The accident occurred three weeks after my 22nd birthday and two days before I left home for my new job in Boston. I had been out with the boys celebrating - after all - I was the first person from my town to make it to celebrity status …well, almost. I had been hired as an intern reporter with WCVB Channel 5, the first step in my dream to be the next Anderson Cooper. Around 8PM that Thursday, Jimmy, Sean, Michael and I met up at Stu’s Pub and Pool House to shoot a few games, and of course, have a few shots as well. I didn’t have that much to drink; at least, I don’t think I did. A couple beers and a Jack or two in between …I’d handled worse. In truth the guys would never have let me leave if they thought I’d been too drunk to drive. Yet somewhere along the fifteen miles of highway between the pubhouse and home I’d had apparently drifted off to sleep, and dad’s Ram smashed into a giant old sycamore. I did make it onto the WCVB news the next day, a small voiceover piece about how a promising new intern lost his life in a road traffic accident. I watched the news on the TV at home, standing next to my distraught father who was slumped on his favorite armchair in the living room. Mom was in the bedroom upstairs, she had eventually cried herself to sleep. A small handful of relatives were in the house, and so were the guys. Of course, no one could see me. I mean, I was dead. Well, at least my body had died. I don’t know what this was. The last thing I remember after the accident was sitting on my own bed. I spent a frantic and crazy few minutes trying to speak to my parents and wondering why they were acting like I wasn’t there. Even when Deputy Bradford came to the house to tell them about the accident I still thought it was all a joke, a going-away prank. Until mom broke down. You couldn’t fake that kind of pain. My body was buried on Saturday morning. I didn’t see the funeral, because for some reason I couldn’t leave the house. But later that evening I saw the light for the first time. I was just trudging to the kitchen to eavesdrop on my parents when I caught a glare in my peripheral vision. It was covering the front door. I knew exactly what it was, it was there for me. I felt the pull, the yearning as it seemed to call out to me. I knew there was peace in that light, but stubbornly I refused to go. I just could not bear to leave my parents. In the end, they left me. About two months after the accident my parents sold the house and moved out. My mother was having a hard time coping with my death, and was suffering terrible mental anguish. I tried on several occasions to contact them, but it was useless, and as frustrating as it was to be confined to the house I resisted the light on two other occasions. However, each time it reappeared there seemed to be something different about it, it seemed dimmer somehow, and the time in between when it appeared grew longer. The worst day was watching them move out. I cried, I yelled and tried to touch them, but they were oblivious to my existence – whatever strange existence this was. For a long time after I just lay on the bare living room floor, praying for the light to appear. But the light did not come. I drifted in and out of darkness, and time passed, how much time I had no idea, and then one day, the front door opened. My first thought was that an intruder was trying to get in, until I remembered. Until it all came painfully back. The accident. The funeral. My parents leaving. “This place will need some cleaning.” It was a woman’s voice. I jumped up as they came through the front door. I was angry. Who were these intruders, and how dare they come into my house? As I grew angrier the small chandelier started to vibrate. Then I saw her. She was petite but with a firmness of body that came from dedicated workouts. She could not be more than five feet two inches tall, with black hair, neatly pulled back falling just above her waist. She had a smile that made her brown eyes twinkle, and crow’s feet which meant that she used that smile quite a lot. He lips were full, and pink despite the fact that she wore no lipstick, and hardly any make up at all. Her perfume was subtle, and I could even catch a whiff of the shampoo in her hair. Funny how even now I retained some of these senses. She looked around and for a moment I could have sworn she looked right at me, locked eyes with mine, and then the moment was gone, and her eyes drifted over the now dusty, empty living room. She glanced up at the chandelier, which was still shaking slightly, shrugged and made way for the man behind her. He was about half a foot taller than she was, fit looking and well dressed. He wore spectacles and sported short brown hair. He was dragging a suitcase behind him, and further back I could see guys bustling around the moving truck that was parked in the front yard. “Oh shit,” I thought, ‘just flipping great!” Their names were Jessie Parker and Ryan Steadman. They were engaged and Ryan had just gotten a job as head of the local bank. It seems three months had passed while I ‘lay’ on the living room floor, and in that time they had purchased the house. I had no idea why I was still here, and it was with regret and some fear that I realised the light had not appeared for some time. Did I miss my chance I wondered, and if I did, what would become of me now. I still could not leave the house, there was an invisible barrier at every opening, but something had changed. In the six months or so since the accident, particularly after my three month ‘sleep’, I realised that I could now interact with the living world, although very subtlety, and only with extreme effort. There were times when I stared intently at Jessie and she’d look up, look in my direction, and then shrug it off. Jessie. It didn’t take much for me to fall in love with Jessie. She was an artist and set up her studio in my old bedroom. I’d spend hours watching her paint, and I’d smile when she’d make silly jokes with herself. She enjoyed listening to music from people like Elton John, Rod Stewart or Phil Collins when she painted, and she always sang along and danced. She loved a cup of hot vanilla latte, and she always smelled liked flowers and paint. She was a romantic and would often recite pieces of her favorite poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: *“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.* *I love thee to the depth and breadth and height* *My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight…”* But then there were the other times. The times I’d cringe when I heard them making love. They seemed content. Ryan turned out to be a bit of a workaholic and was more interested in Bloomberg than Bacciarelli. Jessie spent long hours on her paintings, and I spent long hours in there with her. Sometime after they moved in a friend of hers from Boston came down for the weekend. After dinner Ryan remained downstairs watching TV, while Jessie and Lauren lounged in her studio drinking red wine and gossiping. At one point I heard Jessie say, “You know something Lauren, you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but sometimes when I’m up here I could swear someone else is in here with me.” Of course Lauren just laughed and poured them both some more wine. “I think this small town vibe is getting the better of you hun, I warned you about watching all those ghost hunting shows.” Jessie laughed in response, “I know it sounds silly, but it feels so real. The thing is that although it makes me nervous, I never feel threatened, never scared you know. Just that sensation that someone is there. I dunno, it probably is just the new house vibe.” They talked for a while longer reminiscing about Boston days and I drifted off again, like I often do. Suddenly I was jolted awake by a powerful humming sound. I was still in Jessie’s studio and it had to be late because all had gone quiet, all except for that throbbing, crackling sound coming from downstairs. I rushed down to find that the light had come back, finally, but it was different. It was not by the front door, this time it was covering the door leading to the basement. It was shimmering now and there appeared to be small lightning bolts around the edges. The middle seemed darker somehow and I swore I could make out a shape in it; a dark shape of something staring out at me. I started to walk toward the light when something told me to stop. I was just meters away from it when I heard the growl, low and guttural. It came from the light and I realised that this was not what I had seen before. This was something else. I panicked and tried walking away, but I felt a strong magnetic pull, pulling me toward the tainted light, toward that growl. Oh God, I can’t get away, I screamed and fought with all my might. Three meters, two and I saw a black hand slowly start to emerge, reaching for me, sharp claws on the end…. “Who is there? Is there someone there?” The light disappeared. It was Jessie. She stood at the top of the stairs staring down. She held a baseball bat in one hand – I don’t know whether that made her brave or crazy – but she was willing to take on whoever she thought might be in her house. I smiled despite the terror of moments before. Something had awoken her. “What the hell is going on babe?” It was a groggy looking Ryan, still rubbing his eyes, “its two a.m.” “I swore I heard someone down here Ryan. I-I think someone’s in the house.” To his credit Ryan took the bat from her, moved her behind him and slowly descended. Of course, he found nothing, and 30 minutes later they were both back in their bedroom, my parent’s old room and one that I could never bring myself to enter. My mind soon drifted back to what had just happened and a feeling of terror fell over me. Was I paying for ignoring the light? Did I miss my chance to go to what felt like a better place? And did that now make me fair game for whatever else inhabits this afterlife? The thoughts were terrifying, too much to bear, and I slumped to the floor head in my hands. I had Jessie to thank for my, my what? Reprieve? Because I feared that whatever it was, was going to come again. The next day, or maybe it was the next week - time passed differently for me - I was in Jessie’s studio once more. She was working on a landscape covering a huge canvas some five feet tall and maybe four feet across. Suddenly she stopped. “I know you’re there you know, despite what Lauren might say.” She turned and looked almost right at me. “If you are there, then can you let me know? Can you speak? Can you move something, or even touch me?” I was stunned and for a moment did not know what to do. She felt me. Felt my presence. “Or maybe I am going a little crazy after all,’ she sighed, and the way she pouted made my spectral heart skip a beat. “I’m here. I’m HERE!” I shouted, to no avail. I focused hard on the brushes in front of here. “Move dammit!” I came up to her side and with every ounce of effort pushed at the brushes, until finally ….I sat back exhausted. I couldn’t do it. I had never felt such disappointment, such hurt. I had girlfriends before, but never serious relationships. What I felt for Jessie these last few weeks I had never felt before. “I’m losing my mind,” I heard her whisper and a small tear rolled down the left side of her face. My heart broke, and gently I reached over to touch that tear – and she practically jumped! “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, looking around wildly, “was that you? Did you just touch my face?” My mouth was open as I stared at her in wonder. She actually felt me. Jessie stood now, slowly moving in a circle, “can you do something else? Who are you?” I reached for her again, but my hand just went right through. I tried to recapture whatever made it work but it was hard. “Please, let me know who you are?” I heard her say. I stood in front of her now, inches away and stared into those eyes I had come to adore, I wished more than anything to be able to kiss those lips. I too sighed and slowly wrapped my arms around her. She froze and inhaled deeply. Her eyes grew wide for a moment and then she slowly relaxed, and she smiled. “That’s you isn’t it? I can feel you.” Her smile grew wider, “Who are you? What do you want with me?” I tried speaking, but I knew it was useless. She could sense me, but communication seemed impossible. I didn’t know how much time I had left with her, and I wanted to tell her how I felt about her. But it was useless, and I faded away in frustration…. “Hello, are you here?” I came alert. I had drifted in the blackness again, and I’m not sure how much time had passed. I shook my head to clear away the dark and found myself still in Jessie’s studio. She was sitting at her small desk and there was something in front of her. Oh shit, she had gotten herself one of those spirit boards. My mom always said to avoid stuff like that. She said they were chinks that could let bad stuff in. “Can you speak to me, try using this.” I stood opposite her staring down at the board, and truth be told, there was something vibrant about it. I reached out for the planchette and felt a jolt of electricity sting my fingertips. My spectral heart beat faster. This just might work. With great effort I tried pushing the planchette …and finally, it moved. I saw Jessie start a bit as she felt it move under her fingers… C-A-L-V-I-N… “Calvin? That’s your name? Oh my gosh it’s great to finally meet you Calvin. What are you doing here?” Spelling out my name had left me drained. I didn’t realise how hard this was. I wasn’t sure if I could answer her. But somehow I managed to spell out ‘H-O-M-E.’ “Oh wow, this was your home? Wait a minute…” she said, ‘the family that owned the home before were the Richards, Calvin Richards, is that your name?” I was exhausted. After waiting for a few minutes Jessie pulled out her phone opened Google and typed in ‘Calvin Richards’ in the search bar. A lot of hits came up, none about me. There sure were a lot of Calvin Richards out there. She finally refined the search, down to the town and hit the ‘News’ icon, and there it was. *“Promising Journalist Killed in Accident”.* The story wasn’t long, there was a picture of me at the top and by the time Jessie had finished reading it her eyes were red. “I’m so sorry Cal, “she shortened my name naturally, adding “I can’t imagine what it’s like. And you’ve been trapped here all this time?” She reached out and touched my photo. “Such a handsome young man too.” I smiled when she said young man; she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five herself. “Oh Cal, why haven’t you moved on? Is this what happens after we die? Is there something that’s keeping you back?” Too many questions Jessie, and I barely have the energy to move that planchette again, but I did manage to spell out ‘Y-O-U”. “Me? What about me Cal? Are you saying that you’re here because of me? I don’t know what that means…” She looked a bit disturbed now, and I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. Slowly she packed away the spirit board and left the room, pausing once at the door, “Good night Cal.” My exhaustion caused me to lose myself again, and into the blackness I went. Jessie was in the studio again. She was working intently on her painting. There was something different about her attitude, I wondered if I had scared her. Dammit Calvin, you’re such an ass! I walked over to her and stood by her side, she turned then, and walked right through me to go pick up some more paint. I may not have had a physical body, but there was a cold, sinking feeling in this one. I don’t know if you have ever been in love, and if you ever did anything to hurt that person. It leaves a pit of ice in your stomach and suddenly all other thoughts are swept away other than how you can make it right. “Oh Jessie, Jessie …I’m such a fool, I’m so, so sorry.” “I know you are Cal.” What the hell! Did she just respond to me? Oh my God! “You…you can hear me?” I stuttered. She smiled and shook her head, “Not physically no, it’s more like a whisper, in my head, and I don’t catch every word, but lately I do catch bits and pieces here and there. Ever since we used the spirit board …I’ve been listening to you beat yourself up for the past half hour.” And then she did laugh out loud! We talked for hours, and while she didn’t get it all, I was able to tell her about myself, and how I felt about her. Her face did go flush, but she didn’t seem too put off to have a ghost fall for her. Overs the next couple of days Jessie opened up a lot more about herself. She grew up in Georgia in a devoutly Christian family. Jessie was inquisitive though, and would often question parents, relatives and teachers about everything from life after death to the existence of alien life. She also had an innate and tremendous talent for painting. Throughout her life Jessie was always searching for answers, even as she pursued her career as an artist in New York, where she met Ryan. She was obsessed with trying to find out if there was something more. So when Jessie walked into the house that first day, she knew that there was something different about it, and when I contacted her using the spirit board it helped shed light on things she had desperately sought to know since she was a girl, even though it meant that a million new questions now had to be asked. But before she could ask any more we heard the door slam downstairs. Ryan was home. “Gotta run Cal, catch you later,” she said and blew a kiss in my direction with her right hand. For some reason I felt jealous, and angry. I knew it was silly, but I couldn’t help myself. I thought of him holding her and it made me sick. I heard them talking and laughing, and I got angrier. This wasn’t like me. I needed to calm down. I closed my eyes, tried to lose myself in the blackness, but it would not come. “Damn you! Damn whatever is out there that has left me in this hell!” I shouted. I looked to the heavens, “God, are you there? Why am I here? Is this some sort of punishment?” There was no response. Of course not. I dropped my eyes. Now frustration added to my anger. I stood up and ran at the window …and slammed into an invisible wall. It actually hurt. I shouldn’t feel pain; I’m dead …so what the hell was this? “Purgatory Cal!” The voice boomed into my head. “What?” I spun around scanning the room, “Who …whose there? What do you want? God?” I heard a familiar chuckle, ‘No, no son, not God at all, just someone else who cares about you.” There stood my grandfather Max Richards …short for Maximillian. He had died when I was just 16, however we had been extremely close, and his death hurt me deeply. He looked exactly as I remembered him. Max was tall, over six feet, and had a pronounced paunch. His full head of grey hair was always neatly combed with a side part, and he wore a blue striped shirt and khaki pants. He had lines all over his face, lines that were borne out of hard work, but also left there by years of joy and happiness. My grandmother had died just a couple years before Max, and we all believed his eventual demise was as a result of a broken heart. “Grandpa Max? Is it …is it really you?” ‘Well yes and no Cal. It is who I was, although this is no longer who I am. I was, er, requested to have a word with you, and this will be the one, and only time you will ever see me here Cal, so listen up boy, and pay good attention.” “You are stuck here because you have grounded yourself boy. First it was your parents. The door opened three times, and three times you refused to go through. Now that your parents have gone, you have found a new anchor …that pretty little lady downstairs. You have to let go Cal, it’s a choice, and if you don’t then you will be stuck here for all eternity. Physical death comes for us whether we like it or not son. But death is simply a transition, you have things to do on the other side boy, and they are piling up the more you linger here like Hamlet’s ghost.” “The door will open once more Cal, but only when you’ve ended your unnatural affair with the young lady. She is not of your existence, and you need to let her get on with life. You should not have communicated with her, but what’s done is done. Try to forget her Cal. It’s time to move on.” He spoke with that severe grandfather look he always put on whenever he corrected me as a kid. I shook my head. This was all too much to bear, but I have no doubt he spoke the truth. ‘It sounds weird, but I really love her grandpa. You remember what love is don’t you, like you loved grandma? I never got to experience that, not until now.” He shook his head. His eyes looked sad, “I’m so sorry Cal, so sorry, but that’s different son. We were both alive, and what we had was natural. This isn’t.” “And what of the other door?” I asked, “The one with the dark shape inside?” If a specter could grow pale then my grandfather’s did just that. His eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped opened. “What other door Cal? I told him about the terrifying experience I had, and how I was being drawn into the door with the lightning. I could see it shook him, shook him to whatever disembodied core he now possessed. “Then they know you are here Cal. They know you have lingered. Your very soul is at risk boy. You end this now with that girl, end it and you go through the light, because if they get you Cal, there are no words to describe what they will do to you.” ‘They? Who the hell are they grandpa?” ‘They are the things that dwell in the darkness son. Existence is about balance; yin and yang, dark and light, good and evil, and nothing is so precious to them as to get their filthy claws on a soul bound for the light.” He sounded desperate. “I must go now Cal, my time is over, but you heed me boy. I’ll be waiting on the other side. Oh and Cal, one last thing. These beings will let nothing or no one prevent them from getting at you, and that includes your little friend downstairs. The longer you linger, the more peril you put them in Cal. Your presence is what allows those things to access this house. The best thing you can do to keep her safe, is to leave.” And he was gone. I was terrified. This had just gotten real. Some metaphysical game was afoot, and I was the pawn. But all I could think of was Jessie. How do I let go of Jessie, just when I found her, just when we found each other. But if my grandfather was right, then that very love was going to condemn me to something terrible, something infernally terrible! Sometime later she opened the studio door and popped her head in. “Cal?” I didn’t answer. “Guess you’re tired,’ she smiled, ‘can’t wait to talk to you tomorrow. Good night.” And she shut the door. But I didn’t talk with Jessie the next day, or the next week despite all her efforts. She even brought back out the spirit board a couple times, but I just ignored it, I ignored her, and we both suffered. The days came and went, and I could see that Jessie wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were red and she had stopped eating. She’d argue with Ryan – I can’t say I was too sorry about that one – but I could see she was in pain. She even stopped painting. It took every ounce of will to stop myself from responding to her, even when she begged. I was quiet, and I wept bitterly. One day she came into the studio and sat down, eerily looking at just the spot where I stood. “I don’t know what’s going on Cal, or why you’re treating me this way because I know you’re still here, I still feel you. If it’s Ryan then there isn’t much I can do about that. Cal, you’re a ghost. I mean, this entire freaking thing is crazy. I guess men are all the same though huh? Dead or alive? Maybe I’ve lost my mind, for heaven’s sake I’m sitting here talking to a frigging ghost. But for my entire life I have searched for answers Cal, and when I found you, well, I’d found more than answers. It’s stupid, but really connected with you.” I closed my eyes, rivers of fire running inside me, but still I held my tongue. I’m doing this for you too Jessie. I couldn’t bear being the cause of any harm that would come to her, and the best way to keep her out of danger was to go through my door. The only way that would happen was to break this connection. I drifted, but still I could hear her small sobs, and I wept with her. Time passed on again, how much time I’m never sure, but I found myself in the living room again. The house was empty. I drifted up to Jessie’s studio, she had started painting again. I did not recognise it at first, but then it hit me with a jolt. The painting was of a huge door, a door I had seen before. It was surrounded by light, with lightning crackling around the edges, and a dark shape inside. There was a hand reaching out from it. A hand I recognised with a feeling of trepidation. Oh my God! What did this mean? Where would she have gotten those images from? I looked around and with dismay I saw the spirit board on the floor in front of the painting. It seemed Jessie may have tried to contact me again, but God alone knows what she actually made contact with. Did that account for the strange sketch? Jessie! I felt panic coming on when the front door opened. It was her, I knew it, and relief washed over me. I ran downstairs. She was just taking off her coat, a grocery bag on the ground in front of her. She paused briefly as I stared at her, but then carried on with what she was doing. As Jessie pushed the door shut however …it came back! It was the door of light. Thank you God I thought. I turned to look over my left shoulder. Jessie was now in the kitchen packing away the groceries. I was overcome with bitterness and sadness, but even as I felt those things the door flickered. I had to leave her, I had to go, and I could not even say goodbye. I sighed dejectedly and started walking toward the light, when I heard something else, something that sent a chill through me; a buzzing sound. Wide-eyed I paused and slowly turned to where the entrance to the basement was. The other door was also back, and now there appeared to be countless dark shapes swirling around in there. The light seemed sickly somehow; contaminated, stained. The growls were back too, seeming to come from dozens of different throats. I hastened my pace, but then I heard a voice come from that other door. It was a heavy, growling voice, with an accent I could not determine. It was a foul voice, and simply hearing it made me feel dirty. “Go through that door and we will take her instead. She will take your place here with us Calvin Richards.” It laughed, and the laugh was of a thousand entities mixed together. An icy hand gripped the centre of my being. No, no. no, this couldn’t be happening. This thing had threatened Jessie. “Cal,’ it was a whisper, from in front of me this time. Grandpa. “Cal, son, move now! You have to hurry son.” He sounded terrified as well, “they will take your soul and they will shred it Cal. Come now!” My soul. My soul or the soul of the woman I loved. I had to make a decision. But deep down at the very core of my existence I already knew.


Harold sat on the bus. It was a Tuesday, Harold always took the bus on Tuesdays. It wasn't that he had somewhere he needed to go. Harold just enjoyed riding the bus and today was a special day. He'd got on at Westmoor Station and bought his usual ticket. The bus was always empty for the most parts on Tuesday afternoons. No one was trying to get into the city, congestion on the other side always bulked up around four o'clock. Harold sat in his favourite spot, two rows from the back, left-aisle window seat. He used three baby-wipes on the seat and railing before sitting down. Harold could be very particular like that. Doctors called it an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Harold just thought of it as a hygienic and consistent experience. Routines were just rituals like that morning cup of coffee before work, or Friday night sex with the spouse. Harold just happened to have a few more of them than most. However, today had been an unusual day for him. He'd spent most of it cleaning his home until it was nothing short of spotless, not that that was unusual. He just tended to do this on a Wednesday. Breaking routine made Harold very anxious, but he'd powered through the sensation of burning hot wires in his head and gotten the job done, just in time to catch the bus in fact. Harold had a special guest coming to visit and he wanted everything to be perfect. 14th Street came up and he held his breath. There was a 7:1 chance that she would be at the stop. Harold had been riding this bus for almost three years and he'd been keeping track. To be fair Harold kept track of everyone, it was just another way to add order to his little corner of the universe. Two people climbed aboard, neither were her. Harold slumped, disappointed as the bus began to pull away. "Hey, wait!" Someone banged on the bus, running alongside it. Harold looked out and saw her chasing them down. Luckily the driver hit traffic and stopped. "Thank you," she gasped breathlessly; climbing aboard. She walked down the bus towards Harold. He stared at her a little too long, as always. She wore a flower print dress, perfect for the summer weather with blue and red blooms all over. Pink sunglasses, held back long, brown curls. Harold identified the style as some sort of 1950s hipster chic. She looked beautiful. Tall with tight leg muscles, Harold knew she liked to swim. He'd heard her talking about it on the phone once. Her name was Lucy. Lucy took a seat one row in front of Harold, on the opposite side. She flashed him a cheeky grin as she sat. That's what Harold loved about Lucy, she was so carefree. so not him. "Hey I know you, right?" Harold blinked, startled. A deer in the headlights stood better chance of responding. "Yeah, you're that quirky guy, that cleans the seat before he sits. Right?" Harold blinked again. "Ugh-" he sputtered. Harold struggled to formulate a response. His brain would not process this derailment in his plans. "Harold," he gulped. "Hi," she leaned over grinning, chewing some gum. She held out her hand. "I'm Lucy." "I know, I- er mean nice to meet you." "Nice to meet you too, Harold." She leaned back against the window, stretching her legs across the aisle. She watched Harold with a demure look. The bus traveled on for several more minutes in silence, Harold unable to break Lucy's gaze with his own pitiful squirms. His mind played static on a loop the entire time, unable to formulate any kind of adequate sentence structure. This only made him more upset. He'd waited so long to talk with her. He'd even practised asking her to dinner in the mirror exactly four hundred and twenty-seven times. Nothing but static remained of those rehearsals. Lucy turned to look outside and reached for the stop button. "I- er. Eat." Harold pleaded incoherently. Lucy gave him a strange look, as she stood up. "See you around, Harold." She made her way to the front as the bus came to a stop, climbing out before some more passengers came on. Harold let his head fall into his hands, wanting to cry. Something made him look over at her seat. He noticed her pink sunglasses sitting there, which must have fallen off. The bus began to move and Harold rushed to grab them. "He-Hey wait. Stop." He started rushing forward then remembered his bag. He clamored back and grabbed it, rushing to the front again. "Stop-Stop the bus. Please, stop!" he shouted, falteringly. The bus came to a sudden halt, tipping Harold to the ground. He climbed back to his feet, haphazardly as the bus driver opened the doors with a scowl. Harold climbed down and ran back over to the pavement. "Hey, wait!" Harold shouted to Lucy as she reached a street corner. She stopped, turning to see him. "Oh hey, what's up?" He stopped in front of her, panting to catch his breath. "Y-Your glasses-sun, your sunglasses" he waved them in front of her. "What sunglasses?" She asked puzzled. Harold stood up sharply, looking at his hand. There were no sunglasses. "Get away from me, pervert." Lucy shouted, aggressively. She shoved him backwards. "No, wait." He stumbled, landing in the street. Cuts on his hands and gazed elbows began to sting as he sat up, confused. There was no girl on the sidewalk. There was no one to be seen in sight. HONK. HONK. Harold looked up in time to see the truck that would end his life. He closed his eyes and smiled.


In moments of panic, he found himself taking slow, and choppy deep breaths. “Remember what the self help book says, remember what the self help book says…. What the hell did it all say again?” Shaking the hands of family he had known since he was a baby, Franky smiled and laughed half heartedly. He hadn’t seen the lot of them in over 10 years. Around him, he gazed over the 20 plus people in the room, many of the younger ones he’d only seen in pictures. They all seemed to be having a good time, drinking and catching up like old friends do. Dressed in his only pair of nice clothes, Franky made an conscious effort to be engaged with small talk, however he couldn’t stop worrying about whether anyone had noticed his rather small fitting shirt, or that he’d cut his upper lip from shaving only an hour before this. The pain from the fresh sting somewhat kept him level headed from what was otherwise uncomfortable conversation. He was right to assume other people were curious. The scrape over his lip was a sure symbol of his old fighting ways. Needless to say, when he accepted the Christmas Party invitation this year, it wasn’t met without a fresh feed of family gossip. “Franky! We need someone to dress up as Santa for caroling. Would you do it, please!” Asked his favorite cousin Peggy, who was a little drunk at the time. “Oh, of course of course!” Franky responded with a nervous grin, which was easily read by the older women in the room. Before they had a chance to chime in their wisdom, Franky was off to the bathroom, costume in hand. As he disappeared from the main party room, a few of the older Aunts and Uncle’s huddled around together. “Hey, would one of you want to go with Franky and the kids.” Aunt Sherri asked to the group. “I can’t go, I don’t have the right shoes. Maybe one of the men can go. I’m sure Joe would” responded Aunt Maggie, looking around for her husband. “Wait, why are you so worried?” Dean broke in. ‘We’re in the Golden Estates with 24 hour security surveillance? He’ll be fine, and plus Tommy will be there. He’s got a cell phone.” “Well, I’m just concerned you know. We haven’t seen Franky in years, and I just don’t know. I’d sure feel a lot better if one of the men went with him. “Well I’m watching the turkey, but you can try your luck with one of the guys.” Dean chuckled while he said this as the rest of the women looked to the patio. Huddled around the table on the patio was a large bowl of spiked egg nog. Sherri could see her husband Bill with Uncle Joe in the back. They had just lit cigars “How do I look?” Standing underneath the mistletoe by the fire place, Franky stood fully dressed in the bright red Santa Suit. He looked unrecognizable with the thick white beard, and seemed to be standing taller than before, his posture improved. The Aunts and Uncles began responding in unison. “You look great! Oh my god!” “Kids! Come look, Santa is here!” Smiling, Franky felt different now all of the sudden. He wasn’t wearing the small shirt, and didn’t need to force any small talk. It was as if his previous insecurities had been draped in love. All of his nieces and nephews, the ones he had missed seeing over the holidays ran up to him and gave him a hug like it was the first time they were meeting. It was way he’d day dreamed it to be. Picking up Shane, the youngest of the boys, he carried him under his arm, making it look easy. Seeing the smiling faces of everyone pointed towards him, Franky finally felt that sense of home he hadn’t seen since he was 16 years old. After he lost his Mom to drugs, he’d fight a 10 year battle with addiction, missing birthdays, phone calls, and annual Christmas parties. This was the first year he’d been back. All of the emotions of guilt and shame flowed through him in a moment of release and ecstasy. Picking up each one of his nephews and nieces in the air, he attempted an emphatic “Ho, Ho, Ho’ which made everyone laugh and cheer. “Alright kids, you ready to caroling ?” Franky gathered the kids together who were now putting on their jackets and gloves in excitement. They could finally get to use some of that high energy they’d gotten from all of the Christmas cookies. “Yeah!” As Franky put on his black gloves, Aunt Sherri reached out and grabbed his hand. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, until they caught each others gaze. Hesitating, Sherri paused a moment before looking into her Nephews deep blue eyes. The same eyes as his mothers. “Yes, Aunty Sherri.” Franky asked their hands still tied. “Your mother would be proud.” Hugging her Nephew, they held each other tight for a moment, before Franky had to lead the small troupe out down the street of their 10 house culdesak. Walking out the door, the family wished the carolers well as they exited into the cold of the winter night. Closing the door behind them, was their once youngest nephew Franky. He was finally home.


Congratulations! Wow, I have been waiting to say that for a lifetime. Ah, sorry, you must be very confused. You've made it to the end; this is it. No don't run off, trust me, that's the first thing I did. Wasted a few trillion years doing that. I could hardly believe myself either; who would have thought that there was more? I mean, I still remember those millennia. I, we, were so rambunctious, thinking we owned everything and all that. Nigh immortal, near-infinite cosmic power; a massive far cry from the lives we lived before that. I bet you spent your first few million years observing new and old universes, just to make sure everything you were seeing was real. I'm almost certain the first trillion afterwards was spent in glee and excitement, seeing everything unfold and grow in front of you, any number of times you wanted, while building beings much like yourself at the time. The good old days, they were. But then, much like some you may have seen during your travels, you faded away; content, or perhaps bored. Normally, and it's a secret between you and me, you would have started everything over again; been the curiosity of another. The only difference is that you would have had to start all over again, with no knowledge or memories. Honestly, it doesn't sound that bad of a deal. Do everything again and again, but always retain the childish curiosity every time... ... ... Oh, I'm sorry, I spaced out a bit. Right, why you're here. So, if you remember, you were a universe once. The living beings within and those that died, yada yada yada. You've been through it, I've been through it, and you watched others go through it. After you were "born", though, you probably thought that was the end. "There couldn't possibly be anything more than the manifestation of the one the universe called 'God'," you perhaps thought. Well, actually, I know you thought that, otherwise there would be umptillions more here, other than just us two. But you were special, because amongst all of that noise and curiosity and observation, you had a single thought. It probably only happened once, and it was most likely just a fleeting one. You thought: "What if there was more?" And so when you faded away, unknowingly ready to begin the cycle, you ended up with me. Think of it the same way you ended up a God, except there was no creation. No, your previous realm, just, happened really, much like this one. I wouldn't think about it too much, or rather, I would. It's a good way to waste some time. Your new job? Well, eager to start, I see. Good enthusiasm, but do you see all of those? Every single one of those is a God, each watching over their little universe, unaware of where we are. Your job, bluntly, is to watch them. Really nothing has changed for you, except you're now, legitimately, infinitely more powerful. How many are there? I'd like to keep this as brief as possible, since I've already wasted five billion years just ranting, so I think I'll refrain from wasting some quadrillion just saying the number. You don't ever have to do anything, just sit back and watch. Why is this a thing? Good question. The short answer is: something absolute needs to observe. Think of it like when you were old and watching rowdy kids that weren't yours. Except you'll never be responsible, since these kids can't fall and scrape their knees. But I've spent too much time talking. I'll let you get to it. Huh? Where am I going? Yes, of course you'll get lonely, but there always has to be at least one. Because the entire reason I create new Gods is no longer for the sake of observation or curiosity, but rather did so for the hope that someone like you will eventually break the mold and join me, an immeasurable amount of time after I got here. Yes, the main reason I make Gods, Is that when one comes to greet me, I can finally die.


I have never been so thirsty for poison. A dribbled stream over my lips would mend my frayed nerves and soothe my aching spine. I would take to the aspect of water torture over my current situation, dripping fluids upon my forehead for even the chance of a stray splatter to make its way to my tongue. The folds in my brain are covered in thorns and are rubbing against each other. I can feel my blood thickening. What I have done to myself is nothing short of martyrdom, I am paying for the sins of my past transgressions and have never been more at peace. I told myself, that if one more bottle were to make it to my lips, I would do it. If one more person had to be victim to my affliction, I would do it. If one more second passed where I was lost to the syrup, I would do it. What I had promised myself has finally been done. I failed my own oath and this is the price. I have pounded steel spikes into the wall and floor of the living room. Four spikes in total, two in the floor and two on the wall, spaced perfectly to the dimensions of my limbs. They held strong in their positions for a few months, a constant reminder that if I were to tip the scale of sobriety I would have to impale myself. Daily, I would feel the pin points with my finger tips to assure that there was no doubt that they would pierce my sinful flesh with ease. I slowly stepped both feet on the floor spikes and with little effort and the assistance of my own weight, the soles of my feet gave easily to my own devices of abstinence. I did not scream, but the pain was nauseating. My mouth tasted like salt and motor oil, the sensation of my survival instincts screaming at me to stop, that I would be better in the future, if only I would give myself some leniency. It was that same screaming that told me it was alright to make mistakes over and over, there will be next week to be better. Next week had been coming for four years. Four years of swallowing cheap swill and bile, choking back the excuses I gave myself. The adrenaline from my archaic acts of penance made me blood drunk for my own sadism as I lunged forward to place my hands even with the surface behind the spikes on the wall. As the steel slid through my palms, my fingers spidered out to brace for their final resting point. Here I stood, crucified to my wall for the actions I took. I called my own bluff and now I am pinned to the very foundation that hid my grievous acts from the world. The red jelly melted from the holes in my hands and hugged the wall as well as my arms. The small shifts and settings of the house made its old timber ribs groan as it breathed with the rhythm of earth. I had never given it much thought, but the spikes transferred this rhythm through my tendons and muscles. I could feel the heartbeat of the brick and plaster walls that lined my final resting place. Let me be a reminder to the world that there is no action without a consequence. The lies we tell each other and the masks we sculpt for our own sensibilities are only paper thin. A single pin prick is all it takes to make everything fall. For the first time in years, I can finally say that my mind is not clouded. With my self inflicted stigmata, I am an icon to those who will see me that there is no other way to truly indulge the flesh with temptation than to go head first. Within my final hours on this earthly plane, I imagine the aftermath. I have reconciled with my soul, and there is nothing left to be sorry for. My name is Jenny, and I’m an alcoholic.


I remember the sound of life that was here just a year ago. The hustle and bustle of people living their daily lives, now replaced with an empty silence, save for any wildlife growing in humanity's absence. There isn't much time, I suppose, until Mother Nature reclaims what is hers and life on Earth corrects itself. I've already explored enough of the east coast here in the United States for the past six months. I've seen what all I've wanted to: The Golden Gate Bridge with its empty cars scattered throughout, the **HOLLYWOOD** sign, with the Y folding down and the D tilted. I've visited the abandoned theme parks and malls and various hot spots. The mess left within the wake of the departure of people decorates these very locales. Everywhere I go, it's a solitary mess. That's why I've come back home, I wanted to get back to something familiar. I wanted to go back to what I know. As birds chirp overhead and various other mammals scatter and run around outside, I just turn the knob to my front door to my home. "Hey there, Scruffie. Been a good boy while I was gone?" Ruffling his hair, Scruffie's deep brown eyes look up at me, his tail wagging and his butt shaking. His chin was dripping with water, his bowl half empty, just like his food bowl. "I'm sorry, buddy. I miss having everyone around too. Scruffie's footsteps and panting follows with me as I look at the family photo. My wife, my kids, Scruffie, and myself made quite the appearance. I sat with Scruffie on my lap, Rebecca held Saxton, and Jessica sat in front of us, as we all smiled. Except for Scruffie, his gaze was focused elsewhere. Our names were all on the bottom frame outside the photo: *"Reggie (Dad), Rebecca (Mom),* *~~Dylan~~* *Jessica, Saxton, and our new addition, Scruffie!"* "You were such a cute little pup back then, Scruff." He whined as a response. "Yep, it's not the same without them. I'd do almost anything to go back and revisit these days, old friend. I wish to have Rebecca in my arms again, to see Saxton grow into the athlete he became, or when we all joined Jessica on her journey to self-discovery." Wiping a tear from my eye, and petting Scruffie, I motion him onward with me as we continue on our tour. We pass by the kitchen, where we all spent our many meals. What I wouldn't give to have Rebecca's chicken alfredo again... The living room had all the magazines I last had out scattered around. Some of them dated back to my own childhood, and most of them were video game related. Scruffie's breathing becomes more labored at this point, so I take it upon myself to carry him from room to room. The walls in Saxton's room are adorned with posters of punk rock bands and bikini clad women, as Scruffie and I visit. His dumbells and workout equipment lay littered around. He never did clean up well. Anyone that would have gone into this room without actually knowing him would walk away with the wrong idea. Especially when it came to his movie collection. It was all Disney and Nickelodeon cartoons, and some of those Japanese cartoons, aminos or whatever he called them. I pull one out, the one with a young, blonde ninja boy in loose orange clothing on the cover. "I always told him he'd be even better in track, remember Scruffie? He'd always cringe and go: "Dad, that's so cringe, shut up." My story was responded to with a huff and puff from Scruffie as he lay down. Next trip: Jessica's room. I remember when her room's walls were dark green with superhero posters here and there, kept nice and tidy. She still kept it nice and tidy, but those posters were replaced with ones of pretty women and men. She had an extensive video game collection, most of which were Pokemon and Elder Scrolls games. I know this because she would never stop talking about them, and would never pick up on my sarcasm. I take in all I need to here, and I leave the room, closing the door and laughing at the irony of the sign on her doorway: *"JESSICA'S ROOM! DO NOT ENTER!"* It was written the same way when she was younger and it used to say: *"DYLAN'S ROOM DO NOT ENTER".* Last stop is Rebbecca and I's room. I can almost smell her here with me. Scruffie and I sit on the bed and watch halfway through *Hot Fuzz,* the movie Rebecca and I watched on our first date in... 2007, I think? The movie was at the part where Simon Pegg's character watches someone get murdered when I looked over at Scruffie and saw his eyes were becoming more glazed and his breathing was very slow. I've been dreading this moment. I don't want to be completely alone. The last hour Scruffie and I had together was spent watching the sunset. The purple overlaying the orange in the horizon looked so beautiful as I felt his life leave my arms. I spent that night burying him in his favorite spot in the yard. It's days like these that prove no matter how much I want to stay in the past, the world moves forward regardless.


Its quiet here today. It’s a gloomy Monday and most people are out working. But here I am, pretending sitting at a coffee shop means I’m actually studying for my college courses. I see him sitting at the other end of the room. Really just a couple round tables away, it’s a small place. The crisp air of fall coming through the door as people walk in, thrusting and whirling my free hairs around in the wind. I have my work in front of me and I’m ready to reply to emails. But am I? I’m distracted by his perfectly sculpted hair that also looks as though he didn’t even try. The beautiful smile in his eye as he laughs with his friends around the table. I wonder what he finds funny. Would he think I was funny? I have to get back to work.. but maybe just a few more minutes of him. I saw him again today. First Monday and now Wednesday, what a week. This time he was alone. Focusing sternly on whatever was on the screen in front of him. He wore glasses today and looked divine. He has a bit of stubble this time too. He must be busy. I wonder what he does throughout his days. I wonder why I’m so curious about this random man at a coffee shop. I don’t pay attention to anyone else around. In fact I purposely avoid eye contact but with him.. with him.. I want to make eye contact. Maybe he’ll feel what I feel when I notice he’s here. I can feel my heart starting to beating faster as I let my curiosity lead my mind. Its gotten colder throughout the week and now I’m bundled in a scarf and a pair of my warmest pajamas, even inside and yes, even inside a local place where most people wear actual day clothes. I occasionally put my hands on my warm tea to heat up a bit. Sometimes its too hot without the cover but I’d rather slightly burn my fingertips than be cold for one more second. As I hold my warm drink in my cold, stiff hands, I wonder what he likes to drink here. I don’t think I want to actually meet him. He’s probably nothing like what I can just make up in my head. Pretend a good man exists until I actually find one. Someone paid it forward to that man today. They bought his drink. Never have I been so jealous of someone. That woman spoke to him. Stealing him away from the spare seconds he has from that blue screen to possibly look over my way. He sits back down, alone again. More stressed than usual. I suppose it’s been a hard week considering its Friday now. I stare at him unwillingly, my eyes begging him to tell me what’s wrong and how I can help. For once, he looks back. I stare, frozen. What do I do? Do I look down? Do I maintain eye contact? Before I can decide he places his few things on the table and chair beside him and walks over to me. He sits down in front of me and in his heavenly voice says “Everything’s going to be alright.” Well, “ok,” I thought. “How are you feeling?” he says, probably because I look like a ghost at the moment. Still stunned by his elegance. “I..I’m..I’m ok.” I manage to mutter. My voice is rougher than I recall. It sounded like I was sick. “Would you like some more tea? I think your out - considering you haven’t touched yours in a while” He claims. I look at my cup on the table in front of me wondering how long it’s been since I touched it. “How do you know I haven’t touched it recently?” I say as I question his motives behind noticing my drink. His response, “Well, I only sit a few feet away every day. I’m bound to notice some details, right?”, was as good as one could hope. He noticed me. In all my glory that is messy hair and pants with splatters of who knows what on them. Probably due to my awkward silence of not knowing how to respond, he says “I’m gonna get on back to my emails here, but I’ll be around” as he leaves my table with a smile and floats across the floor as if he’s a real angel. As he leaves my presence I start to notice the cold chill again. I look out the window to my left to see the rain on the leaves dripping to the already wet concrete and drift off into a blank mind of bliss. I can focus some other time. Today starts the weekend, I got to the shop extra early this morning. Good, he isn’t here yet. I wanted to beat him here. See how he acts when he’s just getting started in the day. He finally comes in and sits down. This time, next to me. “Early riser today, huh?” he says, jokingly, while setting his things to the side of the table suggesting I’m his main focus today. “it’s good to see you. How are you feeling today?” he asks as the barista hands him the drink he never even had to order. “Here you are Mr. Shevrin” she says before she walks away to go back behind the counter. After a slightly awkward pause, “I’m much better nowadays. I seem to have found a friend” I say looking at him directly so he knows I’m referring to him and his kind gesture of sitting with me. He smiles at me. It has got to be the most beautiful thing on this planet. “You know, I think that girl likes you. Free coffee.” I wink at him and nod to the barista. He laughs an angelic laugh and claims “Well then I don’t think she’ll like I’m talking to you much, now will she?” He smiles big, as do I. He follows up my unending smile with a question, “What do they put in your drink that makes you so happy? I need some of that myself.” I chuckle and try to be witty in response. “Oh, just some of that herbal nonsense. But it does the trick.” I say. “Well, I am very happy to hear that. Now get some rest.” Then he plants a kiss on my forehead and walks away. As he’s walking, I’m bewildered. Why did this man just kiss me? Why is he telling me to get rest? “Excuse me!” I shout as he is halfway across the room. “Why did you just do that?” I ask, feeling a rise of anger. He stops and looks back. He slowly starts to walk back over, “What do you mean, honey? What did I do?” Honey? What is he saying? Am I dreaming? “You kissed me on the damn forehead and walked away. Like that’s a normal thing to do!” I reply, with much intended attitude. His response is one that gave me chills. I froze over again like the first time all over. “You mean to tell me, I can’t kiss my wife on the forehead before she goes to bed?” he asks. Wife? I’m not his wife? Who’s his wife? “Well I’m not your wife. You’ve got the wrooooong lady, Mr.” I say annoyed that he would pretend to make such a mistake. “No ma’am. I don’t believe I do.” He says as he pulls up a chair. “Why, I’ve been kissing my wife’s forehead for 62 years and I gotta tell ya, it’s that forehead you got right there” as he points to my forehead and then gently caresses my loose hair behind my ear. “62 years? Why I… I’m 22.” I say, confused by his actions and made up stories. “Now listen. I know you’ve gone through a lot recently. But I will draw the line at you not being my wife anymore. We are sticking it until the end, you hear me?” he says with a slight of confidence but mostly concern. “What’s going on?” I say as the lights get a little brighter and I start getting cold again, the door has just opened letting the cold air flow through the room. “ok, Mrs. Shevrin, it’s time for tea.” My so called ‘husband’ reacts to the woman by standing up and pulling her aside. Quite rude if you ask me. “Did she call me Mrs.?” I whisper to myself. I look down at the table. Noticing a food tray like from a cafeteria as a kid. I don’t remember eating here today. I look back up at the man and woman, trying to hear what they’re saying. “she’s not remembering.” I hear him say quietly. The nurses even less subtle whisper responded “she’ll get her check up in a few hours. I’ll let the doctor know. For now, don’t worry. If you’re stressed, so is she.” Then she proceeds to walk over to me and place my drink on the table. “This is for you when you’re ready. Just make sure you’re drinking it all within the hour, ok?” “ok,” I say, “Why do I need to do that? It’s just my tea. You got expired tea or something?” I half-jokingly ask. She smiles gently, “No, Mrs. Shevrin, it has the medicine in it that helps you not feel so groggy.” “Helps me..? What’s going on? What kind of place is this? Groggy?” I start trying to get up but can’t seem to move very well. I start getting dizzy and fall back into a soft but firm piece of furniture. I wake up. Lights dim, its dark outside. I rub my eyes and look around the room. My bed sheets are cold on my legs but it kind of feels good, like I’ve been sweating in my sleep. I see my husband across the way and smile. He looks just like he used to in our favorite coffee shop. We met there, just 64 short years ago. I can see he’s working on something from the computer screen reflecting on his glasses. The nurse comes in and hands him his daily coffee. She’s always been so kind, if I didn’t know any better id think she has a crush on him. “Charlie, can you grab me my drink? I can’t quite reach it.” I ask with my raspy, old voice. How did I get so old? I see him set the computer in the chair next to him, put his hands on either side of his seat and lift himself up. “Sure thing, honey” he says as he makes his way across the chilled vinyl flooring with his slippers. “How did you sleep?” he asks. “Well, you know, I don’t quite remember going to sleep. Did you go home and get some rest?” I respond with concern. How long has he been here? “Oh sweetie,” he kisses me on the forehead, “Yes, I did go get some rest. But you’re my home and you know I don’t like to be away from home too long.” He says raising one eyebrow in an almost flirtatious manner. I blush, feeling as cherished as I always have in his life.


When Julie was born, she was born an original. For awhile, before she knew better, she was content. But then came Jon and Jane and soon, she was made to be part of a trio. Her parents were once in love but that time had passed and it made her sad that they stayed together. So she promised never to do that to herself. To stay restless and never to drop anchors tethering her to one little place. She grew tall in a small small world. She surmised that problems in a small world must be to scale, and thus solvable. And her name was a problem, so she went away to the field of imagination. And there she saw a dream - a swirl of ash and leaves twisting and turning together, agitated. They reminded her of herself, spinning and spinning and not going anywhere at all. So she decided to leave and to rename herself Ashely. She flew from one town to the next and she never fell in love so she never had to stay. Each and every decade she started anew. Fresh spring, fresh fall, the leaves turned green to brown and fell to the ground. She picked up a drink because it helped her think and it slowed down the seasons. One glass led to the next, she set in her ways. Jon and Jane called out her name, but she was too busy spinning to come up for air. So she spun without a care for any one specific thing. Gone went the years and her red hair, too. Just another small small problem, so she donned a wig and tried not to care about that either. She sat and listened to strangers and put their fragmented minds together. Their lives and dreams and fears were far far away, and thus safe to contemplate. But before the last piece was complete, she was gone again. After all, who had the patience for 10,000 puzzle pieces and she’d helped enough already, hadn’t she? Ashely liked to play the game of pretend. But she never married because a man is big and real, and she preferred things palmable though not palpable. Jon and Jane settled down and had kids of their own and she sent them movies and toys and taught them the magic of make believe. But all that imagination takes a toll, and it’s hard to live in a world where nothing’s tangible and it’s all just small small problems stacking up and becoming bigger ones. And speaking of problems... the drink got drunker, so she put down the glass and picked up the pill bottle. For she’d given to others, so why not take for herself? That crackle of pills shook like a maraca, music to her ears and she twirled to the beat. But with each pill she popped, the earth beneath her feet fell further and further away and no matter how fast she flew, she knew she was spinning in the opposite direction of the world’s orbit around the sun. And she missed her hair though she’d never admit it and she missed her mom and stories that had happy endings. But her sardonic sensibilities set a precedent and she couldn’t want for those things now. What was the point of wanting what could not be got? So she spun a web of withering words and tore out of town again. And she spent all her money and she drank again and stopped again and she tried new jobs but they were all on a different frequency. Like they were on FM but she could only play on a tape. Try as she might to wind and unwind, she was obsolete and she felt it. The ash and the leaves fell at her feet and her shoulders hunched but she pushed them back violently. She had to stand, for she was too proud to sit down. Ashely slept in her car with only her dog for company. Gryffindor she called that Great Great Dane, and she barked at Ashely’s frequency, even if it was only music with no lyrics. A tune was better than none at all to twirl to. Now it was winter and there were no leaves, only ash. And yes, the fires burnt out as soon as she set them. She went to the doctor because she was cold, but he was colder. And yes, she needed money but she had her pride if not little green papers. Who decided upon wealth and worth, anyways? Jon and Jane were worried, but their wrinkled foreheads stressed Ashely out and she hated to see them. So she called when she knew they wouldn’t pick up for a few times, mentally preparing herself for another lecture on responsibility and being a productive member of society. But Gryffindor was braver than she, and the barks gave her solace. They were going to be okay. Until the puppy got dogged on old and her fur wrinkled and all Ashely’s money was gone to pills and pours. And she had no more for her little companion. And she cried and cried but Gryffindor still died and her heart was in life no more. She finally agreed to sit down and feed with family, though they were more interested in telling than listening. Laughs came out like coughs, and smiles were smothered with responsible nods and she’d seen too many raised eyebrows in her day. It was enough to close her eyes and never open them again. But she loved Jon and Jane so she tried, at least a little. But she never tried quite hard enough. And her chest started to hurt and she thought it was a problem, but the doctor said it wasn’t. So she figured it was just the pain of life until she had a heart attack and was found a day later. The people cried for enough time, but not for too long. And Heaven was full of dogs and long locks of hair and the people who cared on earth forgot to up there. And she was happier.


Disclaimer: I am from Germany so please excuse any grammatical errors. When I looked out of the window it was still the everyday grey. The cold season always made me feel glad to be inside all the time. You had no obligations when everything for school was finished. That was what I always felt the first week of the winter holidays. The other weeks were lonely. I didn’t want to text anyone if they had time to meet. I thought I would annoy them. But there were this one holiday season that was different. On the friday the school ended one female friend of mine threw a party because she was finally 18. I asked her if i could bring a good friend of mine. At the moment I didn’t knew it but it was my best friend. As everyone said you only see those things when they are gone. At the party I got drunk. I got really drunk. My friend also got very drunk. At the end of the party my female friend and my best friend were kissing. I was really drunk so I didn’t bother. I only noticed that something was wrong when my friend didn’t want to hang out because he drove to her. I was mad. I missed him and that was when I realized that he was my best friend at the moment. I was hanging out with other friends but it just didn’t feel right. I always tried to come down by saying that I would also neglect my friendships if I were to finally get a girlfriend and that I shouldn’t be so mad about it. I cheered for them. I love to see other people being happy. But I wasn’t able to drown out the fact that I felt like I was being replaced. It was New Year’s Eve when I realized that I wasn’t able to ignore the feeling that I got replaced. My friend was a cook so he needed to work New Year’s Eve, or so I thought. Me and 3 other friends were throwing a party and he told us that he needed to work. When we saw the snap that he was hanging out with her instead of his year long friends something broke inside of me. I told him my deepest secrets. I thought that we would at least hang out a bit the next few years. At this moment I felt my heart ache. I knew that people were doing everything for a loved one. But at this moment it felt so bad to be betrayed. I didn’t thought he would lie to his year long friends for someone he only knew one and half a week. At the next moment my thoughts reminded me of the movie “Stand by me”. When I realised what was happening I giggled. I saw the bigger picture. I wished them a happy new year and went my way. Most of my friends are still with me and we are still keeping in touch. When I look back I knew my thoughts weren’t egoistic and his weren’t. They were feelings. And I learned my lesson. Friendship and love isn’t asbout the time you spent it is about the intensety of the things you go through together.


Perry Penguin was waddling down the street one Thursday. As she strolled silently, she happened upon a peculiar person. The person was preparing pizza for the President. As the pizza person, whose name was Peter, pressed the provolone and prosciutto, Perry peered through the window.  That window, where Peter pressed pizzas, was washed on Wednesday, allowing an unobstructed avenue for observation. When the waddler watched, her wet wing waved wildly. A certain smear left by the slippery sap caught Peter's perception. Perceptive Peter the pizza presser peered at Perry. Perry peered at Peter, pressing pizzas, through the pane. Their eyes exchanged encouraging expressions. Now they knew they never knew their interest in inter-species intermingling.  Perry and Peter now also knew what was needed. As Peter placed his pressed pizza upon the peel, Perry peered persistently. The ensuing scene was somewhat of a strange sight. Pizzas puffed. Perry peered. Peter pressed. The President patiently prepared for his private pie. Peering persisted. Perry longed for lips to lick as drool dripped down her downy cheeks. The tense tension taunted the two. And the President too.  Peter placed the prepared pizza in a brown box to bring to the patient President privately. Perry edged eagerly to the edge of the establishment. Peter exited, exuding an engorged ego. He was happy to have had a hand in hindering the hunger of His Highness, the President. Perry popped imperceptibly into Peter's Prius, planning to profess her peculiar propagation plans to her new pizza-pressing pal. As they meandered mellowly to the White House, the tension tensed twofold.  That the Secret Service takes security seriously is no secret. Dogs, detectors, and dinging devices provided no privacy for the place where Perry pretended not to be present. Surprisingly the Secret Service supervisor said, "Penguins pose no potential problem to the President. Please proceed."  "Penguin? That thing that they think they see surely isn't stuffed behind the seat. Penguins? Please. Nothing in here but me and these," protested Peter, pointing to his pressed pizzas which were wafting waves of warmth from the westward-facing window. Another agent acquiesced and agreed to provide Peter a path to proceed. Peter parked his Prius in the place for delivering deliveries to the patient President, still preparing his palate for a private pizza pie. Upon his exit, Perry popped upward from her prone position, proving to Peter that a penguin was present indeed.  Peter and Perry peered, separated still by that pain of a pane. Peter's pizza would probably expire if the peering persisted. The thin crust could not contain a crunch when cold. Turning towards the towering topiary concealing the quiet porte cochere, the tan pizza man Peter inhaled. He had to hide his hunger--not for pizza, but for a particular penguin princess panting in his pizza scented Prius.  Following a failed and depressing delivery--you see, the President prefers pepperoni and pepperoncini over provolone and prosciutto--Peter plodded to his Prius. Returning his his kitchen, the cook craned his cranium and cried. Confusion came crashing upon him.  "Why did that intern, Imogene, not indicate in the order the toppings that tickle Trump's tastebuds?" "Has man previously pondered procreating with penguins?" "Will I waste away in Walla Walla pretending my preference is not perverted?"  Without a word, because beaks bar articulation, Perry gently patted Peter's head. Sadly sniffing, Peter started heaving heavily. Viewing the violent vomiting, the visitors visiting under the veranda vacated. Peter hated honesty with an awkward audience, but he had to tell this tiny-legged traveler to take a hike. No perfume could provide a pleasant cover for Perry's putrid parts. Perry just peered, plagued by shame and sorrow for a bleak tomorrow. On her way out the door, she took something more: an ample array of American anchovies.  Poor Peter done got duped by Perry Penguin's waddle and wave. Peter prefers penguins, people plainly perceive. An odd obsession, one would likely admit. Whether good or degraded, attraction attracts no authoritative action. No crime was committed, but when Perry entered the fray at /r/AITA, a unanimous union of anonymous humans fairly replied, "YTA.


This is my first foray into writing sci-fi, this is the opening scene of a short story idea I have. Feedback would be GREATLY appreciated! Sorry if this type of writing isn't allowed since it's not a full story.   Eric sat in the cramped cockpit of his starfighter as he continued his patrol pattern. A white light blinked on his console, indicating a low priority message. Eric flicked the switch, and a video of a young woman popped up on the screen. His beautiful Kat was there, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world. In her arms was their son, Antonio. He slept with his head, curled up against her chest. *Hey Spaceman!* *I miss you, happy birthday!* *I hope you get this message before your birthday this time, and I can’t wait to see you!* *Only three more weeks before your rotation ends, and you get to come –* The message cut off abruptly. This far from Earth, he was surprised he got as much as he did. The message was over two weeks late. Eric was on his last patrol past Pluto. In three hours, he would officially be on leave for the next two months. In 18 hours, he would be on a transport ship beading home. There was a white flash, so distant it looked like a speck of white lint on a black sheet. Then another, and another. Soon hundreds of white flashes were blinking on and off. Eric knew what they were, it was an Arkan battle fleet dropping in from warp. “EDF 1 to Pluto station Bravo, I’ve got warp flashes lighting up the night out here. We are under attack, activate the defenses!” Eric spoke calmly, relaying the orders back to the base. At 28 years old, he was the youngest base commander in the Earth Defense Force’s fleet. Of course, he was also the most highly decorated base commander as well. As the distant spots of light continued to blink in and out, Eric called to his squadron, telling them to form up oh him. Glancing at his computer, Eric saw the enemy count had crossed ten thousand. At that point, the computer could no longer determine individual ships. Two reaper class destroyers dropped out of warp behind him. Immediately ten identical ships launched form each deck, his squadron forming up behind him. “Alright, Wraith Squadron, we’ve got a battle fleet at least ten thousand strong out there. Perimeter mines will be coming online in 3… 2… 1..” Bright red flares into the night indicated the activation of the forty thousand perimeter mines that were scattered across this particular region of space. “There we go. Now, these Reapers are going to launch nanite swarms, those little bastards are programmed to eat up the alloys that the Arkan use on their battleships. That’s not going to leave much left for us to play with, but I still expect a minimum of a hundred kills each.” Groans and complaints poured from his speakers as his squadron complained about the high kill limit their captain had placed on today’s fight. “Can it Wraith Squadron!” At his command, the voices were silenced. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t single-handedly destroyed at least fifty ships. Those Arkan ships are garbage, and we all know it. It takes a dozen ships ten minutes of sustained firepower to even begin to threaten our shields. I don’t know why the Arkan have decided to break the treaty after fifty years, but I’m damn sure gonna make them regret it!” Eric’s squadron saw the two Reaper class ships deploy the nanites, which looked like a sea of fog poured out of vents along the ship’s hull. The swarm hung in the void of space until both ships, along with Eric’s squadron, were completely obscured from view. On Eric’s command, the Reapers engaged their magnetic pulse cannons, each pulse launching the nanites toward the enemy at nearly the speed of sound. With the mines activated and the nanite swarm hurtling towards the enemy, Echo squadron waited for the go order from their commander. “Commander, the mines are offline, I repeat the mines are offline!” The Pluto Base defense officer screamed into his ear; he was cut off by the panicked voice of the Captain of one of the Reaper ships. “Sir, the nanites have no effect on the Arkan warships. They’ve changed the configuration of their hulls to match ours, the nanites are ignoring them!” The blood drained from Eric’s face as he watched the Arkan fleet fly through the nanite cloud unaffected. “Captains, reprogram your nanites to eat all possible alloys.” Eric’s voice rang hollow in his own ears. The nanites would no longer distinguish friend from foe, all metallic objects would be destroyed. “Wraith Squadron, break formation and retreat. Reapers, you have two minutes to drain your reservoirs of nanites. Make them count.” The nanite swarm was one hive mind, always active, always communicating. If the order was given to one nanite, it would replicate to the others; any nanites left in the Reapers when they were reprogrammed would destroy their own ships. Reaper One jettisoned its nanite tanks with seconds to spare, it blinked out of existence seconds before the command to reprogram was send out. Reaper two wasn’t so lucky. One full tank of nanites refused to detach. Knowing if they warped out, they might bring the cannibal nanites with them, they stayed behind, knowing it meant their death. Eric watched as Reaper Two exploded in a short-lived fireball as the nanites rapidly ate through the engine’s shielding. As he retreated, piloting his fighter back toward Pluto Base, he saw the fireballs begin to erupt from the disabled mines as the nanites ate through the hulls, triggering the self-destruct subroutines hardwired into each mine. With luck, the Arkan fleet would be in the middle of the minefield, surrounded on all sides by the vicious nanites. He hoped that the Arkan fleet would be destroyed, but in his heart, he knew it wouldn’t be. This, was war.


When I found love, it was not something I was searching for. It was 1970, and I was touring Redwood National Park for the first time. After growing up in the swamps of Florida, seeing all those tall trees was so out of place to me. I spent a lot of my youth wandering smaller parks with my mother, and once I was able to get a job that allowed me to travel, all I wanted to do was see what the world had to offer. From a young boy, I devoted my presence to finding new places, new things, and new people. It always brought me great interest to learn something about my environment which I had not previously known. I promised myself I would visit every state, and eventually, every country I could in my lifetime. Therefore, on my 24th birthday, I felt I should harbor this interest by leaving my hometown for travels. With my first stop being California--as I have so desperately wanted to see since I knew of the states' lush greenery--I headed to Redwood in hopes of scratching the deep itch I've longed to rid myself of. I walked the winding paths for hours, my gaze trapped on the puzzles of bark that seemed to never repeat with each tree I observed. The early morning mist that encapsulated my body seemed to grow stronger with each step I took further into the thickening wood. I felt warm and invited, drawn to the voices of the forest. In desperate need of a rest, I stopped for a rest at a small wooden bench and observed a plaque stating it was made from a fallen tree. While reading, I was interrupted by a crunching of leaves behind my sight. Turning my neck, I was surprised to find a small clearing in the wet fallen leaves and twigs that lined the forest floor. I stood and approached the peculiar sight, noticing the disheveled dirt, as if the Earth below had been hurriedly dug and repacked. Curiously, I reached my fingers beneath the damp soil and pulled. After digging a few handfuls, my hands reached a hard object. I uncovered the entirety of the object and found myself holding a similarly wooden chest to the bench I was just resting on. The chest was intricately crafted, and no bigger than the length of my forearm. I settled my legs in the dirt, and opened the chest. Inside, lay a small note and a wooden ring. I observed the ring and curiously put it on my finger, where it fit snugly and accurately as if it was made for the slight grooves of my bone. I opened the note, and instead of trying to explain what it said, I will transcribe it here for you. It read: *Keeper,* *You may not have found what you have sought. However, once love grasps your finger, you will never rid yourself of it. Try as you may, love will find a way to remain with you, no matter the challenges it brings. If you take love before you know the circumstances that come along with it, you will live with the consequences.* *From an empty heart.* Terrified, I desperately grasped at the ring to remove it from my young hand. Although it splintered into my skin at the repetitive motion, the ring remained as still as the trees it was made of. I was to live with this burden, regardless of my desperation to rid it from my being. In the years following, at every passing, I am confronted with people drawn towards me, desperate for something I have not to offer. I have grown into a cold, hollow individual that cannot create love within myself, but pull others in as if that is all I am. I feel nothing towards the ground I walk on, pitying its' stillness. I would've liked to have said I fear what I have become, but as if the roots of the woods have grown into my emotional brain, I feel nothing towards the people or places I find. Two years after the incident, I met a woman while at a cheap 24-hour diner in the northern parts of Arizona. It was roughly 4 am—nighttime travel being the best way to avoid most people—and I was stopping to eat (and sleep) while en route to another meaningless destination. My waitress approached, glinting her sparkling white teeth while questioning my order and twirling her fingers on her oily uniform skirt. I spat back at her, making it clear I was only interested in the eggs and bacon I was to order. She ignored my bitter demeanor while serving me, and continued to happily attend to my needs. While finishing eating the poorly made food, I observed as the server crossed the tacky colored tiles. She was wearing a different outfit, consisting of ripped sweatpants, old shoes, and a classic wife-beater tank top. The woman, who I later came to know as Jenny, sat down at my table, and began flirting viciously towards me. Despite my coldness, she persisted as if each word I said was translated into stoic, indulgent thoughts. Jenny was in fact, beautiful, regardless my lack of positive emotion towards her. I never told her so, but she clearly appeared as if I showered her with kind words and actions at every waking moment. No matter how many times I tried to harm her, to take away the intake of air into her weak lungs, she viewed my actions as acts of pure love. Eventually, we married, but with each day that past, my resentment towards her as well as this fate I've been chosen to carry continued to grow. I will not lie and say that I never tried to feel something, or remove myself of this burden of love I was given, in more ways than one. Shortly after Jenny and I began dating, (which I will point out, was not something I knowledgeably sent from my brain to my lips) I tried again to remove my body from the grasp of love. Desperate, I went to the local hardware store to remove the ring from my body with one of those mini circular handheld saws, not afraid of the loss of a finger or two. Once the machine was up and whirring, I raised it to my hand with the ring and began to cut. The saw broke through my flesh in less than the time I could have used to blink. However, upon contact with my bone, something felt wrong. Once my finger fell, I observed my bloody opening, expecting bone, but instead greeted with stiff timber. The bones of my hand had shifted into a trunk of the forest I visited years ago. I was not to remove myself of love, as it had made its' way into an encapsulating entity, consuming the body that I once knew. I stitched myself closed, and continued on. Fifty years after the incident, I am feeling rather withered. Jenny still follows me, longingly pouring her love into my being. She refuses to see the pain I inflict upon her, and those that surround me. Lately, I have been considering what will come of me upon my death. I don't know when I will die, but before I do, I have a note to deliver to the Redwood National Park, as well as a ring.


The golden sunrise of the summer season pierced the soft clouds and wormed the yellow sand as the gentle hot wind picked it up and scattered it a cross the quiet town of "Pathstow" and no soul walked the streets today because most of the residence were either at home avoiding the heat or at the local bar named "Coal Pit Bar" drinking away their sorrows, listening to the beautiful singing of lady Vera and betting with what little money they still had in their pocket hoping to win at a game of poker and all of that put a smile on the bar owner's face. His name was Victor, a shot old men wearing the same old clothes he wore when he came into town. The strong and awful smell of cheaply made cigars and spilled alcoholic drinks filled the bar but it didn't matter to any of the customers because they were either too drunk to care or too focused on the game of poker. In a corner of the bar sat a young looking man with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear wearing clothes that looked fancy and clean in comparison to the cloths of the other customers and around him gathered a small crowed of amazed people watching him do magic tricks. All went well at first with his tricks but then in one of his tricks he pulled out a perfectly cut shining diamond the size of an egg and when one of the greedier customers pushed away everyone and tried to grab it but the young man made it disappear into thin air which made the customer's face go red with blind rage and then the furious customer pulled out his revolver and demanded to be given the diamond or else he will scatter the young man's brains across the walls of the bar but the young man wasn't fazed by his demands and when he pulled the trigger he discovered that his revolver was empty and then he fell face first on the wooden floor and everyone in the bar was horrified and their skin turned pale when they saw the same diamond covered in blood protruding out his head. The frightened customers fled the bar as if it was burning but Victor stayed. "By this point I would beat the devil out of you but you put on a great show and so I'll let you stay for a drink and by the way what is your name?" said Victor holding two glasses of whisky. "Victor, my name is not important but if you insist on knowing my name than call me Jack." said Jack as he manifested a rose tipped cigarette and a golden lighter out of thin air. "How did you know my name? Is this another trick?" said Victor as he sat on a chair and put the whisky glasses on the table. As soon as the glass touched the old wooden table Jack grabbed it and drank it faster than humanly possible. "I know a lot my friend and I even know what is your deepest desire" said jack while he was lighting the cigarette with a flame so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. "What's next? Are you going to read my fate with some cards that you will manifest out of the smoke of your cigarette?" said Victor in a laughing voice after he drank his glass of whisky. "Oh! I don’t need cards to tell you that your fate will be one of misery and regret! But this is not why I am here today." said Jack with a laughing voice as he put the ashes of his cigarette on the ashtray. "Then you better tell me if you don't want to end up inside a trash can!" said Victor as he furiously slammed the table with his fist. "I am here to help you settle a small problem regarding lady Vera." said Jack with a smile. "Tell me Victor…" continued Jack "Do you love her? Despite your age you still want the love that you lost when your dear wife met her end on the rail road tracks as you hopelessly watched while running towards her with the hope to save her from the upcoming train." said Jack while holding a picture of Victor's wife and Vera which he manifested out of the smoke of his cigarette. "Even if I wanted to marry her I won't be able to since she is married to that banker!" screamed Victor with a furious voice as he slammed the table again with his fist. "But do not fear my golden child for I and only I with my endless powers and strength can insure that you and lady Vera will be a happy married couple and your fate will be a happy one but only if you bow down before me and worship me!" said Jack with an enthusiastic voice that echoed in Victor's mind as he stood up and revealed himself to be a lot taller than what he seems. The sunlight that came from the windows turned red as blood and the air smelled like roses. Despite the echoing of Jack's words in his mind he stood up and looked straight into Jack's glassy eyes and said "I worked hard my entire life to get to this point and if I bow down before you then I will lose everything!" and then he picked up a knife from his pocket and stabbed Jack multiple times in the neck and throat. "Bravo! I can safely say that your show is entertaining but it still doesn't compare to me and my skills!" said Jack who was standing in the opposite side of the bar holding a golden revolver. Victor turned to the direction of Jack and then he turned back and saw the lifeless body of lady Vera with her blood on his hands. "Look at the bright side of the situation my friend! You will finally be together!" said Jack in a loud laughing voice before pulling the trigger and putting an end to Victor's life. Jack sat the bar alight and exited the town with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear.


The first time I heard her voice, I was about to die. Faint and distant, it sounded like someone shouting into the wind. The monstrosities in the storm were tearing at my flesh, flaying my arms to the bone, and my lungs were filling with black rainwater. That's when I heard the voice, fluttering over the mayhem below like a stray bird. I knew that it was my language she was speaking, but by the time the voice reached me, it was shredded into something inhuman that filled the spaces in my ears. And then I woke up. Yeah, yeah. I know. That was the first of many. Most nights I was fighting for my life in one way or another, and whatever was trying to kill me would have been sure to win eventually. There was no escaping it. But whatever it took the form of each night, it never quite got the chance. She would wait for my final moments, just before I was shocked out of sleep by my own almost-death, to send me her muddled messages. I assumed she meant me harm. A pretty safe assumption; most entities did in my dreams, but I didn't know for sure. What I did know is that each encounter left me cold to the bone. In my defence, the temperature was not an entirely spiritual matter. The apartment block next to mine had been pulled down almost a year ago for one reason or another. My landlord owned that place too, and he had kept quiet on the details. I know now that he had had good reason to. That is to say, where there was once laughter, and light, and...*heat*...well apparently I had gotten a lot of my warmth from next door. Very generous of them. The Eastern Wind was my new neighbour. As for my days, the story was not much better. I had nothing. I did nothing. It's not really important. I whiled away my days as people do. Not to mention I feared for my life. I feared for my life in that fucking place. I realised pretty quickly that the voice was a woman, but her words still came in broken pieces, ripped apart and tossed around on my own personal tide of horrors. Most of the time the dreams felt liquid, sliding past my eyes, and formless evils would strangle me all in darkness. Every now and then though, I would be transported back to Hell with clear sight. Hell was hearing the conversations from that morning. The bartering and the taunting, crying, hysterics, and then the way the air turned sour before they ripped it all away from me. My eldest, almost a man, screamed at me like only a son could scream at his father, and I knew there was nothing I could do. I'd kept the weapon one of them had used under my bed after that, a large framing hammer with a blue grip. A small part of me actually believed I would be able to use it. I'd get the chance, I was sure of it. They would be coming back for *me* if I didn't do my job this time, and I hadn't. I'd lost everything already. Why the fuck would I? But they never came back. Those dreams were the ones where I truly died, in soul if not in body. The was no waking up from those in time, I suffered to the end. The woman sounded closer to me as well, I could almost understand her. Honestly, the more I heard her, the more I wanted to. It was a nice voice, even if it was scattered and senseless. But one night, it made sense. Just as I felt the familiar evils closing in on me for another night, they crumbled and died and the storm abated. And I heard the voice. “*Pick up the hammer.”* I woke up. My breath wasn't jagged, and I didn't feel scared. The air was warm on my face. “Well fantastic. Company*.*” My eyes snapped open and I searched around my field of vision for a source. The voice was sharp. Crystal clear. It was the same voice, I knew it was. It followed me out. “Why didn't you help me?*”* I leapt up and whirled around, and stared. The voice had spoken like it was coming from right above the headboard. But before I could get any closer I noticed my peripheral vision screaming at me to look *down*. I looked down and saw the hammer. The hammer I kept under my bed was now up on the pillow. Wet blood coated the metal, soaked into the covers. There was a man lying face up, with his skull split in half on my bed. A woman's hands came through the wall, then her face, and the rest of her, slipping through the brick like water. She had wild chestnut hair and olive skin, and icy eyes that glowed green under yellow tinted glasses. She was quite out of place in my little grey apartment. She moved like she was walking through water, and left a trail of shadow behind her. She looked angry. “Why didn't you help?” she repeated. “Are you the woman from my nightmares?” I asked her. “I was in them”, she told me, “But not from them.” She even looked a little offended. I don't think I totally heard what she was saying at the time. I was a little slow to process what was happening. “You're...good looking.” I decided to say. She laughed at me. There was no humour in it. And she told me that I hadn't seen her yet, not really. Her eyes were growing fierce again. “They put me in there.” She motioned to the spot above my headboard. “Buried me in there.” I looked above my bed to the wall. She told me that they'd buried her standing up, so she would never rest, and rest she hadn't. It was hard to fathom. With my eyes, I stripped back the wallpaper, plaster, and the stone that had stood between me and the wind that seemed like it never stopped. I told myself that there were eyes staring back at me through the layers. I believed it. The freshly dead man was lying right where I had been sleeping, so I figured it out in good time who it was. In my defence, it's hard to recognise yourself from the outside, especially with a messed up face. Yes, I had been right to keep that hammer, but it had done sweet fuck all to help me. I'd made it as easy to kill me as it was my kids. I wonder if they'd recognised that it was the same weapon. I hope they appreciated the poetry as much as I would have, had I been the victor. Honestly though, even if I had woken up in time to see them standing in my room, I had always been total shit at fighting. Like a lot of people I imagine, I wasn't a great fit for the life I'd chosen. “You can't leave?” I asked her. She shook her head. “Not while I'm in there.” I started to wonder what kind of life this woman must have chosen *herself*, to wind up being entombed like this. Set into the rock, becoming part of it, even. Killing her hadn't been enough. She was looking down at my body. “You were quite handsome before, you know.” she said. I suddenly felt embarrassed that this woman had been watching me sleep this whole time. I even remember blushing, or feeling like I was blushing, and I remember thinking that even dead I was shit with women. “Kind of a shame," I said, "You're the type of woman I would have liked to take home with me...” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe you still can.” she said. The closer to death you are, the easier it is for spirits to speak to you, whether it's real or in a dream. Spirits can't tell the difference, because there barely is one. You realise the arbitrary nature of physical life only in death. That's how she explained it to me. She'd just wanted me to get the stupid hammer and break her out of that horrible wall. I did try one more time to pick it up, but my fingers moved through it. It wasn't my world any more, as it wasn't hers. I didn't want it to be. “We can make them notice. When they come to take me away” I told her. But of course we couldn't. It took a month for the landlord to find me, and when he did, he was a bit preoccupied with the poor dead bastard lying on the bed. He was a good guy, I'm sorry he had to be the one to find me, but there was nobody else. They buried me last week, and I'm with my kids again. We all visited her the other day, and she told us the apartment building was now up for demolition, just like next door. Looks like the best thing I could have possibly done for her is be bludgeoned to death. I suppose my landlord drew the line at finding me with half a face in my room and cut his losses in the property business. Can't say I blame him really. I hope he's a long way away when they find her, he's too old for any more of that shit. But I'll be there. Maybe I can finally take her home with me.