. Dead. How? He couldn’t be. He could barely muster the strength to read the report again. This could not have happened. For 5 years now he had been the key to keeping the tide of war in their favour, keeping them in control. Every single plan devised by the scheming sons of bitches on the opposing side had been fed into his hands, and every time he had all the time in the world to counter their moves, force back their troops. They had been in control, and it was all thanks to him. The war hero. The brave agent working craftily under the eyes of the enemy, daringly stealing secrets crucial to the war effort. He had been the motivation that kept the entire force working. How could he possibly be dead? How could he be gone? He was no fool of course, he knew men were ultimately expendable and died often, but not him. He was too talented to be caught. Surely this must be a joke. But no, he couldn’t afford to be a fool. He was dead and there was no way round this. There is still a war to fight and he of all people could not be seen breaking down. He was the leader of the whole cause, his people could not see him collapse. No, the effort must continue. A military funeral must be arranged, of course. Of the highest honours, he of all people deserved it. New spies must be recruited, new methods developed. This war did not rest entirely on the shoulders of one man and now he must go out to prove that fact. The show must go on. Adieu, Cpl Rier. *Cpt Forest shouted in jubilation*. He was dead! Finally the traitorous bastard had been caught! For so long his plans had gone missing, stolen from beneath his nose. Every manoeuvre cut off, every secretive operation exposed. His hands had been tied for so long and it was showing. Retreats and evacuations, battalions flanked and eliminated, tens of thousands of men left to be massacred in blood-stained fields. And all because of this one, tiny, insignificant, rat. Well the rat had been caught. As one of his own secretaries no less. That would not do wonders for his personal status. But now was not the time to be worrying, it was a time of celebration. For the nights of worrying were over! The mole had been found and the mole had been shot. No more information would be leaked, no more documents stolen. The suffering had gone on far too long, but now the war could swing back in their favour. And he was very happy to take revenge on every man who stood in his way and had benefited from this piece of shit uncovering all of his tactics. He had been made to look like a fool, but now it was over. No longer would his men suffer. It was their turn to bleed. Cpt Forest spat in the trash can at his feet which now held the name badge of the once mysterious spy. Rot in hell, Cpl Rier.


One of our favorite activities together was taking walks in the snow. Winter time always feels sad when you’re alone, but in a relationship, it can be a wonderful time for bonding. Any time it snowed, we made the most of our days off from work or school, gallivanting wherever we wanted to go. Some days it was a trip to the park with the dog, others it was a trek down to the local coffee shop to sip on a glass of warm, sugary hot cocoa. Some days we’d walk with no specific point B in mind, just a chance to enjoy the day and clear our heads. We had been together for a few months, both fresh out of long-term relationships that had grown dull. We both missed the excitement of starting something new. We missed the conversations over a cup of coffee where we’d explore each other’s minds, learning what made the other tick. We missed the thrill of adventuring together for the first time and planning exciting dates, hoping to impress the other with our hobbies and interests. We missed the walk up to the other’s door and the seemingly infinite moment between saying goodbye and whether or not we would share a kiss for the first time. With each other, we had reclaimed these moments. I would take her to my favorite places, she would take me to hers. On days when we couldn’t drive because of the weather, we’d take our walks in the snow. The snow sprinkled our bodies like powdered sugar topping a dessert. I grasped her hand through her maroon, knitted wool gloves. We made our way down the icy sidewalk, carefully plotting each step to avoid slipping. I had not prepared for the weather, and the wet snow barged its way through my canvas shoe and into my socks. She kept her body close to mine, giving off a warmth, but not just a physical warmth. The kind of warmth that feels like the bright, morning sun shining in through the windows of your soul. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay in a moment forever. The kind of warmth that makes you forget all about the flurrying snow, the slippery ice, the wet socks. My last relationship ended because I was complacent in life. I had abandoned responsibilities, be it in life or to her. I was in a living cruise control mode, just going through the motions, every day the same as the last. I did not concern myself with the future, and I barely paid attention to the present. She had grown tired of listening to me reminiscing about my high school days as if they were the only good times I would ever have. “I don’t think you know what you want - and I know I don’t want this”, she said to me before leaving. Those words ingrained themselves into my memory like a burn mark on a slab of wood. I had made adjustments for the better, but it still seemed like a charade. Around others, I was a hard-working, motivated young man who learned from his mistakes - but in time spent by myself, I found it easy to slip into old habits. It was almost like a split personality, and it was confusing to tell which was the real me. On the surface, I told myself I’d changed, but deep down, it was questionable. She liked me for who I was, but wanted to be with me for who I’d become. However, the relationship was still fresh, and as long as I was still interesting - she was mine. But was it just a matter of time until my old habits overcame my new ones? Was it inevitable that she would get fed up and leave, just like the women of old? We made our way to her house, trudging through the frozen, packed snow. We approached a small area of grass in between a pair of townhouses where the snow had gathered rather high, deprived of human contact. “Let’s jump into it!” I exclaimed. She was hesitant, like any other normal human being, she had no interest in getting her clothing wet or catching influenza. I grabbed her by her wool glove again and motioned her towards me. “I’m going in whether you like it or not, now are you coming with me?” She let out a shy laugh and came closer, and we both fell backwards into the snow. The warmth of the moment overshadowed the snow encompassing our bodies, and we giggled like children on a playground. This was new, and I had captured her interest yet again. And like dropping a coin into a parking meter, I had bought myself a little more time. She would love me a little bit longer.


(polite criticism welcome) We didn't replant the lettuce today. We didn't plant more carrots last week. We didn't plant anything new at all in the last two weeks. I'm scared. Since I arrived here, the one constant has been the daily planting of new seeds and saplings. Today was another beautiful day, one I should have spent harvesting from the garden and helping to replant the seeds as directed. It was a lot of work, done every single day, but I didn't mind. From the day I stumbled into the valley, I'd eaten well, directed by the silent Lady of the house, helped by the other children who haunted the house and out buildings. We were a scrawny lot, but even the quietest of us was slowly filling out. Me, I still remembered the hunger of being an outcast, fleeing from the edges of a war I never understood, that took all the adults from my life. The day I found this valley was almost magical in my memory. One minute I'm scrambling between two rocks, chasing a particularly plump looking lizard, the next, I'm tumbling down a hillside, landing in front of a woman in a dark dress, black hair pulled back severely, holding a basket of freshly harvested food. She took her time looking me over - her deep brown eyes meeting mine and holding them for a time, before she pulled a cluster of grapes still glistening from the morning dew from her basket and gave them to me. Without a single word being exchanged, I knew I'd found a shelter. Four years I'd been here now, and the routine was almost ingrained deep enough for me to do what I need do in my sleep. Wake up, wash up, go get a hot breakfast and then head out to the gardens. Every day the group of us would find our baskets, our tools and twists of paper holding seeds set out on the edge of the porch. Every day we would plant what would always turn out to be the exact right amount of seeds to feed us when they harvested. Sometimes we would hoe a new row and plant seeds there too, and always, when it was ready to harvest, there would be a mouth to eat the food. Until today. This spring, we had hoed extra rows for day after day, planting seeds until there were little left in the boxes that lived on the porch. Every day, more things planted, each that took less time to grow than the ones planted the day before. Every day harvesting, cleaning, eating, quietly existing in this oasis of calm, where children scarred mentally and physically from a distant war slowly healed with the good air and good food. Nothing was ever said about how the Lady knew what to plant, and when, but we trusted that the food would continue to last. For four years, it had never failed us - even in winter when we used the small green house. Today I harvested the last of the perfect lettuce I'd helped set into the ground. Today I helped harvest the last of the oats we struggled to get in the ground in early spring. We'd never planted this many before. We'd never planted as many of anything as we had this spring. I'd been slowly growing more afraid with each extra row we planted, looking over my shoulder sometimes at the two rocks that marked my entrance into the valley, as though to see whom might spring forth from their shadow. Today, we harvested everything, and nothing remains growing in our fields. Nothing remains growing in the green houses. The porch and the ground in front is covered with piles of food and we stand beside our Lady, watching her calm face, her two hands grasping each other, glancing at each other as the shadows beneath the rocks grow in size.


It’s difficult to live in the shadow of yourself. It’s also nearly impossible. Unless you’re me. Unless you live in two separate worlds. Dimensions. I should say dimensions because one of me is in the future, and the other is in the present. Well, one of me was in the future. And now that me is dead. Have you ever been murdered? Of course not. I have. I can’t say I recommend the experience. I wasn’t even kidnapped, or shot in the street. I was a statistic. I was one of 43 students who died in a shooting at Webster High School in Webster, Wisconsin. I shouldn’t use was, but that me is dead, and this me is alive. I’m alive in Chicago, Illinois. And I’m going to stop the shooting and save them. Us. I only have 11 hours and 12 minutes to stop this from happening. I have until 3:12 pm, CST. I know the shooter’s name is Mitchell Dupree, and I know he is in AP Biology first period, which begins in exactly five hours. I’ve got my work cut out for me. Sweat. Cold sweat. That’s how I remember it. Dying, that is. I was so nervous, but it was quick, in the back of a dilapidated math classroom, the only light from the overhead. Yeah. We still used overheads. Used. Used. Past tense. It was only one classroom. 43 students in AP Statistics. That’s ironic. We were, are, statistics. Maybe if our school had spent money on making classes smaller, instead of building a new football field, there would only be 25 lost souls. I bet the school board never thought of that. Mitchell Dupree. He sat with me. Sits. He sits with me. Quiet kid. Its always the quiet ones, I suppose. Mitchell seemed nice… That is until he put a bullet through poor Ms. Dodd’s head. The sweet spinster who loved numbers more than her 12 cats. Loves. The past tense is creeping up on me, stalking my every move. It knows. It knows I shouldn’t be here now. Dr. Langdon says its my “condition”. “multiple personality disorder” he claims. Dr. Langdon is a crock. This is real. It is all real. Why won’t they listen to me? My friend listens to me. Mitchell. He’s nice. He lives in the mirror above the bathroom sink. We have big plans today. At 3:12 pm.


Tonight I met the most beautiful girl in the world. That is not hyperbole. I met the most beautiful girl in the world. I was standing outside McGee's Tavern, where you can find me almost every night, chain smoking cigarettes when I saw her coming. She was about a block away when I first saw her, and I had trouble looking away for the fifteen seconds it took for her to reach the overhang where I was standing avoiding the rain. She is reckless. I could tell by looking at her. The dead giveaway was that it was pouring rain and she didn't have an umbrella. Or maybe she is forgetful or maybe the weather app on her phone doesn't work or maybe she just likes being sopping wet. Regardless, I knew I had to get her attention. Somehow, some way, she was going to notice me. 3... 2... 1... and there she went. Right past me. I had already destroyed something that I was too scared to even begin creating. "Ten seconds of courage" I told myself, and off I ran into the rain to catch up. "Excuse me ma'am, do you need an umbrella?" "No thank you. I like the rain." I knew it. "Well good. Because I don't have an umbrella. Do you want a cigarette?" "Thanks for the offer but it's pouring rain." I looked up at the sky seemingly just realizing that fact, myself. "Bit tough to smoke a wet cigarette" "Oh. Right. Well it's not raining over there. There's an overhang at McGee's. We can stay dry there." "Okay. Fine." She quickly brushed past me back towards McGee's. Was this really happening? This woman was ten times more beautiful than any other woman that has ever given me the time of day. Maybe she was just humoring me. But I didn't care. I was on top of the world. We got to the overhang where we could stay dry -- or stay wet, I guess. I handed her a cigarette. "What's your name?" "Emilia." "That's a very pretty name." She blew a cloud of smoke right in my face as if to say "I've heard that line a million times. Try harder". This girl doesn't give a damn about anything. We talked for about five minutes about the weather, because that's all that my brain would allow me to think about. Well other than the subtle curve of her lips and the deep green of her eyes, but I wasn't going to bring that up. She knows those things already. She has to. Our cigarettes were starting to get stubby and I was starting to feel pressure to entertain her. That's when she spoke words that I'll never forget. "So we've been talking for close to ten minutes now and you still haven't told me what your name is." "She cares what my name is. Progress" I thought to myself. I must have been thinking a bit longer than I thought because she asked me again. "What the fuck is your name?" At this point both of our cigarettes had gone out. "My name.. my name is Trevor." "Can I have another cigarette Trevor?" She wanted another cigarette. To me, this could only mean two things; she either enjoyed my company, or what was waiting for her at the end of her walk was even worse than an awkward man-child talking about the weather for ten minutes. I chose to believe the former, for morale's sake. "Of course you can have another cigarette." I handed her a cigarette and the lighter. She lit up her cig and kissed me on the cheek. Before I had time to recover from the sudden lack of oxygen in my brain and lack of functionality in my knees, she began walking away. "It was very nice to meet you, Trevor. I live right down the street here. Maybe if you're lucky we'll meet again." With that, she was on her way. "Wait -- how are you gonna smoke that cig in the rain!?" Just then, without turning around, she pulled out an umbrella from her bag. I would do anything to see the smug look that she undoubtedly had on her face. She told me she lives nearby. That's good news. I practically live at McGee's, so we are practically neighbors. I'm going to go find her. Should I go find her? What if she gets to know me better and doesn't like me? I should do it. Maybe after one more cigarette.


I fell down. Down into darkness. I landed with a splash, in a shallow water stream. My leg hurts like hell, and then really, absolute hell. I quickly get out of the water, before my backpack is soaked. Once I am crawling out of the water, I notice a few things. I can’t see anything, not even my hands in front of my face. I might turned blind, or it is just really dark down here. The other thing is that it smells. It smells like rotten eggs or something. But it for sure is a smell I have never, ever smelled before. Once I am out of the water, almost crying from the pain of my leg, I feel my backpack sliding off my back. I place it next to me. Next to me on the ice cold, wet rocks. I open it up, and search in the dark for my lighter. I hear something drop, really close to me. I don’t know if it came out of my backpack, or if it was something different. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it scared me. It made me keep my breath in, and sit there in total silence. At that point I noticed that I heard the water moving, a slow and relaxing sound. I also heard the water fall down or something, but that sound came from really far away. But furthermore I didn’t hear anything else. for a minute, I sat there in silence. When I didn’t hear anything else, I went on looking. “Ah, there it is”, I heard myself say out loud, whilst taking my tiny blue lighter out of my backpack. I immediately regretted saying out loud. I thought that it might have had awoken some animals that lived there. **please leave a response :)** tell me what to do better or change.


The voices....the voices are growing in number,not really voices, but whispers. They tell me things, they say they are here to help,but they never seem to. They always want more, more blood. The floor in basement has a hole in it, more of a pit really. I must keep it filled with bodies, or they will come for me. The voices say it is so, I must serve the pit or suffer. The last few years have been very difficult. Ever since the hole appeared, soon after my mother died. The hole appeared, and soon after that, I started hearing whispers, instructing me to do small and seemingly meaningless task. They told me to stake out certain houses, certain people that I had never meant. It seemed odd but I was so distracted by grief I went along with this new obligation. It has lead to the death of many, only to save the majority of the earth. Keep the hole fed and be blessed they tell me. So I stalk the innocent, I take them from the world to fill the hole.


A vulture floated high in the desert sky, circling around. It looked like an insect struggling in the spiderweb of the broken windshield. The taste of iron was heavy in my mouth as my nose began to drip to the back of my throat. The steering wheel of my Chevy was slick from my slit hand and the shotgun was still wet with blood in the seat next to me. The shadows of the setting sun behind me pointed me down the highway to where I needed to go. My phone rang. Don't do this. I listened, but there was nothing she could say. They're your family. He's your brother. Not any more. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I pushed open the side door of the bank and hurried to my truck parked in the alley. I opened the door and I traded the velvet pouch in my hand for some of the gauze inside the glove box. I rolled two strips and put them up my broken nose. I went around to the driver's side and got in. I reached for the shotgun under the back seat and it in the seat next to me. I started the engine and pulled onto the street in front of the bank. Dale came stumbling, bleeding, down the steps of the bank and ran into the middle of the street and held his hands up in front of me. I didn't stop. He tried to jump when he realized it was too late. He rolled up onto the hood. Dale's head shattered my windshield before he rolled off onto the street. Then I stopped. I grabbed my shotgun and got out. I slowly walked over to Dale, writhing on the black pavement. Some people ran on the sidewalk. Some watched stunned. There were sirens in the distance. Where are you going? He knew the answer, but I guess he saw a little hope while looking at that light at the end of the tunnel. He spat the words out of his blood filled mouth again. Where are you going! I didn't answer. I stood with the shotgun, him under me laying on the blackness. I got down on one knee to look into Dale's eyes one last time. He didn't want me to see. He grabbed his knife and slashed. He opened up my hand. That was my fault. I underestimate the desperation of a man who no longer had anything. I stood back up and raised my shotgun, my right hand bleeding on the trigger. The anger was gone from his eyes and he was crying now. He muttered one last pitiful time. Where are you going... I pulled the trigger. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My brother, Eddie, Oliver and I walked into the bank clean cut and in our nicest suits. I fired my revolver into the air and they pulled their knives and ran towards the patrons. Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but we are here to make a withdrawal. Please follow my associates into the room to your right so I can have some privacy with our bank. This will all be over in a minute. My brother and Eddie herded the 9 patrons present in the bank into the small side room of the bank and collected their wallets. Oliver and the security guard locked the front door. I hopped the front desk to speak to the tellers. You, take me to the safe deposit boxes. You, money better be in the bag by the time I get back. I left a duffle bag with the young woman at the front desk and the young man took me back to the safe deposit boxes. I holstered my revolver. He took me to the room. I told him thank you and went in. I felt my brother come up quick behind me. He had left his job of hero control in the side room. He grabbed my revolver from my side as he jumped in front of me and pointed it at my face. You think you can sneak off like this? What are you talking about? I know why we are here. Give me the key. Calm down. He drove the butt of the revolver into my nose as hard as he could. I fell to a knee. I'm not stupid. You thought I was your whole life. Well look where we are now. He kicked me in the chest. I fell onto my back. He stepped up and pointed the revolver down between my eyes. We aren't just here to take this bank. This is your stash. He laughed. They always said you were the smart one. Give me the key or I can just take it. You know I won't do that. You know I will. Do it. You have three seconds. If you don't give me the key, it's over for you, bro. One. I didn't say anything. Two. I smiled at my brother standing above me, pointing my revolver between my eyes. Three. He pulled the trigger. The silence was deafening. I grabbed his hand to use as leverage to kick him in the ribs. He was too stunned to counter and he fell to the ground. I got up and gave him another kick in the face. Dale never retaliated. He couldn't understand what had just happened. I beat him senseless in that room. I slid a bullet in the revolver and spun it shut. I looked at Dale, slumped in the corner of the room bleeding on his suit. That a chance you want to take? I opened my deposit box and grabbed the velvet pouch and left Dale in the room. I walked out to the lobby and gave the entire duffle bag to Eddie and Oliver and went to the side door. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Eddie, Oliver, my brother and I were sitting around Eddie's table discussing the plan of action for tomorrow. This was a small bank in a small town. Another day at the office for us. Sounds good boys. So you are really going to be done after this? Yes sir. Hanging up the spikes and leaving Tucson for good tomorrow. Who's gonna get the gun? My brother laughed. We all get guns after this. No more knife bullshit. I trust you guys. He shot a sly smile at me. Eddie gets the gun. My brother looked at me. What about your stash? Don't worry about my stash. Well how much you still got left? How are you going to get it? I looked at my brother. What's it to you? He smiled. Just looking out for my older bro. Loosen up. He changed the subject. Mines in gold. 1.2 mil right under my house. Eddie shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. Why the fuck do you keep 1.2 million in gold in your house when your wife is there all day? Under the house. She don't know about it. She's too worried about the baby all day to ever figure anything out. She don't know that right under her feet there is 1.2 mil in gold.. Christ baby brother, we know about the 1,196,000 in gold bars you have. Stop flaunting it. You should have more. Says the guy with the brand new 1995 Chevrolet. He smiled. Seriously man, how much you got left. This meeting is adjourned. See you tomorrow, fellas. It's a big day. Look sharp. I walked out and got in my truck. I thought about how my brother was acting. He seemed off. It didn't feel right. If it had been Eddie or Oliver, they would have been out of the job. But he's my own brother. I couldn't just trust my gut. I needed to see him stab me in the back. When I got home I took 5 of the bullets out of my revolver. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My brother walked through Eddie's door for the meeting. He left his wife and kid in El Paso to help us pull one last job.


Somewhere in the backwoods of Arkansas, thirty miles southwest of Hot Springs rests a quiet little town called Glenwood. Not much happens here, according to most peoples knowledge. However, this collection of short stories is not about your run of the mill common folk, and believe me they are just as real as they are surrealistically absurd. Most of these tales are the sum of highly intelligent and morally ambiguous individuals fueled by drugs, alcohol, and a strange sense of chaotic pack mentality, and I being fortunate and sober enough to bear testimony to these bizarre events. But don’t get me wrong, I am no innocent bystander amidst the chaos. Often times if you were brave enough you could find me somewhere in the fray, adding my own unique color to the sea of ambiguity. Due to some disconnect with the ways of the world, and their unwillingness to bend in the wake of society’s ever changing whims, they often found themselves in too deep and over their heads, but managing by some miracle to come out on top smelling like a rose. EARLY LESSONS. It is my belief there are three major events in a young boy’s life that let him know he is coming into his own as a man. 1 Losing your virginity. As a man the loss of your innocence marks you as an accomplished individual in the eyes of your peers. To the naive late bloomers you appear as a caterpillar that has emerged from a cocoon of wisdom with some other-worldly knowledge that you can’t acquire without firsthand experience. 2 Getting behind the wheel of a car alone. Nothing is more thrilling than the first few inches of pavement passing precariously between you and the barely functioning, half ton metal death machine, and the realization of the power you wield while careening down the black top. 3 The ultimate lesson. The third and probably most important, albeit least recognized event, is the epiphany that the people responsible for bringing you into this world do not have the infallible wisdom they believe themselves to possess. This tale being the nature of the third This story fell into my lap one mild fall evening after the whiskey had once again dampened our lips and freed our tongues from the chains of modesty. Cigarette smoke hung in the still night air like a looming fog, and the porch lights soft ambiance provided a contrast to the grating uproar that had begun around the small plastic table rattling dangerously around the wooden porch, threatening to spill the last of the ever dwindling manna that kept us in good spirits. Then suddenly a victor rose above the noise to claim his rightful crown as the evening’s story teller, and sole witness to the epic stupidity that befell him as a child. D. See, was a young boy around the age of five during this event. His father began a short drive home from a gentleman’s softball game. The 1973 Pontiac Ventura II had its wing vent open while the engine rumbled out in a low loping tone, barely minding the speed limit.Then out of nowhere, a thud emanated from the driver side wing vent, causing a generous application of the brakes. D. Sees’ father flipped on the cab lights to investigate the back seat before the vehicle managed to come to a complete stop. To his surprise a moderately sized screech owl had the misfortune of being sucked into the cars’ wing vents, and hurled into the back seat, where it lay dazed from the impact. Now any rational man would simply toss the creature out and keep driving, but that was far from what happened. For reasons known only to Mr. See, he captured the creature in his softball mitt and spent the rest of the drive home trying to figure out a way to profit from his new found avian friend. It wasn't until he had placed the poor feathery bastard in a cage and achieved a full night sleep did his long unforeseen dreams of being a falconer come to full fruition. Nearly by reflex I interjected in the face of the blatant ignorance that would soon come to pass. “You can’t be serious?” My glassy eyed cohort turned to me in his stupor, but the gleam in the back of his vision revealed the utmost sincerity with his reply. “I’m serious as cancer buddy.” A roar of laughter ensued from the crowd. “So what happened next?” Came an impatient slur from another intoxicated crew member on the edge of his seat. “I’m getting to that.” D. See said with some unusual clarity as he poured another shot to build dramatic tension. D. See kicked back the whiskey with ease, and then released a refreshing sigh, slapping the shot glass onto the table. “Roll me a fat one while I talk.” The group obliged, bringing forth the tribes designated joint crafter to work his dexterous magic into the item their temporary chieftain coveted so dearly. “Now where was I again?” D. See leaned back in his chair with a finger over pursed lips as his eyes fell back to that distant haze of nostalgia. Mr. See awoke that morning with a gleam in his eyes as radiant as the dawning sun. With the glee of a child on Christmas morning he hurried off to his work shed to prepare his “falconing attire.” This included the following: Bailing twine, an apron, and elbow length welding gloves that looked more like gauntlets. After securing the gauntlets with bailing twine Mr. See, was ready to begin training. The owl was ready too. It had spent the entire night stewing on the fact it had been flung into a cage that sat in the back of a rundown school bus, for reasons it could only begin to guess at. The owl heard the approach of Mr. See, and knew the plan it had concocted to make its daring escape were moments from inception. Mr. See opened the back door to the school bus and gingerly flipped the latch to the owls’ cage. The thing made no attempt to resist but kept a keen eye on Mr. See as it was lifted out of the wired prison. The owl made a quick assessment of the surroundings looking left, then right, then back to Mr. See, who was beside himself at this point. Then the creature unleashed its wild rage upon its captor all at once. It craned its neck around and bit through the welding glove with the force of a sledgehammer, latching itself to Mr. Sees’ thumb. The man howled in pain and tried to release the offending critter, wanting nothing more to do with it, but the thing refused to let go. Mr. See bolted through his front yard, arms flailing wildly, with the screeching bird in tow. At that point Mr. See found himself next to a large oak tree, and proceeded to beat the little bastard senseless against it until the enraged animal released his thumb. Finally, the owl unhinged its vice like grip and flopped to the ground where it shook off the daze. The owl ruffled its feathers as a last act of defiance before it flew off into the morning sunrise, leaving D. Sees father to lick his wounds.


Sometimes lunch falls from the sky. I suppose that may seem like some blessing, but I’ve had about enough of it, myself. Have you any idea what that kind of impact does to a half-eaten meat pie? I once heard a wet explosion and stepped out of my neat grass hut to find my fire pit covered in gravy. Nor does lunch tend to land in the most opportune of places. Yesterday about midday I had a banana. Nearly killed me. The Goony Birds drop all manner of objects as they fly across the valley sky, always from Mount of the Moon to Purple Panther Peak. Papers, coins, clothing, shoes, dark eyeglass , beverage containers, writing implements. I have a dune of mostly obliterated or useless Goony Bird crap that grows by the day. Worst of all, they sometimes drop lunch after it’s already been eaten. Solid chunks land several seconds before the fine spray. It’s only been this way for a handful of seasons. I can easily recall when my sky was clear of Goonies and the shrieking zip of their flight. Then, life was considerably more normal. My days were occupied with foraging, sometimes hunting for meats or skins, and regular visits from Teela. On occasion, strangers would wander in from distant valleys. We were always happy to welcome them. Teela was my closest neighbor, living just past the arse-shaped rock downstream. Her flesh was sparse, and her head of hair was ample. Sad story, Teela’s. I can’t help but recall the pleasant times, though. She would drop in at least once every few days with something new to show me.Spiny fruits, dead insects, smelly things. She had a strange obsession with useless objects. I would call her an odd one, but I’m afraid I haven’t known a sufficient number of normal people to justify saying so. We shared meals often (I made the food my responsibility; one could never be sure what Teela would bring to share), and more than a few times we explored one another, sharing in the vagaries of physical pleasure. Having her around was always good fun. At least, that is, until the freak show appeared above our heads. Teela fell under the spell of the Goonies. “Such lovely big birds,” she said to me the day after they first whizzed through our pristine sky. “They’re no proper birds,” I told her. “Do you see wings?” “They don’t need wings; they have otherworldly powers. Dummy!” When the so-called birds started dropping their crap, Teela lost her coconuts. “Look at this!” She picked something up from the dirt outside my hut. It was a small piece of canvas emblazoned with the perfect image of a person, but this person was like none I had met. Pale as a cloud and still sporting baby fat as a grown man. Goony-looking. Unfortunately, this only helped Teela to deify the Goonies. I tried to tell her they were just people. “Dope! They only take the form of humans so as not to frighten us, the simpler beings. And how do you suppose they fly, smart guy? Our minds are not capable of fully comprehending.” Teela began spending every day at my hut. My place was a hotspot for Goony junk landings (Teela took to calling it the ‘Place of Great Heavenly Bounty’). I didn’t mind that she took all the junk–I certainly didn’t need it–but watching her lose her mind was too much. I once snuck off to her place while she was trying to find a suitable way to dress her wild mane around a set of gleaming cooking tools that had crashed into the stream near my hut. When I crossed the arse rock, I could scarcely believe the state of her living space: the slipshod grass shelter was consumed by an intricate altar of stacked Goony garbage. It was no wonder she bummed around my place; hers had become storage! I was lucky enough to have a morning to myself when a most intriguing specimen touched down. As I lounged on a bed of moss, sipping spiny fruit nectar, a bush across the stream burst into a flurry of leaves. Normally I would have let the thing lie and notified Teela, but my interest was piqued as I discerned a small racket coming from what remained of the foliage. What I found was a small, heavy picture-box device. It was like several I had seen before, but unlike the others, this one was in working order. Well perhaps it wasn’t undamaged from the fall, but it repeatedly displayed the same moving image: it was one of those Goony white people smiling, laughing with his giant teeth and sticking his thumb in the air. He was on a mountain peak, approaching a precipice. When I looked close, I could see that he was wearing an apparatus that protruded from his midsection and connected him to something that reached far into the open sky. It was a line. As the Goony in the picture-box launched himself over the precipice and wailed like a young girl, the situation suddenly became clear. I tore my rapt eyes from the box, studied the sky with greater scrutiny than I had hitherto thought to give, and soon found what I was looking for: a barely perceptible line bridged the sky between the peaks on either side of the valley. Teela was not receptive to my discovery. “Blasphemy! Omnipotent beings do not dangle from vines.” “But it’s right there above your daft head! Just look up!” “I don’t need to; I’m strong enough to have faith in the inexplicable.” “We’re human beings, Teela. Rational thought is our most powerful tool, and you’re ignoring it altogether. All you have is faith in ignorance.” “Don’t talk down to me. I won’t hesitate to defend my values.” That’s when I showed her the moving image in the picture-box. She couldn’t draw her eyes away until it repeated four times over. Then she met my gaze with a leer that would cleave stone. “Tempter! Demon sent to corrupt!” Teela was in the throes of hysteria. She wore the mean look of a cornered badger. “Death be upon you!” My friend must have known she could not slay me, and too that she had violated the boundaries of our friendship. Sadly, I’d no time to pose a question before she came at me with a shiny blade pulled from her Goony headdress, and she’d no time to redact herself before I smashed her head with a rock.There was a thud as she dropped and the slight clink of a bloodied spoon tumbling from her head, but then there was only silence. Teela was my dear friend, daresay my only friend, and I had killed her. I reexamined the fact repeatedly before I could bring myself to believe it. I had bludgeoned my friend to death, but only as a reflexive reaction to a life-or-death situation brought upon by her irrational hysteria. Did I have a choice? And did she understand the implications of her delusions? Was this mess our fault? No. It was those great Goony bastards playing cheap tricks with twine above our heads. After all, they had no divine enchantment, nor even the power of flight. They were only men, and men could fall. That night, I put in no small effort devising an operation to take back the valley sky. As the moon rose over its mount, I felled no less than a dozen trees, each of considerable height, and carried them past the arse to Teela’s. I then used the heftiest limb I could salvage to reduce her Goony shrine to what I had always seen it for: a mound of garbage. Consider it grieving. Next, I proceeded to construct a pyre, reinforced with all the pieces from the hulking mound of Goony garbage, of such magnitude that according to my calculations, her flames just might lick the strand in the sky. Consider it retribution. As the first rumor of dawn found the horizon, I spent the last of my strength carrying the corpse of my friend to the pyre’s pinnacle. When I returned to the ground, I set the first spark of what promised to be an unforgettable conflagration and proceeded to collapse on my back, eyes turned to the slowly waning stars. I cared little that had my structure failed, flaming tree trunks and landfill would have rained down upon me and brought my end. Life thereafter was optional, so long as the Goonies were stopped. The heat of the growing blaze soon crept into my skin, and before long, I could perceive the line in the sky giving off a faint glow. Yes, I thought, my final act shall come to fruition. I may at least die with integrity. With my head laid back on the hot ground, I closed my eyes and let the roar of the inferno fill my senses. It was then that I became aware of something else: a second roar, carried by the wind from a near valley. I sat up and watched as a massive object blotted out the first rays of the breaking dawn. It was a fat, Goony flying machine, and it wasted no time. From its great metal belly dropped a deluge, which soaked the entire valley floor with a single, thundering crash. I was cold-cocked and washed halfway to the stream bed while the bonfire collapsed into a half-ashen dune of wet garbage. When I coughed back into consciousness, I was surrounded by flopping river fish. The first thing I thought to do was examine the morning sky. Indeed, the Goony line hung intact above me. My struggle had been in vain. Logic advised me to laugh, make light of the situation, accept that what had happened was beyond my control. But no smile would come. All the humor of a cruel reality was wasted that day on a single, melancholy man. The only thing left for me to do was rebuild my home and carry on. I have never thought at length about what should be done with the remains of the pyre. Perhaps I have secretly hoped the forest would someday overtake it and reclaim it for the Earth. Yet the dune stands to this day, a memorial to my foolishness. I had hoped it would scare away the Goonies, or at least be enough of an eyesore to diminish their numbers, but no. It didn’t work out as such. I guess some problems cannot be solved. Dave, The Xtreme Jungle Zip-n-Camp Adventure shift manager, stood on the mountaintop platform, green in the face. He’d managed a ski school before he moved out here. This was well outside the realm of his professional experience “Are you sure it was a real-” “Yup,” said the greasy part-timer. “Trus’ me, you’ll see it.” “Well… I suppose I’ll have to phone the director, then.” The part-timer nodded and backed away. He wanted nothing to do with that conversation. The shift manager unsheathed his cumbersome weatherproof satellite phone and pressed 1. He always felt weird using a phone with actual buttons. “Good morning, director.” “…” “Yes sir, I’m aware that it’s four a.m. in your time zone. I apologize. “…” “Well, I’m out here trying to open line eleven, and I’m looking at… there’s no other way to put this: it’s the charred remains of some sort of aboriginal human sacrifice, and it’s directly below the line.” “…” “Yes Sir, a genuine dead body.” “…” “I see.” “…” “And a good day to you, Sir.” The shift manager ended the connection and took a deep breath. “Whadda he say?” The part timer had been standing not far off. “He’s thrilled! Said we should charge an extra ten per guest for line eleven and get in touch with marketing to organize a special promotion. We’ll also have to draft an amendment to the waiver.” “He said that?” “Not that last bit, but I’m thinking ahead. If we play things right, we might get a raise out of this.


First Story Give me hell guys =) FOREWORD This short story is set in a world similar to ours during the late medieval or early renaissance period. I am not a scholar of history but I try my best to mimic the feel of the period. In the world of the Fighting Fiefs they are several major powers. The Three Kingdoms- Led by a council of three kings who vote on any issue that arises they are the second largest military power on the planet. They lead the rest of the world in science and the design of their capital, Santuario, is the largest trading hub in the known world. They worship a tree god who they believe watch over their pastures. They are based on the Italian free states or the old Spanish Monarchy. Framani- Led by King Alexander the kingdom is the largest on the planet. They have recently began sending scouts into old Imperium territory to reclaim land lost in the collapse. Their capital Stolzes is a city famous for its large temple in the center. They follow the pantheon of the old Imperium They are based on France and Germany. The main characters of our story hail from Framani. Avalon- The savage pirates of Avalon are famed for their fleet that has never lost a battle. The people of Avalon are rough and speak in a brutish tongue. They were never a territory of the old Imperium and as such lack the sophistication of the late age advances in culture and in science. They worship the harsh gods of the ice and snow. They are based on Norse occupied Scotland and Ireland. The Old Imperium- Once were the greatest might on the planet. The great collapse led to three centuries of chaos in the realm that eventually led to the current age. They ruled most of the known world for over 800 years. All that remains of the old Imperium are their former territories and their extensive aqueduct and road systems. They were based on the Ancient Greeks or Romans. The Waste- A large area covered in sand and ashes due to the great collapse. No life can be sustained in this area due to the heavy amount of soot in the air. Recent efforts by Framani to re colonize these lands are underway but progress is slow. This is the setting for our tale. Chapter 1 They had been traveling for three days and Cesar could feel the slow burn of his feet cramping as they walked through the wastes. “Perhaps we should turn back” he asked. “Don’t be a fool we have ten more miles to scout before morning” replied Jean. Jean was the leader of the group of scouts that were sent to wander into the grey waste and find a place for settlers as part of the King’s new recolonization plan. Cesar was not fond of Jean, in truth no one was fond of Jean, he was a decorated military officer that claimed his fame from the sack of Norgdium during the raid against the Avalonian pirates. He was famed among the women in the nobility because of his bright blond hair and dark blue eyes. “Why Cesar you scared of the spirits in the ashes?” laughed Dorian as he waddled through the sand. “Fuck off Dorian.” replied Cesar. Dorian, in Cesar’s mind, was quite simply a dick. He had shoulder length black hair and a small goatee that made him look as though he was calm and casual. Though Dorian came from nobility he was disowned for a scandal with his family. No one knew what the exact details were but rumors were circling that it involved a suitor meant for his sister that was found in his bed. “Fine we’ll stop here” said Jean “We have to wait for that failure Pierre to catch up anyways. Cesar looked behind him and saw a large shape waddle through the dense smoke and slowly come into view. Pierre was a fat, old soldier he had thin brown hair that had specks of grey in it and a long beard that was mostly grey. Pierre was running as fast as his short fat legs could take him. “My lord my, my lord!” Pierre panted trying to catch his breath. “What is it” spat Jean”Well spit it out gros cul” Dorian laughed at Pierre trying to catch his breath “The fat bastard looks as though he has seen a ghost”. “My lord the ashes…they moved.” “Well no shit” replied Jean “they are falling from the fucking sky!” “No my lord the ashes on the ground they moved” Don’t be ridiculous Pierre everything here is dead and has been for 300 years.” “But you do know what they say of this waste my lord?” “The ghosts in the ashes I know it is no more than superstition from the settlers to scared to move at the kings command.” “But” “Quiet Pierre or I will have Dorian rip your tongue out” “And I will gladly comply” Dorian jested. “We will set up camp here tonight.” “Cesar and Dorian set up the tents, Pierre get a fire ready, you can do that can’t you?” “Yes my lord” said Pierre though he was not quite sure of himself. Chapter 2 “What do you mean it’s gone?” asked Jean angrily. “The water sir it’s been turned to this.” Said Pierre with a look of terror on his face. Pierre tipped the canteen and a thick black sludge oozed out of the opening. “You know what this is don’t you sir?” inquired Dorian. “Yes I do, its ash water, but we are not far in the wastes enough for this to be happening.” Cesar remembered the stories of the wastes of the children who would go in and never return of the souls of the old Imperium warlocks who would cast their dark spells on any one who dared enter their territory. “It’s the ghosts my lord I’m telling you, no, I’m begging you please let us go back. “I will have no more of these talks we will go forward.” Said Jean with a blank stare on his face. Suddenly Cesar saw an arrowhead come out the back of Jean’s skull. “Holy shit!” screamed Cesar as he ducked for cover. “I don’t want to die!” screamed Pierre “I’m sorry”. Dorian already had drawn his sword and shield and was circling trying to deflect the arrows which were no longer being shot. Cesar looked over at the body of Jean the arrow had gone through his left eye and out the back, blood was beginning to pool near the wound. “Shouldn’t we help him?” asked Pierre “No use” said Dorian “he’s dead”. “We should bury him” said Cesar “No need, the ashes will cover him by morning” “He deserves a burial or at least a cremation.” “He was a dick and a terrible commander.” “But he was still our commander and a fellow soldier.” “Look if you want to bury the connard go right ahead I’m going to go fortify our surroundings.” Cesar pulled out a small shovel and began digging a hole to put the body in. “Um…Cesar can I talk to you for a moment?” asked Pierre almost as if he was scared of Cesar. “Of course my friend” replied Cesar as he continued to dig the hole “What did you need”? “It was the ghosts I’m almost certain” “It’s just a story” “No it’s not” “What do you mean?” “I saw them. While I was lagging behind you guys in the first day I saw it. It looked at me its skin was as grey as the ashes around it. It looked into my very soul with its large dark eyes. When it noticed I had seen it, it stared at me for a half a second and disappeared into the ashes around it. The Image is still in my mind Cesar” “And you think it killed Jean?” “I know it did” Chapter 3 It had been two days since Jean was killed and everyone in the camp was hungry and thirsty. They had tried to return the way they came but the wastes always looked the same. “Did you see that!” yelled Dorian. “See what!?” said Pierre. “Nothing.” “Don’t do that Dorian. Do you think this is a goddamn game? Our commander is dead killed by something we can’t even fucking see!” “It was his own damn fault he was killed. He should have turned us back the moment the horses had died but it was his own arrogance that led us further into the wastes than we should’ve been.” Dorian immediately regretted his words and realized what he had said. “He did what?” Cesar said with rage filling inside of him. “He…he wanted to claim more land for the empire”. “And you knew? YOU FUCKING KNEW AND YOU SAID NOTHING TO HIM!?” “I have nothing to live for anyways I have no home to go back to and neither did he why should we care if you two died with us? Even if I wanted to turn him around he would’ve killed me and went anyways.” “YOU BASTARD!” Cesar pulled his sword from his sheath and charged at Dorian. Dorian unsheathed his own sword and blocked the first blow. Cesar swung downwards hard but Dorian moved out of the way. The swipe managed to cut his shoulder deeply. “Cesar, don’t make me have to kill you” pleaded Dorian. Cesar showed no remorse as he cleaved into Dorian’s hand and severed it. Dorian screamed in pain and fell to his knees. “Why?” asked Cesar blankly with his sword’s point to Dorian’s throat. “He. Owed money to a lot of people. He tried to escape by volunteering for the task. It was never personal.” “Cesar. Let him live he knows what he’s done.” Said Pierre “let’s go” They walked away from Dorian and left him to the wastes. Chapter 4 “I never told you about my home have I?” said Pierre “No you haven’t” replied Cesar. “It’s a nice little place in the country I own about five pigs and” “What did you mean by I’m sorry?” interrupted Cesar. “What?” “When Jean was killed you ran away. You said you were sorry.” “It was 45 or so years ago. My first battle just happened to be the day we broke the walls of Santuario.” “You were there during the siege?” “No not during the whole thing only during the sack. My father was the leader of my regiment and he personally took me with him to loot the district. I was terrified. We got to this one house in the western district, which was on fire at the time, and my father saw a woman running. He quickly went and grabbed her and threw her to the ground. He looked me in the eyes and commanded me to go to him. I did as my father commanded. When I got to him he said he was going to make me a man and told me to take the woman. I did.” “You...raped her?” “Yes” Pierre said and then began sobbing uncontrollably.” And when I was done my father slit her throat.” He broke down and curled into a ball. “I wanted to tell her I’m sorry before I died.” Cesar felt a presence behind him he turned quickly. There in front of him stood a large shadow, it had grey skin that seemed to be made of the ashes and dark sunken black eyes, in it’s hand was a cruel spear made of stone and ash wood. “Stand back!” Cesar commanded the creature but it did not listen. It slowly moved closer to Cesar and pointed at Pierre. “Pierre?” Cesar said puzzled. The creature nodded. Cesar then realized that the creature was human. Its body covered in ashes and its eyes covered in a thick black sludge. Cesar held his hand out to the strange man and then saw behind the man more creep out of the ashes. There had to be at least fifty of the strange people. The man nodded behind him and motioned for Cesar to follow. “Pierre get up” said Cesar Pierre got up slowly his eyes red from crying and followed Cesar and the strange people. Chapter 5 They approached the massive walls of the city by daybreak. They had been following the strange people for several days and were fed and given water by them. They spoke no common language but some words sounded vaguely familiar to worlds spoken in the old Imperium tongue. The gates to the city opened and they were received by a man on a horse. “Hail” he said in a hard to understand voice. “I am the king of the city” the rest of the words were unintelligible “Hello I am chevalier Cesar and his is my friend Pierre” The king of the city looked confused he motioned his men who gave them food and water. “Lev you r not welcome here” the king said. “But” Pierre said as he stepped forward. A man drove a spear through his neck. Cesar looked on in horror as he saw Pierre fall to the ground. “Leave” the king said in a harsh voice. Cesar turned and walked back into the wastes as the city vanished into the ashes.


I love this show, the cat chasing that mischievous little mouse around the house all day to no avail. I love visiting these two, just watching their foolishness all day makes a smile cling to my face. The cat has schemed up another ingenious plan to catch the little mouse scoundrel, his affinity for TNT especially evident in this one. It really looks like he is going to have his way this time; the mouse seems to be blinded by his love of cheese as he approaches the trap. He inches cautiously closer to the chee--CLICK. The cat and mouse slowly fade into the black box as I feel the smile gradually lose grip of my face before evaporating into the air. I turn around and see her towering above me, control in hand. “Go to your room” she grunts. I know the drill; I shuffle up the stairs to my door. My door, like everything else in this house has needed repair for years. After using every bit of strength my 11 year old body could muster, I finally get into my room and collapse onto the bed. Bed. If you can even call this pile of dirty clothes and newspaper that. I lay face up staring at the ceiling, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, kept up by the loud music and voices coming from downstairs. I hear the sound of glass breaking, followed by an argument full of feet stomping and slurred words. A door slams shut and the normal noises continue. My stomach roars at me, demanding nutrients. I glance down at the patch of bruised flesh on my right arm, reminding myself that I know better than to go ask for some. After all, I did just eat yesterday. To divert my mind, I think back to a movie I had watched earlier that day. It was about a married couple who had just got a divorce and were fighting over who got to keep their only daughter. At first I thought the fight was over who got to be free from taking care of this child. But no, these two were fighting passionately, WANTING to be with this girl. It was such a foreign concept to me, living with a woman who wanted nothing to do with me. From what I gathered through my observations of TV and the outside world, a mother’s love for her son is the strongest there is. I wracked my brain, searching for a reason for why this didn’t seem to be the case with me. Was I ugly? Stupid? Maybe I misbehave too much. After what seemed like hours, my mind finally zeroed in on a conversation I had overheard between my mother and grandmother a few years back. I was as usual, having my daily play date with the cat and mouse. The cat had cleverly placed a pile of dynamite strategically under a generous portion of cheese; a fool-proof plan to be rid of his rival once and for all. Not to be fooled, the mouse slyly takes one of the dynamite sticks and sneaks around to put it right behind where the cat is hiding. The cat, who is waiting excitedly to see his cheddar borne explosive find its victim, is completely oblivious to the turn of events. A match, which matches the mouse in size, is lit and the ember starts the fuse. Just as the fuse is running out, I hear my name being mentioned by raised voices. Without turning around, I perked my ears and heard my mother say under her breath “I can’t believe you stopped me from aborting him”. My grandmother’s voice was shaky now, “It is not God’s will” she said. Not fully understanding the words being spoken, I caught up with my friends the cat and mouse, who were now frantically running circles in the house. I had never thought very much, or even understood the conversation until now. We learned a new word in school today, abort. To stop, end, cancel or halt. In her examples the teacher referred to space missions or military operations, but to abort a person? I wasn’t quite sure how it could be applied. There lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, I made the realization that I had made many times before; she never wanted to bring me into this world. My life is a mistake. Everything I have done, my accomplishments, my feelings, aspirations; just one big mistake. So with tears rolling down my check, I place two musty socks over my ears and let the muffled bass of the music cradle me to sleep, knowing that tomorrow I’ll at least be able to visit that wonderful house with the cat and the mouse.


I was thirteen when I came here, shipped away from my home so I wouldn’t ‘damage the family name’. It’s all about appearances you see. If I had stayed there my father would never have been elected; ‘the Prime Minister can’t have a son like you’. That’s what my mother told me while she was pushing me into the back of the Rolls. Six years have passed since then; for all this time these red and white tents have been my home and today is no exception. Welcome to the Freak Show. Sure, the ground changes every few months but it’s reassuring to know that wherever we are in the world this little haven will always be the same. I think we’re somewhere outside Leeds, nobody tells me these things anymore. Regardless the ground was frigid beneath my large, stomping feet. The sun shone with a cool severity, it was for show mostly and did nothing to warm us. Alexandra (the Bombastic Bamboozling Bearded Lady!) handed me a warm cup of something or other. Dan the Strongman ranted on about how he could taste the cinnamon hints in it, it just tasted like grass in hot water to me. The drink scolded my tongue slightly and I exiled myself to the facilities. I stared into my drooping eyes through the mirror, my greying, bulbous face filled up all the space on the wall. With a heavy head I inspected my tongue and washed every nook and cranny of what my dear sister used to call ‘the North Face of the Eiger’. Until I was five years old my life was comfortable, my parents told me I was a late developer but at the very least I could still sleep in a bed at night. That’s what I miss most about that life – well it would be if I could remember any of it. Since then I’ve had to sleep sitting upright or my leaden skull might snap my neck; that’s what happened to the last guy anyway. You know who I mean. You probably saw the film, or the play; the world has never grown tired of putting us on display like animals, exploiting our condition. The doctor thought I might have a combination of some neurofibbywibby disorder and Proteus syndrome. Proteus syndrome, what a laugh. Did you know it’s named after an old and forgotten Greek sea-god who can change his shape? Whichever sick physician thought that up has a lot of guts, I can tell you every last one of us would change our damn shape the minute we got the chance. Alexandra helped my get my gnarled trunk through my sleeve while my other arm lay withered by my side. It was going to be quite a busy day today; we had three shows lined up. The sound of children’s laughter began to cross the horizon and the sweet and roasted scent of fresh peanut brittle wafted over the park. I poked a large, solitary eye through a tent-flap. Tickets were being stamped, small bodies were spiralling down the Helter Skelter and miscellaneous faces began to light up like as yellow sponges and pink tigers were won from the stalls around us. MC stuck his long neck into the dressing room, ‘Positions people!’ he cried, ‘We have an audience to astonish!’ Alexandra asked me if I’d seen the grooming kit, it was on her chair and she led me to the ring. Hundreds of eager little faces filled the tent, nibbling away at popcorn and slurping Tongue Gulp! by the gallon. MC waltzed in front of the lights, singing a little song and dancing a merry jig to keep the audience entertained. This episode lingered for a few minutes while James Brown, our clown, searched desperately for his comedy hand buzzer. Alexandra grabbed my hand with a giggle and I felt a little jolt travelling through my body. James snatched it off her while we lost ourselves to laughter. His snarl twisted into a grin as soon as the spotlights hit his face and MC sauntered off with sweat running down his nose. After a while it was Alexandra’s turn to perform. I watched her for a little while, the spotlights glinting off every facet of her silver sequined dress. She’d been going on and on about getting this new outfit for months and I smiled as she span around in front of the ecstatic crowd. She joined me back in the shadows breathing heavily and holding both her thumbs up. ‘You’re going to kill it!’ she whispered excitedly. My gross feet dragged across the sand and my eyes shrivelled away from the lights. I searched every gleeful face in the tent looking for them. I would do it every time I walked the ring but I knew they would never be here, the darling family of Britain. Looks can be deceiving. There was an uncomfortable silence interrupted by a child’s cough. MC’s voice crackled through the loud speakers and I felt every eye in the room scouring over my sunken body.


"When they open the door, I'll swing and you get that shit down in the living room as quickly as possible, got it?" Darren says. I nod weakly, adjusting the huge roll of polyethylene under my arm with my other hand, which is holding a monkey wrench. I can't believe I'm here, about to do this. For my own mother, no less! "Hey Jared, there's something I want you to help Darren with. Get in the car, he'll explain on the way." She tells me. A normal request, if a little vague. I expected something like "we're picking something heavy up," or "some things have to go to the dump." I've never been so wrong in my life. I get in the car with my mom's bodyguard. Not the regular kind, we're not rich by any means. We live in a campsite for crying out loud, eating what food my mom can steal from the food bank! I always wanted to say something about that, but I've learned you don't talk back to the most well known street level crack dealer in the city. That's how she paid Darren, with drugs. The drive is quiet for the first few minutes and I gaze lazily out at the lake. The silence is broken when Darren asks "remember Yvonne and her man, Cameron?" How could I forget? We lived with them for a while. They stole the paintball gun I won in a tournament to pawn for drug money and got rid of our dog when we went to a movie. I didn't really like them. "Yeah," I reply simply. "Well they owe your mom some money and are refusing to pay, so we're going to 'collect' it. Ever heard the phrase 'let the poly hit the floor'?" I hadn't, but between noticing the giant roll of plastic in the back seat and him handing me the wrench, I began to piece together what was going on. So here I stand, a terrified 16 year old trying to understand just what the hell is going on and hoping they're not home. When I see the knob begin turning, however, hope is quickly turned to horror. Darren doesn't wait for any words to be spoken as he kicks the door in, sending Yvonne to the ground. He quickly extends the nightstick he brought and hits her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. "Get that poly down, we're gonna make a little mess here!" He barks at me. I struggle to flatten the plastic, trying to focus more on making it perfect then what's going on around me. After a few seconds Darren is dragging Yvonne onto it as Cameron rushes into the room to see what's going on. He quickly understands the situation and runs towards the small kitchen off to the side where there's a knife block on the counter. "Stop him!" Darren yells at me, and without thinking I bolt towards him and strike him in the back with the wrench as he fumbles to get a knife. He winces, but doesn't stop. He pulls a large chef's knife out and in one motion turns and slashes at me. I've always had pretty good reflexes, but not good enough to evade completely as the blade runs across my chest. The cut isn't deep enough to be fatal however, and adrenaline blocks out the pain as I swing the wrench again, this time at his knee. He goes down, yelping in pain and dropping the knife. I kick it away and Darren pulls Cameron kicking onto the plastic. What happens next is mostly a blur, my mind choosing to blank it all out. I remember hearing Darren threatening them and a consistent thumping, like the beat of the most violent drum. After what seemed like forever, he tries to ask for my help getting them into the trunk of the car, but must notice my pale face and does it himself. He folds the bloodied plastic up and puts it in the backseat as I climb into the passenger seat. We start driving to "dispose" of our ex roommates. I guess we were going to the dump after all. "It's ok, the first time is always hard for everyone. It gets easier, trust me." He says, trying to ease my mind with the promise of more encounters like this. I don't reply and continue to stare out the window. This is the day I became a man, though not the kind I expected to be. Most of the details in this story are true, except the door was never opened so the murder never actually took place, thankfully. This was 9 years ago, and if the door had opened, I probably wouldn't be here today.


To some where we came from is just as important as where were are heading. The belief that those before us, those who fertilized our growth. Determine the nature of which one carries themselves through life. In this respect I suppose it could be determined that I myself must have had my growth stunted, but in reality this is a belief I have never shared. However even those attitudes could not explain my emotions upon opening the box. The house was old. I had told myself this mine a million times; and unsafe as well. No place for a family. These were the excuses I told others, the ones I tried to tell myself but within the crumbling walls of my heart I knew them to be false. I was leaving to escape the guilt, the pain and most of all the feeling that my own children would now feel what I felt in my half-childhood and there was nothing I could do now to change that. It was in my final sweep of the house, checking for any trivial objects that may have slipped through the cracks that I came across the rusting metal box. It was more of a tin really. A still frame of a moment of a life long ago lived. Forgotten and cast aside like rubbish to disappear into oblivion. However as it so happened this tin of rancid memories wormed its way back into my life. I knew looking inside would bore into my very sense of self but I couldn’t stop myself. My trembling hands slowly pried the rust stained lid from its casing and just as it did separate so did the jacket of emotionless casing I placed around my heart and the sobbing began once more. Inside were pictures; paper and ink, but really they were more than that. They were a reminder of the normal childhood that I was robbed of when she was taken. A newspaper clipping, “Father and Child Left Behind”. The title didn’t do justice, didn’t convey the loss, didn’t depict the sleepless nights and lifeless days struggling on without her. My father, my own hero, had been broken by this. Who was I to be stronger than he! Sinking deeper and deeper into the icy waters of self-pity and regret I let myself weep. “Daddy?” A familiar voice fished me out of the icy numbness and into back into the living world. At this moment, this rebirth I realized I had to be strong. It was not a matter of if I could, but simply that I had to be. For them to have a normal childhood. For them to be happy. I had to be strong. For them.


This story was based around the line 'Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer' taken from a poem called The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe. As I rode my grey stallion over the sweeping valleys surrounding my kingdom, I came across the morning sun. The penetrating rays shone over the misty lowlands, filling both the skies and the heavens with what seemed like everlasting light. This transcendent aurora beneath me had only just begun its solemn, yet necessary journey, as had I. The crisp chill gently scratched my cheeks, and my long, auburn hair billowed in the wind. In the distance, the outline of a bird could be seen, soaring high up against the clouds, looking for some unsuspecting prey to swoop down upon. I knew that there would be many victims today. The reds and blues of the enemy were visible on the horizon; a thousand men were ready for battle. I looked back and saw my own army: a mismatch of the young and old, healthy and tired, scraped together in the vain hope of victory. Up until this point I was brave, I understood what I had to do as queen, and rose up to my position in this war. Yet now, I felt tired. The armour was heavy against my weary limbs, my sword too large to raise and my horse unable to carry me through the bloodshed. I collapsed against his tangled mane in anguish, feeling too weak and scared to continue. I heard the faint sound of a horse's hooves approaching, before I realised that my chieftain was sitting next to me, with a look of worry upon his face. Without making a sound, he reached out, and gently rested his fingers upon my arm. I looked down in shock; it was most unusual, considered deranged even, for someone to talk to, let alone touch, royalty unannounced. Yet, just by looking at his expression, I understood what he was saying. As though I had been gifted by the gods above us, a feeling of strength surged through me. I felt fearless. My soul grew stronger, hesitating then no more. As he returned to his place in the battalion, not a single word having been said, I straightened my back, narrowed my eyes on the sea of arms in front of me, and lead my men into the dark abyss of the unknown. The thunder of a thousand men running at each other, anticipating collision, rumbled in my ears as I flew down the hill. I watched as the enemy and I approached one another and each individual became clearer to see. One man, stout in shape but strongly built, lead his soldiers with a determined grin, from which a raging howl was emitted. I thought to myself, he probably lived quite a nice life. Maybe he had a family worriedly waiting for his return at home; small children who would never know their father. I did not falter once. The last I saw were the whites of his maddened eyes, before I placed my sword neatly in the centre of his chest. For three hours we battled on, claiming back our land, inch by inch. Hundreds were dead, but all knew that the sacrifices made that day would be done for the rest of the people, and would not be in vain. The enemy slowly began to retreat, knowing that defeat would soon be upon them. Though we grew tired in our bodies, never did we become faint in our hearts. At last, victory was ours, and we rejoiced. Though looking around, I began to see the deformed and mutilated bodies, contorted into positions of agony before the life had fled from them. Fathers, brothers and uncles filled the grassland, their crimson blood saturating the moist ground. An eerie sadness gripped my stomach, and, fearing that I would become emotional, turned to go. As I rode back in the direction I had come, I saw my chieftain once again, relieved that he had survived. A broad smile broke out across his face, before I felt something strike my back. Snap. My spine shattered, as the tip of an arrow pierced my skin and entered the flesh. Though it had flown through the air with great force, I just sat there, bewildered as to what had just happened. Surely someone had not dared kill me now? I turned to face my executioner, and saw, lying on the ground, a wounded soldier whom I had presumed dead. We locked eyes, before his became cloudy and his head limply dropped back to the ground. I sat in my saddle for a few seconds longer, before sliding from my seat and falling to the earth myself. The hope of life quickly began to diminish, and I knew that I was to accept what was about to happen. I stared up into the dark, cloudy sky, and allowed my body to relax. My chieftain once again was at my side, filling my vision, clasping my hands in his. He was trying to say something to me, but I could not hear him. I concentrated on looking at the movements of his mute mouth, and smiled to myself. For the first time, I was not afraid. I embraced the numbness in my body, allowing the ground to hold me. As the light began to fade from my eyes, I thought of home, and knew that my people would be safe. The last thing I felt were the small droplets of rain hitting my face, before I slipped away from my world, and was gone forever.


Wielding their torches, men traverse the galaxy shining light into the darkness, searching for a new hope for their people. For a century men searched, and a century later, humanity found the hope they were looking for. They found a new world, a habitat suitable for their own. So they returned to Earth with the news; another world for the taking. More fruit, ripe for picking. Their people throw themselves to the scientists and engineers of their generation. The scientists and engineers build a vessel, to carry humans beyond the home they once knew, and into a land no Earthling had ever laid eyes upon. A select few board the craft and begin their voyage. Their departure is played up to ridiculous extremes. These men and women become gods in the eyes of men. However, upon arrival to the new world, they encounter an issue. Their newly claimed world has, in fact, already been claimed by a people unknown to humanity. This should have been a riveting discovery, a discovery that would change how humans view the universe. However, the hero men and women purposely provoke the naturally peaceful and curious indigenous beings, and the beings instinctively retaliate. A report is sent back to their Earth-dwelling superiors: it is now known that the land they once thought was theirs for the taking is populated by savage, hostile beasts. The beasts attacked the brave men and women of Earth on sight, and proper measures were taken to rectify the situation. Rage spreads like plague on Earth. How dare these beasts endanger our heroes, our saviors, our gods? The people once again throw themselves, but this time to the governments, and militaries of their generation. The answer is simple. War. So the humans construct an armada of vessels to carry Earth’s finest to reclaim their rightfully conquered land out in the cosmos. For a decade, war rages on the new planet. Twice a year every year, the humans send troops to bolster the war effort. World superpowers pour cash into the war like a waterfall into a bottomless lake. The people of earth begin to face the consequences of their newly allocated funds; times are hard. Every family must ration each consumable item once held dear to their hearts. But not a single person complains, because surely their suffering directly affects the cause. They teach their children about the savages fighting our soldiers. Lesser beings, devoid of morals empathy, and love. They teach their children to hate, and to fear the savages. One boy in particular is so invigorated, that he makes it a goal of his to ship off join the fight as soon as he can Three years later, at the ripe age of sixteen, the boy boards a vessel along with fifty thousand other soldiers and begins his trek to the battlefield. When the boy arrives, he takes a look around and immediately realizes that things are not as advertised. There is no war. There are no savage beasts, and there is no raging battle they are waging. There is, however, an extermination of massive proportions underway. The boy quickly realizes the native beings are not a fighting people. Bullets fly in one direction only, and that is away from the humans. The boy is appalled by his revelations, and is quick to share them. So he tells his peers that the war they fight is no war at all, that they are not soldiers. They are pest control. The native lifeforms do not attempt to fight back in the slightest, and yet they carry on with their relentless slaughter. The boy’s peers listen. They listen, and absorb every word the boy says. The boy is then mocked. He is ridiculed, and he is framed as a sympathizer. He seeks out a higher power, just to be shot back to the ground. He doesn’t give up his fight, and is disliked more and more amongst his peers. One day, during an explosives test, the boy was tasked with placing the charges. Before he had a chance to get far enough away, the soldier in charge of the test hit the detonator prematurely. It was an accident, the squad says. Innocence and conscience were incinerated, and morality was lost. And somehow, when the war was over, humanity further spun their web. In another hundred years, they moved on.


50 Stitches of Cloth A novel by Toefirefire Rachel looked at her class calendar in disgust. She thought for sure it was next week;now she has to cancel her burrito plans just to visit a mill in order to write her term paper, even though she considered faking the whole thing. Grudgingly, she went down to Cartwright Street where she found the fading red brick façade of the Cabot Lowell Mill. Inside she met with operations manager Paul Moody who would give her a tour and explain the history of the mill. The front-end of the mill seemed dull: a small office, a break room, a locker room. As she went deeper, she felt an overwhelming power looming about the place,something ethereal but immense. Turning the corner she saw what was behind it—a massive power loom! It sparkled with precision movements; its shuttle screamed back and forth as the loom Shed, Picked, and Battened hundreds of times a minute. Rachel was flooded with a cyclone of thoughts and emotions. The raw intensity, the pure power, the uncontaminated rhythm were more than she could bear. “And this particular loom was purchased in1979, and as you can see it is still running. It can be used to create 50 different stitch patterns” Paul kept talking but Rachel could only pay attention to the masterful workings of the loom and the growing pile of cloth neatly folded in its wake. “Oh how lucky that cloth is” thought Rachel. Weeks passed and the semester ended. Rachel now looked forward to graduating with a 3.9 GPA, buoyed up by her passionate term paper. As her friends talked about internships and summers abroad and all the other adventures they excitedly planned for, Rachel was happy for them but she couldn’t commit to anything, turning down invites for week long beach vacations and a parent’s friend’s house in Brussels. Days passed in a fog; indecision and apathy enveloped her. Of the several plans she made, none seemed to generate any enthusiasm. “Yeah, so starting in July I’ll be interning at the Cummins plant in Columbus, I just like working with the diesel engines they are so massive and really useful,” her friend pratted on at a party, ignorantly glorifying his future. He was unaware of how much more profound the workings of a power loom are, and how much people have benefited from the billions of square feet of fabric that have been almost effortlessly created. It was then that Rachel realized she could never be happy unless she was weaving. Two weeks later, at her interview, Rachel’s heart pounded. She was so close to entering a world that she had just recently discovered. She always knew that industrialized cloth manufacturing took place, but it was just an exotic thing that people talked and giggled about, maybe weaving a little for fun. Now she was on the edge of this world where hundreds of people spent hours, their whole lives dedicated to weaving, to working in perfect harmony with a power loom. The edge of the cliff was falling away and approaching her at an alarming rate. “Please take a look at this labor contract, sorry it’s kind of long,” Paul gurgled as he pushed a thick stack of paper towards her. The contract was incredibly strict, and outlined explicitly her rules for employment: breaks were 30 minutes, can’t call in sick more than 6 times per year, progressive discipline, non-disclosure agreements, non-competearticles. It was almost too much to bear. Rachel had never seen a contract like this before. She felt overwhelmed by the reality of the contract—her head fluttered like a typhoon. If she agreed, she would be spending 40 hours a week doing nothing but weaving, and there was even a possibility of mandatory overtime. If she refused, would never get to work on the power loom. While Paul continued talking about training programs, uniforms, and Christmas parties, Rachel grabbed the pen from his hand and starting signing page after page of the contract, initialing some lines. With every signature, she felt lighter and by the end she soared with excitement. “So when can I start?” she asked excitedly. She arrived early her first day. She put on her denim apron and tied her hair into a tight bun. Her training began, she eagerly jotted down notes on safety and power loom operations, paying particular attention to loading and detecting broken picks -- learning everything the loom tells have to say. Next she practiced repairing broken picks, a challenging and strenuous task that required all her concentration. It left her exhausted after several practice knots, but she had no time to rest before practicing again and again for hours until she had it perfect. She never imagined the training would be so grueling and intense. She even thought of quitting but understood this was the price to pay to make the broadcloth that an entire civilization would benefit from, clothes and blankets and a million other things. The historical significance was not lost on her either. For hundreds of years powerloom mills had been the driving force of the economy of England and New England, and they had far reaching effects, wars happened over cotton and cloth tariffs and trade. Slavery dominated much of America to feed cotton into the loom; unions and massive protests erupted over children working power looms; 146 garment workers would die in the triangle shirt waist factory because of the cheap cloth that came out of powerlooms, very much like the ones humming so nearby. For Rachel the call of the loom was too much for her and she would follow in the footsteps of so many others and ecstatically work the loom. Soon, she was working her own loom hour after amazing hour. Electricity thundered through her like a herd of buffalo each time she completed a bolt of cloth with the loom. The creamy white band pushed out and neatly wrapped around a wooden pin for her to nip and loop the other end around a new pin. The sensations she experienced from combining 50 strands of thread into a continuous sheet of cloth was so satisfying and so new. She felt dirty,the power looms constant shaking and clattering having stirred up a great deal of dust which clouded the room no matter how often she cleaned it. After several months, she learned how fickle and high stakes her new world could be. After several hours of overtime, she was admiring the quick rigid movements of the cloth advancing while checking the tells, when suddenly her hand was pinched with tremendous force by the swift shuttle. She screamed out in pain and her world blurred. She remembered seeing blood ruin the beautiful cloth and workers rushing to bring her to the hospital. The physical injury ended up not being severe. No broken bones, just some deep lacerations. But she didn’t know if she could ever work a power loom again. She had become complacent and hadn’t kept up with the tremendous speed and ferocity of the loom. As a result she now lay in bed a broken woman. She would need to look for some lesser line of work. It would never fulfill her the same way, but at least it would be safe. Even while looking for jobs, her thoughts lingered on how she had flown so high, and experienced things few others would ever understand. She had flown too close to the sun, and put her hands too close to the shuttlecock, but maybe it was all worth it. Ring Ring “Listen Rachel, I hope you’re doing better. All the guys at the mill all wish you the best, and you should be getting a gift basket soon. It’s got some soaps and stuff and this cool thermos thing.” Paul went on and on about trivialities but just hearing a voice from that other world had a profound impact on Rachel, her heart started racing. “And finally I was speaking with HR and we were hoping to hear back from you with a date you could start again. Do you have a doctor’s note or anything?” Thoughts and emotions ricocheted inside of her like a geometric screen saver. This was her chance to leave this weaving world forever, or she could go back and redouble her efforts, triumphant in her devotion to cloth productions. “I’ll do it Paul!! I’ll be back in tomorrow.” “Well we don’t mean right away, you would need a doctor’s note and to clear it through HR first.” Paul kept blabbing about irrelevances, but it didn’t matter. Rachel made up her mind. She would go back, maybe even that very day and start making spool after spool of cloth, maybe until she was 65. And even after, maybe she would work part time or something.


^(Disclaimer: I did not personally come up with the general plot and storyline. This was created verbally between myself and a friend of mine, as we bounced ideas off each other. I decided to try and write it down.) It was her first day of Refinement, and although all the adults made it seem like a big deal, she wasn’t particularly worried or excited. Yes, it was a big deal, the time where she began the classes that would prepare her for her ideal place in society, but to her it was just another class. It was a little interesting that she’d been chosen so young, only six, four years younger than the standard Refinement age. But you didn’t question the Refiners, and although there were some strange looks when others saw her carry her bright blue schedule across the grounds, no one said anything. She had asked a few people if they knew what was usually taught in room 2285, but she only learned that it was just a standard science classroom that hadn’t been used for years. There wasn’t any specific career taught in room 2285. She couldn’t ask about her instructor, either. There wasn’t a name included in her Refinement request, which wasn’t really unusual in itself, but that was only because several careers were taught by multiple instructors, depending on the different subjects involved. She soon came to room 2285, at the end of a hall in a general education building, amidst many other nondescript, unremarkable classroom doors. Room 2285’s door was closed, so she knocked firmly as she had been taught. A calm, authoritative voice answered “Come in,” and she opened the door. She entered a plain room of off-white walls, office-style ceiling, white tile, and black chalkboard mounted on the opposite wall. There were about 20 desks on the floor, and all but one were pushed to either side of the room. The solitary remainder was positioned directly in front of a short black table that matched the height of the desk, behind which a 30-something man stood waiting. The girl walked purposefully up to the desk and sat down. She set a notepad and pen in front of her, then looked up to the man behind the table. “Hello, I’m--” “We will dispense with names in this room,” the man interrupted. “I do not know your name, and I do not need to. From now on in this classroom, we will stick with ‘Teacher’ and ‘Student’, understood?” His voice was soft and kind, but there was a hidden tone in it that screamed authority. The girl nodded. “Yes, Teacher,” she replied, intrigued. “And you will not be needing those,” Teacher replied, indicating the girl’s pen and paper. “In fact, don’t bring anything when you come to this class unless I instruct you otherwise.” She swept the notepad and pen into her bag, which was then deposited by her chair. “One more rule. You will not speak of, mention, or even hint at what goes on in this room to anyone. Your Refinement is between you and me alone.” The girl nodded her agreement. Teacher nodded back and produced a Bunsen burner, setting it on the table. He lit it and made adjustments until it produced a tall, bright orange flame. He then pulled out a piece of newspaper and held it over the flame, where it immediately caught fire. He casually set the still-burning paper on the table to the side, then fixed his gaze on Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “You’ll get burned,” she replied without any hesitation. Teacher raised his eyebrow in what looked like genuine surprise. “Will I? How do you know?” Student hesitated, but only barely. “That paper burned, and that’s what fire does. It burns things.” There was a moment of silence. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student immediately shook her head. Teacher’s face was expressionless as he studied hers. It continued to remain expressionless as he set his hand over the flame, palm up. The flame touched his hand, lightly licking around the edges. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as she looked back and forth between her teacher’s face and the flame, but she didn’t make any noise. One... two... three seconds passed, and without blinking, breaking eye contact, or giving any indication that he felt anything, Teacher calmly pulled his hand back and showed Student his palm. It was unmarked. “Class dismissed,” Teacher said, dropping his hands to his side. Student blinked and was about to question him, but his gaze was penetrating and final. She stood, grabbed her bag, and quickly walked to the door. She glanced over her shoulder at Teacher, who continued to watch her intently. She ducked out the door and closed it behind her. The next day at the scheduled time, the girl walked to room 2285 again. This time, though, there was a sign on the plain door. “No class today, come back tomorrow” it read. The girl read it twice before turning around and leaving the building. The next day revealed the same sign. When she saw the sign four days in a row, she started to worry. Did something happen to her teacher? Had she done something wrong? She had continued to return every day because the class had intrigued her; the sense of mystery surrounding her teacher and her Refinement was palpable. After a week of seeing the sign, the girl decided that she would knock and enter anyway the next time she came by. Maybe this was part of her class, some kind of test. But the next day, the sign was gone. She knocked tentatively and was relieved when she heard “Come in,” almost throwing the door open. The room looked exactly as it did when she had last left it, single desk in front of the large black table, with her teacher standing behind it. She took her seat at the desk. She didn’t have anything to set down. Teacher set the Bunsen burner back on the table, lit it, and made the adjustments. He started to burn another piece of newspaper, again setting it aside on the table. He locked eyes with Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” Student was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I... I don’t know.” Teacher raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?” Student shook her head, but didn’t say anything. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student shook her head again, but hesitantly. Teacher again held her gaze, his face blank. He set his left hand in the flickering flame, palm up for one... two... three... four... five seconds. Student watched with worry, completely uncertain. Teacher pulled his hand back and showed her his palm. Unmarred. “Class dismissed.” The next day, the girl found the sign on the door again. She returned every day for two weeks before the sign finally disappeared. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” Teacher raised both eyebrows. “Nothing? I won’t get burned?” Student shook her head with only an instant’s pause. “*You* won’t.” “*I* won’t?” Student said nothing. “Do you want to test it yourself?” A minute’s worth of silence passed between Teacher and Student. Slowly Teacher raised his left hand and placed it in the fire, palm up. Student met his eyes unflinchingly for a full ten seconds before Teacher again showed her his palm, perfectly healthy. “Class dismissed.” Student remained in her desk, looking at her Teacher for a few more moments, before she got up and left the room. The sign was on the door for a full month this time. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student looked at Teacher for a long moment before standing and walking up to the table. She looked down at the Bunsen burner, its orange flame flickering soundlessly. She raised her hand and quickly thrust it into the flame, her palm facing the wall. The orange flame parted around her flesh, conforming to the shape of her hand perfectly, leaving a space of a half inch as it rose. She felt heat, but not enough to cause pain. Student stared at the flame, full of curious wonder, but showing no surprise. Teacher let the barest hint of a smile cross his lips. Student retrieved her hand from the flame after moving it around for thirty seconds, the flame never touching her skin. She examined her hand and found nothing out of the ordinary; no pain, no burns. “Doubt,” Teacher stated, reaching into the flame himself. The flame parted, meandering around his palm. He scooped at the base of the fire and lifted, and Student watched with fascination as he held the flame in the center of his palm. “Doubt is a powerful force. You are told that there are certain laws of the universe. You have even experienced some of them. But your mind is more powerful. Doubt everything. Nothing is absolute.” Teacher closed his hand into a fist and the flame was caught and extinguished. “Class dismissed.” The next day Student walked in and saw that all the desks in the room, save one, had been removed. The table remained, and Teacher was standing behind it. Student took her seat and Teacher procured a glass, setting it on the table. “Have you been practicing?” he asked. Before she could answer, he flung the glass off the table and into the wall. It shattered and Student let out a little yelp of surprise, her eyes wide. Teacher stared at the pile of glass on the floor, then looked back up at Student. “Why did you let that glass break?” he asked. “Wha...?” “That was an unbreakable glass. Why did you let it break?” Teacher shook his head and walked over to the shattered pile. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said as he bent and began to carefully pick up each individual shard. Student hurried out the door. “Have you been practicing?” asked Teacher as he set a glass on the table. Student didn’t answer, she just concentrated on the glass. Teacher smirked, then flung the glass against the wall. It rebounded with a chink and Student let out a gleeful gasp, but when it hit the ground, it shattered. Teacher shook his head. “Keep practicing. I’m running out of unbreakable glasses. We’ll try again tomorrow.” He bent and collected the shards as Student left the room. “Have you been practicing?” Student didn’t even sit down today. She just stood behind her desk chair, concentrating. Teacher hurled the glass. Teacher and Student watched as it hit off the wall and plummeted to the ground, where it bounced several times before settling into rest. Teacher looked up at Student. He pulled out a tin cup and put it on the table. “Trick question,” he announced, and immediately pitched it at the wall. The cup shattered as it impacted the wall, pieces of metal littering the ground. Teacher watched the tin rain to the floor and looked back up at Student, a small smile on his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’ll see you tomorrow.