“My name is Aubrey Rose McCallum.” She told me on the first day of class, “And I am autistic.” Now I want you to see something.

Please, follow me.

It’s on the north wall of the gymnasium.

Right there.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

It took her over a semester and a lot of spray paint, but it is a true work of art, don’t you think so?

As you can see, Aubrey used such

brilliant colors to transform that plain, dull brick wall into this striking figure of a heavenly angel with both wings and arms spread out welcoming those who seek guidance and direction, is to say the very least, quite inspirational, don’t you think? As with every true life miracle, there is a story that goes with this wonderfully depicted mural and if you have a few minutes, I’d love to tell you her story.

“You have Aubrey Rose McCallum.

I pity you.” Mrs. Komstock shook her head, “Had her last year.

She was a real problem child.” “Comes with the territory.” I commented as I tried to find a five letter word for emotionless in the crossword puzzle I had almost completed. “She tore all of the posters down from the walls when she threw a fit.” Mrs. Komstock sighed. “I don’t usually put posters up in my classroom.” I smacked my lips after sipping my hot coffee. “What do you do?” She gave me a complete expression of derision. “Art work.” I answered with a pleasant smile.

Dealing with Cynthia Komstock required complete diplomacy and careful navigation through social norms and customs.

“Some of the students can’t draw a straight line.” She laughed. “So I put up whatever kind of lines they are capable of drawing.” I put down the word “stoic” which fits into the blank spaces of the crossword puzzle.

“Mr. Dorsey, you are a different breed, that’s for sure.” She purses her lips as she walks out of the teacher’s lounge.

When I moseyed into the classroom ten minutes early, I wrote the date on the whiteboard and “Welcome Back” underneath.

Starting my fifteenth year of teaching, I have developed a process, as they call it, or routine as I call it, because my methods have stood the test of time with my special students who have discovered the traditional methods don’t work for them as they have for the other four hundred “normal” kids who attend Woodrow Wilson Middle School. My classroom isn’t as big as the general education classrooms or the classrooms where the normal students go.

I have stashed a lot of plastic toys known as manipulatives in the spare spaces that I will use to help determine physical dexterity and cognitive developmental progress.

There is also an element of social dimension, in case I forget to mention it.

When the bell rings in a few minutes, I will have twelve students who will wander in provided all of them are present on the first day.

As it turned out, I had eleven students seated in the classroom as the bell rang.

One by one I called out their names, but found that Aubrey Rose McCallum was absent. “She don’t come to school unless her mom wakes her up on time.” Eric informed me.

Eric Schueller had Aubrey in his class for seven years and knew her quite well.

“Very well.” I sniffed, “Let’s stand and say the Pledge.”

The eleven present did as they were told and we said the Pledge of Allegiance which was punctuated when Aubrey walked into the classroom announcing, “I am Aubrey Rose McCallum. I have autism.”

“Welcome Aubrey.” I nodded. “Sorry I’m late.” She said in a voice that was a few disciples above an appropriate classroom tone, “Are you Mr. Dorsey?”

“I am.” I nodded. “Are you nice?” She asked as she put her finger in her nose. “For the most part.” I shrugged. “Aubrey, please take your seat.” “And where might that be?” “Right over there.” I pointed to the only empty desk in my classroom.

Without hesitation, Aubrey plopped herself down in the empty chair and put her backpack on the back of her chair just like everyone else had.

The morning routine went smoothly and I began to wonder in what way Aubrey was a behavioral problem. Very often teachers would talk in the lounge about students who presented difficult behaviors and I would laugh to myself knowing that each student in my classroom had some form of behavioral shortcomings.

Six students, presently in my classroom, were not able to sit in a regular classroom for more than fifteen minutes tops. We had started out talking about the day and our schedule and then we got out a piece of paper to draw on.

This was supposed to be an icebreaker, but it also was a valuable exercise into some of their inner processing.

As I collected their papers while they went to Mrs. Walnut's music class, I saw Aubrey’s paper.

On her paper was a picture of an angel, much like the one she would later paint on her mural.

The angel had a very welcoming expression on her face.

I had assumed the figure was female. When they filed in from music class, I made it a point to talk to Aubrey. “It’s my mother.” She informed me quite matter-of-factly.

“You mother?” I asked, holding the drawing. “Yes, she died when I was little.” She explained. “I’m sorry.” I said with genuine sympathy. “It’s okay.

She looks down on me from up there.” She pointed to the ceiling.

Later, her father Roger McCallum came to pick her up from school. “Are you Aubrey’s father?” I asked. “Yes, yes I am.” He smiled, but then his smile quickly faded, “Did she do something wrong?”

“No, no.” I could tell he was used to hearing reports of her poor behavior from previous teachers. “I’m Shawn Dorsey, her teacher.” “Pleasure, Mr. Dorsey.” He shook my hand with a firm grip. “She is a challenging young lady.” “I’m sure she will be, but I have had my share of students with behavioral challenges.” He pulled me aside where no one else could hear us.

Aubrey was playing on the monkey bars with her classmates.

“She can be challenging from both a physical and emotional perspective.” He explained using an undertone, “She is angry her mother is gone and she hates her grandmother. I have taken her to some of the best child psychiatrists, but we have not been able to solve her anger issues.” “She has autism, right?” “Yes, yes, but if that’s all you know, you will mark it all up to her autism.” He shrugged, “It’s not only that, it’s much deeper.” “She drew this.” I showed him the picture. “That’s her mother.” He recognized it immediately. “She is in Heaven.

Her grandmother takes her to church where she learned about angels and now this is her mother.” “You sound dubious.” I noted. “Her mother, Angie, took a bottle full of antidepressants. By the time they got to her, she was already gone.” He sighed, “Her mother, Anne, told Aubrey that her mother will rot in Hell.”

“That’s not something you should tell a child.” I shook my head. “Yea, that’s what I said, but Anne can be quite dominating.” He glanced around as if Anne might suddenly appear. “Just keep in mind, Anne is not a very loving person.

When Angie went on the medication, Anne told her she was a weak person for having to rely on pills.”

“I think this picture is quite lovely.” I held it up again. “Glad you think so.” He smiled a forced smile, “If I were to take this home, I’d have some issues with Anne, I’m afraid.”

A few weeks later, Anne came to school to drive Aubrey home, but Aubrey ran out of the classroom screaming.

“Go find that child, Mr. Dorsey.” She demanded. I found the small child hiding in the janitor’s closet. “I don’t want to go home with her.” She sniffed. “You have to.” I told her. “I want to go home with you, Mr. Dorsey.” She grabbed a hold of my arm.

“You can’t.” I shook my head. “Why not?” She had tears running down her cheeks.

“Mr. Dorsey, are you in there?” It was Mrs. Komstock rapping on the closed door.

“Yes.”

“You’d better come out.

Aubrey’s grandmother is here to take her home.” She said, “I don’t wanna go home.

I wanna stay here.” She cried. “You don’t have a choice.” Her grandmother sounded quite cross.

“Pleeeeaaaassseeee.” She grabbed my arm again, but the door came open and both Mrs. Komstock and her grandmother were standing there. “Let me have a moment with her.” I asked Anne. “Not on your life.

I won’t have you do bad things to her behind closed doors.”

She reached out and grabbed Aubry by her hand, yanking her out of the closet and dragging her against her will, down the hall. “She was molested by a teacher.” Mr. Wilcox, my principal, explained a few days later after Aubrey had been absent from class.

“I would never-” “I understand that, but still the fear remains with Anne Mullenson.” He sighed. “Autistic children are vulnerable, as you well know.

Now she has come to our district schools with the same result.

Not a single teacher has been able to control her behavior.”

“What if it’s not a question of control?” I asked. “What do you mean?” He eyed me suspiciously. “What if instead of controlling her, we find what makes her tick?” I nodded. “Mr. Dorsey, our job is to prepare these kids for adult lives.

Get them ready to lead productive lives in our community.”

“And what if we find the hidden talent?” I asked. “Hidden talent?”

“Yes, students with autism have hidden talents, but no one bothers to look for them.” I shrugged.

“We don’t have time for that.” Wilcox turned his head. “What if I was willing to take the time?”

“You are wasting your time.” He laughed, “Until two years ago, she never even spoke.

She just threw tantrums in her classroom and caused damage to herself or the other students.

She is on her last chance.

If she does not show academic progress, we will have to place her in a more restrictive learning environment.”

Now aware I was put on a time constraint with her, I began desperately searching for something that would prove academic development. It seemed the more I pushed for results, the worse her behavior became.

One of our fall field trips was to a horse ranch in the local area where the kids could ride horses with adult guides helping out.

Every time we went there, I came back with some positive outcomes. “Her grandmother has refused.” Mr. Wilcox informed me a few days before the field trip. “What do you mean?” “Aubrey can’t go.” He finally told me. “If she can’t go, then I won’t go.” I was angry. “You have to go.

You are the teacher.” He shook his head. Behavior got worse after the field trip to the point where I had to ask for help restraining her for the safety of the other eleven students in my classroom.

One day she ran from the classroom with a bottle of oil paint I had locked up in my closet.

In the few minutes that door was open, she managed to grab the bottle.

She ran to the playground behind the gymnasium and before two classroom aides were able to retrain her, she threw the contents of the bottle against the brick wall.

It was violet and left a splatter pattern against the dirt red bricks. When she saw what she had done, she smiled as she watched the violet streaks run down the rough red brick. “We can’t wash that off.” Principal Wilcox ranted when he saw it. “What if we paint a mural over it?” I asked. “A what?

You want graffiti on a school building?” His face was all red at this point. “No, a piece of art.” I shook my head. “And who will do this work of art?” His voice was raspy. “Aubrey Rose McCallum.” I answered. “Sure, let the vandal herself do the artwork.” Wilcox stormed off. I explained what I wanted to her and she seemed really eager to do it. “I will make a picture of my mama.” She agreed. I made the paint available along with one of my two classroom aides. When asked for a scaffold, I made sure some of the janitorial staff could be there to help her. “Are you crazy?

Have you completely lost your mind?” Mrs. Komstock ranted when she saw me up on the scaffold with Aubrey. “If Anne Mullenson gets wind of this, I’d hate to be you.”

And that was the point.

As long as we abide by the rules, nothing happens, but the minute someone suggests coloring outside the lines, the whole world goes berserk.

Meanwhile Aubrey Rose McCallum happily spent long hours painting her mural. Principal Wilcox would not guarantee that once completed, Aubrey would have demonstrated adequate academic progress, but all I knew was something had awakened inside of her and for the first time she did not throw any dangerous tantrums or display any other negative behavioral outcomes. “Mr. Dorsey, are you going to go out with Aubrey today?” Eric asked when class began.

I was worried, because the fall weather would quickly turn to winter and we still had some work to do. “Yes, I suppose.” I answered. “Can we all go, too?” He asked as the other ten students bobbed their heads. “You would be willing to go out and help?” I asked. “We sure would.” Eric answered for the rest. That day, all twelve students, two classroom aides and I painted the mural of the angel with the open wings and arms on the side of the gymnasium wall.

As we did, the rest of the student body wandered out to watch us.

Some of them took brushes and began helping out.

As it turned out this would continue for four days until the mural was nearly complete just as the winter weather began sending big old snowflakes down.

The angel stood there and welcomed the snowflakes with open arms. “You should be fired.

Dismissed.” Anne Mullenson hissed when she saw the mural for the first time. “Did you tell Aubrey her mother was an angel?” “I said nothing.” I shook my head. “For what she did, she will spend eternity in Hell.” Anne slammed her hand against the wall. “I want this whole thing painted over.” “No grandma.” Aubrey stepped forward, her hazel eyes met her grandmother’s eyes.

“We talked about this…” Her voice caught in her throat. “I know she’s watching me.” Aubrey’s voice did not waiver.

“She took those pills, because she was weak.” Anne turned her head away. “No.” Roger spoke up, “She took those pills, because she was sad and nothing could make her feel happy again.” “And whose fault was that?” Anne closed her eyes. “It's all our fault.” Roger answered. “Except Aubry, but when the doctor told Angie that her daughter had brain damage, she had no hope.”

“She does have brain damage.” Anne looked at Roger. “No, she has autism.” Roger stomped his foot. “Same thing.” Anne shrugged. “No it’s not.” Roger’s voice cracked, “I wish people would quit treating her as if it is her fault she has autism. Mr. Dorsey is the only person who saw possibilities where everyone else didn’t.”

“How can you look at Aubry and not see something is wrong with her?” Anne blurted out. “I see it.” I pointed to the angel. “As do I.” Roger took his daughter’s hand, “And I am very proud of what I am looking at.”

“Do you like it daddy?” She asked as she looked up at him. “Yes, I do and it’s beautiful.” There were tears in his eyes. Father and daughter went walking together as the big old snowflakes continued to fall, turning the ground white.

So now you know the story.

I have decided to retire this year.

I have learned that Aubrey Rose graduated from college, got married and had two children with a husband who thinks the sun rises and sets because of her.

In my tenure at Woodrow Wilson Middle School, we have been blessed with that angel she left behind to keep an eye on us all.


It was the summer of ‘96. Everyone I knew was drunk on love, or just the idea of it. I had different plans, though. I had just moved out of my parents’ house and wanted to save for college. I got the job at the diner the next day.

There wasn’t anything especially eye-catching about the diner. The outside was plain and unassuming. Inside, black-topped bar stools lined the back counter, and the booths were red and cracking. The tile floor was black and white checkered, and it needed a decent mopping.

My first customer was Laura. She was young, maybe twenty, with hair so dark it made her look ghostly. She was pregnant, which was the first thing I noticed on her slight figure. She wore expensive clothes and jewelry, the kind that isn’t muddled by bad lighting. She had a huge engagement ring on her tiny finger.

She ordered a decaf coffee with a slice of blueberry pie. She stayed for so long that I checked on her five times to make sure she was okay. Her sapphire eyes held sadness; the last time I asked her if she was okay, she teared up. Her fiancé had cheated on her, and left her for the other woman. I abandoned my other tables to reassure and console her.

She left me her engagement ring as a tip, with her phone number. I sold the ring and bought myself a car, which I drove to see Laura. We were inseparable for two months, and she asked me to be in the room when her baby was born.

I still see her every once in a while, and we talk on the phone. Her son just turned twenty-four, and he’s getting married next year.

My most memorable customer was Daniel. He walked into the diner an hour before closing, and he was the only customer there. He was wearing military clothes, though I couldn’t quite tell which branch they belonged to. I asked him what he’d like to eat, and he answered by asking me what my favorite meal was. I told him I like the grilled cheese combo, so that’s what he ordered. We chatted during his meal, but I didn’t think anything of it. He was very polite and respectful.

When I went outside for my smoke break, he followed me and asked me out. Before I said yes, he told me that he’d only be here for two weeks. I agreed anyway. He kissed me before I finished my cigarette.

I had the best two weeks of my life with him: we broke into the Y and went skinny dipping, fell asleep in the bed of his truck after shooting fireworks, and spent an entire day playing arcade games. He was unlike any other man I’d ever met.

He was sensitive and tender; if I didn’t know already, I would have never thought he was in the military. I really loved him, and I think he loved me, too, but we agreed to never exchange those promises.

When he left, I watched his plane take off, crying. He was the first man I ever loved, and he left a scar on my heart that never healed.

My most interesting customer was June. She drove up to the diner in a ‘75 Volkswagen van, that you could tell was once blue, but was so chipped and sun-bleached it could be mistaken as white.

She wore white platform boots, which was the most normal part of her outfit. Her tank top was patchworked, made out of thirty different patterned squares. She also wore a jean jacket with jeweled tassels hanging from the back, but it was obscured by her long, wavy, wheat-colored hair. Her bell bottoms were well-loved, and the holes were patched by the same patterns as her shirt.

She came right up to the counter and ordered a strawberry milkshake to-go. I complimented her style, and she complimented my beauty. We flirted a bit while her milkshake was mixing. She left with a wink, but came back later that night and picked me up in the old van. We got high listening to Janis Joplin and kissed until my shift the next morning.

That was the first and only time I ever saw her. I didn’t love her, but she did help me heal from Daniel. I never got to thank her for that.

To this day, I’ve never met someone else quite like her. Not many people can be so effortlessly unique, but she was one of the few.

My last customer was Corey. He came into the diner with three other guys, all dressed in black and red leather. He wore eyeliner, and had curly hair that fell into his eye when he first saw me.

The other guys slid into a booth, but Corey walked up to the counter, where I was taking payments. He smiled at me, the kind of smile that makes you stop and lose all the words in your head. We had an instant connection.

He told me he was in a band, and they were on their first tour. Together, they ordered one of everything. They weren’t sitting in my section, but I went out of my way to check on them. Corey was so captivating, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him. The feeling was mutual.

As they were leaving, I yelled for them to wait. I handed my apron and name tag to my manager and finished the tour with them.

When the tour reached Las Vegas, Corey and I got a little drunk and wrote a song together. I was so in love with him at that moment, that we went into town and eloped.

That song became the band’s number one hit. Corey sang it to me last week when we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary.

I served hundreds of customers when I worked at the diner, but only four of them changed my life.

Only four of them took a tiny piece of my soul that they’ll keep forever.


You would never imagine that every drop of rain is perfectly orchestrated and directed and yet that fact remains undisputed. Thankfully this body of mine can’t feel any of the elements. I can only sense the intangible of the tangible, the sound of the unheard if you will. The fact that I also can acutely sense the effects of things I suppose somewhat dulls the boredom of this immortal life.

There is something strangely precious about each individual drop of water slipping down a windowpane. They're almost human in the uniqueness of their existence. I guess that’s why I don’t usually change their path because they, like so many other things, are children of time. Ten seconds remain

I have no idea why humans call time slow or fast. She's nothing if not perfectly steady. For me though she’s always slow. That may just be because I'm always in the future or the past waiting for her. Despite knowing what's coming the wait is often an unnecessary bore.

I'm not usually early to appointments for soul retrieval but this is the last one slated for tonight so I don't mind. I’m suspended somewhere between sky and earth as though standing on the moonbeams filtering down to the lakeside cabin in front of me. I wish I knew what rain on my skin would feel like- I wonder what skin feels like. Can this body made by the combination of shadow and light held together by the red thread of immortality even be called a body?

Descending slowly I pass through the walls and come to stand on the wooden floor directly opposite of a young lady in a rocking chair. She’s staring out the rain soaked window towards the mountains in the distance. Times moves on her pace never slowing, seven seconds remain.

The burled cedar floor is warm, heated slowly by small fire in the brick fireplace against the wall. There’s dust on the mantelpiece and wood chips scattered around the grate surrounding the fireplace. The rug on the floor is old, almost worn through on the fringed edges. There’s a small stain towards the corner that the rocking chair resides on. The lady in the rocking chair is still facing south towards the mountains. Her gaze steady as time itself, almost. Her hair still glows with the vitality of her youth, its golden tresses framing her face gently. For me her seventeen years are just as fair as the 93 year old man I picked up earlier this morning. Despite all human tears and sadness that accompany their departure time is nothing if not fair. When she gives, she gives just enough. Five seconds.

   A log in the fire snaps sending a shower of sparks upwards. The young girl seems to start at the sound as though returning from a place much farther away than the distant snow covered slopes. She reaches down to the side table beside her and brings the china tea cup there to her lips softly. There's little wisps of golden steam sailing skyward from the cup carrying the gentle fragrance throughout the room. Soft scents of orange and hibiscus mix with the deep woody smell of the rest of the room. From somewhere else in the house a piano starts playing, warming the air more than the flames at the fireplace.

      Over in the corner there’s a small wooden desk with a vase of flowers tucked into the corner. They’re the last marigolds before winter comes to steal some beauty from the world. I suppose there’s fairness in the balance of that too. Balance in the repetition of life even when time moves on steady, balance in the unfinished letter on the desk its ink not even completely dry. I could tell you every word written there, every thought the girl has ever had even the ones she doesn’t remember but there’s no reason. There’s no magic in knowing everything. I swear immortality is just a curse for those of us too lazy to do anything.

  Three seconds.   She breathes out softly probably without even thinking of it. I know she only has four breaths left. Time runs slowly for me. I was here when it was created and i'll probably be the one to stop its hands when it’s time has run. Outside the window leaves fall to the ground plucked from the trees in a burst of wind. It’s just another day. The piano slowly fades to a stop as two more seconds disappear forever, to wherever the finite go.

Everythings in place, nothing creating any current of color or sound. It’s all so… ordinary yet she’s smiling. A smile not even big enough to pull up the corners of her mouth. My watch makes a distant click at the same time as the grandfather clock beside the fireplace continues its smooth pendulum swing. Its not on time of course, nothing in this world of humans is ever accurate. Not their creations or their decisions or even their breaths. It’s 11:57 and I can see that soul slipping loose from the body resting in the rocking chair. It's a vibrant ball of light small enough to hold in your hands but yet it seems bigger. Not much just a little bigger. Souls might be the only perfect child of time.

I never move when souls are loosed from their bodies. They always find me. I suppose they’re looking for some sort of anchor in the world between their mortality and utter boredom that is my prison. I cradle the ball of light softly wondering at the color and warmth. It’s always a wonder to see a full life compacted into such a different form. Every time I go collecting for each soul the feeling is completely the same, a little wonder at the end, a little interest in the colors, a little jealousy of the finality. No matter the circumstances every soul collected is full in its own way, even the two second old ones. I’ve never forgotten a single soul. They’re a myriad of stories inside me, a collection of endless paintings filling me and yet always leaving space. I should be used to these flowing feelings but everytime there always just as new. I overstay my visit slightly just looking at the empty room. I can see everything from the dust on the bookshelves to the sparks in the fire and yet, just like every other time, I feel like there's something that I just can’t see.

I know everything about her and everything about every single thing in that room. I know when the ink was made, how old the tree that the floor is made out of was, the exact temperature of the flames in the fire and yet… Every soul always seems to be made up of more than what I know. Is that time’s gift to mortal life?

Why was that girl smiling? I guess immortality isn’t long enough to understand 17 years. Times fairness to her children is beyond my understanding. Someones crying somewhere… there is rain falling after all.

I wonder if time remembers her little one's as much as I do... Entry 4,758,465,215

Thought Diary of

Shinigami Azreal III


In the heart of Houston's Broadway Street lived Richmond, a peculiar 50-year-old man known for his love of spreading gossip. What made Richmond truly remarkable, however, was the uncanny nature of his rumors. Somehow, they always seemed to come true. Word traveled fast whenever Richmond began to whisper his tales, and the townsfolk would brace themselves for the inevitable realization of his words. There was an air of both curiosity and fear surrounding his gossip, for nobody quite understood how he possessed such foresight. Huddled in the heart of the Broadway Street community stood Richmond's small greenhouse, a symbol of both simplicity and resilience, surrounded by a quaint garden bursting with vibrant blooms and aromatic herbs, the house exuded a sense of tranquility and warmth that beckoned visitors. The structure itself was modest, with weathered wooden siding painted in a faded shade of green, reminiscent of the lush foliage that thrived within its walls. A white picket fence lined the perimeter, adding a touch of charm to the property while maintaining a sense of openness and accessibility. The front porch, adorned with a few well-worn rocking chairs, invited passersby to pause, relax, and engage in conversations that often transcended casual pleasantries. One sunny afternoon, Richmond emerged from his house, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The people of Broadway Street, aware of his unique ability, couldn't help but feel a sense of unease or foreboding as they awaited his latest revelation. They knew that whatever he uttered would undoubtedly come to pass. With a sly grin, Richmond weaved his tale throughout the town, declaring that flesh-eating flowers were being secretly sold in one of the giant superstores. His words sent shivers down the listeners' spines, their minds conjuring up images of horrifying plants lurking within the shelves of even their houses, churches, libraries, and grocery stores. The news spread like wildfire, and soon, a sense of panic gripped the community. People avoided the superstore, fearing the consequences of encountering these deadly blooms. It seemed as if the town was held captive by Richmond's words, caught in a web of fear spun by his gossipy superpower. Days turned into weeks, and the town remained in a state of heightened anxiety. Richmond, observing the consequences of his rumor, began to feel the weight of his power. He had never intended for his gossip to cause such distress, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that surged through him whenever his predictions came true. Haunted by guilt, Richmond resolved to set things right. He embarked on a personal mission to find the truth behind his latest rumor, determined to alleviate the fears that had gripped Broadway Street. He delved into the research, scouring the depths of the internet and visiting local botanical experts, hoping to uncover the reality behind the spin. Days turned into nights as Richmond followed every lead, uncovering a hidden world of rare and exotic plants. Eventually, his journey led him to a renowned botanist who confirmed the existence of a rare species of carnivorous flowers known as "Dionaea carniaris." Armed with this newfound knowledge, Richmond returned to Broadway Street. He stood before the Community, who had gathered to hear his next proclamation. He admitted his fault, expressing remorse for the fear he had inadvertently caused. With sincerity in his voice, he explained the truth behind the flesh-eating flowers, assuring them that the superstore was safe. Relief washed over the crowd as Richmond's words sank in. The town slowly began to regain its composure, realizing that their fears had been unfounded. Richmond's gossip had been both a curse and a blessing, an odd power that had inadvertently brought the truth to light. In the aftermath of the ordeal, the people of Broadway Street developed a newfound respect for Richmond. They recognized the weight he carried as the town's unlikely harbinger of truth. Richmond, humbled by their forgiveness, vowed to use his superpower for good, to bring awareness to hidden truths and dispel unfounded fears. As the years passed, Richmond became a trusted figure in the community. His gossip, tempered by caution and verified information, helped the townspeople navigate their lives with newfound knowledge. Richmond's peculiar ability transformed from a source of fear to one of enlightenment, bringing the community closer together. As Richmond continued his role as the town's harbinger of truth, a new presence emerged in the Community. Anabel, a copycat who had witnessed the power Richmond held over the community, sought to replicate his ability to spread rumors. However, unlike Richmond, Anabel had no regard for the consequences her words would bring. News of Anabel's deceptive nature reached Richmond's ears, and he knew that his work was far from over. He understood the danger of allowing someone with ill intentions to hold the community hostage with false information. Determined to protect the people he had come to care for, Richmond set out to confront Anabel. On Broadway Street, at the heart of the community, stood the majestic Broadway Street Town Hall, a grand architectural marvel that served as the gathering place for important discussions and momentous occasions. As the sun cast its golden rays upon the ornate facade, the entrance doors swung open, welcoming a stream of people from all walks of life. Inside the town hall, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, as hundreds of residents filled the spacious auditorium. They were drawn to the day’s proceedings based on Anable’s latest rumor. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate moldings and sparkling chandeliers, added a touch of grandeur to the atmosphere. Rows of plush seats stretched out before a raised platform, where a polished wooden podium awaited the speaker. The walls of the auditorium were adorned with photographs and portraits depicting the rich history and notable figures of Broadway Street. Each image told a story, evoking a deep sense of pride and community spirit among the attendees. The vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls reflected the diverse cultural tapestry that made up the fabric of the town. As the meeting commenced, a hushed silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the occasional whisper and the creaking of chairs. The air was charged with a mix of nervousness, determination, and hope, as the community gathered to discuss a matter of utmost importance. The stage was set, adorned with a large backdrop bearing the emblem of Broadway Street—a symbol of unity and progress. Behind the podium, a panel of community leaders and officials awaited their turn to address the audience, their faces reflecting a mixture of responsibility and dedication. The stage was bathed in a soft spotlight, casting a glow upon the speakers as they stepped forward to address the crowd. Microphones stood ready to amplify their voices, ensuring that their messages reached every corner of the hall. The buzz of anticipation grew with each passing moment, as the gravity of the situation weighed upon everyone present. As the speakers began, their voices filled the hall, resonating with passion and conviction. They spoke of the challenges facing the community, the opportunities for growth, and the collective responsibility to shape the future of Broadway Street. Ideas, concerns, and solutions were shared, echoing through the hall as a chorus of voices united in pursuit of a common goal. The energy in the room was palpable, as the attendees listened intently, nodding in agreement, raising hands to ask questions, or applauding in support. Emotions flowed freely, from moments of passionate disagreement to instances of shared understanding and unity. And then Anabel’s voice rang out “Impeach the Mayor!” Everyone was shocked. “I have evidence of impropriety on the part of the Mayor. He must be impeached!” As confusion and bewilderment lingered in the air, Richmond stepped forward and with his booming voice said: “Please Mr. Speak disregard the young lady, she is only here to spread wild rumors” “No, Mr. Richmond. Let the young lady step forward, ‘she who asserts must prove’, that is the law” The showdown between the two rumor-mongers has begun. Tension as thick as the bark of a tree built up instantly and crackled in the air. Richmond, weathered by the weight of his unique ability, stood with conviction, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Anabel, fueled by a thirst for power, held her ground with a smirk on her face, reveling in the chaos she had sown. Her rumor was that the Mayor was having an affair with the Education Board Secretary, a married mother of four. "I won't let you manipulate this community any longer, Anabel," Richmond declared, his voice filled with authority. "Your false rumors are causing unnecessary anger, passion and harm. It's time for the truth to prevail." Anabel laughed, dismissing Richmond's words with a wave of her hand. "Oh, Richmond, you've become quite the self-righteous hero, haven't you? But what makes your rumors any different from mine? We're both playing with people's lives, just in different ways." There was a loud scoff from the crowd. Richmond's gaze hardened as he replied, "There is a crucial distinction, Anabel. My rumors are rooted in truth and carefully verified to avoid causing undue harm. I aim to enlighten, not manipulate. You, on the other hand, thrive on chaos and deception." Anabel scoffed, the arrogance in her voice evident. "Truth, lies... What does it matter? People will believe what they want to believe. It's their own fault for being so gullible." The exchange of words intensified, each combatant fighting to defend their perspective. But Richmond knew that he had to do more than just argue. He had to prove to Anabel the importance of responsible information dissemination and protect the community from her deceitful influence. With a sudden surge of determination, Richmond revealed evidence he had meticulously gathered, exposing Anabel's fabrications and the harm they had caused. Witness accounts, documents, and undeniable facts painted a damning picture of Anabel's malicious intent and how she had photoshopped some naked photos to make them look like her victims were having an affair. As the truth unfolded, the people of Broadway Street began to see through Anabel's facade. Doubts arose within them, and they turned away from her, seeking the clarity and honesty that Richmond provided. The power Anabel had held over the community crumbled, leaving her exposed and isolated. In the aftermath of the showdown, Anabel was left with a choice: to continue down her path of deception or to change her ways. Witnessing the impact of her actions and the strength of Richmond's conviction, she chose the latter. Anabel acknowledged the harm she had caused and vowed to make amends. Richmond, ever the believer in redemption, extended a hand of guidance to Anabel. He shared his knowledge and experience, teaching her the importance of integrity and empathy. Slowly but surely, Anabel began to mend the broken trust she had shattered. Over time, the wounds inflicted by Anabel's false rumors healed, and the community found solace in Richmond's steadfast commitment to truth. Anabel became a testament to the power of personal growth and the potential for change. Together, Richmond and Anabel worked to rebuild trust within the community. They became unlikely allies, using their unique abilities to expose falsehoods and enlighten the people they had once endangered. Their collaboration served as a reminder that even in the face of deception, there is always the possibility for redemption and unity. And so, the Community witnessed a transformation. The clash between Richmond and Anabel not only resolved their personal conflict but also instilled a sense of resilience within the community. United by the shared pursuit of truth, the town emerged stronger, armed with the wisdom to discern fact from fiction and to stand against those who sought to exploit their trust. Richmond's work continued, now reinforced by Anabel's newfound commitment to responsible rumor-mongering. Together, they embarked on a journey to ensure that their town would never again fall victim to manipulation or falsehood. The power of their words became a force for good, enlightening the community and fostering a sense of unity and resilience that would endure for generations to come. As Richmond and Anabel joined forces to uphold the value of truth, their unique abilities continued to shape the destiny of their community on Broadway Street. Their focus shifted beyond addressing false rumors, as they recognized the potential of their powers to prevent grave mistakes and guide the town toward a brighter future. The Community faced an economic crossroads, with impending decisions that could impact the livelihoods of its residents. Sensing the urgency, Richmond dove into extensive research, gathering information about the potential consequences of the proposed economic ventures of cryptocurrency. With careful consideration, he began to spread rumors based on his findings, aiming to safeguard the community from making ill-informed choices. The people of Broadway Street, remembering Richmond's track record of accurate rumors, paid heed to his words. They engaged in open discussions, scrutinizing the proposed projects and weighing the pros and cons. As a result, they collectively decided to steer clear of ventures that held the potential to disrupt the local economy and harm their way of life. The town's avoidance of these economic pitfalls proved invaluable. While neighboring communities struggled with the fallout from their ill-fated ventures, Broadway Street flourished, its economy stable and resilient. Richmond's ability to foresee the consequences of certain actions saved them from financial turmoil. Emboldened by this success, Richmond turned his attention towards a new challenge that had recently emerged—the fear surrounding vaccines. Misinformation and unfounded rumors had gripped the community, leading to hesitancy and putting lives at risk. Recognizing the urgent need for accurate information, Richmond and Anabel collaborated to combat the spread of fear and mistrust. Drawing from their combined knowledge, they embarked on a campaign to dispel the myths and provide factual information about vaccines. They organized community forums, inviting medical experts to address concerns and clarify any misconceptions. Richmond shared stories of how his previous accurate rumors had saved lives and emphasized the importance of relying on credible sources of information. Over time, the walls of doubt began to crumble. The people, inspired by Richmond's reputation and the evidence he presented, regained trust in the power of vaccines. They sought vaccination, knowing that it was crucial not only for their own well-being but also for the collective health of their community. Broadway Street became a beacon of vaccine acceptance, with immunization rates soaring and the community experiencing the benefits of protection against infectious diseases. Richmond's old rumors, which had once caused fear, now played a pivotal role in dispelling misconceptions and guiding the town toward a safer and healthier future. As the years passed, Richmond and Anabel continued their tireless work, using their powers to combat misinformation and promote truth. They became revered figures on Broadway Street, celebrated for their unwavering dedication to the well-being of the community. Richmond's unique gift, once a source of mystery and skepticism, had transformed into a force for positive change. He and Anabel had harnessed their abilities to protect the town from economic pitfalls and combat vaccine hesitancy, forever leaving an indelible mark on the fabric of their community. Broadway Street thrived, guided by the principles of truth and critical thinking. Richmond and Anabel's legacy lived on, reminding the people to question, verify, and rely on credible information. In their footsteps, a new generation of truth-seekers emerged, carrying the torch of knowledge and empowering the community to overcome challenges with clarity and unity.


Layla brushed her fingertips over the photo on her corkboard and smiled. Her corkboard, like most teenagers, was covered in photos, admissions tickets, anything that added to the collection of memories that made her happy. Images of beach days, silly faces, family, friends, and nature-filled the board. But only memories with one person mattered the most to her. When she looked at the board and saw memories with her best friend Jake, her heart did a flip-flop. Jake had crawled his way into her heart from being a shy nobody to her best friend in just a matter of three years.

Jake had become the person she wanted to spend all her time with, the shoulder she could cry on, the heart she could confide in. He protected her and she kept him in check. In Layla’s head, none of that would change if they became…. more. Layla’s ideal relationship was dating your best friend, dating the person that made you laugh, the person that you could be yourself with, the person who challenged your beliefs and made you be a better version of herself. That person was Jake. There had been countless people who asked if they were dating, including their parents. Everyone was always shocked when they heard Layla and Jake weren’t in fact dating.

Layla’s phone rang, making her jerk her hands from her corkboard. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was Shelby, Jake’s mom.

“Hi Shelby,” Layla said cheerfully as she answered the phone.

“Layla!” Shelby sounded panicked.

Layla immediately became alert and tense.

“Shelby, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you ok?”

There was a brief pause. Layla’s heart raced. Somehow in her gut, she knew what Shelby was about to tell her was going to be very bad.

Nothing could prepare her for the words that came out of Shelby’s mouth next.

“It’s Jake. He’s been in an accident.”

o.O.o The next hours were a blur. Layla and her mom had rushed to the hospital and met Jake’s family in the waiting room. No one had spoken much. They sat in tense silence for the better part of three hours. Layla hadn’t been able to sit still; either she had been pacing or her leg was bouncing. Jake’s brother, Luke, had been doing the same. He occasionally threw her a brief grim smile. She knew that her worry was nothing compared to what Jake’s family was feeling, but she couldn’t stop the pit in her stomach from growing. The waiting room was a dreadful place. People literally waited to hear life-altering news in these semi-comfortable chairs surrounded by people who were either worried, crying or pacing. Even if someone was there for good news, like childbirth, the anxiety of those waiting for bad news made one question and doubt their own news.

When Layla and her mom had gotten to the hospital, Shelby had filled them in on the accident. According to the paramedics, Jake had been walking through an intersection when a car had come hurtling through a stop sign and had hit Jake. He had been mostly out of the way of the car, so he didn’t receive the brunt of the force from the car, but he had still been thrown several feet and hit his head badly. He had been rushed to get tests done and then to get stabilized. He hadn’t needed surgery at the moment but the doctors had put him in the ICU to recover and see his progress.

The doctor had come out with an update, but nothing had really changed since the last time she had come out. Shelby urged Layla and her mom to go home. Layla had protested, insisting they stay. But after many reassurances that Shelby would call as soon as anything changed or Jake was allowed visitors, Layla and her mom drove home.

Layla spent the next few days preparing a care package for Jake and calling Shelby for updates. Anything to keep her mind preoccupied from worrying. She used an old box and filled it with all of Jake’s favorite snacks, some books and magazines to read while in recovery, joggers, socks, and a few other things that she thought he would like. Layla also added some photos of her and Jake. There was one of them at the beach making faces, one of them biking, one of them at their friend Maya’s sweet sixteen. Layla hesitated to add the strip of them in a photo booth at a carnival since it was her favorite. She and Jake had each gotten one but Jake had almost immediately lost his copy. After stuffing a quick ‘get well idiot’ card into the box, she sealed it and set it aside to bring when she went to visit him.

Layla couldn’t even begin to think of what might happen if Jake wasn’t okay. There were so many things she still wanted to do and had to say. Even though it was no one’s fault, if she never told Jake how she felt, she would regret that for the rest of her life.

Shelby’s call came three days after the accident.

“Hi Shelby, any updates?” Layla said as she picked up the phone.

“Yes, actually. Jake is awake and doing well. He can take visitors now. But I need to —”

“He can? That’s great! I’m heading over right now!” Layla interrupted.

“Layla wait before you come, I need to warn you, Jake’s memory isn’t the same,” Layla paused, her hand on her purse and her foot halfway out the door. “What do you mean, his memory isn’t the same? What’s wrong with it?” she asked, worry lacing her voice.

Shelby took a breath before answering. “The doctors say he has retrograde amnesia,”

Layla remembered learning about retrograde amnesia briefly in her psych class junior year.

“So how far back can he not remember?”

“The doctors aren’t sure how much he can’t remember. He remembers us, obviously, but he can’t remember anything he’s done for the last couple of months. Whether his lack of memory goes back even further hasn’t been tested yet.” Shelby responded.

Layla hesitated, thoughts racing through her head. She dreaded to know the answer to her question.

“I’m sure he remembers you, Layla. You’re a big part of his life. I can’t imagine that he could easily forget you,” Shelby affirmed, almost as if she had read Layla’s thoughts.

After a moment, Layla said, “Sure, you’re probably right,” Her stomach clenched when she said this.

o.O.o The drive to the hospital was only 15 minutes, but it felt much longer than that. Layla shuffled through her music— an attempt to drown out the relentless cloud of doubt swirling through her head. Layla parked the car a few rows from the entrance and sat back in the seat. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a few deep breaths. Jake is ok! He got through the worst part! And he does remember you! Stop worrying!

She met Shelby on the third floor, the rest of the family was in the room with Jake. Upon seeing Shelby, Layla embraced her in a big hug.

“How have you been, with everything?” Layla asked when they had released each other.

Shelby sighed. Purple shadowed her eyes and her hair looked mildly disheveled.

“We’ve been ok. Been better,” she gave a half-smile. “I brought you coffee,” Layla said, handing the cup in her hand to Shelby. “I’m sure the hospital coffee is good but Starbucks is always better,”

Shelby took a sip and smiled. “Thank you, Layla,”

Layla glanced around the hall.

“Which room is Jake in?”

“I’ll show you.”

Shelby led Layla down the hall and pushed open a door that was half-closed. Layla’s eyes fell on Jake in the center of the room. He looked like he had just woken up with his hair floppy and messy. He had gauze wrapped around his head, but he looked fine otherwise. Layla’s stomach did a flip-flop and her heart started beating a little faster. Luke was standing by the window and Jake’s dad was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Hi, Layla,” Jake’s dad greeted her. He got up from the chair and walked to her.

“Hi Mr. Carter,” Layla said as she gave him a hug. “Hey, Luke,” she said over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Luke nodded at her.

After a moment of greetings and formalities, Shelby ushered Luke and his dad out to give Layla and Jake some time.

At last, she and Jake were alone.

“Hey Jake,” she said softly, slowly taking in Jake.

“Hi,” he said after a moment, assessing her from head to toe.

Relief flooded through her body. He did remember her. Jake would have said something if he didn’t. Feeling lighter, Layla gently lowered herself into the chair Mr. Carter had occupied. She wanted to brush the hair that had fallen into his face away but refrained from doing so. Layla had never been nervous around Jake before, so why was she anxious now? Why did things feel awkward between them?

“You really scared me, you know? When your mom called me telling me you were in an accident, I was scared your idiocy had finally caught up to you,” Layla chuckled. Jake smiled at that.

“How do you feel?” Layla asked, relaxing a little. Jake had a beautiful smile.

Jake shrugged a little. “My head hurts a lot. I don’t really remember the accident all that much. I also have been eating hospital food, which sucks,”

Layla reached down and pulled up the box she had made. “Well, my dear Jakey, I brought you some stuff that might help with that,”

She handed him the box and watched as he looked through it. Jake examined the books and magazines, commenting on how he hadn’t read them yet. There was something different about Jake, but Layla wrote it off to the accident. He seemed…. Distant almost. More aloof. Layla was sure his mood change once he was out of the hospital.

“Thank you, um, this is great!” Jake’s smile faltered a little.

“I added in some photos of us. I even gave you my copy of the photobooth strip,” Layla pointed to the envelope.

Jake looked confused before saying, “Oh, thanks,”

Layla’s throat tightened a little. “You don’t remember?” she asked, trying to contain the hurt from showing. “You lost your strip almost as soon as we got home from the party?” Jake didn’t respond.

“Jake?” she said quietly, heart-pumping loudly in her ears.

Jake closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what…?” Layla asked. There was a growing pit in her stomach. She refused to acknowledge what she thought was about to happen.

“I don’t remember,” Jake said quietly. He avoided her gaze.

“Don’t remember what, the carnival? That’s ok,” Layla tried to smile. She wanted to catch his gaze, but he steadily avoided it. “I’ll help you remember some of the memories,” she said, desperate to make light of the situation.

Jake had closed his eyes again. “I don’t remember you, ” his words were barely audible.

The air whooshed out of Layla’s lungs. She felt the pressure building behind her eyes and her throat tightening. She could live without dating Jake, but he was her best friend. She had lost the one person in the world who had known her best. The one person that knew everything about her, that would laugh with and at her. All the memories, the secrets, the tears, the laughs they had, gone. Layla’s heart ached in her chest.

“I thought that if I pretended long enough, I would be able to start remembering. I really didn’t want to hurt you, because you clearly meant a lot to me in the past,” Jake explained.

Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. That’s what Layla felt like was happening. She couldn’t pull herself up. Each time she grabbed onto a memory, it pulled away from her further and further. Jake was saying something but Layla couldn’t focus on it. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” Layla sat up abruptly. She all but ran out of the room.

He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. Those three words clanged through her head over and over as she rushed out of the room. Layla couldn’t think of anything but beating the tears and heartache to her car. She knew eventually she would reconcile with Jake, tell him about the adventures and memories they had. She knew she would explain each photo and the story behind every one. But right now, all she could do was grieve. How was she supposed to move on from this? He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me.


Calpillo and his little sister Xochil harvested corn from their parent's corn field for dinner for the night while his mother Xochimilco harvested beans. Xochimilco cooked the Rabbit, corn and beans, and the family ate supper for the evening in peace. Their father Texcoco came back with a Rabbit. Texcoco and his family lived happily and peacefully with their tribe in the land of Aztlan. The Tribe took good care of their land and got along well with the neighboring tribes. Later that night, the tribe was gathered around a large bonfire when a deity appeared before them. The deity had blue skin, hummingbird feathers sprouting from his head and shoulders, a shield in one hand, and a scepter that looked like a serpent with a flame in it's gaping maw. "Listen and listen well, my children! I am the god Huitzilpochtli, your creator. I come bearing an important message for you all. You are to leave Aztlan and set out to the south tomorrow in search of the promised land!" Huitzilpochtli pointed at Texcoco. "I want you to lead the Tribe on this quest." "Me?" Texcoco asked. "But I am a simple farmer!" "But how will we know if and when we've found the promised land, my lord??" asked a woman. "I shall give you a sign when you reach the promised land to tell you if you found the promised land. "What is this sign? What will this sign look like?" asked a man. "You will know the sign when you first lay eyes upon it. Your journey begins at dawn! I will guide you!" Huitzilpochtli then vanished in a puff of hummingbird feathers. At the break of dawn the next morning, Texcoco lead the various tribes of Aztlan as the tribe bid the land of Aztlan farewell and marched southward in search of Huitzilpochtli's sign. They marched and marched ever onward, stopping only to camp and rest when the sun set. Calpillo looked around him, looking for the "Sign" that

Huitzilpochtli left them from the campfire. He saw stars, constellations, rocky outcroppings, the occasional Coyote, and succulents of all shapes and sizes, but nothing out of the ordinary. "What is this sign you left us, my lord?" Calpillo asked to himself. "What's wrong, brother?" Xochil asked. "Is this journey just a wild goose chase? We've walked for a day and a half and what have we found to show for it?" Calpillo asked. "Huitzilpochtli wouldn't send us out to the desert to torture us like this. He didn't create us just so he could destroy us." Xochil said. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right about that..." Calpillo said. The next day the tribe walked the desert again until they reached the grasslands. Tall reeds and shrubs greeted the wandering tribe. The Tribe drank plentifully from the water stream, and took a break to eat some corn. That night, as the Tribe sat at the campfire, a howl caused the men and women to take up weapons. A pack of Coyotes circled around the travelers' camp, snarling and howling. While several men killed off three Coyotes in the pack, two coyotes zeroed in on Texcoco.

One Coyote jumped forward at Texcoco and clamped down on his shoulder, clawing at his chest. Texcoco brought a scythe down on the back of the Coyote's neck, killing the wild animal on the spot. Xochimilco, Calpillo and Xochil watched in horror as the second Coyote leapt at Texcoco from behind him and bit down on his other shoulder, clawing at his back. Someone shot an arrow at the back of the Coyote's neck, and the Coyote fell over limply. Texcoco also fell over limply. A neighboring tribe traveling along revealed themselves as the killers of the coyote. The remaining coyotes in the pack retreated back into the wilderness to regroup. Xochimilco, Calpillo and Xochil looked down at Texcoco, worried greatly. "Father, are you alright?" Calpillo asked. "Calpillo....You....must lead the Tribes....from now on...." Texcoco said before breathing his last breath. Xochimilco cried into her hands. Calpillo closed his eyes and prayed. "Give me a sign...Please, Huitzilpochtli...Please give me a sign..." Calpillo thought to himself, hot tears flowing from his eyes. And so, the two Tribes buried Texcoco's body, then went to sleep. At the break of dawn the next morning, the two Tribes packed up to go when they saw blood seep out from underground, and magically flow across the ground in a straight line. Calpillo took this as a sign from Huitzilpochtli, so he lead the two tribes to follow it. They followed the blood trail until it dried up in front of a prickly pear cactus made entirely of stone. An Eagle perched down on top of the stone cactus, a snake clutched firmly in it's other talon. The bird then ate the snake. The boy gasped and dropped down to his knees. "This is it!" Calpillo said. "This is the sign! We reached the promised land!!" The wanderers rejoiced. Their journey was finally over. Another Tribe after another after another after another from Aztlan discovered the sign, until there was enough people for a full-fledged metropolis. Huitzilpochtli appeared before the Tribe. He turned around and gestured them to follow him. "Come with me." the Deity said. The Tribes followed the deity to see a massive lake on the horizon. "This is the promised land. You shall build a city here, and you shall live together as one tribe in peace and prosperity! Never forget this day!" said Huitzilpochtli. Huitzilpochtli then disappeared into a puff of hummingbird feathers. The wandering Tribes, now united as one tribe, named the Lake "Lake Texcoco" and built a grand city with canals and reservoirs dedicated to the Gods called "Tenochtitlan", and since that day, life was good. Or, life was good until the Spanish colonized Tenochtitlan. *My personal take on the story of how Tenochtitlan was founded. I'm sorry if I'm Cultural Appropriating, but I just love mythology so much.


“CLEAR!”

All he could hear in the dead of night is paramedics and EMTs rush to the scene.

“CLEAR!”

He never seen this coming.

“Still no pause!”

It hit him like a freight train.

“Charge at 150!” one yelled directing orders to the others. Then the sound of another electric current shock pierced his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be happening. He thought to himself as he sat off to the side on the curb. He had his face in his hand.

“This can’t be happening” he muttered.

This was supposed to be a happy get together. A nice evening filled with laughter and dancing mixed with witty chatter. And to top it all off, a quiet moonlight rendezvous at his special lookout spot away from the world in hopes of ending the night on a joyous occasion. But it seems the universe had other plans. What was once gone to be his proudest moment turn into his worst nightmare. As he watches hopelessly in his all-black tux painted in red spots and tears as the love of his life fights for hers. This is all his fault. Why didn’t he just plan a nice candle light dinner at his place? Something so simple. She always enjoyed the little things. But he thought it was a good idea to go the extra mile, exaggerate the entire thing wanting to go off in a grand finale. Anything for her. But this is not what he had in mind.

So, this how he repays her? The last four years gone up in flames right into front of him. He let out a gust of air he didn’t realize he was holding. Heart rate was doing 360s, it’s a miracle he even sitting here. Why is he though? Why did the universe choose her over him? If anyone deserves this fate, he would gladly volunteer in a heartbeat. He would do anything to press restart.

Restart to earlier today, his alarm bouncing off the walls of his room. He turns over in bed guiding his hand to the snooze button. Stretch his arms in the air letting a long-exhausted yawn. Feet planted on carpet flooring then he pushes himself up to start his morning routine. He walks towards the bathroom; use the toilet, turn on the shower, and quickly brushes his teeth. When the shower is nice and hot, he enters; grabs the soap then loather his body and hair really well before exiting after fifteen-twenty minutes. He already had his clothes out for today. He quickly got dressed reminding himself of today’s errands until he heard his cell phone buzz on the side table. Picking it up and smiled to himself. He pressed the green phone.

“Hey babe, what’s up?”

“Hey love, just calling to see if you were up” he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Yeah, I just woke up about to head out for the day”

“Where you heading?”

He scoffed “Nosy much?” she smacked her lips “Boy whatever”.

He chuckled into the speaker “Nah, I’m just kidding but I need to go to drop some things off by my mom’s before heading to the mall” he voiced. “Oh okay.... we still on for tonight” she mentions softly he knew it was more of a statement than a question. “Yeah, unless you have other plans” she giggled rolling her eyes not that he could see “No never, I’m looking forward to it”.

It made his heart skip a beat knowing she was as excited as he was. “That’s good to hear, can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see all I had planned”.

“You sure, I can’t get a little hint”

“No then it’ll ruin the surprise”

“Not for me”

“Girl, get off my phone” he laughed to himself but he could hear her laughing as well. God it’s the sweetest sound in the world.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying. Fine, I’ll let you get back to it. Love you baby see you later” she allured.

“Bye babe, I love you too”

She made kissing noises over the speaker until he heard the line end. He placed his phone into his pocket then grabbed his keys and whatever else he needs rushing out the house to his car. He drove down to his parents' church for a care package they were giving to all the members of church. He pulled into the driveway. Grab the box from the backseat and walked towards the house where his mom was standing in the doorway. They shared a quick chat before giving her a kiss on the cheeks onward to his next order of business. The mall was packed as usual on the weekend but he shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes tops. First, he went to the Gentlemen store to pick up his tux. They had it at the register hung and ready for him. After confirming his order, the teller hand him the garment bag. He smiles, wished him a great day and then he was marching down to the candy shop for her favorite chocolates. Next, Macy’s and lastly the jewelry store.

Checked the time on his phone to see he still had 3 and half hours left to spare. He grabbed something small to eat and continue to prep for the evening. The next time he checked his phone it was twenty-five minutes before they needed to be at the restaurant. He double checked his appearance in the mirror, grab the gifts off the counter, and sent her a text that he was on his way. It was not even five minutes when she walked out her house into the passenger seat. He knows he's racing the clock but he had to take a second to look her over. She had on a long emerald fitted evening dress with light makeup. He forgot to breathe.

“You like what you see?” she smirked, placing her hand on his cheek.

“As a matter of fact, I do” he kissed her palm then left a quick peck on her glossed lips. They pulled up to the restaurant without a second to spare. The concierge guided them to one of their private tables in the back marked his name on it. He pulled out her seat before sitting across from her.

“This place is gorgeous; I can’t believe you managed to get a reservation consider how booked they always are” she said taking a sip of her water.

“Never underestimate a man on a mission. I remember you saying you wanted to go here ever since it was open. And viola” he took her hold of her hand smoothing her knuckles with his thumb.

“Aww baby” she bought his hand to her lips “I don’t deserve you”

“Funny, I swear that was my line” they laughed and vibe off each other energy. He noticed the music turned to smooth jazz. “Care to dance” he said already standing up. “I’d love to” Pushing forward into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands rest upon her waist. They danced for a bit until the food arrive. Small chatters, a few drinks of champagne later; he slides over all the gifts he bought her minus one. Her face light up like a Christmas tree and nearly cried on the spot.

“Excuse me sir, is everything all right?”

He heard someone say off to his side. He turned his head towards the voice but he was met with a horrifying image. There stood the waiter with blood stain face. “Can you hear me sir?”

What’s going on? He stared at him idly. Until he felt her hand squeeze his. He looks at her.

“Is everything okay?” she said with the same extract blood stain face but now they were in his car. Her head was facing towards him. Her dress was ripped and blood was dripping on side of her mouth.

No. He thought. Then all sudden a bright light outlined her silhouette from behind then everything went black.

“Please sir, you need to talk to me”

He removed his face out of his hands. Where was he? Oh right, he almost forgot reality. There he was once again, hearing loud sirens; glass filled road; two cars totaled, and her nearly on death's doorstep. The officer in front of him lowered to his level. “Sir, my name is Office Wally, I’m just checking to see if you are, okay? Any injuries?” He stared at him but no words came out.

The officer sighed. “I know this is hard for you. And you are in your rights to take all the time you need but we do need a quick rundown of what took place please”

He ignored him once again. His hand slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red box.

He could feel tears form in his eyes but didn’t dare let them fall. He opened it.

There laid a diamond ring.


           This morning was not unlike any other morning in the City of Gloom. In fact, it was difficult to distinguish if it was morning at all, for day and night look the same here.            The Gloom city council is scheduled to meet later today to discuss the urgent issues at hand. Mayor Grumble heads up the committee of eight. I am the mayor’s assistant, Phineas Foghat.            As I look out the window of my apartment on Tedious Road, I see the citizens of Gloom wandering the streets. Each one of them hangs their head low, staring at the ground below their worn shoes. I will be joining them shortly as I head down to City Hall. One of my duties is to run all of Mayor Grumble’s errands, which for this morning, includes picking up his breakfast.            I slip on my gray suit, tie, and shoes, then it is out the door I go. The sidewalk is packed with others trying to get to work on time, each of them dressed in similar clothes to me. We march down the street like bottles on a conveyor belt. While everyone else stares at the sidewalk, I raise my eyes to the sky and wonder if there is more to life. The sky is dark, and cloud covered. There are no stars or moon to see.            As I reach Shadow Street, I head East toward City Hall, but on the way, I need to stop and pick up the mayor’s order from Shady’s Diner. Maria, behind the counter, has it ready when I walk in. Every day, it is the same meal, black coffee, burnt toast, and truffles with a slice of Gray Owl Cheese. The aroma from the truffles is overpowering as I quickly rush out the door and back into the semi-fresh air outside.            When I enter the mayor’s chambers, he is sitting at his desk with a light gray bib tucked into his dark gray suit. In his hands, he holds a fork and knife while drool dribbles down his mammoth chin. I quickly set the food out in front of him and stand back as he devours the meal in a matter of seconds. I’m certain that if I left my hands near his plate for one second longer, I would have lost some fingers.            With an enormous belch that filled the air with the smell of truffles, coffee, and old cheese, Mayor Grumble began barking out his orders to me.

“Foghat!” he shouted from six feet away, “Get me the list of complaints from the workers at the mine. I want to know what to expect at the meeting today.”            “Yes, of course, sir,” I replied. “I have it right here.” Pulling the list from my briefcase, I handed it over. The mayor studied the list for several moments and scratched down a few notes for later reference. Then he turned his attention back to me.

“Foghat, I need you to run down to Bleaker Street and pick up a package for me. It is a gift for my wife. Today is our anniversary.”            “Congratulations, Mayor Grumble. Will you and Mrs. Grumble be doing anything special tonight?”            “Don’t be ridiculous, boy! I have a city to run. I don’t have time for such nonsense. Now, get out of here.”

I rushed out of his office and headed back out onto the busy sidewalk. Bleaker Street was four blocks away, and the crowd had died down slightly from earlier, so I made it there in record time. The shop was called, “Waste Not, Want Not,” a second-hand store with items that other people had thrown away. As I walked into the front door and introduced myself, the manager came out from the back and told me that the mayor’s gift was all wrapped and ready to go. He handed me a box wrapped in newsprint that was no more than six inches wide and four inches high. I thanked him and left the store.            As I crossed the street, it began to rain, so I ducked down an alley to take shelter. Light was nearly non-existent apart from a dim light at the far end of the alley. I walked towards it and was shocked to see that beneath the light stood a doorway, but not just any doorway, it was unlike any other door in the city. This door was the color red. I was taken aback, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Colors like this did not exist anywhere in Gloom City. I had to see where it led to.            I reached for the handle of the red door, took a firm grasp of it, and turned the handle to the right, then the left. It was locked. I hung my head in despair as I pondered what secrets could possibly be hidden behind that door. Looking at the package in my hand, I realized that I had already wasted too much time. I needed to get back to City Hall.            The mayor took the package from me and set it inside the drawer of his desk. He then ordered me to go prepare the council room for our meeting. Preparing the room was not a challenging task. I needed to make sure they each had a chair to sit in, a glass of water, and a copy of the agenda. I finished early and decided to have a seat in the mayor’s chair. It was larger and more padded than the others, and quite comfortable. I leaned back and set my feet upon the table in front of me then closed my eyes. That was when I heard a knock at the door.            Startled by the sudden interruption, I fell backward from the chair and hit the floor, my feet still resting upon the table. When I finally composed myself and got to my feet, I saw Wanda Bluster standing in the doorway shaking her head in disgust. I begged her not to mention anything to the mayor about what she saw, and she agreed reluctantly. She was there to drop off paint swatches for the mayor to look over for his office. He could choose from Gunmetal Gray, Ash Gray, Slate Gray, or White Smoke. I thanked Wanda and told her that I would make sure he got them.            Once the council meeting began, I knew that I would have a couple of hours of free time, so I decided to wander back down to the alley off Bleaker Street. This time, I brought along a small prybar to help me open the door. I tried the door handle once again to be sure, and it was still locked, so after scanning for onlookers, I wedged the prybar between the door and the doorjamb, and I pulled back with all my strength until I heard and felt the door pop open.            Carefully, I eased the door open, praying nobody was waiting on the other side ready to clobber me. The hinges creaked with disapproval of my deed. Inside, was a dimly lit staircase that zig-zagged upward into darkness. I edged my way step-by-step until I reached the first landing, listening for any unusual noises, but I heard none, so I continued into the darkness, with my hands planted firmly on the railing to guide me.            As I reached the top, I stepped out onto a flat platform. The darkness engulfed the room to the point where even sounds from the street below had faded away. That was when I saw it, a bright light above me waving back and forth. I shaded my eyes from the blinding light. A male voice came out of nowhere immediately after calling my name, but I couldn’t see anyone. Fear began to envelope me. I had no clue as to what was happening or who could be calling my name.            Again, my name was called out, but this time by a woman. Somehow, I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t put a face to it. The light appeared again as I felt a hand squeeze mine. The female voice called out,

“Phineas, open your eyes.”

I could feel the grasp tighten on my hands and I strained my eyes to see past the light. Suddenly, images started coming into view, blurry at first, but after a few minutes, things became clearer.            In the room, there were two people, a woman who sat by my side, and a man standing in front of me. As I looked around, I was surrounded by light and colors. I stared into the deep blue eyes of the woman next to me and my memory of her returned. She was my wife, Christine. I was in a hospital room and the doctor stood at the foot of my bed.            Tears ran down Christine’s face as I smiled at the realization. I asked her how I got there, and the doctor began to speak.

“Mr. Foghat, you have been in a coma for several weeks. You overdosed one evening and were found by your wife when she returned from work. She mentioned that you had been feeling very depressed lately, so it is my recommendation, that you start seeing a counselor regarding your mental state. Mental health is something to take very seriously, Mr. Foghat. I hope you are aware of that.”            “Yes, doctor, I am aware, and I have had plenty of time to consider what kind of world this would be if we were all in a depressed state all the time. I certainly have no desire to return to Gloom City.”

Christine and the doctor looked at each other perplexed at my statement, but I decided to wait until Christine, and I were alone to tell her about where I had been hiding out lately. It felt so real to me, and I am sure that there are thousands of people still trying to find their way out of Gloom City too. All I know for sure, is I plan to make the best of every moment from now on.


The sun was dying. And that means our world was too. Some people believed that the sun would explode and we'd be in the blast radius with hardly any time to feel terror in our last moments of life. Others believed that it would just turn off, leaving plants to die and begin the collapse of the food chain which would lead to the painful starvation of the populace. And the wealthy of the world, with their vast resources, made plans. They created strongholds dug deep into the ground and stocked it with technologies that they hoped would allow them to live. They realized quickly that though they might survive, they would not live in the fashion they were accustomed to. So they recruited medical professionals, security, and various staff. These people they saved from the impending apocalypse for the price of servitude, not just of them but of their offspring. And so the stage was set. Not just for the destruction of the world as we know it, but for the violent end of the human race. It's been ten years since the sun went dark. As soon as the last ray of sunlight touched the earth, the underground habitats closed themselves off. Like Noah and those on the ark, those inside turned a deaf ear to the banging and screaming at their door. They comforted themselves with rhetoric and reason. Philip was a boy of five. He was born into a world of artificial light and indifference. His mother was a cleaner who worked punishing hours. He didn't know his father, but he heard things. Mean things whispered to his mother sometimes even in his presence. Most people ignored him, except when they needed him to crawl somewhere small to fix something. Most days, he was left alone. Which he preferred. He was responsible for his own care. He dressed and bathed himself. If he was hurt, he would attend to the wounds himself. If he didn't appear in the kitchens at meal times, no one would bring him food. His mother would stumble into their small room at the end of the workday and collapse on their shared bed. They were lucky to have some privacy. Most rooms housed several workers, but his mother was given a separate room when he was born because no one wanted to live with a screaming baby. At least that is what his mother told Philip. He had heard others give less kind reasons. Sometimes it made him angry and he cried great big hot tears. But people were cruel here and so he figured that even if there was some small truth to what they said, it didn't matter. His mother was good, no matter what had happened before he was born. He crawled out from the covers and pulled off her shoes. He brought her a roll he had saved from his dinner and poured her a small glass of water. She lay on her side, took great bites of the bread, and gulped the water down, almost choking. She fell back down immediately. Her eyes fluttered closed. Phillip pulled the blanket to cover her small frame and kissed her cheek. Her thin lips turned up into a sweet smile. “Thank you, my beautiful boy.” Philip petted her hair. “I love you, mama.” His mother being pulled quickly into slumber, gave her last bit of strength to mouth the words “love you too”. Then the little child climbed into the bed beside her curled close under the covers and slept without dreaming. The next day, Phillip woke to his still-sleeping mother. His eyes grew wide in fear. He shook her. “ Mama! Wake up! Wake up! You've overslept!” His mother groaned but didn't jump out of bed. Instead, she gave a wicked smile with her eyes still closed. “I wanted to surprise you. Today, I don't work. There was a lottery. Five workers would win a free day. And I won. It was just wonderful seeing the look of jealousy on that ugly face–,” she paused, sitting up to look into her son's eyes. “Can you imagine that hag implied that it was because of favoritism?

But, let's forget her…Anyway, I won. Today, we can do anything you want.” Philip hadn't moved since his mom started talking. He was frozen from the shock of the news. He had never known his mother to take a day off of work except for illness and even then it was very rare.

His mother’s smile faltered, worried that something was wrong with her son. She started to reach out to touch him when he finally moved and began to jump up and down on the bed. “Whoo hoo! Whoo hoo! This is the best day ever!” His mother beamed up at her little boy. It had been so long since she had seen him happy. She would do whatever she could to make today perfect for him. And It had been a perfect day. His mom pulled out her greatest possessions, five books. Even though Phillip knew each word by heart, he looked at each word carefully trying to memorize how each word looked. After each book was read, his mother quizzed him by pointing at random words to make sure he knew how to read them.

They went down to the Kitchens for their meals and it was one of the cooks that slipped special treats into his mother's hands when no one was looking. She stuffed them into her pocket quickly and gave the man a bright smile. He blushed at her attention and then shooed them off before either of them would be noticed and reported. They played in the garden for a while. His mother wanted him to experience a little bit of what life on earth had been. She taught him how to play tag. She was his playmate as he was the only child in the working class. She trusted very few people, so she had the boy keep to himself as much as possible hoping that most would ignore him and that it might protect him from some of the horrors that she knew existed in this underground world.

They ran until they were both winded and then laid down looking up toward the ceiling where someone had painted a sky and clouds. They ate the sweet confection given to them while sharing the shapes they imagined seeing in those clouds. Before falling asleep, they read through all the books again. This time his mother quizzed him on the spelling of some words. And when he was able to spell them all without error, she kissed the top of his curly head. They lay hugging in bed, but not yet sleeping. Neither wanted to end this day. Phillip pretended to sleep and looked through his eyelashes to watch his pretty mother. She looked down at her boy and there were tears in her eyes. He tried to stay awake just to see her for a little bit longer, but his eyelids were so tired and heavy. The next morning, it happened. Their room’s door had been kicked in and people spilled inside. His mother was dragged out of bed by her hair and forced from the room. Phillip sat on the bed shaking and crying out for his mother. The last thing she said was, “I love you, son.” The uprising continued for days. Phillip waited as long as he could, he hadn't eaten for so long and his water was all gone. Carefully, he stepped out from the cupboard that he hid in and began his journey to the kitchens. He stepped over splinters of wood that had once been the door to his room. The hallway was a mess. He could see that all the doors had been broken and there was glass everywhere. He peeked inside the rooms as he walked past but didn't stop. There was red splattered in many of the rooms and he moved quickly past those trying not to see more. It wasn't until he was in the kitchens that he began to look around. On the ground was the crumpled apron of the cook who gave treats to his mother. It was covered in blood. He knew what that meant. Philip found one of the large refrigerators. He opened it and took the nearest thing out which happened to be an apple. He bit into it. It was sweet and tart and the best thing he had ever eaten. He finished it in just a few moments and picked another fruit. He took a bite of the orange, rind and all. He spat it out and quickly figured out how to peel it to get to the tasty bits. Later, he found carrots and onions and ate several of them. In a nearby cupboard was some slightly stale bread and he devoured that as well. He finished his meal with three large glasses of water. For days, he never saw anyone. He wondered where everyone had gone. If everyone was dead. And if so, where were their bodies? He began to search and found an open doorway that he'd never been through. He followed it until he came to a locked security door. It's there that he saw someone. Oblivious to the child who stood a few yards away, the man tried unsuccessfully to reach his hand through one of the small openings in the security gate. He was dirty and bloody, his clothing torn and stained. He stops when he sees Philip. For a moment he just blinked in surprise. “Hi there. Hey there kid. Hi.” The man gives a too-big smile. “I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten for days and I need your help. This door is locked and I can't get in. See that latch right there? It's super easy. Just push that and the door can open right up. Yeah?” The boy doesn't move. ‘Don't be scared. I'm really nice. My name's Brad. What's your name?” “Phillip.” “Phillip? Phillip?... You're Molly's son. Yes, that's right. I know your mom.” “She's gone.” “Yeah? You're all alone? Well, I can take care of you.” He got on his knees and pushed his face into the gate looking sincere. “Cuz…cuz I'm your dad. I know you don't know me. But we're family. And family helps each other out. You open up this door and we will go looking for your mom. And then we can be a real family. You and your mom could come to live with me in a nice place with lots of toys. You’d like that wouldn't you?” “How come you never came before?” Brad signed frustrated and spoke low, looking down.“I couldn't …for… some grown-up reasons.” The man looks up to see that the boy isn't impressed with that response. He continued. “You're mom and me…well we broke the rules. We weren't supposed to be together. When the authorities found out, they sent your mom to work down here. I didn't know about you for a long time. And then I figured it was for the best that I stay away.” He looked imploringly at Phillip.

“But now I know that I was wrong. I should have come to see you.” Phillip moved a step closer and Brad didn't hide his eager expression. The little boy looked him dead in the face. “Someone said that you hurt my mom. That you made her do something she didn't want to…and that's why she had me.” The blood drained out of Brad’s face. “No. No. I never hurt her.” “I don't believe you.” Each word from the small mouth was emphasized, heavy with disdain.

Brad's lip curled in anger. He lunged forward trying to grab at the boy. “You little shit! Open this door right now! Right now!” Phillip stumbled back at the sudden change in demeanor but righted himself quickly. Without another word, he turned around and walked back to his room. He heard the angry screams turn into pleading, but he didn't go back. He would never open that door. Not for the man who hurt his mother. Never.


Power. It is the only way to change the world, and Runar wanted it. He wanted it all - to be emperor, to control the most powerful cities in the galaxy, to have the power to conquer other planets. It had been on Runar’s New Year’s resolutions since 2722. The only problem was that Runar was not a prince. He was not even close. Runar was an assassin. The closest he had been to royalty was when he was slitting their throats or snapping their necks. But that was all going to change. In the middle of the Guilty Forest, lies the god of Time. Legends say that he controls all timelines of every living being in the galaxy and that he has the power to stop or start anyone’s timeline and can change someone’s timeline. Of course, all of this comes with a price. Runar entered the opening at the base of the giant tree. A white stag lay sleeping in the middle of the clearing. The stag’s dark blue eyes fluttered open and took in the large man that had disturbed his sleep.

“Runar Veldispo, what an interesting surprise. Speak your purpose for coming here.” The white stag approached him. “I’m here to change my timeline.”

Runar places the offering he brought at the stag’s hooves. The white stag chuckles. “Another human wants to change their timeline - how unoriginal. Although unoriginal, I do love tampering with timelines especially human ones. So what should I change?” The stag’s dark blue eyes gleam with malice and excitement.

“Let me be born as Emperor Okeanos’ son, so that I may become the next emperor to reign over Inama.” Runar presents an hourglass made from melted rubies to the stag as payment. “Please, for something like this an hourglass is not going to cut it. See you want me to change your timeline from your birth. This is not some small minuscule change, but one that will change your whole life. It’s a soul switch in essence - switching Prince Manacan’s soul with yours. As for payment, I will claim one person that you hold dear. In every life or timeline, one person of yours will be mine and in exchange, you will become Prince Manacan of Inama. Do we have a deal?” “Yes,” Runar says without hesitation. The white stag blinks and Runar falls. Runar can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed as he falls into the dark abyss. He hears the god of Time’s voice echo throughout the abyss. “I forgot to mention to be reborn as Prince Manacan of Inama, you must die first. Can’t start a new life if you haven’t finished this one first.” “Wha-” Runar opens his mouth to scream at the god when he feels his heart stop and then he feels nothing. Runar’s eyes open blinding light hitting them. He cries as his mother softly cradles him in his arms. “Hello, my little prince. Welcome to the world.” His mother’s voice is gentle. The new prince’s mother is Empress Novia and his father is Emperor Okeanos. He is Prince Manacan of Inama. And somewhere out there Runar Veldispo is being born to a poor woman and being sold into slavery where he will be bought by Abellio Onchello, trained to be an assassin, and will write down his New Year’s Resolution of 2722 to be to gain power. Runar Veldispo will search for the god of Time and ask to once again be born as Prince Manacan of Inama as the god of Time claims another person in his life. Runar Veldispo’s timeline will never change and neither will his resolution. Before a soul enters a new life, it is a clean slate. It has no name, no identity. It is simply a template for what the universe shapes it to be. Any soul that enters the world as Runar Veldispo will always be Runar Veldispo. He will constantly seek out the god of Time and the god of Time will continue to claim everyone in his life until he has claimed every last person of Runar Veldispo’s life.

And that is how the god of Time has never starved. Through the centuries, many humans have asked for a change and in return, he has claimed a soul. Sooner or later, everyone in that Runar Veldispo’s timeline will be claimed by the god of Time, and the god of Time will feast on all of their souls including Runar Veldispo’s. And the rest of the world will never know that Runar Veldispo has stopped existing in all timelines. It would have been better for Runar Veldispo to never write that New Year’s Resolution, but then again, how do you fight a god who has the power to shift time around so that you do write it?