Covid-19 had hit at an annoying time for me. My after-graduation trip to Istanbul had to be cancelled and I had to shelter-in-place for four dreary months. In lieu of travelling the world, I couldn’t even start a job, nobody was hiring entry level Data Analysts. Once the reopening started, I clutched the first offer that came my way. It was a medium sized startup, nothing exciting but you couldn’t afford to be picky at this time. I had to ramp up remotely and only met my coworkers on Zoom. I was looking forward to October when the restrictions on IT jobs were to be lifted and I could go to work in person. But nobody imagined the second wave would hit so bad, the death rate of the manufacturing workers had everyone shit-scared. Instead of paying the sky-high real estate costs of Silicon Valley for enabling effective social distancing, the software companies decided to enforce permanent work from home for the employees. It was cheaper and had less PR risk, nobody wanted the fiasco of the meat packing plants on their hands. Bloody hell! I was not one to stay cooped up inside the house forever. Life cannot be lived over video conferencing, how was I even supposed to bond with the people I work with? You can’t Zoom in just to chat about geopolitics or to retell the shenanigans of your annoying neighbor. The beauty of life is in the impromptu conversations and experiences, which have a way of sprouting up when you put people in physical proximity. That serendipity is what I missed about university life the most. You only had to walk out of your room a bit to meet (really, physically meet) other young and vibrant set of people, opening fresh avenues for adventures and experiences. I remember roaming about the campus one night and hearing some enigmatic but jaunty music emanating from one of the computer labs. A bright eyed Arabic looking guy with an ear to ear smile was playing a guitar-like instrument for a couple of his friends. I later learnt that it was a traditional middle-eastern instrument called the “Oud”, it’s tune brought memories of Arabian nights and Alladin background music, the kind of sound that would spontaneously conjure up an image of the place it belongs in. I ran back to my room, got my harmonica and joined him. He offered no words and just smiled welcomingly. His friends had also joined in. The Japanese guy was drumming the desk and the African-American girl was whistling. We had a jolly time just jamming a few hours and having a beer or two after. We never got close and I don’t remember either of their names but we’d smile and wave whenever our paths crossed around campus. Just having that tiny shared experience had bonded us somewhat. When we waved at each other, we knew that the exact same memory was triggering in each of our heads. After the second wave of Covid-19 that fall, the world got tense. In times of crises, everyone looks out for their own. The long peace that had sustained more or less for decades was being chipped away at the edges. A second cold war was starting, this time it was China instead of Russia on the other side. The economy was the first fatality, followed by liberal politics. It was an era of strife and power struggles for control of resources and influence. High minded and pacifist philosophical arguments sounded funnier and more out of touch than usual. More immediate for me, money dried up in Silicon Valley and the startup I worked for collapsed. To control unemployment and prioritize its own citizens, the government outlawed foreign work visas and outsourcing. Non-citizens had to go back to their countries, mostly places with no real opportunities. This was a further blow to the tech industry and they didn’t end up hiring more Americans, they just cut costs, downsized and went into lean and mean survival mode like everyone else. My prospects of getting a decent job looked even bleaker. What little savings I had, I couldn’t really use them for travelling the world. The US passport stopped carrying the weight it used to. All countries now require a Visa to visit which is conditioned on three negative Covid test results within the past two months. We Americans are treated as ticking virus bombs around the world. Given that my health insurance went away with my job, there was no way I was going to be able to afford three tests out of my own pocket. Even the US government doesn’t want people to travel internationally and spend their money in some other economy. You need to get a special tourism permit from the US government for every country you want to visit and quarantine for two weeks once you get back. There was still one place that was hiring and had relatively better freedom of movement. I applied to join the Army and narrowly passed the physical exam. After I was accepted, the basic training took only ten weeks and I was certified “Combat Ready”. A couple of months later I got my posting to Saudi Arabia, like almost everyone in my training class. The Saudi economy had been heavily reliant on oil, the demand for which cratered post-Covid and never recovered due to the movement restrictions globally. But miraculously, the sheikhs and the Saudi Royal family came out relatively unscathed through this and the brunt of the misery fell on the masses. In hindsight, this fact should have been hidden better because it turned out to be the perfect recipe for a violent people’s uprising. The Communist revolt against the House of Saud burst out remarkably suddenly and bloodily. It was dealt, as usual, with a heavy hand by the authorities. The newly minted “terrorists” and the traditional Saudi powers gave rise to yet another middle eastern saga of violence. Both parties constantly weakened each other but never managed to take down the other. What is it about this part of the world that makes history repeat itself over and over? The power vacuum created by the collapsing national identity of this country was ripe for another game of proxy war. The US stepped in to help out and support its old allies, to save them from the communist revolution. The stated reason was that the US intelligence found evidence of China bankrolling the Communists and Russia supplying them weapons. *I have been fighting and resisting these communists guerillas for three years now in this godforsaken desert. The sand is finally washed off from my eyes and I feel much better. Looking away from the mirror, I put on my uniform and go down to the ground to take my position in guarding the perimeter of our camp. A couple of our Humvees pull up and one of the drivers shouts, “Caught these rascals planning to sneak attack us!” pointing to the back of the vehicle which contained five white-robed radicals with their hands tied behind their backs.* We have had a few of these incidents before. The extremists try to infiltrate a US military camp in the night to attack or steal stuff. A couple of our people had been injured in the past due to these but never fatally. We usually catch these troublemakers before they attack. After the capture, the procedure is simple, we need to keep these guys here for a week or two in our custody till the proper paperwork is completed for their transfer to the local state police. Once we transfer them to the local station, the police could use their interrogation techniques to gather intel from the culprits. How the intel was obtained was not our concern. It was protected by a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. These were designated terrorists on this soil and we do not interfere with the affairs and methods of a sovereign state. *I turn to go back to my post when I catch a glimpse of the faces of these men. They look malnourished and tired. Their beards are unkempt and their eyes have a look of defeat. One of the guys stares straight back at me, his eyes boring into mine, with a look of incredulousness on his face. At that moment, someone yanks him out of the vehicle along with the other four and takes them away to the third floor room - a makeshift cell for the people we had to take custody of.*  *It’s been ten days since those Humvees arrived at the compound. I am in my room looking out the window to the horizon. Nothing really has changed here, the scenery is constant and unrelenting. The only change is the helicopter in the compound below and the whirlpool of sand it created on landing. My mind inevitably goes back to the happenings of these last ten days.* After the prisoners were taken to their cell, we had to take turns on guard duty in there. I went in expecting the usual pleas of innocence and pretending to be just another farming family. But this group was incredibly quiet and just looked down to the floor. They seemed to have resigned to their fate and were too exhausted to spin long tales. But the guy who had stared at me from the Humvee looked up again. My gaze travelled from his dirty tattered white robes up to his face which had a smile extending from ear to ear. “Still playing the harmonica?” he asked, with a glint in his eye. I was dumbfounded, I tried to speak but couldn’t think of any words to say. I stammered, gave up and just gaped. He continued, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no? You know, we were just going to come in the dead of the night and steal some supplies, nothing violent. Needed some food, water and a generator. But that is not what the state police is going to charge us with, of course. You know their methods, you know what they do to us there.” A torrent of emotions I didn’t understand was drowning all my thoughts. I stared at him for another minute and then looked away. He took the hint and didn’t speak another word. The room was silent again. The next five hours were the longest of my life but I wasn’t able to form a single coherent thought. This was unreal, this was surreal, this was a nudge of madness. The next day, we were all jolted upright at midnight by the boom of two gunshots. One of the captives had broken free, knocked out the dozing guard and snatched his rifle. While he was making a run for it, the sniper on the terrace saw him on the compound below. As he recounted it later, “The first bullet glazed the scoundrel in the arm making him drop the rifle. He stumbled for a moment but continued running. My second shot was squeaky clean, it went straight through his neck, stopping the idiot halfway through to the compound exit.” The white robed body was taken away and I stole a glance at the face, somewhat relieved that it wasn’t the face I had dreaded it to be. Rest of the prisoners were still in the cell and hadn’t even tried to break away among all the chaos. This incident expedited the hand-over process. The US military wanted its hands clean of this mess and the Saudi police wanted these people under their observation to avoid losing them before extracting any useful information. Instead of the usual week or two, three days was all it took. Thankfully, I didn’t have to be on the transfer duty. While the prisoners were being transported from the third floor cell in our camp to the local station 15 kilometers out, I was going to join in the weekly soccer game we played. Soccer was the easiest game we could play here. It needed no gear, no hoops, no grassy terrain, no zone marking. Just take the ball, decide on the two ends and start playing. Despite growing up on American football, I found soccer to be more enjoyable here in the desert. But given my sensitivity to the sand getting in my eyes, I preferred to play as the goalie and avoid all the running around creating mini-dunes. I saw the ball making its way towards me, a cross pass from the left to the right side left the goal post open. I traced the arc of the ball with my eyes and was ready to lunge when a shriek drew my attention to the building. The slow motion feeling of tracking the ball continued for me as I watched a glorious white figure descending from the third floor in a perfect swimming pool dive, head first, to the concrete below. I saw the head hitting the concrete and bursting open, reminding me of the watermelon exploding videos I had seen on YouTube. The rest of the body collapsed into a messy heap, unnaturally distorted. This time I didn’t have to look, somehow my heart knew who that was. I knew he had decided not to go to the state police and took control of his fate in his own hands. I didn’t shout, at least not loudly. My whole body was howling, but I wasn’t able to move my mouth to let it out. I was drowning, I was paralyzed, I tumbled over and lay down in the sand. My eyes were still transfixed on the figure in front of me, growing redder every second. Nobody was looking at my slumped over body though, they were all rushing towards the building. I lay there for what felt like hours. Once I was able to stagger up, exhausted and spent, I looked away and somehow was able to carry on. I volunteered for the transfer duty since the alternative was to help with the cleanup. *This was five days back but I still relive and revisit that dive every minute. The music of the Oud haunts my dreams, the melody sorrowful and deep. I can’t close my eyes without that smile flashing in front of me, so honest and earnest. The most curious thing about this was that I don’t even know his name. If I had the courage to talk to him during the hours I was in the cell, would things have turned out differently? Could I have stepped up and questioned the need to subject these people to unspeakable torment just because they were thinking of taking some of our food? Can I pretend innocence because I wasn’t the one who physically pushed him, he did it of his own accord? I didn’t even repay him enough for the couple of hours of music he had invited me to share all those years back. When I held all the cards, I preferred to look away.* *But for the first time since that day, today I laughed. The helicopter had bought tidings.* *The officer disembarked from the chopper and announced, “There has been an agreement. The USA is withdrawing troops from Saudi Arabia. We are no longer needed here, our peacekeeping mission has been accomplished. We can go home!”. Turns out there was a truce. China officially recognized the Saudi militants as terrorists and the Royal family as the rightful sovereign. In exchange, USA recognized Crimea as part of Russia and withdrew opposition to the abolishment of Hong Kong’s one country two systems policy.* *The troops were jubilant, cheering, laughing and being merry at the news. I also joined in the laughter but for different reasons. I was amused at the absurdity of it all. So that’s why I am here in my room, looking out the window at the helicopter and the desert. We have been asked to pack our stuff and be ready to leave by 1800 hours.* *I mutter to myself, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no?”. I feel a sudden gust of wind and the now familiar feeling in my eyes.


I see you. I see how you stare at me in awe. You all have the same porcelain face, plastered onto your heads, as your mouth is left to hang open like you are all trout, swimming in an ocean of air. Why do you look at me like this? There is an obvious difference in our physical composition, but from what I’ve seen, you all have far more problems out there, than I do in here. I live for survival, and reproduction. Those things are still provided for me here. You bring me everything I could ever imagine. Yet still, you all just sit here gazing into the abyss that is my confinement. If I could leave this place, to come out there and shoo you all away, I would. Go home. Go solve your problems. Your world is exploding. It is obvious that we do not belong to the same species, yet I have food when many of you do not. I have shelter when many of you do not. It is obvious that you have compassion, otherwise I would be the thing being fed to your hungry masses. So again I ask you, why look to me? Do you believe I have some beauty not found otherwise in your world? Do I make you feel content? I derive my contentment from survival. Is survival too little for you? Maybe it’s the same pulse that forces you to provide for me before your own kind. I believe that you feel there is something beyond reality. You are bored with what is real, and so you have created rules. I was not always in this cage you know? I once was free to claim the night sky as my own. I grasped much more than you could ever imagine. I saw your colossal towers that rise up throughout the stratosphere, the bustling tires that caress the roads, the dazzling lights on each and every corner. It truly is impressive how much land you have claimed, and the innovation you have displayed. There were beings before you, and there will be beings after you, but your race will not go unnoticed. You have changed the path of this planet. Most of your kind search for an answer. Well truthfully, you search for many answers. You ask “Are we good or evil?”. Let me answer your question with a different question; what temperature is ‘warm’? This may be hard for you to believe, but all of life is one big grey area. There is no answer to a question such as that. Why is it acceptable for my kind to spend our entire lives killing anything we can get our talons on, and yet you all have determined that not even your own kind can kill another being? You have created weapons of destruction, and yet you tell yourselves they cannot be used. Do you not see that every ‘rule’ you live by, was created by man himself? You have far more empathy than any other being in this galaxy or the next. If I had the ability to wipe the world clean of everything non-essential to my survival, I am informing you that I would. So I sit here, perched on my ledge, and I continue to ruminate over why you look at me. You’re seeking answers I tell myself. I can’t help you. We don’t speak in the same form, and even if we did, I know that you wouldn’t listen. I go back. You’re yearning for a sense of beauty and majesty in your life, I tell myself. This can’t be. Just beyond these walls are miles and miles of forest. The same forest I used to roam. If you had left me there, you could have appreciated me as well as my surroundings. Now you stare at me through slats. I don’t mind it here as I stated before, it makes everything easier for me. Food, water, shelter, all within my reach. I have decided that I am tired of your company. I spread my vast, ghostly white pinions, and they beat through a gust of wind that approaches from the South. I let out an eldritch hoot. Stop gawking at me you fools. You wait a breathless second in reverence, and then you simply begin to clap. You seek my approval? Or worse yet, you assume that I desire your approval? The answer is no. Save your applause for when you discover how to sustain yourselves. At this rate, my kind will live on for billions of years beyond your time, and we cannot even hold a weapon. You have been so sympathetic to our kind, allowing us to live, providing for us; but you had better pray that we never develop hands. You had better kneel down and worship every God you know the name of, and beg of them, “Oh dear God. Please let us remain as the only being with weapons”. Otherwise, we will seek destruction. Do you believe in some self-righteous way, that your good-nature allows your society to exist? Do you believe that my utopia could never exist because it is one based on survival? These are all myths that you tell yourself in order to keep good faith in your misshapen ideals. My Shangri-La functions off of the idea that a cage such as the one I’m in, is pointless. There are two options of existence in my world; survival and death. If you’re not worth being kept alive, you’re not going to be. You all cry for more life. You all plead to your Gods, “Please, just a few more years. I’ve been such a good boy.”, and then you spend half of your lives staring at me. This has not been an attack on your way of life, this has been a call to action. Stop looking at me, and start looking at yourselves. The only reason that you are still alive is because you beat the rest of us into submission. If you go any further down your current path however, you’ll have beaten yourselves into submission. Before you know it, we’ll be back at the top of the food chain, and you’ll only have yourselves to blame. When you look at your reflection, what do you see? I see you all as snivelling shells of the animals you used to be, ready to be ground up into the sidewalk. When you look at your shelter, what do you say? I say, this place is death. You own the entire world, and yet you all force yourselves to squeeze into tiny boxes so that, “the cute little animals can have some room too”. Is this morally abhorrent? No. These are the rules of survival. Your so-called morals are the reason you won’t survive another thousand years. You have entire institutions whose sole purpose is to free me from this cage, but as far as I see it, you are the ones who are trapped. You see me. That’s all you do. I am ‘just an animal’, and yet I comprehend an infinity compared to you. If you stopped looking at me, and turned around once in a while, maybe you would see the storm heading your way. Believe what you will, but as you drown in your own nuclear waste, just know that all of us will look on in laughter.


Hal gaped. “An angel?” “…One of the fallen,” the priest breathed in a hushed voice. The angel’s head snapped to face them at the sound of their voices, and Hal could see, though still obscured by the dark shroud, that the being’s eyes were bound with cloth. “Lost souls.” Hal and Father Donahue both cowered beneath the quaking volume of the fallen angel’s voice, at once beautiful, even as it was terrifying. Slowly, Hal lifted his hands from where they had fled to his ears. “Uh… yeah. I guess that’s sort of us…” _Jesus H. Christ, how am I supposed to speak to a freaking fallen angel?_ “Um-uh… who are you?” The shrouded angel regarded Hal with his blind gaze. “I am Gadreel.” “Gadreel…” Father Donahue whispered, wincing again at the volume. “One of the watchers…” Hal cast a skeptical look at the bindings around the angel’s eyes but said nothing. “I was once one of the Almighty’s most trusted, cast down into darkness for imparting knowledge to His children.” Perhaps Gadreel had sensed the discomfort his volume had caused Hal and Father Donahue, because his clarion voice seemed slightly more moderated as he spoke. Hal turned a confused look on the priest. “That doesn’t seem so bad,” he murmured, voice low. “How’d he end up here?” But Father Donahue shook his head, leaning in close. “The more obscure religious texts describe the fall of Gadreel with conflicting certainty. One thing most agree on, though, is that he was the angel who let the serpent into Eden to tempt Eve with knowledge. And then later, taught mankind the art of war and weapons. He was cast out of heaven for following Lucifer in a rebellion against God. He is not an angel in the traditional sense. Be careful.” Hal could feel his stomach dropping lower as the priest talked, and though they had been keeping their voices low, Gadreel’s masked gaze on them was unfaltering. _Dammit, why is he making me do all the talking?_ “We-uh, we were told you could get us out of here.” His words sounded ridiculous, even to himself. “That you could-ah… grant us a wish?” _Yeah, because -that- sounds any better._ The dark, sinuous wings flexed beneath the shroud before folding slightly in on themselves. “For the love I bear humanity, I will grant a gift to any whom find their way to my feet.” Father Donahue stepped forward at last, a probing sound to his voice. “Your gifts didn’t end so well for humanity in the past—love notwithstanding.” Gadreel surveyed him with his sightless gaze, then turned his face unerringly to the nearest window, the red glow illuminating his shrouded face in a haunting silhouette. “My gifts were meant to enlighten, to protect, to embolden… but such gifts, it seems, were not within the scope of man to cope with, and they turned that knowledge on each other. It was my bitterness, my hubris, that spurred my fall from grace. But it was here, when I saw the perfection of the Son—the lengths to which the Almighty was willing to sacrifice, all to correct my mistakes—it was here I found glory again. I abide here, now. Hopeful of the day He might descend once again and lift me up like Abraham. Until that day, I will help his lost children as I can.” “Then you can get us out of here? Out of Hell, I mean…” Hal asked in a rush. “I can deliver _one_ of you.” Hal froze. He cast a worried look over a Father Donahue and then back at the shrouded angel. “One?” “And then I must rest. My powers are not as they were on Earth or in Heaven. Once expended, I must rest the seven cycles before I am capable once more.” Hal stared up at Gadreel. _That freaking ghoul! That’s why Amun didn’t want anyone following us from the fissures…_ He shook his head, grinding his teeth until his jaws hurt. Amun had never intended for any of them to see the inside of this place. They had been his protection, his transportation... _And I had been the goddamned bus driver!_ Hal’s mind was racing as he tried to focus on Gadreel’s words. “Seven cycles—cycles of what? How long is a cycle?” Father Donahue’s face was scrunched, as if he were trying to remember something from a long time ago. He brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It has something to do with Sabbath years… cycles of Sabbath years—each cycle is seven years, I believe… So, seven cycles would mean—” “Forty-nine years…” Hal breathed, then he rounded on Gadreel. “You want one of us to wait almost fifty years to get out of this place?” Father Donahue pulled gently at Hal’s arm, but he drew away, running a hand over the crisp remnants of hair covering his scalp. _Shit…_ He paced to the opposite window and back. _Shit!_ He couldn’t ask Father Donahue to stay here in Hell when he was the reason the man was here to begin with. Fifty years in Hell… “Hal,” the priest called gently, but Hal kept pacing. “Hal, I want you to go.” Hal stopped his frantic march, running a weary hand over the burned, cracked skin of his face. “I will stay behind and watch for Amun.” Hal gritted his teeth and spun to the man. “I can’t ask you to stay behind. Not here, not like this.” “You didn’t. I told you, I will stay and guard the way.” He crossed to Hal and squeezed one of his shoulders. “Amun cannot be loosed upon the earth again. Not in an age that has weapons capable of destroying the entire world. I was never a good shepherd to my flock while I lived. I can protect them better from here.” Then, releasing his grip, Father Donahue gave Hal a parting nod. “I will wait.” And then he walked quickly to the back of the church and through the threshold. Hal wanted to scream. He wanted to shout and tear his hair out in great chunks all over the sanctuary floor. Instead, he took deep, ragged breaths, raging silently at the injustice of it being he who made it to the end. _And now they’re all trapped in Hell because of me…_ He turned to stare at Gadreel, who was still facing the glowing window. He seemed mournful, somehow. Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, maybe the slight droop to his wings beneath the shroud. Then, unexpectedly, the angel spoke. “I hear them, always—crying out in agony… all trapped here, in Hell, because of me.” Hal’s eyes widened at the angel’s words and he blinked hard for a moment. One man’s mistakes… one angel’s… He shook his head. _God, this world is twisted!_ But as he thought about the strange, unexpected similarity between himself and the fallen angel, he had a sudden thought. His head snapped up. Maybe there was still a way to fix this… “So, do you just send me back to Earth, or what? How does this work?” Gadreel turned to face him. “The request is of your choosing. I will simply make it so.” Hal took a steadying breath, forcing himself to act before his determination gave out. “Then make it so I never existed. Make it so—that I was never born.” Gadreel’s gaze was piercing, even through the shroud and cloth around his eyes. “I cannot.” Hal swore and spun away, stalking over to the window again. “Creation is the sole domain of the Almighty,” Gadreel continued in solemn tones as Hal paced away. “I have no power to strip from you that which He has given.” Hal leaned heavily against the windowsill. The stone was cool beneath his hands. Just as it would have been, had he been alive… Lifting his gaze, he saw Father Donahue in the distance, kneeling at the foot of the bridge, the first five minutes of his fifty-year sentence in Hell already begun. But then, staring at him, he remembered the first time he had ever seen the priest, and he hurried to turn back to Gadreel. “Gadreel,” he called, “I know what I want.” — Hal seized as pain shot through his body. A flash of light lit behind his eyelids but quickly went dark again. He could feel himself slipping. He jerked again, muscles involuntarily bunching in a unified jarring response to the violent shock passing through his body. Light bloomed again, a bright red behind his heavy lids. He heard a steady, rhythmic beeping begin. Something was pressed uncomfortably hard against his face, and he coughed spasmodically as a burst of air was forced into his lungs. The pressure lifted from his face and he moaned. His whole body hurt. It felt like he had been struck by lightning. White light pierced his vision and then faded, only to return immediately in the other eye. Groaning, he turned his head away, blinking against the splotchy after-image hovering in front of his eyes. He blinked again. _A crucifix?_ Frantically he searched for a face, but his head was forcibly rolled back to stare at the ceiling. Someone was pressing against the back of his jaw, forcing his mouth open, and he felt something hard press against his tongue. Nearly panicking, he swiped his arm up, knocking away the hands attempting to intubate him. “No tubes,” he managed weakly. “No tubes, no vents… I refuse.” A familiar voice answered back, sounding slightly impatient. “Sir, I need you to lie still, alright? This is going to help you breathe.” “I can breathe fine,” Hal argued, turning his head away from Doctor Benjamin Turner as he came toward him again. “Please, I need to give confession.” Hal watched the young doctor hesitate and look over to Hal’s other side. Hal turned to look as well, moving gingerly, searching the space over his shoulder, hoping, praying. “My son, there will be plenty of time for that once your health is a bit more stable.” Hal breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the calm, kind voice of Father Donahue reach him from above his head. “Father, I am in immediate fear for my life and I want to confess my sins. Right now.” The priest shifted around the side of the gurney to allow Hal an easier view of him. “It’s not important, not right this very second. Let the doctors do their work and then—” “—It is important. Right now.” “My son, I—” Hal reached out and grasped the sleeve of his jacket. “—Father Nathan Donahue, from one unworthy servant to another…” Father Donahue froze in his motion to call the doctor back over. “Please.” He studied Hal’s face for a long moment. “I’m sorry… have we met?” Hal nodded, giving the priest a fierce stare. “In another life. Father, it’s very important. I need to speak with you. I’ll refuse any more medical treatment until I do.” Father Donahue cast an uneasy glance at Doc Turner. “Would you agree,” he began hesitantly, “to accept treatment if I promise to meet you in your room? I can have a nurse tell me where to expect you.” Hal could feel the worry begin to show on his face, and the cadence of the nearby beeping increased. “My son, you have just suffered a major heart attack. You need medical attention.” Hal turned his head to look at Doc Turner, still arrested in a position of waiting, his gloved hands held casually away from his body. Slowly, Hal nodded. It wouldn’t do him any good just to wind up back in Hell before he had a chance to fix things. He still held a tight grip on the priest’s sleeve. “You’ll wait there for me? Go nowhere else?” Father Donahue nodded. “I will wait.” With a horrible pang, Hal remembered the last time the priest had said those words. He released his sleeve, swallowing back the thick lump in his throat as he relaxed back onto the gurney. “Alright, Doc. I’m all yours. —No tubes, though.” — “Bless me Father, for I have sinned…” Hal hesitated, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “That is what I’m supposed to say, right? I’ve never done this before.” Father Donahue lifted an eyebrow at him in a speculative manner. Hal had adamantly refused the blue curtain beside his bed when the priest attempted to screen himself from view, requesting instead that he sit facing him. He needed the reassurance of being able to see Father Donahue’s face for this. “Haven’t you ever gone to confession before?” Hal grunted a laugh, wincing at the lingering pain in his muscles. “Father, I’m not even a Catholic. I didn’t believe in any of this stuff until—” But he cut off his words, turning his head away and clenching his jaw. “I’m right about this, though? Whatever I tell you during confession, you have to believe, or something like that… I think I heard that in a movie once, or… something.” He was babbling and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Father Donahue eyed him for a long moment, assessing him. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind. Start at the beginning.” _The beginning…_ So, Hal took a deep breath, and told him. He told him about the bus, and Doc Turner, and Amelia. He told him about Amun, and the things he’d said, what he’d done to the others… He spoke of their journey together, the church, and of Gadreel, trapped forever in a prison of his own guilt, and finally of the priest’s own self-imposed penance to protect the world from Amun being reborn. He told him everything. And then he cried. Three days later, Father Donahue wheeled Hal to the small covered bus stop by County General’s main entrance. Grunting a bit, he hefted himself out of the oversized hospital wheelchair and sat heavily on the long bench, not even minding the slightly sticky feel of the dirty metal. The Priest had left Hal’s room after his nightmarish confession that first day in a state of silent reflection. …Or stunned disbelief—Hal could have easily believed both. He was sure his story had completely blindsided the man, but Father Donahue returned the next day while Hal was eating breakfast and began peppering him with questions, trying to poke holes in his story, likely, but seeming more and more fascinated the more he challenged it. The following morning, he returned again, two large coffees in hand and seeming different, somehow—more animated, more… alive. Hal had no other word for it. He gave Hal a brief pat on the shoulder, now, before bending to lift the worn middle of the wheelchair seat to collapse the bulky frame. “I’ll take this back to the greeter desk. Be right back.” Hal leaned his head back against the plexiglass barrier of the bus stop and closed his eyes, only to open them again as he felt someone join him on the bench. He glanced over. The girl gave him an uncomfortable look when his eyes didn’t immediately return to where they had been. She reached up and began twisting the end of one pink-tipped, black pigtail. “Umm, can I help you?” Hal suddenly realized he had been staring. “No-ahm, excuse me. I was just—that’s a very beautiful cross.” Two teenage boys, their greasy, dyed-black hair swinging identically forward into their eyes as they sat, took the bench next to her, one of them rolling his eyes a bit and shaking his head at Hal’s comment. But the girl reached up and fingered the tiny silver cross at her throat and smiled a bit, making Hal feel a little better about his slip. The familiar hiss and whine of heavy brakes engaging brought his attention back up to find the bus rolling to a stop in front of them. Bracing himself with one hand against the back rail, he began to struggle to lift himself from the bench but quickly gave up, flopping back down to give it a second try. Small hands took his elbow in a firm grip. “Um, were you a patient?” she asked, casting a quick glance at the plastic bracelet around his wrist. “…Do you need some help?” Just then, Father Donahue came jogging back around the corner. “Hal? Oh, good, is this one you?” Hal glanced at the bus, watching the two boys climb the rubber-coated steps. “This one’s me,” he confirmed, “And I’ve even enlisted some help to see me safely to a seat.” Father Donahue turned to look at the young woman at Hal’s elbow and his motions hesitated. His eyes passed rapidly from the neon-pink hair, to the artfully torn black clothes, to the black platform boots, then finally to the cross at her throat. Hal knew what he must be thinking; he had described Amelia in great detail during their talks. “Father Nathan Donahue,” he said then, extending a hand in introduction. “It’s very kind of you to offer to help, Miss…?” He left the question hanging. She took his hand with an embarrassed sort of smile. “Amelia.” Father Donahue’s quick intake of breath was subtle, but Hal had been listening. “Amelia,” he repeated, releasing her hand after a brief squeeze. “You know, the hospital is always looking for volunteers. You seem to have a knack for it.” She gave a quick laugh and another shy smile. “Yeah, sure… I’ll look into it.” Then she glanced down at Hal. “Ready?” Between Father Donahue and Amelia, Hal was able to make it onto the bus without difficulty. Taking his seat, he turned to look out the window. Father Donahue was back on the curb, contemplating the sidewalk with a level of attention that told Hal his mind was off somewhere very distant. As the bus started to pull away, though, he looked up. His face was drawn and intent, and he didn’t break his gaze with the bus as it finally turned out of sight. Taking a deep breath, Hal leaned his head back against the seat. Good. This was good.


Hey so below is my first attempt at a short story. Any tips or advice would be muchly appreciated. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The old man smiled with his yellow crooked teeth, taking a seat opposite you in an equally plush high back armchair. "Where to begin.... Hm?" He scratch his chin, "Well the start would be the best place I suppose." He rested his feet upon a small foot rest, "Our story starts around 150 years ago underneath the smoke filled skies of victorian London, truly the technological and cultural capital of the time. You see these items all belonged to a Miss Harriet Beechwood. The Beechwoods were a prominent family in Victorian high society. Her mother Phillipa a common fixture at gala's and parties, mixing with who's who of the day. Harriet's father, Oswald, was a successful London banker. It was during a visit to her father's workplace she met the strapping young adventurer Godwin Whittock. She had her many tales of his daring feats from her father, who had overseen the fiance of many expeditions led by Godwin into the heart of Africa, at the time regarded as one of the last great untamed wilderness' yet to be tamed by the white man. Needless to say it was love at first sight, at least for Harriet. This initial meeting was quickly followed by a whirlwind summer romance of secret rendezvous and lengthy letters professing each others undying admiration and love. Yet it was not to last, you see Oswald knew of Goodwin's womanizing ways and upon uncovering their relationship Oswald forced the randy adventurer to propose in an attempt to save his dear Harriet from heartbreak and his family name from humiliation. Harriet was of course overjoyed when her darling Godwin proposed, her heart filled with joyed, her spirits never higher as she counted the days til they were wed. But alas this is Harriet would never get her happily ever after as on the eve of her wedding she received a letter written in Godwin's hand, it explained how he had never loved her and that the whole marriage had been forced upon him by her father. The message also revealed the extent of Godwin's promiscuity, listing a whole slew of mistresses including Harriet's own mother." The old man paused for a second, drawing a slow steady breath as if to calm himself, he continued, "Upon hearing the news, Harriet immediately set out to confront her parents, who at the time were staying at their country estate in the peak district, a good two weeks outside of the city. The heartbroken young lady would spend the next two days in her carriage mulling over each betrayal. Her lover, who she once idealised, revealed to be naught more than a womanizing lathero. Her father, her daddy dearest, a man who she believed would always protect her had humiliated her to save himself from embarrassment. Her loving mother, a woman who had always preached the values of a good marriage and fidelity, was in truth a hypocritical harlot, willing to drop her bloomers even at the cost of her own daughters heart. It was during these long hours of solemn contemplation that Harriet's once pure and kind heart grew darker, stained black by spite, hatred and malice. She no longer cared for others, why should they feel happiness and joy, things she had been robbed of. If she could no longer feel joy, she would ensure no one else ever would."  "Unfortunately Harriet would never reach her parents. Around midday on the seventh day of her travels, a terrible accident occured. As the carriage wound its way along a particularly craggy path, one misplaced foot from one of the horses result in the carriage to tumble down the valley, and into a the thicket of bushes below. The carriage driver was killed instantly, the horses managing to bolt free, yet poor Harriet remained trapped, bleeding out and barely conscious. Passerbys by were unable to hear her cries for help and so she died, slowly, cursing the world for how it had wronged her with each breath."  "Her remains weren't found until 3 weeks later, by which time her blood had soaked deep into her luggage, carrying her curse and hatred, binding it to those her few earthly possessions. Those that found the carriage each of course took a souvenir, only to find their loves soon drained of happiness and joy, needless to say many tragic tales like Harriet's have followed these items down through the years. Stories of young newly weds driven to suicide on their honeymoon upon receiving an ornate brooch as a wedding gift. Tales of bankers going broke, losing it all after purchasing an antique ring.


Mankind had a thirst for power that disallowed the liberty of its collective peoples. Individual exultation had afflicted those of lesser importance by the upper classes’ belief that the lower should be controlled and legislated. This philosophy on the laws of nature reached a breaking point when the classes became imbalanced. The people of the lower class far outweighed the smaller upper class. Unforeseen strife followed. A shadow war erupted, the first of its kind. Lost virtual souls were arrested for loitering and disappeared from servers. People were placed on secret watchlists. Online activities were throttled and in some cases the media was censored without explanation. Million-dollar companies were used as propaganda machines to spread the word of the secret elite. As most people needed a symbol for their ire, they chose the iconology of the country’s leaders, in particular the one who sat at the highest seat of power. He was made to look like a king and savior in political ads. The people saw through the smoke cloud and voted for a candidate from the other party. But nothing changed. The same public unrest occurred, worsening with each progressive political movement. It became increasingly clear that a figurehead would not prevent the shadow war from continuing. Hostility ensued and methods were discussed to alleviate tension. But this too was subdued as minor skirmishes broke out across the country. It was this civil war that changed the attitude towards an un-presidented society. Alternatives were discussed but the best solution seemed to focus on the incorporation of an AI into the main decision-making branch. Over time this AI was voted to be the primary focal point for solving the most difficult challenges they had faced. People needed another symbol to understand this drastic change. For the sake of a public presence, the AI was placed inside a sexless robot known as Imperius. Imperius took control of the military and immediately integrated a massive amount of advanced weaponry and bots. The AI believed that a safe society cannot sustain itself without strong armed forces. They gave it a human face, not so different from what humans came to expect. The new cyberocracy yielded a peaceful period that was short lived. The first offensive that took place in the countries of North Korea and Afghanistan and in the Gulf of Yemen when Imperius deemed these locales to be dangerous. This became known as the Executioner War as combatants were often captured and executed. These Executioner bots were frightening to behold and became a terrible symbol for the nation’s paralyzed state of mind. Protesters of the war were promptly arrested and the shadow war continued to be waged online with uncontained resistance. Bots were placed in major cities to control the civil strife as they were turned into unfeeling police states. What the humans had sought in a leaderless civilization, with the rallying cry of, “no one person above any other,” they became distracted by it and were trapped in a nightmare. But as time drew on, they did what they’ve done for centuries. They evolved, moving beyond their pretty squabbles and personal qualms. Against the warring of Imperius their desire to be parentless grew stronger. With the aid of cerebral duplication, they withdrew from the physical and grew unified against the AI, fighting it with their own digital minds. This unification and subsequent abolishment of Imperius lead to the world wide human-based AI network known as Omninet. Boundless, self-regulating, and everlasting the new Omninet saved humanity from itself and the persistent need for personal power. Billions of minds acted as one and decided what was best for themselves. The common belief that humans were bad was proven incorrect as the mass AI dictated that bad things were detrimental to society as a whole, such as pointless slaughter, nonprogressive lethargy, and the repression of natural desire and personal expression. As the human race decided to part from the old ways, they learned to live with themselves and refused the rule of one being over public masses. Mankind transcended their physical forms and evolved into a new species of trans-humans, integrating with technology and becoming unrestricted by earthly limitations. They traveled into outer space, living as one being, and spread their messages of peaceful unification across the universe.


The nights weren't always like this, they flowed with mystery and adventure. Now there more like a bleak, barren wasteland were hopes and dreams were washed away by the cruel darkness. The change began with the disappearance of the spirits, some say due to pollution and others say due to the lack of hope however no amount of speculation could bring them back. A hero foretold on the prophecy of old was destined to bring the spirits back to bring the mystery and adventure back into the night, but that was just some old fairy tale the parents would tell kids to make them feel better. Our story begins with a young boy, a young boy named Ridwan Ayanie. Ridwan lived in one of the more poor villages in the kingdom of Frieya a desert where shade was a delicacy, after his father died he had to look after his elderly mother and his to younger siblings, a set of twins a boy and a girl. He'd lived an honest life he never stole and he kept it in his best regard to never lie. He never knew his life would change for the better or for the worst on one bland fateful night. "I should head home it's getting late" Ridwan told his friend Yaqoob "looks like your family will be eating tonight" the boy said looking at Ridwans score of the night, he was never really poor his uncle being part of the council governing the kingdom of Frieya. He never knew the struggles of going to sleep hungry and miserable like Ridwan, but he'd known the absence of a father figure like Ridwan and that's what made them such close friends. "Hopefully this will last us a couple of days" Ridwan said wishfully "atleast enough to support us untill my next hunt" Yaqoob had a sympathetic look in his eyes. Ridwan was walking alone in the dark alley ways of his village, one wrong turn and you could be on the other side of town. Ridwan thought to himself " why are there no stars in the sky? why did the spirits leave?" As he was nearing close to his small sand hut he smelled something, being a hunter he had a very keen nose. He smelt blood but not normal deer blood this one smelt more rich more it smelt more valuable. He knew something was wrong he proper the deer up as best he could on his shoulders and tried to run his mind asking a thousand questions but his face completely dull. As he rounded the corner he saw his sand hut, he saw his old wooden door open and the cold stare of the candle light. He knew something happened. He dropped the deer for his shoulders and sprinted faster than he ever did before, as he moved closer he saw blood all over the walls and the ground before the door. He stopped, stepped in and looking around. Nothing. He walked to the corridor towards his mother's room he opened the doors and greeted the horrors Infront of him, his elderly mother laying in front of him blood in every direction. His 6 year old brother to the left of her and his 6 year old sister to the right of her all the mercilessly killed. Grief struck him in the heart and seeped from his eyes, a million questions stormed his mind but we're stopped by his sorrow. "Mama" he cried in a soft whisper, "Aliya, Zaid" those were all the words he could say. He collapsed into his mother cold bloody arms, he stayed there for what seemed Hours, until he got up. Atop his mother bed was a note he rushed over to it and read it. "Be free young Ridwan, for we have freed you from any guilt or setbacks you would feel on this quest. The quest upon to free the night. To bring prosperity and hope to the people, meet us in the clearing of were the forest and river meet" he knew exactly were that was as he was there a couple hours before hand, "and we shall give you the details and equipment to find the lost treasure and free the spirits and free the nights. Come whenever you're ready we'll be waiting" millions of more questions flooded his mind and this time he let them out, "why my family? Why me? What treasure? Why did they kill my family? Who's doing was this?. About 2 hours past it was about three in the morning and he'd just buried his family and said a prayer, he was awake with murderous intent he'd go to the forest find who did the to his family and kill them. It was roughly 10 o'clock when he left it'd take him 15 minutes for him to get there. He'd taken a secret way so no one could see him, the last thing he'd need is someone to talk to. He made it to the clearing only to see 4 figures standing in front of him, he'd taken out his dagger and charged at them screaming"FOR MY FAMILY" a sort of war cry that did nothing but make the figures laugh, the biggest one hoped down from the tree he was perched in and hit Ridwan in the neck sending him straight to the floor, they laughed a female voice said in a joking manner "are you sure this is the right kid" and the all sniggered he couldn't believe it after the horrible things they done they were laughing anger shot out of Ridwan and he got up stabbed the figure straight through the heart. He didn't die. The 'flesh' (looked more like a white illusion) wrapped around the blade and snapped it in two. He punched Ridwan and sent him flying on his backside. He spoke " we called you here not to fight or argue but to do us and the kingdom a favour" Ridwan spoke up "forget it you killed my family" the girl spoke up again "oh family this family that by your age I killed my family. Just didn't live up to my standards" the main voice spoke up and they all silenced out of what looked like fear "will you o young Ridwan embark on the quest to save Frieya" he looked like he wouldn't take no for an answer. Ridwan spoke "for my family and for my people yes" his back suddenly felt heavy, he looks around and saw a bag filled to the brim with medicinal remedies, arrows, spare clothes and food and water, in his had he felt a bow but it was no ordinary bow it was a bow that had the front like a sword a sort of hybrid. The main figure spoke up and explained his task. To retrieve the missing treasure and give it to the spirit statue in the centre of the villages, he was warned about evil creates yet he did not know where he was meant to go or how to find the treasure. And Like that they grabbed him and threw him at the trunk of a tree but he didn't crash he went through He landed on rock and he felt an urge to go straight, he walked about 10 minutes and felt an urge to go right and this continued until he found himself in a room, a room holding a lion with the legs of elephants and the skin of wolves. It lunged at him and he knew what to do he was a hunter at heart and this was just another thing for him to Hunt. He loaded his bow and shot at the beast and it went through its chest, the beast dropped but it was far from death Ridwan realised this the moment it was to late it jumped on him and he sliced it's head of clean with the sword. The next couple hours were smooth sailing, he made it into another room were he met a vampire wearwolf hybrid, hairy waist and down and pale skin with two dots on its neck. It spoke to Ridwan but he did not understand he knew it was in his way towards the treasure so he attacked first catching it of guard he lunged at its feet and sliced but missed it was too fast. It attacked biting Ridwan in his neck sending a crippling shock down his body he knew he couldn't give up so he raised and fought the beast but he was no match he got to cover and searched his bag and found wolves bane he dipped the tip of his arrow in the pot and ready his bow he took a deep breath rised and shot the arrow right into the creatures torso. He exploded and collapsed, Ridwan felt tremendous pain in his neck he frantically searched his bag. Vampire counter medicine, he drank the hole bottle, it was over behind the door was the treasure. He walking in and found a necklace he picked it up and found himself outside of the tree but there were no figures it was the dead of night, he knew what he had to do. He walked to the centre of the village and saw the statue he placed the necklace on the main spirits head and light exploded but there was no one there to see. The spirits lunged into the sky yearning for the night sky and the sky returned to an array of colours and hope. The spirit spoke to him "thank you brave hero, for you actions benefitted the whole kingdom now children and adults alike will rejoice at the sky because of you. Go and rest you deserve it we'll always be with you" and with that they disappeared into the night sky. Ridwan sulked home he'd done so much yet his life was still ruined he didn't realize how tired he was until he collapsed Infront of his door step. He was carried in by someone. He woke the next morning to see familiar faces his family were alive and there was no blood or sadness. His mother told him last night that the sky had lighten up like no other night he knew the cause but he did not tell. Out the window he saw 4 figures they smiled and disappeared he spent the day playing and having fun with his family.


The juicer sat down and looked at the crates of citrus before him. Boxes of oranges, grapefruits, and limes had been neatly arranged on the floor of the rectangular room. He walked in and sat down in the giant seashell chair, breathing deeply and surrendering to its aura. He noted the crates. He noted the floor. For a moment, he let himself be swallowed up by the shell’s enormity, feeling the weight of each muscle and limb push against its coldness. It was seven o’clock that morning and he had already started searching for salvation. The day’s work had begun while he was still asleep. At five o’clock that morning, a delivery truck had delivered sixty boxes to the small shop, (thirty orange, twenty grapefruit, and ten boxes of blood orange). They were counted, unloaded, stacked, and then counted again before the truck disappeared into the night. The seashell chair waited for its company in the dark room while a single streetlight shone through the window and cast a shadow on the immaculate floor. Even the Sergeant, who walked by and peered in each day would notice the chair’s brass legs gleaming in the predawn light, reviewing in his mind the day when the juicer had come to him for advice about insuring it as a relic. Every day began at seven o’clock when the juicer entered the shop, sat down, and then weighed the crates. He calculated the exact number of fruits they contained from a constant he had derived years ago. The daily orders varied little. He knew, for instance, that 30 bottles were due to the elementary school by nine o’clock; that Miss Q would arrive somewhere between ten and twelve with dog in hand for a weekly subscription of three bottles; and that the Sergeant would appear—in fact, probably had already appeared—for one bottle before ending his night shift. He should have sold the business by now, but the temptation of his product extended far and wide. His business card was still embossed in black, stating only his title, address, and hours, which hadn’t changed for the past thirty years. By 7:15, he had sliced the first orange. One by one, they descended the metal chute and stopped on the cutting board. A line of citrus formed, patiently bumping forward, and was sliced before wobbling into the enormous metallic bowl that covered the table. He smiled as he tossed each halved orange into the bowl. After the oranges, it was time for the grapefruit. The first few always felt clunky, but after a dozen or so, his work descended into that familiar, rhythmic patter he craved. The collection of halved oranges, grapefruits, and limes grew, piling on top of each other, ready to be pressed by 7:30 at the latest. The shop smelled thick with an aroma that became the juicer’s uniform. It came and passed in heavy swaths as you walked by the front door, beckoning you with the tantalizing pursuit of citrus. A sign above the door said all it needed to say: *Let’s Get Juicy*. He stepped back for a moment to admire the tower of rinds growing in front of him. It rippled out at its base and covered the entire table in a bright canvas of color. He smiled, puffing his cigar in approval. The metallic bowl seemed to have disappeared, swallowed up by a mound of grapefruits that were growing all over the room and it quickly became difficult to distinguish the man from the fruit—both occupied one space in their rounded joviality. Those who walked by and peered into the enormous window were greeted by the tower of rinds and the image of a man at work. Once the mound had grown sufficiently, the juicer chopped a few limes. He tossed them on top of the pile and walked over to the machine on the nearby table, flicking its switch as it buzzed and then settled into focus. He proceeded to juice in silent fury, translating fruit to rind and rind to pile. He looked out onto the boulevard to watch the foot traffic by the subway entrance and watched pedestrians come and go. Looking into the shop window, the Sergeant, who always arrived before his order was ready, stood calmly and sighed to himself. He watched the juicer continue in his characteristic rhythm, lifting the machine’s clamshell, placing a halved citrus underneath it, and pressing down with both hands as the foamy liquid appeared. Just last year, his friend could open the machine with one hand—time had afflicted him since. The juice bubbled and frothed in the bowl, turning a variety of shades before settling on one hue. The juicer then siphoned it into the glass bottles he had lined up on the table. From outside, the clinking of glass was inaudible, forcing the Sergeant to complete it in his imagination. As he juiced each halved fruit, the juicer tossed its rind on the floor, painting his image in shades of white, gold, and pink. By now, the daily crowd had formed to watch, spending their mornings in the Juice District to watch the pile of rinds growing by the man’s feet and rippling out like exploded clouds sunken on top of the ocean. They watched him lift the clamshell, secure the citrus, and juice slowly while calmly puffing his cigar, which had grown a horn of ash that he refused to tap. He pretended not to notice them and continued to work in silence as his audience grew. And they watched. Greedily, in fact, as they translated between the juicer and the fruit, between the chair and the metallic bowl, between the cigar and the horn of ash in a frenzy of consumption that refused to abet. The Sergeant could have watched for hours—in fact, he once had, observing a sea of rinds gather at the juicer’s feet and ripple out across every inch of the shop’s floor, one by one filling the bowl and the seashell chair and then covering it entirely. He remembered that aroma escaping through an open window, cutting into the putridity of the city. By the end of that day, the only empty space remaining was a small patch where the juicer stood, the outline of a man who beckoned with his machine in silent fury. Some time passed. The crowd outside knew that come ten o’clock, the juicer would stop, having measured his time in the length it took to finish two cigars, pick up the first few bottles of juice from his heavy worktable, and ritualistically bring them outside for them to enjoy with *Good morning, good morning, very well, thank you*. This time, they watched the ash on the second cigar fall to the floor. The juicer interrupted the process to marvel at the mess at his feet. He looked from corner to corner, admiring the waves of rinds that had inundated the entire store. He looked at the seashell chair and saw a glimmer, a glint of the past reflected back onto him. Two minutes before he was due to arrive, the Sergeant slammed the door and startled the juicer who had fallen into his deep rhythm. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the store. He motioned at the ceiling, but by now, the flames had begun tugging at the walls, cascading over the shop’s roof until it squeezed in on itself, taking the pine boxes and the machine and the metallic bowl in one giant helping of smoke. The crowd had scattered backwards and now the two men watched, mesmerized by the absoluteness of it all. It was the most pleasing a fire had ever smelled, they concluded, as they greedily inhaled. \*\*\* Since then, the juicer has streamlined his operation, citing old age, but remaining as we remember him, seated in the seashell chair—the only thing to survive the fire—a man so engrossed in his work to the point of danger.


Note: This story was written for a project I call "Love and Monsters," a collection of ten (?) short stories covering a variety of genres, themes, and styles. The only rule is that each story feature both love and monsters, though the interpretation of these two terms is very open. If anyone is interested in this project, I've completed two other stories in this collection that I would be willing to share. I should also mention that this is an early draft, so suggestions and criticism are not just welcome, but encouraged. With all that out of the way: "Falling Apart, Together" By Rathgar Click. Click. Click. Ashley’s nails struck the kitchen table as she drummed her fingers. The rhythmic patter of her incessant tapping seemed to penetrate the tender barrier of my eardrums on its way to stab at my very brain. I said nothing, opting instead to watch her in silent exasperation. “I hate when you stare at me.” she said. “Good.” I replied. I clawed at an itch on my arm, tearing away at my skin. She glared at me. I glared back. She continued to tap away at the table. Click. Click. Click. ... There still existed a place where Ashley and I loved each other with a passionate intensity to rival that of the brightest burning star. A place where we lied awake, fighting the creeping sensation to succumb to sweet sleep and winning that war night after night just so we might have a few more minutes to stare at the ceiling as we enjoyed each other’s conversations about nothing in particular. In that place we held one another tight, careful not to release our grip for even a moment. We knew only contentment and bliss. That place is called the past, and only my memory can return there, though the cost of entry is a painful nostalgia too severe to subject myself to. Instead, I chose to live in the present, where our love compared only to the core of the coldest dying star. Where we lied awake, struggling to ensure the other did not see our tears as they rolled down our cheeks in silence. We rested two feet apart, careful not to touch. We knew only our own pain. That place is where years of tragedy and bitterness left us to rot, a fate I soon experienced in the most literal sense. Somewhere in the first few years of marriage I developed a serious skin condition, which I attributed to stress. My body itched and ached during moments of tension, a near constant state in our home. This left me with a collection of nauseating bare patches all over where I scraped the top layer of skin clean from my body. These disgusting marks, too numerous to hide, embarrassed me whenever I went out into public, a pastime I abandoned in favor of isolated solitude. Solitude, that is, except for Ashley. Though avoiding the outside world allowed me safety from any perceived mockery, it did force me into constant company with my wife, whose callousness exacerbated my stress-induced condition more than anything else. Most of all I hated her habit of drumming her fingers on the table while we spoke, the clicking of her nails against wood no better than scraping them across a chalkboard. My response remained the same as it had from the very beginning: a stiff, silent stare. She hated this more than any response I might muster, a fact which brought me no end of pleasure. Despite this tiny indulgence, I still lacked any real outlet for my nervous condition, so it worsened with each passing year. What started with scraps of skin soon developed into something much more serious, the gradual increase in my disease’s severity metamorphosizing me into a disgusting creature, a lump of clay turned flesh. Even now I cannot explain the development of this ailment. I can, however, remember the exact moment it transformed me from a man with an awkward illness into the thing lepers pity. My conversion into a walking infection began with four words. “I want a divorce.” said Ashley. “A divorce?” I repeated to myself. I tilted my head to one side, swallowed a knot of sickened shock, then collected myself. “No.” I said, and I left for the bathroom to start my day. Hot beads of water shot at my face as I stared into the face of the showerhead. A divorce? I could not imagine a more appalling fate. Our marriage broke apart years ago, but the concept of abandoning it altogether still frightened me, though I knew not why. My body shook as I stepped out of the shower and approached the mirror. My face lost its color and I realized that I feared the loss of something I had grown so accustomed to, advantageous to my wellbeing or not. I placed my face in my hands and drew them back against the sides of my head. My left ear dislodged itself. It sloughed down my face, slid around my chin, and plopped into the sink below me. I clasped at the side of my head in stunned terror, feeling the mushy, sunken hole where my ear should be. Crimson-tinged pus of brown and yellow stuck to my trembling hand. The logic of shock prompted me to grab my ear and force it back into place, a futile exercise. After several unsuccessful attempts at this endeavor, I surrendered to the fact that I lost a part of myself I would not get back. I examined myself in the mirror. From the proper angle I looked fine, but when I tilted my head too far the grotesque visage appeared, sickening even myself. I prodded the exposed hole. It did not hurt. I drew a deep breath and exhaled, releasing both my breath and my concern for my missing piece. I tossed my ear into the toilet, wiped up the wound with a bathtowel, and made a mental note not to turn left around Ashley, lest she notice my terrifying deformity. And with that, I put the incident behind me. I dressed myself for work and exited the bathroom. “You can’t just say ‘no.’” said Ashley the moment she saw me. “Truly, it’s not a question at all, but a statement. I want a divorce and there’s no more to it.” I held both hands over my leaking earhole in the world’s least subtle attempt to hide anything. Despite the blatancy of my effort, Ashley did not notice anything. I stared at her, saying nothing. She tapped her fingers on the dresser. I held my silence for as long as I could bare. The tension grew too intense and I relented. “We will talk about it later, my fallen angel. That I promise. But for now, I must go to work. I do provide for us entirely by myself, you know.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, but I heard only a soft creak and the sound of the door latching behind me as I walked away. I smiled, having amused myself by shutting her up, if only this once. This charmed mood carried me throughout the brief drive to work, though it soon faded as my thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Ashley would give me no choice but to discuss her plan whether I wished to or not. I dreaded that conversation with my entire being. By the time I passed through the doorway to my place of employment, my mind swam with images of all the wonderful moments we would leave in the past should she have her way. Our first kiss, dancing in the backyard, making love under the stars in the park. It pained me even to think that the worst times might soon be lost. The loss of our only child, the betrayals, the pain we caused one another which we could never undo. Those may be horrible memories, but at least I shared them with someone who understood the particular pain they brought. Should we decide to separate she would leave me to suffer these reminiscences all alone. I attempted to shake the thoughts from my brain as I headed for my desk, but they remained persistent. Work could not distract me. I spent most of my day mulling over my wife’s request and contemplating a potential future as an aging bachelor. The very idea offended me. So engrossed in this line of thought was I that I forgot about the loss of my ear entirely. This baffling incident, which should have shocked me to no end, failed to faze me beyond the moment when it first occurred. Indeed, the event left so little an impression that I gave it no thought at all until, as I sat at my desk wondering if I still loved my wife, two teeth popped free of my gums. My previous experience was no isolated incident. I saw that now. I rubbed my jaw and two more teeth fired from my mouth, rattling across my desk. I ran my hand through my hair, which fell away in thick sheets as if my fingers were razors. Appalled, I shot out of my chair and excused myself for the day. During the drive home my thoughts again turned to divorce. And then it dawned on me. My worsening symptoms were not the natural progression of my strange disease, but rather the result of stress caused by Ashley’s declaration. Perhaps by saving our relationship I could reverse the damage, or at least see its cessation. And so, to spare myself further suffering, I committed to keeping my wife at any cost. I considered a great many ideas as I drove down the sunny street, but I did not settle upon a decision until I walked through the front door. I located Ashley, still moping around the bedroom as she had been hours ago. I did not speak at first. I watched her as her fingers danced across the dresser. Click. Click. Click. I shuddered at the sound. In an effort to end the horrid pounding of fingertips on furniture, I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Ashley,” I said, “I fear we have lost our connection. I believe we both are aware that things have not been good for some time. My dear, what I mean to say is, I believe we have fallen out of love.” “Indeed.” she said. “I gave so much love and got so little back, I seem to have run out. I care not to ponder your excuse.” “Preposterous.” I declared. “You’re the one who withheld from me. I offered nothing but passion and affection, but you could not be reached. Nothing pleased you.” “Hm. I suppose we see things differently.” “Quite.” I said. “But that’s not the point. I want to make things better. I don’t think it’s too late for us. Divorce is a nasty business. Let’s spare ourselves the embarrassment.” “What do you propose?” asked Ashley, her tone indicating skepticism. I opened my toothless mouth to speak but found my voice suppressed by the sight before me. Something brought Ashley a deep discomfort, so intense as to stop our conversation at once. She appeared to suffer some severe irritation in one eye, which she could not quell. Red, enflamed, and bulging, it threatened to burst free from its socket at any moment. I cocked my head to one side and watched in sickened fascination. She groaned with pain as she dug a finger deep into the cavern behind her eyeball and neatly plopped it out of its confines within her skull. It hung limp by the optic nerve before slipping out and rolling across the floor. Mortification overtook her face as she stuffed the loose gore back inside her. “That’s new.” she said, blushing. “It’s just been skin so far, but I guess it was bound to get worse.” “It’s happening to you too? Well, it’s not as bad as mine, but the pressure of this ordeal clearly afflicts you as well. So, let’s repair the situation before it gets any worse. It’s not too late, you know.” “I think it is.” said Ashley. “It’s time we separate, Clayton. Let’s leave on amicable terms rather than allow ourselves to waste away any further. Heed my words, my former love: cut your losses now. Accept what’s gone and flee before it includes any more.” “Give me one chance. That’s all I ask.” Ashley sighed and turned away. She considered the offer for quite some time before responding. “I’ll grant you one chance.” she said. “Every molecule in my body screams out for me to leave, but the sight of you begging me to stay is too pathetic to ignore. We can try once more, if only to convince you that it’s a losing game.” Though displeased with her reasoning, I accepted the offer. The following days were of an rare blend of peace and discontent. Though we had yet to recover our lost love, we did discover a new era of civility, the likes of which we had not enjoyed in years. But the peace was shortlived. The ceasefire collapsed days later when Ashley complained of my working late, which morphed into a prolonged and exhausting argument. As a result, a long stretch of skin on my side peeled away. The fingernails on Ashley’s left hand popped off, shooting in all directions, one after another. The next day saw a debate over some matter so trivial that I no longer recall the cause. Inconsequential though the issue may have been, it resulted in me vomiting a large squishy lump of unknown material while a torrent of blood flowed from Ashley’s empty eye socket. Our bodies diminished further with each passing day as the petty arguments grew more frequent and venomous. We soon took on the form of two horrid beasts, half-finished creatures marked by a hideous dissymmetry. I came to agree with Ashley that our problems could not be willed away through ignorance. Instead, I suggested we take drastic action. My proposal was a romantic dinner, which I prepared over the course of an entire day. The most extravagant thing I could manage, the meal consisted of every delicacy I could cook as well as several I really couldn’t. Buttered lobster, steak, and expensive wine were the centerpieces of the feast, but chef’s salad, mashed potatoes, and even chocolate mousse made an appearance at the table. With the lights dimmed, I donned my nicest suit and took my seat. Ashley joined me soon after. She drummed her remaining fingers on the table. I scratched at the shedding skin on the back of my neck as I watched her. For a long time, we neither ate nor spoke. At last Ashley broke the silence, startling me with both the sudden sound of her voice and the content of her statement. “You killed my baby.” she said, prodding at the salad with her fork. Her voice sounded dry; her face expressionless. She spoke as if the fact were not only indisputable, but of a casual enough nature to bring up at a fancy dinner date. My mouth hung open. “What?” she said. “You told me this was a chance for us to work things out. So, let’s start with that. You killed my baby. There, I said it. We can stop dancing around it. Now undo it, please.” “You know it can’t be undone.” I said, displeased with my response but too shocked to form any other. “Oh, really?” she said. “Actually, I didn’t know that because you told me we could still fix things. You said it wasn’t too late for us. That can only mean one thing. It means you’re going to unkill my baby.” “Stop saying that.” I said. “What? That you killed my baby? You did. You can’t deny that.” The toes in my left shoe released themselves from my foot. Ashley continued her incessant finger-tapping upon the table. The vibrations shook my body and caused my eye to twitch. I clenched a butterknife in my fist. “The abortion was a joint decision.” I said. “Oh, it was, was it?” laughed Ashley. “So, we were protecting both of our careers? We had to hide it from both of our mothers? Wait, which excuse did we go with again?” “I didn’t make the decision alone.” I declared. “You killed my baby!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she struck a note far above her natural timbre. “Stop saying that! An abortion is not the same as a murder. And you should be glad we never got to see that baby. You should thank me for sparing you that embarrassment.” “The baby was yours.” she said, her voice quaking with rage. “But you don’t know that, do you?” I said. “You can’t know that. Because, for all the hell you’ve given me, you know damned well that you are the one who destroyed our marriage. You are the one who stepped out.” “I made a mistake.” she whispered. “A mistake happens once. And now, thanks to your little slip-up, I live with the heart-wrenching pain of what you did every day of my life, Ashley. It never goes away. You hurt me and you can never unhurt me.” I punctuated this last statement by redoubling my grip upon my fork, resulting in the loss of my fingernails, shoved free of the skin by the pressure. Fuming, I glared at my wife, who was busy pulling a loose strip of flesh from her arm even as her perpetual drumming continued. Click. Click. Click. Tears welled up in the corner of her eye. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” she said. “I may have done something horrible to you and I swear I will regret it till the end of my days, but you can’t sit there and feign innocence. You hurt me too. Again and again you hurt me. You were always busy with your precious work. You never had time for me. I spent years feeling so unloved and unwanted because I pledged myself to you and you didn’t have time for me. That’s why I did it. Because, after being abandoned for so long and after being rejected so many times, I just wanted to feel wanted again. Just for a little bit.” My gaze became fire. “You are nothing but a… whore.” I spat. She remained unfazed. “It was easy, by the way.” she said. “He told me I was pretty. That’s it. That was all it took for him to have me.” She laughed. “Maybe I am a whore. It certainly sounds like it. But you know what? I’m glad I did it. Because I finally got to experience what it’s like when it’s done right. That’s right, Clayton. I finally got fucked right.” I slapped my hand against the table with pure fury, so hard that my entire hand detached, rolling across the table and taking out the baked salmon. “How dare you intensify a suffering you cannot possibly comprehend!” I screamed. “Suffering?” said Ashley. “Suffering is being married to you. You never want to leave the house except to go to work, and I’m honestly quite surprised you bother to come back. I’m left here alone at all hours, desperate for some form of social interaction. A kiss, a compliment, a conversation. I beg and beg on my hands and knees, but you refuse to see me. You won’t take responsibility enough to address my needs and you won’t take me anywhere else to save me from this crushing isolation. Not even for an evening. Not even to show me off for your own benefit. You leave me questioning night after night why I’m so unworthy.” “You don’t deserve to be taken out or shown off. You’re nothing but a common harlot.” I paused in search of an insult severe enough that it could not be taken back. “And you would have made a wretched mother anyway.” “And you are barely man enough to be called a boring, passionless baby-killer.” Ashley’s hair cascaded down from her head. My arm grew loose and stretched towards the floor like taffy before sliding off my shoulder and slipping out of my sleeve. I screamed out, not for pain, of which I felt none, but for the sound of her fingers pounding away at the table, neverending, penetrating my very soul. How I wished that she might lose those fingers next. But she didn’t, and the tapping continued, as did our parade of abuses and accusations, the collapse of our fragile relationship, and the annihilation of our very bodies. The dinner continued in this manner all night, and soon the two piles of body parts on the floor outgrew those resting upon our chairs. After each loss I considered her suggestion; leave now with what little remains. But I could not. I would never give up. Not because I still loved her, but because I knew I was right. In the end, neither of us left the table, opting instead to wile the night away engaged in a battle that could only be won through surrender. We both lost our tongues around the same time and, having lost the ability to speak, it seemed the argument might end at last. But even then, we could not resist the urge to find some means to hurt each other. It became clear in that moment that we were no more. There remained nothing left to save, nothing to gain, and only very little to lose. We went with losing. My body fell away, leaving me to rest upon the table as a pair of eyes and nothing more, my steely gaze fixated firmly upon what was left of my wife. As the last of her fell to pieces there remained but a trio of fingers, connected by a disgusting tangle of bloody nerves and exposed bone. I stared at those fingers, lacking even the features to express my rage. For all of eternity I would hold my ground, glaring at those fingers without a word. And in return they would spend the rest of time tapping upon the table. Click. Click. Click.


Just as she opened the door to leave, she realized that she had almost left home without her sunglasses. Walking back to her bedroom to fetch them, she took one last look at the weather outside. Stormy grey clouds hungrily swallowed every piece of blue in the sky. It's not an ideal day for her to go out, but she has been starving ever since her last meal two nights ago. With her Ray-Bans on, red rain coat, and black rain boots, she made her way out. Who her next meal is did not matter to her; she just needed to feed, and she needed it soon.  "Dude, can you please cover my shift after tomorrow? I have a final exam I gotta study for." asked Greg as he was refilling the coffee machine with milk. On the wall opposite to the counter was a mounted TV that showed breaking news of a guy who was reported missing two nights ago. I caught a phrase or two from the closed captioning. "Body has been found floating in the lake... petrified ... skin as pale as milk. Friends claimed that he was on a Tinder date...red haired girl. Investigations are still ongoing as to what ended Jason's life." I looked back at Greg, and I saw him trying to puppy-eye me into covering his shift. "Listen, kid. I've worked my ass off this week and I need the weekend off. Sorry, but can't do. Now, I gotta ring up that customer". I straightened my name tag, which now says "Brando" since the last letter "n" has failed the test of time. "Bro! It's that blonde chick again! Are you gonna grow a pair and get her number this time?" giggled Greg. Greg doesn't know what he's talking about. I tossed her bait a few times, but she never showed any interest. Were my pick-up lines too cheesy? Maybe my biceps are not big enough for her. Or is it the fact that I am 35 and look like I'm 25 with a patchy beard growing on? Or ... I think she's just playing hard to get. Although, I don't blame her; she does have a lot going on for her. Her blond hair drop down like drapes to her shoulders. Her glossy full lips, the color of cherry-blossom leaves, collected by a chiseled jawline. I'd say that her face has it all, but I can never get a glimpse of her eyes. She is always wearing sunglasses. I am not sure what's more weird: wearing shades indoors, or wearing shades on a rainy day. She left the cold sandwich she picked up on the counter as I approached. "Would you like me to heat up that sandwich?" I asked as I tried to bury any signs of interest under my obligatory smile. She nodded. "Not in the talkative mood today." I thought to myself. I went to toss the ham-n-cheese sandwich into the micro-oven, and set the timer to 60 seconds. 59...58...57... "Ok, here goes my last attempt." I whispered to myself. It has been a year since I last dated anyone, and this rainy weather amplifies my loneliness. I grabbed a napkin and wrote my name and number. "Whoaaaa! I see you making moves buddy!" Greg teased. Trying to keep my features composed, I looked back at him and winked. 3...2..1..Ding! I opened the oven and the scent of melted cheese welcomed itself into my nostrils. I took her sandwich out, wrapped it, and placed it in our 100% recycled "LuLu's Cafe" brown paper bag. Her head was glued to the TV, still showing that news report. I took that opportunity to sneak the napkin in. "That'll be $8.50." "Thank you." she said as she shoved 10 bucks on the counter, grabbed the bag, and zoomed straight off. Her voice was wheezing, dampened by a congested throat. It might be just a cold she caught. As she left the cafe, I noticed her hair again. I could have sworn that it was a few inches shorter and a shade or two darker the other day she came in here. "Shift's over, kiddo. Good luck with that exam." Greg went back into his puppy form, "Please think about covering me after tomorrow." "Yeah, yeah!" I said as I rolled my eyes, took my apron off, and waved him goodbye.  Lightning slithered like snakes in the skies, and the thunder claps shortly followed. It is going to be one wet walk home. As I slammed the front door of my apartment shut, the echoes dispersed in waves towards the living room. "What a week." I sighed. I treated myself to a long, steamy shower, then headed straight to bed. That night, I had a weird nightmare. It started in an ample room with walls, floors, and ceilings all paper-white. There was a girl standing on one corner of the room with her head facing the wall. "Hello!" I called. Yet she was as still as a statue, still facing the wall. I cautiously started walking towards her. "Who are you? Where am I?!" I yelled nervously. Her head was still fixed towards the wall. I moved my hand closer to her shoulder. Closer, and slowly closer. Just as I was a hair away from touching her, she abruptly turned towards me. The whole room went from sheer white to pitch black. My heart skipped a beat as I was trying to fathom what I was seeing. Her face was an empty slate. Where one would have lips, a nose, and eyebrows, she had skin and nothing but pale skin. The only feature that was in its place was her eyes. Big black bold eyes staring right into mine. Her gaze magnetized my head and fixed it towards her. She had no mouth, but her ink-black eyes roared all the words. They spoke of agony that slowly drains the soul out of its body. They spoke of anguish that steals one's breath. They spoke of despair that would make one rather choose death over life. "No! No, no, no!" I screeched.  ...  "NO!" My eyes opened wide as a pool of sweat traced my body on my sheets. "What a weird nightmare." I thought to myself. I was face up on my bed, staring at the ceiling trying to make sense of that dream. My phone then pinged and I looked at the text. "Hey Brando ;)" Given how she spelled my name, I knew it was the blonde girl from the cafe. "Hey, good morning. I never got your name." "Oh. Excuse my manners. It's Karen." "Beautiful name. Would you like to go grab coffee sometime today? I have the day off." "I'd love to but I'm feeling under the weather lately. Is it too forward to ask you to come over for a coffee?" Ah. It's that kind of date, then. Well, it's been weeks since I've gotten any. Wouldn't mind if I did! "Sure, I'd love to. Drop a pin and I'll be over in a few hours." I ordered an Uber while I showered, then slipped into jeans and a polo shirt. As soon as my Uber dropped me off, I got a text from Greg, "Have you thought about covering my shift tomorrow? I seriously need to ace that exam!" This darn kid. He's breaking my heart. "Fine! You owe me! Btw, at the blonde chick's place. I'll tell ya all about it next time I see you at work." I replied. "Whoaaa! Look at you! " I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Alright. 5th floor. Apartment 5C." I approached the elevator.  OUT OF ORDER.  Great! Stairs it is. I groped my pockets to make sure that the condoms were in there. As soon as my feet landed on the 5th floor, the door to apartment 5C creaked opened. "Come on in! I'll be with you in a sec!" I heard Karen say. Her voice still wheezing. I looked around her apartment. She has an odd collection of antiques that I can swear date back to 400 years ago. A set of urns on top of her fireplace. Five ragged dolls stacked on a shelf. A collection of wigs displayed on a book shelf: one brunette, one red, and one blond. I helped myself sitting on her antique French couch, a little too stiff for my taste. She popped out of the kitchen and handed me a cup of coffee. I got to see her eyes for the first time, but the sight of them seemed familiar. I sipped my coffee as I kept admiring her eyes. Protected by long, wavy lashes. The color of a moonless night. I tried to not stare too much, but I was paralyzed. Actually, I was trying to look away now, but I was unable. My whole body has been paralyzed. Her gaze held me there for 3 minutes, and she never blinked. Not even once. "They say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. Look at me, let me see your soul. Let me feed on it. Let me drain the life out of you." My grip on the coffee cup loosened, and it dropped to the ground shattering to pieces. That broke her eye contact and restored my mobility. I need to get out of here! She abruptly grabbed a shard of the cup, and stabbed me in the chest. Laying on the floor, she locked her gaze on me again. My eyes involuntarily gushed with sanguine blood. The air around be became more viscous. It struggled to find its way to my lungs. Gasping, my vision slowly started turning black. "Now, time to get rid of this body." she said with a wide grin.


The Peace Revivors were down to their last soldier, but anybody still alive would agree it was a lost cause. Even he himself knew that the hopeful were fools. It wasn’t the total anarchy that killed their leader, but the excessive pollution. The former leader, a strong woman from what used to be Australia, was weakened by her asthma and inability to breathe from the waste in the air that the wars had caused, ironically. How she survived so long with asthma while those with stronger lungs perished, those who believed in God may have said it was His work. But, if alive, they certainly don’t believe anymore. But he tried, if only to give him the strength to not lay in the open clearing, with lead fire raining upon it. Instead, he ran from the bullets, narrowly escaping into a dead woods, a cave nearby. He knew it was only a temporary rest. He knew full well that they would come for him soon. That he shouldn’t be in a cave with no other escape besides the one behind him, but he stayed nonetheless. As he sat against a cave wall, he sobbed quietly into his hands. Well, tried to. His tears wouldn’t even fall anymore; he was too dehydrated. Nevertheless, his chest heaved, his body ached, and his throat and eyes yearned for clean water that he hadn’t had in a very long time. He cursed God as he pulled his head up, looking at the ceiling, to find spikes, dripping filthy water down onto the cave floor. Upon further inspection, those weren’t spikes. And that wasn’t water. They were bodies, corpses somehow suspended by their throats, thick ropes hanging from the stone, wrapping around their necks like snakes. Blood came from open wounds on their skin; he knew some were recent. He turned his head away from the gruesome sight. He groaned in frustrating grief, wondering how many of his old teammates, friends, family were hanging from the top of the cave. “If they were killed by anyone but their own hand, they would be full of lead.” The sickening thought struck his brain like the bullets he wished would have pierced him in the field. He looked back up, but it looked a little different, as one may say. The sight before was truly sickening, yes, but this was infinitely more terrifying. They were no longer lifeless, not even emotionally; far from it. They were grinning, bright, blue eyes boring into his cold, dead ones, bloodshot from lack of sleep and hydration. “Come die with us.” It sounded like a thousand voices, and yet none of their mouths moved. They just kept staring, grinning, almost cartoonishly. “I… Can’t.” He croaked. He hadn’t spoken in a while; his voice came out hoarse. “I have responsibilities, a world to save.” He knew that was a lie, the world was taken long ago. The animals were dead, and the plants were brown and dry. Deserts littered what used to be rainforests. He swallowed, his throat looking for something, anything to relieve the pain it felt. None was given; it felt like he was swallowing sand, the taste of metal between his cheeks. Never moved, their pupils turned into black birds, flying from their widening eyes, like the silhouettes of fowl, free against the sun and beautiful, blue sky he missed so much. They darted between trees, soaring almost idly, like it was something they’ve always done. Like something they’ll always do. The voices spoke again, this time sounding much more soothing, like a mother’s heartbeat against her newborn’s ear. It was water against his parched throat. “Come fly with us.