The old man rose an hour before the sun came up. He was tired, his knees were tired. He sighed. 40 years; check, start a small fire, check again. Not once in 40 years had he ever had to light his beacon. After the second check, he woke the new one. They boiled water and ate, always checking. They checked all day, and then the new one went to sleep while the old and tired man stayed awake to check for a few hours until he could wake the new one to take over. He rose an hour before the sun came up but today, he woke the new one first. "Check, start a small fire, check again." The new one nodded in affirmation and checked. He then made a small fire and checked again. Nothing, peace. This went on. One day the old and tired man noticed that the new one was visibly bored, or even disappointed, when he did his second morning check and found nothing but peace in the distance. The older of the two men sighed and laughed to himself, as he remembered when he felt the same boredom; looking off into the distance to see no burning beacon, minute after minute, day after day, year after year. But he knew how important his work was, and had grown to find great pride in it. The old and tired man died. The new one grew. Every day he rose an hour before the sun came up. He checked, started a small fire, and checked again before boiling water and eating. Years passed. He felt pride in his life's work, but the boredom was always just behind it. A decade passed. He rose an hour before the sun came up and checked. One day he woke, but he lay on his sheepskin blanket on top of the great mountain that had been his home for so long. He didnt check, but instead reflected on the old and tired man who had been his mentor. He had made jokes, and would repeat them, even though they were not very funny. He had done it because he had been alone for so long on top of this great mountain. The man who used to be the new one boiled water and ate, and for the first time since he arrived here, he skipped the first check of the day. Later he checked, saw peace in the distance, went on with his day, and went to sleep, always thinking about the old man who had told jokes. Another decade passed. The man who used to be the new one sometimes checked, resting assured that there was peace in the distance. Today he woke, and lay there on the sheepskin blanket, thinking of his family from almost 30 years ago. How he missed them, and how he missed his dog. He thought of the old man who had told jokes. "What do you call the cat that lives in my tent on top of this great mountain?" the old man had asked. "I dont know, what do you call him?" "I dont know, I dont have a cat." the old man had answered. The old man who used to be the new one rose. He boiled water and ate. He sat gazing across the ocean to the south of the great mountain where he lived. He had come to appreciate the serene beauty and had come to understand where the old man who told jokes found his appreciation for this simple life. He checked. In the distance there was a towering plume of black smoke. He was frozen, confused in every way. He knew this was exactly what his life's work was, but it wasn't ever supposed to happen. His mind raced, trying to calculate how long it had been since he checked. He had gotten up and checked once during the night, hours ago. How long had his small village and his family there been in danger? He had missed it, so he hadn't lit his beacon. He hadn't called for help. More smoke came up, but not from the beacon in the village. It came from the small circles in the distance that were home to the villagers. The old man who used to be the new one stood helpless on top of the great mountain and watched the little village burn.


In a land, not so far from this one, there was a little village. This village was known as waffle-town. In this quiet town lived a fellow named Waffle lad. Waffle lad had lived a happy, albeit boring life up to this point. The world was magical, but you become accustomed to the magic over time. The rivers of maple syrup, the trees that dripped butter for sap. It was wonderful but waffle lad was an adventurous soul. He hungered and yearned for the great unknown. So when waffle lad finished his work, (peanut picking. Very important step in making peanut butter.) he began to wander in a new direction. One his waffle parents wouldn’t be pleased to have him go. Soon enough waffle lad discovered a mysterious cave. One with an unmistakable aroma. Fruit. Strawberries and peaches and oh so many sweets and treats. He impatiently jumped on in, running deeper and deeper into the cave, his waffle flesh heart pounding with excitement. He hadn’t seen real fruit in years! He’d only ever eaten dried fruit, which was good, but it was nothing compared to the lure of dripping fresh fruit flesh. Finally waffle lad found it. Trees upon trees upon trees of apple, peach, lemon. Bushes of berries and lovely sweets of all kind. Waffle lad didn’t know yet, but he wasn’t alone. Pancake Sam was not too far off, observing the intruder with gluttonous and wrathful eyes. Waffle lad couldn’t resist and Gave into his hunger. Eating peaches pit and all. Scarfing entire trees worth of the fresh fresh fruit. However this action would not go unpunished. Pancake Sam had already set a revenge plan into motion. He cast a devilish spell onto the fruit. And with an evil cackle exclaimed “YOU FOOL, YOU HAVE CONSUMED THE CURSED FRUIT OF SAM.” He took a deep breath and sneered, almost joyfully “You will face my wrath” Waffle lad jumped in fear and embarrassment. He covered his fruity covered face and ran out of the cave, hoping to hide and never be seen by pancake Sam again. However the curse had already begun. To punish waffle lad for his gluttony, pancake Sam had cursed the fruit. Any who consume the fruit would have their body swell to unbelievable size, and never be able to consume food again, until eventually they died from asphyxiation or hunger. Waffle lad of course had no idea, and simply carried on his daily life. Boring, but safe. Waffle lad remembered fondly the thrill of adventure and risk as he picked peanuts. He tossed one in his mouth. Technically it was against company code but all his coworkers did it anyway. But then The peanut bounced and fell to the ground. Waffle lad shrugged and chocked it up to bad aim. And this time carefully placed a second peanut into his mouth. The crunch was satisfying. But nothing compared to the soft wet flesh of apple and peach. He longed for the sweetness. “Hey, waffle lad, your lips look a little funny. You ok?” Asked French toast tod. “What?” Exclaimed waffle lad. Waffle lad ran to the nearest bathroom and looked himself in the mirror. Sure enough, his lips had grown puffy and blown up. Like a balloon! Waffle man immediately remembered sam’s threat. “you will face my wrath”. Chills ran down waffle lads fluffy crust. What the hell was he gonna do? The lips were growing as he stood. Then his foot began to feel funny. No. No way. He took a look at his feet. Swollen and deformed. Parts of his body were just swelling up. Like someone was blowing up water balloons under his flesh. waffle man screamed. “MY TAINT. MY TAINT. HE GOT MY TAINT!!!” Waffle lad immediately clocked out and ran to confront pancake sam. There was no way he was gonna get away with this. He was sure. Nobody inflated his taint, or any body part for that matter, without his prior consent! The cave grew closer, and if waffle lad had let his mind focus, and hadn’t let his rage take over, he would have seen the mighty bacon dragon, blending into the cliff face. However waffle lad did not, and sped walked right on into an obvious trap. Thunderous feet crashed behind, and waffle lad saw the bacon dragons head sticking into the hole. There was no way it’s body would fit, however this didn’t stop waffle man from running as fast as waffly possible to hide inside the cave, deeper than the fatty breath of the dragon could get him. Here he was. Yet again in the fruit haven. And on the other end, in a throne that waffle lad hadn’t noticed before, sat pancake Sam. “Well well Well.” Pancake Sam jeered. Pure fire burned in his hateful, petty eyes. “Here you are again. Come to make me reverse the curse?” “Turn me back!! I didn’t know the fruit was yours! I just thought I’d found some free snacks!!!” Waffle lad explained. “I didn’t know what I was doing was wrong!” Pancake Sam cackled his same old cackle. Sending the echo across the room. “You didn’t know? You didn’t know?! How could you not have known??” Pancake Sam accused. “You and your greedy mouth came in here, and didn’t even bother to ask any questions.” Waffle lads dumbfounded look cued pancake Sam to continue. “These fruit. You don’t see anything abnormal? You haven’t seen a fruit in years. Tell me, what does a fruit need to grow?” Asked pancake Sam. “Umm... syrup and cinnamon?” Said waffle man, clearly unsure of his answer. “You idiot. They need water and sunlight. Now tell me, what do you see?” Waffle lad looked around. They were in a cave. Underground. But he could still see. Upon further inspection, waffle lad found vines along the perimeter of the farm, and they were glowing a warm orange. However the warmth soon decayed into a sinister red as pancake Sam stared waffle lad down. “There is no sunlight... or water! Just stone and plants!!” Exclaimed waffle lad “Correct. Now you understand why I punished you.” Pancake Sam laughed as he finished, and leaned back in his throne. “So... will you undo it?” Asked waffle lad. “No” said Sam simply. “Wait why not??” Yelled waffle lad. As the words left his mouth, the stone on the left wall began to chip outward. The smell of meat and fat began to fill the room. “Now that you have been here, you know what I have. And I can’t have you spreading rumors.” Pancake sam’s face stayed flat, other than a tiny uptick in the corner of his lips. “Come my pretty. FEED UPON THE FLESH OF THE INTRUDER.” Screamed pancake Sam. Waffle man immediately sprinted back, but found the cave entrance had been covered with a huge rock. No. No no no no. The bacon dragon dug harder and soon it’s head was visible. A rusted metal chain around this ones neck. It was a different dragon than the one outside. It broke a wing loose and the fatty smell filled the air. And aroma that penetrated everything. A mighty roar ripped its way through the air, causing rocks to shake and waffle lad to fall on his fluffy behind. Waffle lad screamed in terror. Big mistake. The dragons head flung towards his direction. And the wall exploded. The dragons massive form stepped into the open farm area, ducking to not hit its head. It was flapping its wings uncomfortably, clearly trying to readjust the chains binding the creatures neck, and wing claws. The creature had two legs, and two wings. It’s wings had claws that could work as a makeshift pair of legs, but the dragon was clearly meant to fly. It’s tale easily as long as the creatures body. It’s scales oozed with Grease and hardened chunks of cold fat were stuck around the creatures joints. The dragon finally got its bearings and roared another earth quaking explosion. Rocks fell from the roof and Pancake Sam was nowhere to be seen. It was just waffle lad, and a mighty, flesh eating, fat breathing, grease oozing, glistening, meaty monster. “THINK WAFFLE THINK” screamed waffle lad. Immediately the thought popped into his head that maybe he could get out the way Pancake man had. But likely the door was sealed and there was no way. He couldn’t kill the beast. That was obvious. But the gaping hole the creature had made was still there. Only several tens of feet off the floor from where waffle lad stood. The creature was biting at its chains, fat coagulating Into the chain link and locks. It wasn’t paying attention to waffle lad. Just roaring every once in a while. Waffle lad began to move. Slowly making his way across the wall. The dragon watched with eyes like lasers, however it didn’t attack. Or even really seem particularly aggressive. Waffle lad saw the creatures chains went from its neck down its back and into the wall hole. Waffle jumped and grabbed the chain. This pissed off the dragon which immediately went berserk. Throwing waffle lad down to the ground. When his eyes opened the dragon was inches from his face. Fat and grease dripping from its lips. Then waffle of saw something interesting. It looked like a sword in its teeth. In a moment on sheer desperation he grabbed the sword, and pulled against the dragon as it flung its head back. It looked bewildered. Pawing at its face until it realized what had happened. Then the bacon dragon nuzzled him. Waffle lad stood up and pointed towards the hole, and the creature lowered its head. Waffle lad climbed on and the dragon led him in. The dragon was large enough for waffle lad to hide flat on its back without being seen from below. “So the deed is done?” Sounded a familiar voice. Pancake sam. “Get back into your bed. Now.” The dragon slowly sauntered into a giant cage, make of solid steel. “FASTER” screamed pancake Sam and the creature bellowed in pain, almost throwing waffle man off. Electricity cracked through the air, but waffle man could not see below as the dragons wings were far too wide. The dragon fell in, throwing waffle lad down into the corner. But still hidden by the dragons massive body. The door fell shut from above us in the mountain, locking the dragon in. It was a terribly small cage, for the dragon. Just enough room to stand or lay down. But it couldn’t fly or move at all. Rage filled waffle lad. He wasn’t going to get away with this. He was hellbent now on both reversing the curse, and freeing the dragons. He didn’t even care about the fruit any longer. This was unfair and unjust. Waffle lad immediately went into stealth mode, which was hard as waffle lad was now about double his size. Even with his doubled size, the bars were easily two waffles thick. Enough to hold a dragon, but not waffle lad. He followed pancake Sam. Up stairs, left, right, right, left. Straight and bingo. A door with jewels and beautiful (albeit kinda over the top) Designs. The doors opened on their own. Pancake sam wandered in. And waffle man slipped through just as the doors were shutting and hid behind some furniture. Pancake Sam was silent other than the noise made by him pouring himself a glass of syrup. Waffle lad, sword still in hand, crawled carefully around, behind pancake Sam as he sat down to drink his syrup. “Hello waffle lad.” Said pancake Sam. Waffle lad froze “Care for a drink? I’ve got plenty to share.” Offered Pancake Sam. Waffle lad didn’t move a muscle “I know you’re there. You’re gonna put that toothpick across my flesh and attempt to save your little dragon friend. Just come take a seat.” Waffle lad stood slowly, and walked around to a chair to the left of the couch. Fireplace to his left, and pancake Sam to his right. “I’m surprised you managed to befriend her. Her name is delly by the way. In case you were wondering.” Pancake Sam took a sip of his drink. “Do You know who I am?” Waffle man stayed silent. Sword still clutched in hand. “I was once an adventurer like you. But... we are different. Fundamentally. I liked magic and wizardry. You seem to have befriended this creature with no hesitation. You make friends. Allies.” Waffle man wasn’t sure what he was getting at. As if he read his mind, Sam said “my point is, I see myself in you. A different version of me. A reflection, but a shattered and dirty one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to kill you. You never stood a chance.” With a flick of his wrist waffle lads sword flew out of his grip and dipped into the fire. Before waffle man could even get up, the blade was back, an inch away from his face, red hot, and razor sharp. Pancake Sam continued. “However I am interested in you. So I’m going to study you. How you befriended delly so easily. It took me months of shocking her before she submitted to me. And yet within thirty seconds you have her under your grimy palm?” The sword seemed to get hotter, and maybe it was his imagination, but it looked closer. “You hurt them” waffle lad said Pancake Sam gave me a curios look. “You hurt the dragons. That’s why they don’t want to cooperate. You hurt them and they refuse to work for you and undermine you at every opportunity.” Pancake mans face stayed stoic and strong. Nothing moved. Unbreaking, unnerving eye contact. “I helped stop pain, and she was so desperate for a friend that she immediately trusted me” Wether or not this was true, waffle lad had no idea. But the longer he talked the longer he had to think of something. There was a bed, lots of bookshelves and dressers. A chandelier, paintings and art. It was a luxurious room. But nothing he could use to fight back. “Your input is interesting. But I don’t believe you. I think there is something inside. Something like me. Don’t get me wrong, we are far from the same person. But I think you are magical too. And I think it expressis itself in different ways” Waffle lad tried to repress a laugh. “I am deadly serious waffle lad. Most folks would be dead. But not you. You walked to a cave, befriended a dragon, and followed me to my place of residence, with little issue. My curse should have killed you in minutes. Your airway is unaffected. Which honestly threw me for a loop.” Pancake sam stood up. “But I am here to kill you now” Sam grabbed the sword and with a mighty swing.... an explosion? Waffle lad opened his eyes to see a dazed Sam with sword several feet away. The roar was unmistakable. Delly. Waffle lad ran. Booked it as fast as he could, and somehow found his way back to the cage. Delly was clawing at the cage, but the dragon from outside was here too, after ripping a hole through the wall. The other dragon turned to attack but delly roared and it froze in place. Looking at me, then at delly. It seemed to understand and continued clawing at the cell. It was useless. Waffle lad knew the door opened up so he began to lift and lift with all his might. He knew HE couldn’t lift it, but if the dragons caught on, they could. Sure enough the other dragon sniffed and began trying to lift the bars with its nose. Delly followed suit and soon enough she was out. The odds were looking to be in my favor. Delly still had her chain on, and I attempted to remove it, to no success. I heard roars of rage. “WAFFLE LAD I WILL KILL YOU”. Followed by some very comforting explosions and incoherent screaming. Waffle lad made eye contact with the other dragon, who happened to not have chains, and nodded. This was it. Three on one. Pancake Wizard, vs dragons and a waffle. Soon enough the chaotic clammer made it down to the cages and pancake Sam was there. Other than minor bruising he was untouched. But he was literally glowing. Not on fire but.... it must have been magic. Magic that got stronger with rage. Pancake sams eyes were locked onto me, into my soul. “You’re going to die here waffle lad”. Said the pancake. “you are going to die alone, and you’re never going to be found.” He took a step forward, opening his palms and dropping the sword with a light clank. “Nobody will miss you. And I am going to enjoy every minute of therapy I give my dragon friends. They WILL be punished.” Fire began to grow from his palms. “I would ask if you have any last words. But I really don’t care enough” And with that he lunged forward. Fire exploding from behind, and erupting from his palms. Waffle man ducked out of the way and the other dragon blocked the flame with its wings. A guttural roar filled the air, and honestly waffle lad couldn’t tell who it was at first. But when the dragons face became visible, the crispy, crunchy burns became visible. But the dragon wasn’t in pain. It was the closest to a smile the dragon could have with its face structure. The dragon kept taking the blasts, over and over, switching wings and even using its head to protect me. “DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIEEEEEEE” cackled the pancake. And then the dragon fought back. It was horrific. The incoherent screaming and gurgling. Liquid searing hot grease and fat, and even fire was shooting from the bacon dragons mouth. And it began to shred pancake Sam. Fluffy bits of burnt flesh and syrup flew into the air, catching fire and evaporating as it touched the dragons crispy and Burnt skin. The swelling lowered immediately. Waffle lad fell to his knees. And the dragon now easily melted the chains off of delly, and began shooting her with fire as well. Apparently dragons needed to be crispy to be healthy. The fat around her joints melted and her skin grew to be sharp and crispy, just like her friends. The dragons shared a quick head nuzzle, and delly lowered her head for waffle lad to climb on. The dragons both knew the way out, and In a matter of minutes they were outside again. Fresh air filled waffle lads fluffy pores. And he held onto delly as she, and her dragon friend took flight. Waffle lad pointed to his house and the dragons headed in that direction after an exchange of roars. As the dragons landed, waffle lad hopped down. No longer swollen and puffed up, Waffle lad jumped to the door. He was a new person. And as waffle lad opened the door, he realized. “I’m not a waffle lad anymore... I’m a u/Waffle-Man.


Hey guys, This is another piece I've written involving the character of Attacus. A servant to the gatekeeper who controls passage to the afterlife. It's a older piece, so it may be a bit rough around the edges, but I particularly enjoyed writing the action scene between Attacus and Annaculeese at the end. As always, I appreciate any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece, please let me know what you think. Cheers, Lordchimp   In the glorious woodlands, neither in the Midland or the Afterverse, he found Annaculeese and his men. Their camp was large and proud, with at least fifty tents and fifty fires. They were all laughing and joking, merry and joyful with fine ale, delicious food, wonderful music and plenty of singing and dancing. There were humans here, as well as elves. A pity. Humans have very short lives. He made no attempt to conceal himself, or to avoid detection as he approached the huge gathering. After all, he was chosen by Oronus himself, the gatekeeper. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Izael glanced back to the festivities and sighed heavily to himself, leaning heavily on his spear with annoyance and weariness. The other guard on the perimeter, Novak scoffed to himself and spat on the ground with venom. “It’s not pitting fair. Why should we have to stay on guard while those lot are enjoying themselves?” Novak grumbled, angry notes leaking into his voice as he spoke. “Because, every elf and every human must do his part. It is just unfortunate that we happen to have been fated for this eve.” Izael replied calmly and lazily, fairly confident that he had already explained this to his mortal companion. He looked over at Novak again, who looked lustily over to the camp before spitting onto the earth again. Izael stopped the laugh, but couldn’t prevent a warm smile from emerging onto his face. Novak was much like a dog in some respects, angry and unable to see the big picture, not caring for manners and etiquette. He was brash and almost too honest, not attempting to hide his faults and flaws. But, he had a few of the good traits from the beasts as well, sharing their fierce loyalty and unwillingness to give up on a fight. Novak was making no attempt to perform any guard duties and instead had leaned onto a nearby tree taking a sip out of a waterskin that Izael suspected was not full of water. He smiled again and allowed himself to relax. There was nothing in these woods that would harm them, and even if there was, nothing could be stupid enough to approach their camp. *For there be gods here.* He thought to himself. Then he heard the distant clank of chains. He stopped leaning on his spear and cocked his head, unsure if he had actually heard the sound, or if he had dreamily imagined it. He listened carefully, straining his ears for more telltale noises. But, after a few moments, only the quiet sounds of the woods rang through the night. Izael relaxed again, returning to his spear and sighing once more. “Did you hear that?” Novak suddenly whispered, his eyes now trained on the trees ahead of them. A few moments passed. Nothing. “You are hearing things-” Izael started. “No! There it is again! Can’t you hear it?” Novak said in his hushed tones. The clanking of chains rattled, still faintly in the distance. The noises were getting closer. “I hear it.” Izael stood tall, with his spear held firmly in his right hand, with his left he raised it up to his chest. With a few whispered words of power, his hand began to glow with a soft blue light. All the while, the rustling of metal drew nearer. He moved his hand in a sweeping motion, like a man scattering seeds, causing flames to burst into existence on the edges of the camp. The fires illuminated a wide arc around the camp with yellow flickering light, but nothing but the trees were there. Both of them scanned the outskirts intently, searching for the source of the mysterious clanking. As it got nearer and nearer, unseen bells began to chime. They started as a tuned symphony, which was a wonderful mixture of different notes and pitches. But they cascaded quickly into a concatony of jarring, mismatched tones, which clashed and rang out against each other harshly. Izael looked to Novak with concern heavy in his eyes. “Get to the camp. Sound the alarm.” Novak nodded, his face stained by fear and panic and began sprinting off towards the festivities. The Bells stopped. When Izael looked back to the trees, his breath was taken away in a gasp of sheer terror. All the air left his lungs and he felt his hands and body grow weak. In all of his years of living, he had never seen a more dreadful sight. A figure stood, shadows emanating from his body, curling around his feet like a thick, black smoke. He wore dull, worn, scratched armour all over his body, not a single piece of flesh or skin showed. A cloak of pure darkness hung over his shoulders, with the shadows twisting and coiling at his feet. Soft blue light gently pulsed in his visor slit, the only thing on him that wasn’t black. “By the Gates...” Izael whimpered. The figure looked around lazily, completely unconcerned with the trembling spearpoint that was pointed at him. His hidden glare seemed to pierce deep into Izael, almost as if he was looking *into* him, not *at* him. When he spoke, his voice seemingly came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing all around, but barely audible. “WHERE IS ANNACULEESE?” Even the sounds of words forming sent spikes of horror shooting through Izael’s blood, it was like speaking to the physical manifestation of fear itself. He found himself struggling to think, struggling to talk and it took him a few moments before he could bumble the words out of his quivering lips. “In the center...the ring of the sun...by the gates save me...” He managed to whisper. He dropped the spear onto the rough forest floor and fell to his knees, hands clasped together tightly, words of desperate prayer spilling out uncontrollably. Sobs racked his body as his mind attempted to grasp the concept of his impending death. All of his memories, all of his experiences, all his passion would be gone. Snuffed out. Extinguished. The bells began to toll again, ringing, crashing, chiming, building and building in volume until it was deafening, drowning out everything else that might have been making noise. Izael closed his eyes. Then, as quickly as the jumble of conflicting bells had arrived, it vanished. Through panicked breaths, he slowly, opened one of his eyes. Nothing. No black figure, no bells sounding, no chains clinking. Just an empty section of forest, the tree branches swaying softly, as if nothing had happened. As if the Gatekeeper’s man hadn’t just been there. He could hear distant screams from the camp, the sounds of joviality and merriment fading and the sounds of terror and fighting emerging. *What have I done?* Izael’s body was racked with silent sobs. *What could I have done?* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Attacus moved through the camp like a dancer through a ballroom, after all, why shouldn’t he? The chosen of Oronus may walk where he please. The occupants of the camp were in a state of utter panic at the sight of the black clad warrior, elves and humans screaming and running, trying anything possible to get away from the shadow of death. Terror seemed to protrude from his horrifying form, seeping into the hearts of all who were nearby. There were a few brave, stupid souls who thought that they could fight him, even hold him back. They were woefully nieve. Such unfortunate creatures. A man known as “Shatterhand” was one of them. He was said to be the strongest of all the beings on the camp, save for Annaculeese himself. He had killed over two hundred men in battle and he had looked upon the tears of the gods themselves. Shatterhand had steeled himself, pushing down the feelings of fear that had welled up inside of him, the feelings that had threatened to send him to his knees weeping. He had looked death in the eye more than once, he was ready to do so again. In a painfully casual motion, Attacus glanced at the hulk of a man stood before him, roaring his defiance. He was at least a foot taller than Attacus, with much more muscle. Attacus waved his hand offensively lazily, and the man called Shatterhand erupted in an explosion of black smoke, spraying blood and gore onto the dry forest floor. In one little movement of his hand, he extinguished the spark of a mortal, utterly and completely. This happened to the few who stood in his path, either a wave of the hand, a click of his armoured fingers or a sharp nod of his head. No matter the method, the result was the same. Death. He strolled all the way through the camp, only killing those which opposed him. He had no feelings on the matter, because Attacus could not feel, he could only do. After all, he was bound to serve. He eventually reached a ring of trees that sat in a calm pocket of quiet, away from all of the chaos of the encampment. It was like walking through a curtain of gentle air, for once Attacus entered the ring of trees, everything he saw was bathed in a bright light. His monochrome vision was splashed with detail and sharpness, whites and blacks he saw seemed so detailed, more vibrant inside the circle, like he had entered a different world entirely. Even his jet black armour seemed to be made up of a hundred different shades of grey. It made him pause for a moment, contemplating what exactly his eyes were seeing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” A serene voice asked, interrupting his thoughts. It was like a tranquil song when he spoke, like every syllable was it’s own sweet form of poetry. The voice belonged to an elf with a simply perfect appearance, who was sat cross legged on a huge boulder with his arms resting on his lap and his long silver hair flowing down his face, covering one of his eyes. There was not a single part of his appearance that was not perfect, even the long scar down his cheek seemed like it had been put there intentionally to give his face strength and character. “ANNACULEESE. I HAVE COME FOR YOU.” Attacus boomed, his voice echoing all around, from everywhere and nowhere. The bells chimed softly. “It is a shame... You come on behalf of Oronus do you not?” Annaculeese sang, standing himself up as he spoke, seemingly unworried about his impending death. “YES.” Annaculeese looked around at the beauty that surrounded him, savouring the sights, drinking in everything his senses would permit. He reached out gently and grabbed hold of a leaf that hung off a low branch near him. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, breathing in deeply as he felt every texture of the smooth leaf. “THE GATEKEEPER DEMANDS YOUR SOUL.” Attacus boomed again. “Do you ever stop to think why? Or what he plans to do with it?" There was a significant pause. It was a good few moments before Attacus answered. “I DO NOT QUESTION. I OBEY.” Annaculeese seemed to understand his response, nodding his head slightly. “Maybe you should. Even pawns can make moves.” He said solemnly. With a sudden flourish, he clapped his hands together which created a burst of blinding white light. In an instant, the light had faded and his hands now gripped a long, slim, curved sword which gleamed and shone with a soft, pure radiance. “RESISTANCE IS USELESS.” Attacus said, his voice booming, but lacking any emotion or passion. He reached out a hand, as if to touch Annaculeese, even though he was on the other side of the ring of trees. Then, he violently clenched his fist. Nothing happened. Annaculeese still stood there, completely intact with his sword raised in front of him. Attacus cocked his head ever so slightly, in mild confusion. He was expecting a bloody mess where his opponent stood and yet, he remained intact. “You cannot draw upon his power. Not here.” Annaculeese stated solemnly. Attacus drew his wicked, long, heavy blade from his back with the clinking of heavy chains echoing around him. “SO BE IT.” Attacus exploded into a sprint, the chains clanging with every step he took on soft earth of the forest floor. Annaculeese roared with desperate rage and fear, swinging his blade in spinning arcs, making the air whistle as it swirled around. When he was only a few more mere strides away, that was when Attacus struck. He swung his dark greatsword like a woodsman might swing a hefty axe into a tree, with the full weight of his body behind the blow. Annaculeese danced backwards, exploding with sudden movement and turned the blade upwards with a hiss, but the heavy blade was much harder to parry away than he expected and it smashed into his shoulder with a glancing crash of metal on metal. The instant before the steel landed, a golden shoulder pauldron flickered into existence and was then sent spinning from his body as the swing knocked it cleanly away. Annaculeese danced further backwards, shock evident in his anxious eyes. If it weren’t for the armour, he would undoubtedly be missing a large chunk of his shoulder. Before Attacus could wind up another brutal swing, Annaculeese dived forwards, thrusting his glowing blade towards Attacus’ breastplate with lightning speed. Attacus took his sword in a peculiar grip, with one of his hands on the hilt and another on the blade. He then jerked the steel to the side in a sharp motion, slapping the stab away. Annaculeese had already skipped to the side with a beautiful grace, slashing at his helm, his leg, then thrusting again at his chest. Attacus managed to turn the first two blows aside, but his heavy blade was too slow to stop the thrust. The glowing sword rammed into his armour with a horrific screech, then erupted in a huge blast of crackling lightning. Attacus was thrown twenty feet from the force of the explosion, small flickers of electricity arcing from him into the ground. He crashed into the mud with a dull thud, he did not groan or grunt with pain however, like any normal man would, he merely got to his feet slowly and stared at his adversary with a newfound wariness. He glanced down at his chest plate, surveying the damage. Although the had blade only scratched his thick armour, the lightning had gouged out a large chunk on his right side, exposing the dull grey metal underneath the black outer layer. It was as if a giant fist had torn the metal away with an ugly tearing swipe. Annaculeese smiled and began spinning his sword again. He ran forwards and began a series of slashes and cuts, whipping his blade across Attacus in a furious salvo. He gave ground and defended well, using his strange double handed grip to block the slices that he could not step away from. However, his thick armour was not meant for deft movements, especially when he could not draw from the Gatekeepers power. One of the swipes made it through his defence, scraping against his leg plate with a ear-piercing shriek. Once again, there was another crackling burst of angry lightning, which carved a neat line deep into his plate. He backed off, trying to make space, but the swift blade of Annaculeese followed him mercilessly. After taking another glancing cut, he changed tact. He deliberately left his leg open, using a high stance to fend off the never ending blows. As predicted, Annaculeese took the bait, feinting one way, then cutting savagely downwards, causing another vast crater in his armour with the hiss of metal on metal, and the raging hum of twisting electric. Then Attacus made his move. He suddenly shot forwards, despite the mighty blow to his leg and smashed his helm into Annaculeese’s face. A golden helm flashed into being just before the impact, but the sheer force of the headbutt made it crack with a sickening crunch. Attacus pounced on the elf, like a wolf that senses it’s prey weakening. He reigned a fusillade of heavy, powerful chops onto his surprised victim with relentless pace, cracking yet more pieces of armour when Annaculeese could not parry the hits aside. With a titanic swing, he sent Annaculeese flying into the dirt with golden pieces of his shattered chest plate spiraling through the air, the golden light catching on the gleaming shards of metal, making them twinkle and sparkle as the tumbled. Annaculeese had lost an arm piece, a leg plate, his breastplate and his helm was now missing the left side from the headbutt, crimson blood flowing slowly from a deep cut on his forehead. Annaculeese by some feat of determination managed to rise to his feet, groaning and cursing under his breath. At some point during the clash, he had dropped his sword, the blade sat on the ground still resonating with a quiet hum. He looked at Attacus, who was stood motionless in his battered armour, smoke curling from the great craters that had been smashed into it. He moved over to his sword, in an awkward, jerking gait from his missing armour. Attacus made no move to stop him. “Do you know why Oronus wants my core?” He said though pained breaths, still walking towards the sword. Attacus said nothing. “I will tell you something now, servant of the gatekeeper.” He spat out a mouthful of blood as he picked up his blade. “To stand at the behest of another, using an oath as a shield, does not mean you have no choice.” He looked upwards at the beautiful colours mixing in the branches. Attacus strode forwards, sword raised high. His blade fell at lightning speed, making even the air shriek as it cut through it. Annaculeese swayed to one side sluggishly and feebly parried the blade, embedding it into the dirt with a thud. But instead of digging the blade out, the black clad warrior rammed his shoulder into the wounded elf, sending him stumbling backwards with his arms flailing searching for balance. There was a scrape as the tip of the great two handed sword was dragged out of the earth, then another whistle as he slashed again. Annaculeese parried once, twice, then another powerful swing clashed into his blade and his tired, weak fingers were unable to hold on. The sword span out of his hand clattering to the floor a few feet away. He sank to his knees, his vision blurring from fatigue. Attacus looked at the sorry sight before him and sheathed his wicked sword, the metal sounding like it was angry at being caged before the work was done. He stomped forwards, with no passion or fury in his gait, just a disturbing, clear minded focus. There was no malice. It was like a carpenter hammering a nail, or a blacksmith shaping a horseshoe, just a task to be done. He grabbed the groaning elf by the neck and dragged him, kicking weakly and struggling feebly to the end of the circle. Attacus did not care for his soft pleading and bargaining, his sweet honeyed words meant nothing to him. It was like trying to reason with a clock to stop ticking. As soon as they left the circle of trees, the drab, undetailed monochrome shades returned into Attacus’ vision, making him pause for a second to adjust. Everything that once was sharp and focused inside that ring of trees was now bland, simple and dull. Annaculeese groaned again and attempted to remove the iron grip around his throat, batting and pulling at the gauntleted hands with his remaining strength. It was like a babe trying to struggle against a giant. He dragged the helpless elf a few more meters before dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground, coughing and spluttering. With a small flourish of his hand, a jet black lantern puffed into being with a loud ring of a low bell and a small explosion of black smoke. “Once more I gaze again into oblivion, once more I face the void.” Annaculeese whispered quietly, in barely audible tones. Attacus held up the lantern, it swinging gently from the motion. There was a rattle of clinking, heavy chains as the lantern began to glow with an eerie green light, it hummed with a dark power. At first, it was barely audible over the rattling of metal, but as the seconds passed, it got louder and louder, drowning the clinking out. Annaculeese was groaning, trying to get away, but the vice-like hand of Attacus held him down firmly. He tried to speak again, but his lungs felt like they had no air to breathe. They heaved and heaved but no breaths would come. His eyes started to glow, turning green, mirroring the lantern’s light. The humming grew louder and louder, turning into a piercing whine which could set anyone’s teeth on edge. It was sharp and shrieking, like fingernails on glass, like a blade on stones. After a few moments, a green shimmering image seemed to form around Annaculeese, like a second skin, mirroring him completely. His body seemed to go pale, as if the colour itself was draining out of him, turning him as white as a ghost. The after image’s face began to twist and snarl, fighting desperately against the pull of the lantern’s horrifying light. It was his soul. His very soul was being pulled into the dark, battered lantern. It was getting further away from his body with every passing second, where once it was fighting, forcing itself away from the pull, it was now wide eyed in horror, it’s hands desperately struggling against the air, searching for anything that grant it purchase against it’s impending fate. But, this was the Lantern of Oronus, its power could not be denied, not even by gods. With a last, ethereal cry, the spirit of Annaculease was finally claimed by Attacus. The spirit disappeared into the lantern and then everything was quiet. Everything was still. The light died. It was like that for a few minutes, the battered form of Attacus stood over the corpse of his foe, the silence encompassing everything like a blanket. He was motionless, with his head bowed. Even the wind was still. Then the bells began to chime. The sound of the great chains clinked and clanged, signaling the gatekeepers arrival. He appeared in a burst of black smoke, the chiming of the bells stopping as soon as his presence touched the realm of the living. Attacus raised his head in greeting to his master. “Master. It is done.” He said, holding up the old lantern emotionlessly. The great hooded figure that was Oronus took the lantern in his skeletal hands which seemed to slowly leak out black smoke, trailing it through the air. He inspected it, or at least looked like he was inspecting it, but it was difficult to tell with the black hood obscuring his head. After a few moments, he waved his hand and the lantern vanished in a puff of black smoke and with the caw of a crow, it reappeared in Attacus’ gauntleted hands. “THIS CORE IS YOURS. YOU WILL NEED IT. FIND THE OTHERS.” With a small flash of light, the spirit of Annaculeese flowed into Attacus. It was like a river of glowing green flooding into his eyes, making him shine like a beacon in the woods. He crackled with radiant energy. The most astonishing thing about the transition was the sudden presence of something extraordinary present inside of him. He could feel again. His sight burst into colour. A multitude of thousands of different shades blossomed into being, making him gasp and shudder with pleasure and delight. It was incomprehensible. It was like he had been living blind, deaf and dumb and suddenly he was thrust into the light. He dropped to his knees, overcome with ecstasy. He wept like a babe, the tears streaming down his face freely. He clasped his gauntleted hands onto his helm in a vain attempt to stop his senses from feeling. An involuntary groan escaped his lips, his own voice sound alien to his ears. After what seemed like hours, he shakily looked up, to see his master’s reaction at his moment of weakness, but Oronus was no longer there. He was just left alone in those dark woods. “*I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect this.*” Attacus screamed, his newly found voice cracked and buckled under the sudden strain. He whirled around desperately, trying to find the source of the voice. For so long, he had been alone, not even having himself for company. “REVEAL YOURSELF.” “*Well, you took my core, my spirit.*” “WHERE ARE YOU.” “*We are bound together. We are entwined now, you and I.*” “WHAT IS THIS.” “*Hello again. Attacus.*” Annaculeese said.


"A sentinel is never corrupted. A sentinel never falters A sentinel never fears A sentinel is never defeated If a sentinel falls Another will take his place We are the gate of mankind The spear that keeps the darkness at bay And if the last flame fades A sentinel will avenge it. " He kept whispering, every word, every phrase, he said them in sequence. Perhaps in the vain hope his sacred oath would save him, or at least keep him in the right direction, but the darkness did no favors, he could barely see up to two feet. The loud, frantic steps on dry leaves, fallen branches and pointed stones made him more and more terrified, he could not find the path he was going through anymore, his despair had already dissipated and now it was sheer terror, he hits himself against a tree while searching for the lost path, falling from his back. He tries to get up, prostrating under the tree he had just hit, "A sentinel ... is never corrupted" he repeats to himself, standing again. He took a few cautious strides, and listened to the sound of leaves breaking behind him. A rush of adrenaline stirs him and he pulls out his spear with shaking hands, "A sentinel never falters," he says in a low voice while turning to the sounds direction, trying to accompany it. The alternation between falling branches randomly, sounds of metal objects creaking in the wood of the trees around him, did not allow him to focus on only one side, he spinned on his own axis, trying to look for the source of such diabolical sounds. "A sentinel never fears," he says in a muffled voice, swallowing saliva and keeping a defensive pose, years of training will not be thrown away, he thought. A full moon night favored him, but the clouds capped any lunar light that could be of service, except for a brief moment, a small crack in the heavy clouds made it possible to see clearly for a moment, and there it was, the trail, mere yards ahead. "A sentinel is never defeated," and he sets off on the road, he could hear other steps following behind him, they were heavy, incongruous, they did not follow any apparent rhythm, when he thought he was about to be reached, they seemed to be far away again . He needed time, he knew that his companions were far, and that he needed to mislead whatever it is that had been following him this whole time. He held up his spear with only one hand and reached into his coat with the other, pulling a canister with a reddish liquid, "If a sentinel falls," he says, tossing it deftly toward his follower. A bright red glare rises from the trees, a shrill and deafening cry takes the surroundings, He knew that he should not look back, but the morbid curiosity overcame him, and he tries to catch a glimpse. What his eyes caught in that fraction of a second he saw the creature could not be conceived by the human mind, he gasps and his heart pound on the chest, "Another ... will take ... his place," the phrase involuntarily escapes in a moment of horror, his legs become wobbly, but they manage to keep their frail run as much as they can, the arrhythmic steps had ceased after the creature's frightening scream. Slowing his pace out of sheer exhaustion, he pulls a wineskin from his waist, taking long, slow gulps of water, gasps again, this time with some relief, resuming his accelerated walk. He could feel the trail getting more open and cared for, more smooth stones and ancient writings determined that he was close to safety, he loosened his grip on the spear and noticed that his fingers were completely bloody, he had held so tightly that didn't even notice the wood ripping through the skin. But he continued, strong winds against his path swayed the great trees around him, old leaves were plucked and flew, branches of dead trees fell suddenly, but in the distance, he heard something different. The sound of a tree breaking and falling, but in a way more violent manner, he tries to make some sense of where it came from, but the darkness, despite more mild since the sun was about to come up, still made it ardous to see properly. An unconfortable silence is instigated instantly, and from his peripheral vision, observes something coming at unbelievable speed, he didn't even had time to get down, as a wooden trunk passes inches from his head, violently hitting the tree behind his back, it seemed to have been thrown like a toy, he points his spear from where the log had came from, "We are the gate of mankind", he shouts as the creature approached at ungodly speed. When the beast was barely in front of him, he applies a desperate thrust with his spear, but it passes by cutting wind, he is thrown away with a strong hit, flying meters from the ground and falling between the stones of the trail, one of them pierces his right leg, he uttered a cry of grotesque pain, but despite it, he knew that the creature would come to finish his work, he manages to stand up with one of his legs, picking up his spear that had fallen beside him, keeping it at his front, he could hear a loud breathing nearby, stalking him, "The spear that keeps the darkness at bay," he says firmly. The first step is taken by the creature, but he could not see where, his teeth squeak with anger and pain, a second step is given, this time closer, heavier, accompanied by a strong, rough breath, the third step was loud, it was evident that the creature was right in front of him, enjoying its prey, "And if the last flame fades," he says, his eyes fixed on that thing that he could now see clearly, then came the forth step. "A sentinel will avenge it.


So I saw this prompt on writing prompts and thought it would be a fun challenge to write such a story, but keep it SFW and wholesome. The original post was apparently removed, but I felt like sharing the story somewhere else. Tim looked in the mirror one more time. "You knew you'd have to go out to the store sometime... but like this?" He reached for his jacket, but the empty coat hook reminded him what had happened. Like be could forget considering how he was "dressed" Tim instead grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for his front door. He stopped again at the hallway mirror. "This really is crazy." He said aloud. "But you can't ear cereal forever." - The first few steps to the sidewalk didn't feel particularly strange, then the realization of what he was doing hit all at once. "You're walking down your street like this. Heading to the supermarket 'dressed' like this. This surely isn't legal." It technically wasn't. However, since the event one week ago had effected everyone, even the town's police department, there wasn't much that could be done about it. You can't really go and arrest everyone for so something even the police were doing. Mr. Stevens gave a wave from his garden, which Tim returned. Everyone seemed to be living in a state of perpetual denial. Not that they didn't believe that the event had occurred, only that it was easier to act like nothing was out of the ordinary, than to make a scene every second of the day. The streets were less crowded than usual, but there was still foot traffic. Tim stood waiting for the signal to change along with Mrs. Nichols and her daughter Sarah. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and how lucky it was they had such a nice week of warm weather. Sarah said she was happy school was canceled for the week, but her mother assured her it would be starting again tomorrow as the announcement had said on the news. As the light changed, the crowd continued on their way as they normally would. The sound of bare feet padding on the pavement as everyone went on their way. - Tim reached the supermarket, shivering from the sudden blast of air conditioning as the automatic doors slid open. Mrs. Nichols was placing her daughter into a cart and making her way into the pharmacy aisles while other patrons milled about collecting their weekly supplies. Alex was mopping a spill in a nearby aisle, but was missing his usual "junior sales associate" apron, but that was to be expected considering the circumstances. Tim made his way through the maze of aisles, tossing in whatever he thought he needed. His trip to the freezer section was much less crowded than he was used to and another blast of cold air gave him an idea as to why. "Ah Tim! I haven't seen you since ah... a week ago." John rolled his cart alongside Tim's. They hadn't seen eachother since last week at work, when the workday was cut short and everyone was given the option to work from home. "Crazy isn't it? Everyone's just..." he gestured vaguely at the air around him. Tim scanned the aisles again. "Yeah its definitely different. Only took a week for everyone to just go back to living huh?," John chuckled "well, the only options are hide in your house or try to keep some semblance of normalcy." "This isn't exactly normal John." John shrugged bashfully, "well no. It's not, but what else can we do?" He had a point. To be fair Tim was proving his point right now by having left his house for the market. "I know, I know. Just never imagined I'd be standing in Mary's like, well, like this." Tim said, vaguely gesturing as John had. "Yeah yeah... well, listen, Erica sent out that email about how we could go back in to work if we were, uh up to it. You can work from home if you want still, but I was thinking of, well going in and was wondering if you were..." Tim suddenly felt like he was running complex math equations in his head. "I... I could come in tomorrow. Getting a pit stir crazy I guess just working in my house." John smiled, "ah, well then I'll see you tomorrow!" And with that he rolled his squeaky cart toward the checkout. Tim made a few more laps of the aisles collecting the last of his groceries and joined the queue for the checkout. Mary sat behind the register, scanning each item as it came, making polite conversation all the while. Her usual store apron hung on a rung behind the counter. "Haven't seen you in for awhile Tim." "Ah yeah, well, you know." She let out a quick laugh, "No need to explain dear. I think its obvious why." Tim laughed as well, "yeah. Guess you're seeing that a lot this week." "We're all seeing things differently these days dear" she said, typing away at the register. "Alright, there's your total dear" she said, turning the display. Tim reached for his back pocket to grab his wallet, but froze. "Erm... Mary. You won't believe this, but-" "Forgot it in your pair at home?" She said, with a wry smile. "Uh, something like that." He said, embarrassed. "I can leave this all with you and run home and get-" "You're not the first one today dear, and probably not the last. Just bring the receipt back tomorrow and we'll get it taken care of" "You're the best Mary!" Tim said, as he collected his bags. "I know dear. It's why I'm still working at my age." - Tim took a longer route home. He passed through the park, where the usual activities were taking place, despite the changes. A frisbee flew by with a dog in fast pursuit. He heard laughter from the playground's direction and a few people were lounging in the grass enjoying the summer weather. He could almost feel himself being disappointed if the change suddenly stopped tomorrow. It is definitely that, a change, but it's something he could see himself getting used to this.


Mason Longpore was the sheriff of a small town in Arizona. This town, Ashburn, had only two things to be proud of. First, it had crawled its way up from being a small outposting in Arizona of the same name, and second, it had thus far managed to avoid falling back into its original status, or being absorbed into the much larger city of Emeree where taxes were much higher and morale was consequently much lower. Ashburn held its status, however precariously, with the profits of the local gas station, which happens to reside roughly one tank of gas length from the nearest city. The taxes from the fuel and cigarettes, as well as the fines from heavy footed drivers who are emboldened by a full tank of gas, fresh, hardly stale tobacco, and a long straight road ahead of them, brings in just enough money to pay the necessary fees that come with township, including paying the sheriff. Mason was bored one July morning. Mason was often bored because this July morning was hardly different than the last July morning, or any morning of any month as far as that goes. Mason walked into his office, the strong yellow light from the sun being reflected by the many particles of dust in air. Mason grabbed his mug off his desk and proceeded to fill with hot coffee that was freshly brewed sometime this week. Masons mug was a dull off white ceramic when he bought it years ago as gift to himself for getting the Sheriffs job. It was still dull and off white outside with the exception of the sheriff badge painted on the side, but the inside was now a dark shade of grime. Mason said he like the flavor of this, “seasoned like a cast iron skillet” he’d say, but in reality he simply refused to clean it because he did not like his deputy constantly pointing out to him how dirty it was. Masons deputy, was a tall slender man. He had been an academic in a previous life, studied psychology and pre-historical sociology, but then he moved to Ashburn for a girl, promptly lost the girl, and, after deciding he did not want a job at the gas station, applied to be a sheriffs deputy. Devoid of competition, he got the job. His God given name was Richard Maple but Mason always called him “Sticky Dick! Good morning to you!” exclaimed Mason as he settled into his desk chair. Maple walked in and made a B-line for the coffee, haphazardly tossing his bag to his desk, situated catty-corner to Masons desk. “How many times are you going to call me that before it gets old?” pleaded Maple, full attention still on his first cup of blessed caffeine. “When you’re sheriff and I’m retired, dead, or your deputy” retorted Mason, now looking over the days paper. “Did you see the piece about the carnival coming through town?” asked Maple. “Lots of stuff comes through this town, the trick is getting them to stay longer than the length of your average shit” “They’re supposed to be here a week. It’ll be great to get some culture around here” “Yea, the mayor already talked to me, wanted to make sure we could handle the extra people in this one horse town.” Mason said dryly “When did we get a horse?” Maple quipped Mason continued as if he didn’t hear him “A fair that size will basically double our population, and after the fair closes down each night Susies will be the only place to go. We’ll need to make sure the public urination is left to the animals, and make sure none of the animals are released into the public by somebody with too much liquid courage and a key to the tiger cage.” “My Gosh, it’ll be a crime wave” mocked Maple “Been a while since we had one of those” “What was the last one?” “Mrs Henderson’s lawn mower went missing, turned out Mr Henderson just didn’t put it back in the right spot. It was headline news that Sunday” Mason returned to the stacks of paper on his desk. The usual clutter of speeding tickets, shoplifting, and drunken shenanigans. Looking around Mason sighed. Not that long ago he’d been happy with these sorts of cases day in and day out. Keeping the peace in a peaceful little town. Last year Mason had faced a case, the likes of which neither mason nor the town of Ashburn had seen before. A run of the mill knock and talk turned into the worst month of Longpores life. Since then, this, all of this, all these petty crimes just didn’t seem to matter anymore. There was real evil out there and Mason missed chasing it. Frustrated, mason stood up, downed the rest of his coffee and announced “I’m going for a patrol” Walking out the door past a sleepy eyed Richard, pausing only to grab his hat.


The kitchen is filled with the aroma of cooking. Faye hums as she bustles around the kitchen, preparing for the dinner. A stew bubbles on the stove, and she can see chunks of meat and vegetable bobbing in the pot. Faye slowly upends a mortar over the stew, letting a fine white powder fall into the pot. Faye stirs the pot, making sure no residue is visible, and covers it with the lid. She settles down at the kitchen table and sips a glass of wine. And she goes over in her mind, once again, how she will kill her husband. Before he kills her first. When she registers the key turning in the lock, Faye has set the food on the table, placed a set of burning candles, and is on her fourth glass of wine. “You’re late,” she says to Josh, who manages to looks slightly abashed. “I bought you this,” he says, holding up a white cardboard box embroidered with golden decorations from behind his back. “Almond mille feuille, your favourite. I have just the one though. The guy in front had to have five.” He smiles, and for an instant Faye is reminded of why she fell in love with him years ago. She accepts the box wordlessly, and deposits it on the countertop behind her. “Let’s eat,” Faye says, motioning for Josh to sit down at the table. As she lifts the lid off the pot, he widens his eyes at the stew. “This is new.” He doesn’t seem to recognize the dish. Faye can see beads of perspiration on his forehead, illuminated by the candlelight. The serrated edge of the knife gleams as Faye slices the loaf of bread. She doles out chunks to Josh, who dips them in the stew and savors the taste. Faye watches him nervously, but his face reveals nothing. “It’s good,” he says, mouth full. She watches him eat, waiting for a chance. The timing must be perfect: not a moment early, not a moment late. After what seems like an eternity, Faye takes a deep breath and says, “Does the stew taste strange?” Josh stops, stares at her. “Strange?” he echoes, puzzlement evident on his face. She forges on, “Do you recognize this dish?” He looks at her, seemingly perplexed. “You made it for me, a couple of weeks ago.” Faye notices a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “You didn’t eat it though, did you?” he asks. “You said you felt sick.” “Yes.” Faye remembers the first time Josh ever cooked for her, over the five years they have known each other. She had been out for groceries, less than an hour, and when she came back Josh had made dinner. That should be no cause for concern, if he hadn’t been so insistent that she eat it, or if she hadn’t discovered by chance the box of rat poison in the trash. It had been at least half full just the day before. “I know what you did, Josh.” “And what did I do exactly?” He is angry now: crushing the bread in his grip. Josh takes a deep breath, “Have you taken today’s pills, Faye?” Of course. She has expected this question, expected his efforts to cast doubt on her. That was Josh’s plan all along, to make her believe she was insane and could not be trusted. “No. Of course not.” “Jesus, Faye,” Josh exclaims, running his hands through his hair, “You should have listened to Dr. Caldwell; he must have good reason.” Psychiatrists were people too, they could be paid off just as easily as the rest of them. Faye tears off a piece of bread and chews it, almost enjoying the suspense and anger Josh radiates. “I know how to use the Internet, Josh. Antipsychotics? Seriously?” “We’ve been over this. You *need* them, to-” “To *what*?” Faye’s voice comes out as a snarl, reverberating through their kitchen. Josh recoils. She sits down, not even noticing she has stood up. “I *know* what those pills are for. I’m supposed to be crazy, supposed to be unstable, no one is supposed to believe a word I say.” “God,” Josh exclaims, moving over to the cupboard and opens it, withdrawing a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. He pours a cup and downs it in a gulp, then fills the glass with another. Faye swears there is a glint of a tear in his eye. “You really are messed up.” It has all gone wrong. Faye expected anger, confrontation, even a fight, which would make it easier for her. Instead, Josh says, “I’ll stay out of the house tonight, find a hotel. We can see Dr. Caldwell in the morning, he’ll help you.” Placing the whiskey glass on the table, he turns to leave. No. It can’t end like this. Faye stands up silently, takes a step forward. She makes her voice sound strangled, pleading, “Josh-” He turns around. And Faye swings her arm up in a silver arc, flashing in the candlelight. She only registers a dull thud as the serrated blade sinks into Josh’s throat. Josh’s face is contorted, a mixture of shock, anger, and terror. His hands fly to his throat, as he tries to keep the life within his body. Yet, blood bubbles, slipping through his fingers in a red cascade. Faye watches as Josh slumps to the ground, blood still pumping from the wound as he spasms. Slowly, the life fades from his eyes, which remain fixed on Faye, wide and unblinking. Faye puts down the knife, and studies Josh’s body. Crouching down, she stretches out her hand and teases out a piece of paper, folded up and tucked into Josh’s shirt pocket. It is torn out from a notebook, and three words are scrawled on the lined paper. *Forgive me, Josh.* The handwriting is not unlike Faye’s own. So that was what he was going to do. To kill her, and pretend it was a suicide. She would just have to die: drowned in the bath, her wrists slit, even too many sleeping pills; Josh would put the note beside her, and it would be suicide. She was always unstable, wasn’t she? Faye laughs a bitter laugh. She is the victor, Josh’s plan has failed. She suddenly feels ravenous. She tears open the embroidered cardboard box, and pulls out the almond pastry within. Faye devours the mille feuille, washing it down with Josh’s glass of whiskey. The whiskey and the almond mix in her mouth, giving a bitter aftertaste. Faye stands up. She will go to sleep, wake up in the morning, come down, and find Josh’s corpse. Pocketing the note, she makes her way up the stairs. At the landing, she stops. Her head feels light; her heart is pounding. Faye dashes to the bathroom and vomits. She staggers to the bedroom and falls onto the bed. The ceiling swims before her eyes. Feeling a lump in her pocket, Faye pulls the paper out and places it on the bedside table. She runs her hands over the note, feeling its rough texture. *Forgive me, Josh.* Her chest starts to hurt, and Faye closes her eyes.


I guess since I’m the guy that started it all, I’m the best person to document it. Maybe I can amass a huge fortune and leave it to my family some day (ha!). I certainly haven’t gotten anything good out of it otherwise, aside from my fifteen minutes of fame and a lot of sleepless nights. Am I supposed to be writing this? Did I make the choice, or did someone make it for me? Is this what happens every time? For a guy with no answers, I sure have a lot of questions.™ (That trademark symbol isn’t a joke, BTW, my attorney suggested I trademark it since I was saying it so much. It never sold any T-shirts, but my lawyer probably got a nice boat). OK, future family of mine, or maybe some Papua New Guinea tribesman who still hasn’t heard the news, let’s start at the beginning. February 3rd, 6:43 PM. That’s what my search history said, and that’s what Wikipedia says now, too. Wikipedia doesn’t mention that I was looking at porn thirty minutes earlier, and neither do I, except I feel like I need to put some things in here that everyone doesn’t know yet, you know, for the sake of historical accuracy. I won’t say what kind of porn because even I’ve got limits, plus what if my mom reads this someday? Hi Mom! The Awakening is what they call it now. More like The Confusining, because that’s how it started and that’s what it still is. Fucking confusing. And now even more so. But I’m jumping ahead. I was browsing Imagazine, as one does after a good fap fest, and while swiping through pictures of cats doing stupid cat shit and people doing stupid people shit (all of it all the more stupid now) I found a picture of me as a kid. *WTF*, I thought, *who is posting pics of me online? *But it wasn’t a picture I’d seen before. This kid was spraying a dog with a hose, and we didn’t have a dog. Heck, we didn’t even have a hose, since I grew up in an apartment. I put my name into the comments voicing my indignation and demand for royalties (even in my pre-attorneyed state I knew that I was entitled to my fair share of stupid shit money). The picture taker responded that it wasn’t me, it was his younger brother. Well I’ll be damned, I said, we look exactly alike. Maybe he’s my long lost cousin or something. Maybe, he agreed, and we started exchanging some details in the comments—not a lot, it’s a public forum and all, but I ain’t got much to hide (aside from my search history, sorry Mom). For whatever reason it got a little attention, and that’s when someone (WizardLick418, historians take note) said, ‘gee, isn’t that funny, I recently found a picture that looked just like me as a kid, too!’ He posted a couple links and sure enough, the resemblance was uncanny (when is it ever canny?). Then the floodgates opened. Seemed everyone was seeing people who looked just like they did as kids. It didn’t take long before people started really searching. Videos were posted of people confronting their younger selves. It got on the news (although Fox declared it to be a scam by the Democrats to somehow allow immigrants into the country as relatives). A few children were abducted by parents of kids who’d gone missing years before, and who could blame them? Some nutjobs online started called for violence, which thankfully was a pretty unpopular opinion, but probably only because they were all kids. The internet is the only thing that allowed us to figure it out. Maybe it’s been going on forever—plenty of people are arguing over that idea, but no one really knows for sure. I think most people are too scared to look too deeply into it at this point. A woman named Melissa tracked down her *doppelkinder* (as they called them) and persuaded her parents to allow her to undergo some testing. Tests were done. Genealogy was geneaologied. People way smarter than I am scienced the shit out of it. Turns out they were the same person. Not twins separated at birth, or cousins. They had identical DNA. They had the same mannerisms. Confusingly and terrifyingly, *doppelkinder* almost always had the same name as their older counterparts, although the parents didn’t have anything in common. To say the world shat itself would be an understatement. People stopped going to work almost immediately. The Imagazine servers collapsed under the weight of people searching among billions of photos looking for themselves (it didn’t take long before some nerds automated that, which only made the problem—every problem—worse). The stock markets tanked worldwide, which is apparently what they always do when something unexpected happens, and if anyone had noticed it sooner maybe this wouldn’t have taken so long to figure out. It’s estimated that several million people committed suicide for Gods-only-know what reason, although they’ll almost certainly be back. It’s weird how you can go through life and not notice all of the things that happen over and over again without giving it any thought. Fractals used to just be a trippy thing you’d look at on your computer when you were buzzed out of your mind on Jolt cola at one o’clock in the morning. Scientists figured out they applied in nature somehow with nautilus shells and trees and sunflowers, but it wasn’t until I saw myself squirting a dog with a hose that people started really considering the ramifications. Turns out *everything* was some sort of fucking fractal: Traffic lights. The patterns your coffee makes when you stir it. Probably the sound waves of all of the farts in Notre Dam are some sort of repeating pattern that we could figure out if we had enough sample points. I think that’s what did it, really: sample points. All the data of eight billion people living on a planet and having lives. Going to jobs populated with people named Kristi (always with an i), making stir fry for dinner but forgetting to buy leeks, obsessing over what color leather to put into the dream car you keep configuring on a website, but can never afford. You know, doing stupid people shit. We overwhelmed the system and fucked up some data buffer and overwrote some protected memory and suddenly people were repeating. The system was conserving resources. The fact that we’re all living in a simulation is now mostly accepted as reality (that sounds so strange), although a certain percentage of the population denies it (8.473333333 repeating as it turns out). Theologians and philosophers are going to spend an eternity trying to figure out the ramifications of it all. Things are getting back to normal now, and people are back to chatting with Kristi about what it all could mean. Meanwhile, in what is almost certainly not random chance, I, the man who first brought about The Awakening, made another discovery yesterday morning as I made my coffee: there is no longer milk.


Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome. I move my head to the side, and as a sharp pain courses up my neck and through my head, my eyes focus on the wooden trim that runs along the walls.  The place I’m in is old, I can tell by the musty smell, and the wallpaper, which is a darkened green from dust and grime. The paper peels where it should meet the trim, a testament to it’s true age. I roll onto my back, and realize that I’m in some sort of corridor. To my left, there are three wooden doors about a foot from each other lined up like soldiers waiting to be inspected.  I stand up slowly, carefully noting that I have no aches besides my head, which is still throbbing. I, apparently, am dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, which is wrinkled from my crumpled state of being moments prior. Was I knocked out? I can’t seem to remember. It’s almost as if my existence started when I woke up, but that can’t be right. I have knowledge of general things, like how people come to be, how society works, and what a grey pinstripe suit is, but I have no knowledge of myself. I don’t know if I have a family, or how old I am. What do I look like?  A state of confusion and fear washes over me, as more questions fill my head. I need to find answers, but, more importantly, I need to find a mirror. I take a step towards the right most door in the hallway, and the floorboards creak underneath the carpet. I place my hand on the doorknob, the cold brass in my hand. After a sharp twist, I fling the door open, ready to take on whatever may lie ahead.  The room was large, much larger than it should be for having another door just a foot away, but I step inside anyway. It is an office, one that looked like it belonged to a detective in the 1970’s, complete with a desk covered in paperwork and a single black rotary phone. Upon closer inspection, the papers seem to be cases that the detective was working on. I quickly scan the walls, my search for a mirror continuing. The back wall has a window directly in the center, with black filing cabinets on either side. I notice a thick, grey fog seems to be blocking any vision beyond the window, snuffing out any hopes I had of determining where exactly I currently am.  After coming to the conclusion of the other two walls being completely barren, I swiftly turn around to exit the room, but as I do so, the phone begins to ring. I stop. Every fiber of my being is telling me to not pick up the phone. I’m filled with a sense of fear, and the air becomes extremely heavy. I try to ignore my gut feeling, as I need to figure out what’s going on, so I trudge forward, practically picking up my legs and forcing them forward. The wooden boards beneath my feet scream in agony as I continue towards the phone, which is still singing it’s siren song. Finally, I pick up the phone. A voice of a man is on the other end.  “These results are inconclusive. We need to run more,” the voice states firmly.  Another voice chimes in, softer than the first one, “We have evidence of it working, let’s just leave it at that.”  “No, I won’t risk him malfunctioning,” the first voice scolds, and then a click, signaling the end of the call. I don’t understand what either of the voices were talking about, and I don’t know who they were. I settle in my dress shoes after hearing the uncomfortable conversation, and then I put the phone back on the hook and head back into the corridor.  The next door is the door in the center. I once again push through the door, and inside I find a vast library. Shelves as tall as and as far as the eye could see covered the room, filled to the brim with books. In fact, there are no seating areas, just shelves upon shelves of books. I walk into the room, in awe of the sheer amount of information contained in front of me. The shelves are all labeled in a precise order, by genre and then author’s last name. I pick up a book nearest to me and give it a quick skim. The book is called *The Questions of Life* by a man named Asimov. I set the book back in its place on the shelf, and I turn around to exit, as with all the shelves, I highly doubt that a mirror would be hiding in this room.  The last door begins calling to me. As I stand in front of it, the golden numbers on the outside of the door gleam. This door is the only door of the three with a number, and the only door that pulls me in rather than pushes me away. The “34” stares back at me enchantingly, as if it knows I’m not ready for what secrets it keeps deep in the room. I still know nothing about myself, and I feel like a puzzle that is unfinished. My quest to find answers has only left me more confused, but I will not give up. With this burst of determination, I swing open the door, to find a room. A room made of mirrors. I walk in, finally able to see myself, but I do not like what I see. I am not ugly. I am not fat, but I am not what I expected. As I stand in shock, I hear movement behind me. I whip around to see the desk covered in papers from the first room, but now the papers aren’t case files. The only thing on the pages are zeroes and ones. I hear beeping to my right, and as I turn my head I see the shelves from the library, only this time, there are no books, but servers. Everything makes sense now. Suddenly, I hear the strong voice from the phone call boom inside the room,  “He is figuring out he’s not human!”  The other voice is loudly speaking also, “We have to shut him down, he’s becoming self-aware.”  Sudden1y, a sharp pa1n sh00ts up my neck and ratt1es my bra1n. 1 hear a h1gh p1tched n01se s0und thr0ugh0ut the r00m. The s0und 1s utter1y unbareab1e, and 1 dr0p t0 my knees 1n pure ag0ny. Everyth1ng hurts. 1 100k at the m1rr0r 0nce aga1n and smi1e. 1 f1na11y f1gured 0ut what 1 100k 1ike. Mach1ne and man as 0ne. 1 am an andr01d. G00dbye. \- \- \- …Rebooting…  Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome.  The End.


Silence. Darkness. I open my eyes and only see the blinking light of “Warning: Low Oxygen” on my HUD. Seeing that only made me more anxious. The distant planets in my peripheral make the situation at hand seem way worse. Or maybe it is this bad. All I know is that I’m probably going to die by suffocation. Not the worst way to go, but it still is a sucky death. I had thought being in space was the coolest thing ever. But they never tell you how scary it is. No, they completely leave out that part. They don’t tell you what happens when debris disconnects you from your ship. They don’t tell you what happens once you run out of oxygen. They only promise you heroism when you get home. If you ever get home. It’s depressing. Honestly, I’d rather die by an explosion than slowly suffocate in this deep, dark, vacuum. I don’t know how much time has gone by. There is no concept of time in this void. Maybe I’m mere moments from my death. I’ve been floating for a while, though. There’s nothing sadder than being in a different galaxy, lightyears away from your family, on the brink of death. Well, maybe there is, but in my situation, nothing tops this. There’s really nothing like floating in the nothingness that humbles you. I miss my family. Stumbling upon my front door ripped me away from my thoughts. How did this end up out here? I looked around and saw the distant space station and the planets then in front of me. The door was still there. I touched the doorknob and it felt real. I opened it and saw an empty house. I looked down and saw I was still in my suit. I walked towards my kitchen and saw my wife and my two kids. My wife was ecstatic to see me, exclaiming how she thought I’d never come home. My children ran to hug me as well. I looked around, confused as hell. What was going on? Had I just been dreaming? Why did everything feel so real? I remember entering the spaceship, the explosion, the failing signal back to the shuttle. I remember the day I told my wife I had been accepted into the program, I remember her face, my children’s faces. I remember everything leading up to now. I looked down at my children, then to my wife. This feels so real. “What’s going on?” I exclaim. My wife looks at me in confusion. My children laugh and tell me I’m silly. “I suppose the mission went well?” She smiles at me. My heart breaks. I don’t know what’s going on. “What do you mean?” I gulp. There’s a tightness in my throat. I feel like crying. God, my throat hurts. “The mission is over now. You don’t have to worry anymore. Just let go.” She keeps smiling at me. It’s like poison. I don’t like it. “Wha… What do you mean?” My throat keeps constricting. I can’t bring myself to say anything anymore. I can’t think anymore. Any words coming to mind immediately vanish. They burn in my mind. My throat keeps tightening. “Just let go. You’ll meet us soon.” I look up. “What do you-” I look up to see the void again. My HUD now displays a message that says “No Oxygen”. My throat keeps tightening. I want to cry. I don’t have the strength to. I gulped one last time. *Let go*. Her voice remains in my head. I close my eyes and see her. I see her. I want to hold her, I want to hold my children. I want to go home. I just have to let go, right? Then I’ll be able to see her. I need to stop clinging to the little amount of life I have left and accept my death, right? I want to see them, my family. I yearn for her touch again. I’m going to die, right here, in this void and no one will ever find me. I’ll never see my children grow up. I’ll never see my children graduate high school or college. I’ll never see my children get married, and have kids, I’ll never be able to grow old with my wife. I’ll be forgotten. And that’s depressing. I open my eyes for maybe the last time and see a distant shuttle coming towards me. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. If they had seen my transmission minutes earlier, maybe I would be able to see my family. Some part of me hopes they reach me in time. I hope they get to me in time, send me home, and I can live my life again. I can see my wife and my children. I can go back to my 9-to-5 job. I can go back to living like a regular person. The pressure in my brain leads to me to believe that won’t happen. The lightheadedness and my fading vision lead me to know that won’t happen. I close my eyes again. The last thing I ever want to see is my wife. But I can’t remember what she looks like. I open my eyes again and turn my head slightly. The sight of the galaxy, the alien planets, and the red sun look so beautiful. So very beautiful.


Suddenly, it had all come down to this. It seemed as if the battle had gone on forever, but at long last, it was drawing to a close.  Two teams of gladiators and warriors were fiercely engaged in the most ancient form of tribal combat. Everything – pride, reputation and all - was on the line. For the winners, the glory of victory and everlasting triumph was within their grasp. For the losers, the shame of defeat and the feeling of failure would haunt them forever. History would no doubt remember both, but not in the same manner.  The combatants were not simply fighting for themselves – they were fighting for their regions. The two could not be more juxtaposed. One represented an area of success – where the wealthy called home, and where simply residing was considered a sign of affluence. One represented an area of struggle – where people would submit themselves to back-breaking physical labour, day in and day out, simply in order to survive. This was reflected in their representatives in the arena – the opulent had vanquished all who came before them in great style, while the strugglers had to scratch and claw their way to have a chance at glory. The battle was of Biblical proportions – and the comparisons to David and Goliath were many and apt.  And yet, all that mattered for very little now. With not much time to spare, the squads were dead even. The usually high standards of combat had dropped – all concerned looked nervous and disjointed. The tens of thousands of people in the colosseum, totally unprepared to see the warriors representing them emerge defeated, screamed for blood. The battle cried for someone to take control.  \~\~\~  For as long as he remembered, it had all been on him. Born to a young mother and an absent father, his generational talent for combat led many to christen him as the Chosen One in his formative years. He often delivered on this moniker, and in spectacular fashion. However, he was far from unburdened by the expectation placed on his young shoulders, and he at times failed to deal with the intense scrutiny. He promised that he would bring glory back to his city, but after many failed attempts the patience of his congregation was beginning to wear thin.  \~\~\~  Once more, it was all on him. His leadership had often been called into question, and a chance to vanquish those doubts once and for all stood before him. Where all the other combatants were nervous, he was calm, and where they were doubtful, he was assured. On the biggest and brightest of stages, his heroics were on full display; in a moment sure to live on forever, he saved his comrades from what looked like certain defeat with one heroic action. When the bell rang, the deafening roar of the crowd turned dead quiet; it was all over, and the underdog had emerged victorious.


The old man sits upon his throne of cracked beige leather that has gone sour and musty with the years he no longer cares to count. Splinters of white daylight seep through the half-drawn faux wood blinds and striate across his face, the cleansing light twinkling on his bald head and round-rimmed glasses. Squinting against it his pallid blue-veined lids go red with heat. He turns his head to the clock on the side table which is also home to a smorgasbord of pill bottles. It reads 11:59 am. He takes three of the bottles, pops the lids and shakes a capsule from each into his hand like candy and downs them with a glass of stale water. He sits expectantly, hands at his knees and still as a mouse among blind cats. The clock strikes twelve. His rotary phone shakes and rattles its piercing banshee wail with a jarring suddenness in the silence that if he were not expecting it, he might have jumped. He lets it ring a moment and takes a deep breath before picking up the receiver. “Hello?” The voice on the other end sweet as honey and gentle as an evening breeze in the summer makes his heart race every time. “Hi, Dad.” “Hi, Frannie.” “Are you ready to come visit?” “Maybe, my girl.” the words spill from his mouth almost ritualistically, but still he trembles at them. “This is the last time I’m going to call, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that.” He freezes, wanting to say something, but can’t find the words, the guilt and shame a lump in his throat so big that if he were to cough it up, he’d stomp it to a mess of red pulp and phlegm and curse it. “Dad?” “I’m here, sweetie.” “Okay, I have to go now.” “Can we talk about—” Dial tone slices through his head like an acquiescent killer, lonely and implacable. He sits listening to it, feeling it necessary to torture himself. The word “yes” escapes his lips, although too late. For twenty years he has been trapped in the purgatory of maybe, forced to walk the lonesome valley between yes and no. A groan of age escapes his lungs as he pries himself from the chair, the leather crackling and popping as his bare arms separate themselves. He shuffles across the laminate towards the bathroom, past the photos hung above the fireplace of children frozen in years they’ve long surpassed and sepia tintypes of family forgotten, most cracked with age as if made of glass - some even of himself in times he was alive. Past the windows where behind lies a sky so blue it might be of paper with a hole burned through with a bright yellow flame. He walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light switch. The cold fluorescent sputters to life, painting the room an unnatural, sterile white. He steps in front of the mirror and stares at the deflated visage before him, his bald head vitreous with sweat and sunken eyes like the heads of white snails in shells of wrinkled flesh ready to slink back into their holes. At the crown of his head he notices a single hair protruding like the shoot of some strange root vegetable. Yesterday there were two and the day before there were three. Grabbing it with his thumb and forefinger, he gives it a good tug. The hair comes out with what to anyone else might sound like a gentle pop, but to him sounds like a church bell has been rung in the seemingly empty, dusty hall of his skull. It rings on in an endless reverberation, bouncing around his head until his body goes limp and he lies crumpled and empty on the bathroom floor, the cold linoleum burning his skin. Lying like a dog half dead and whimpering, he sleeps. In dreams he sees the sun bright and full, its rays spreading out in a golden fan across a town through which people pass and wave hello. Houses line the streets like a checkerboard and among them, his own sits steady and unexceptional. Around the house a manicured green yard lies placid like a calm ocean and bees buzz about the flowers in the garden like frenzied satellites in orbit. On the dull grey stoop before the door to the house he sits and watches his daughter and granddaughter he’s yet to meet walk towards him on the concrete path that bisects the yard. They all smile and the granddaughter breaks free of her mothers grasp and runs towards him. He wakes cold and coated in a thin film of sweat. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as if something has been found - or lost - within. He’s not sure which. Pulling himself back up with the sink, he looks in the mirror one last time and runs a hand over his snowy white bristled jaw and removes his glasses. He no longer wishes to look at old things. Breathing heavy, he crosses back across the living room, taking care not to look at the photos again, the evening sun beating through the blinds and sketching onto the wall an aureate harp. He opens the front door and looks down and sees only clouds like a field of blinding white cotton candy separating him and whatever lies below. The scent of them one he hasn’t smelled in years and one that can’t be described. From his pocket he takes out a quarter and drops it. It falls soundlessly through the cloud that seals itself back up as soon as it passes. Hanging onto the doorknob, he stretches a leg out and brushes the top of the cloud with his foot. He’d pray to God not to fall if he didn’t already live where he’s said to rule. Atop the clouds there are no anachronistic castles of crystal or fountains of marble or gates of gold. No cities built with architecture of the angels or holy men in white. Only white emptiness unplumbed by man save himself. The tides of extrication brush gently at his feet and fill the spaces between his toes and he can taste its saliferous air salty on his tongue. Today will be the day. No more tomorrows or laters. A strange wind blows him back into the house and he saunters over to his bedroom. He tears the sheets off of his bed and tosses them into the living room. His legs feel like they’re going to give as he walks through the kitchen and into the laundry room, but he continues on. He grabs every sheet and blanket from the laundry bin and goes to toss it into the living room. Finally, he grabs the quilt from the sofa that his daughter had sewn for him as a child and places it on the pile and gets to work. Sitting on his knees, back hunched over, he ties the corners of each sheet and blanket to the other in a grid of colour, his daughter’s quilt in the middle. As a boy his mother had taught him to sew his own clothes after tearing them apart playing, but with his memory not being what it was, can only try his best. The needle dips and dives between each sheet like an ungraceful dolphin leaping through the air from a sea of strange colours, binding them together in an ugly patchwork Frankenstein creature. After an hour of impatient and hurried sewing, the sun waning, he finishes and looks down upon his work, face gleaming with sweat. What to anyone else would be thrown in the trash without second thought, he looks upon with a newfound jubilation, ready to finally be divested of all he has been. He grabs opposite corners of the sheet and swings it back over his head and walks towards the door. Taking a deep breath he turns the knob and pushes it open and looks down at the infinite white before him, his heart beating so hard it feels like there’s a little person inside trying to burst through his chest with a mallet. Glancing back he gets one last look at the house he’s spent his life and feels something well up in his throat. Time carries on, and so too will the house, but only for so long. A speck of dust waiting to be brushed off by the hands of a clock. But home isn’t a house, not a person, not a place. Home is in your bones. He turns back around, swings the sheet above his head, and without looking down, jumps into the unknown.