? That’s why we’re going, isn’t it?”

The boys continued walking in silence for a few minutes. Left to his thoughts, Peter began to realise he didn’t feel quite so enthusiastic as he had earlier while waiting to head out, in the safety and comfort of his bedroom. The boys’ torch beams arced through the darkness as they pushed forwards and upwards, but pressing in upon them on all sides was deep, suffocating gloom. Familiar paths now seemed strange and uncanny under the shadow of night, tinged with an almost supernatural unreality.

“Dad used to say the Green Man walked in these woods,” Chris said, breaking the silence.

“The Green Man?”

“Yeah - he’s a god, or a spirit - face covered in oak leaves. Dad said you could feel his presence sometimes, watching you.”

“Sure that wasn’t just the hobo? The one Edders said he saw in his den that time.”

Chris laughed.

“Nah, hobo wasn’t around back then. Dad never mentioned him anyway. He would have known.”

Another minute of silence as the boys continued to walk. Twigs and fallen leaves crunched under foot. This time it was Peter who spoke up.

“Are you all…are you all doing OK? You and your mum. Sarah.”

“Miss him every day, Pete. It’s just…I’d do anything to see him again.”

“He’d probably be pleased you were so into all this though, right…all the folklore and stuff.”

“Yeah, guess you’re right.”

The boys trudged on in silence again. Peter tried to steal another glance at Chris’ face in the darkness, but it was impossible to read. He wondered if he’d been right in asking his question, or whether he should have let it lie. He knew how close Chris and his father had been. How one summer night two years ago Chris’ father had left home and never returned. How Chris had waited, waited, waited. How, at only twelve years old, Chris had sat in black at his father’s funeral, staring through eyes blurry with tears at the empty coffin. Denied a chance to even properly mourn. Denied a final goodbye.

Ahead of the boys, the trees began to open up once more, and a dark, broad shape rose ahead of them like a great black whale surfaced from the deep, its top flattened except for a few sparse trees that stood like sentinels on its rim, stark against the starlight.

The Ring. Long, long ago it had been a hill fort, a great circular enclosure in which the ancient dwellers of the Downs had huddled together for protection against their enemies and the elements. Within the stockade which no longer stood, they had lit bonfires to banish the cold and dark; yet beyond its mighty ramparts unseen terrors had lurked and prowled in the shadow.

Now, two small figures climbed the steep steps cut into its slope, casting thin threads of light from their torches as they picked out their paths. An eerie scream pierced the night air and Peter froze, his blood running suddenly cold. Then, he realised to his relief that he recognised the cry.

A vixen. Just another fox.

“There’s all sorts of stories about this place,” Chris said, his breath now short from the effort of the ascent. “The fort was here before England even existed - before the Romans even. Dad said they used to bury pagan kings here, in big mounds. Look! That’s probably one there.”

Clambering over the rim of the hill, the boys had stopped, panting, under the stars. Peter followed Chris’ glance and saw a grey, swelling shape lying some way off, silent and still in the gloom. As Peter looked, the shape seemed to resolve itself into the figure of a man reposing corpse-like under the sky. A slight breath of wind gently stirred the grass at Peter’s feet and he shivered involuntarily.

“Come on,” Chris said. “The Midsummer Tree’s nearer the centre.”

As the boys trekked across the Ring, Peter felt as if an invisible, brooding presence was watching them - whether from the thick copse of trees over to their right, or hanging unseen in the very air, he couldn’t say. The night breeze seemed to murmur around them as if whispering in an ancient, long-dead tongue.

“There!” Chris cried in sudden excitement, quickening his pace and pointing. “That’s it! The Midsummer Tree.”

There it stood, a gnarled, twisted carcass of a tree, its trunk split open to reveal a gaping black void within. A tangled mass of roots crept tentacle-like across the ground towards the boys; more roots reached out like pale fingers from the soil. A thick canopy of oak leaves bent out from the top of the trunk, a sign that, despite its decrepit appearance, the tree still lived. It had stood there for centuries.

Peter stood looking up at it, its warped boughs yellow in the glow of his torch. This is what they had come to see.

He recalled what Chris had told him about the tree, when he’d first tried to convince him to sneak out on Midsummer night and climb the Ring. Peter wasn’t sure now whether he wanted to believe the story or not.

“How long now?” Peter asked, uneasily.

“It’s two minutes to midnight,” Chris replied, staring hard at his watch. “Come on, quick - we should get under cover.”

The boys picked their way over to a nearby clump of bracken and crouched carefully in the fronds.

“Lights off,” said Chris, in a whisper now. The torches clicked off and the beams died. As Peter stared into the gloom, his eyes gradually began to become accustomed to the dark. There, not far from where they crouched, stood the Midsummer Tree, appearing now like some unearthly giant bent-double towards them under the waxing moon. The soft hooting of an owl sounded from nearby.

“You don’t really believe it…do you Chris?”

“What?”

“This. All of this. Skeletons rising from the ground at the stroke of midnight on Midsummer night…dancing round the tree…”

“Dad said there’s ancient magic in this place,” Chris replied, his gaze fixed on the Midsummer Tree. “In the Ring…at the tree…and not just the skeletons…”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, the bracken crackling beneath his feet. The fronds seemed to snatch at his ankles.

“Yeah but…it’s just a story, isn’t it?”

For a moment, a deathly silence. Then:

“Midnight. It’s midnight,” Chris whispered, tapping his watch.

Peter forced himself to look back towards where the monstrous black shape of the Midsummer Tree loomed up from the ground. All was still in the darkness.

Moments passed.

“Well I don’t see them,” Peter said. His voice sounded more unsteady than he’d have liked. “I guess we’d better go then?”

“Shh - wait.”

Peter turned to look at his friend. Chris was staring intently at the tree, his brows furrowed.

“Nothing’s happening, Chris,” Peter said, more insistently this time. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Shut up!” Chis hissed, grabbing Peter’s arm. “Look - there!”

Turning back to look at the tree, Peter saw - nothing. But then, as he continued to peer into the darkness, the shadows around the trunk seemed to melt and shift in the spectral gloom, now leaping up to the lower branches, now tripping round the roots. Ghostly grins seemed to appear and vanish under leaves which rustled and whispered in the breeze. Peter felt the hairs pricking up on his bare arms and a chill seizing him. His heart began to beat fast against his chest. Beside him, Chris’ breathing sounded rapidly.

“I can see them,” Chris whispered. “It’s true. The dance of the dead - round and round they’ll go, all night…then at cock-crow they’ll sink back silently into the earth, as if they’d never been…It’s just as Dad said. It’s all true.”

“It’s shadows, Chris. Just a trick of the light.”

The grip on Peter’s arm tightened. That’s when Peter saw it. Glinting wickedly in the moonlight, held in Chris’ free hand. A knife.

“What the hell?”

“I can bring him back, Pete,” Chris breathed, his eyes wide. “I can bring Dad home.”

“The hell?” Peter wrenched himself out of Chris’ grasp and stumbled backwards onto his feet, keeping his eye fixed on the blade. “Why’ve you got a knife for God’s sake?”

Chris was on his feet like a coiled spring. Holding the knife out towards Peter, he began to advance slowly towards him, his face set with a frightening, steely determination.

“It needs a blood sacrifice,” he said. “To feed the roots of the tree. To join them .”

“You’re out of your mind,” cried Peter in disbelief. “Get the hell away from me!” He turned, hurtling himself forward and away from his friend. Towards the Midsummer Tree. As he stumbled forward, something gripped his ankle and he tripped sideways, staggering against the trunk. Within moments, Chris was upon him, slashing at him with the knife.

Peter screamed in pain, instinctively clutching his arm and falling forward upon his knees onto the tangled mass of roots. From between his fingers, blood oozed out, dripping to the ground and blotting the soil. His head thudding, he looked up and saw Chris standing above him, still gripping the blade. A second passed, then Chris seemed to reel back, the knife clattering to the earth inches from Peter’s knee. As Peter tried to clamber up, his arm still searing with pain, he saw that the figure of a man had hold of Chris by both shoulders. His eyes burned fierce in a face half hidden beneath a great mass of beard and he was repeating something over and over as Chris tried to break free from his grasp. Another moment, and Chris thudded into the trunk of the tree as the man slipped backwards. There was a sickening crunch as his head hit the ground. Then - silence, save for the sound of the boys’ heavy panting.

Peter reached out and grabbed the knife, easing himself slowly up onto his feet. His arm throbbed with pain where it had been slashed. Nearby, the man lay sprawled on the ground, his feet stretched towards Peter. He fumbled in his pocket for his torch and shone it onto the face. In the pale glow, he saw crimson skeins trickling out from under the man’s hair. Eyes set deep in the face stared back lifelessly.

“He’s dead, Chris,” Peter said, his voice quavering. “You’ve killed him.”

There was no response. Peter swung the torch beam to his side. Chris sat sunken against the trunk of the Midsummer Tree, arms gripped around his knees. His eyes were wide and fixed on the corpse.

“Chris - you’ve killed him,” Peter repeated. “For God’s sake, Chris.”

“It’s him,” Chris whispered, barely audible. “It’s Dad.”

“What?”

“I didn’t see…I didn’t know…it’s Dad.”

Peter glanced again at the body, at the matted mass of hair and beard, at the tattered jacket and the shabby trousers.

“It’s the hobo, Chris. It’s not your dad.”

Chris shook his head slowly, still not taking his eyes off the cadaver.

“He kept…he kept saying my name. He said - ‘Chris’.”

“You don’t know what you heard - you’re half out of your mind! You tried to kill me for God’s sake!”

Chris was still shaking his head, as if transfixed. Then, again, a cracked whisper: “It’s my Dad.”

Peter stared in horror at the ghastly sight before him: at his friend crouched in shock against the tree, at the figure lying stretched out lifelessly across its ancient roots.

It couldn’t possibly be Chris’ dad…could it?

The body was never found .

But no. Everyone had known that he was dead - even Chris had never questioned that.

Peter felt a sudden uncanny chill as the other, more eerie possibility floated unbidden into his mind. He felt his wound throbbing, the blood still oozing out and splashing onto the roots of the tree at his feet.

From the darkened boughs of the Midsummer Tree above him, a white owl glided out ghost-like into the night. And round and round its ancient trunk, the spectral shadows danced.


Normally I'm the one who skips the hot tub and helps with the dishes because hot tubs at parties kinda gross me out a little-- you know when you see little flakes of skin or hairs or whatever floating on the surface?--but I have a sprained shoulder and think it might help. The host is my co-worker, Kelly, who works beside me in the warehouse, and has become more or less my supervisor.

She invites me to these things all the time, and I almost always say no, because big social gatherings stress me out.

The tub is aglow with blue light, making everyone's face look surreal. I find the darkest spot on the deck and give myself some private kudos for remembering to breathe long, slow breaths, which makes it slightly less uncomfortable for me to strip down in this moment. As I remove my tee shirt and jeans and hang them over her deck rail, trying to look casual--thinking, 'these are my clothes, this is where my clothes are'-- Kelly keeps repeating how glad she is that I could finally make it.

"Get on in here," she says. "The water is perfect." It's one of those early fall nights with a clear sky, a new moon and a million stars.

Kelly and her husband have a really nice house, for a second I wonder what he does for a living, because she only makes the same as me. There's a few of us in the tub, maybe five or six at any time. It's a large, electric tub, one of those fiberglass deals. We sip our beers and gaze at the view of the elderberry bushes along the back fence and anytime someone new steps in, he or she grins the same huge grin and makes the same, slow "ahhhhh" sound as they sink down into the 105-plus degrees water. Soon it feels natural for me to be in a tub with five strangers. One reason it's easier than I expected it to be, is that these particular strangers, though slightly buzzed, are very conscious of social distancing, due to the pandemic. While keeping a full six feet apart may not be possible in a hot tub, they repeatedly jockey themselves away from one another, 'giving space,' as they say, which results in a decidedly nonsexual vibe.

I claim a jet and use it to find the exact spot in my shoulder where pain and pleasure merge, and I stay on that spot until my surroundings all but disappear. People climb in and out, one blue-lit, smiling face is replaced by another one. I always smile back. I don't say much, I prefer to listen quietly or zone out. At some point some guy named Bob happens to ask Kelly how she sterilizes the tub, which sparks a discussion about which method works best--chlorine, bromine, or sodium bromide with shock. I notice Kelly never actually answers Bob's question, as the conversation sweeps to some other topic, as conversations do, before she has the chance. The massage jet feels great on my shoulder, and I can't seem to leave the heat, so Kelly and I are the last ones still in the hot tub. Later, she tells me she was aware of Bob's presence, as he sat in a nearby hammock chair, but I have no idea he is there. My ears are probably half underwater and I'm definitely thoroughly relaxed. Time goes by.

Just making small talk, I ask again what she uses to keep the hot tub clean. I figure it's bromine, because it does not smell at all bleach-y. She raises her voice a titch and says, "We're not into using any nasty chemicals. We just ask everybody to shower first." I've already been in the tub for over an hour, so there is no point being in a hurry to get out of it now, despite my fear of cooties. And when I say cooties, I mean other people's cooties, but there's also the other thing, which is that I didn't take a shower before I got in. I don't tell Kelly that. I do tell her that I think along with asking people to shower, she probably should've let them know the tub was unsterilized before they got in. She agrees in a half-hearted, dismissive way, then gives me kind of a mini-lecture about self-responsibility and how we should all maintain our own strong immune systems. While she talks, I hear a defensive tone in her voice that intensifies the longer I say nothing. She's in the middle of listing a bunch of supplements she takes when suddenly Bob leaps out of the hammock chair and starts yelling at her about bacterial infections. I mean, he comes unglued. He calls her an ignorant idiot. She's no wallflower, she launches herself out of the water like a missile and they get into a full-on screaming match, both sides standing on the deck in their towels, naked and steaming in the freezing air.

Bob's shouting draws people out of the house, and now everyone is on the deck, tuned in to the drama. Some guests get upset when they hear the news, some even take turns re-showering, their faces indignant as nuns. Loud enough for everyone to hear, Kelly proclaims that also, she changes the hot tub water after every shared use. All the guests fall quiet for a moment. I can hear their brains processing. Nobody is sure how to respond, except Bob.

Bob doesn't believe her at first--the tub is so large--but she insists it's true, and that she changes the water any time anyone other than she or her husband uses the tub. "We don't have people over very often," she explains. I wonder why she says that, since she throws dinner parties, like, ALL the time, and these are the very people she has over--but I keep quiet. Maybe she is losing her grip on reality. Too much pressure will cause anyone to crack. There's a lot of back-and-forth among the guests as to whether or not filling the tub with new water after every use is, scientifically speaking, a hygienic enough way to keep us safe. The discussion veers into neighboring territories, moving from the potentially dangerous tub water to withdrawal as a birth control method, and then inevitably, my stomach tightening to witness it, into the minefield subject of masks and vaccines, until the friendly ease with which we had so recently bathed and drank together seems all but lost.

In the end, everyone agrees that, safe or not, the host should have made it known there were no chemicals in the water. Bob makes a joke that gets a big laugh and people start putting on their coats and promising each other they'll get together soon, but I notice the host is being ostracized. A shift has taken place in the energy toward the host.

I am the last to leave. I ask Kelly about her husband, why he hadn't been at the party. She pulls a cover part way over the tub and I help her gather wet towels from the deck, as she replies, "Oh, he hates parties. He thinks most of my friends are idiots." I laugh at this, but she doesn't. For the first time all evening, she looks tired. In her eyes I see a look of defeat and pain, a new heaviness in her step as she makes her way around the tub.

It seems like the right thing to do, to give her a little hug, so I push past the awkwardness, and try my best, as a way to say goodbye. It’s all I’ve got--I mean, I’m tired, too. My quick hug feels like throwing a tiny meat scrap to a huge, sad dog.

I wish I had more, I wish her husband had more, I wish the guests had more. I pull my car keys out of my jeans, step into my Sorels. "Thanks for coming, buddy,” she sighs. “I was glad you were here." And with that, she pulls an unopened, six-pound jug of SpaGuard Enhanced Shock Oxidizer from under a table, and measures a hefty dose of sodium dichloro-s-triazinetrione into the settled water.


‘Fools all of them, simple minded fools who could not begin to understand a single percent of my geniuses,’ the supposed dead man yelled in the morgue to one in particular. He had woken up not to long ago but had already resumed his nonsensical shouting at the sky. Some thing would never change. The morgue was a rather cold place but that was alright, he had felt nothing but cold these past few weeks so he had grown accustomed to it. What he had not grown accustomed to however was the fact that he could look at his own hands again, his own body for that matter. Something what was once considered so ordinary had now become a queer phenomenon. Simply put it was unnatural. He should never again have to look at his own hands. It felt beneath him. In a fuss which made no sense and sense at the same time he crossed his arms like a three year old would after having been denied ice cream. ‘This would not do, not all.’ He proceeded to throw the nearest thing he could find against the wall. It happened to be a dismembered arm that once belonged to a poor fellow ran over by a donkey. By accident he found himself staring into a mirror. Staring at himself. How long had it been since he was able to view himself in a reflection? The stranger did not know. What he did know was that his sight should not be there. Looking in the mirror for him was like looking at a stranger you would pass by in the streets. His face was no longer his, he did not want to see it ever again. So he proceeded to commit the only logical act he could. He threw a shoe at the mirror and it shattered into a million different pieces. Pain. The way he threw the arm. Pain was found in his chest. The man rubbed his chest, the spots where the bullets hit him still hurt, he did not believe that the pain would ever stop seizing. It never did. But pain was of no importance here. The Stranger laughed. He laughed like he was insane, perhaps he was insane. Perhaps he had always been insane. Deep down everyone was a little bit insane. The man thought back to the reason he was here, the reason he was still alive. ‘Those moronic fools. ALL OF THEM!’ he cleared his throat. ‘It was so easy to get that doctor they sent on my side. All it took was a little bit of money, something I have plenty off. Humanity, nothing about it matters if one has a little bit of money. HILARIOUS!’ There was a sound. It did not come from him. Everything stopped all at once. Focus diverted to the direction said sound came from. Someone else? The coroner? Footsteps came down from the steps which lead to the outside world, to freedom. To everything that ever could be. The Coroner was coming down to see what all the ruckus was about in his morgue. The Stranger was in no rush to find a hiding place or act dead. In fact he did not such thing, he did not even bother moving a single step. The Stranger stood where he stood, no clothes on him. The Coroner had finally made his way down the steps. He looked around his morgue, nothing had been displaced nobody was there. Until he spotted the naked man smiling at him. ‘Well than what’s all this?’ The Coroner asked as his face dropped. The strange naked man did not respond to him due to the fact he did not believe the Coroner was talking to him. No one could ever talk to him ever again for that matter, only he could talk to them. But not as of now. The Coroner was staring at him, wondering why the strange naked man was in his morgue. ‘Oi! I’m talking to you there! You with your willy out and everything!’ The Coroner yelled. Realization came to the Stranger at last. The Coroner was talking to HIM? How could such a thing be possible. How in a million years could a ordinary human witness him? Then he looked at his own hands again. ‘Bugger.’ ‘Bugger?!’ The Coroner screamed. ‘Is that all you have to say? What are you doing standing all naked in my morgue!?’ The queerness of a human being seeing him again was something he did not want to grow accustomed to. It was so beneath him. ‘Do not yell at me you imbecilic. You do not have that kind of right. And if you really must know. I just woke up here you see.’ The strange man paused his sentence. He turned his head, looked around the morgue, inspecting the place. Hoping to find something which he could use as a murder weapon. Everything could be used as a murder weapon, even his hands. He could repeat strangling someone but to repeat a style of murder was so terrible dull. Life was dull enough as it was, there needed to be some magic in it, some EXCITEMENT. ‘No, no, no, no, no, NO. Murdering someone the same way as before would not do!’ The strange man yelled. ‘What are you talking about? Murder?’ ‘Yes murder you idiot, now shut up and let me think.’ The Stranger paced in circles, surely there must be some original way to murder him in here? There had to be ONE! The strange man’s head turned to the table which held all the little instruments one would need in an autopsy. Only now one of them was going to be used to end the life of a living coroner, well he wouldn’t be living for much longer. The Stranger grabbed the first thing he could, it turned out to be a hammer. More cliché then he had hoped for but beggars could not be choosers. Hammer in hand he neared the Coroner, his grin never fading no matter how close he came. Murder was about to make a reappearance. ‘Stay back I am warning you!’ ‘Warning me with what? What could a little man like you possible do against me!? HAHAHAHAHAHA.’ The Coroner wanted to utter out a reply but could not complete that action due to the fact that the Stranger crushed his throat with his own hammer, it was a rather bloody sight to witness. ‘I hope that will teach to you to talk to strangers.’ The Stranger dropped the hammer on the dying Coroner’s head. ‘Here take it back, I have no use for it anymore.' The Coroner was declared death by the Stranger. He stood over the death body of the Coroner, there was a joke in there somewhere but he was in no mood to think of one, there was too much on his mind. He needed to leave the morgue, he needed something else. A laboratory, yes a laboratory would do nicely. He looked at the steps. It was time to leave this place. The Stranger walked towards said steps. Only to pause his walking toward the exit not even ten seconds later. The beginning of this new tale had to wait, something needed to be said first. ‘DEATH SHALL HAVE ME WHEN IT HAS EARNED ME.’ The man resumed his walk, up the stairs he walked. Enough time had been wasted already. The time had come. Time for Jack Griffin to become The Invisible Man once more.


I’m pouring us a cup of tea, just for the two of us. It’s not for the whole world, it isn’t even for the people down the street. It’s only for her and for me. The steam wafts up and warms my hands, wetting them. And it feels like a bit of it is melting, lightly like the way a flame slowly melts a candle. Mine, green. Hers, jasmine. She’s always been that way and in that is something I’ve always loved about her. Not too different, but different enough to notice. Maybe that’s the way she wants to be remembered, just a little different. Enough to be misunderstood and long for understanding but not so much that people think she’s crazy. I feel as if I’m in my twenties again, though those days are decades away now. But right now, as my hands melt into the mugs of tea, it feels as if it were just yesterday that we were meeting on the train platform, each of us saying goodbye to somebody. Me, my father as he went away, and her to her brother. Each the last time we would see the other. Neither of us knowing that would be the last time we would see those people and not understanding how close we were to meeting the other. How close I was to meeting my brother-in-law, and her her father-in-law. I suppose that’s fate. How they died brought us together, and there’s something poetic about that. Something feels like they were our angels leading us to each other, and that makes it okay that we didn’t meet the other. We were both crying that day. There were hundreds of people there, but of those hundreds of people, only our lives were meant to be woven together. Like a basket of yarn all knotted together, except two strings that found each other. I asked her to coffee the moment I saw her. She had curly hair that skipped on her shoulders. It was shiny and soft, and despite the cold weather, she was warm as a Summer’s day. She was in a red coat, bright red and suede. I would later find out she wore it so her brother could see her from as far away as possible, until the train turned the corner and the stop couldn’t be seen any longer. I cried when she told me that. I cried anytime she talked about her brother and how close they were and how he was only two years older than her. I bring her her tea in bed, careful not to spill it down the sides, walking as if I’m carrying glass sculptures. She hates when things spill down the sides. The steam is caressing the air and the floorboards are creaking beneath my feet. Like that day at the train station, it’s cold outside. The snow is falling lightly, as if it were afraid to wake the ground it’s landing on. Through the window I can see that the road is covered by about eight inches of snow, and at least five more in the fields. The sky is gray but happy. The sun is trying to make an appearance, bursting at the seams with jealousy that it cannot be seen today. I sit her saucer and mug down on the bedside table next to her. She smiles at me gently and softly closes her eyes. I take a sip of my tea, hot to the lips, and put it on her table as well. Our saucers touch, only slightly. I suppose that’s natural, that everything we touch must always touch, too. I pick up her mug and blow it, the steam whooshing away as ripples tickle the sides of the mug. I taste it to make sure it isn’t too hot, and bring the mug to her lips. With a smile she brings her lips up to her jasmine tea and quaintly sips one, two, three drinks. She can’t hold the tea because she hates for things to spill down the sides, and her hands shake too much to drink it herself. She has a water bottle with a lid and a straw that she has to use for water. Even with that she has to use both hands, and usually has it sitting on a table. She nods and rests her head back, that’s enough. Her hair is much lighter now and it’s lost its curls. Though its bounce is still there, skipping across her shoulders. I sit in the green chair I have pulled up to her side of the bed. I grab the book I’ve been reading her, Wuthering Heights has always been a favorite. Dorothy was an English professor and always loved the classics. She especially loved the theme of love in Wuthering Heights, and she always found a way to forgive Heathcliff for his shortcomings, despite being abusive. She once said, “We often forget what it’s like to be hated, oftentimes never feeling it. But Heathcliff, he was loved and hated, he must have been so confused. I don’t know what it’s like to be hated, but I know what it’s like to be loved. Truly loved. I don’t know how I would be if that were ever taken from me.” The spine of this book is worn like the others, and this is probably our fourth read through of this one. Next she wants to go through The Catcher in the Rye, and then 1984, then The Brothers Karamazov after that. Each taking a few days to get through. I’ll read to her during dinner, then after when we have tea, then before bed. When I’m not reading I talk to her. I talk to her about my day, about my feelings, about her, about what the kids said was going on in their lives. She can’t talk, not much. We don’t love those that can talk to us forever, we love those that speak to us forever. She isn’t dead, but she is dying. They said she would only be this way for a few months, but after we made it through Crime and Punishment we started onto another book. Then we finished that one and started another one. Disease can only kill you as much as your happiness will allow it to. So I kept reading, and reading, and reading. And still I read. I learn something new, take something different away from each book every time I read it. Dorothy is a lot like these books in that way. It seems I’m learning something new about her all the time, at least weekly, even after all these years. That’s what’s special about loving someone. The wind is howling outside. The snow is floating to the ground. The tea is hot. The book reads, “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”


The whistling sounds emanating against the window resounded through the corridors. Even though she walked with padded footsteps, the loose floorboard under her feet croaked suddenly and, her breath hitched for a moment. After looking around to see if anyone was awoken by the noise, she again sauntered towards the main chamber to check on Mr. Charles. Erna released a sigh of relief as she glanced at the man entering his older adulthood, sleeping peacefully. Unlike most of the time, on that night his visage was calm and serene. His aged frame was not shivering of fear but due to the cold gusts of winds penetrating through the gaps in between the ventilating windows. Erna tiptoed to the window frame and shut the panes with a thud.

A whimper passed between the lips of her husband and, she turned around abruptly, only to find him still sleeping peacefully. She trudged towards his figure with a small smile and engulfed his frame in a duvet before reclining on her side of the bed. Eyes drooping of exhaustion, she caught one last glance of the sleeping man as she enveloped herself in her own sheets and entered the realm of her dreams.

- A man in his mid-fifties was strolling along the trampled trail, his back facing her and his frame enveloped in track pants and a white t-shirt. Erna squinted her eyes as she tried to discern the outline of the frame under the dim moonlight. The small bald patch on the back of his head caught her sight and she sprinted forward to call out to him. "Edmund! Edmund! Right here!" she waved her hands back and forth, repeatedly to grab his attention. Mr. Charles turned about to find her wife, Erna, standing upright a few feet away from her. He gave her a rueful smile as she got frustrated due to his sudden melancholic behavior. As Edmund beckoned her to trudge towards him, she noticed a white light radiating from his frame. She took a step in his direction and his smile widened, betokening her to continue to do so. Erna gathered all her confidence and will and reached out her hand to hold his. As his palm came in touch with hers, she shuddered due to the sudden and unfamiliar coldness. She glanced at him again. "Why are your hands so cold?" He again gave her a pitiful, weak smile. "And what's with those smiles? You know, I have had them for the forthcoming ten lifetimes in the past twenty-two years." Erna forewarned as she glared at him. Edmund broke into a peal of laughter, amused at her wife's grimace. He imperceptibly patted her shoulders and she slackened immediately to find him back in his usual demeanor as her hazel orbs now wandered around to recognize her strange surroundings. She ascertained herself standing in the middle of what looked like a clearing in an unknown forest. Green shrubbery and trees surrounded her from all sides as the shrill hooting of the owl reverberated through the area. She hesitantly left the warmth of his hands as she plodded towards the sound of low, cascading water, originating from somewhere in between the huge trunks. Before she could move any further, the huge figure of Edmund Charles hovered over her small frame, arms draping around her shoulder. "I'll escort you there." "Where?" Erna inquired, utterly perplexed. "You'll see." He clutched her hands again and motioned her to follow his lead. She soundlessly trudged behind him for a few minutes as the only sound that could be heard at a distance was that of the rustling of dry leaves and the faint murmur of water. A thousand visions passed in front of her eyes and she could only envision what was the thing of so much significance that made his husband travel all the way down to the middle of the jungle.

"Earth to Erna, are you dying on me?" Edmund chortled at his own words but abruptly opted a grim expression on observing the bemused expression of her face. "No, I am not. Not now, not ever." she retorted back. Edmund's face broke into a gleeful smile as he conjectured the concealed meaning behind her words. "We're here!" he announced softly. Erna turned her head to espy the scenery as a gasp of astonishment escaped her lips. She rummaged her brain to find the familiar image embedded in her wits and then it clicked. "The fall!" she shrieked. Edmund nodded dubiously in her direction as his orbs traveled back to the breathtaking picture painted by God himself.

There stood in front of them, a gigantic and colossal waterfall as the water tumbled down along with the boulders, accentuating its waves, and the watercress rooted in the river bed danced along with the wind. The water descended with white foam originating at its edge and the river-water reflected the subtle white moonlight. The trees surrounded the stream as if shielding it against all harm from the outer world. Erna reminisced the picture she had seen in his personal album. It was of the same waterfall. "This is the Lake of Zion. Dew named it." Erna was startled at the sudden piece of information provided to her. "W-What? What do you mean?" "I have had enough of this life, Erna. When she was here, I wasn't. Now, when I want her to be here, she cannot." "Erna D'Maryne Charles, I regret marrying you sometimes. Not that I don't love you but because of me, you had to opt for that boring last name that my family had been cursed with." She gawked at him in skepticism as Edmund broke into a peal of laughter. Realizing that she wasn't up for witticism, he shut his mouth for the 'greater good.' "And...no. No, I am not leaving you. Not now, not ever." He returned her own words with a small smile and her eyes widened in cognizance. - "No!" Erna woke up astounded to find her frame sprawled on the bed. Sweat dripping down her forehead, her eyes frantically traveled around her chamber, seeking her husband. This wasn't her usual paracosmic dream. It felt too... realistic to be just an illusory dream. She glanced at Edmund once again before placing her palm on his forehead, only to bring it back perturbed. To say he was cold, was an understatement though, his face was still serene. "Lucy! David!" she called out to her housemaid and personal doctor. Frenzied footsteps were heard along with the creaking of the wobbly floorboards and, the door swiftly flew open to unveil a middle-aged woman and a man in his early thirties. "W-what happened?" David asked in between his gasps of air. "It's E-Edmund... he is not reacting." their eyes widened at Erna's words as they scurried towards the bed in the chamber. David remained speechless for a few minutes as he examined the sleeping man for any cynical symptoms but found none. "It's probably the sedatives present in the antibiotics, Erna. He is absolutely fine." She gulped down her own saliva before responding to his words. "He's n-not. I had a vision. Or I thought it was a paracosmic vision. B-But it felt t-too real." "But you know that, Erna. You have had those dreams since childhood and..." Lucy's voice trailed off as Erna abruptly shrieked at them. "I know it wasn't! I had a premonition! He mentioned that he wanted to see Dew again and was going to leave me again...soon..." she croaked as she tried to muffle her sobs. They shut their eyes at her words. It was Dew. All over again. Dew Charles was the only little sister of Edmund Charles. She was everything he could ask for. A little angel that subsisted only for him. She was the one who discovered the Fall of Zion, veiled by the thousands of trees and boulders slouched in the green forest. It was her own sanctuary, her innoxious place. But she wasn't blessed enough to see it with her own orbs. Yes. She was purblind. But Edmund became her pair of eyes she never owned. His words did magic to the visions she created in her brain. It was just another usual day. Edmund and Dew were sitting on the boulder perched on the riverbank of the stream. Her head was in her brother's lap as he stroked her hair adoringly while her hands were moving constantly engraving something on the boulder with a sharp stone. At first, Edmund took no notice of it but when the ear-splitting sound of scratching the stone became louder, he couldn't keep his patience and grasped her wrist to restrict her from doing so. As soon as he caught sight of the engravings in the boulder, his eyes widened in astonishment. Her blind sister had carved a sketch of a boy, crouching in a corner, his head reposing on his knees. "Dew! H-How ??" "What, Ed?" "H-How in the name of holy l-lord did you picture this? The boy?" A gasp of surprise passed in between her lips as Dew turned to view the direction from where her brother's voice reverberated. "That's it! I've got the name! Thanks, Ed. You're the best!" Edmund looked at her in bewilderment as she pranced along the trampled foot trails and suddenly turned about to face him again. "And yes, I guess that's you..." her voice drawled on. "I've always attempted to envisage what would you look like, but of course, I am not sure..." her head drooped disappointed in herself. Edmund smiled at her innocent and cherished words. "It's perfect. I will always look what you imagine me to be like... be it a chipmunk." Dew's sweet laughter was like the chiming of bells to his ears. After what seemed like an eternity, she eventually calmed down and inhaled a deep breath to intake the floating fragrance of the oozing mud. "Hey, Ed?" she called out as she inched closer to him. "Hmm?" "Do you think it is okay for me to ramble for a while around the 'Zion'?" she asked him falteringly. "Yeah, that's perf-What? No! No! Absolutely not! What if you get lost and- " His words were cut off mid-sentence when a pair of padded footsteps caught his ears and he took a glance at Dew getting lost in the shrubs. "Dew Charles! Get back here right now!" he scowled. "I'll see you in a few, Ed!" she smiled cheekily in his direction before sprinting away. Edmund let out a huff of exasperation as he perched upon a log of wood lying near the riverbank, waiting for her little ball of happiness. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. Three hours had passed. Still no sign of her. Edmund was agitated as he stood upright and looked around for Dew for the rest of the night. He was clueless as to what had happened to her. Nobody knew where she went or what had she met on the way to never return back. A month had passed. Six months. A year... Forty-two years. Even forty-two years were not adequate for him to overcome the sudden loss of his beloved sister. The Police force had terminated the case after six months of its commencement. But there still lay a ray of hope that maybe, she was alive. Maybe she would reappear again. And it was then, Erna realized the meaning behind his words. He was never going to leave her. Because he had no intention of returning home. Which meant... "No!" Erna bellowed. "No! No! No! Don't do this! Edmund, Don't do this! Don't leave me alone! Don't die on me, Edmund!" her voice resounded through the mansion. Her head was swirling. Her breath was becoming slow. Everything around her was black. A muffled voice jolted her back into reality. "Erna!" Her bloodshot eyes flew open as she recognized the voice that belonged to Lucy. She turned to face her frantically. "He's going! He's going! HE'S GOING TO LEAVE ME! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND!" Lucy and David were baffled at her sudden change of demeanor as they slowly approached her. "Erna, he's alright. It was just a dre-" "DON'T YOU DARE SAY IT WAS JUST A DREAM!" she screeched at David. "I need to go to him, I need to find him!" she uttered slowly as she sprinted across the chamber leaving David, Lucy, and his body behind. Upon reaching the garden of their mansion, she sat on the swing, hinged to the soil bed, and shut her teary eyes close to see her husband for the last time. She was sitting on a boulder. A colossal waterfall was running down to meet the edge of the stream as white vapors emanated from it. Two figures emerging from between the bushes caught her sight and she squinted her eyes to see them distinctly. "Erna." A soft voice greeted her. "Nice to meet you." A petite frame of a little girl came close to her and Erna's eyes widened to see Dew standing right in front of her. She still resembled the same as her pictures. A soft smile tugged on her lips as she reached out to her arms and hugged her tightly. A comforting warmth filled her heart upon comprehending the amount of love and endearment radiating from Dew. Erna glanced at the man standing behind them, smiling softly. He was belatedly reunited with his sister. "Edmund," Erna beckoned him to come forward. She held out her hand for him and he pulled her into a heart-warming embrace. "Erna, Why are you here?" he whispered in her ears. She broke apart from him and looked into his deep blue eyes, stained with tears as she responded, "When the last ray of light had given up on me, You broke my shell to bring me to the shore of sea. And we sit together, hands immersed in the sand, For years to come, breathing on the lonely land." -Swasti Jain


The glimmering of the lights of the Christmas tree and other strings of lights lit up the whole entire Gustav house. Benji sat on the sofa, staring endlessly into the lights, trying to figure out what was missing to the recipe. He had failed a multitude of times, and even with his mom's help, he still failed. "Benji, honey, don't be too upset, at least you tried." Benji's mother consoled. Benji just sighed and laid back on the couch. He shut his eyes and prayed to whatever God that was out there that he would find the missing ingredient. "The festival is tomorrow, mom. I need to figure out what it is as soon as possible, because if I don't, Bake N' Take might as well just crush me now." Benji snapped, frustrated with everything. She gave him a signature 'mom' look and he immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, mom, I just really need this money for the bakery. I'm going against a corporation that is so much bigger than I am and I just don't know how to deal with this much stress." Benji rambled. "Son, please, just calm down, if you don't win, you'll find a way to make it work so Creamy Creations can survive." She grinned. The front door opened and Benji's father and sixteen-year-old brother waltzed in. "Still stressed about the mistletoe gingerbread thing?" Calix inquired. Benji smiled that his brother actually cared or pretended to care, at least. "What kind of sugar are you using?" Then it dawned on him. He wasn't using the right sugar. He needed gingerbread sugar and not powdered sugar! How could he mess that up? Benji jumped up from the couch and hugged Calix tightly. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Calix you are amazing!" Benji cheered before running into the kitchen to start with his gingerbread mistletoes. "Benji I understand you're gay but I don't like you violating me like that!" Calix shouted jokingly. "Oh please, it was just a hug, you'll get over it." Benji laughed. °•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°• "Hey Benji, how's it going?" Calix asked, shivering a little in the New York weather. "You care to help? I'm a bit busy here." Benji confided. Calix jumped in beside his brother and started handing out samples of the gingerbread flavored mistletoe. Within a few minutes, the crowd had diminished with the help of Calix. They both turned around to prepare Benji's mistletoes for the next wave of people to come through, making their backs turned to the front of the stand. "Have you met your competition yet?" Calix questioned. "No, he's probably some egotistical jerk that only cares about himself." Benji shrugged. "Well, I did some digging and I came up with name, age, and sexuality." Calix grinned. "Oh God, please don't continue." He groaned, tired of having his brother trying to set him up with someone. "His name is Everett Hall. He is twenty-four, same as you." Calix winked, nudging him a bit. "...and he's gay, also just like you." "Of course. You're trying to set me up with my rival who, like I said before, most likely doesn't care about anything but himself." Benji rolled his eyes. "Come on Benji, at least try to not judge him before you know him." Calix all but begged. Calix and Benji heard someone clear their throat behind them and they both turned around to see a tall looking man with dark hair that was slicked back, high cheek bones, caring brown eyes, broad shoulders, and jacked arms. Benji noticed his shirt and gasped. It was a Bake N' Take employee. "Hey Everett." Calix greeted. Benji's posture tightened and he shot Calix a glare. "Hey." He responded coolly. Benji gulped and looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "I'm Benji." I whispered. Calix excused himself from the conversation and walked off somewhere. "Hello Benji, I'm Everett, and I can assure you that I am not a egotistical jerk that only cares about himself." He smiled. Benji winced like he had been hit. He now felt bad about that accusation he had made without meeting Everett. "I apologize, Everett, I just built up this whole evil personality of the one I was competing against. I really shouldn't have done that." "It's all good. I imagined you were a girl, so we were both in the wrong." He chuckled. "Yeah, definitely not a girl. I'm not even interested in girls." Benji casually said without realizing. When Benji did realize though, his eyes became wide and he mentally slapped himself. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate, it just slipped." "Stop apologizing, it's fine, really. I mean, I already knew you were gay from Calix filling you in about my life." He chuckled. His chuckle gave Benji butterflies. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. "So, why are you competing? I mean, you're already a popular bakery, what is there to gain besides a money prize?" Benji inquired, feeling brave. "Well, I mostly just wanted to change things up a bit this holiday. I was mostly just done hanging out with my homophobic family and being ridiculed. It gets old pretty quickly." He smiled softly. "Oh." He frowned in response. "So what about you, cutie?" Benji blushed from the nickname but quickly told himself Everett was just being polite. "Uh, well, my bakery mostly needs the money prize and the popularity. We're kinda in a lot of debt right now and we may have to shut down." Benji's frowned deepend from talking about it. "Well we wouldn't want that would we?" He smirked. Benji's stomach felt like he was driving down large hills by looking at Everett's smirk. Everett reached beside him for a leftover mistletoe from the ambush earlier. He reached over to the stand beside Benji's and grabbed a flexible metal ornament hanger. He shoved one end through the top of the mistletoe before hanging it on the top of the stand from a hook. "For good luck, and if you don't win, maybe you'll find someone special under the gingerbread flavored mistletoe." He grinned from ear to ear before walking off. Only one thought remained in Benji's head; Maybe I already found him . °•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°• "Now, time for the contest winners." The announcer spoke into the microphone. Calix and Benji stood at my stand impatiently, basically jumping from eagerness. Ever since Benji had spoken to Everett, he couldn't get him out of his head. "Do you think that I have a shot?" Benji whispered to Calix. "I'm pretty positive you've got this in the bag." He smiled knowingly. He knew something! What did he know that Benji didn't? "...and the winner for the bakery contest is-" "Wait!" A familiar voice yelled, and I knew who it was immediately. "I, Everett Hall, forfeit from the bakery contest, making Benji Gustav the winner." Everett announced then ran over to Benji's booth and Benji couldn't help but check him out as he ran. "You didn't have to do that." Benji whispered, self conscious about everyone's gaze on them. "I know, but you need it so much more than I do and I would never live it down if I won." He said, catching his breath in between words. "Also, I told you that you may find a special person today, but, in reality, I think I found the special person. It's you, Benji." Benji's face flushed a serious red color then responded sheepishly, "I think you're my special person, too." Everett stepped a few steps over and Benji followed suit. It was only then Benji realized they were under the gingerbread flavored mistletoe.


I tie the laces on my sneakers, making double knots and pulling hard to secure them. I reach up and grab my fleece jacket, zipping it halfway up and reaching up the sleeves to pull down the shirt sleeves underneath. I grab my keys off the hall table, open the front door. I take the step down onto my front porch, turn around and lock the door,  placing the key securely in the pocket of my jeans. I take the next three steps down to my driveway and then begin to count. It’s 26 steps to the end of my driveway, where I turn right and take another 136 steps to the corner stop sign.

As I walk, my pace slow and steady, I hear the Callahan’s dog barking. I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s standing on the couch in their living room, wagging his tail as he stares out the picture window and barks at every person who passes by. At the stop sign, I turn right, seeing the Johnson’s antique car parked covered in their driveway, hearing the thud of the Miller boys bouncing a basketball on a makeshift court outside their home. John Miller shoots from afar and scores and both boys cheer. Their joy seems like something foreign.

At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting on her front porch, knitting needles in hand. She looks up to watch me walk by, as she does every day, but I move past her. When I reach the park, I can feel the  shift from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path that leads toward the lake. I am surrounded by large trees and hear the insistent chirping of birds. I walk toward the lake and the same bench I have come to every day since my husband walked away from our marriage 86 days ago. I sit down, staring at the lake, and the houses beyond on the other side. The vastness, the openness and the cool breeze all hit me at once and I breathe, feeling relief hit me for just a moment.

The breeze picks up and the trees start to sway. A few leaves fly past me, followed by a large white clump. It appears to come from the sky, and lands with a bounce in front of my  bench. It’s a crumpled piece of paper, and I lean over and pick it up. I am intrigued by this intrusion into my unbreakable routine. I place the crumpled ball in my lap and open it,  smoothing out the creases.

There are just eight words on the page, written in neat cursive.

Take back your life while you still can I look up into the tree above, as if to find the source of these words. The branches above me spread out wide, reaching almost to the lake, but seem to hold no clues as to who sent this message. I look back down, re-reading and considering each words, and the insulated life I have built for myself. I work five days a week as an administrative assistant at Becker’s Insurance Agency. I arrive at 8:00 each morning and leave at 4:00 each afternoon. After work, I change and walk to the lake and sit for a while before I go home to eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. On Saturdays, like today, I walk to the lake after lunch and sit for an hour or two, staring at the still surface, looking for guidance on what my life means now that my marriage is over and my window to start a family is slowly closing.

I feel the stirrings of hope as I look at the message. I smooth out the paper further before folding it into quarters and putting it in the pocket of my fleece. I sit for over two hours, gusts of wind whipping through me every few minutes, followed by the stillness. I keep my hand on the paper in my pocket, hoping to absorb the meaning in its words. Once at home, I put the folded message in my bedside table drawer. On Sunday, I find myself anticipating my walk. But as I do a load of laundry and grocery shop for the week, I try not to give it more importance than it deserves. At 1:30 PM, I get ready to go, locking the door and walking the same route, possibly taking steps in the exact same spots on the pavement as I have all the days before this one. As I sit on the bench, the afternoon sun warm on skin, I look up at the tree, wondering if it will provide any offerings today. But of course, it doesn’t. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. On Monday morning, as I rummage through my closet, and the same bland pants and blouses I have worn to work for months, my eye catches a red skirt now pushed toward the back. I try it on, noticing it is a bit loose on me. I choose a matching blouse and eye myself in the mirror as if I am looking at a stranger.  I turn to the side, noticing for the first time that not just my face, but my mid-section, has thinned. I open the bathroom drawer and retrieve  my make up bag, long ago abandoned. I pull out just the blush and lip gloss and dab a bit on. My face lights up in the mirror, showing me the hint of a former version of myself. Is this taking my life back? Hardly, but it is a change, maybe the only one I can manage right now.

The week is uneventful, one day spilling into the next. At each late afternoon visit to the park, I sit and wait for another message – another sign.  The seven words repeat in my head as if on a loop, as I continue to absorb them, pulling them apart in my mind.  When I reach the park on  Saturday afternoon, I feel acutely aware that it has been a week since the crumpled paper came into my life. I feel a heightened sense of promise.

After about 20 minutes of trying not to look upward at the rustling trees, another crumpled paper floats down, the wind dropping it just beside the bench. I feel my heart rate speed up as I cautiously reach forward and grab the white paper ball. I open it, smoothing out the page so I can clearly read the eight words written in the same cursive right in the middle: Every great journey starts with a single step I read the message over and over, memorizing it before I finally smooth out the paper with my fingers, fold it into quarters and stash in my pocket. I think about the colorful skirts I wore to work a few days this week, and the blush and lip color I applied for the first time in months. A few people in my office complimented me, people who normally look at me with pity in their eyes. Is that taking a single step? Am I meant to take another step this week?

I decide to leave the park early today, to go home and clean out the clothes my husband left behind in the closet. I sift through the old sweaters and jackets he abandoned when he packed up his suitcases and announced he was moving in with a women I knew to be an associate at his law firm. I open the first few drawers and stuff the old t-shirts and socks he left behind in a large garbage bag. By the time his side of the closet is cleaned out, I have filled three more bags.

Then I head into the kitchen and open the cabinet, retrieving his favorite coffee mugs. I throw away the half-opened boxes of stale cereal that only he would eat. In the living room, I box up some of his old books, and the gaudy porcelain statuettes his mother gave me. I don’t know why I didn’t trash them the day he left.

Over the years he worked more and more late evenings, and I supported him, praised him for his ambition, for planning for our future. To think he was with her all those long nights while I sat waiting at home alone. Did he laugh at how naïve I was, never questioning him? I place the four bags of clothes and three boxes of household items in my car and drive them over to the donation center that afternoon.

The following Saturday, I have to keep myself from racing to the park. The Callahan’s dog barks furiously as I dash past their living room window. I notice the Johnson’s antique car is uncovered, and Mr. Johnson is washing it. He waves to me and I wave back – surprising myself as my hand goes up in greeting. The Miller boys are playing basketball again. As I walk past their driveway the ball rolls in front of me. I give it a kick with my right foot, doing a little skip.  They yell thanks to me as it rolls back toward them. My hand waves again, getting accustomed to the motion.

At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting out on her front porch. She puts down her knitting needles as I walk past.  “You look lovely today, Maddy. Enjoy your visit to the park.” I stop for a moment, stunned. Mrs. Stevens and I always used to exchange niceties about the weather and neighborhood gossip. We were even in a book group together several years ago, but it has been so long since we’ve said a word to each other. “Thank you, I will,” I say. The words feel strange in my throat, as I hear myself add “Have a good day.”  When I reach the park, switching from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path, the birds greet me, their voices like a song. I sit down on the bench, hoping and praying for just one more message. I know it’s foolish, but still my senses are on high alert, desperate for just one more. I only have to wait for 20 minutes before the white paper blows past me in the wind. I reach out to catch it, just missing, and it lands by my feet.

I greedily grab it, unwrap it, and smooth out the paper. I read the seven cursive words: Friendship helps pave the road to healing As I stare at the words, water drips onto the paper. I look up at the sky to see if it’s raining, but the sun is shining through the tree branches. Then I feel it. Tears running down my cheeks, the first tears I’ve shed in 100 days. And once they start, they flow freely. I hear an anguished noise and realize it is coming from my own throat – a wail that goes on and on, disappearing into the large open space. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is relief as my body collapses in on itself. A few minutes later, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It feels comforting, but I don’t turn to see who it belongs to.  The hand begins to rub along my shoulder and back, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Maddie” says a voice. “Let it out.” I know that voice – it’s so familiar – and I turn to see Mrs. Stevens. She is holding a small towel in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Can I join you?” she asks. I nod numbly and she sits down beside me, handing me the two items. The towel is warm and damp, and I put my face in it, inhaling the scent of fresh laundry detergent and washing away the tears and grief. Then I open the lid of the cold water bottle and drink half of it in one gulp, an unquenchable thirst taking hold of me. When I’ve had enough I put the near-empty bottle aside. “How did you know?” I ask. She smiles, staring out over the expanse of the lake before looking back at me. “My husband walked out on me 25 years ago.”

I turn to her. “I’m so sorry....”

“I was lost after that. I thought I would never really live again.” A series of emotions flash across her face. “How did you start – take that first step?” My voice cracks as I speak. “Very cautiously.” She laughs. “But then over time a little less cautiously. I just looked for signs, for guidance. It can come to you in the oddest ways.” She winks and puts her hand on mine. The feel of it is warm and reassuring. I look into her eyes and see her kindness and compassion. I also see a hint of mischief, and I think of the three messages that seemed to fall from heaven. “I’m scared,” I realize for the first time. “Of course you are,” she says. “Anything worth doing in life is at least a little scary. But you don’t have to face this alone.” I nod, feeling her steady hand and her silent support. I turn to face the lake, which seems to go on forever, and see the whole world laid out in front of me.  All the unknown – and all the possibility. We sit side by side lost in our own thoughts and admire its beauty together.


The red hand lurches forward, trekking across the face of the clock. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, precisely in time with the torturous beat. Despite the bustling cafe around him, he swears he can hear it. Tick, tick, tick. He wishes it would pause. If only to stop her from walking through the door behind him and sitting across from him. He glances at the small table before him, dark rings staining its wooden surface. Too small. It's too small to stop her from reaching across and slapping him or perhaps to move before she threw the napkin holder at his head. Not that he didn't deserve it. She had requested to meet here, but it was his friend who made him go. He hadn't been inclined to do so at all and had been about to send the message saying so when Ben had snatched his phone out of his hands, typed 'yes, of course,' and offered him a hard pat on the back. Ben had looked at him and said, "You need to tell her." Ben had looked at him and said, "We all make mistakes; just own up to them." He didn't miss the faint glimmer of amusement in Ben's eyes. Ben wanted to see him flustered and wanted to see what he would do. He silently cursed Ben, but he had spent the night tangled up in another girl's sheets. He was not a religious man, but he guessed that fact would deem him insufficient to praise or curse anyone. He could still taste her lip gloss. Still smell her floral perfume. Hastily, he sips at his lukewarm coffee, silently praying that the scent of coffee beans and overpriced pastries would take care of the rest. Tick, tick, tick. There were two choices. 1.Do the good thing. Be the good guy who owns up to his mistakes. He snorts into his coffee cup. He, of all people, knew Ben wasn't a saint, which made his plea for honestly downright comical. 2.Keep it to himself. After all, omission isn't quite a lie. Though, he had ignored her twenty missed calls. Had told her that he would be out with friends-which he was at one point in the night. Tick, tick, tick. The bell above the door rings. His back is turned towards it, but he knows it's her. He can feel her gaze from behind, already discerning his rumpled clothes that had been on the ground for the better half of the night and his tousled hair. He didn't quite decide which option to chose when she sat across from him. Too close. Close enough to see her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face. A bitter taste fills his mouth. He doesn't know if it's from the crappy coffee or shame. He makes his choice. "How's it going?" His question seems to startle her out of a stupor. He knew her well enough to know that she had been in her thoughts for far too long. She had probably tossed and turned all night in her small bed in her small apartment where they spent many nights. So different from the penthouse in the Upper West side he found himself in last night. But his response-casual and calm-was not what she had expected. It certainly wasn't what he had expected, but instincts have a funny way of acting on behalf of self-preservation. If Ben were here, he'd laugh. " How's it going? " She seethes. A group of kids at the table next to them stall in conversation, making no effort to look like they aren't eavesdropping. One of the girls loudly slurps her iced coffee as she watches. This could have been a theater, and they the show. "That's what you have to say?" "I told you I was going out with my friends, didn't I?" He keeps eye contact. Not too much as to cause suspicion, but just enough . He wouldn't look up and to the left. He read somewhere that it signaled a lie-or was it the right? But a flicker to the lips and an occasional glimpse to the forehead would suffice. She looks away first. Perfect. "I told you I probably wouldn't answer my phone, babe. You knew this." He wouldn't say more than he needed to. Too much and too fast would make her question. Too little, and she would fill the blanks with the assumptions she had made as she tried to sleep. "I know, but-" "I'm struggling to see the issue, then." He clutches his coffee cup as the words come out of his mouth. Too forward. He needed to let her speak. Let her feel like she was being heard and listened to. As if she read his thoughts, she looks at him, more confident than before. Yes, he had made an error. His eyes strained, begging him to find refuge in the clock. Or perhaps glare at the girl next to them, now chewing a croissant with her mouth open. He hates bad manners. He gestures his hand for her to continue-a silent apology and submission. She sighs and runs a hand through her greasy hair. "This was for hours, Jace. You usually text me at the end of the night to at least let me know where you are." He nods and makes more eye contact. She looks slightly pleased. She loves being heard. She loves being listened to. He would risk it. He reaches out for her hand. She eyes it warily, but the tug of his genuine demeanor and the familiarity of two years with each other lifts hers and places it into his. He squeezes it. Reassurance goes a long way with women who overthink. That's what Ben said. "And well...Anne saw you at the bar. She said you were on your phone." Busted. Think, think, think. Tick, tick, tick. Too long and he was putting together a lie. Too short meant too defensive. Tick, tick, tick. He wills his face into a frown. He settles on being displeased. "I wasn't aware you were having your friends keep tabs on me," he says. Red blooms on her round cheeks, and she hastily shakes her head. "No, it's not like that. She just happened to be there." She looks at him again. Her eyes harden, a hint of defiance left in them. She was reminding herself what her argument was. Reminding herself what her friends had told her in their little group chat. "She said you also left early. Without your friends." He tries to keep his swallow imperceptible, but her eyes flicker to his throat as it bobs. He squeezes her hand again and leans in close, willing her to look into the eyes she knew so well. He prays she won't catch a whiff of the perfume he breathed in all night. It was intoxicating and so different from the vanilla scent he smelled now. "Ben and his friends get a little too rowdy for me these days, I told you that. I went to hang out with Greg at his place afterwards." "And you couldn't have mentioned that?" Not too many details. "We had a few drinks and crashed. You know he and Linda have been having some issues. He wanted to talk it out. I was texting him at the bar, making sure he was okay." Pieces in a puzzle. Cogs in a clock. She looks down in submission. Moments pass. Tick, tick, tick. She finally nods her head and squeezes his hand in response. He raises a brow and asks, "Is there something wrong with that?" "No...no of course not. It's just..." And there it was-the life line, the holy grail. He could almost see the future-could see the words he would say and how she would react. He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. With his warm countenance and calm eyes, he would coax the words out of her. She sighs in pleasure at his touch. "I just can't help but think you were with someone else." Perfect. He stops hearing the clock. Now, he has what he needs, and despite not being a religious man, he thinks himself a prophet. He retracts his hand. Hurt. He would look hurt and tired. It was almost too easy to do, but it was significantly harder to see her recoil and watch the regret choke her. "We've talked about this." The words come out of his mouth stern. Sharp and cold. She needs to know she will lose him. He would use his hurt and anger like a whip taming a wild animal back into its cage. "A thousand times we have talked about this, and you still don't trust me." She panics, reaching out for his hand. He appears hesitant, but he takes it. A drop of hope that he isn't too angry to get past her insecurities. Hope that he will stay. "No, god no , of course not Jace. It's not that." "Then what is it?" He let his hand go slack in hers. A tether to him that would snap if she wasn't careful. She tightens her grip. Perfect. "Because it seems to me that's what we come to every time. You assume I'm up to no good and then punish me as if I actually did something." He allows his voice to raise a notch. He allows her to look embarrassed as he uses the public setting to his advantage, and eyes turn towards them. She is fumbling for words. "I-I'm sorry . I know, I know.." Perfect. He leans back in his chair, the picture of a man's pride having been trampled on. Slowly, he pulls his hand from hers, and tries not to notice when she flinches. He rubs his face. He is tired, yes. He is tired, and she was the reason. She would be the reason. "I just...I just don't understand. I've never given you a reason not to trust me." She leans forward. Eager. He feels pity for her, the pity someone feels when they see a stray dog or a homeless person. "I know. I'm sorry, okay? I'm trying to work on it, I promise." She is chewing on her lip now, the tears gathering in her eyes. "I just got a little worried, is all." "You promise you'll work on it every time we have this conversation. And lately, it feels like we're having it more often than not." Desperation. Panic. Regret. Those were the things she was revealing on her face and what he was feeling beneath the surface. "Look, can we just please move past this? Come back to my place." Bingo. He would look hesitant. Would take a long sip of his now cold-coffee as he considers the offer. His hesitation will tug on the leash he has so cleverly put around her neck. "I don't know..." " Please." God, he felt like an asshole. " Please, Jace. " Those were the magic words. He sets his cup down, picks up his keys and stands. No words, but a little nod. Just to show he still wasn't keen on the idea, but he would do it for her. By god, he would do anything for her. The relief was stark on her face. She hastily snatches up her belongings and stands as well, rushing to his side. As he walks out the door, he doesn't bother to hold it open for her. But she won't say anything. She would accept it because she had to. And she had to, or else that tether would slip entirely, and he would be gone. And it would be her fault. He told her he would meet her back at her place before walking to his car. As he drove off on that familiar route, he had one honest thought. The art of persuasion was a nasty one, but one that he would perfect for her.


Prelude The rain pounded the small stone home outside of the city of Corinth. The storm raged and the winds howled, and yet Lamia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the storm’s presence. All she could feel was the warm radiance of the god laying in bed next to her. His powerful arms wrapped around her body, making her feel safe and secure in the home.

“You more than any other mortal, have captured my heart,” Zeus said sleepily, a smile on his face as he gently stroked the hair out of Lamia’s face.

“My heart is yours, now and forever my lord,” Lamia replied, reaching up and kissing his face gently. Lamia was the most beautiful woman of the village, her golden hair and sun-kissed skin making her desired by all. She was also known to be favored by the gods, most notably Zeus, who arrived at her home in the midst of a storm similar to the one playing out now, in the guise of a giant eagle.

“For you and only you my love, I am not your lord. I am your love, as you are mine,” Zeus replied, his muscular frame flexing under her soft touch as he moved his mane of curly black hair from his eyes. He found her lips with his own and began to kiss her softly at first, gradually becoming hungrier as they felt the throes of passion overtake them once more.

“So this is where you have been sneaking off to, my darling husband,” a voice beckoned. The two lovers jumped at the sound of the voice, and Zeus strode forward in the room, anger blooming in his eyes.

“Who dares disrupt us,” he demanded before recognition took hold in his eyes.

“Do you not recognize your wife, oh mighty Zeus?” Hera asked, stepping out of the shadows as her own golden glow began to radiate the room. Long flowing red and gold hair hung down her back, as the white sash she wore revealed her toned and athletic body, one bestowed upon to all of the gods.

“Hera, what is the meaning of this?” Zeus asked.

“You have the audacity to feign anger at me, husband? You who have left the world with more bastard children than can fill a temple in my honor? How ridiculous, and to debase your godhood by laying with this mere mortal, why that is beyond dishonor. You should feel shame.” “Shame for what? For loving and being loved? You forget your place Hera. I am the king of the gods, and you will show me the respect I deserve.” “Save the melodrama for when we return to Olympus. You and I know that you and I have equal power. In fact, let me demonstrate,” Hera replied, pushing past her husband and towards the bed, where Lumia still held her white sash to her naked form.

“My goddess, forgive me. I did not…” Lamia began to say, her words falling short of spilling out of her mouth as she stared upon the beautiful goddess standing before her.

“I’m sure you felt obliged to heed your feelings, especially in the presence of my ‘divine’ husband here. Yet an example must be made, and you sadly must pay the price for my husband’s mistake. I pity you mortal. Your mortal life is now at an end, and only hell awaits you,” Hera replied. With the simple touch of her hand to Lamia’s forehead, the young woman’s life changed forever.

Lamia howled in agony as pain took hold of her. She could feel her skin peeling and cracking in places, while her hair fell out and her bones cracked. Her teeth sharpened and her ears grew pointed, and Lumia felt her humanity shed off of her as easy as a wolf’s skin.

“Zeus, my love, help me,” Lamia cried, her voice growing heavy and rough as her transformation continued. Zeus watched in horror as the woman he loved twisted and turned into a hideous beast, and his heart broke at the sight.

Chapter 1 Quinn Ford woke to the bright light of a California morning streaming in through the blinds of the beach house. The soothing sound of the waves crashing on the shore nearby was relaxing, and Quinn found himself fighting to stay awake. As he turned away from the bright morning light, he came face to face with Iris Walsh, his amazing girlfriend, and the world brightened once more.

The weekend trip had come together perfectly. Quinn had surprised Iris with the weekend plans and thankfully she had jumped at the opportunity. He needed a break from his latest novel, Baseline, and a weekend not answering another panicked call from his agent Helen was a welcome addition. Now in his thirties, Quinn found himself drawn more to peaceful and romantic weekends rather than the party life most twenty-somethings craved for all week long.

He’d been lucky to meet Iris in the first place. Iris Walsh was a thirty-year-old photographer and makeup artist living in Los Angeles. He’d been working on his book in a bookshop/cafe, and had noticed her sitting at the table next to him. Her face had been scrunched up as she studied something on her laptop, and he noticed she was drinking the same thing as him. He’d always been shy, and so he had hesitated talking to her at first, not knowing what to say.

However as he worked on his book, he found himself surprised when she sat down on the couch next to him, setting her laptop down. He looked up to see her looking at him, her emerald green eyes drawing him in immediately.

“Sorry, the couch looked much more comfortable than the damn chair over there,” she said, her Irish accent punching through and enticing him like music in the air.

“That’s…that’s alright. Always plenty of room for a fellow vanilla late drinker,” he joked, hoping his face was as blushed as he felt in that moment. He always felt awkward sitting next to a beautiful woman. As a heavyset man, he always worried it would be the only thing a woman would be able to fixate on when talking to him. Yet Iris was different, never once breaking eye contact with him.

“Aye, these vanilla late’s are delicious. I never had them back home, but damn are they good.” “Is that an Irish accent I’m detecting? Where in Ireland are you from?” “Sandymount, a small village outside Dublin on the coast. Just moved here a couple years ago. Names Iris; Iris Walsh,” the young woman introduced herself as.

“Quinn; Quinn Ford,” he replied, and the rest was history as the saying goes.

Now looking into Quinn’s beautiful face and trailing his hand down her body, he could honestly say he’d never felt happier. Today was the day he told himself. Today he would ask her to move in with him in his loft in LA. It had been a few months since they’d met, and she brought the best out of him, and he hoped she felt the same way, at least enough to say yes to his idea.

“Good morning darlin’,” Iris said, smiling without opening her eyes.

“How do you always know when I’m awake?” Quinn asked, smiling.

“It’s one of my superpowers, love,” she replied, opening her eyes and smiling.

“You are my super-woman. Did you get some good sleep?”

“I always do when I’m next to you. What did you want to do today? Do you have to work?” “Nope, today I’m all yours. I was thinking we could have a late breakfast/early lunch, lay on the beach and then take a moonlit stroll along the beach before dinner. I thought we’d check out the caves near the Pinnacles National Park. What do you say?” “I say that sounds a plan. Want to take a shower first?” “You read my mind,” he replied, following her out of bed as the sheets fell from their bodies and they ran into the bathroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Chapter 2 It had been a whirlwind day for the young couple in love. A hearty breakfast buffet followed by a long lounge on the beach in their bathing suits was the perfect recipe for a weekend getaway. Quinn could feel the anticipation building up inside him, wanting the night to come so he could finally ask her to move in with him. The nerves were intense, and he hoped that his instincts were right on this one.

Yet as they lay together, Iris laying her head on his chest, Quinn couldn’t help but feel like something was bothering her. She felt distant at times, almost like her mind was a thousand miles away. Yet he didn’t let that deter him. Instead he told himself he was just psyching himself out of doing what he had set out to do, and so he moved forward with the day.

As night descended, the young couple walked hand in hand along the trail of the Pinnacles National Park. The waves nearby crashed against the rocks as they walked, and Quinn breathed in the ocean air around them.

“Today as been the perfect day,” Iris said, her smile stretching into a grin as she looked up into his eyes.

“It really has been,” he replied, leaning down and kissing her on the lips softly. Before either one of them could say another word, the night air was pierced by the sound of a low growl. The couple tensed, their hearts stopping in their chests as they turned and saw a large pair of red eyes staring at them from the darkness of the trail they’d just walked.

“Iris, we have to move,” Quinn said.

“Whatever that thing is, it’s blocking our path back to the car,” Iris replied.

“There’s a cave nearby. If we can find some high ground in there maybe whatever it is will move on. I don’t have anything to fight it off with, so we gotta take a chance here,” Quinn replied.

“I feel like we’re being cornered,” Iris said.

“So do I babe, but I don’t think we have a choice. That thing is inching closer to us,” Quinn began to say.

Before either one could make a move, the creature stepped into the moonlight, and they gasped in horror as a massive wolf trailed down towards them. Tufts of black fur and pearly white teeth glistened in the moonlight, and its eyes seemed to blaze with fire as it walked closer and closer to them. Quinn and Iris began to make a move to run, but as they turned they both found themselves caught on a large root, and the tumble sent them falling into the mouth of the cave below. __________________________________________ Quinn opened his eyes as pain shot through the back of his head, stars exploding behind his eyelids as he returned to consciousness. The world around him was blurry, but he could see the outline of a large fire burning in front of him. As he swatted away the cobwebs from his memory, his vision cleared and he saw he was laying inside of a large cave.

He could still hear the crashing of the waves from the mouth of the cave, and the memory of being chased by the wolf came flooding back.

“Iris!” Quinn shouted, but before he could sit up pain shot through him once more, and a cold marble finger laid against his lips.

“Shh, hush now babe. It’s alright now,” a soothing voice called out, and he watched as Iris crawled next to him. She was a vision of beauty, as always. Her flowing white sating dress and porcelain skin seemed to shine in the light of the fire, and her piercing eyes held his gaze as she slowly climbed and straddled him, her soft hands slowly wiping the hair from his face.

“Iris? Are you…are you alright?” Quinn asked, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance away.

“We’re both ok my love. Just be here with me now,” Iris said simply, her lips bearing down on his own in a powerful and ravenous motion. He’d never felt such intensity from her, and he felt weak in her presence. As she looked into his eyes however, he saw her eyes change from green to red, and the world came crashing down around him. “You’re not Iris,” Quinn said in shock, pushing the mystery woman off of him as he pushed himself against the rock wall behind him.

“More clever than most,” the woman replied, her voice gravelly and a growl erupting from her throat. Quinn watched in horror as Iris disappeared, and in her place, a hideous, monstrous crone stood in her place. Her skin was split apart and cracked, her hair was missing and large, sharp teeth pierced through her lower lip. Her eyes blazed red, and her mouth began to open wide, as if she were unhinging her lower jaw. A large howl escaped from her mouth, and Quinn found himself locked in terror.

“Quinn!” A voice shouted, and he looked to his right to see Iris, his Iris, sitting along the rock wall a few feet away from him. The creature before him screamed, turning its attention on Iris and crawling quickly towards his girlfriend. Iris let out a scream as the creature got closer, a long, black forked tongue shooting out and running down Iris’s face. The creature suddenly pulled back, a laugh piercing the cavern as it glared down at the young woman.

“I can smell it. The child has begun growing inside you,” the creature said, laughing all the while. Quinn looked on in shock as Iris met his gaze and tears streamed down her face.

“I was planning on telling you at dinner. I…I was afraid you’d be scared off. We’ve only been dating a few months, and I thought the news would…” Iris began to say, tears hanging like crystals in the corners of her eyes.

“Iris, it’s ok. That…that’s the best news you could have ever given me. I was going to ask you to move in with me tonight. I guess your news trumps mine,” Quinn joked, tears and laughs escaping them both as the horror of their situation began to sink in more and more.

“The child will make you…a much more delicious meal,” the creature hissed, unhinging its jaw once more. Iris screamed as the creature moved to strike, never noticing Quinn leaping forward and pushing Iris out of the way. As he did so, the creature’s teeth ripped out a chunk of Quinn’s side, just as it’s razor-sharp claws ripped into his chest.

“No!” Iris shouted, just as the creature released Quinn and sent him hurtling to the ground. Iris crawled over and held Quinn in her arms, turning him over so she could see his face. Tears streamed down her face as blood seeped out of his wounds.

“Why? Why would you do that?” The creature asked, shock and awe taking hold as it stared down at its victim.

“Because…because I love her. I love her…love her enough to die…to die for her,” Quinn said, his breaths shortening as the blood loss began to set in.

The sound of his voice and his words pierced the night air, and the creature suddenly began to howl in agony, flinging itself to the ground as pain engulfed it. The creature’s body began to transform suddenly, just as a brilliant light of white and gold engulfed the cavern. Iris shielded her and Quinn’s eyes just as a man stepped out of the light. He was a chiseled specimen, his body glowing and his eyes piercing as he took in the scene around them.

“Who…who are you?” Iris asked.

“You modern mortals would not believe me, but I am Zeus,” the man replied, leaning down as the creature before him began to transform. Its hideous appearance began to disappear, and in its place, a beautiful young woman appeared. Iris watched as the creature vanished, and Zeus wiped the blood from the woman’s ruby lips.

“What is happening?” Iris asked.

“You two mortals have freed my love from her curse,” Zeus replied. “My wife, Hera, cursed the woman lying here in my arms centuries ago. For my infidelity, she cursed this innocent woman to become the monster you see before you. I helped her the best I could, giving her her powers and a place to hide whenever humanity began to encroach on her home. I searched for centuries for a cure, secluding myself in the heart of Olympus until that time arrived. You two have found that cure for me, however.” “Cure?” Iris asked.

“True love. I should have known, but my wife is clever. An act of true love saved my beloved Lamia from her curse. Quinn sacrificed himself for you my dear, and that love pierced the curse entirely. For that, I shall heal your love. I apologize for the pain we’ve caused you, mortals. Lamia, rest now my love. We ride for Olympus. Your pain is at an end.” Iris watched as the man and woman disappeared in a brilliant glow of light. As they did, Quinn took a massive breath, and she watched as his wounds healed. Looking up into her eyes, he cupped her face in his hands and smiled.

“Iris,” he said, tears streaming down his face.

“Quinn,” she breathed, tears pouring out of her.

“I love you,” he replied, resting his hand on her face and his free hand on her stomach.

“I love you too, with all my heart,” she replied, leaning down to kiss him and resting her hand on her stomach as well, glad to be alive and well once more. At that moment, love had truly won.