“You met anybody worthwhile lately?” Claire’s friend asked her. “You’re out there on all the apps, aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘out there.’ More like hanging back, but potentially curious,” said Claire. “Okay, so anyone you’re potentially curious about?” “I don’t know. It seems like something weird is going on in cyberspace,” said Claire with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter if I’m on Bumble or Tinder or Match. All the guys they show me are fixated on red meat. They make a point to say they love steak or eating a whole side of ribs.” “Your profile says you’re vegetarian, right?” asked Claire’s friend. “Yeah, I even say it’s important to me. But all I get is this lineup of Neanderthals who want to cook up a kill.” “Maybe you should pick one you like and give him a try. You never know. A lot of guys don’t think about what they’re eating. If you educate them, they might be willing to make a change for the right girl.” “Yeah, I guess,” replied Claire skeptically. “Kinda seems like getting off on the wrong foot though.” “You’re not committing to marry anyone. You’re just meeting up and seeing where it goes.” “Okay, you’re right. And, like you said, there’s always the chance he’ll change.” Claire and her friend scrolled through one of her accounts until they agreed on someone worth investigating. Claire sent him a message. Meanwhile, the guy she picked, Winston, was on the other side of town talking to one of his friends. They were complaining about their lack of success with dating apps. “I don’t know what it is, but it seems like all my potential girls are these militant vegans or vegetarians,” said Winston. “You didn’t check a wrong box or something?” asked Winston’s friend. “No, not possible. I even talk in my profile about my favorite barbecue. Something’s messed up.” Winston’s friend made a dismissive gesture. “So why are you so worried about what they eat?” “Think about the first time we meet and have dinner or something. She’ll be looking at me thinking, ‘How can he eat something with parents,’ and I’ll be looking at her thinking, ‘You have no idea what you’re missing, rabbit.’” Winston’s friend answered with a long, “Nah.” “For a lot of girls, being a vegan is just a phase. They see some actor doing it and they want to do it too. All it takes is for someone to come along and snap them out of it, and just like that, they’re back to eating bacon.” “Yeah, I guess I could be the one to snap them back,” said Winston. “What do you have to lose? Pick one you think you can convert.” Winston picked up his phone and saw the message from Claire. “Here’s someone who just messaged me,” he said, holding up his phone so his friend could get a look at Claire’s picture. Winston’s friend nodded his approval and said, “I could definitely see her eating a steak. Go for it.” Winston chuckled and composed what was supposed to be a charming reply message. After some back and forth on their phones, Claire and Winston decided to meet in a park next to one of Austin’s many lakes. The plan was to walk around the lake for a bit and then decide on where to go for dinner. Built into the plan was an easy escape hatch for both of them. If they felt like things were not going well, one of them could simply say they were not hungry or that they had made some unexpected evening plans with other friends. On the evening of their meetup, Claire wore a cute summer dress with matching shoes. She put a lot of thought into picking the shoes. She wanted them to be comfortable enough for plenty of walking but formal enough so it did not look like she viewed the meetup like a trip to the gym. Winston debated within himself whether or not he should wear shorts. Eventually he put on some slacks and a shirt. It was an outfit he would describe as business casual, as he tried to walk the line between looking too eager and too standoffish. It was a warm, late summer evening. Gold reflections sparkled from the lake where Claire and Winston were supposed to meet. They immediately recognized each other at a fountain in the nearby park. “You look really nice,” Winston said to Claire. “So do you,” she replied. Both were sincere with their compliments. They naturally gravitated toward the lake and chatted easily as they strolled. Winston asked about Claire’s job and found out they both worked in human resources for tech companies. Claire asked about hobbies and free time. “I’m not sure it qualifies as a hobby, but I’m very slowly renovating my house,” said Winston. “Well, renovating may be too strong of a word. It’s more like a bunch of do-it-yourself projects strung together.” “Ha, me too,” said Claire. “I’m doing bathroom tile right now.” “Ah tile,” replied Winston with a sympathetic laugh. “The smaller they are, the harder to keep them straight.” “Totally. I wish I would have started with bigger squares. But I don’t want you to think that I’m laying tile day and night. I’m a lot happier binge watching some show.” Winston chuckled and said, “Hey, same here. Seen anything good lately?” They compared their viewing histories and found they had remarkably similar tastes. When Winston recommended a few things she had not seen, Claire fully intended to investigate them. After a mile of walking, Winston and Claire were already making self-deprecating jokes. The walls typically in place when meeting a potential romantic partner had already cracked and fallen. In the back of their minds, both were thinking that the computer algorithm which had matched them up, had to be on to something. It was almost spooky. Winston was eager to move to the next phase in their plan. “So I’m still up for dinner if you are,” he said to Claire. “Definitely,” she replied. She already felt like she could speak pretty openly with Winston. “We just need to pick a place. So your profile talked a lot about barbecue. Are you one of those guys who has to have a big piece of meat for every meal?” Winston laughed and did not take Claire’s question as an attack. “I don’t think I *have to* eat lots of meat. But if I think about it, yeah, I guess most of my meals have some kind of meat in them. What about you? I know you’re a vegetarian but does that mean you can’t stand the sight of a chicken bone?” Claire laughed in return. “I’m not sure that’s a very practical way to live.” “And you’re not leading anti-cow rallies?” asked Winston with a grin. “I’m pro-cow, just not for dinner.” “I’ve heard of some vegetarians where their rules depended on the day of the week. Like they would only eat meat on the weekends. Or they would only eat chicken on days that had an R in them.” Claire took Winston’s gentle teasing in stride. “No, I’m in it for seven days of the week.” “And you’re sure it’s not a quick fad? Have you been into it for longer than a month?” “Three years, so far,” said Claire. “But it’s not like we can’t choose a restaurant that we both will like. These days, almost everyone has some vegetarian options.” “That’s true,” replied Winston with a grin. “I know a steakhouse you’re going to absolutely love.” Claire replied with a sarcastic, “Ha, ha.” Then she had an unexpected idea. It was something she only brought up because she felt so oddly comfortable with Winston. “This is going to sound crazy, but have you heard about those at ?” “Yeah, I think so,” said Winston. “Fast food is not my idea of a great meal, but I’ve been really curious to try those burgers. They’re supposed to taste like beef but be totally plant based. I’d love to hear the opinion of a meat expert.” Winston shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I’m up for it. But remember this is your idea. I wanted to go somewhere really expensive.” They both laughed about the idea as they walked back to their cars. Claire kept thinking that she could prove to Winston he did not need real meat in every meal. At the same time, Winston was thinking that he was quite sure he could tell the difference between a cow burger and a plant burger. But he was also hoping it tasted just enough like the real thing that it would trigger Claire’s food memory. It might be enough to knock her off the wagon, or get her back on the wagon, whichever way he wanted to use the analogy. The pair drove separately to the nearest Burger King. “I knew I should have worn shorts,” said Winston as he held the door open for Claire. “You have to at least let me pay since you got to choose the place.” “We’ll probably be talking about this for a long time,” joked Claire. She used her phone to snap a picture of the store’s interior, just in case it proved to be a milestone location. “We’ll take two Impossible Burgers,” said Winston, when they reached the counter. “You wanna make that a meal?” asked the Burger King employee. “Sure, we’re sparing no expense tonight,” said Winston. “Bring out your best fries and drinks.” When they had their trays of food, Winston and Claire found an open corner table and sat down across from each other. As they unwrapped their Impossible Burgers, Winston said, “Okay, here’s to your grand experiment.” Claire was the first to bite into her burger. The patty was not like the usual veggie burger patties she was used to. It looked like actual ground beef instead of a combination of soybeans and vegetables. It also had the chewy texture of real hamburger. And the taste instantly took her back three years to a backyard grill. She pictured her family. Her dad was flipping sizzling hamburger circles. She could smell the smoke rising from juicy meat. Claire casually said to Winston, “Pretty good. What do you think?” Winston was several bites into his burger. It did not taste 100% like the real thing, but it was surprisingly close. He nodded his head approvingly and dipped his fries in catchup. “I don’t really get the point when you’ve got meat right there next to it,” said Winston, “but I admit it’s pretty decent.” “If you were blindfolded, could you tell the difference between that and the real thing?” asked Claire. “Yes, if it was before drinking any beer,” replied a chuckling Winston. “After a few beers, probably not.” Claire and Winston happily finished their burgers and then their fries. They sat at their table discussing their little food experiment and then the conversation turned back to TV shows and funny office politics in their respective human resources departments. They each returned to the soda fountain for drink refills. There was mutual agreement that the first meeting had gone very well, although both were surprised they had ended up in a Burger King. Before they said goodbye, they agreed they would definitely have to get together again. They left the details sketchy. It would probably be the next weekend and involve a nicer restaurant. And they would only need one car. Messages would be exchanged to set it all up. Claire returned home excited about Winston. As it got later and she was preparing to sleep, she was thinking less about Winston and more about the Impossible Burger. She was not usually a person to have food cravings, but the taste kept returning. She stayed awake thinking about it and even contemplated getting dressed and finding a late-night Burger King drive-thru. The next day, Claire was back at Burger King for lunch. She ordered another Impossible Burger and kept asking herself whether it truly tasted like a real hamburger. She was alone but she looked around the restaurant to make sure no one she knew was watching. She had already started the experiment, what was the harm in taking it a tiny bit further? She snuck up to the counter and ordered a regular hamburger. Claire nibbled the hamburger at first. The taste was similar to the Impossible Burger but there was something wonderfully satisfying about the meat. She could not understand the craving. It came from a place deep inside. She finished the real burger. As for Winston, the day after their date, he was still thinking a lot about Claire. He was also thinking about his Impossible Burger. Before eating it for dinner, he had a very light breakfast and lunch. He realized he had not had any kind of meat for 24 hours. He felt surprisingly energetic and somehow lighter. Was he feeling excitement over meeting Claire or was it related to what he had eaten? Since he had started Claire’s little experiment, he figured he might as well keep it up a little longer. He, too, returned to a Burger King for another Impossible Burger for lunch. He enjoyed it the second time and his energized feeling continued. He decided to try a few more changes to his diet. After all, there were now lots of ways to add some variety without sacrificing taste. By two weeks after the Impossible Burger meetup, Claire had rediscovered more than hamburger. She had eaten a delicious chicken sandwich, dry-rubbed barbecue, and bacon on a sandwich. At the same time, Winston had tried different kinds of veggie patties. As Claire had said, most restaurants offered vegetarian friendly items and he found himself ordering from that selection. He was sure that he felt lighter, healthier, and more alert. The much anticipated second date never materialized. First Claire was busy and then something unexpected came up and Winston had to cancel. The real truth, however, was that they felt a little hypocritical and were afraid of hearing, “I told you so,” from the other person. They had both changed their profiles on the dating apps. Claire’s profile now read that she was “rediscovering steak.” Winston listed himself as being “fueled by plant-based protein.


The old man across the table looked ancient. Not ancient in the way most old people are. His eyes were old. Forever. The only wrinkles he contained were confined to the corners of his eyes. It was as if his body never aged, but his eyes had existed before the beginning of time. Of course, if he’s to be believed, then that very well might be the case. “Immortal”, he said. “As old as the earth itself and probably wiser”. Making eye contact is always difficult, but looking in this man’s eyes was like staring into a bottomless well. It felt soul-sucking. Empty and infinite. Yet, I knew there would be something at the bottom. Something foul and gruesome while also life-giving. Wells were like that. You think of a well and you think deep disgusting pit with bones at the bottom. But wells gave water. They gave life. They provided when other sources didn’t. In that way, wells were both life and death. Just like this man. “Being immortal isn’t what you think it is. No one thinks about the passing of days. Imagine your longest, most boring day. Imagine the days you’ve lived. Can you count them all? I lost track many decades ago. I aged with technology, with advancements and with knowledge. Before there was anything, I was there. After there is nothing, I imagine I will still be there”. He leaned back in his chair. His back groaned as loud as the wooden supports. “I’ve witnessed it all. Even the small things. I’ve witnessed the creation of great monuments. I’ve witnessed the crying of a mother that has lost her child. I witnessed the first murder. I’ve witnessed the creation of greater weapons, and as a byproduct I’ve witnessed the creation of greater murders. I witnessed nukes, bombs, guns and war. Soldiers shot, crying in the dirt as they slowly realize they will not be making it out alive”. There’s pain in his voice, but not a sharp pain. Not a pain of fresh feelings. It’s a resigned pain. There’s no tears, hardly emotion. His eyes are as empty as when we first spoke. I visited this man every Sunday, my one day off. “No one thinks about how you lose everyone. How you watch people age and die and birth again. The cycle of man, of animal, of nature. How can you grow attached to something you know will end soon?” Weeks go by and I continue speaking to the man. He never seems to age a day. “People ask what I am. Who I am. My answer is always the same. I am. I am existence, I am pain, I am desperation. That feeling you get when you lose your best friend, your dear mother, your loved one. That anxiety of impending doom, when all is too well. I am what hides in the dark corners, where you see a shape shifting about.” The restaurant we met at weekly got sold 7 years after meeting the man. 10 years after that, it shut down. “With every wrong, there is a right. With every dark, there is light. This seems cliché, but clichés stick around for a reason. They work. They’re proven. Duality is a strong factor in our lives. I am existence, I am hope, I am grace. I am the first flower of spring. I am the newborn cry, shocked by the first breath in a world of chaos. I am that feeling of calm on a rainy day.” I married, I had kids, my kids had kids. He’s seen them all, but never more than once. “In this way, I am eternal. In all these ways, I have always been and always will be. This doesn’t make me a god; I am no more than any average man. The only difference is I’ve existed far longer. I’ve seen the world and what it has to offer. There’s no good or bad, fair or unfair. There is no light or dark, no duality. As I’ve lived, I’ve realized there is no Yin and Yang. Only existence. Only experiences.” My wife has passed. He didn’t attend the funeral. We never spoke about it, but he was fully aware of everything that happened in my life. I lied in my bed, growing ever sicker. He started visiting my room every Sunday, sitting beside me. “I have no answers, only questions. But as I’ve lived, I’ve come to terms with never receiving any answers. Answers are not a part of our existence. This world offers only questions, like an unresolved mystery. A cold case murder. D.B. Cooper, the Zodiac Killer, all mysterious. Their identities, sure, but also what compelled them to act in the ways they did. Human beings killing other human beings. Man against man, woman against woman. Finding differences to rationalize their prejudice. “ “Is life futile? Does our presence on this earth even matter? Nobody leaves a lasting impact, at least not one that matters once everyone has long gone. When the earth is nothing but a speck of dust in the cosmos, will what you have done matter? Because of this question, why worry? Why hate, why loathe, why grow distaste knowing that ultimately it doesn’t matter. Humans create their own reason, their own purpose. I’ve created my own purpose, though I’m not sure what that might be anymore.” “We make and lose friends, lovers, family. We watch them grow and fade. After they’re gone, do they truly matter? Our scope is limited. The random person on the other side of the world never comes into our existence. You shall never know the life of a stranger. Does that bother you? Does that not keep you up at night, to know you cannot physically experience everything, everyone, all at once?” “But on the other side of the coin, even if we do not truly matter, this is our experience. We care. To care is to love and to hate. I love the people around me, and I hate what they do. I love you, and I hate to see you leave. There’s something odd, something terrifying, about watching someone you love leave. We may think we’ll see them again, we may hope there’s another side, but are you certain? All that’s guaranteed is that everyone will leave.” “I have no answers, and it’s the most unsatisfying feeling that could possibly be felt. Only wondering. Endless searching has given us psychology and an understanding but that’s not an answer. It has only generated more questions. Why do we dream? What’s the voice in our head? Why do some people have more than one?” I pass away, lying next to him. I could’ve sworn he held my hand in my final moments. I cannot say whether there is another side, but I can say that this man will never see it. That unresolved feeling will be with him forever. He never cried, never shed a tear. He moved on, used to the fact that people left. But he did grow attached. It’s impossible not to. How do you know someone so deeply and not care for them? Then again, how do you not care for someone knowing they are like you? This man gave me many questions, and very few answers. He had none. I wish I could have given him some comfort. Maybe I did. He wanders into a large coffee chain which had replaced the family-owned restaurant that was there before. He will never find answers. But at least he had a moment of hope with me. That is the greatest gift I will have ever given.


The stage lights illuminated the empty pulpit in the chancel of Hartstown First Methodist. The chapel was small, cramped even when only seating about 60 people on a given Sunday, though Matthew Semple might have killed for a house that full. He had been the resident priest for the last five years, but tonight he sat as the lone parishioner of the church, his knees crammed against the backing of the first row of pews. He imagined the service as it would play out on Sunday. The hymns, the sermon, the announcements about who’s grandson had made the varsity football team and when the quilting club would be meeting the following Thursday. Just the thought of it made him feel drowsy. As he stood from the pew, Matthew’s eye was drawn to the stained-glass mural, faded by a thin layer of dust and the dark night outside. Rain on the window pooled around the ridged edges of christ’s eyes and a flash of lightning revealed a spider who had made its home in the high corner of the window just above Christ’s corona. He probably should have gone downstairs to the supply closet to grab the duster, but he waved it off, feeling too tired to do much of anything. Matthew side stepped from between the pews, the roaring sound of the storm swelled and the door to the foyer groaned open. Squeaky flat-footed steps crossed the tiles towards the doors to the chapel and the door swung open. A man stood in the darkness at the back of the chapel like a shadow within a shadow. He wore black from head to toe, the hood of his sweater hung over his face and rainwater formed pools on the carpet surrounding his black engineer’s boots. A gym bag slung across the man’s chest. In Matthew’s mind, impending violence played on a loop, a gun, a knife maybe, pulled from the gym bag, the squelch of wet footsteps across carpet, then blood and darkness, and then nothing at all. Matthew’s voice clung to the back of his throat *caught in a spider’s web*, he thought to himself. “Ca-can I help you?” They almost weren’t even words but stuttering little breaths. The figure flung back his hood and the atmosphere of the room dipped back to sustainable levels. A small grin broke across Matthew’s face. “Alex? Alex Lawson?” “Hello, Mr.Semple.” Alex spoke in a deep soft monotone that buzzed throughout the chapel. “I need to speak with you.” Four years ago, just as Matthew had become accustomed to the flock which he led, the Lawsons had arrived. There was Dean, Alex’s father, a blue-collar man who Matthew had found to be mostly inconvenienced to be brought to church. Sarah was a staple in the community, and it had been a tragic blow to the congregation when she’d left town only two years after she’d first arrived. Then, there was Alex, a slender, brunette child, maybe a little hyperactive and spoiled but no more so than any other child in the congregation. Hartstown, being the small place that it is, made an event of every newcomer, and on the first day that the family had come to Matthew’s church it had been all that anyone in the congregation could talk about. The talking only got worse when Mr. Lawson made fewer appearances at the Sunday service and more appearances at the town’s other rumor mill, The Fifth Circle Lounge. After Sarah left, Alex stopped coming to church too and the town moved on to the next hot topic of the month. Whenever a story came up now that involved something that Sarah had pioneered, like the quilting club, the occasional “that poor woman” or “I just can’t understand how she could leave that boy with him” would be spoken and promptly glossed over. The Alex that stood before him now was an entirely different creature, teetering on the edge of adulthood, his shoulders were wide and tapered fashionably into his slender but muscular form. Perhaps it was just the clothing or the situation, but Alex had a dark disposition that Matthew thought probably did well with the ladies. His hair was cropped short on the sides and the rain slicked his bang into a curl that wrapped around his eye like a scar. His face was boyish and seemed unfitting to the rest of his body. “Of course.” Matthew said, his grin growing wider. “Would you like some tea?” The tea kettle whistled in the kitchenette of the rec room, just as Alex was stepping out of the bathroom, donning clothes from the charity pile. Matthew made a note that they would need to be washed one last time before he drove the donations to the goodwill on Thursday. Matthew passed Alex a mug and they raised in a wordless toast before drinking. “Thanks,” Alex said, setting down the ceramic mug and locking his eyes on the vinyl of the kitchenette’s countertop. “My mother always said that you were very kind to her.” Matthew and Alex sat in silence for a few minutes, outside the rain fell with no signs of letting up. Alex nursed little sips of the tea and fumbled with an extra sugar in the raw packet in his hand. Matthew leaned back in his chair, the plastic backing tightened and made a little squeak against his heft. “Is that so?” “Yes,” Alex said. “It seemed like you too got to know each other pretty well when…” The words fell off the face of the earth, Alex pinched the sugar into one end of the packet and twisted the empty side into a spiral shape until it seemed like the packet might burst. “I’ve always made it a point to speak with each member of my congregation.” “Did she tell you about my dad?” Alex asked, he stole a glance at Matthew’s face as he spoke. “No, but I knew. I just wish that I could have helped her more.” Matthew took a sip from his coffee. Alex sat up straight, unfurling the sugar packet and setting it on the table. “Do you know where she is?” Matthew leaned forward exhaling deeply, He leaned in close and looked deep into Alex until Alex met his gaze. Alex’s eyes widened, he looked down at the floor and pulled the gym bag on to the table. He opened one of the side pockets and removed several slips of paper. “I started getting these letters a few weeks ago. She wants me to live with her, she told me to talk to you.” Alex passed over the letters to Matthew, who flipped through them each, not reading each line carefully, but rather absorbing the messages the way one does when they first see a striking painting. Matthew set the pages down, exhaling as if he were returning to his body after some deep meditation. Alex’s eyes burned like swords of fire. Matthew could feel his intensity even though he’d yet to look back. “I can take you to her.” Matthew said. “But you may not like what you see.” … Alex had fallen asleep as they drove down the 11. It was dark, tall oaks whirred past them only as shadowy figures their tips illuminated by the moon. On the radio Linda Ronstadt sang softly about the Blue Bayou. *It could have gone worse.* Matthew thought to himself, sneaking looks at Alex’s sleeping form in between watching the road. The way it had been with Sarah, Alex’s mother, that was worse. The blood, oh god! Matthew thought that it would be like cleaning a cup of spilled milk, nothing to cry over, but the task had been so much more than that. Then there were the letters, it had been so hard for her to write them knowing what Matthew would do to her and to Alex. Matthew had been worried when the boy first showed up, it was a risk after all, having him come to the church, but everything seemed to have worked perfectly. The letters were all accounted for, he could torch them in the cabin’s fireplace when they arrived. The cover of night had helped immensely as well as the sprinkle of Benadryl in the tea. Yes, it was much better than how things had gone with Sarah, Alex’s mother. Matthew had almost felt bad enough to let her go by the end of it, almost. He didn’t even want her. That was the thing he realized in the aftermath of the event. She’d just been too eager to please, too eager to get away from that drunken idiot she called a husband, when Matthew had seen the bruised skin under her blouse, he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d saved her, and then he realized that Alex needed saving too. Matthew’s eyes felt heavy, but he was too excited to sleep. He looked over at Alex, his face was lit by the blue lights of the truck’s radio. He looked, Matthew thought, like a cadaver or maybe a ghost. Matthew pulled one hand off the steering wheel and reached for Alex’s face. He was close, so close he could feel the heat of Alex’s breath as it rushed out of his nose. Matthew put his hand back on the steering wheel and drove on.


“My chest hurts” I tell the doctor. “It feels like something is trying to escape”. “Hmm... I’m not seeing anything. I don’t hear or feel anything. Without any more symptoms, I’m afraid I can’t help. Hopefully it goes away on its own”. I go through life with this pain. It comes in waves. Some days I hardly notice it, other days it’s unbearable and I can’t do anything but lie in bed. This heavy feeling, like I’m being suffocated, is torturous. I feel it moving inside my body. I swear I’ve seen something push against my chest. Doctors never find anything no matter how many tests they do. Some say it’s even in my head. Walking the halls of school feels terrible. It feels like everyone can see the pain and yet no one sees me at all. I feel invisible and yet entirely exposed. My grades slip. They don’t take ‘chest parasite’ as an excuse though. “You just need more focus. If you would actually pay attention and do the work, you would excel just like you used to”. I used to do amazing. I used to have straight A’s in everything. I used to be motivated and hopeful. I had things I aspired to do. But this pain is so distracting. This pressure and choking feeling make it difficult to focus on anything. The worst part is, I don’t think it’s just a chest parasite. I think it truly is a living creature that grows. I think it controls my choices and actions. I find that sometimes, this creature makes bad decisions for me. I feel like everyone can see it and it upsets people so I stop going out as much. I tell my mom this and she shrugs it off. It’s always shrugged off. It’s no big deal to her, and I don’t even talk to dad. He’d just say I need to man up. But it’s inside me, eating away. I feel it, I hear it, I know it’s there. My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday. I kept trying to tell her about the parasite but she couldn’t see it. She said I changed, that I was exhausting and a burden. At least that’s what I heard. Why couldn’t she see the parasite? It feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. It constricts my heart, creating bizarre rhythms that feel like a heart attack waiting to happen. I can’t control how exhausting I am, so I guess I’ll stay at home more. I won’t bother finding another girlfriend or making new friends. The old ones left; I became too much of a drain to be around. One night, lying in bed, I feel it move inside me. It likes to remain hidden, make everyone see me as insane. But it tortures me. It plays with me. I watch as it moves in my chest, a small bump sliding under my skin. It moves down my stomach and to my thighs. I feel a sharp slice as a gash appears. I never see the parasite, but it just cut me. It opened me up in a thin red ribbon. It knows, no one will see this. It knows I won’t show anyone. They all think I’m crazy, so why bother. It does another cut. It hurts, but it almost feels good. Sometimes it turns my emotions off, makes me numb. It’s allowing me to feel this pain and I almost enjoy feeling something. I wear pants the next week. I decide to hide the parasite, pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t speak to anyone anymore. I feel insane, how can someone not notice a creature living inside of me. I have no friends; my ex-girlfriend has blocked me. My teachers have stopped trying to get me to participate. I go home and lie in bed. I don’t sleep. I just stare at the ceiling, thinking through my choices in life. The parasite grows bigger, clutching my heart and lungs. Sometimes I can’t breathe. I almost enjoy the ritual of it slicing my legs and arms. It feels normal. I feel like I can finally see it. No one else does. I stand on a bridge. The water cools the air to an almost painful temperature but I hardly notice. I only notice the pain. The parasite hasn’t let go of my heart in 3 days now. It hurts. I would cry, but I can’t. I feel empty. There’s only one way to end this pain, one way to escape. I’ve written a note, letting my parents know that the parasite finally got me. I feel almost happy. I’m excited to not feel this pain in my chest, my brain, my stomach anymore. I’m confused though. The parasite seems almost happy too. Like this is what it wants. Like this is what it’s been pushing me to do for so long. No matter, as it’s finally time to end the parasite. I’ve been invisible my whole life. No one saw the parasite, no one realized the pain even when I tried to explain it. No one realized that the reason I was so exhausting as a person was that I felt so much pain all the time from this parasite. No one realized that the reason I never hung out with them wasn’t because I hated them, but because I hated myself. Maybe the parasite isn’t real. It felt real to me but I was told it’s in my head. I tried exercise, I tried dieting, I tried going outside and socializing. Just like my dad told me. It didn’t work. It helped, but the parasite stayed there, holding on. I jump. The parasite finally lets go of my heart. I finally can breathe again.


The restaurant in question rode the line between fast food and a proper sit down experience, but the quality of the food was unquestionably delicious. Ash had decided to stop by Dale's Deal Diner on the way home from work for a change of pace. Rhea normally brought her dinner, but she wanted to spare her "inn mate" (just up the hall) from cooking just once. The Triple D (as it was often called) had advertised a special menu for tonight featuring local produce, including opportunities to buy said produce fresh. The new menu items featured avocados, pickles, sweet potatoes, and some more exotic vegetables that she knew came from far away. It left her questioning if vegetables brought over from a dead world could be considered imports. All the same, she'd included sweet potato fries and avocado burgers in her takeout order, anticipating that those would go over well with her group. She was particularly looking forward to the sweet potatoes, if only to further her running joke of being an egregiously orange person, but she didn't doubt that they'd taste good too. While she was waiting at the counter, she was about to ask about the origin of the produce promotion when a familiar voice called out to her. "Asherah?" She turned around to see a fluffy creature with a green body and a red head festooned with a small chef's hat waddle out of the kitchen doors. "Watenou?" she asked, stuffing down several sources of confusion. "What are you doing here?" The Gremelon leader adjusted his hat. "Supplying the ingredients for a special event," he said. "Yes, before you ask, all of the produce on tonight's menu is Gremelon-grown." "That's not really surprising, but are you cooking the new recipes too?" Ash knew that the Gremelons were avid gardeners and farmers, but she was less certain about their culinary skills. "Cooking some, assisting with others," Watenou said. "Burgers and other meats are still handled by the regular chefs. However, I am seasoning the new vegetarian options and guiding the kitchen with our more... different offerings." A beat passed. "You ordered the sweet potato fries, did you not? I think you'll like the blend I chose for them." "I'm, uh, looking forward to it," Ash replied. "It's not every day you experience food cooked by a fuzzy guy with what would be advanced degree in several natural sciences." Watenou grinned and puffed his chest out, one snaggletooth showing. "I believe there are fewer greater honors in life than escorting the literal fruits and vegetables of one's labor from farm to table." "That sounds very... what do they call it? On brand for you," Ash said, smiling for the first time in the whole exchange and finally shoving aside the thoughts of the planet she once shared with the Gremelon leader. "I take it that's a compliment?" Watenou gave a short chuckle. "And I take it you'll be at next Saturday's farmer's market at Canteloop?" "Of course, of course. Rhea loved the barklogs you sold her at the last one." Ash's gaze averted as she remembered the strange veggie; it looked like a cucumber but it had a woody, almost nutty texture and flavor beyond the skin, which supposedly gave it its name. "Perhaps I ought to give your rabbit-eared friend some recipes from the 'old world' as well," Watenou mused, tapping what would have been his chin. "What better way to keep them alive?" "Oh gosh, you're right!" Ash felt astounded that she hadn't thought about that sooner. "We can post them on the NexusNet too!" "I like the sound of that," Watenou said, nodding. "I am curious to see what twists they would take as they went across the Akatasphere." "Order 21 for Cole!" "That's my cue." Ash scooped up the bag. "I'd better get these back to Rhea and Khiro before they get cold. See you at the farmer's market!" "Khiro? Ah, yes, the cat man. Her significant other. I've never seen someone eat a salad with that sort of gusto." Watenou waved a paw in farewell. "I'll gather my favorite recipes for our next stream on the NexusNet. Until then!" As Ash left the diner, she couldn't help but feel buoyed by the notion of preserving more than just stories from a world long gone. Food and recipes were a part of culture, and those who would enjoy the next postings would understand just a bit more of like was life on Aylith before the end. It made sense that Watenou, devoted to preserving nature, would carry along the lost world's culture as well.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** **Additional Questions this Week:** - **How do you approach topics you’re not familiar with or used to writing about? How do you approach *genres* you’re unfamiliar with?** - **Is it difficult for you to write about new things? Are you comfortable writing outside what you’re best at or known for?** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


Keith liked to watch the fish. To see them shoot through the water like silver bullets was always captivating. Their streamline forms so elegant and beautiful, the water parting before them with a graceful bow as they twirled and danced in their private watery world. To be admired such as these fish was Keith’s dream. Sadly, Keith could never be on the receiving end of such admiration and desire. How could he? Keith is a banana. A lowly, rather typical, dull, banana. There was nothing special about Keith, and he knew it. He was much the same as any of the other bananas in his bunch where they sat squarely in a wicker basket in the food court. The only thing to set him apart was his rather peculiar dream of becoming a fish. Or at least to be seen as a thing of beauty much in the same way he saw those wonderful fish. To be craved and envied as much as those slippery angels that torment him with their lustrous figures and tantalising performances. He’d watch their lithe bodies dart back and forth, envying their grace and slender frames compared to his sluggish rounded curves. The other bananas didn’t seem to care much for the fish, or of anything at all for that matter. They didn’t spend their days longing to be something they weren’t, something they never would be. They didn’t do a whole lot of anything, Keith thought. They just sit there in silence, blissfully unaware of the magnificent splendour taking place right in front of them. Oh how they were missing out on nature at its finest. This was a good thing, Keith thought. It was a good thing that he was the only one capable of appreciating the finer things the world has to offer. It contented him to know that the spectacles of the fish were for him and him alone. If only he could venture further, beyond the confines of the bunch, beyond the food court, beyond the barrier that separated his mundane existence from their splendour. To join them in their watery performance. To be seen as something as remarkable as them. But alas, he was not destined to penetrate the firmament which held back the briny heavens that those beautiful fish lived in. He would just have to live with the fact that he was nothing but a simple banana who would never be seen as anything more. It was a shock when, one day, while enjoying the show, Keith felt a sudden rush of air as he was hoisted into the sky. A great being held him as if he was nothing, a tiny insignificance in its mighty grasp. His stomach dropped as fear crept up his spine and filled his heart with dread. The ground swayed and tumbled in a dizzying display of colours as he was lofted ever higher until he was staring into the face of God. Then he saw it, in the eyes of the deity that swept him away. Staring back at him was a look of joy and of lust. A warmth seeped throughout his entire being as the opulent diamond blue eyes drew nearer, a smile forming across a widening maw. This warmth was what Keith had craved all this time. The feeling of being wanted and appreciated for just being himself, a banana. He couldn’t believe that God had chosen him, an average and clunky fruit, over that of the silvered works of art swimming behind them. As his outer layer was slowly peeled away, despite the pain it causes him, Keith closed his eyes with a smile on his face as he welcomed what was to come and basked in the delight of being desired even more than those remarkable fish.


The Pope betrayed me. Hey everyone, sorry that I haven't given an update on the grease war recently, I have had some minor setbacks which have forced me to rethink my existence. The most recent one being that the Pope has betrayed me which is something that I expected, but something that I never could have foreseen. Anyway he suddenly disappeared and left only this note: [Dear fleabag, I have four things which no other human has... they are all fingers. Yes, I have four extra fingers. I spoke to my doctor several decades ago about having them removed so that I would have just 12 fingers like a normal person but he said that that would involve effort and so he will not preform the surgery. I am fine with this because I do not trust doctors. Besides, it's just like my mother used to always say, "having four extra fingers is like having four extra toes, just on your hand instead of your foot." Now if you are reading this then you may be wondering what the point of this letter is, and, well, I regret to inform you that the point of this letter is not my extra fingers. Have you heard of the black plague? It happened a long time ago. It also is not the point of this letter. No, the point of this letter is the matter of my sudden disappearance. Sorry Ronald, but I had to leave. I have mysterious Pope stuff to do, you wouldn't understand. Also, I took the shovel with me in case I have to dig a hole or hunt a large army of tobacco farmers. I also took your lawnmower, I think that it was your neighbor's but it's ok, I took it anyway. Actually there are a couple reasons that I took the lawnmower which I feel that you deserve to know, first of all I needed a speedy mode of transportation and that thing can go like eight miles an hour, second of all it is my hope that you will think that I am doing mysterious landscaping stuff and not mysterious Pope stuff because that is a secret. So if you are watching the news and the headline is "Pope mows the grass in the Vatican City with stolen push mower" that is not me, that is a different Pope, he is probably Mexican or something. Finally I must conclude this letter, but before I do, I have a favor to ask of you. Please inspect the back of this page and see if there is a small man taped to it. He would be about 3 feet tall, with a 17 inch nose and six foreheads stacked on top of each other, it would be his belief that he has a double chin which he does not, but he is very self conscious about his chin so don't mention it. His name would be Yeewee Bastard but don't call him that as that would get him on the topic of endangered species of unnamed plants, something which he is rather passionate about. If he is there, he is not real, he is a hallucination, ignore his hatred of fossilized fruits, do not let him persuade you. Now for the favor, please go find one of those Vietnam veterans who hold the cardboard signs that say "anything helps" and donate this letter to them, it should help, the sign says so. With unmatched hatred, farewell crusty, we shall meet again soon.] So there it is, now I have been left shovel-less, Popeless, and with my neighbor's lawn mower no longer hidden in my chimney. I am actually so upset right now that I literally went outside and paved my neighbor's garden for him. At least those pesky plants won't be bothering him anymore.


You're all alone in this shithole. Your family is long gone by now, and you're not sure where to. Could be to another district, perhaps a different city. Hell, could be to a different country altogether. You don't give a damn that's for sure. They left you here to rot all by yourself and the the worst thing about it was the feeling that you completely deserved it. But of course you don't give a fuck about that as well. No reason to, since it won't change a damn thing anyway. It's a dark neighborhood you're living in. Well, "living" is quite of an exaggeration. **Surviving** in District A16 is more like it. Yeah... Much, much more like it. Tall, crumbly, and very old apartment buildings with more floors that one can even count fill up dozens and dozens of square miles. It's funny how many apartments the government was able to cram in each building, just to fill them up with all of the human trash they're dying to get rid of. For what it's worth, half of those buildings are either completely abandoned, or not suitable for living, not even for farm animals. The rest are filled with the poor and unfortunate, drug addicts, prostitutes, and random hobos. Families who couldn't afford living in some of the better suburbs, ended up here too, just to find out that they have no bright future for their children in this place, whatsoever. You're in the 67th floor, in your family's tiny, 2 bedroom apartment that's more often than not infested with cockroaches and rats. It's kinda late at 21:47 and you're not really doing much aside for lying down on your mattress, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. The apartment is mostly dark except for a one, barely working lamp in the small kitchen. Your stomach makes weird noises, but you know for a fact that there's no food in the fridge, or in any of the cabinets for that matter. Gotta step outside and see if there's something worth fetching. Lurking these streets at night isn't really all that advised here, but then again, District A16 isn't too terrific even if it's 8:00 in the morning. The word "Police" could make everyone here choke on their own laugh. **THUD.** Something big just slid and fell down in the Nelson's apartment that's close to yours. There's a thin drywall separating both your apartments so you could always hear them argue about stuff when they were home. But that's strange; the Nelson's left the place a year ago after their older child, Cory, was stabbed multiple times to death in a bar fight. Poor kid was only 19. They left with their remaining daughter and were no where to be seen since then. It could be a case of someone breaking in and searching for something valuable to steal. But in this place... Well, nobody wants to be seen, heard, or talked to. A burglar wouldn't want to raise that much of attention unless they were armed... And with that lightning revelation, you're jumping at once out of bed, grabbing a sharp knife from the kitchen and reach the front door, gazing nervously through the peephole. This is gonna be a long, long fucking night.


We, as humans, have the propensity to create our own answers to questions nor science, nor common sense can offer a reasonable explanation for. Examples of this are best found in the older religions. We didn't know why the sun set and rose every day, so we attributed these happenings to a God. An almighty creature, of whom we were at its mercy every day. We have come a long way since then and most of humanity no longer subscribes to the notion of a sun, rain, harvest or moongod. We now look to religion for a moral compass, guidance and support through the rougher times in our lives. However; our modern science only takes us so far and with a big part of both the universe and the human mind left unexplored we sometimes still have to find our answers elsewhere. Cryptids, ghosts, ghouls and monsters. They aren't just for entertainment on a gloomy saturdaynight, they are, in rare cases, the only reasonable explanation. In others just a viable option. Did those campers get mauled to death by a bear, or was it a wendigo? Did that ship perish due to a storm or did it venture in to a grumpy krakens territory? One thing all of these creatures, all be it gods, cryptids or ghosts, have in common is that they are hunters. They survive off of humans in some fashion. Gods thrive off of our admiration, cryptids tend to be a lot less elegant and just eat us and ghosts are alledged to feed off of our energy and fear. With our world being as vast and unexplored as it is, it is very likely that there are creatures out there we aren't talking about. Creatures that walk and talk like we do, but still view us as prey. As a means to their survival. A way for them to thrive. This leads me to the point I am trying to make, the story I am trying to tell. What if we're wrong? What if we overscienced things and accidentally left the door wide open for the more intelligent creatures among us to feed of of us, our energy, our love. Because when you think about it; is there anything more intense, more consuming, more powerful than loving someone? What if there are creatures out there, walking around looking for people to love them, to feed off of, to absolutely drain and move on to their next victim? To leave their victims uncapable of love. To leave them longing and in doing so creating an infinite source of energy to tap in to, growing ever more powerful and desirable with every person they leave as a shell of themselves. Maybe some creatures out there don't need to do us physical harm to feed off of us. I know they're out there. I know, because I loved one of them. These "monsters", for a lack of a better term, seem to appear when you're at a point in life when you're "okay". You're not miserable, but you're not great either. Life is, as they say, "good enough". They appear, seemingly out of nowhere, and seemlessly find a way to become a steady part of your mind. Maybe they're the cute barista that keeps giving you that free muffin, maybe they're that one friend that never really feels platonic. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to never meet one. How do you protect yourself if you do? Well, it serves us well to remember that certain monsters only have the power we give them. Just as demons who feed off of fear don't have anything to feed off if we're not scared of them, these "cupids" have nothing to gain if we learn to never love someone more than we love ourselves. They can't win if we don't take all of our self esteem, happiness and general sense of being content from the, admittedly, tainted bank they offer us. Supplies always seem to be plenty, but beware, they never are. Said recourses will appear to be dwindling, and you will react by working harder, doing more in an attempt to get back to that initial level. That's where they thrive, feed, grow stronger. That's how they drain you, break you and once they do, you will never be the same. Love is the most powerful thing out there, but you're in control. Hopefully.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Welcome to Week 1 of my absolute favorite month, **Spooktober!** Each week, your prompt will be **inspired by the horror genre**. There will be **2 Bonus Constraints** each week; one will be a subgenre and the other something to include. I encourage you to lean into the genre and try new things! But you are not required to write horror or Halloween-themed stories. These are just starting points. - **Image Prompt:** *Image originally titled ‘Halloween’.* - **Bonus Constraint 1: Genre is comedy horror.** - **Bonus Constraint 2: A talking pet appears or is mentioned.** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e., the title, theme, subject, setting, etc.). **The bonus constraints are not required.** You can check out my ever growing if you’d like some fun, spooky music! **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings - **First:** - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - **Second:** - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop - **Third:** - Submitted by u/Pancakes-and-Waffles - **Bay’s Spotlight:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Crit Star:** - u/katpoker666 - **Crit Star:** - u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Murray Stinson didn't like Fridays. Mondays were better–he never had to lay anyone off on a Monday. Layoffs at MultiCorp happened on Fridays. The meetings were quick and soul crushing, usually scheduled for the end of the day, involved a fair amount of crying, the occasional flurry of invective, and left him feeling like a destroyer of worlds. It was for that reason that Bill Morris, Analyst, would be his final layoff. Ever. After nearly thirty years with the company, the destroyer of worlds would retire. Murray pressed the call button for the elevator and studied the poster on the wall next to the doors. LEE WILSON. MISSING. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING HIS WHEREABOUTS, PLEASE CALL 917-555-9495. Beneath the text, the smiling, stubbled face of Lee Wilson, mail clerk, stared back at him. The poster had been up for a week. Lee had gone out for lunch and never returned, and Murray's favorite theory was that Lee had simply walked away and started a new life somewhere. Murray wished he'd had the guts to do that, to walk out into the sunshine, throw his tie in the garbage can, and drop off the face of the earth. He'd fantasized about opening up a little bar on a beach somewhere, where he would serve happiness to sunburned tourists instead of grief to overstressed, pasty-faced cubicle dwellers. The elevator doors opened, and Jim McKittrick, Vice-President of Sales, flashed a smile. "Murray." "Jim." "What floor?" "Ten." Jim pressed the button for ten, and the doors slid shut. "Bill Morris, huh?" Jim asked. Murray nodded. "He's going to play the discrimination card." "Probably. I can handle it." "Better you than me. I can't stop looking at it when I'm around him." "It wouldn't be a problem if he kept that sack on, but he won't." The elevator slowed and a chime sounded. A glowing red 8 filled the readout. "Good luck," Jim said and exited the car. The doors slid shut, and the elevator resumed its slow, rumbling climb. *Luck,* Murray thought. If he'd been lucky, Lewis Pike, who was barely thirty and had been stuck with Bill's portfolio because nobody else in human resources wanted it, wouldn't have called in sick, and he'd be down at his desk planning his retirement. Lewis was probably faking; kids had no work ethic, these days. The elevator chimed and the number 10 popped onto the readout. Murray turned left out of the elevator and walked down a row of empty offices. Most of the staff had been relocated to the lower floors when it was announced that the company would lease its upper floors as part of its Right Sizing Program. Only Bill Morris remained on ten: a hermit who needed to be kicked off his mountain. Murray reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of a closed door. It was strange that Bill kept his door closed when he was the only person on the entire floor, but then Bill was a bit of an anomaly. He knocked. "Come in." Murray turned the handle. The door opened with a click, and Bill Morris, seated behind a desk overloaded with thick binders and stacks of paper, frowned at him. "I've seen you around. HR?" "Yes." "On a Friday afternoon." "I'm afraid so." Bill leaned back in his chair, his shoulders drooping. "I usually deal with Lewis." "He called in sick." Murray forced himself to keep his eyes on Bill's face and not look at the tentacle. It wasn't easy. The eye wanted to focus on it, wanted to linger on the thick, gray-green, suction-cupped appendage where Bill's left arm should've been. The tentacle tapered to a round point that Bill slowly tapped on the desk, the way one might drum one's fingers if one possessed any. "May I sit?" asked Murray. The tip of the tentacle flicked toward a chair placed against the wall near the door. Murray rolled it over to the desk and sat down. "I'm sorry to—" "It's my arm, isn't it?" *That ain't an arm, pal,* Murray thought. "Not at all. Your position is being—" "Just say it. It's the arm." *Don't look at it,* Murray thought again. *Do your job and go home.* He cleared his throat. "Your position is being made redundant. The current state of the economy necessitates--" Bill leaned forward. His left shoulder moved under his short-sleeved dress shirt, and the tentacle rose into the air and swished back and forth in front of Murray's face. "Just. Say. It." Murray swallowed. A trail of slime glistened on the desk where the tentacle had been resting. "Okay. Unofficially it's the tent..." He paused as Bill's eyes narrowed. The word tentacle had been deemed offensive and its use discouraged when in Bill's presence. "Sorry. I meant unofficially it's your arm. Yes." "That's discrimination." "It's making people uncomfortable, and by refusing to wear the, um..." He pointed to a leather sleeve folded on top of a filing cabinet. Everyone called it 'The Squid Sack", but the delicacy of the situation required a more politically correct term. "...the apparatus, you're violating the conditions of your employment." "My arm cramps up when I wear it. And it's hot." "Regardless, you agreed to the condition." "I only agreed to it because I needed the job. I'm not going to hide anymore. Travis Cooper has a mole on his nose the size of a watermelon. It's disgusting and no one's forcing him to wear a bag over his head." "That's not the same, and if I'm being completely honest," Murray said, glancing at the slime trail, "the excretion issue has become a problem." "Oh that's ridiculous." "There have been complaints." "Would you fire someone for having excessively sweaty palms?" "No." "Same thing." "Bill--" "Save your breath." He pounded the desk with the tentacle. Mucous spurted from one of the suction cups and splashed across Murray's shirt. His eyes widened, and he blushed. "Oh. Shit." He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box of tissues. "Ok. Maybe it's getting worse." Murray dabbed at his shirt with a tissue. Hot bile rose in his throat, and he choked it down. *Think of your retirement. Think of your retirement.* Bill pushed away from the desk and walked to the window. The tentacle dangled at his side, while his right hand slipped inside his pocket. He stared at the office building across the street, a wall of windows behind which an army of regular, non-tentacled people went about their day. Murray wondered how often he stood there, watching, maybe wishing he were like them. Wishing he were normal. "I didn't ask for this," Bill said, raising the tentacle. "I didn't get a say, you know. There wasn't a voice in the womb that said, 'Hey, kid. You'll be coming out soon, and you can either have a normal arm or a really neat, totally original tentacle. Your choice.'" Murray dropped the slick wad of tissue into a wastebasket. "Can I ask you a personal question?" "Why do I have a tentacle for an arm?" Murray nodded. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for someone around here to ask me that? To show a little interest?" "I think people felt rude asking." "Did they think it was rude to ask me about my weekend? They never bothered with that, either." "People can be jerks." *Myself included*, he thought. It had never occurred to him to ask Bill about his weekend. Bill was Bill. You saw him, you nodded, maybe waved, and moved along, mostly in an attempt to not stare at the tentacle. Unlike a prosthetic limb, which gradually, over time, one became accustomed to seeing until one stopped seeing it altogether, the tentacle never ceased to revolt. "What did the doctors say when you were born?" "I think the general reaction was 'What the hell is that?'" "What about your parents?" "My mother died giving birth to me." "Did she—" "No. She had two perfectly good arms. She had perfectly good everything. She was beautiful." "Your father?" "Took off. Never knew him." "Family?" "I have an aunt. She agreed to take me in on condition that they amputate. So they cut it off." Murray felt the bile rise again. "It grew back?" Bill nodded. "It grew back thicker and longer." "And your aunt?" "Guess." "I'm sorry." "She sent me money every month, though. I guess the checks made her feel less guilty about donating me to science." "Do you know if there's anybody else out there with your condition?" Bill shook his head. "I looked. I'm alone." Something twitched deep inside Murray, a pang of sympathy for this man forced to go through life as a human squid, this man whose job most likely provided a note of normalcy in an otherwise lonely and alienated existence. And here he was taking that away from him. The destroyer of worlds strikes again. "I really am sorry, Bill." The tentacle shot out and pointed at Murray. "I hate that word. 'Sorry'. I lived in a lab until I was eighteen, and I heard that goddamn word every week for 18 years. Doctors were sorry, nurses were sorry, the techs were sorry, but they kept me there. Everyone was sorry, but at the end of the day, they all went home to their families. Not one person had the courage to back up that sorry with a little action. No one wanted to give the freak a home." Murray usually felt like an asshole after one of these meetings, but this was different. He'd reached a whole new and depressing level of assholedom. Not only was he taking away Bill's job, he was adding to the long list of people who had disappointed him. He was just another boot pressing down on the back of a man trying to force his way out of the mud. Bill took a step towards Murray. "You can't take this job away from me." The anger had left his voice. "Do you know what it's like to be rejected your entire life? It took me fifteen years to land this job. Fifteen years of showing up for interviews, and rejections, and watching people's eyes bug out of their heads. I can't wait another fifteen for someone to take pity on me again." "There's nothing I can do." "I need to work. It takes my mind off..." He paused and searched for the right words. "...the changes." "Changes?" The tentacle made a wet, squishy sound as Bill leaned on the desk. "Help me out. Please. I can understand if I wasn't performing, but--" "I'm sorr–," Murray caught himself. *Don't say sorry.* "I'm just the messenger." Bill sighed. His expression hardened. "Then what good are you?" "Excuse me?" "You're just one more guy getting in my way. Just like that asshole Lee Wilson. Did you know he made a private Facebook group about me? " "No. I didn't." "Someone screenshot a bunch of the shit he'd posted on there and emailed it to me from an anonymous account. Memes, comments, theories, pictures he'd snapped when I wasn't looking–he even had shots from inside my apartment when I wasn't there. Selfies. On my bed, my toilet, went through my fridge. I don't know how he got in, but he did and he was careful, too. Nothing was out of place. And then he put the pictures in an album called In The Belly of the Beast." Murray tensed, the fantasy he'd had of Lee boldly leaving his dead end job for a brighter future crumbling under the weight of suspicion. Did Bill have something to do with Lee's disappearance? It sure as hell sounded like it. The springs on the chair creaked as he got to his feet. "Maybe we should reschedule." Bill loosened his tie. "What are you doing?" "You asked about the changes." "It's okay. You don't have to—" "You know what they say," Bill said, pulling his tie over his head, then undoing his collar. "'If you can't join 'em, beat 'em.'" Bill ripped open his shirt. "Jesus Christ!" Two tiny eyes bulged from the tips of Bill's swollen nipples, round, red-veined balls the size of chickpeas. "I just wanted a little compassion, Murray." Murray's gaze shifted from the eyes, the impossible, blinking eyes, to the rigid black scar running from the base of Bill's chest bone to his belly button. "Oh God..." The scar split down the middle, a slow, moist unzipping from top to bottom. "What...are...you?" The words, barely whispered, tumbled out of Murray's mouth. His brain screamed at his legs-- Move! Run!--but his legs ignored the command. "I wish I knew," Bill said. The scar had turned into black lips behind which Murray glimpsed two vertical rows of teeth and a flash of pink. A tongue. There was no time to react. There was only the tongue, a pink streak, lashing out. It wrapped his head in wet, foul-smelling muscle and jerked him forward. He tried to scream, but there was no air, only the pinch of teeth around his neck and the sudden intestinal dark. Murray Stinson didn't like Fridays.


The House of the Wolf I was but twenty and one when I came to the New World. We arrived to establish some trading missions further inland with the local tribespeople and through my encounters as a Steward I encountered a great deal of peoples. But none had stood out to me so much as the people of the Red River for whom we called the “Blue Eyes” on account of their physical appearance, which was by far the most distinct from all the rest. Now the reader should not trouble themselves in attempting to read more upon them for now they have already been either destroyed by conquest or plague like many other peoples I encountered. But for a time they had lived upon a river which gained its name from the clay that stirred beneath it. (Though others would claim it was from the blood that stained the rivers after a certain woman murdered her babe in its waters. But that is a tale for another time). It should be known there were others before us who sailed fourth up that very river but few men returned, and those who did spoke wild tales of men who shifted into animals and attacked them and their band. Others spoke of Pagan natives sacrificing Islemen to their Gods, and even further even spoke of wolves the size of bears that chased men of their senses. Wether these tales were true or not was irrelevant, as our Lord Sir Arthur Dayne wished to seek his riches with the people of the River anyways and brought a host of men to ensure it was done. After a day of sailing upriver we came upon the village we were met by an incursion of their warriors and elders in a show of force, as our presence in these lands has been noted for some time. One can only imagine they expected the worst of us as their womenfolk and children daughter shelter either in their thatch covered homes or in the trees beyond our vision. Once we pulled our ship ashore and unfurled our banner of the Golden Stagg and a akward silence befell upon us until we made the gesture that we meant them no harm and offered them gifts of Bread and Salt like we did with the other tribes we had encountered down there river. Now the reader should know there were 12 of us in all: 6 men at arms, 2 stewards (including myself) 3 sailors and one knight. The last one, Sir Arthur Dayne was true to his mission and made sure we acted on our best behavior to the point of making us kneel before their chieftain when we finally met him (an act the King would find repulsive but nesscary no less). Relations however warmed as the river men brought us to our village and we were allowed to take a closer look into their daily lives for whom we had interrupted, and after a while even the women and children approached us. Though they dared not come very close as we must have looked something like goblins to them but it was here I was able to write down their features. Now the Blue eyes were not like the other tribes we encountered along the coastline. Their skin was pale like snow and their eyes were blue like the water and they had Black hair as the raven whereas the Bearskins that we had encountered on the coastline had brown eyes and brown of hair and were more thin in appearance than their brethren in the inland (if we could even consider them brethren). Their people were also curious of us in turn and more particular the arms we carried and the clothes we wore. However, much to his annoyance many amongst them stayed away from Sir Dayne when he attempted to speak to the Blue eyes. In general speaking to them was difficult. I myself asked them many questions as was my duty as a Steward. I asked them about their Pagan Gods they might have worshiped, how they lived and most importantly, where could pelts be found so as we may have something to show for our efforts. However in return they just smiled and nodded in the sign that they had no idea what I was asking in the matter most natives of the continent generally did. However it should not be assumed that these were an ignorant people. For their survival in these frigid lands of the North was a testament to their knowledge of the land and their knowledge of primitive bronze working I could see from the hatchets their warriors held and some of their people even wore shoes and belts like ourselves. The Village itself was also a small wonder in itself. Unlike the villages of the bearskins we encountered these people had assembled their village in a circular pattern along the river, with the smallest of huts leading to the largest one in the center of the village. For a time we assumed that this building, (for it was much too robust to be considered just some hut) was the home of the Cheif. But We did not realize our folly until the Cheif himself refused to be even nearby it much less ourselves and even less Sir Dayne whose patience was growing thin with our hosts. For some reason or the other however me and my colleague were allowed to study the building for a time (perhaps it was because we were the only ones amongst our retinue who were unarmed) , and it’s likeness I shall describe: unlike the other buildings of this village (or this land in general) it was made of cut stone blocks held together with a sort of cement. A pair of wolves the size of men carved in stone guarded its entrance that was 2 oak wood doors and upon them were several drawings of men dressed as wolves fighting against Staggs in some sort of mythical hunt. I once assumed this was some sort of ancient story amongst their people. Little did I know at the time it was a grave omen. Day turned into night as the Blue eyes became more welcoming of our presence and welcomed us by their fires. I had learned little in the time I was there frustratingly but things however changed when all the village people began to go to the building and for once they did not protest our being there. They opened the oaken doors and we entered with all the rest to find it to be some sort of Hall with the center of the roof exposed so we could see above us like a beaming light the full moon shining. From there we sat down on some tattered hides as they began their ritual. Nothing of this kind was unusual about this as we’ve witnessed many peoples of these lands do so. They would begin to dance in the moonlight as they dawned wolf skins and chant as they did so in their language and this continued for some time. Then a band of children welcomed Sir Arthur Dayne himself to this ritual tugging at his hand and laughing in a friendly manner. Sir Dayne being a God fearing man did not want to participate in such a pagan ritual but he did not want to disappoint the children and so he continued much to the laughter of his own men in good cheer. Sir Dayne stood there a bit akward staring at the men dancing around them as they chanted louder and louder when suddenly they drew their knives and without honor began to stab at him to death where his armor that bore the sigil of the Stagg could not protect him. His men at arms at once descended upon a fury to save their Lord as people screamed and acted wickedly as they Howled and such and descended into a mad frenzy of their own biting and attacking us in the process. I myself almost lost my life as I ran for the door when suddenly a woman no older than twenty and two grabbed a rock and bludgeoned my arm before drawing her arm back to crash my head in. If it wasn’t for the timely encounter of a sailor who drew his knife and killed her I would have surely perished in that Stone cornered Hell. Others were not so fortunate, for our Lord Sir Dayne paid for insulting God with his life. For even though his men tried their best to save his life he was too far gone and they could not reach him in time when he fell to the floor with blood flowing from his neck. The only honor in his death was that he died as he lived: with sword in hand. The rest of us descended to the ship from the Hall with the Blue eyes chasing us the whole way. A few men fell along the way but there was no saving them for we could not spare the time. We reached the ship with the grace of God and pushed off the shoreline. A men at arms who under ordinary circumstances would be knighted for his heroism pushed the ship so that it may take off before he drew his sword to keep our pursuers at bay and the last we saw of him he went down fighting upon the shore. We then decided to end our journey and return to our homelands for we had been gone many months now and if there was ever a sign from God to leave it was that. And so I end my testimony of the lands beyond the Red River and the death of Sir Arthur Dayne. I can now confirm the rumors that were once put fourth are not true. There are no monsters beyond the River only men.


Once I came upon a girl swinging in the park near my house. The late summer trees surrounded the playground like a cradle of leaves and the moon was half full. She wasn’t swinging very hard. She just swayed a bit to and fro over the ground, her feet tapping the wooden plank underneath that had been put there to obstruct the mud. Tap, tap, her feet went as she swung back and forth. She was smiling, her head slightly lowered, her eyes gazing at something on the ground. I climbed onto the swing next to her and said, “Hello.” “Hi,” she said, not looking at me. “Why are you smiling?” I asked her. “I don’t know.” “It’s kind of creepy,” I said. She shrugged. “I like being creepy.” “Why?” “It’s happy, but not proper happy,” she said. “Oh,” I said, confused. I turned my attention to the swing and concentrated on moving back and forth, my legs going up, and down, until my mind was empty and content. Then when I was done, I scraped my shoes against the ground until I was still. I got up. “Goodbye,” I said. “Bye,” she said. Days went by, and the leaves fell until the ground was a brilliant orange, and the branches were bare against the lamplit sky. Sometimes I’d pass and she wouldn’t be there. But sometimes, she’d be there, still smiling, a soft smile. I’d get on the swing next to her and we’d swing, not talking, just silently moving back and forth. Sometimes when I got into the feeling of it it would feel like time had stopped, or never existed, and I didn’t exist either. I was just a pendulum hanging from the metal rod above, separate from reality. One day I felt particularly bad but I still said “hello” to her as usual, and got onto my swing. I felt grumpy, and lonely. Why did she never talk? Why didn’t she ask me about my day? I was always here for her, wasn’t I? I suddenly felt frustrated by her quietness and her empty smile. “Stop smiling,” I said. “Why?” she said. “Stop it,” I said louder. “Why,” she said. “STOP SMILING,” I shouted, and like a crack on a cup of porcelain, her smile shivered and broke, and the tap, tapping of her feet on the wooden plank stopped. She stood up from the swing, her mouth opened ajar, her eyes unblinking, and the wooden plank under her feet creaked open like a door into the ground. A moaning began in her throat, low and unearthly, until it bellowed in my ears like the moaning of the wind. I didn’t like the sound. “Stop it,” I said. “Stop that at once.” “Daddy,” she said, “I’m sorry I broke it I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–” “Be quiet,” I said. “--sorry sorry sorry sorry” “Close your mouth,” I said, and wrapped my hands around her face, and tightened them to muffle the sound. When I opened my hands, I saw nothing but scraps of a cafeteria lunch fall onto the floor, and walls wherever I looked.


Despite the rain methodically pounding its way through her oilskins, Sara slowed as she climbed the broad, deep steps of the Archives. Grand, fluted pillars, bases scarcely lit by the street's gaslamps, rose on either side, disappearing into fog and darkness. The bronze double doors at the top were covered in carvings, biblical and classical scenes intertwined with little rhyme or reason. She chuckled, just a little, at the image of Eve handing Adam an apple as decoration on a repository of knowledge. The tolling of the evening bell prompted Sara back into movement. The bronze doors refused to budge, and she drew a shaky breath, praying that her grandmother's journal was right. After a quick glance around to make sure she was still alone, Sara placed a hand on the sculpted apple and released a flare of forbidden magic. Silently, the left door swung inwards, and she slipped inside the moment the gap was wide enough. The door shut again with the slightest click the instant she was through. Gas chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, lighting a long, cavernous vault. The pillars continued inside, leading the eye to the single desk at the end where a man sat writing, seemingly undaunted as he was dwarfed by the space around him. She scurried across the marble floor, wincing with every echoing, squeaking step. It seemed to take far too long to traverse the foyer, and she paused for breath before the desk. Without looking up, fountain pen still darting across a book, the man said, "The Archive is closed for the night." Sara shivered at the tone of utter dismissal, but said the words her grandmother had written. "I'm not here for collections fit for the light of day." At that, his pen paused. "Name?" "Sara." "Your *full* name." She licked her lips. "Sara Williamson." He looked at her at last, and she had to force herself to meet his gaze. She'd thought the stories of the Archivist were exaggerations, but standing before him, the weight of his centuries—millennia—bearing down upon her, she suddenly understood the tales. But then, the keepers of the supernatural were always *other*, and there were few places left as magical as the Archives. She found herself staring at the floor, wondering why she'd ever thought to lie, when he repeated, tonelessly. "Your name. Please." "Sara..." it was hard to force out after years of hiding. It was harder to ignore him. "Sara Leódrúne." She braced herself a reaction to the family title, declaring their status as witches. Instead, he only nodded. "And the reason for your visit?" Perhaps it mattered not at all to a creature who'd been around longer than the first of her kin. "To study the dark arts." Her magic began to roil, responding to her growing excitement. Surely, it couldn't be this easy? Surely, there was some trick? His nodded, and pulled out a small, leather-bound tome from a drawer, turning it towards her. He opened it to the first page, blank and whiter than any paper she'd ever seen, and handed her the pen. "Sign in, please." Sara gulped at the feel of the pen, skittering across her magic like shower of falling sand, light but omnipresent. It took far too much effort to finish her signature, and she swayed as the sensation redoubled. He took the book from her unresisting fingers and tucked it into a pocket. "Follow me," he said, and she scurried to catch up. Beyond the entryway, the Archives seemed like any other library, with rows upon rows of shelves. But as he led her deeper, all traces of organization began to steadily disappear. Soon, shelves were covered with texts on every topic imaginable, in no order that she could determine. Penny-dreadfuls in a foreign tongue next to Aristotle, cookbooks beside tattered scrolls, They moved on. Questions came to mind, but Sara could never find the courage to ask them. The silence felt sacred amid the empty aisles, and so she followed the Archivist without a word. He brought her a section of blank wall, identical to those on either side, and stepped through it. Sara saw the telltale signs of a illusion rippling around his form, and copied him. For a brief moment, she felt the wards of the Archive, ancient and terrible, twitch, paying just the slightest attention to her. But the flow of sand around her responded, whispering that she belonged. The wards settled, so quickly she almost believed she'd imagined the sense of impending doom, and Sara could breath again as an invisible weight vanished off of her. But all thought of ancient defenses was driven from her mind, and Sara gasped upon seeing the shelves beyond the illusory wall. *Thee Darck Artes: Maladys and Miserys* caught her attention first, but on the way to grab it, she spied *Mala Gesta*, which she noticed was beside an actual, unburned copy *Weal, Waye, and Witchery*. Frozen by the plenitude of choices, the Archivist had to shake her by the shoulder to get her attention again. "I'm glad to see you so enthusiastic about our collection, but your book must come first." "My book?" But then she was scrambling after him again to keep up. She stumbled the first time they passed someone, a man in robes generations out of style, reading *Exemplary Excruciation* as he stood among the shelves. She was unable to hold back the questions any longer when they passed a group of three witches, whispering passionately among themselves while gesturing towards yet more illegal books. "How many people are in here? How many practitioners of the dark arts are there?" The Archivist swept past them, and said, "Most of you find your way here, at some point in your lives. We're building quite the collection." "I'm surprised more people haven't noticed the witches and wizards coming and going." But it would be splendid to finally *talk* to others about the art, something Sara had dearly missed since her grandmother passed on. The Archivist ignored her, running a finger along the packed shelves, murmuring to himself in some tongue that sounded vaguely like ancient Egyptian. At last, he said, "Here. Here will do." He pulled the guest log out of his pocket and tucked it in between a pair of much larger volumes. The feeling of sand falling over her magic vanished, and its muffling daze was immediately replaced by dread. Sara's gaze darted to the small book, and she found herself frozen when she saw the title, pressed in gold leaf along the spine. *Sara Leódrúne*. She floundered for words as the Archivist began to walk away. "What- what is this?" She stammered, reaching for the book and discovering she was unable to touch it. He looked at her in confusion. "Your book, of course. You wished for access to the dark arts." Even as she tried and failed to pass the protections on the book, she felt chains wrapping around her magic. A light bond, scarcely there at the moment, but she could feel the strength waiting to constrict, to choke, if she tried to leave. "Welcome to the Archives, Miss Leódrúne," the Archivist said, and for the first time, she heard genuine emotion in his voice, the slightest hint of warmth that sent shivers down her spine. "We hope you'll be a fine addition to the collection.


The air smelled of bitter antiseptic with undertones of fragrance from the soaps and cleaners. It was intense as she inhaled through the tubes in her nostrils. She looked down at the needle in her arm, she had been poked and prodded so many times over the last 6 years that her veins had collapsed. Her skin looked almost translucent, showing a map of veins, bruises and imperfections across the surface. Long gone were the days of her golden olive skin. Her heart thumped in her chest as she remembered that her husband Jim would be arriving soon for his punctual daily visit. 7:00pm sharp. Never a minute late. He’d stood by her through thick and thin, ‘til death do us part. Her heart started to race and was mirrored by the beeping monitors around her. She thought about the decision she was about to tell him. She had been rehearsing all morning. She hoped he would accept her wishes, but knowing Jim, she knew that was unlikely. Tick tock. The clock hung above the door struck 7:00pm. Jim entered the room. A squeaky wheelchair passed by the open door, the patient it was holding let out a defeated grunt of pain as they readjusted themselves. Jim’s joyful smile was out of place here. She looked up at him weakly and forced a smile that quickly faded when she spotted the large bouquet of flowers in his hand. She had told him before not to waste money on flowers. They just died. It brought her no joy watching them go on the same journey she was on. But like clockwork, he brought them every week on Monday. She hated Mondays. He said they brought life and joy to the room. That’s because he didn’t have to sit in a bed watching them slowly wilt and die week on week, it was like Groundhog day. “My love.” He came over and kissed her delicately on the forehead. Just like when they were in highschool, she used to live for those kisses. He had always been so smitten with her. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect husband. He was like a loyal golden retriever, looked a bit like one too with his shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. His love for her only seemed to grow over their past 22 years of marriage, which she didn’t think could be possible. Whereas hers had probably plateaued years ago if she was being truly honest. Susie’s heart started to race again, the monitors beeped wildly. “Someone’s excited to see me.” Jim joked as he put the flowers into the empty vase on the bedside table. The nurses would carry away the dead flowers every Sunday in preparation for the new. She couldn’t help but be annoyed, but she knew he meant well. Alright, she needed to rip the bandage off. Tell him you’re tired, she thought. So tired. This battle had taken everything that had once brought her joy. She missed the days when her fingers could gracefully dance on the strings of her violin, creating beautiful woody harmonics with every draw of her bow. Making 1st chair in the San Francisco Symphony had been one of her greatest accomplishments in her short 41 years of life. Jim approached her and placed a warm sturdy hand on top of hers. “I have great news Suze!” He beamed and gripped her frail, veiny hand a little too tight. She grimaced and remorse instantly shot across his face as he quickly loosened his grip. Everything inside her hurt. His hopeful smile returned, “Suze, I was talking with Dr. Liang and there’s a new cancer trial starting next week at UCSF Medical Center. We looked into it and guess what hun? You qualify!” He exclaimed excitedly. She dropped her eyes and tuned out the rest of the words that were coming out of his mouth. Well fuck, she thought. She was not expecting this. Her mouth was dry and tasted like cardboard. Her stomach turned. Her thumb hovered over the button that dispensed the morphine drip. One press and she could go along for the ride, like she had been doing for years. She could hop on Jim’s happy train full of hope and keep pushing forward as her body slowly failed her and withered away. Yes Jim, sure Jim, yes honey. She had always done whatever he thought was best. I mean, he had guided her safely through life over the past 22 years with so much thought and care, she had never given it a second thought… until recently. Suddenly an overpowering force from within her stomach crept up through her oesophagus and erupted from her mouth. Word vomit. Pent up word vomit. “NO!” she screamed, sitting up in the hospital bed abruptly, gripping the side rails tightly. She felt like a toddler confined in this bed all day. “I’m done Jim, I’m fucking done.” Hot tears rolled down her face. The salty drops burned the corners of her dry, cracked mouth as they swept down her sunken face. The floodgates had opened and there was no turning back now. His kind brown eyes lost their warmth and filled with sadness and then erupted into tiny flames that went out with defeat almost as soon as they were lit. Memories of their marriage vows filled her thoughts, “In sickness and in health.” Jim’s jaw loosened then tightened and then froze with pure shock and disbelief. She never defied him. He was only doing what he thought was best for her and she always listened but he wasn’t the one stuck in this bed, stuck with needles, watching flowers die on repeat as her insides slowly died along with them. Jim’s love for her was infinite, but it had grown to be infinitely suffocating. “Suze…” he whispered. “We can beat this. I told you I would never give up on you. We are fighters. We will fight this. Don’t you see hun, this trial is our opportunity -” Susie erupted again, cutting him off mid sentence, flailing her arms in the air, she knocked over the vase full of flowers next to her bed. “Stop speaking for me Jim! You’re not the one living this life in a shell of your body. I love you but I’m done. You have to let me go.” He stood there defeated looking down at her with tears in his eyes. She pressed the morphine drip hard. Darkness. She opened her eyes and squinted up at the light, a spotlight flooded down on her. She was on stage, but no one was seated in the red velvet seats that lined the concert hall. She was alone. The familiar smell of resin filled her nostrils. Looking down she noticed her beloved violin in her lap. She smiled at the familiar sight. Picking it up she tucked it comfortably between her jaw and collarbone. Taking a deep breath of the fresh vanilla air she raised her bow, pausing briefly as it hovered above the strings and closed her eyes. The notes danced across her eyelids as the music flowed from her soul through her bow, then the strings, then the hollow wooden body of her violin and finally freely into the air. It was the most beautiful song she had ever played, sad, but beautiful, and free. She drifted with the music until she was looking down at herself, the young Susie she knew, olive skin glowing in the warm spotlight, eyes closed, living the music. She smiled and let herself drift away with her sweet, sad melody. Bright white light filled the space around her. She had found her peace at last.