It was a bright, beautiful, sunny day in downtown L.A. Multiple families, tourists, and vacationers were out enjoying the sunshine. The local markets and restaurants were filled with tons of people. The streets in the city were more crowded than ever. The local church, however, wasn’t nearly as crowded as the rest of the city. The Saint Pablo Church hadn’t had any new members since 2017. It's like the state of California had forgotten about their creator. One family that has always been consistent to come to church every Sunday was the Annalex family. Susan Annalex, mother of a young girl named Ally, was a common volunteer for the church. Whenever there was a fundraiser, Susan was always the first to show up and the last to leave. In 2008, she got married to Dave Zachary, a black father of a young boy named Xander. Xander was seven years older than Ally. In 2012, Dave and Susan had a daughter. While discussing what her name should be, Xander said that she should be named Heaven. When asked why he chose that name, he would always say “I looked at her face and saw Heaven. It was like an angel came down from above into our family.” Heaven always looked up to Xander. She loved him more than anything. The bond between Heaven and Xander was incredible. Since the day she was born, Heaven was always under a Christian influence. She was always talking about God and the Bible. She even convinced Xander to join the teen group at the church while Heaven and Ally joined the kids group. Heaven was instantly beloved by the church community because of her sweet, kind-hearted personally. When the Annalex family showed up on Sunday, the family split up. Susan, Dave, and Xander went to the main service, while Ally and Heaven went to the kids group. The theme of this service was about racism in America. This hit both Dave and Xander hard since they both had to go through racism before. “Racism had really been a real problem in the recent years of America.” said the pastor. “Within the last few years it has become increasingly dangerous to be black. Police brutally and racial profiling has risen to an all-time high. Especially in big cities such as L.A.'' Meanwhile In the children's group, Heaven and Ally were hearing a toned-down version of this. “It doesn’t matter at all about what your race or gender is, God loves you no matter what.” said the children’s pastor. Heaven then chimed in with her opinion. “That’s right! People need to just see people as people, not as black or white.” The pastor smiled. She was always impressed by Heaven's love for everyone. Heaven always loved helping the pastor talk about her subject. She always enjoyed telling people about God. The kids in the group also loved it when Heaven spoke. When church ended and the service was dismissed, Heaven and Ally went to meet up with their parents. When Heaven saw Xander, she became excited. Every sunday after church was over, Xander would always take Heaven to the playground at the church and play with her on the swing set. Heaven's laughter would always brighten up Xanders day. When the family arrived at the playground, there went only one or two other families there. Heaven didn’t mind that no one else was there. Xander was all that was needed to make Heaven happy. Heaven got into the swing and Xander started gently pushing her. Within a few seconds, Heaven started giggling. Xander then started pushing her a bit higher. She was laughing louder the higher she went. It was seemingly a perfect day. Suddenly, there was a huge screeching noise from behind the church. Everyone froze and turned to check out what was happening. There was a giant container truck that was starting to lose control. Without thinking, Xander scooped up Heaven and started running. Both Dave and Susan both grabbed Ally and also started running. Xander looked at the truck’s side to see that it said “Tungsten Technology Inc.” This meant one thing, that truck was carrying dangerous chemicals. The family quickly got to safety. Everyone was both scared and curious about the situation. Dave started explaining that the truck was carrying Wargun Zen, a dangerous chemical known to cause fatal diseases. Heaven spotted something in the path of the out-of-control truck. It was a young, hadicaped girl that had fallen out of her wheelchair and wasn’t able to pick herself up. Heaven knew that if she wasn’t able to get up, she would be crushed. She quickly started running toward her. “What in the world are you doing?” cried Xander. Heaven simply replied “What Jesus would do!” When Heaven reached her, the contents of the truck were spilling out. Thankfully, the truck had slowed down to a snail’s pace. This gave Heaven time to pick up the girl and carry her. But then, the fumes from the Wargun Zen started forming into a thick fog. Heaven started panicking upon sight of this. Her heart started beating like a drum. She started running as fast as she could, but the fog was right on her tail. Xander quickly ran to help Heaven. Heaven gave him the girl and he ran with her. But in the midst of this, Heaven tripped and fell. Xander Immediately stopped and turned to help Heaven, “Don’t worry about me!” Heaven shouted “Get her out of here.” Xander hesitantly went without Heaven as she was consumed by the fog. The last thing Heaven saw before she was consumed by the fog was Xanders worried face. When the family got home, Heaven went straight to the shower to get rid of any chemicals that may have gotten stuck to her body. While Heaven was getting cleaned up, the house was seemingly quiet for a while. Xander was really stressed out at the fact that he had just left Heaven in the mist. “It’s not your fault Xander.” Said Ally. “Yes, it is” replied Xander. “I should have known better than to leave my sister in the mist.” “But if it wasn’t for you, that poor girl would have died. I bet Heaven’s proud of that.” Right in the middle of this conversation, Heaven screamed at the top of her lungs. Everyone's heart stopped upon hearing her scream. Susan got up and spirited to the bathroom. Xander followed behind, but he regretted it. Heaven was covered all over with bright red blisters. She was covered in blood and was barely breathing. Susan screamed “Dave, call an ambulance. We need to get Heaven to the hospital.” Heaven was practically in tears at this point. Susan wrapped her up in a towel. The ambulance wasn’t slow to arrive. Heaven was loaded onto a stretcher and taken away. “Told you so.” said Xander at Ally, with tears in his eyes. Ally knew what Xander was feeling. He blamed himself for Heaven. Ally tried to say something, but she couldn’t get the words out. Heaven reached for Xanders hand, but she had little strength left. She passed out on the way to the ambulance. The family was at the hospital, awaiting the results from the doctor. It had been eight hours since they arrived. Heaven was still asleep, but she was breathing. Xander was cropped up in the corner. He wasn’t even able to look at her like this. Ally held Xanders hand in an attempt to make him feel better about himself. Then, the doctor walked in the room. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this.” said the doctor, right as everyone was bracing for the worst. “The mist that Heaven inhaled was a mixture of Wargun Zen as well as other toxic chemicals.” “So how bad is she?” said Susan. “I’m afraid that your daughter has gotten the Jaguar-Gen-38 virus. The virus currently has no cure.” Upon hearing this, Xander stormed out of the room, not wanting to hear how bad Heaven’s condition is. Ally followed him. When Xander saw that Ally was following him, he ran. Xander led Ally to a gas station next to the hospital. Xander was very upset that Ally followed him. Xander snapped at Ally and started yelling at her. Unfortunately, some cops nearby overheard the confrontation and proceeded to attack Xander, mostly because he was black. Ally was horrified at what was happening to Xander. Xander told Ally to run far away. Ally started running as fast as she could. Once she knew that she was clear, she carefully went back to the hospital. When she got back, Heaven was finally awake. Ally told the family what had happened. When Heaven heard this, she broke down into tears. So many bad things were happening to her in just a short amount of time. Both Dave and Susan were both sad and angry. They were upset that Xander had been brutally wounded by the police. Before they could mourn, a doctor came in and told the family that Heaven needs emergency surgery. Heaven was terrified. Susan desperately said a prayer before Heaven was taken away. It had been eight months since Heaven got sick. Heaven had given up on everything in life and was close to death. The doctors told Susan that there was nothing else they could do. The family went to see Heaven for the final time. Heaven was scared of death, but she knew that she couldn’t do anything about it. Heaven seemingly died surrounded by everyone that ever mattered to her. The family mourned at the sight of Heaven’s death. They stayed with her for three hours after her death. When they were about to leave, a miracle happened. The heart monitor attached to Heaven started beeping. Heaven then reached out for her mother’s hand and held it gently. Susan couldn’t have been more thankful. She fell to her knees and thanked the lord. It had been two weeks since Heaven came back to life. The doctors have found zero traces of the disease in Heaven’s body, questioning the doctors. When the church asked Heaven what happened to her when she was dead, she told an amazing story. “I had a vision that I stepped out of my body. I saw my family mourning me. I was scared. But then, I saw a man dressed in lightning, He reached out for me, saying that he loved me. That's when I knew I was safe. God told me that he will fix me because he has bigger plans for me.” Heaven was finally better. She slept peacefully and painlessly that night. She was safe.


You call out for help and it never comes, so you seek it directly, and it answers that it will not help fix what is not theirs, their time is far more important to be spent on you. So you turn and face it alone. And you lose, and the powers that be chide and scold you for your choice of solution. But you had no choice but to guess the solution. You knew you wanted help but you rememberd how you were pushed away. It comes again, you call for help, again a denial, a wave of the hand, you turn and face you problem alone. Again. Stronger you think. "I can do it this time." But this too fails. Another scolding. More chastising. The problems come again. You dont call for help. You're on your own. You know this now. Surely the powers that be have been clear that you must do all of this alone. You fail. It's worse. You should have come to us they say. But you know they would not have done anything differnt. They've trained you to value their time as they do. So you face them down alone. A few successes, many more failures. And something changes. In you? I the world maybe? You're for is batted away with ease. Still some foes leave you defeated, a few more scoldings and comments on your choices. You persevere. The powers look not down but at you admonishingly, proud they say they are, so much more mature, but you feel none of the praise, or the pride. This was no accomplishment to you. It was a war, a war you fought alone, no glory no reward, words are empty now, what once would have made you beam with pride, is now shrugged off for the hollow words they truly are. You know now. You were forced to know, you will not forget for their sake, what have they done to help but turn you into a weapon. A weapon against problems, against yourself. And a new day comes, you meet others that are not like the powers, they are like you, and they look to you to help them, and you know it is your new duty not just to yourself, but to these equals, they need you, and you will not let them down. You know better than that. Something tells you you do not know why such a duty burns within you like a furnace to power your resolve. You turn to the powers, perhaps they know, but you turn away. What good would it truly do. Time passes, you feel welcome for the first time in a very long time, these equals turn to you in times of need because they trust you. And you trust them, but ask nothing of them, it seems wrong you think. And another new day Dawn's, and you must move on again, and it hurts. Many of these equals have helped you when you needed it. Far more than the powers ever have. But one felt closer than any of the others. Even the sibling equal you met who did not stand behind you when you faces your foes, but beside you. This one got to your heart, and had to leave it, and a new pain appears you do not understand. Another trip to the powers, that ends as soon as the thought enters your mind. I have a duty. That is what will get me through this. And it does. But a wound is a wound. And this one bleeds... You begin a new journey, many equals left behind, some still promise to be beside you in spirit, and for the first time you believe that you are still not quite alone when they are not near. You meet new equals, and even some beyond your own, some gravitate towards you, as if they know what you are. What you can do if need be. And you feel welcome again. Your duty is needed here. This journey is different, the powers are not close. It is truly your journey, and you force yourself to face this alone. You must you tell yourself, this is your time to prove what little they could do for you. And the worst part is. You are correct. You make fewer visits to the powers, they change before your eyes each time into something, less powerful. And yet another new day arrives, and you realise that the powers, had none. They should have but they did not, you are baffled, confused, "but surely" you tell yourself, "there is something that I'm missing." But you are not. A higher power reveals itself, but this one reveals only truth. This power is to be trusted, the wisdom of it is powerful. And they reveal an inconvenient truth. Your powers that you sought help from, are incapable of it, this higher power apologizes to you, for you were never to have faced those foes alone the way you did. You were let down. You trusted something that had nothing to give. And you are livid. Why? you ask this higher power, "why did I have to face everything alone?" And they comfort you as best they can, "Because you proved to us you could." And they needed no more excuse to leave you to the world yourself. They failed you. They were lazy. They left you for their own sake not yours. So you clench your fists. "But the credit is mine you say." And the higher power agrees. "Yes it is yours. And you are right to keep it from them." "But you are not supposed to fight these battles alone." You turn to your equals your freinds, your siblings in arms, "what am I to do?" you ask them. And they have no answer that eases your new pain. So you continue on with your duty. It's all you feel you have left. Alone now more than ever. Your friends are there but do not share the pain, they cannot truly lessen it. Your old wound still bleeds. More so from newer wounds to your heart. You ask yourself "what will I have left of myself for me?" And you do not know. You yearn for a new equal not to care for your wound, but protect it while you heal. Proof. That is what I need you say. I need proof that I can trust someone to protect my wounds. So that I may heal. But a few wounds from your back remind you, that some equals took advantage of all you had to give, and left you bleeding. But I will not break, I will not change who I am, another blow into your back. The wound bleeds again. You stand and face your foes again, they are stronger than ever before. You grit your teeth and say to yourself. "I will not betray my duty and who I am Even if it leaves me open to be betrayed." "My back is mine to protect." But you want someone to trust. Someone to be behind your back forever and always. But trust you remember. Is something that has never once been promised to you. It was the only job the powers truly had. It was the thing your closest equals betrayed. Between the battles you drop to your knees, beaten, tired, always so tired. "How, How am I to truly trust someone with my heart?" When not even my parents could make me trust them? Those few true partners left me bleeding. A few freinds stabbed be squarely in the back. I face the world alone. Hurt. Scared no one wants to have the back of someone who cares too much for those who need him. Tired. And they tell you to give up. And ignore it. And you refuse. "I have stood here before. I will stand here now. And I will die here if necessary." "But I will never change what I am standing for.


“Hey, you! Are you a survivor?!” Yuri shouted. A person was staring at him. No response was heard. “Answer me or I WILL shoot.” “What the hell are you shouting at?” Blake asked. “There’s a guy by the pile of bodies over there. Don’t you see him?” Yuri responded. Blake seemed confused. He scouted the area looking for the person Yuri was referring to. He was nowhere to be found. “The scene of dead bodies might be messing with your head, or your brain chip might have gotten corrupted,” he suggested. Yuri stopped for a moment. “Well, If you can’t see it, you might be right... I’ll get it checked once we get off this damn rock,” he said. The person was completely still and staring at Yuri. It was as if he was a robot that was shut down while looking forward. He tried to move from place to place, waving his hands around. The person was following Yuri with his eyes. “He’s following my movement, Blake! This isn’t a damn glitch!” Yuri exclaimed. He was beginning to panic a little. “Calm down. He can’t be real, because I can’t see him, nor does the infrared sensor. And the ship is not detecting any human life besides us. Those poor bastards are all dead,” Blake responded. “And how are you not worried? I heard brain chip corruptions can be dangerous. What if it shuts off suddenly and I’m left unable to hear and see?!” Yuri said while still eyeing the person. “Just wait till we reach the space station and don’t jinx it. I told you that chips are not reliable. Now forget that and help me move these bodies to the ship,” Blake said. Brain chips are most commonly used by people to enhance their senses or to replace a part of the brain that was damaged, such as the case with Yuri, whose occipital lobe had suffered damage due to a hit to the back of the head. And Blake, while being a scientist and valuing science over all, didn’t give in to the temptation, holding the belief it might malfunction at any time. Yuri hesitantly agreed to move the thought aside and pretend the person wasn’t there, even if it was a hard task by itself. They transported the required number of bodies into the ship and flew off, leaving the now dead settlements behind. Those two men were scientists sent to the planet of Nox to gather dead bodies in order to study them and figure out the reason they died. The planet was newly settled on, so not a lot of settlements were established. But then suddenly they all started dying a few weeks before the scientists arrived. A distress signal was picked up by the nearby space station, whose contents indicated that they died because of some disease. When groups were sent to investigate, human life had already perished. Heavily blemished Corpses were littering the ground. Nobody could tell what kind of horrible stench was plaguing the air as removing the protective suits would be a death wish. Now you might ask. Why are scientists the ones collecting the bodies? Aren’t they just supposed to receive them through some other paid group? Well, that’s because they were already passing by the planet, so they didn’t want to wait for the bodies to be delivered. While the ship crew only consisted of two members, they doubled as mechanics and experienced shooters, they knew what to do with a gun and skillfully so. Only one of them knew how to command a ship though. Unfortunately, they weren’t technicians, or the chip would have been checked by now. Once they put the corpses in the freezer, they made sure to decontaminate every exposed piece of equipment. They wouldn’t want to face the same fate as those back on the planet. Blake set the route and handed the control over to the auto-pilot. He rotated the chair to face Yuri who was sitting beside the reinforced window, looking at the person. He followed him into the ship. Or maybe he was a ‘she’? Or perhaps an ‘it’? It was hard for him to decide. “You know, I heard stories that people hallucinate a person a few hours before their death,” Blake said. “Hey! I thought you told me to not jinx it?!” Yuri responded, annoyed at the fact Blake would say such a thing when it was obvious he was not feeling at ease. “I’m just messing with you, man,” Blake said. “So, how does it look exactly?” “I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. It’s so undernourished I mistook its arms for sticks with claws attached to the ends of them. Its face barely looks like a human’s from how underfed it is. And it’s wearing tattered clothes, for some reason,” Yuri described it. “And…” “And?” Blake asked. “Why did you stop?” Yuri took some time to respond. He seemed baffled. Or maybe he was distressed. His body movement and speech changed a bit. “It said ‘Soon. Join. Us. You’,” Yuri responded. “This is starting to get creepy Blake.” He was distraught. Although he saw multiple death-enveloped scenes and things most people might deem disturbing, this was something else. He hadn’t felt this scared before. “Ha? What does it mean?” Blake asked. “And how am I supposed to know?” Yuri responded. He was frustrated. “I haven’t even heard of a corrupted brain chip that did this.” A few hours have passed. Yuri spent this time trying to distract his mind, still sitting in front of the window. Some instants had him thinking about what the person meant. The other scientist was busy trying to contact a technician on the space station. He complained that they would have started investigating the corpses if not for the fact Yuri can’t work all the while that “hallucination” is still present. Blake suggested that he throws something at the person so that Yuri can be assured it’s only a glitch. And just so he did. He threw a pillow at it. It suddenly disappeared and materialized nearby to where it was just before the impact was made. This caused Yuri to become more distressed, opposed to what Blake was hoping would happen. It was as if it had a mind of its own. It knew something was about to hit it. An idea came to his mind. What if he throws something at it while closing his eyes? Maybe that will change something. Before doing so, the ship interrupted them. “Captain, energy reserves are close to running out. The vessel will have to stop and replenish power,” it said. “The solar panels are malfunctioning, they are not opening. They will have to be checked captain, or the ship will be stuck in space.” Both the scientists looked irritated, especially Blake. He was cursing, sometimes stumbling on his words from how much he started spewing them from his mouth. He complained again that this wouldn’t have happened if Yuri agreed to exchange the vessel for another one. He got irritated even more when Yuri didn’t respond, rather looking at him for some seconds with a blank face and returning to staring at the spot in front of the window whom Blake saw as blank space. A few moments of silence followed which were broken when Blake told the other to go fix the solar panels himself, as he didn’t do anything in the past few hours, and suggested that this could be an opportunity to distract himself. What a misfortunate thing to happen. They could have reached the station. It was only an hour away and they didn’t want to call in maintenance from over there when they could fix the problem themselves. Or maybe it was because they didn’t wanna pay. Nonetheless, Yuri agreed and stood up, heading towards the suit locker. He was thankful that it was not near the person. He didn’t once try to get near it, in fear of damaging the chip if he did. Again, the ship interrupted them. “Warning! Warning! An object is approaching directly at high speeds from the right flank of the ship!” “What now?!” Blake shouted. What an unfortunate series of events he thought. “What is this object you're referencing?” He quickly said before it approached farther. The other scientist stayed silent and listened to what the ship had to say. “It appears to be a rock, Captain.” The ship said. “While being relatively small, moving at such a high speed will make this a catastrophic impact.” “What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot the damn thing,” Blake said, agitated. The defense system managed to shoot the rock, turning it into small, miniature pieces. Most of them passed by the ship. But, the rest hit the flank of the ship. Their impact’s violent vibrations caused the window to shatter, in turn causing pressure to escape the ship. Objects were being sucked out. Blake managed to cling to the command chair, his arms barely holding on. Yuri was not as fortunate. He wasn’t near anything he could grab as he was heading towards the locker. He was pulled towards the window. He imagined he was a goner, that he was gonna freeze in space. He couldn’t even die a peaceful death, he thought. But before that could happen, the automatic window shutter was closed. Yuri violently hit the back of his cranium against the window shutter as he was being sucked out. He hit the floor after but was somehow still conscious. He was bleeding profusely. It was as if the back of his head was destined to be damaged. Blake rushed to him, trying to see the injuries that had been done. He was no doctor. They were scientists, mechanics and he knew how to pilot a ship. But a doctor? He was not. Blood was already soaking Blake’s shoes. He didn’t even know if Yuri could survive to live another day. He was in critical condition, breathing rapidly, heart beating fast. He didn’t even know if he could save him. The ship’s automatic med-bay could have saved him if not for the defense system which consumed the remaining power. He quickly brought a gauze and ice pack and applied it to the location of the trauma, hoping it would slow down the bleeding and eventually cause clotting. But what would that achieve when death is already at Yuri’s doorstep? “Captain, an unknown vessel is approaching. It doesn’t look like a…” The energy reserves ran out before it could continue. A chill ran down Blake’s spine. For a moment he was even close to forgetting about the current condition of Yuri. He couldn’t ask what kind of ship was approaching, nor could he see outside as the shutter replaced the window. Maybe it was a confederate vessel? Or rather a pirate ship? He was left with figuring that out once they board the ship if they are even going to do that. Maybe they are just passing by. Yuri on the other hand was barely clinging to life. The trauma was too severe. The person that he was seeing was still standing where it was before. Completely still and with an expressionless face. Then, it started slowly approaching Yuri, its undernourished face and body becoming more and more detailed. He couldn’t freak out. He was in such a critical state he couldn’t react. “Now. Join. Us. You,” it said, in the most monotonous way possible, in a voice so hoarse. Blake turned around, still pressing the cloth against Yuri’s head. He froze for a moment while staring at the wall. He looked at the airlock, checking if anybody had boarded yet. There were no signs of entry though. He was seeing a girl, skin burned so much it didn’t look survivable. Or maybe she was a ‘he’? He couldn’t tell. She was standing by the wall. Where did she come from though? Did she hide in the ship when they landed on that planet without him knowing? Or maybe she hid when they were docked in a space station. But no, security would have seen her. He turned on the infrared sensor in his helmet, but she didn’t appear. She only did when he looked at her without it. “Hey, Yuri,” Blake spoke. But it was as if he was speaking to an unanswering wall. Yuri had other problems on his plate. “Why am I seeing a little girl? I don’t even have a brain chip.


The wind blows the small boat from side to side. Windows shudder in their frames. Alfred doesn’t even look at them, his clenched fists hold the steering wheel in place, fighting the current underneath the boat. A wave slams Augusta down and Alfred’s knees burn as if on fire. He doesn’t even hear his screams over the roaring wind. The dense rainfall limits his view, but far off in the distance, he spots the lighthouse of Fischer’s Eve. He should have listened to her. This was no weather for Augusta. The light in the cabin flickers on and off. It jumps up and down, occasionally hitting his head. A vicious wave yanks the wheel out of his hands and he tries to grab it with all his might. Its rotation slows down, before rapidly spinning the other way. He puts his hand on one of the knobs but it gets hit with a strong blow. He has lost control. Without hesitation, he turns off the motor and braces himself on the bolted-down table. After fifteen minutes, the wind lessens and the waves drop. He grips the wheel again, turns the motor back on and leads the boat back to port. A small layer of water has accumulated in the cabin. Alfred sighs. On the pier, the woman from the fish stall stands. Her sou’wester is drenched. Thin streams of water fall down from her hair onto her boots. She shakes her head when Alfred ties a rope around a bollard. “You’re as stubborn as a cod, you know that?” “Leave me alone, Mollie.” He walks back inside and takes the key from the ignition. The captain’s hat rests on top of the table. “I don’t want Augusta to get beaten down. She might be yours but she’s still a part of Fischer’s Eve.” “I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t.” “Don’t say that, Alfred. We still care about you. But maybe it is time for you to stop-” “Stop sailing my boat? Is that what you want? So she can rust in this port ‘til the end of her days? I care about her, Mollie.” “You used to care about more than her. You cared about Lauren,” she mumbles. Alfred starts walking down the pier. “Alfred, I...I didn’t mean to.” She tries to catch up with him. “I said, leave me alone.” He fastens his pace. “Don’t be like this, Alfred. We care about you.” “I don’t.” He steps onto the boardwalk and walks home. Small puddles lead from the front door to the bathroom, where Alfred is taking off his clothes. He turns on the shower and lets the water fall on his face. Another sigh. He remembers the first time he turned on the shower, thirty years ago. Lauren had always complained about the size of the one in her apartment, so when she finally moved in with Alfred in her new house, she couldn’t wait to try the new one. She had turned around in the shower and stretched her arms out, hitting Alfred. She never could stop saying sorry when she hurt someone. It took him five minutes to assure her that he was fine, before grabbing the showerhead and spraying all over his fully clothed fiancé. The lightbulb in the bathroom blows and the only thing he can perceive is the water falling down on him. He fumbles around, looking for the shower handle. With the flick of his wrist, the shower turns off. In the pitch black, he walks around, his hand against the wall until he finds the doorknob and twists it. He takes a towel from the ground and starts drying his face while walking around. A small cupboard hits his leg and he hears glass shatter. He tosses the towel aside and looks down at the thing that has dropped. It’s a small oval-shaped photo frame, containing a black and white picture of his wedding day. The corner of his mouth slightly curls upwards, before he puts it back.


* This story mostly occurs a month before this story and shares the main characters.* * This story occurs several decades before this story and shares none of the characters.* * This story mostly occurs a few days before this story and shares the main characters* *None of the stories to be read to understand this story, but they provide context.* The line starts to tighten; Tim has his first catch of the day. He starts to reel in the fish with a smile on his face. The fish fights back. It tries to swim away from the boat pulling the line with it. Tim moves the line with the fish to avoid snapping the line. The fish must be a big one like a catfish. His family would be so proud if he brought home a catfish. After a long battle, he finally has his catch, and it is a smallmouth bass. Tim sighs as he sets the meager fish down. How can he ever hope to join a fishing crew if he can only catch small fish. Patience is widely stated to be the best way to catch a fish, but Tim is sure there must be other aspects to the craft. Tim sits and daydreams of catching the largest fish in the ocean and providing food for his family. The sun is descending through the sky, and Tim rows back to shore. He places the boat in its spot on the docks, and Isaac, the dockmaster, takes care of ensuring that it is protected. Tim takes his fish into his village. He passes by several fishing and hunting parties with larger catches of meat. Tim conceals his smallmouth bass with shame as he walks up to the meat storage center. "Hey, Tim, how's it going?" Velma says. The smell of food is enough to bring a smile to anyone's face which is why Velma has a reputation for being the most cheerful woman in town. Her joy is powerful enough to cause the corners of Tim's mouth to rise. "I brought you this?" Tim looks down as he places his sorry excuse for a catch on the table. Velma smiled as she picked it up. "Awesome," she set it behind the counter and gave him five dollars, "I am sure your family will appreciate it." "Okay," Tim ran out of the meat storage center. He couldn't help but feel looked down upon by her. He runs back to his house and finds his mom crying at the table. "Mom?" Tim asks as he walks towards her. She looks at him with fear in her eyes. "I hoped you would come back later," she says, "Tim, please sit down." She brings him over to the couch and sits next to him. She rubs his face before embracing him in tears. Tim hugs his mom awkwardly. "Tim, at the start of the Mieran War, some of the more paranoid villagers hid landmines surrounding the village. It was a huge controversy that happened long before you were born. After weeks of fighting, we finally got them to remove the mines," her lips shake as she continues, "We thought they removed all of them." The wind shakes the car as Tim drives through the storm with his mom and neighbors in the backseat. Without access to the proper monitoring equipment, they have no idea that they are in the middle of a hurricane that has just made landfall. They are well-aware of the branches that the wind is using to strike the windows. They are also aware that their village has been destroyed, and without access to any emergency organizations, they have no chance of rebuilding it. A large branch hits the front window causing the car to briefly swerve. Tim concentrates on the road. He feels his fathers medallion on his chest. He has to save his family. They will survive. He hears a window crack behind him. "What the hell, man?" Stephen walks to the edge of the shore. Tim is floating in the middle of a lake, "We have been looking everywhere for you." "Shh, I have become one with the water," Tim says. "That lake could be contaminated or something," Stephen says. "Then, I will truly become one with the water," Tim says. He hears a splash from the shoreline. "Marla!" Stephen says. "Come on. The water is fine. We deserve it," Marla says. "No thanks. I will stand watch," Stephen says. Tim and Marla splash in the lake. Stephen sits on the edge watching. "Hey Stephen, if you aren't going to join, be the judge of our contest to see who can hold our breath longer," Marla says. "Whatever," Stephen shakes his head. Tim and Marla go underwater. Tim was raised in the water. He knows that he can beat her. He closes his eyes and imagines himself in the air. He feels the water shift when Marla emerges. Tim comes out to mock her, but he feels something missing. "Guys, I lost it," Tim starts to panic. He dives back into the water to look for it. "Uhhh, what is going on?" Marla guards her face from the splash as Tim emerges. "I need to find my medallion," Tim goes back into the water. He tries to open his eyes to look for the medallion, but the murky water impedes his vision. He panics when he comes up. He needs his medallion. He feels a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it is okay. I got it," Stephen holds Tim's medallion in his other hand. Tim grabs the medallion and hugs Stephen. "Thank you," Tim says. "No problem, now let's get out of the water so you don't lose that," Stephen pats Tim on the back. The three of them move out of the lake. Tim holds the medallion and stares at it. It is all he has left of his community. He has to protect it.


The first time I met the Kid he was standing outside McDonald’s in Bradford. It was November and there were no leaves left on the trees. He wore a short-sleeved oversized T-shirt, giving the impression of a whippet in bulldogs clothing, and was holding court telling his diminutive audience he knew how to summon the devil herself. His skeletal frame was alive with his gestures, eyes bird-like and wild. The audience had an average age at least four times his, grateful for entertainment in the cold and wind. A spectacle as he explained ‘An accident! Can you believe it! The Devil appeared to me and the devil can appear for you too!’ An air of QVC. That previous summer I’d had dealings with the devil myself. Inevitable really with the war raging on as it had for a decade or more, and the business I keep myself in. Despite her bad reputation, and a complicated history between us, the devil had supported the trade and then vanished as soon as the leaves began to drop with a score as yet unsettled. I waited patiently from a distance as the crowd gradually dispersed, their busses arriving to take them home or hunger taking over and burgers awaiting. ‘I need you to bring me the devil,’ I said. ‘Follow me’, said he. The BBC tells us about murderers and shysters and confidence men hiding around every corner, so base are we all that we the last two elections were cancelled because who can trust us average Joes and Janes to choose a leader without cheating? ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Lead the way.’ The only way to navigate this world is to trust everyone and suffer the consequences. A short while later we were sitting in his flat, mugs of tea in hand that his mum had forced upon us. On the way here he hadn’t left a second of empty air, telling me in lengthy monologue about the false-hoods in papers and did I know Piers Morgan is a giraffe in a lizard suit in a human suit. And Dominic Cummings is doing God’s work and that’s the danger. And the sheer evil that is… Yoghurt pots. Like mother like son, on arrival he fell silent and she took over. She asked me not a thing but told me all the variety of teabags she rated and why, and that whatever happened to Cadbury was a tragedy and the government are definitely behind the shrinking creme eggs. Her phone rang and she left the room. The Kid closed the blind. ‘Are you ready?’ Eyes wide I nodded, and it began. A flailing of arms, left to right. Right to left. Hands touching his forehead. Hair flopping this way and that. Knee up, knee down, his T-shirt billowing without any wind. Superman pose. He stops with his head down and arm up, and raises his eyes to meet mine looking for my reaction. The room is still and quiet. He’s mad, of course. And suddenly, we plunge into darkness.


Bitter Day Bitter Coffee He started his day like any other person that enjoys a nice cup of folders would. He wakes up at 5 a.m. turns on the morning news and gets a pot of coffee on. He goes out to the front porch to grab his newspaper but something is off. There is a group of older teenagers hanging out down the street on the corner. Only they are there way early. He already woke up today with this feeling he couldnt shake nor describe and the suspicious kids down on the corner didnt help. He decided to write it off and continue on to make his cup of coffee. Only to realize he is basically out of sugar, which didnt help that feeling either, he decides to do without and sit down to his daily dose of caffeine and information. As he sat and drank his bitter coffee and watched this story on the news he continued to get more and more disgusted. Thinking about his life he had no kids no wife, Nothing to leave behind. He was always letting his mind drift on how things could be better but they never were an he never much tried. Nonetheless He was watching a story about a woman not too far from where he lives and she was raped, robbed, and left for dead. She was found not 2 miles from where he was sitting. Feeling so hopeless and helpless for her he stood up and began pacing. Everyday he hears these storys but this one was different it was so close to home and he was almost sure who did it. As he was pacing back and forth and figuring how his life has been meaningless, but maybe he could do something here ,He grabbed his .38 special he keeps in the drawer in the bedroom as he paced a little more an thought about these kids, how they feel so entitled to do the things they do he started heading down to the corner block where these kids were earlier. He was in a blind rage. He couldnt belive the inhumanity these boys could have. As he drew nearer he heard them laughing and joking and smoking. As they see him approach all laughter ceases maybe it was the look in the mans eye. One of the older teenagers looks like leader asks "What the fuck do you want?". He responded in a way he normally wouldnt have but the story of that woman just wouldnt leave his mind. In an instant he drew his .38 all the other teenagers took off running but the leader. He was in such a blind rage unsure what he was doing the barrel of the gun had a slight shake to it. The leader asked "You gonna do somethin or what?" Right after asking that the leader whipped out his own gun getting a shot off but not before being hit by the .38 the mad had already drew. As they both lie there 10 feet apart in the middle of the street at 5:30 a.m.


T. Colby Owen 2/12/2021 After living in the city all your life, you have had enough. You decided to move to a remote location in the forest. You're not used to the woods but you find it very peaceful. Today, you decide to explore the surrounding area a little better. As you walk through the forest, you are confronted by a bobcat, not even 15 feet away. At first petrified, you soon regain control of your limbs and sprint for your life. As you run one of your shoes falls off. You kick the other one off. After having to run through a river, you look back to check and find nothing giving chase. You decide to lose your socks, seeing as they’ve gotten wet. It’s late at night, you're wet, and you're cold, when suddenly you see a small building in the forest. Upon closer inspection, you find that the entire building is covered in the most beautiful flowers you have ever seen. Deep magentas and vibrant purples, snow whites, and sun yellows. You approach a flower and take a deep breath, taking in a smell akin to cinnamon and vanilla. You approach the door, but reconsider for a fraction of a second. You decide nothing can go wrong, and you cross over. Once on the other side, you're hit with an aroma like no other. Peaches and sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, and yet, you can’t pinpoint the smell. It’s otherworldly. Divine, even. You pause for a moment and look around, and to your surprise, you find yourself outside in a seemingly never ending field of flowers, magnitudes more gorgeous than the flowers on the outside. You realize that you can see the sun in the sky, and you can already feel your clothes drying out. You feel the soft dirt between your toes, a relief from the rocky, inconsistent forest floor. You look back through the door, and see the forest you were in. Curiously, there’s no wall surrounding the door, but you would've been more surprised if there were. You listen, and you find it quieter than the heaviest snow you’ve ever been in. You look forward and see something in the distance. Unable to make it out, you decide to try and get closer. Along the way you find that lots of little rivers twist and wind around the landscape. You find that you're thirsty, so you decide to take a drink. Although tasting no different than regular water, the coolness and the freshness is unchecked by the laws of nature. You look down and watch in awe as the scratches you got from running through the forest heal in mere seconds. You look towards the object and find you see a tree. It’s only about 150 feet away, and the water has completely restored your stamina so you decide to sprint. When you reach the tree, you find that it’s actually on a small island surrounded by a pond, but clear enough to see the bottom is at least 20 feet down. Upon closer inspection of the tree, you find you see the most colorful assortment of fruit you’ve ever seen. Thinking with your stomach, you swim across the pond, a good 40 second endeavor, and crawl up on the beach. You step in something soft but unconventional. You look down and see a thick moss. A little sceptical at first, being a city person and all, but after taking a second to adjust you find it much more pleasurable than even the softest grass. You wiggle your toes, and decide it’s ok. You approach the tree, and reach out for the lowest hanging fruit. You can’t reach it, but the branch bows down and lets you take it, giving a sort of life to the tree. You instinctively say thank you, to no response. You're not surprised. You look at the fruit in your hands, and see a deep red. You wanna say “Apple,” but from looking and feeling it you can tell it's much juicier than an apple. It’s also a near perfect sphere. You decide to throw away any expectations and bite into it. You’re met with a satisfying crunch, but at the same time a juiciness with a consistency much like honey. Unsurprisingly it also tastes like honey, but not the honey you get in supermarkets, the honey that makes you think, “This is the elixir of life. it must be!” You take a few more bites and contemplate grabbing another fruit, but decide it would be disrespectful to the tree so you finish it. Next you choose a very light purple fruit. It takes some effort to get to but you assume it’s worth it. You forget to examine it and take a bite, you reel back in surprise when it’s fluffy. It tastes like cotton candy, which kind of makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that it also melts like cotton candy. You ask yourself, “Why does it melt?” but then you remember your journey in and stop worrying about it. You climb higher and higher, trying new fruits of all different colors, shapes, sizes, and tastes, each one immeasurably better than the last. When you finally reach the very top, you find what looks like a small walnut, not bigger than a segment of your thumb. It’s brown and odorless, and hard as a rock. You try biting into it, to no avail. You absentmindedly slip it in your pocket and start climbing down. When you get back to the pond, you take a drink and look at your reflection. In the reflection, to your horror, you see flames behind you. You feel the heat on your back and instinctively dive in, swimming to the other side of the pond. You look back to see the tree ablaze. You watch for a while, before turning back to the door. On the way back you notice all the flowers are wilted, the water black, and the earth sharp rocks. You go through the door and look back, but the building is no longer there. You walk back home, sad that the door disappeared but happy that you walked through. Before you go to bed, you remember the odd fruit you plucked at the top of the tree. You examine it for a minute, before putting it on the nightstand and falling asleep. You come to a realization in your sleep, and the next morning you wake and instantly exclaim, “It’s a seed!” You run outside as fast your still sore feet can carry you, dig a hole that feels deep enough, drop the seed in, cover it back up, put a fence around it as best you can, and water it. Years later but not past your prime, after having tended to it every day with the utmost care, you look out and see a small stock and a single leaf. Knowing you will never get to taste that divine fruit again, you finish watering it, content to nurture a gift for your children, and your children’s children. End.


“What is that?” He asked, dropping down beside me on the bed. “Not sure.” I answered, spinning it between my hands. He took the chance to crawl up beside me, laying his cheek on my chest. I smiled to myself, laying the book on my chest so I could play with one of his curls. He didn’t take a moment to pull it off my chest and begin looking over it himself. “It’s a book.” He muttered, resting its weight on my chest. “Is it?” I rolled my eyes. “I had no idea.” He poked his tongue out at me and went back to fiddling with the book, pulling at the straps that kept it shut. I didn’t say anything, simply watching him as his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth while he struggled with the book. “Why won’t it open?” He asked, shifting so that he was sitting up beside me now. I glanced up at him, my fingers touching against his side lightly. “It’s locked. With magic.” Curiosity brightened his eyes. “A challenge!” I couldn’t help the chuckle that left me as he scrambled out of the bed, the book tucked under his arm. I propped myself up on my elbow and watched him set the book on his desk. Piles of books and a flurry of parchment were cleared from the centre of the desk. Some of the parchment spilled off onto the floor. “You’re making a mess.” I said lightly. He turned in his seat, giving me a manic grin. “Who cares about mess when there’s a mystery to solve!” I laid back down on my bed, listening to him mutter to himself. There was the sound of popping, one of his spells being cast. Then silence. I opened one eye to glanced at the desk and he began muttering again. He hadn’t opened the lock. He was cursing now, under his breath. I enjoyed listening to him descend into madness. He always got so agitated when he couldn’t figure something out right away. I wondered how long it would take him to realise I had simply glued the straps down. There was more popping, and another curse from him. I couldn’t help the grin that spread over my face, but I kept my eyes closed so that I couldn’t see him. If I saw his face, I thought I would just simply start laughing. “I can’t give up.” He snapped over his shoulder. “I can’t even detect the spell that they used. It has to be some really strong stuff. Oh, I can’t wait to see what’s in the book.” Nothing, there was nothing in the book but blank pages. I’d bought it for him so he could fill it with his research. The straps had just been attached, and they wouldn’t stay in place. The book binder had simply glued them down so they would bend and learn the shape they needed to have. The glue would wear off in three days. In three days, he would find out that the book was empty, and I was probably going to get my ass singed. It was going to be a wonderful three days of peace. I put my hands behind my head and relaxed while I listened to him mutter over his work.


Sometimes a dream can leave a larger mark than reality. He was my everything; my best friend, the love of my life, my partner. Ryder's brown hair and green eyes always made me melt. I had met him in college through friends and we instantly clicked. We soon started dating and we were always laughing and having fun or going on dates to our hidden spot by the small lake. After we graduated we moved in together and found secure jobs and got married. Neither of us wanted children but we always had a dog due to our love of animals. We bought our dream house on the side of a quiet lake in the woods but we weren't far from town either. It was two stories and was a modern-midcentry beach house with our bakyard going from grass, to some sand, then to the water. Lawn chairs were set at the base of our lower floor facing the water. We sat here almost every day. Then we started growing old together loving each other one and more. His smile could light a room, I couldn't imagine life without him. He always knew exactly what to say to me. Then one day, in our eighties, he passed away. I sat in my lawn chair behind the house petting our beloved Golden with tears in my eyes but still had contentment as my memories of him flooded my mind. Then I woke up disoriented. It felt so real and I was so sad the person I loved most was only a dream and I had to snap back to reality. "Woah" I thought, "that felt so real". Months passed but this dream came to mind every now and then. Reminding me of what I never had, butI had just graduated college and moved to the city to start my job so I really should leave this dream behind. It was that morning I went to get coffee from a local building when I heard a voice. "Oh my God. It's you." he quietly said in disbelief. I turned around around to see the most handsome man with brown hair and green eyes. Somehow he looked just like him. I caught myself starring but couldn't bring myself to say anything or show any kind of emotion. "I'm so sorry. It's just.. you look exactly like this girl from my dream a few months ago who I had a whole life with and I just had to say something.. sorry! I'm probably making you uncomfortable, I'll uhh.. Im going to go now" he said quickly and embarrassed. He then turned away and started walking. After a second, I finally brought myself out of competle disbelief to call out. A shiver went down my spine. Even though I knew the chances were practically 0... "Ryder?" I called out sheepishly. He stopped suddenly and slowly turned around. When our eyes met I could see how much shock he was in. "Alice?" He said. ....H..


\--True Story-- We moved a lot. My father is a trucker and we never really had a permanent home for more than a year or two. I used to go on the road with him all the time as a kid. Seen a lot of things for such a young mind. I had been to the entire 48 states of the continental United States before I was 12 years old. When I was not on the road with dad, I was the man of the house. Looking over my two younger siblings. My mother was always there of course. She was a fantastic protector and made the most of the long hauls when dad was away. She was very close to us. We were all she had during those long, lonely times. We even all slept together in the living room at each house we ever lived at. This went on until I was probably 15-16 years old and decided I felt comfortable enough to sleep in a room by myself. Part of me always thought that was a bit strange. I think it may have been the fact that we never really had a permanent "home", but I did not mind. I feared the dark. So, I was grateful of the reprieve. After many years of being relocated, never being attached to one home or area, we finally dropped anchor in a small quiet town in WV. Not the most ideal location in my mind as my heart had always been on the West Coast. Regardless, I saw this as a chance at new life once again. At this point I was so used to being the new kid in school, that I actually looked forward to it. I made new friends, even met my future wife. Things didn't fare as well for the rest of my family though. My dad continued over the road. My mother became ill. She was never seriously ill, but she definitely didn't seem to be her usual self anymore. She was sick constantly. As a family we chalked it up to being the change of air, and her not being used the allergens in the area yet. The house was old. Over 100 years old. In fact, we were told it was one of the first houses to be built in the small town. Locals also explained to us some of the home’s strange history. Rumor had it that the original family had all died from disease in the house’s infancy. We even heard of more recent stories where someone had been stabbed right in the doorway of the home. We thought them to be nothing more than ghost stories obviously and didn't give them to much thought. Heck, maybe even the townspeople were getting a kick out of playing a trick on a seemingly single mother and children new to town. My mother was always spiritual. She believed in a lot of things. She was a close descendant of Native Americans. I think her great grandmother was an "Indian Princess" if I recall correctly. Anyways, she believed in the supernatural. She always taught use to trust our instincts, feelings. If they told us something it was likely true. Things started happening in the house. Unexplainable things. Strange noises at night, surreal nightmares, things falling off the wall unprovoked, and a general sense of dread filled us all. One day I ran home from the nearby baseball fields forgetting my glove for practice. I opened the doorway where the supposed stabbing took place. I was greeted by a large ball of white light. For a millisecond. I froze, not sure what to think of it. Grabbed my glove and was off, back down the railroad tracks to play some ball. That should have been a pretty clear warning sign that something about that house was not right, but I was a kid. I honestly thought I had been seeing things. The biggest “event” was the infamous family game night. My future wife was attending that evening, even my father. We still talk about this faithful night until this day. We took game night seriously. We all gathered around the huge redwood table we had custom made and hauled all the way from the West Coast. We happened to get on the subject of the strange happenings around the 100-year-old home. My girlfriend, now wife mentioned that she had heard some strange things while on the phone with me a during time when I had left it upstairs and ran downstairs to do something. After a while, my father was fed up. He did not believe any of it. In frustration, he slammed his fist down on the redwood tabletop, spilling monopoly pieces out of their correct location. **“There’s no such thing as ghosts”** he exclaimed in a loud angry tone! Immediately, every light in the home dimmed. My mother shrieked. The air felt thick.


When Matthew was at school he was considered a bit on the slow side, but in the country town where he was born, situated dead in the centre of Devon, many people felt that being quick witted was not essential for a good life. There was a Devonshire saying that strangers would soon be told that went, ‘Devon born, Devon bred. Strong in arm and Weak in ‘ead.’ It was expected by his school friends that he would work on a farm and maybe make a reliable herdsman one day. His teachers, seeing there was no harm in him, mostly left him alone with his thoughts and so at fourteen he left with no qualifications and with no real skills except that Mathew knew he was all right with his hands and had made one or two useful boxes and such gifts as a pipe rack for his father and a row of coat pegs for his mother. He also knew that he wasn't a coward. A few times he had stood up for himself when picked on by bigger boys showing off to their friends. It wasn't really bad, like the day when big John Pennington broke a boy's jaw on the school bus and got suspended from school. When Matthew returned home with his face bruised and blood on his shirt his parents said nothing, but he noticed Mother made his favourite dinner on Saturday and that Father let him help fill in the football pools with him in his shed at the bottom of the garden. As a young man he worked hard for little money on various farms that needed extra help, for lambing, harvest and hay making. He loved the crowded meals in the farm kitchen, the cider and the larking about. Once or twice, at the end of the War, he followed the Home Guard men up on Cadbury Castle to look out by night for planes and parachutes. They never saw any and generally left their Enfields at Tom Lee's place and took shotguns instead, to shoot rabbits by torchlight. In his twenties Matthew switched to milking and looking after stock, as his school friends had predicted. He would cycle to work in the dark and by five he would be getting on with the job. He was thorough in washing the teats and flushing out the pipes with hypochlorite and would leave the parlour as spotless as a block shed with a cracked concrete floor could reasonably be, and smelling like a swimming pool. The cows liked him as he didn't hurry them and was happy for them to come into the parlour with their friends in their chosen order. Live and let live was his motto. This approach was not always shared by his employers. A farmer in a good mood might grudgingly accept that, maybe, happier cows might give better milk. A farmer in a bad mood; caused by a breakdown, or a stillbirth, or a calf getting tangled in a fence, thought Matthew was an expensively slow cowman and would curse him to his face. As they cursed him, Matthew's features would echo their expressions and he would neither get angry nor answer back. It was like weather passing over the face of the sky. Soon they would stump off to find a more satisfying argument elsewhere. He gave his money to his father who passed half to Mother and spent the rest of his son's wages at The Railway Inn, where he stopped for a few pints of half and half on his way home after work. Returning in the dark to their terrace cottage over the railway crossing, Father would come in the back door and turn off the wall switch in the kitchen, where the extension cable was plugged in. The front of the house was never wired up, so Matthew and his mother Kitty, sitting under the standard lamp in the front room, would be plunged into darkness with the sound of the radio slowly fading out. With a fairly unconvincing cheerfulness Father would shout out 'Bedtime!' and climb up the stairs and would be asleep before the taste of his Eucryl smoker's toothpowder had subsided. Kitty and Matthew were prepared for this, and she would switch on the big ever-ready torch and light their way to bed. Every summer Mother and son went on the train to Dawlish for a day at the seaside, where they loved playing on the slot machines. Mathew’s favourite was the machine that tested your grip. Standing with his legs apart he would put his hand into what looked like two brass knuckle dusters and squeeze. By the age of fifteen, the needle went three quarters of the way round until it said he had the grip of a fisherman. He noted with pride that at the very end of the dial, after all the other professions, was engraved the word, ‘Farmer’. The only thing he and Father did together was going to get their hair cut, where Matthew could read the scandalous papers, Reveille and Titbits, while waiting for his turn. When still a boy, Matthew would be sat up on a board set over the tatty red leather arms of the barber's chair and sit still, feeling embarrassed and unused to an adult’s attention. If he was unlucky and got a nick from the electric razor doing the back and sides, the barber would dab the cut with a styptic pencil to stop the bleeding. It would sting a bit on the way home, but he felt happy all the same. Father died when his lungs gave out. It was a common enough death at the time, from a mixture of Navy Cut cigarettes and feed dust at the factory where he had worked for forty years. Matthew, who was with him as he lay drowning in the middle of his big bed, held his hand as he died. At dawn he let his father's hand go, and for two minutes he listened to the breaths slowing, until the gap before the next breath grew longer and longer and Matthew realised it would never come. Money was a bit tighter after that, so Matthew took on a bit more work and Kitty helped out in the shop a few doors up. All the years that Father had worked at the mill she never knew what her husband's small brown wage packet had contained. He gave her money for the housekeeping and that was that. Despite running pretty low on food by Friday she had managed to put a little by every week in her savings account at the Post Office and somehow she made sure that her family were well turned out on special occasions. By the time Mother died, Matthew was working for a family up on the ridge and riding back home on his Honda 70 after work. One wet night he found her asleep by the telly that was still powered by the extension from the kitchen. He sat next to her until dawn not wanting to believe she had gone, and went and told the Doctor in the town. During the short conversation the Doctor noticed that Matthew's gaze never once lifted from the floor to look him in the face. He was never able to settle in the house on his own after Mother went and would often sleep up at the farm. The farmer had died years before and the place was run on a fairly relaxed basis by his widow Anne and her two sons who had never wed. Old Miss Bedford, living in her bungalow down the hill, once exclaimed darkly, while talking of her neighbours on the ridge, that, 'They are always a-enjoying of themselves up there.' Anne's two daughters were jolly souls and had married into local farms, and were as important in the community of Church and young farmers and shows as their parents had been. Frank, the oldest son worked away from home some of the time helping out a friend who supplied generators. His younger brother Ian mostly ran the farm and also showed no sign of marrying, though in his case shyness was the explanation. It soon seemed foolish to keep up the rent on his mother's house and so Matthew moved his few belongings and his beloved television up the hill and was allowed to do up the shippen that had always propped up the end of the long thatched farmhouse. He put a rug or two on the thin lime concrete, which in places showed the cobbles underneath and would sit in his father's armchair watching the telly every night. A paraffin heater would keep the chill mostly off except in deep winter when he would sit under a couple of blankets in his pajamas with his cap on. He kept his pale blue Honda in the shippen with him and when he had to go out he would wheel it across the Platt, through a narrow path in the brambles, the sharp little tendrils scratching the faded black panniers as he passed. In the past the Platt had been used for the odd animal in lamb or calf that needed to be kept near the house, but now there was a newer tin barn for that. The brambles, with a few young blackthorn bushes, filled the small field right up and over the sliding stones of the walls. Someone had once told him that the thorn was mother to the oak but there weren't any oaks yet that he could see. On windy nights in the shippen the draughts were so strong that, when a gust hit, the bare bulb would swing and the tassels on the rug would move where the lime had rotted them thin. Sometimes the whole oaken frame would shudder like a blow had landed on the roof from a giant hand. One of the family would generally bring him out a cocoa to see how he was doing, feeling that they must one day get around to doing the place up a bit, but as he never complained, nothing was ever done. Every now and then, in the winter, the television would lose signal and Matthew would sit in the dark. He knew better than to check the aerial as it was always the transmitter going down for a few hours. It made him shiver to think what the wind was like for the engineers working to fix it, up on top of Stockland Hill. He would still go down into town a couple of times a week and even in to Exeter a few times a year when beasts were sold or if he felt he had sufficient excuse to hang around the Saturday cattle market. Everyone knew him as a reliable and even occasionally cheerful man. Cheerfulness being highly rated in the country when it is a bad night with the rain blowing sideways enough to blow out your hurricane lamp, and the cows have got out. It was generally thought that Matthew would never marry. He could tell a slow joke to the men in The Market House, but he was far too shy to have ever chatted up a girl, and not enough of a catch for one to have bothered scooping him up either. Anne would call him in for his meals with the family and for special high teas after Church where he would sit on a side chair near the fireplace and nod but say little, balancing a tiny floral plate, loaded with scones or Dundee cake, on his knee, and holding a cup and saucer, filled with sweet milky tea, in his wide hand. As he reached his seventies he slowed down and did less and less farm work and it became accepted that he would end his days up on the ridge saying little and generally nodding or smiling when asked a question by the grandchildren or neighbours. His pension was more than enough for his baccy and clothes and the odd present or sweets for the children. When one day his Honda wouldn't start he switched to getting lifts from Anne in her Subaru and appreciated how much more comfortable it was in a car. In reasonable weather Matthew would put on his black wellies and slowly tour the fields and the woodland with a big hank of orange bailer twine, fixing gaps in the wire fences or tying down thorn branches to fill any hole in the hedge big enough for a sheep to push through. His father's antler handled penknife was always in his baggy trouser pocket on the other side from his baccy tin. He kept it razor sharp and every year would harden the edge with a peening hammer when the steel grew too soft. By the time Mathew was in his eighties, the blade had worn into a hook with a dangerously thin shank that showed a gap even when closed up. Year by year the field edges decorated with fresh twine shrank back closer and closer to his home and Mathew was aware that he no longer knew exactly where the badgers were or where the vixen laid up with her cubs. The hard work he had done all his life meant his bones were still strong but his joints were painful and his back worn out from the two hundredweight sacks and heavy bales that he had shifted in the years before dumpy bags and forklifts had replaced them. He never knew a plump farmworker in his youth and felt sorry for the lonely unfit machine drivers that had now replaced so many men. Even now his grip would still have reached the end of the dial on the penny arcade machine at Dawlish. Anne herself was now over eighty and she had had her knees done by the time they moved Matthew into a spare room and got the old commode out of the attic. One day he decided to stay in bed and Anne told her friend Alison that Matthew was off his legs now. There was a pause in the conversation as each thought to themselves that it wouldn't be long before he would be buried next to his mother in the cemetery on the hill above the town. Matthew wanted to rest by his mother and had reserved the space years before. Now the plot was overlooking 'Tarka Meadows', the new houses crammed in where a cider orchard had grown. It had provided the sour little red apples that gave the cider it's bite. 'It was real stuff', he said to himself as he lay in clean white sheets on the steel framed bed, 'not like that Somerset, Kingston Black fizzy pop, everyone drinks now.' Matthew imagined the taste in his mouth, bitter and sweet at the same time, with the fume of the alcohol reaching up into his nose from the back of his throat. He tried to swallow but couldn't. At sunset the nurse looked in and found him. All the family came up to see Matthew for the last time and it was Anne and her daughters who washed him and put his best suit on, though it was a bit of a struggle at times. In a way his life was perfect. Like a stone thrown high in the air over the river, with just the right spin to keep it straight, so that it would enter the water with a quiet deep note and cause hardly any ripples to spread steadily across the pool to the small sandy red cliff on the other side.


Senti mused as the Heshian trireme, the *Centaur*, sped upon the waves. He was two days out from the city of Tesh, that denizen of lawlessness...no, wait, that wasn't fair. The council of traders that ran the city certainly had laws in place. They just weren't *Heshian* laws. Which galled, of course, as it had for the last century and more. Well, no more. Anatoli, King of Heshiot, had dispatched Senti to force the issue. Why His Majesty had decided now to upset the tenuous balance between Heshiot and Tesh, Senti didn't know. He did know that King Anatoli had issued an unprecedented total recall of all mercenaries, which would surely irritate Dilak, Emperor of Jihkama. Compared to the cost of raising, training, and feeding an army, paying the cost of mercenaries to do the same job was cheap. So why would King Anatoli choose *now* to antagonize both Tesh and Jihkama? Senti worried. *** Two days later, Senti stepped off the *Centaur* onto the quay wall and exchanged greetings with the council's unofficial ambassador, Marone - or at least, he tried to. "Good day, Marone. It is my hope that the sun shines on...your...um. Would you mind toning your glare down just a notch, if you please?" Marone was certainly not making any of this easy for Senti; but then, he didn't have to. Without a word, he turned and strode back to the city proper, leaving Senti and his small retinue to find their own way. Senti's teeth ground together...the man was exasperating. Half a dozen times he'd been sent here, and half a dozen times Marone's rudeness had cast a pall on the mission from the first moment. So far, he'd yet to hear a single word slip past Marone's lips. Senti steeled himself, raised his hand by his ear and flicked it sharply forward. His retinue set out towards the Three Swords, his home away from home for the next couple of months. *** Senti's trio of servants entered the Three Swords ahead of him, one holding the door open for him. His eyes darted here and there, checking the darkened corners out of long habit. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased momentarily, only to come back as he thought of his mission again. He watched idly as the innkeeper haggled with Karesh for rooms for the four. Finally, the two agreed and coins clinked as they changed hands. Karesh returned with a pair of keys and a grin. "Sair! Fortune smiles upon you this day! I have gotten your Excellency two rooms for two weeks at five silvers the night, supper included." Senti's eyes darkened as he glared at Karesh. "And what of our lodgings after that? You know as well as I that we are likely to be here long past that time." Karesh's eyes darted to the side, and he licked his lips. "Ah, that is an issue that I am hoping to solve before then. Understand, Sair, that good Bartolemew has already had his inn reserved for other parties beyond that. He does offer to speak to his wife's brother's cousin, who runs the Crook'd Cat, and see if he has space." "What!" Senti felt eyes all around glance his way, and he lowered his voice to a strident hiss. "That place is barely fit to house offal torn from sheep! I made the mistake of staying there my first time here, and my body itches yet after that stay. The only way that place could possibly be cleansed enough is by setting fire to it, *if* a flame can be found that would lower its standards enough to eat it!" Karesh leaned back, away from Senti's vehement outburst. "I see, Sair. My apologies. I will endeavor to find more...reputable lodgings. In the meantime, shall I have the others take your things upstairs?" Senti sighed and nodded, then sat and waved for a bottle of wine. The tart vintage rolled across his taste buds as he brooded over the upcoming meeting with the Council. Should he walk in like he owned the place? Or should he act as a mediator between aggrieved parties? The right tone, Senti knew, was vital. After a few moments, though, a persistent sound intruded upon his thoughts. Senti rose again, and peeked out the window. To his utter astonishment, he saw a pair of ships on fire, and a squad of men battling upon the docks! He threw open the door, his mission forgotten for the moment as he raced down to his ship. From this distance, it appeared that it was safe, but if the captain didn't cast off soon, his only mode of transportation out of the country would go up in flames. Senti's feet thudded upon the wood, warped by the sun, salt and wind, and worn smooth by thousands of feet over the years. He ducked and dodged through the edge of the melee, ignoring them except when they interrupted his path. He'd almost reached the brow of his ship when one warrior turned and, with a calculated thrust, slid his sword smoothly and effciiently through Senti's gut. As Senti dropped to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, he saw the first flames lick at the *Centaur*'s sails. Moments later, Marone knelt over his body. "Only business, my brother. Only business." Marone patted the corpse's stiffening shoulder, then rose, turned, and paced back to the council, leaving Senti's lifeless eyes open to stare at the fully engulfed *Centaur*.


If Crawley were in America they’d call it a bumfuck town. There’d be hillbilly’s living on the outskirts and two thirds of the residents in the town would have the same grandfather. This is Britain so only half of the residents share the same grandfather and, being British, he’s not quite as vocal about his racism. We’re far more polite about our prejudices. You’ll be pleased to know I’m one of the other residents - with a different grandfather. And different skin. And a different accent. And I went to a different primary school. But don’t worry, my dad works at Gatwick just like everyone else’s parents, so we’re united on that front. Marcia’s different too, we sit next to each other in maths and she lives on the road behind me. She doesn’t share my deep love of Kerouac, or Sylvia Plath, or Salinger, but we do share a love of Japanese horror and a gaudy desperation to leave this place behind. My phone lights up with a message to say she’s leaving now and I regret telling her I was almost ready. Only mildly disgruntled at my lateness when we met on the corner, she quickly dives in to tell me about how amazing Bad Orange’s new album is. I drink in her enthusiasm, and make the right noises for her to continue effortlessly, as she describes the lyrics and how they make her feel; the sampling ‘to PERFECTION’, and reeling off references I never understand but adopt into my own repertoire to sound more cool than I am. I’m a good parrot in that way. Our knees knock together as she hands me half a headphone to listen with her. She wants me to understand, see? The cinema is mostly set up for parents to take their kids for a couple of hours of peace, Disney movies and rom coms but, in some strange small effort to unfuck this bumfuck town, they’ve tapped into some funding to also show ‘culturally relevant content’. So we’re watching Black Water, from the same director as The Circle and The Circle 2. Yes, it’s Japanese horror. No, we aren’t technically old enough to get in. The person on the desk either doesn’t care or Marcia’s strange ability comes into play and the tickets are in our hands without any questions. Marcia wears footballs shorts everywhere. She’s great at PE and in the football team so she somehow gets away with it throughout the school day when I get picked on for my tie not being knotted quite right. And then - like this - getting into the cinema or buying beer. Either people just like her or they don’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to try to buy anything underage while dressed quite so much like a teenager. Whatever, it works and I benefit. There’s no one else in the whole theatre. ‘No more subtitles for you, Crawley’ I think. At least they tried, eh? The movie starts. We’ve sat ourselves at the back at the top right next to the speakers and the fear makes me tingle as much as the bass. My way of dealing with fear is to stick my fingers in my ears, Marcia’s is to squeeze my hand very hard and open her eyes even wider at the screen. The whole room is very dark and in a moment of almost silence (the black water is very still right now and no one is being murdered, currently) I hear a click and notice a sliver of cold light creep through the wall a few rows down from us. ‘Fuck, Marcia, look’ I whisper. She looks. She darts up and clambers over the seat as I hiss at her ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ I don’t know why I’m whispering. No one else is here. Out of respect for the characters on screen who’re hiding from a maniac and soon to be decapitated, I guess. Her hand grabs the crack of light and opens a small door before disappearing through. I sit motionless before her head pops back round the door. ‘Come on then!’ Half expecting a time portal behind the pale light, it’s disappointingly pedestrian, just a sparse steel ladder leading up into darkness. She’s already half way up when I start climbing and she bangs the hatch at the top open to reveal the night sky. You can’t see many stars, Gatwick lights made sure of that. But it’s warm and there’s a view of our town I’ve never seen before. It’s strangely quiet, just the constant hum of the motorway in the distance and I suddenly feel very alone. Marcia has found a slightly higher spot where you can better see over the walls surrounding the roof. We could be on the top of a mountain. Or in a tree house. But we’re on the roof of an imax in the world’s worst town. Marcia points up to the inky night sky ‘could be Black Water couldn’t it.’ I follow her gaze, mouth open in wonder at the vastness above us. A seagull shits in my mouth. I wish this were a joke. A seagull. Shits. In. My. Mouth. And I’m transported straight back into Crawley. ‘Fuckkkkk’ Marcia is rolling around, crying with laughter. I’m spitting and gagging and rinsing my mouth with overpriced doctor pepper. ‘Fuck Marcia you cannot tell ANYONE about this!’ ‘Only in Crawley babe. What happens in Crawley stays in Crawley.


A rugged man marches through a dark, foggy, forest evening in spring. About 4’9”, covered in scars, with an assortment of weapons carried on his back. He scratches his chin, disturbing his beard, long and velvet red, tied in a braid. The black markings on his forehead represent respect, honour, dignity and strength. A sign to the rest of his tribe and his enemies alike of just who exactly he is. He marches, anger in his eyes, determined. Killer intent in his eyes, eyes that have seen hurt, pain, regret, and love. It was a bit hard, with all the heavy metal plating on his body, but it would be well worth it. He must make it deeper into the forest. There is going to be a great battle there. A battle that will determine not only the fate of this mans home, but possibly, the fate of the entire nation. But where? Where is the rest of them? His troops? Surely, he cannot be alone in a battle as great as this, can he? \* AWOOOOOOOOOO \* He pauses, just for a minute. A dog-like silhouette can be seen in the distance, just 10 meters away. You can hear the footsteps of the shadow in the distance. The foot steps grow in volume, yet, the shadow seems too far away for it to be this loud. Wait... it’s not alone. The warrior turns his head slightly, just to see at least three more figures. He turns is head the other way... five? No, seven! Suddenly, he was surrounded by dozens and dozens of these creatures, almost hundreds! Snarling and barking ensues. He was completely surrounded by wolves, just yapping at him, and occasionally, each other. They were getting closer, and if you were there, you could swear you feel there warm breath, as if they were only 3 inches from tearing off that noes of yours. They were getting ready to attack. What does our warrior do? Nothing. He just waits. But... for what? \* RARF, ARF! \* Suddenly, they backed off, but only just a bit. Two wolves, noticeably bigger than the rest, step up from the crowd, they MUST be the alphas. One black, one white, they commanded the rest of the pack. The black one had stopped, while the white had continued walking towards the scarred man. She barked at him once, commandingly, with a muzzle that was just as scarred as the man was. “... Ah, Shut up, ya cow! I raised WOLVES, not wee muffies! If yer gonna threaten me, do it properly, Mia...” The ragged man joked, in his very thick Scottish accent. There was a very distinguishable scent to this man, and the wolves knew it well. They had recognized him as the alpha of the pack. She jumped on him to show affection, soon followed by the black male. “Oof! William, ya fat oaf! Warn me next time before ya do that, haha!” They were really happy to see the alpha who had saved them as puppies from a hunter. Those humans will pay for what they did to the rest of their pack, only tens strong then. Fortunately, they both had the same enemies. The clan that the warrior needed to battle, was the same group of humans that had almost killed the Yin-Yang Dogs. That pack owes everything to that man, and on more than one occasion, wolf and warrior have fought side by side. They knew who he was, and had a pretty good idea as to why he was here. “Aright, then. Follow. We’re hunting, tonight, boys.” The wolves understood immediately what he meant by that. They were going to fight someone, and they needed all the support they could get. The wolves walked with him, beside him, in front, behind, everywhere. The white stayed to his right, the black to his left. A soldier shouldn’t go into battle alone. Not in a battle as big as this, anyway. The man howled, and his army howled with him, filling the forest with a cry of menace. Never underestimate the wolf...


“I knew it was you,” the man said, approaching Ired with his arms extended. They had passed each other about a half mile ago. Ired and Siro had been surprised at seeing someone else on this path. Ired first tried to ignore him as he stopped in his tracks and turned to follow, but the strange man charged after Ired and quickly overtook him. “At last, I have found you, Ired of Browerdale, the Chosen one! There is much I have to tell you, but first we must hurry. There are those-” Ired’s blade pierced the man’s heart, silencing him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “What the hell?” Siro cried. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about all this, but it was going to happen at some point.” “I...What? You just killed that guy!” Siro gripped her sword tightly, but did not yet draw. Ired unceremoniously removed his weapon from the man’s corpse, cleaned and sheathed it. “I’m not going to hurt you, Siro. This is just something that happens to me on occasion.” “Murder?” “No. Well, yes, but it’s more complicated. I can explain if you’ll listen,” Ired implored his friend. Siro waited a long second. “Fine,” she finally said, not removing her hand from her sword. “Okay, do you know what Prophecies are?” “What am I, five? Of course I know. Everyone fantasized about being Chosen when they were a kid.” “Yeah, well I *am* Chosen.” Siro’s hand finally dropped. “Really? How? You’re like thirty or something, right? I thought you guys got called when you were sixteen.” “I’m twenty four, thanks. And, yeah, that’s what’s supposed to happen. Thing is, my dad was Chosen too. It’s a family thing, I guess.” “You never talk about your dad.” “He died before I was born. Chosen, remember? We don’t live that long. Thing is, my mom was...I’ll say ‘less than happy’ about what happened to my dad. She did a *bunch* of research on the Prophecies. She read all of them. Seriously. And not just the holy books, she investigated Prophecies that had already come to pass, and learned what actually happened. “She found two things that matter. First, that I was Chosen too. She obviously couldn’t be sure about this, but the circumstances of my birth met all the criteria for one of the Prophecies.” “No way. Which one?” “Don’t know. That’s the second thing she learned. Out of the hundreds of completed Prophecies in history, all but three were self-fulfilling.” “How so?” “It’s not always the same, but more often than not, something a Chosen does early in their ‘quest’ or whatever, causes the whole catastrophic event that they end up dying to stop. So my mom’s theory is, if the Chosen never sets out on their quest, the crazy event never happens, the Chosen doesn’t have to die.” “So, what, when the church tried to call you, you just killed the emissaries?” “Not me, my mom. Poisoned them. One emissary refused to drink the tea - too good to accept hospitality from commoners - so my mom ran him through with a wheat thresher. Hit him in the throat so he wouldn’t scream. I reacted about the same as you did. Mom calmed me down after a while and we had a very similar conversation to this one. We packed up that night and ran. Over the years the church got more aggressive with their calling tactics. A few years ago, they got mom. I’m still here though. That’s what she wanted.” “And you really believe this is going to work?” Siro said, indicating the body. “Well, all Chosen die, right?” “Yeah.” “Yeah. And most of ‘em die as teenagers. A few make it to twenty. As far as I know, only one Chosen made it to twenty one. I’ve got three years on all of them. So, yeah, I believe it’s working.” “Huh...I don’t really know what to say here.” “I know, Siro. I’m sorry. I’ll stay out here tonight, take care of all this. In the morning, I’ll be gone. I won’t tell you where, so if the church comes looking, you won’t have to lie.” Siro silently began her long walk home, but stopped after only a few steps. “No,” she said. “I’m coming with you.” “You can’t be serious. This last year has been amazing, but this is my life. One day, I’ll either get called, or caught dealing with an emissary. Either way things aren’t going to end well for me or anyone with me. Stay here.” Ired began digging a shallow grave for the dead church official. “No. I’m coming.” Ired started to protest, but she cut him off. “You know what it’s like there,” Siro indicated the village they had been returning to. “I don’t want to die, but I sure as hell don’t want to die *there*. I’ll only get out if I run, and my chances won’t get better than now, with someone I trust.” Ired had no response. Losing Siro was something he had prepared for, he had thought it inevitable. This he was not prepared for. “I...Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” “We can’t go back, even for clothes.” Ired estimated how much daylight they had left. “We bury him quick, put as much distance between him and us as we can, and sleep where we fall. When we reach the next province, we can find a real place to rest for a few days and some new clothes. That ok?” Siro nodded, grabbed her trowel and went to work.