Once upon a time – in the world that came before and the world that was to be, in a time long forgotten and in a time long-awaited – there was a boy who lived alone on the moon. He languished there, in solitude and without purpose. Empty. For the moon was forever lifeless and grey, without distinction and without contrast. And so, the boy as well knew not distinction and contrast, knew not love or hate or joy or sadness or anything in between. For how could a boy learn of such things in a land so devoid of everything? Thus, the boy existed – blind and deaf and mute and unfeeling and still, like the cold stone around him. He saw nothing with eyes that had never opened. He heard nothing with ears that had never listened. He touched nothing with hands that had never held anything. And he felt nothing with a heart that did not beat. Yet one day, someone suddenly appeared to him. “Dear friend, dear friend!” A girl of flame called from the rays of the sun, with a grin brighter than any star. “Come and meet with me! For company is sweet and an open ear, even sweeter!” But the boy does not understand. For here in the vast expanse of nothingness, there was nothing the boy wished to tell. Nothing the boy wished to convey. Nothing the boy wished to say. Confused and yet curious, the boy asked her, “Why must we speak?” “Oh, dear friend,” the Child of the Dawn laughed, “is that not a bleak question? Surely, it is better to ask, ‘Why must we not’?” And so, they spoke, and they answered. Questions of their worlds, questions of existence, and questions of each other. The Child of the Moon, once endlessly silent, now draws breath after breath for every uttered sentence. He speaks and speaks and speaks until the light fades and the girl bids him a peaceful sleep. “I’ll return upon the morrow!” She said, waving goodbye with a bright smile as she flickered away. “Tomorrow,” He said. The next day, true to her word, the girl came again. “Dear friend, dear friend!” The Child of the Dawn called merrily from over the horizon, “Come and sing with me! For a song shall surely bring a smile to your lips!” The boy frowns. He is confused once more. For how could one who had never felt happiness or sorrow or bliss or anger know what it is to express such things? So, the boy asked, “What is a song?” “Oh, dear friend,” the girl smiled knowingly, “If you wish to know what makes a song, then you need merely shout your heart to the heavens and let all listen to what comes.” And so, they played, and they sang. The girl laughed and danced with their harmony. Grand wings of radiant light burn with such otherworldly beauty that the boy cannot help but watch her. And as he does, the Child of the Moon – once endlessly cold – feels his lips slip into the barest shard of a simper. Yet, as she had done before, the girl bids him farewell upon the arrival of the twilight. “I’ll return upon the morrow.” The Child of the Dawn said with a tired grin, disappearing into orbs of light – like foam on a seashore – as he raised a hand and waved goodbye. “Tomorrow.” The Child of the Moon said in turn and wondered when it was that he began to notice the suffocating silence that fell upon the barren moon. The next day, as promised, the girl came once more. “Dear friend, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn greeted him, a halo of light wreathing her arrival. “Come and fly with me. For the realm beyond awaits discovery.” The boy hesitated. For how could someone who had never gazed at the horizon know what it was to wonder what waited on the other side? How could someone who had never walked understand how to stand and leap and seek the mysteries that lay past light and dark? So, the boy asked, “Where should we go?” “Oh, dear friend.” The girl took his hands into her own. “An adventure has no true need of a destination.” And so, they rose, and they soared. Wings of dust gathered and spread over the boy’s back as hand-in-hand with his friend, they raced across the cosmos. As they do, the boy – once as stoic as the cold stones of the place he called his home – set his eyes upon all creation with bated breath. He greeted the sun and the heavens like old friends, marveled at the birth of a star, and mourned at the death of a world. On and on, they dashed through all of existence on flickering wings. Yet, as was expected, when they return upon the dim light of a weary sun, the girl bids him farewell. “Goodbye, dear friend.” The Child of the Dawn said with a sad smile, stepping back and disappearing with the dusk. “Tomorrow?” The Child of the Moon asked hopefully, alone on the grey moon as the girl faded away. Yet when the new day came, no sign of the girl came with it. Alone again, the boy looked towards the horizon as he had always done. He gazed at the heavens and knew something was lacking. He gazed at the stars and could not understand why they were silent. He gazed at the once bright cosmos and wondered when its grandness had become so faint and muted. Questions rage in his mind, and eventually, he realizes that he would not get his answers here. The boy stood. His wings spread, gleaming in the light of day like a kaleidoscope, and with a single, unexplainable longing in his heart, he takes flight once more. He climbed, higher and higher, until the Sun itself notices his rise. “Child of the Moon,” it called for the boy, “For what reason hast thou abandoned thine home?” “I wish to see my friend.” “And yet she is gone. Spirited away to the veil beyond time. To the world across our own. To a place we cannot reach. Knowing this, dost thou still wish to seek her?” I do.” The boy answered without hesitation. “Ah…I see. Just as the Child of the Dawn hast taught thee of companionship, so too hast thou learned of loneliness. Just as she hast taught thee of happiness, so too hast thou learned of grief. Just as she hast taught thee of thine heart, so too hast thou learned of thine self.” The Sun wept in sympathy. “Oh, misfortunate Child of the Moon. Hear mine humble self. Though thine friend is far, not all hope is lost. She waits still, in the realm beyond realms. Asleep and frozen within the threads of time. Bound and imprisoned in a place that both exists and does not exist. Shouldst thou reach her, only then will she awaken once more.” “How do I find this place?” The boy asked desperately. “Thou must search. Search without end – without falter. Strive and struggle with all thine might to reach that impossibility. Never waver in thine faith in her. Believe that just as thou seeketh thy friend, thy friend awaits thine own arrival. Then and only then may thou reunite with the Child of the Dawn.” And so, with steel in his eyes and a hope in his heart, the boy thanks the Sun and flies away. Relentlessly, he pursued that dream. Believed that just as he sought her, she awaited him. Even as eons passed and the stars of old were swallowed by oblivion, the boy continues to search for the girl. He sailed across the universe with wings of stardust, a journey that was perhaps without end and without rest. Yet he continued, regardless.


The Ruins of Itegan The Hilfonders are a noble family and stewards of the western plains region called Ousia. Named after the river Ousia that flows through the center of the region and eventually runs into the Great River Cardine upon which lies Edhellin the shining Capital of the Rendallian Empire. Aela Hilfonder is the second of 6 children born to Richard and Cynthia Hilfonder. She is olive skinned and raven haired. She has huge, dark brown eyes that were filled with excitement and life. Ever since she was a small child, she loved to learn. If it were up to her, she would spend all day every day out exploring the grounds of their keep, River Watch, and spend all night exploring her father’s library by fire light. She loved the stories of the heroes of old. The ones who slew dragons and conquered entire lands. She loved stories of adventurers who would board a ship destined for a land never before seen by man. But her favorite stories weren’t in any of her father’s books. Instead, they were the children’s stories and fairytales that granny ‘Em, a nanny of sorts that Aela’s father told her has taken care of all the Hilfonder children since before even he was born, would tell her before bed. The stories that spoke of a time long gone. A time when magic filled their world. Where men and elves and dwarves and all kinds of people lived together in harmony. A world where the trees could talk, if only you were patient enough to listen. She loved them so much because they made her world seem so much more exciting, because many of ‘Em’s stories happened in places that were familiar to her. ‘Em’s stories often took place in the ruins that dotted Ousia, and all of Rendallia for that matter, before they became ruins and were just cities or towers. She always ended her stories with something about how there may still be hints, traces of magic left in those ruins for the curious and pure of heart. Much to her mothers disappointment, Aela never grew out of her love for those stories. And, having graduated from the university at Edhellen, she has dedicated her life to exploring the history of Rendallia, specifically the ruins that were so often the setting of Granny ‘Em’s stories. This was it, Aela had started her first real archaeological dig of a ruin not too far from her home, Riverwatch, named Itegan. Despite the volume of ruins in Rendallia, little was actually known about them and their origins. Itegan was a smaller site as it only contained evidence of one structure, however based on what remains of the structure it appears to be a rather large tower or possibly a fortress. Aela was thirteen days into what she had planned on being a thirty day dig, less than half-way done and she and her small team had already unearthed dozens of pots, tools, and even a handful of smashed human remains. The state of the remains led Aela to believe that the tower collapsed around whatever poor souls inhabited it. The odd thing, Aela noted, was that there was no evidence as to how or why the tower fell. No evidence of a siege, or even a battle. In fact Aela found no weapons at all anywhere near the site. Which seemed, to her, very odd considering the purpose of a tower this size would almost certainly be militant in nature. She also found a number of what appeared to be some sort of work stations, the purpose of which she couldn't quite figure. All in all she couldn’t wait to bring these samples back to the college and discuss her findings with her old professors. On the twenty third day, Aela and her team had broken for a late lunch. They were all anxious to continue the dig as they may have just uncovered a subterranean level to the tower that had yet to be explored. They were just in the process of cleaning up the meal when hundreds of miles away Erick the tavern keeper heard the sky open and saw the lights start to form in the sky in the direction of the Capital Edhellin. For Aela and her team the noise was so far and faint it barely registered for any of them. What did, however, obtain their undivided attention was the faint at first, but intensifying with every second, green and purple light that started to glow from every inch of the site. At first Aela was simply enthralled. She couldn’t believe her luck! It was her first official exploration of a Rendallian ruin and she seemed to have uncovered some sort of anomaly. Could ‘Em have been right? Was there still magic laying somehow dormant in the ancient ruins? If so, how exactly had she uncovered it? Unfortunately the rapid fire line of thought was cut short when the ruins which were now positively iridescent, began to shift and float and rearrange themselves. At this point Aela began to worry for the safety of her team and herself. “Run!” she shouted. “Towards base camp! We don’t know if this stuff is dangerous!”. So they ran, Aela and her 9 dig assistants ran as fast as they could back towards their camps where they had slept the last twenty three days and watched as the toppled ruins of that ancient tower began to somehow reassemble itself into a massive spire. Huge stones buried by dozens of feet of dirt and rock began unearthing themselves and Aela couldn’t help but think about how many weeks of digging it would have taken her and her team to uncover even a single one of those stones. Then the ten archaeologists were left standing there in awe, staring at the newly risen tower. It was minutes before any of them could muster a word but in the silence they were all thinking the same things. Did they somehow start this by digging up some long forgotten artifact? Or was this a worldwide phenomenon and they just happened to be in the right place at the right time. And finally, was this the only resurrected ruin, or had Rendallia suddenly become home to dozens of rebuilt ruins both known and unknown.


(this is my first attempt at a story, I'd love some criticism and thoughts thanks) I'm a simple man, just a New Yorker, like everyone else. I was born In the Bronx and I will probably die in the Bronx. Never been outside of the city, except for once. I was in an inner city youth program and they took us to New Jersey on a camping trip, if you can call it that. We had a picnic in a park. I was lucky, I was able to see my 18th birthday. Many of my friends did not. My best friend Nick, he met his maker overdosing one night, he was only 16. He died right there next to me but I was too messed up to even do anything about it. After that, I got clean. Well, I started getting clean. I just got my 30 year chip about 6 months ago, I'm 50 now. I've been driving cabs around the city for 25 years. I like the job, it pays good enough and I get to see a lot of the city and interesting people. When you've been driving as long as I have, you get to know how to read people. I can pretty much tell you what a person is up to as soon as they open the cab door. A man in a nice suit jacket going to Manhattan is probably businessman, but the same man going to the Bronx is probably looking to get high. I don't judge though, it's not my place. I simply get people from point A to point B. The night was like any other, I got to the taxi depot around 7:30pm, my shift started at 8:00pm. A tuna fish sandwich in one hand, my timesheet in the other. I've been trying to work some overtime lately so I'm staying out a little later. I'm saving up for one of those new fancy flat screens. I heard you can see the sweat coming off Vinny Testaverde’s face. When I got there, my boss was already mad. Who knows at what. All I know, is it wasn't me and I wasn't about to ask. I handed him the time sheet and grabbed the keys out of the lock box, which was never locked. We're supposed to do an inspection of the cab. You know, check the oil, tire pressure, and stuff like that. Over the years, it turned into more of a five second glance. Check the boxes and go! About four hours had passed at this point, the clock was knocking on 11:30pm. I only had half the sandwich left with around three hours of driving remaining. I didn't like working night shift, but you couldn't beat the money and the roads were clear. Well, as clear as New York roads get. There is a reason they call us the city that never sleeps. The other thing about the night shift is people seem to keep to themselves. No one talks to me and I sure wasn't about to talk to them. All I needed was an address and a couple bucks and that was good enough for me. As I reached down to grab the last half of the tuna sandwich, which I knew I'd be regretting later, I saw a man on the sidewalk trying to call. This was a little odd, because I swear a second ago he wasn't there. But, you know how New York is, everywhere you look there's a nook or cranny to hide in or even sleep in. As I got up on him, my lights shined up onto his face or rather lack of. Where I expected to see some old ragged man, all I saw was darkness. Again, being from New York, this wasn't the weirdest thing I've ever seen. I figured it was just some sort of mask. Didn’t matter anyway, he tried anything funny, I had a 45 next to me. You aren’t supposed to carry in the cabs, but everyone did. I hadn't had trouble in a long time. Kind of dumb to rob a cab. For one, there's cameras and for another, the money goes in the box. Even I can't get it out. So, unless he was dying for a half-eaten tuna sandwich and the $3 in change I had in my left pocket, he wasn't going to get anything else. I pulled up, the man got in the car and sat down heavily. That was unexpected as he seemed to be a slender man almost unhealthily skinny. He wore some sort of black hoodie which I could not see where it began or ended. I waited for a few seconds figuring he would tell me the address, but it was just silent. This is not unusual as some people needed me to ask; however, most New Yorkers knew the routine. I went to turn around, expecting to see some young man in a black mask, but as I looked into his face there was nothingness. Not black, just a lack of substance, as though no light within it would ever escape, if there was any at all. I felt if I stared long enough, I would be pulled in. This made me shudder to my bones. I quickly regained my composure, thinking it was surely some sort of magic trick for I did not take heed into the supernatural. I was raised by my grandmother since I was 11, my father left when I was young. I don’t remember him. My mother died of cancer when I was 10. I was young enough not to understand, but old enough to remember. My grandmother was a very devout Catholic and she tried her best to get me to believe. I went to church every Sunday and said my prayers. Did communion, but knew there was nothing to it. If there was any God out there, he would not have taken my mother away. She had suffered all the way to the end. She cried out in pain, but she never cried out against God. Never wavering from her faith, I will give her that. Sadly, the God she prayed to did not save her. I turned quickly back around so I would not have to stare into the void for any longer. I asked for an address and he gave it. When he said the address, I was somehow not surprised. It still caught me off guard as the address he gave wasn't really an address, at least as far as the Post Office was concerned. It was just another drug den under a bridge. The exact same bridge where my childhood friend died next to me, but I was too baked out of my mind to do anything about it. All my years driving, I don't recall taking anyone here. The people who went there didn't have enough money for a cab or if they did, they sure weren't spending it on a cab. I take people where they want to go, so I started driving. It was an awkward drive. I cannot say why as I’ve driven people in silence hundreds of times, I really preferred it. It wasn't like driving with a complete stranger though, I almost got the sense that the man knew me and I knew him on some sort of deep level. I cannot tell you where, from or how. We pulled up to the bridge and my lights hit the few tents scattered around. At this point, I assumed the man was going to spend the night here, probably shoot up and call for a cab in the morning, if he was able to. Instead, he put his hand on my shoulder giving me a chilling feeling, but somehow a comforting feeling too. He said to me in a raspy voice, almost like he had been hitting two packs a day for most his life, to wait there. I was hesitant to reply, but I nodded my head, which seemed to suffice. He got out of the car and shut the door behind him. I turned around to see where he was going, just hoping that I would not have to drag him back into the car. As I peered through the glass divider in the cab, I saw him kneeling next to someone who would had obviously been busy that night. It looked like he had gotten a bad batch of something as his face was all contorted. The man reached out and simply grazed his arm. This gesture was as light as a fallen leaf on an autumn morning, but as powerful as a prairie fire whipping across the plains. As soon as he did this, the man grew limp, his face relaxed as if a great weight was lifted off his shoulders. This took me aback, what did this man do? He barely touched him! The man stayed there for a moment almost like he was grieving. I was going to drive away. I did not want that fate for me! Before I could even get the car in gear, the man was in my backseat, once again. This time, he looked as if he had a great weight on his shoulders. It was like what he had taken from the man had now been heaved on his soul. I decided my best option was not to fight this man. Obviously, if he was powerful enough to kill a man with just a touch, he was not going threatened by any bullet. And, honestly, I couldn't even remember if the gun was loaded. It had been so long since I had used it. I started driving, to where, I do not know. He asked me something which I will never forget. Who do you think I am? At first, I didn't know what to say, but like a rushing wave, it all came to. I think you are death here to reap the souls of mortals. Here to take vengeance on the weak and to kill all that is good. He simply shrugged and said, maybe you’re right. Maybe, some part of me is evil. Maybe, I am out here to destroy all that is good. But, why do people blame me for their loved one’s passing? I know you do. Remember the night your mom finally met her Maker? I was there. You blame me. You also blame me for when your best friend finally caught a bad batch, but you know deep down it wasn’t my fault. I never killed anyone, I have simply let them go. I have released them from their mortal being and let them move on to their afterlife. I do not cause people to get sick. I do not cause people to use drugs. I do not cause people to kill one another. It’s your own doing, but you all like to blame me because it is easier. I get it. It is easier to blame some unknown evil entity for all the world’s problems than it is to simply blame yourself. I am not here to judge. I do not decide where you go or when you die. I am simply here to let you go. To let the suffering end and to let you join the void. At this point, I had no words to say. I did not want to believe what he had told me, but deep down, I knew his words were true. They were true my whole life and it was easier for me to blame God for the death of my mother and the death of my friend, even though they were not His fault. My friend and I were stupid and I just somehow got lucky. My mother got sick, no one could have done anything. Then I realized if they had not died, they would have continued suffering going down the same path until there was nothing but pain and agony. Death is not a consequence of our actions, but a mercy to release us from the outcome of our wicked ways. For if we never died, if we never moved on, we would continue down a dark path with no return. I turned around to tell the man of my realization, hoping that he might spare me or maybe I was hoping he would take me, for this I cannot be sure. All I know, is when I turned around, my cab was empty. I wasn't even driving. I was still in the same spot where I had originally seen the man. As I looked up over the hood of the car, I saw some young teenage kid in a black hoodie with a normal face. When he saw me, he just turned and ran away back into the void.


She didn’t mean to stumble upon the website. It was never her intention, she was a well raised young lady. Always did as she was told, obedient and kindhearted. Never would she even dream of creeping around on the dark web. But the message she received piqued her interest. “You’ve been invited to join The Red Room. Reply at your earliest convenience for further instructions.” Of course she was curious, but she was also scared. Ignoring the message, she let it eat away at her through the day. Until the moment a second message came in from the same unknown number. “Reply at your earliest possible convenience, Adrestia.” She was shell shocked. At first, she’d assumed they had the wrong number. But somehow, they knew her name. The dam holding her back from responding had broken. Thoroughly intrigued, her fingers swiftly typed out an answer. “Who is this?” Adrestia sent the message, wasting no time. “Our identity is not important. You’ve been invited to join The Red Room. Please proceed to the following URL.” A link to a website was attached. Hesitating, her thumb hovered over the hyperlink, many doubtful thoughts running through her mind. What if it was a prank? What if this link would give her phone a virus? What if this was actually dangerous? But her curiosity got the best of her, still. “Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” She sat down at her desk, deciding to pull up the website on her computer instead. As soon as she did so, a darkly themed site appeared on her screen. At the top of the page, in large, bold letters was WELCOME TO THE RED ROOM. Her hands began to shake as she scrolled, graphic images appearing with every click. It was somewhat of a forum, with anonymous posters on every page. However, this was no normal forum. These posters were serial killers. Some still wanted and at large, some currently being investigated and some who've never been caught. One particularly gruesome post detailed the use of a torture method known as the Colombian Necktie. Drea continued to click through the numerous posts until she stumbled upon a tab of the website. LIVE RED ROOMS. She clicked on the tab without a second thought, immediately entering a live chat room. On her screen was a lightly tanned male in a chair, clearly tied up. A tall man with a black ski mask on walked around him, twirling a knife in his hands. Adrestia muted her volume, fearing that the male's whimpers and pleas could be heard from outside her room. Looking on with interest, she watched as the man dragged the knife along various parts of the hostages body, watching the dark blood drip down his thighs and abdomen. She sat there for a half hour as the man was tortured, eventually plugging in her headphones so that she could hear his terrible screams. The video ended soon after, the tanned adonis falling limp and pale in the chair. Her screen went black, leaving her to stare at her own reflection. Adrestia studied her own face. A grin was set upon her lips, and there was a fire in her eyes like nothing she’d seen before. She picked up her phone, a message having come in. “Would you like to join The Red Room?” Without a moment of hesitation, she replied. “Yes.


“Pneumatic” is hard to spell. Every one of my students struggles with the non-phonetics, and only one of them managed to scratch out the nine letters in perfect form today. One single student. It’s not their fault. These kids can’t spell for shit. Autocompletion and predictive text modeling has ferried most of them through language courses up to this point. They think writing is a waste of their time. Honestly, they may have a point. As long as I can remember, most of our kids have had screens in their hands before they even knew what a pencil was. Some of the more involved parents made a point of teaching analog writing, but today I’m lucky if a student even recognizes the shape of one from an emoticon on an app or something. Regardless, it’s *my* job to teach it now. “Mr. Griff, I- I swear to God, I didn’t cheat.” Between his stammers and the noises in the background, I could barely make out Malcolm’s plea. Even through the grainy image of a video conference, the honesty behind his eyes was striking. I believed him. I muted the other students in the virtual class space before responding. “You did it once. You can do it again. Set up a new document file and add Vice Principal Ikiwa as a collaborator,” I chided back in a washed-up scare tactic. She’d never waste a second of her time reading these, and anyway Malcom’s cheated on tests before. The kid’s brilliant, but I patched him into my study hall to retake the quiz anyway. His eyes glazed over, and he rebuffed my hollow threat with a curse under his breath. Malcolm was used to lying to teachers, but he was even more familiar with adults lying to his face. He was already scribbling his second response when the document landed in my class dashboard. Why was the connection so bad? Malcolm’s classmates had teased him about the static many times, even once today, but the audio quality was clearly worse today. Ever since the Icarus Missions took flight a decade ago, almost ninety-percent of students had enrolled in the STEM track for middle school. Watching a man walk on Mars breeds a new set of idols for them. Mars, heaven incarnate. Better than nothing. I’ve watched the dreams of athletes die after the virus forced leagues to fold in the twenties. eSports were all the rage, but no one had a hope of making it into those leagues without top-shelf GPUs and private broadband. My students were lucky to go a day without a rolling blackout in their neighborhood. After robotics started lowering the hospital’s bottom-line, I witnessed a generation of doctors close off their hearts to school. I would have thought a virus that ended every social gathering would spur more kids to medicine, but there’s no money in it. Anyways, these kids grew up behind screens. They don’t even know what life used to be like. At least they still believe in something. I hid my drink from the webcam and snuck in a sip. Guess I’m drinking in the afternoons now. “Mr. Griff, why the hell you got me scribbling this bullshit again? We can just use autocorrect, and I have math--” “Curse again, and I’ll take the five points you earned earlier,” I cut him off before we started the same conversation we’d had during every analog writing assignment. How could a little kid curse like that? Where did he even learn those words? This class was meaningless to him, just like his peers. My ploy was a cheap shot, but he needed the redirection. All of the other students who requested a retake had completed their quizzes and logged off. Just like in class, Malcolm was the last one still writing. He spat another few insults under his breath before his stylus lit up in my dashboard again. He’d settled into a focused pace now. Turning out about one letter every three seconds. Writing by hand was clearly frustrating the young boy. I watched the awkward etching delivered in real-time, sneaking another pull on my flask. Thirty minutes elapsed, and he had not yet spelled a single word correctly. I wanted to help him. Sublimate the answers in his mind somehow, but this struggle was the best version of that for him. I knew this. I’ve known this for years, but still it’s hard to watch a bright kid lose faith in themselves. I turned to my window that overlooked the low levels of the city. A patchwork of pale light fought through the haze. This kid deserves a better world than the one we left him. My generation looked to Mars because we already failed the children here. Now, they spend their most formative years behind whichever walls we afforded them. Twenty-five of my students don’t even have walls to call home. Their daily commute to the satellite learning centers may be the only time anyone in their generation gets to go outside. When the virus first mutated, we did nothing. We continued what we knew, what we wanted. We politicized science to keep profits high and engines turning. The only idol we worshipped was ourselves, masked as the “economy”, rationalized as “normalcy”. Now, my houseless students will *never* be able to take off their masks to share time with loved ones, not even for a second. I snuck another sip of whiskey. We’ll just do the same to Mars. A shout from Malcom’s little brother broke through the veil of white noise and grounded me back to my desk. “Try holding it with your left hand.” “What?” Malcolm broke his line in the middle of an illegible “g”. He was actually sweating at this point, the flares of his nostrils communicating more than the stylus. “Hold the pen in your left hand, and see if you like it. Worst-case-scenario, you can just switch back, right?” It had already been an hour past my contracted time, so there was no harm in a gamble at this point. He looked puzzled, like he’d never given it consideration before now. Maybe he hadn’t. “Any better?” He finished scribbling “photograph” with two “f”s. The vain attempt took him the same amount of time as every other item on the quiz, but that surprised even me. His pen hit the sensor with even more intention than before. He smiled. “Yeah, maybe a little.” Letter after letter, his marks began to take more definition. Malcolm began churning out ill-fated spelling attempts in half the time now. His grin widened, and he plugged along. I caught a glimpse of my own smirk in the dashboard. The kid caught a second wind. Sweat began to bead on a determined brow at this point. Malcolm’s tense fidgets had melted into fluid action. That’s when I heard it. I don’t know how such a faint sound stood out from the cries of his siblings in the background, but it did. It was a subtle, rhythmic hissing sound, like brakes on a train. I had heard it many times before, but never once from a child, let alone a student of mine. I lowered my own volume, and minimized the monitor panel on my screen. I whisked through dashboard settings, minimizing the background interference, bringing up the symptom biometrics software offered publicly for the first time last year. It was Malcolm’s breathing. Short, faint gasps. My heart sunk in my chest. My computer's biometric display was awash with red flags and warning indicators. I muted my own microphone and called his parents immediately. The salty sweat on my fingers caked the touchscreen while I reported the indicators to the school administration. How could I have missed this earlier? I know I ran the scans in class. I know I followed every protocol they put in place for this. Would that second-class, derivative software even have picked up on this if I had run it twice? I glanced back down at the flask, my own breaths absent at this point. I did run the scan in class today, right? Of course. I must have. I checked the logs anyway. “Malcolm Hopkins: Grade: 6 Homeroom: Keller Infrared Flag: Negative Pupil Dilation: Negative Breathing Rate: Negative Discharge: (1) cough(s) reported at 10:17A.M. ...” I stopped reading. Left to his devices, Malcolm began spelling the last item on the list. He was beaming at this point. He rounded off the ninth letter of “pneumatic” and called out. “Mr. Griff, I’m done!” I opened the monitor again to meet the twelve-year-old’s delighted face. He’d missed every single word except the last one, but Malcolm had no way of knowing at this point. “How was it the second time?” I asked, with little concern for this child’s writing skills at this point. “It was a lot better! I think I’m left-handed Mr. Griff. That’s crazy! Maybe my little brothers are left-handed too!” Malcolm turned to shine his pride toward the younger children whirring in the bedroom. “Awesome!” I said with confidence before a whimper of fear bit my breath. “You know Mr. Griff, I like that word “pneumatic”! We talked about that one in science class. That’s what they use for brakes on the trains here, but Ms. Keller says those won’t work on Mars. She says we have to use magnets or something. You know Mr. Griff, I’m gonna build those trains on Mars someday.” “Y-you make sure you get that math homework done alright? We need the best and brightest on Mars.” He held up his right thumb in confirmation, but switched to his left with a playful laugh. He didn’t notice his mother's state-issued respirator adorned as she pulled his siblings out of the room. I stared at the status panel on the side of my screen for a little over an hour. “Malcolm Hopkins: Disconnected” The sun had already begun setting, and the glare on my screen didn’t even break the trance. I just kept staring at those three words. It wasn’t until the glint of the flask tucked under my monitor caught my eye that I reached impulsively. With hesitation, I lowered my arm, stood up and walked over to lie in my bed. Malcolm never logged back into my class after that. I never touched that flask again.


There was once this girl, okay, maybe a woman, not a girl, she was nearing 30 so was not a girl anymore. Anyway, to the point. This woman was appearing okay but in her little mind, she was finding life super, super hard. She was battling dark demons. They got a ton worse when she got put in isolation for 10 days due to a pesky virus that was spreading globally. The woman who we will call Jamie has a son who lights up her world and an amazing fiancé who supports her mentally and physically but she knows he has demons too. Though he hides it, she knows. The son is in isolation with Jamie but he's struggling, he is 5, he doesn't understand. He's such an adventurous child, he loves to be outside but they can't leave. If they leave Jamie knows they'll probably get an extortionate fine, that will make them demons a million times worse. Jamie longs for nothing more than their own home but they have 3 County Court Judgments between them, which means they're bound to get rejected for a mortgage. Writing is on of the many ways Jamie can escape, she has tried A LOT of things to help calm her but writing is the only real thing. Jamie didn't sleep again last night. Jamie spent an hour and a half watching some silly programme on catch up just to attempt to cheer her up. She still tossed and turned for 2 hours last night. She thought she'd sleep soon, but ended up staring at the spotlight on the ceiling for half the night. Her anxiety is driving her in some deep, dark hole. She knows she can't afford help. She'd rather the money go on her sons birthday and making his life better. She doesn't know what to do next... She longs to take a long walk to contemplate her next steps, she longs to have “alone” time walking through a really busy city centre, but she can't. Jamie is sat there at her kitchen table in her tiny 2 bed flat, starting at the rain hitting her window, trailing down like the tears slowly creeping down to her chin, dripping on to the marble patterned table cloth sat upon her tiny table. She can hear her son talking to his friends and teachers on the other side of the screen, she looks up and checks on him. He looks fine but is he? She watches how he talks. She notices how he's looking at his mother at the corner of his tiny, beautiful brown eyes, the same eyes as his mother, the ones that are pooling with water as she watches over her darling little cherub, in a trance, amazed at how she made this human, how he's turning out to be. She gets alerted when he turns to her and says “mummy it's finished”. Jamie snaps out of her trance and says “okay Darlin, let's talk about what you learnt about today.


I recently found this subreddit and decided to share something I wrote a long time ago. Enjoy!   The giant red sun illuminated the countless cities on the three most populated planets in the universe. Its already dim and weak light was even further weakened by the millions of satellites orbiting around the star and focusing the light onto artificial dwarf planets which saved up some of the energy into giant batteries that occupied most of their volume and reflecting everything else to smaller collection stations on all of the planets. There was no other light to be seen; there were no stars illuminating the void, partially because of the fact that they were all torn apart by the expansion of the universe and partially because there weren't all that many stars left; most of them exploded into clouds of gas or transformed into black holes. The cities on the planets were not normal cities, but tightly packed complex tridimensional structures, designed to keep in them as many people as possible, and there was not a single square meter of the planets that was not designed according to that principle. All the necessary resources were supplied by the countless artificial dwarf planets that contained aeroponic farms, oxygen synthesizers, nuclear fusion reactors and other complicated machinery necessary for keeping a population of hundreds of billions humans alive. Automatic spaceships roamed the dark universe in search of resources, bringing entire planets to be combusted and transformed into energy. The people lived in small apartments dimly illuminated by bluish energy-efficient lamps. Most of them were scientists trying to figure out how to make it so humanity can survive for just a little longer, as even though birth was made illegal thousands of years ago advances in medicine made humans live forever and the resources of the universe were very rapidly depleting. This was not the fault of an evil government, however, as everyone lived this way and it was the most efficient way of keeping humans alive.  There were only a few thousand years left until the star keeping humanity alive would explode. Humanity had already found a potential new home, a yellow dwarf located around three thousand light years away with four planets, three of them in the habitable zone around the star. Spaceships with equipment and dyson swarm satellites were already flying towards the new home at speeds hundreds of times faster than the speed of light, quickly draining the energy saved in the last billion years. Special devices were harvesting the matter of the dying sun and transforming it into energy for the spaceships. After all of the preparations were completed, spaceships with humans in them started being sent, powered by the combustion of their old homes. They glanced back at what remained of the old sun before the superliminal engines were turned on; the light of the old star would never reach them in visible to the human eye form again.  It had been already four billion years since humanity had moved to its new home. The yellow dwarf had transformed into a red giant, consuming the nearest planet to itself and leaving the second nearest inhabitable. There were ten thousand years left until it would explode and collapse into a black hole, but this time there was no backup plan. There was nothing, not a single star left. This was it. This was the last star in the universe. Sure, humanity could survive a few thousand years on the saved energy and on combustion of planets, but that is such a short time... The only hope left was finding a new universe. There were theories about the possibility of black holes being portals to other universes, but there was no way to check: light was not able to leave a black hole, and technology that allowed for superliminal travel relied on the deformation of space-time, and black holes already deformed space-time so much that there was no way for these engines to work. But it was the only hope. So when the star was about to explode, spaceships flew out of the radius of the explosion, and then flew into the black hole. There is no way to know what happened next; information about it cannot escape the event horizon.


Walking Through Walls When Purim arrives every year, I always wear the same costume - a ghost, and it never fails. When I wear it at home, I feel more like myself than usual. But when I arrive at the ball, I’m suddenly different - I’m not myself anymore. When I walk down the bus, my classmates shout to me, “Same costume again, eh?!” and punch me some. When I stroll my way to the fields, the passing seniors act like they’re scared of me. I smile from one ear to the other, and when I start playing with them. They kick me. But I stay lying down, smiling to myself, adoring what just happened. Purim makes me feel like someone I’m not. The costume’s thought came naturally to me,’ I will dress as to how I am in reality,’ I thought to myself, ‘ *a ghost*.’ But when I arrived at the ball for my first time, I wasn’t a ghost - but someone else. I was getting noticed. I would be laughed at for smiling awkwardly at strangers that greet me, I’d be bullied for not wanting to be with a girl, and every year for the past five, I’d be laughed at for coming with the same costume. But to me, it was fun. People talked to me, I was noticed for doing something, and I wasn’t just a shell, I was a living thing because others recognized it, and I loved it. Every ball, I used to dance with everyone in the hall room, feeling normal. But this one was different. I walked my way to the fields with a shovel. The wind covered me as a clock, rustling the leaves of the trees surrounding me. It seemed like the world was asleep, and I was the only one awake. But when don’t I feel this way? When I’m among my family, I am an individual of my own, never a part of them. And in class, I can shout, and no one would notice. I can’t trust nor feel like I belong nowhere. At times like these, I listen to music. Music was my refuge. I could crawl between the notes and curl back to my loneliness. As I walk up to the tree marked with the letter ‘A.’I start digging next to it. I don’t know if it was dawn or I just saw everything as red from anger, but I could feel my muscles aching, leaves falling on top of my head. ‘Just a bit more,’ I tell myself. And when I see it, drop down the shovel and sigh - *it’s still there.* I brush the dirt from the sheet I just pulled out - a sheet just like my own, with two small holes for eyes and a slightly bigger one for a mouth. - it was Asi’s costume. Tears of memory start rolling down my cheek. I remember his smell from that day. It was right after we ate at the coffee shop next to our house, and he spilled a whole bottle of lemonade on me. Every time we went there, I’d embarrass us, one time, I flipped the whole table, and another I told him in a British accent, ‘What is this bloody food. A twat innit?’ as the waiter crept on us about to ask if everything is fine. The image of me kneeling to tie my shoe, Asi turning to me, his left side lit by the car coming, and the sound of him flying ten meters forward never left my head. Asi was never buried, his body just fell apart, so I made our own spot. I planted our costume in the place where we became ‘the unseen.’ He and I were transparent humans. One time on a trip, we were both forgotten at that spot, just no one noticed us. In the panic of it all, we became aware of each other and realized we were one of the same. We called ourselves ‘the unseen.’ At Asi’s funeral, every family member that gave a small speech said ‘God takes just the best’ or asked, ‘why does God do this to us?’ I could feel my heartbeat through my whole body, pumping as one angry individual. I went upstage and let myself out for the first time; “God doesn’t do this to us. We do it to ourselves. We can’t live on thinking our actions don’t have meaning. Take responsibility for the action you do and NEVER mention god. We do what *we* want.” I left the stage, and the crowd was in shock, and then everyone started cheering. I looked around, in awe of being in the moment, people caring about me and what I’ve just said. Of course, that was what I would’ve said if I thought anyone would care about what comes out of my mouth. So I just left. I never grew old. I’m always stuck in time. Stuck in the same moment where the only human on planet earth that knew me, and felt me not as a shell, was gone into the darkness. When I fall asleep, I dream of you coming to me through the walls like a ghost, asking me if I want to go eat, him saying he can still smell the lemonade coming off of me. And I wake up in a panic at once. Then I realize I am a ghost too, so I’ll just walk through my wall to you and feel whole again.


On a bright summer day, deep in the woods, Mila the Fairy glided down a path. The sun was warm. The forest was green with moss. Wild flowers were scattered along the well beaten path. The day was shaping up to be wonderfully magical. Mila was giddy with all the possibilities as she floated along the path. As she went she happened upon Fearghus the Frog. He was completely focused upon a stone that looked like a mysterious misty morning had been trapped inside a rock. “Good day, Fearghas!” Mila rang out in a sing-song tone. “Isn’t it a wonderful summer morning?” “Yes, yes, dear… hello and all that,” Fearghus replied distractedly. He didn’t look up from the foggy stone. “What do you have?” Mila asked curiously. With frustration Fearghus pulled his attention away from the swirling rock to address the fairy. “The old witch from the mountains passed through our woods yesterday. She sold me this seer’s stone. When a choice is before you the stone will show you what future will come of making either decision. “How interesting!” Mila marveled, finding herself so intrigued that she took a seek next to the frog. “I was eager to put the stone to the test. I set out for my morning stroll when I came upon these two paths on the road before us. As you know, the left path leads to the pond and the right into the village. I looked deep into the seer stone to ask which path to take. The cloudiness dissipated into dream-like images. If I take the path to the left I will meet one of the nieces of the old Frog Faolan. We will fall in love, have children, and live a long happy life together.” “Oh! How wonderful!” Mila sighed with dreamy love struck eyes. “But if I take the path to the right I will meet the nephew of the old Frog Ferdinand. He will have a business proposition that will allow us to travel to far off lands and bring us great wealth. We will be able to provide for our families here in the woods and live long lives filled with adventure.” “How marvelous!” Mila exclaimed. “Both paths lead to great futures. You are truly a lucky frog dear Fearghus.” “But which path is the correct path?!” Fearghus whined in dismay. “They both are very nice, but I do not know which one to choose.” Mila shrugged, “It seems to me that whichever you choose will lead to a long happy life. I don’t know that one is more correct than the other.” “But there must be a correct path! I just have to think through the options,” Fearghus sounded both determined and defeated at the same time. Mila perched upon a boulder near the path to assist the frog with his dilemma. “If you take the path to the left you will find true love, and what could be more wonderful in the world?” Mila offered. “But then will I be doomed to the stagnation of these woods never to see the world because of my duties?” Fearghus retorted. “If you take the path to the right you will have adventure to fill books and the imaginations of all who hear!” exclaimed Mila. “But then will I be doomed to loneliness chasing adventure but never knowing love?” Fearghus whimpered. For every positive aspect she provided for a path Fearghus dismissed it with a negative. And for every negative point Mila proposed Fearghus countered with a positive. The situation was becoming more and more hopeless. The beautiful sunny day was fading into a comfortably cool evening. Fireflies began to awaken in the trees. Mila realized she had spent the entire summer day on the side of the path with Fearghus the Frog staring into his cloudy seer stone. She could still salvage the day if she made it home in time for a warm supper. Perhaps she could play the flute for her neighbors in the cool evening. Or have a nice long chat with the Ambroz the Wise Owl over tea. Mila tried to tell Fearghus she was sorry she could not help, and that she wished him the best in his decision, but the frog was hopelessly consumed by his visions in the foggy stone. He continued muttering to himself about love and adventure, wealth and poverty. He did not notice as Mila slipped away down the forest path back home. Instead Fearghus sat paralyzed with indecision, staring into his cloudy seer stone on the side of the forest path as the evening passed into a starry night.


“Mostly, it’s just for the head rush.” “Well take care of your body. It's the only one you get.” My mother gives no stock to my excuses anymore. I’ve been dosing nicotine for nine years at this point. “Your aunt tried to call. She’s doing well at the new gig, but I feel so bad for her kids. You should reach out to your cousins ya know...” Our weekly exchanges tend to abbreviate themselves once we get on the topic of family. Still, she fills me in on what I’ve missed between my absent-minded affirmations. I’m hardly listening at this point. Over the years, my eyes grew used to the broken glares from the lights on the highway. Now, they’re just tracing trails left by the light. I like getting work done in the car. These government rentals come with a standard projection interface now. My case files populate four tiles in the center of the cabin. The viewport windows host my own notes, but I leave the back windshield blank. It’s nice to see which cars thread the eight lanes behind me. I lick my gums again, and she pauses mid-sentence. “You know that’s what killed your grandmother.” I let the sting of her chastisement hang in the air. We’ll both suffer the silence. “She used the vapors, but still. It’s your heart that I’m worried about. It’s so special, so don’t go on poisoning yourself. That’s how you break your mama’s.” “She died of lung cancer, mom.” It’s cold, but true. Gen Z had the bright idea to convert their tobacco into metallurgical liquids. Stupid fuckers didn’t stop to think about why our lungs weren’t evolved to handle anything but the air, so then they added metal to the mix. “Besides, I lowered my dosage last Monday.” A lie. I punctuate the trump card with another stroke of my gums. I haven’t felt a head rush in years. She feigned a proud smile. “Ok, I’ll let you go. Get your work done. I love you.” “Love y-” She disconnects the line, and my notes reclaim the front windshield. I expel the puff air that had welled up in my chest. The woman puts me on edge sometimes, but there’s no substitute for authentic love. Painful conversations are part of the contract. My eyes find the horizon and I take in a deeper breath. At this elevation, the pollutants settle into a mosaic of different densities. It’s almost beautiful ...for poison. My tongue finds the patch again. Only thirty more miles before I’m marooned at the deposition table. Better savor these last five minutes. My car strafes into the rightmost lane before driving itself underground to the exit ramp that enters the city. The negotiations for heroin trafficking are the minor leagues for district attorneys. I don’t want to be here. Regardless, schedule three still requires an office investigation. My display minimizes to signal that the car has queued itself to file into downtown traffic. We call these streets “the bog”. Of course, we only recognize the urban topography from global-positioning-fiber displays underground. An air-sealed town car five stories below street-level is the closest I’ve ever come to the real bog. That and the 40cm glass panels that insulate our building. I take one last hit from the patch on my molar before swallowing the thing, and motion my document files to the storage icon on my watch. I touch the vessel to the frames on my face, so I can pull them up later. My car pulls under the trail indicators for the garage-level elevator. Doors close and ventilation units kick on, silently dispelling the toxic air from the elevator. My door lifts open, and I button my suit with my right hand, reserving the left to straighten my glasses. The routine is all too familiar. Most people don’t need glasses nowadays. Ocular surgery is dirt cheap for anyone with a job, and many parents just elect for perfect vision in vitro. We never had the coin for that growing up, so I suffered the stigma and sucked it up. Now, I never leave home without them. The built-in displays are a weapon for research and cross-references in the courtroom. I cross the threshold of the entry port, and my car folds itself into the wall before the personnel elevator door grants access. I’m alone and savor the mindless silence before tracing my pocket. I curse under my breath. My patches. I left them on the seat. They’re gone forever. The odds of getting the same car again are abysmal. Decriminalizing every first-gen substance would have been the cheapest and most effective use of resources, but millennial-era policy built these drug courts. Caked with filth and brilliant graffiti, the windows of the first three floors tell the true story of the bog. As I ascend the transparent chute, I’m reminded of the institution’s vanity. An open atrium borders all three hundred floors of the building boasting two shale-backed waterfalls. Before it reaches the tenth level, one can make out the alien choreography of the streets below: masked vendors pedalling mostly meats carved from the city’s bottom-feeders, unfortunate sex-workers with no hope of meeting clients from the upper-levels, and bands of children likely muling more heroin or the latest versions of relief engineered to survive this hell. In spite of what unfolds below me or the shameless architecture above, the only persistent thought in my mind are those damn patches. The door opens to the floor reserved for schedule three hearings. I pull open the reinforced door with my left hand, and my fingers linger on the handle longer than I intended. Strange. I’m the first to arrive in the conference room. I have time. Six invisible cameras will capture me, but I don’t care. I break for the bathroom. In the mirror, I avoid the glimpse of myself before reaching into my coat. Eye drops infused with nicotine, my first vehicle for the vice, are at home in my pocket. I feel a euphoria just touching the bottle. I slide off my glasses and dose my eyes with the poison. It’s a familiar burn. I missed it, so I take three more. Sliding the lenses back onto my face, I catch my own eyeline in the mirror. This must be the version of her son that broke off my mom’s story. A grown man with a ten thousand dollar suit still desperate for relief, escape in any form. At this point, I need it to regulate. Shame wells and I sideline it with a smirk, assuming the persona I’ll need for the next two hours. I polish my lenses, and cycle through the case filename aliases again just for the motions. I need to focus. My colleague opens the conference room door for me. “Mama made you cry this week, huh?” Nina teases me regularly, but I wipe my eye again anyway. “Can’t put bad guys away with tears in your eyes, honey.” This time her concern bled through the jest. She knows what I’ve been doing. I bet she doesn’t want to be here either. Six attorneys file into the room almost immediately after I sit down. I stand again, buttoning my suit. Nina and I share a confused stare before we begin introductions and handshakes. Six. Too many for a heroin distribution case. I’m the last to reach for the top of my seat, and my left fingers unfurl slowly again. Nina catches me staring at my hand, before the doors break the seal of the room once more. Two guards with automatic rifles file a pair of bodies into the room. Two. The case file only detailed a single offender's deposition today. Both have shaved heads and full face respirators, standard for transport but a shitty protocol for a system bent on facial recognition. I turn to Nina, but she hasn’t even noticed their entry. Her eyes are locked on my hand. I tuck it under the table. We don’t have time for this. First generation drug cases are cannon fodder for the system. Last-minute takedowns are not unheard of for racketeering. Cases are turned over to sentencing in less than 48 hours sometimes. Just a statement from the lawmakers for those in the bog: We own you, and we can own your bodies if we want. I turned my attention to the defense. “We only received documentation for Mr. Morales. What are you trying to pull here?” But Nina pipes up, “Exploratory team found an accessory. Two birds, baby.” I’m puzzled but nod anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything. I broke our front. She’s going on her second decade in the office, and I’m still new. Nina soothes my concerns with a nod, and I begin reading the charges from the notes on my glasses. I take my seat while my colleague fields most of the conflict. She doesn’t need my help. I don’t even need to be here. The other lawyers in the room do not notice my absence from the tempo of conversation, and I steal a glance toward the jumpsuits. The first is a hulk of a man covered head to toe in tattoos. Biohazard symbols and animated neon clouds coil around his neck up to a face that I can only assume tells more of the story. He’s a walking billboard for his syndicate. The newest agent in this case doesn’t wait for my measuring. The black circles on the mask are pointed directly at my face. The vents are fuming with breaths, almost animal-like. Chemical formulas for controlled substances decorate a lean left arm, but I only recognize some of the art from my own research. These guys must be deep into next gen production. Their bare right arm mashes against their accomplice. Both can hardly share the end of the enormous glass table. I wade back into the jargon of the deposition, still feeling masked eyes on my face. The obviously exhausted lead counselor fights for the sake of disputing video evidence. Video evidence? That wasn’t in the file. My work absorbs my full focus once again. Nina speaks again, “You know as well as I do that the judge doesn’t waste time on bullshit like heroin. Your boy’s dead-to-rights and won’t live tomorrow. You know that don’t you?” She elevates the projected image remastered in three dimensions like all criminal court evidence. The tattooed silhouettes tell the full story missing from my file. Morales executes a transaction and the accessory defendant stands watch with a handgun. Doors are kicked open from abandoned warehouses across the street, and the leaner of the two shoots one officer before ducking into an alley. “You know how long it takes a quantum computer to cross-reference those tattoos. Two seconds. You signed your own death warrant, and it only took two seconds for delivery.” Nina was a tried and true bulldog. I still don’t know her conviction rate, but she’s kept mine at a thousand. Sometimes it seems like she’s more proud of it than me. I used to be proud of it. It’s not easy making D.A. in a city like this, even after they distributed the role and expanded the office. I used to think I was on the vanguard for justice. Then they put me on the drug team. The projection continues to play, showing the officers kick off Morales’ mask and pin him to the ground. I wretch at the bottom of my throat. The kingpin’s eyes fill with blood immediately as he vomits from the air outside. I lick the tender spot on my gums to find some kind of relief from this torture. Nothing. Then the video cuts to another perspective. A street-level safehouse. Officers tear down the door, and detain the second offender. After controlling the scene, they still rip off the ventilator. Monsters. I look away. The projection traces back to its origin and Nina punishes the room with a familiar silence. It’s broken by the lead defense counselor ceding his position. Worm. He’s valued his own ego over the clients lives, even more, their billable hours. An explosion of gurgled screams is hurled from the titan at the end of the table. Every attorney recoils in absolute terror, even Nina. The gunman doesn’t move at all. Guards rush to flush the barrels of their rifles to Morales’ temples, but there’s no stopping his wailing. He’s already been executed at this point, and he knows it. The armed guards are literally carrying Morales out of the room at this point. A single guard returns from the hallway to collect the accomplice. Nina turns to their legal team, “She’s lucky she didn’t stick around. Cop killers usually don’t make it this far out of the bog before we wipe them off the street, but this one’s lucky. She wouldn’t survive in a prison anyway.” She? I must have missed that in the second feed. I turn to the end of the long glass table matching the gaze of viewports on her gas mask. I know this woman. She hasn’t broken her stare, even as the guard escorts her to rise from her seat. I grab Nina’s left hand and sync my watch to her own, praying for an updated file. I scroll through the interface on my lens searching for a name. Then I see the tattoo on her right shoulder. A lion. I’d seen it before. Almost instantly, reality crushes me as the frame of the door breaks her gaze from mine. I wave a hand over the table sensor to expand the projection once more and lean in for a better look. That’s when I see her face. My aunt’s daughter. My mom’s favorite niece. Cousin Mira. Her mugshot finally lands on my glasses and I wretch again at the sight of her mutilated face. Blood trails from her eyes gored by the fumes outside. Mira’s chemically burned face swells over blackish-red teeth. Is this what my mom was talking about in the car? My head begins to pound. The aperture of the glass table pulsates with my heartbeat. What’s happening? I sprint into the hallway to catch up with Mira. There must be something I can say to the judges. To Nina. No one deserves this. No one deserves to die for this. I know that now. The elevator doors are closing and I reach out fully extending my left arm to stop them from sealing, but my hand convulses. My thumb slips locks into a gnarled palm, and I feel my bicep cinch tightly. Pain shoots down the limb and back up again. The pressure in my chest stabs into my frame now. I collapse, and crush my glasses between the floor and my eyes. How can this be happening, now? How did cousin Mira even get here? Mira! Every sinew of strength left in me floods into my right arm, lifting my chest from the ground. I squint through my hyperventilations and cracked frames toward the elevator. That’s when I see her for the last time. Mira has looked away. She hangs her head toward the ground. The elevator doors close, and total darkness relieves my personal hell.


The first thing I'm posting here, a little made-up dialogue I wrote. please tell me what you thought. “Well? What are you waiting for? You came so far, here I am, kill me.” “I didn’t come here to kill today; I came to stop what you are doing.” “Stop me? I’m not doing anything.” “Then who is trying to overthrow my father?” “Not me, as you can see, I am right here, it’s your people at gathering at the castle’s gates.” “Fueled by your ideas!” “I can’t take all the credit, I just said what everyone was thinking.” “Lies! My father is a good man, he is a worthy king.” “I don’t know your father, I never said he was evil. All I know is what he has done to us.” “Building libraries? Expanding this kingdom? Peace with our neighbors?” “Raising our taxes! Sending our friends and family to death in his name! more useless feast!” “My father is doing the best for this kingdom!” “Your father has blinded you.” “Hatred blinded you.” “Is that so? As we both see I am not the only one thinking your father should be dethroned “ “Stop this madness at once!” “Or else?” “They will die, you will die, your little coup attempt will fail.” “They might die, I may die, that is correct, I am very aware of this.” “So, you’ll stop them?” “No” “Why?” “Because this will prove my point.” “Explain yourself.” “The king is cruel.” “My father is a good man.” ”He’ll kill thousands of people to keep his seat, is that what a kind person will do?” “Will a good person gather thousands for a suicide mission?” “I never claimed to be kind, I’m starting what needs to be done.” “Starting?” “Yes, of course, I don’t expect to be the new king.” “Why?” “I am starting a coup against a tyrant; I will either die by your sword or the executioner’s axe.” “Then why doing all this?” “Because that’s what right.” “This attempt will die tonight, with you and the rest of the peasants.” “Nope” “How can you be so sure?” “These ideas are spread all around the kingdom, we are the first wave.” “And the last” “After the news will spread, about how the king massacred all those people, you think everyone will stay quiet?” “If they want to stay alive, yes.” “Like father like son” “I am proud to be like my father.” “You are proud to keep the citizens silent out of fear.” “Is that what you think about my father?” “It’s the truth.” “What my father has done to you?” “Personally, nothing” “Then why do you hate him so much?” “Same reasons as everyone.” “You’re all ungrateful.” “Have you lived one day as a peasant?” “Have you been burdened with the commitments of a king?” “No, but a king must see his people before himself.” “Why do you think he sent me here to stop you then?” “To stay alive and in his throne.” “To keep all these people alive!” “So he sent you?” “Yes, to negotiate. but you won’t listen.” “It’s hard to negotiate when there’s a sword to my neck.” “Same goes for me.


The nightmare wisked her awake. It felt so real she thought. Sweat had soaked her hair damp. The things she saw in the land of sleep as she called it foretold doom. It was just a nightmare though, it wasnt real? The grey sky shifted and changed shape outside. The sinister looking clouds and mist covering the tops of trees spewed forth shadows and a heavy cramped feeling filled the air. The staggering wind swept over the enclosure. Only two inches of rough steel separated the harsh elements from the calm safe space she had come to call her prison. Outside it was hell. The cold hell that you reach at the deepest parts of dantes inferno, where the devils own wings freeze the lake at Judecca. The environment did not forgive or ever stop. This was Siberia the coldest place on the planet and the last place she wanted to be. Shoshanna pulled her blanket over her face. The next few minutes she drifted back to sleep. One of the few who even got 40 winks in the prison. She decided to dream of something warm and fuzzy. Happily she dreamed of a bright sun and sandy beaches, crashing blue waves and birds cawing over head. She dreamed the feel of sand squishing between her toes as she lounged in a chair, the ocean air filling her lungs. The land of sleep was her only escape from the revelation of eternity in this place. She had once seen a photo of a beach, oahu hawaii she thinks, it mustve been a post card cause it said aloha on it. When she went to the wardens office for a checkup three months ago because his stomach was hurting. She saw the photo on a wall near a shelf covered in dust. She wanted to take it so bad. If she had been caught though, her rations would have been cut in half for a week. Nobody steals from the warden. He smelled always of musky aftershave and put off an aura of cheap salesmen. But behind his sly smirk there was a different man. He would break an inmates nose if he looked at him wrong. There was nobody to report to above the warden so a guard could kick your ass and get away with it. In fact shoshanna witnessed just the day before an inmate laughed at a prison guard when he slipped and fell in the hall and that inmate was beaten half to death and she had to treat him in the infirmary. The inmate had two broken ribs, several broken fingers and needed twenty two stitches in his face. Shoshanna "repaired" many inmates that had accidents in the prison. She complained only once to the warden and never did it again. The warden tried to explain many inmates were violent and assaulted and killed people before they ever came to the prison. He showed shoshanna a videotape on his VCR of an inmate that got sent to the infirmary for a stomach ache. The inmate faked his symptoms and when alone with the last prison doctor raped and murdered her in the span of four minutes. The warden did not care about any inmates only his correction officers so they got to beat up or hurt an inmate if they wanted and not be punished.


The turbulence outside the plane was like nothing I’d ever experienced. At some points the plane was almost at a ninety degree angle. We could hear the thunder and see the lightning, flashing in bright and deadly streaks across the sky. The seatbelt sign had flashed on what seemed like ages ago, but even before that people were holding onto their seats for dear life. The pilot had been making announcements through the intercom but even those had stopped after a while. The air hostesses were strapped down in their seats, so we couldn’t even ask them what was happening or when we were going to land. The plane’s wifi had long since cut out. As the wind howled and the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, I found myself feeling sleepy. I had been up for hours and now even a storm like this couldn’t keep me awake. I drifted off and when I woke up, what must have been hours later as the sky was now even darker, the thunder was still roaring all around us. I looked for my bag, and saw that it had fallen off the rack and was now sitting at my feet. I reached down for it and pulled out my phone to check the time. My phone read that it was 8 at night, but that wasn't possible. I had fallen asleep at 8, and it felt like I had slept for hours. I tried to rationalise. Maybe I had just closed my eyes and I felt so tired I thought I fell asleep? That must be it, it was the only rational explanation. I decided to play one of the games on my phone to pass the time, but I couldn’t concentrate with the thunder still booming. I checked the little clock at the top of my phone screen. 8:00pm What? I had been trying to play that game for at least 20 minutes. I know some people have a terrible sense of time but I am not one of those people. I definitely had not been playing that game for less than a minute. I turned to look around me at the people in the other seats. They were all in the same positions as I remembered. I turned back to my phone. 8:00pm I stared and stared at that little clock, waiting, begging, praying for that little number to tick up. It didn’t. Suddenly, one of the stewardesses came marching up the aisle towards me. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that phone away.” I was so stunned by her unusual request that I simply did as she asked, like I was on autopilot. I decided I would ask her about what was happening, just for a bit of peace of mind. “Do you know how long we have until we land?” She smiled at me, indulgently, like an adult would to a child. “We will be landing shortly. Please just relax and enjoy the flight.” The stewardess strutted off back to her seat. The seatbelt sign had clicked off and the turbulence had died down for now, so I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. I checked my phone again. 8:00pm What was happening?! Was I going mad? I strolled back to my seat and peeked out the window. The sky was still an angry grey and it was raining heavily but there were none of those abrasive thunder claps and blinding flashes of lightning anymore. Just a regular rainy night. A woman a little ways down the aisle from me got up to use the bathroom. As she walked by my seat, she dropped a little slip of paper in my lap, and just kept walking. I unfolded it and read the short message. *I’m awake too* Awake? I scrambled for a pen and wrote back - *Awake from what? What’s happening?* The woman left the bathroom and shuffled past my seat. As she went by, I pushed the piece of paper back into her hand. She didn't go back to her previous seat though, she sat down in the empty one right in front of mine. I could see her through the gap in the chairs, she was scribbling an answer. She pushed it through the chairs to me and as I unfolded it, I opened my mouth to ask her a question. She shushed me by putting a finger to her lips and motioned for me to open the paper. *What time is it?* I looked up at her, panic clear in my eyes, and her face looked like she already knew the answer. I checked my phone again - 8:00pm I showed the woman my phone screen. She barely glanced at it. All she did was mouth ‘I know’ and pulled out her phone to show me. 8:00pm Okay. Okay. Not okay. The clock on my phone stopping? Sure, it's unlikely, but plausible. Two phones, stopped at the exact same time, and everyone else in the exact same positions they were in at the time except for the stewardesses telling us we can’t have our phones out? Creepy. But why us? Why are this woman and myself the only people left awake in this unholy nightmare? Was it the storm? But it couldn’t have been, the storm had been going all day, just now we were in it. What was going on? Abruptly, the woman got up and went back to her original seat. I took a sip of water from my bottle. I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Why me? Why her? It felt like I was in a horror movie. I decided that one way or another, I was getting answers. I moved towards the front of the plane, and none of the hostesses even tried to stop me. They just sat in their seats, still as statues. I pushed through the curtain and into the cockpit. I tried asking the co-pilot what was going on, but he just stared straight ahead, not even acknowledging that I was there. I strode over to him and almost fainted. Right across his chest was a huge blood stain, leaking from a gash that went right across his torso. Same with the pilot. The plane had been set to autopilot, probably so we didn’t crash.. I staggered out of the cockpit passing the hostesses, still sitting in the same positions. Although facing them now, I could see why. In the center of their chests where blood stains. On every single one, though not as gruesome as the pilots. I screamed, this time running from the bodies and back to my seat. On every single person I passed, I could now see a blood stain on their chest. Passing by them before, from behind I couldn’t see, but now I got the full and gory view. I was on a plane of corpses. I passed the seat of the woman who had dropped the paper in my lap, but instead of a bloodstained hole, I saw an awful grin. My stomach dropped. Her grin changed to a smile that was almost kind. She reached down to her bag, slowly unzipped it, and pulled out a kitchen knife. I started to whimper. I was about to die.


“I don’t love you anymore.” She muttered, scuffing her shoe against the rough concrete. There were lots of little cracks in it that were far more interesting to her than the conversation she’d found herself stuck in. She hadn’t wanted to have this conversation here. Not in front of all the people that were walking past. They were getting a few odd looks and she flicked her hair a little. “What do you mean?” He asked, his face starting to crumple into an expression of upset. “I don’t know how I could say it any clearer.” She muttered. Her eyes were drawn to a nearby column and she let her gaze climb slowly upwards to the ceiling. It probably needed to be cleaned. All public spaces like this needed to be cleaned, but she doubted they ever were. It wasn’t that *she* cared, but her mother always muttered about it when they were together. “Did you ever love me?” Her eyes were pulled back to her ex-partner. Or was he still her partner at the moment? She wasn’t sure how it worked. But he was still looking at her expectantly, tears gathering along the lower lid of his eyes. “I enjoyed the time we spent together.” She answered truthfully, clasping her hands in front of her. His voice almost sounded like a whimper this time. “But you don’t enjoy it anymore.” “No.” “Why not?” He asked again, taking a step forward. She stepped back quickly, keeping the distance between them. Her eyes travelled up and down his frame, trying to determine if he was going to jump at her. His shoulders slumped and he didn’t take another step. “I don’t have an answer for that.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t enjoy spending time with you anymore.” “What did I do wrong?” Her head tilted slightly as she considered the question. Had he done anything wrong? She didn’t suppose he had. It was something that was wrong with her, perhaps. To enjoy something and then not. She eyed him again, took in the defeated pose. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She told him, hoping that it would bring back his smile. It only made the tears spill over. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders hunched forward, protectively around himself. She glanced about, hoping for some route to escape. But so many eyes were on them. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t talk with him here. She turned on her heel, bowing her head. As she started threading her way through the crowd. Some moved out of her way, others made her change her course. But, finally, she got to her destination, dropping into a chair next to her friend. “So? Did you do it?” Her friend asked, leaning forward expectantly. “Did you break up with him?” “I think so.” She answered. “I told him I didn’t love him anymore. But he started crying. So… I left. I didn’t know what else to do.” “You are cold.” Her friend crowed. “Alright class, settle down!” The teacher called as the bell rang in the hall.


Wrote this short story, wanting some critique and thoughts.  Kyle is a mouse. Small, easy to miss, insignificant. All mice look alike, it’s only when they’re in a spot they’re not supposed to be, is when there’s an uproar. Swatted, stomped, shot, screamed at, very unpleasant events occur when mice aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Kyle had just got done with his chores, taking what little nuts and berries he could find, placing them in a small pile where they kept the food. He sighed knowing it will be empty before the sun sets. He glanced out the hole, seeing the wide, vast, empty landscape. Often he wondered if the haven his father raved about was just beyond the forest. That’s when he noticed his three friends huddled in discussion. “What’re you guys talking about?” Kyle inquired. “We got a plan to get more cheese!” squealed Piggy, the fattest yet smallest of the bunch. His tail was the shortest of them all, and in a rather unfortunate screwdriver accident, it was twirled like a spring. “But it requires us working with the rats,” Arnold, the smartest of the group, explained. “Why would the rats need our help?” Kyle asked, confused now. “They want the ‘good stuff’ in the cabinets,” answered Charlie. A clear displeased expression populated her face. No one was happy to work with the rats, you can never trust them. Always an angle with them. “Yeah, the stuff that’s also in the most dangerous area, the humans or the guard animals would spot us a mile away,” Arnold explained, “which is why they want us to draw them all away from the kitchen, long enough for them to grab what they need.” “They said it would only take a minute or two at most,” interjected a desperate Piggy, “Plus it will be at night, when they’re asleep! Plus they had some stuff to keep the cat out of the picture!” “It’s too dangerous Piggy,” Charlie concluded, “It could cost us our lives, and for what? Cheese? We have plenty of food here.” “No we don’t, we barely have enough for the burrow!”“That’s cause you eat for three mice,” Arnold snided.“We should have more than what we get! Why are they so adamant about not sharing it? They have plenty! It comes so easy to them!” Piggy’s face got red with frustration and disappointment. “It’s not worth our lives Piggy,” Charlie explained trying to coax the young one. “...Are we even living?” Pondered Kyle.The three looked at him. Charlie’s expression perplexed, Piggy glad someone sided with him, and Arnold concerned where he was going with this. “We get nothing but scraps from the pigs. Everyday we’re out there busting our humps just to have one meal, maybe. Meanwhile, they have enough food for us to move out of the burrow! If we had all that food, and cheese, we could make a pilgrimage to the Haven!” “Not this again Kyle,” sighed Arnold, “The Haven is nothing but nonsense the elders raved on for you to sleep peacefully.” “All of them were crazy? Your dad spoke of it too! How everyone has a hole of their own, eating like kings for every meal. Not having to worry about snakes, owls, cats, or humans. We all have it great!” “If it exists why did they run from it?” Charlie asked simply, crossing her arms. “They never got to it because they had children here,” Kyle explained, “Children that sometimes get eaten by our own for survival.” Piggy squealed in fear, remembering such tragedies, hiding behind Charlie. “Winter is soon you guys, if we don’t get food, the burrow is going to look like a blood bath,” Kyle concluded, “I say we risk it. For us and the burrow.” Charlie and Arnold looked at each other, hoping one of them would have a good argument against it. But it never came. “...alright, we’ll do it,” Arnold concluded, defeated by Kyle’s logic.The four got ready and rendezvous outside the farmer’s house as the sun set. In the distance, three large shadows approached them. The first of the rats, Iggy, stood out amongst them. His crooked mouth, eyes working independently of each other, and the shortest of the three. Next was Ziggy, tallest of the three, paying more attention to her nails than where she was walking. She looks at their leader, Scar. No one knows if he was born with that name or if he gave it to himself, either way one large scar ran down his left eye. Some say it was from a cat, others a snake, but whenever asked if it hurt, he always said that they should have seen the other one. “Alright, let’s talk business,” he began. His eye wandered to Iggy first, “You put the cat nip out?” “Yeh yeh yeh yeh,” Iggy furiously nodded, a wide green pleased with himself, “Right by its food, just like you said boss, just like you said!” “God stop repeating yourself,” Ziggy complained, annoyed at the ravings of the lunatic. “Sorry,” Iggy frowned, shutting his mouth. “Alright, so you mice need to split up and get to different parts of the house, and cause the biggest racket you can. Two minutes is all the mischief needs to get the food out. Think you can handle that?” Scar asked the four. “As long as you keep your end of the bargain, you can count on us,” Kyle concluded, determined to come out of this on top with his friends. “Let’s get to it,” Scar said simply. And with that, the parted ways and made their infiltration into the house. The house was of simple structure. One big kitchen, with one door leading outside to the back, and an arch that led into the living room. In the living room were the restroom and a set of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Inside the living room was an old television, standing on a sturdy short table, hanging so low only a mouse or cats toys could get lost under. A tall pole lamp stood next to the couch, barely balanced on its own. Kyle reached his spot first. Up near the ceiling rested a long series of shelves, housing decorative plates that the wife treasured as much as her marriage. Kyle knew this would be perfect. Charlie was next. Up on the counter laid some kitchenware. Most notable, a large cutting knife most likely used for separating meat. The smaller ones would make quite the ruckus, but the knife she knew to save for later. Piggy and Arnold both had the brilliant idea to climb up the lamp. A few swings would surely bring it crashing down. Piggy however was unsure of these actions. He looked to his elder and spoke, “Do you think the Haven exists?” Arnold had to stop and think for a moment, “Honestly Piggy, I don’t know. They say that if you do right, and work hard enough you can get there. But I have yet to meet someone who had truly come from such a place.”Piggy was silent the rest of the climb up, knowing that was the best answer Arnold could give him. As the clock struck 10, Heath, the guard dog, started his patrol of the house. While it was a small house, it was his, so he made sure to protect it. If he failed, he could never face the master again. He peeks out the little cat door where Mittens usually enters, only to see the cat on quite the trip. “Just what are you doing?” Heath interrogated. “I see all the stars, they are so wonderful Heath,” giggled the fat cat, “I hope the masters let us touch them soon.” “Quite being silly and get in here! You’ll get hurt tripping out there! Plenty of opportunists come at night.” “Oh fine, oh fine,” yawned Mittens as he slowly squeezed his way into the house, passing out as soon as he got his tail inside. Heath shook his head and continued his patrol. Kyle saw him enter the kitchen, sniffing for trouble. This dog may be sharp, but his nose was worthless in his old age. Kyle grinned and went to the furthest end of the plates, and whoosh. It fell in a flash, and made such a loud crash. Heath jumped and let out a loud bark. “Who goes there?!” Bellowed the old dog. Kyle snickered and began the tirade of pushing the plates down, one by one a crash could be heard. The old dog tucked his tail back, backing up and barking until his hind legs were all but pressed into the counter. Charlie saw this opportunity and pushed the knife down. SHHK!Heath cried out in agony, as the knife had slid into his leg. Blood spewed out all over the floor, he howled and squealed for help. “MASTER! MASTER HELP ME!” The old dog begged. A booming downstairs could be heard, the two farmers saw in horror the scene before them. Charlie quickly tried to hide, but the wife was too fast and grasps her by the tail. “Damn mice!” the wife screamed, “In my house!? How dare they!” She carried the squealing mouse toward the sink. Kyle screamed at them, trying to get them to let go. The wife was too disgusted to think. A switch was flipped and she dropped charlie into the garbage disposal. A loud shredding occurs, blood and gust splattering around. The wife puts the lid over it to contain the scene so it not get all over the sink. Kyle’s eyes were filled with distraught at the cruelty of the humans. Just being here and causing a racket warranted that kind of response from them. Was it because they were mice, or because the humans were just that cruel to those they think less of? The husband was more pissed at the dog getting stabbed. He yanked the knife out, but the damage was done. The leg was limp and useless. He sighs as Heath only whimpered in shame. He looks at the cat, pissed that it slept on the job. He grabs him and shakes him sober, screaming, “God dammit what do I keep you for?!” Mittens awoke now, his pupils the size of dinner plates. He looks and sees the mess left on the floor, knowing what creature could have done this. Mice. The husband drops the fat fuzzball and orders, “Find the mice and kill them!” Mittens obeys, for he knows disobedience gets you the gun. Just as he made way to the kitchen is when the two mice rocked the lamp down into the floor, shattering the glass. Mittens jumps hissing as the two scatter. Piggy runs for the couch, just barely putting his head in, dreaming of the food they will enjoy, the long winter sleep, only for Mittens to stab through his back with his claws. Piggy’s mouth leaked and sputtered blood as the cat lifted him up slowly, letting his body drag through the claws opening the wounds wider. His entrails began to slowly fall out like pink warm noodles. Mitten slurped them up, drinking him from the inside out until Piggy was but a severed head on the floor. Arnold had made it under the TV cabinet, screaming in horror at the young ones fate. He hears a snicker only to see Iggy cackling under, witnessing the entire ordeal. “You rotten rat!” Shouted Arnold, “You could’ve helped! Piggy didn’t have to die! You worthless bastard!” Iggy frowned and loomed over the now miniscule mouse. “You favor yourself to be smart,” Iggy responded, his demeanor much more sinister than before. “Yet all your smarts couldn’t save your friends from the game of life. Nor will it save you from your fate.” Iggy showed his sharp teeth, prompting Arnold to run for the kitchen. If him and Kyle could escape they could at least try and repopulate the burrow for more help. But the husband was not going to have it. A loud and quick STOMP. All of Arnold organs were shot out of any hold available. His eyes shot like billiard balls into the wall, his organs out of his sphincter, and his once proud brain nothing more than a stain on the rug. Kyle was in ruin, he screamed in fury at the fate of his friends. He shouted at the humans to take him too, for he couldn’t stand life without them. It was his decision to bring them here, and their deaths were on his hands. However, Ziggy had other plans. She grabs the distraught mouse and drags him outside. He fights and squirms but she was much stronger than him. Scar simply watched the mischief get the food out as the family cleaned up the mess that was left. By morning, the mess was done, but the damage was irreparable. Kyle was exhausted. Scar has some of the rats bring him their fair share. Enough for him and the burrow to survive winter, but he didn’t want it. He looked as Ziggy had met with Mittens outside the barn. A gunshot goes off, and a dejected mittens scowls at Ziggy. “Wasn’t my fault the mouse stabbed him. You should’ve thought ahead,” teased Ziggy. “You win this round, but next time I will be the one on top,” Mittens mused. “Yes well the rats this day get to live the high life for the next few months. Who knows, maybe the mice will go somewhere else, but I doubt it will be any better. All I know is that it will be an enjoyable show.” Kyle realized what had really happened. All this food was simply a consolation prize. He glares at Scar, knowing the cheese meant nothing. “I will tell them all about this, I will make sure they learn the truth about you!” He declared. Scar smirked and looked the mouse straight in the eye and only responded with one, cold sentence: “Not like it will change anything.” With that, Kyle was left alone, all the food to eat, and no friends to share it with. He sits down, and the first snowflake of winter begins to fall.


It was near ten, and morning sun was streaming in through the big windows open to the courtyard outside. Birds hopped and skittered on the tile floor, only to be half-heartily chased out by the staff with a broom. It promised to be a glorious day, and he didn’t want to be here. The light hurt his eyes, his mouth tasted like death, and he needed at least another 4 hours of sleep. Yet he’d stupidly been duped into prepaying for breakfast, so here he was. Bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, but here none the less. Half leaning against the door frame, he heavily stumbled towards the buffet, wincing at the mid-morning sunshine assaulting his eyes. It looked like there was only some pretty slim pickings left from the morning’s rush. He picked out himself a couple of oily sausages, some very dry scrambled eggs, and a single, soggy, overcooked tomato. Together with a bitter cup of black coffee and some fresh toast, it wasn’t exactly the best meal he’d ever had, but he’d certainly had worse. Taking a corner seat, well away from the noisiest of the customers, Vik slowly ate his breakfast and took in his surroundings. He’d only been here a couple of days, but he’d liked his stay thus far. It was central to the city, clean, and most importantly, cheap. It had a bar down in the basement that served something called ‘Panther Milk’. He suspected that the drink was made out of equal parts condensed milk and paint thinner. In the clear light of day he also suspected that he should have refused the vile concoction after the first sip- and he knew that he should have refused the bottles that followed. The night before was a bit of a blur. He couldn’t even remember the names of the guys that he’d spent half the night talking to. Cameron and Tomás? Something like that. As the caffeine and the grease began to hit his system, he began to feel distinctly more human. He cleared away his now empty plate, poured himself another bitter coffee, and retreated to his corner with a handful of brochures. As he looked over the third walk that proclaimed to be a “journey of a lifetime”, he noticed that he was being watched. A young woman with dark hair and almond eyes was idly looking through her phone, but intermittently flicking said eyes in his direction. He smiled to himself, and turned back to the brochures. She had been there last night too, hadn’t she? He’d bought her a drink – or she’d bought him one? By the subsiding pain in his head, it was likely both. He tried to remember what he could about her, but the milk had done a pretty good job of fogging out most of the night. There were still fragments - She was Romanian, an air hostess, and was here because she had a week off. She spoke clipped English with an slight accent, and had gone to great pains to teach him several Romanian profanities. She said that she hated dancing, but still danced with the fury of silk caught in a gust of wind. He smiled at the thought, before shaking the reverie out of his head and turning back to idly thumb through the brochures again. Much like the previous four flyers that he’d looked at, this journey claimed that it “had it all”. Vik tossed the glossy paper aside. The Romanian had packed up her plate and now was fussing about her table, as if unsure about something. Smiling as she walked across the room, he motioned for her to sit, before pushing some of the brochures in her direction. What did she have planned for today? Would she like some company? It promised to be a glorious day, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.