You'd think they'd give me an award or something, but nah it's just my "dumb luck" they say. When I started working the busy shift up here in Colorado Springs, most of the more experienced men and women aboard complained that I didn't have the guts. They were sure as shit right when I first joined the EMT at 18. However, I came onto the squad tougher than most, stomaching my fair share of injuries growing up, playing contact sports. One time during a football game, I got my fingers caught in the helmet of another player's facemask, which instantly broke my index and pointer finger. Somehow though with some tape, I finished that game and caught every single pass slung my way. These weren't easy passed either, those things were flying full speed. Still, it is strange that I didn't experience even a flinch of pain, and more surprisingly, after the game, my fingers were back to normal. My varsity Head Coach used to say I was the toughest kid he'd ever seen, so it only made sense for me to become a Navy Seal, Cop, or Firefighter. I ended up going with EMT because, well, before my Mom disappeared, she'd always pressed that I never put myself in too much danger. She used to say it wasn't for my sake, but for the "sake of everyone else." Anyway, this whole "dumb luck" thing has been sort of the ring around our squadron and I don't take it personally. I understand that gambling on yourself is a risky business, especially if your playing with other people's lives. I just happen to be on decade long hot streak, so I think it is better to keep to myself than make it a thing like everyone else. I mean, it hasn't failed me yet. (Later that night during Randy's shift) We arrived at the burning building in the slums of town. The firefighters were on the scene first and already dragging people out. The situation was critical, we couldn't waste any time. Four stories high the building was a project and built in the '60s. The type of place where a drive-by shooting wouldn't just got through one room but two. We'd seen a number of bloody situations here over the years. Thinking of all the gang shootings, and people I'd saved over the years, I couldn't imagine what would happen now that their homes would be destroyed. It was unfortunate to think about how the city hadn't even attempted to renovate the area. Possibly the economics didn't make sense to them. "Why invest in a building filled with families connected to a majority of the crime in the city?" In the moment, I knew it wasn't smart to think about the aftermath of what this would mean. Hundreds of people crowded the streets, all marveling at the rising fire climbing up through the first three floors, casting a dark red and orange cloud-like mushroom. Lined up with front row seats to the destruction of their homes, the tenants watched as more soot and ash spewed into the sky crackling embers in the cold of the night. "Back up! Back up!" The debris could just as easily kill someone. "Please help my mother is not breathing!" In the middle of the street lay an unconscious obese Hispanic woman. Her face black, with first and second degree burns over her arms and charred nightgown. It took all of Jack and mines strength to pick her up and take her to our wagon. Her name was Patricia Despodido. She had escaped the fire, and then succumb to the smoke, a primary reason being her poor health and asthma. At the back of our truck, her daughter pleaded Patricia, her mother, left her inhaler in their room. When we couldn't get oxygen through to her lungs, we pulled out the defibrillator and shocked her to jumpstart her heart, however, I knew it was too late. "Give her CPR Randy!" Jack stood behind me, fearful, yet confident in his words. He had been one who developed this superstition that whenever I did CPR it was more powerful than any device we could use. I couldn't fathom losing Patricia in front of her daughter. Losing my Mom only a few years back, I knew the pain and suffering that would come. Pulling off the oxygen mask, I placed my hands on her chest and began the compressions. "One, two, three, four." With each transfer of breath, I could feel myself taking in the smoke from her lungs, and slowly senses the blood begin to course through her veins. Three more cycles and then I got a heartbeat, her first breath. Opening her eyes suddenly, I saw they were a beautiful golden brown with a milky white lining. She had a twinkle, the kind you see in a babies eye after waking up from a long nap. Suddenly, she came back to full consciousness, fear in her eyes. "Mi Hermano, where is Fernando.?' Patricia pointed up to the top of the roof. Jack and I turned to see a man on the brink of hell. Standing on the ledge of the building now fully engulfed in flames, Fernando's black shadow cast against the white smoke in the pale moonlight. Beneath him a fireteam of 6 stood prepared with a net, however, it was clear Fernando couldn't see it, and so he disappeared for a few moments before we hard to screams of men and women. Tumbling 15 yards away, Fernando had drifted, and I felt myself surge with what felt like a deep and cooling shiver. "To the right!" I yelled at the top of my lungs so loud that it seemed the ground began to shake. People watched and screamed as Fernando tumbled five stories when his body somersaulted onto its back as if somebody had scooped him mid-air. All the while, the firefighters drifted swiftly almost off their feet, waiting moments before he landed perfectly underneath the net. Running to his aid, I pulled his body off the net and resuscitated him. Arriving home that next morning after my shift, I turned on the local news. They interviewed the Fire Chief and all the brave firefighters that went into the burning building. The reporter spoke of how incredible and quick-witted they had been, in particular when it came to Fernando Dispodio. I turned off the TV, exhausted from the long shift, feeling somewhat underappreciated, which was out of character for me. Saving lives wasn't about the ego boost, it was about doing the right thing. To hell with it, the firefighters can take the limelight. When I entered my room after a nice hot shower. I thought maybe it'd be best to just go to bed and forget the troubling thoughts. In time they would go away. For now, I had saved every one I had a chance to and that was enough for me. Then I received a text from my phone. Jack sent me a video filmed on a citizen's camera phone. In the video they show Fernando shaking and praying at the to of the roof, then he disappears, and faints. The ground shakes, and suddenly a brush of purple wind comes into the shot and picks up the firefighters who were yards off their mark, and it seems Fernando is guided perfectly into the net. "An act of god man, crazy" is Jack's next response. Walking into the small bathroom connected my one-bedroom apartment, I wondered if this was what the rest of my life would look like. I wished my mother was here and wondered what she would think of this, now looking at her 28-year-old son, still an EMT. I could hear her voice. "Remember Randy the less power you have, the more good you'll do." Beneath my hazel eyes, I'd always had this streak of purple which would show in moments of danger. Never had I ever tried to harness its power unless for useful purposes. "I knew I had a gift of some sort, but only for serious matters." Reaching for my electric toothbrush, I accidentally knocked it off its charger, sending it off the counter to the ground. As the device toppled towards the floor near my toilet, I felt it again, a cool shiver" "STOP!" Looking down I saw my toothbrush levitating a foot from the ground. As it floated into my hand, I used that same force to open up my toothpaste cap mid-air, applying a small amount onto the brush head. Realizing I could use these powers freely was the first step in me taking control of my life and the world around me. As I cleaned all of my teeth with my hands behind my back, I stared into now deep purple eyes of the mage in front of me. I had been special all along.


Blackness. Devin could see nothing but could smell, feel and hear more than he had ever felt before. His senses were heightened tremendously that even his tongue writhed in the taste of decay of the stagnant air in the room of the apartment complex. His muscles ached with an increasing dulled pain as he remained poised, fixated on the door and whatever were to walk through it. Any hint of light and he would swing, only hoping to strike a creature. Devin had waited so long in the room that he became in tune to its nature, and he became one with its aura. Unless anyone was to see him directly in the room, his presence could go unnoticed with ease. It was a trick to staying hidden that Devin learned at a young age. Palms clammy with sweat as he gripped with his remaining strength around the thick metallic pole, holding it poised above his head, ready to swing in a batter's stance. His arms tiring as the blood drained from them. A thick mask of perspiration began to form on his forehead, slowly dripping down the side of his face. He desperately just wanted to relax and wash off this whole thing in a cooling shower, wash it all gone forever and begin a new day away from anxiety and danger. Oh, how he dreamed of such a day again, of ignorance and naivety. He could only hope that there was such a place outside Big Town where the electricity and plumbing still functioned and never had to worry about fortifications from the Crazies, or even knowing if he was awake or still dreaming. Days went by where didn’t know if he had slept at all. He was sure he had at times but still felt the fatigue of sleep deprivation. He had lost track of what time of day it was and how long he slept. Another creak came from the outside of the door. He raised his arms higher in spite of his screaming bones. He could not afford to let his guard down. The Crazies were much faster than he was. They were relentless and vicious when they knew of his presence, letting nothing stand in their way between them and him, which is why Devin didn't think this one knew where he was. He would have been dead by now…Just like everyone else. But just in case, if it did know, Devin would be ready. He just wished it would hurry up and just go away! Devin was already on the brink of tears before he heard the noise outside the room not more than ten grueling minutes ago. Devin felt like he was standing there for hours already, and he dared not breath, lest his muscles moved. His body had given in. The stress of holding the pole above him was too much. Devin would risk rising the metal object to swing for the few moments of rest. The sacrifice of those few precious seconds seemed worth it. However, he had just about lowered his arms when there came a growing light from the doorway. Devin was too startled to immediately react and a booming flash took him by even further surprise. He hesitated for just a moment then swung the metal in an arch, a wild swing that met flesh, but there was no recoil. The metal stuck, but to what, he could not see. He strained to pull but there was resistance and so immediately let go. Off balance, Devin fell to the floor and fumbled for any item he could use to fight against the Crazy. Too late. Devin felt a heavy weight above that trapped him to the ground... and a voice? It was! Not a snarl or a weeping wail, but a voice! Soothing and warm it was to him, yet simultaneously steely and stern. "Boy!" Devin didn't understand at first. It had been over a week since he had heard another voice. It took him a moment to understand it was female. The voice came down harder this time, "Boy!" Devin was too frightened to respond in words, only in whimpers. A hand grabbed the back of his hair, yanking his head back, upwards from the aged floor-boards. Devin winced, her body weight shifted from on top of him, she then let go and his head hit the floor with a light thud. Devin was again able to move. The room went dark again with the clicking of the door. Then with a lighter click a dim light filled his eyes. “This is not the place to be if you want to wait this out…” The voice said, calmer but still cold. It was nice to hear one again regardless. “D’you talk, boy?” the voice pierced the air again, challenging his very will to speak. Still bewildered, he managed to force the words, “Ye…Y-yeah…” he spat between gasps of saliva at the back of his throat as he struggled to pull himself up from the splintered floor. There was a moment of silence in the room. Devin became worried. “I’m sorry…” he uttered finally. Another voice came surprisingly. “We have to.” It said almost defiantly. It was male, gruff and heavy, as if the bass in his voice muffled his enunciation. “No.” Came her sharp, clear and cold voice. “We’re not gonna leave him here – I’m not gonna leave him here!” The male shouted. A thud came from down the hall after the man’s exclamation and the entire room became stiff as if it were possessed with rigamortis. The void was broken only by the sound of clicking metal shortly after. “How many bullets y'got left?” The quivering male voice whispered under heavy breath. “Not enough.” She replied determined but with a hint of fear. Devin gulped. “You take the kid, I’ll cover…” She said begrudgingly and almost too quickly a manner that made Devin feel ashamed. “Come ‘ere kid.” The male ordered. Devin stood and stumbled around the room. “Kid, you able to walk?” He said, slightly panicked. Devin could hear the direction of his voice but he had to find his rod first. He fumbled around the room looking for it when suddenly he felt something cold and narrow. “Found it!” Just then a heavy hand that gripped his shoulder and reeled him around violently, followed by a sinking shudder. “Shit…” The female breathed the darting curse a little ways off in the room. “He’s blind…” A calloused hand gripped Devin's firmly. The light in the room clicked off. The door inched open. To the left was the long hallway the thud came from earlier. To the right of them a staircase leading both up and down. The male breathed fully and slowly as he let the door swing open and ran directly to the stairs. Devin was trailing trying to keep up as best he could without tripping. They went downward, footsteps clumsy and loud. Between their thuds Devin could catch the sound of an inhuman yell that made his skin crawl and his chest tighten. But no gunshots. "Why are we going up? We could get trapped." Devin quavered. "Fire escape." "But there's one on my floor?" "Kid, trust me. Up is the only way out." He stopped, jiggled a door-handle and cursed in frustration followed by a loud boom at the door. And another followed by an angry grunt. For every boot-heavy kick, Devin shuddered in fear. Going up meant there were more Crazies below. They must have followed these two inside. Devin whimpered against the wall as a splintering crack of wood followed one of the loud thuds. Once more. And finally a shattering collapse. A heavy hand once more grabbed his shoulder, nearly dragging him inside. The dark room zig-zagged, the large man accidentally kicked over a table and he cursed. A few more steps and they stopped, a click occured and a sliding wave of cold struck Devin's skin, raising the hairs on his arms. The man yanked his arm with one hand and with the other, placed his palm on his forehead. "Watch'er head now." Devin stumbled onto the icy steel of the balcony, almost welcome from the damp stagnant heat he endured moments prior. "Go, go-go-go-go." A panicked voice came from behind him. It was the female. Followed by breaking glass and what he assumed was furniture from the room they just exited. The male grabbed Devin's left arm and pulled once more, but as he followed he couldn't know where to step. As his right leg fell to meet the metal balcony, it kept falling, lost his sense of balance and fell onto the metal step below, twisting his ankle at such a degree that shot an electric pain through his lower leg. He let out a painful howl as the weight of his body collapsed on top of his twisted foot and in one single disoriented second, his balance fell left toward the wall off the building where he felt a loud thud and fell once again into blackness.


(WP) Fire and Gold The dragon stared down at the intruding knight, its ruby eyes boring into his face. “Give me a single reason why I shouldn’t roast you over my own flames,” The creature growled, and lowered its long, scaly neck, the better to look the human in the eye. “A dragon as wise and ancient as yourself has a hoard that the legends echo! What if I keep track of your hoard, and organize it? I can be of great use to you. There are so many treasures here, and anyway, why waste your time cooking me? I’m all bones and gristle!” The knight spoke in a hurried rush, desperate to save his own life. Who knew that he had such a strong sense of self-preservation? The dragon said nothing, silent, and the knight waited, half expecting the monster’s sharp teeth to tear off a limb. But the dragon surprised him by doing something else entirely. “Very well. You may stay on to guard and organize my hoard,” The dragon said at last, using its nose to push the knight forward, toward the mountains of treasure: bright gold and silver coins, chests filled with jewels and pearls, sparkling specters with all manner of symbols carved into their handles. \*\* Three Years Later \*\* The knight hoped that the rumors that had reached the mountains weren’t true. A group of heroes, at the behest of the King and Queen, had declared the dragon he served as a menace that could no longer be tolerated. It was so strange, thinking about how he’d come to the dragon’s cavern with the intention of killing him. Now, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else but organizing and tending to the creature’s material possessions. The dragon had provided him with food, shelter, purpose. He’d be damned if he’d let the king’s lackeys kill the beast. He had to get back to the cavern; at this rate, the humans would beat him home and the dragon would have to defend itself alone. Swearing under his breath, he hurried his mare on, desperate to aid his friend. A vicious, angry roar echoed over the mountains, a warning for all who dared trespass. When he finally arrived at the cavern, the dragon was snapping its jaws in warning, his huge body crouched protectively over his stolen hoard. The knight found himself hoping that these foolish humans were devoured by his scaly friend. It would be the least that they all deserved. The dragon had told him about how his kind roamed the earth so many years ago, but they’d been vilified and hunted to near extinction. He’d lost his mate and several children in the struggle. Ever since, he’d despised humankind, and the knight couldn’t exactly blame him. “Foolish mortals! The only thing left of you will be your scorched bones!” The dragon howled, spitting fire and smoke. The last thing the knight heard was the humans’ screams of anguish. But really, everyone should’ve known better than to anger a being of fire and air.


It had been a stupid idea from the get-go. Meddie had been pushed into it after the latest run-in with her ex Percy had left her downhearted. “Get out of the house!” her sisters had said. “We signed you up, go! It'll be fun!” they had said. Yeah, well, it was easy enough for them. They didn't have any trouble. No, none at all. But she found it hard to deny her older sisters anything, so that was why she found herself prepping for a brutal night of speed dating. The cabbie had let her out in front of a slightly shabby bar. A chalkboard sign sat out the front advertising the night’s special event. ‘Dating for Deities’. *Ha. More like “Dating for Dropkicks”.* She knew she shouldn't have come; it was ridiculous. The social circles that she and her sisters inhabited weren’t small, but Meddie’s reputation clearly preceded her. As she moved from table to table not a single person would meet her eyes. Which was ridiculous, it was 2020 for Goddesses’ sake! Her eye problem had been solved long ago with the invention of prescription lenses. And conversation-wise it wasn’t great either. For the most part all she got was a few short, clipped sentences. The others tended to just talk over her as if she wasn’t even there. She was at her wits end by the time it got to the last round. Just like the three before him, her second-to-last date hadn’t stopped going on and on all about his previous conquests. At the chiming bell that signified time was up, she downed the remains of her fourth Santorini Sunrise and with a tight smile said her farewells. She contemplated just leaving then and there but thought it might be a bit too mean to leave someone sitting in this ridiculous place alone. Her thoughts were raging as she made her way across the room. *These people are nothing but idiotic Greek preeners and brain-dead siren Barbies. I wish I -'* The thought stopped dead as she looked down at her last date of the night. He was gorgeous. A floppy mane of shoulder length blonde hair, the beginnings of a scruffy beard. A kind face. Definitely a ripped body, hidden underneath a slightly too large shirt. Yum. The only thing that irked her were the sunglasses the man wore. *What kind of a douchebag wears sunglasses inside?* His nametag read 'Adam' and although he looked fantastic, she was well aware of how deceiving first looks could be. Making sure her head-wrap was in place, she subtly primped as she sat down. Before she could say a word, he spoke. “I have a confession. I think I'm in the wrong place.” “What?” Meddie looked up at him in confusion. He leant in, like he had some earth-shattering secret he couldn't share with anyone but her. “I mean, my younger sister signed me up for speed-dating, and I thought hey! Why not? But I think the cabbie took a wrong turn and dropped me off at the wrong event because everyone here has been talking about being gods and sirens and harpies and for god’s sake, I have no clue what's going on!” He took a deep breath as he ran a hand through his hair. Meddie sat stunned in her seat. He was human. A human! At a supernatural dating event. She just had to laugh at her luck. Taking a risk, she grabbed his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Look don't worry, those guys... they're a little crazy. Just tell me a bit about yourself. What do you do, what are you into?” Adam visibly relaxed. Meddie grabbed a couple of drinks off one of the waiters circling the room. She pressed one into his hands and took a large gulp out of the other as he proceeded to tell her about himself. “Well, I'm Adam, I'm 31, I enjoy long walks on the beach and talking to pretty girls.” He flashed her a cheesy grin. Meddie let out a slightly tipsy giggle. “No, I work down at the zoo taking care of the animals. Well... if we're being honest, I help look after the snake enclosure. I just really have a thing for snakes I guess, always have. Ever since I was a little kid.” He paused. “And now's the part where you go 'ew, really, why snakes?'” “Oh no, no way. I dig snakes.” Her hand unconsciously moved to her head, patting it down, smoothing the invisible wrinkles. “Really?” “Absolutely. No seriously, I think snakes are great.” She gave his hand another squeeze, and felt a thrill run through her as he returned the gesture. “Oh, and I'm blind.” He pulled off the sunglasses. Meddie let out a small gasp, flinching slightly, years of ingrained fear causing her to avert her eyes. Guilt now coursed through her at her douchebag thought. She took another gulp from her glass. “Yeah, when I say my sister signed me up for blind speed-dating, I really meant it.” Nearly snorting half her drink all over the table, Meddie threw her head back, bursting into full blown laughter. Adam followed suit, his gravelly laugh soothing her nerves. When they had finally calmed down, he continued. “So anyway, enough about me, tell me about yourself. What's your name again? Maddie?” “Meddie, actually. I know, it’s strange.” Adam cocked his head, a playful smile on his lips. “No, no, I like it. It is unusual though. Is it a nickname? What's it short for?” A little hiss could be heard from above Meddie’s head and she reached up to pull the scarf from her head. With a quick shake, she let her hair free. “Medusa. It's short for Medusa.” She watched as he stilled, seeing in the tilt of his head and the furrow of his brow that he was doing the math. They sat there for a moment, Meddie growing more and more worried that she had pushed him too far. After all, even the humans had heard the stories. Relief coursed through her as, after another few seconds, a brilliant grin lit up his face. “It’s like I told you before,” he said. “I do love snakes.


Here's a short story a wrote sometime last year. I think, ideally, this would end up being a scene in a larger piece but I'm happy with it for now.  March had been unseasonably warm in St. Louis. A dense humidity hung everywhere --almost panging for the release of rain-- yet still, after every storm, persisting. This odd wash of jungle air, coupled with the building owner’s miserly decision to forgo turning on the air-conditioning, had turned the examination rooms of Clark-Horace County Hospital into George Monroe’s personal, scalpel-adorned, sauna. The rundown building was poorly insulated and had a habit of providing you with a clear imitation of whatever conditions befell the outside world. If it was windy, you could expect a draft; if there was a storm, the doors would be leaking; and on a day like today, the oxygen choking atmosphere was well-at-home in every hall and office. George, who studied Biology at Michigan and subsequently served his residency at St. Luke’s in Duluth, had a cooler temperament. Since moving to Missouri last September, he found it difficult to adjust to the Midwest’s uniquely fickle climate. These past two weeks, his usually brisk Sunday-morning plunge down the elevators to the basement examination rooms of Clark-Horace felt more like a dive into some thick Amazonian canopy. He had even resorted to taking brief breaks in what was apparently the only room in the building required-by-law to be kept at a comfortable temperature-- the morgue cooler. Dave and Janice, his coworkers, liked to give him a hard time about this particular habit. “Frosty the Snowman's gotta get to his cooler before he melts away!” was a favorite of theirs, referencing the admittedly sluggish nature George took on when the heat started to get to him. It was of no consequence to him. The cooler always reinvigorated George and he - a licensed Autopsy Technician of almost three years now - was never bothered by the presence of dead bodies. But, today, there would be no teasing. He worked alone during the dreaded Sunday morning shift. Honestly, it suited him better. George had never been good at workplace chit-chat and he always felt at his most productive with headphones on and in near-solitude. Still, the workload on Sunday mornings was always a challenge for one person — a sort-of reverse graveyard shift that rotated weekly between the three of them. Even as he worked, George could feel his glasses slide down his nose. He took near-continuous pauses to push them back up to his eyes with the back of his wrist. A pool of salty dew formed directly under the bridge of his black wayfarer frames, acting as both an irritant to his eyes and a lubricant on which the glasses would languidly shift back down. He didn’t like to wear his glasses while working. He didn’t like his glasses at all, in fact, and had years ago resolved to only wear them when he was colossally hungover, which he decisively was. His friends had made a point to tell him that his upcoming morning shift would not alter their plans of brewery hopping the night before. He had long ago agreed to the affair and so resigned himself to his eventual fate of bludgeoning headaches and nausea. George didn’t have any particular love for the craft beer scene his friends so delighted in. The complex chemistry of artisanal recipes and their ever-expanding hierarchy of styles, colors, ingredients, flavors, and off-flavors had never inspired him to dive nearly as deep as his companions had into the fanatic lifestyle of small-batch brewing. He did, however, enjoy the company of his friends and (being completely frank with himself) he enjoyed the different tastes of the beers they tried. It was the in-depth analysis that irked him. The sense that you must mine every last ore and ingot of knowledge from every sip and understand, not only the complex palette of flavors therein but also the *intention* behind those flavors. Anything less and you were wasting your time and should promptly “fuck off to a sports bar and order a Bud-Light if you just want to get drunk.” But, it got you drunk all the same. One of the dangers of craft beer, and perhaps most responsible for George’s suffering today, was the alcohol content. These were not the canned pilsners that he and his college friends stacked 30-high back in Ann Arbor. Some of these draughts would push north of 11% alcohol-by-volume! All of them deceptively draped in the added flavors of coffee or chocolate so as to slip past your better judgment. Some four or five drinks later, it would be too late, like when hypothermia cradles a stranded climber to sleep. George could still taste the brews from the night before. Or was he smelling them? Yes, the scent must be running out of his pores now, as his body desperately pushed the toxins out via any means necessary. The clear memory of the stygian stout burned clearly in all of his senses. The ghost of the dark liquid shot up his spine: Tahitian vanilla, with the viscosity of milk, high pointed with the ever-present, fiery notion of bourbon. He felt a chill up his neck and his stomach churned like the sea. George got too drunk, he decided. He should not have driven home, either. Usually, he did not recklessly endanger his own life like that. There was something about the jovial attitude of a night spent in drunken comradery that can give a man a dangerous level of confidence — the kind that, if left unchecked for a few successes, leads one to believe they “drive better when they’re drunk.” He scolded himself. After all, he had seen many grotesque figures on this very table that used to “drive better drunk”. Such was the job, especially on the Sunday morning shift. Dave, another technician and five-years George’s senior at the hospital, had affectionately nicknamed it “Scared-Straight-Sunday” after the increased number of “patients” produced by accidents, overdoses, and any other form of dark debauchery that took place the night before. He used to joke that “after a year of Sundays seeing what people do to themselves when they’re fucked up”, you’d end up sober for the next ten years. George didn’t have to look any further than the bloated figure on the table below him. “D. Vernon.” Drowned. Fallen into some rough tide of the Mississippi, knocked unconscious judging by the laceration on the left-back of his head, and washed up down-river about eight hours later. The cut was deep and had swollen outward like a mouth nestled in the beard of D. Vernon’s long, wiry hair. He had a stern face, even after passing on. The face of a man with a short temper which, seeing his twice-broken nose and scarred knuckles, likely saw him in scuffles. He was the kind of guy who would accost you in the parking lot for pulling out in front of him, George imagined. His eyes screamed back up at George as if to say “Don’t you judge me, motherfucker. I get by.” George closed up the abdominal incision. This hangover had slowed him down more than he thought and he was behind schedule on gathering up the various tissue, blood, and hair samples. D. Vernon had been in the water long enough to cause his body to swell up though not long enough to totally distort his features. The man’s once-well-toned muscles were still visible beneath the quasi-gelatinous coat of his skin and the once-black ink of his numerous tattoos now glowed with an almost putrid green. He was like an action figure- some edgy, anti-hero character, perhaps- that was left out at the playground, melting and contorting under a brutal sun only to be snatched back up a moment too late. Toxicology would need to come back to officially determine whether or not drugs were involved in the accident, but the track marks on his arms seemed a clear enough indication at first. Stomach analysis proving his last meal to be little more than Adderall and french-fries was all the proof George needed. “Definitely time to dial it back,” George told himself. Odd. Suddenly George’s eyes were drawn back to the site of his incision. It had been a clean suture- straight and symmetrical. But now, at the midpoint, there rose a mound of skin in D. Vernon’s mid-section. “Damn this hangover”. George had always prided himself on his organization skills. Everything had its space on his tray and would, without fail, return to that space when its job was finished. Had he really been so careless? Sewn up one of his clamps inside the body? It was a troupe that surgeons heard frequently- leaving some instrument or another inside of a patient- but not during an *autopsy*. George scolded himself and snatched for a scalpel to reopen the poor man when he counted- no he hadn’t counted; he simply *knew*\- that all of his tools were still in their exact place. “A gas pocket?” He thought to himself. “Some residual pressure one of the untouched bloated organs had finally released?” No, this wasn’t right either. The bulge wasn’t rounded as bubbled air would be when pushing up against the skin. It was singular. Almost conical. As if someone had tied a string to the stitching in the center of the incision and pulled it upward. He reached a gloved hand down to the foreign mass and gave a firm press with his middle finger. It was lean. He could almost feel a rough texture to it through the skin. George’s examiner’s mindset must have left him at that moment. In one movement, he had snatched away his mask, uttered a choked shout and slid back against one of the brick walls of the examining room. These were not commanded movements. These were from a long-forgotten section of the lizard brain still intact underneath millions of years of evolution. The part of the brain that knows- truly knows- the sight of danger and when to shield its host from such things. For while George’s hand lay on the dead man’s strange internal growth, it began to move. Feverishly in slid inside poor D. Vernon’s cavity. But these were not erratic convulsions. Even if this man was a fresh corpse, any attempt to explain these movements away as some rare spasm of freshly-dead neural pathways would have to be swept away. These movements had purpose. And they were becoming wilder. They had an almost feral drive- now lifting the hips of the cadaver off of the table as they searched. No, they were not thrashing movements. They were poking, prodding at the inside walls of their decaying prison for any sign of air- like a house cat rooting around under a blanket. And then, all in a moment D. Vernon slammed back to the table, his stomach as flat as when he had arrived. There was a ringing in George’s ears which could only be the sound of that same lizard that pulled him to the wall, now screaming viciously- desperately- in his ear to run to the elevator. His eyes were clasped onto the figure, equally desperate for the cadaver to stay infinitely still- less the madness they had just witness continue and be committed to memory. It must have been his eyes that pulled him closer to the body still, feverishly wishing- begging- to prove that there was no movement left in this bloated corpse. Against every internal instinct, he slid toward the now frighteningly still cadaver, scalpel still in hand. The room was a vacuum, devoid of sound. So crushing was the silent pressure of this moment that George could hear his blood pumping into his brain, and that brain firing commands down to his right hand- *how was it so steady?* Slow and methodical, he began to unzip the stomach again, bisecting the original cut. The cold flesh gave way on either side like a blooming flower. George reached to spread the aperture further to reveal what was certainly madness incarnate within D. Vernon’s bowels. He should have rejoiced, he remembered thinking. The scene was completely normal- as normal as the bloated organs of a drowned drug addict could be. But it was the *lack* of evidence that shocked George. The way the immediate normalcy seemed to laugh in the face of what he, and his eyes, and his lizard brain had all witnessed. No sign of the hateful foreign body that had just moments ago attempted to wrench its way free from his patient. No sign of the damage that such a struggle should have certainly caused to the dead man’s insides. He tasted bile then. The ringing in his ears receded and the heavy gravity that held the room silent finally lifted. He could hear his arid respirations now louder than anything and he was reminded again how humid the room was. He was hyperventilating. In a mad dash, George threw the scalpel to the floor and made desperately for his refuge. He burst into the cooler, gasping and trying to settle his breathing. He leaned heavily on the open morgue drawer that had belonged to D. Vernon. Then George- thinking of the drowned man, and his hangover, and the horrors he had seen- in an attempt to lament, vomited.


I suddenly become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake. I open my eyes, and sit up. I am in an empty room, a very large, very white room. Taking a second glance, I notice that in the distance, something is on the wall almost at the top. Some sort of a silver structure jutting out? I look to my right, a small trickle of water is flowing a few feet away from me. I stand up, and walk in the direction of the water. I gasp with sudden realization of pain. My chest aches as if from a fresh injury, but I seem to be unharmed upon inspection. I reach the small amount of water trickling by, a stream maybe a foot wide, but it appears to grow as it travels towards the other end of the room, the strange white room. A shadowed, hooded figure appears suddenly before me, as if out thin air. His garments are dirty, and torn, very out of place in this pristine room. I jump backwards startled, almost tripping over my own feet. I gaze at the stranger, the aura around him is very odd, almost like a wizard of sorts? Which is strange, because I have never met a wizard. He looks directly at me, and for the first time I see his face. Twisted, and wrinkled, but there was a sort of wisdom in his piercing stare. His eyes are pure white no other color at all, a stark contrast to dirt on his face. He looks at me as if looking on an old friend, someone I have met many times, but I did not know him. In one swift motion he was by my side, staring as if into my very soul, staring through my soul. “Follow the water” he said, his voice was dry and raspy, like nails on a chalkboard. I shivered slightly, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice or care. “Follow the water and you will see your destiny” he croaked. I stared at the stream flowing down and across the floor, there was no stream bed, just whiteness for as far as I could see. I took a step forwards, toward the far end of the room. “Good choice” I hear from behind me, I whirl around but the old man has gone, vanished impossibly in an empty environment. Confused, scared, and a little bit hungry to be honest, I start walking next to the water. As I walk, I notice the stream does indeed begin to grow in width, spreading out across the floor, branching into multiple different streams. On the horizon I see some objects come into view, on the floor, underneath the silver structure, on the wall. I continue walking towards them, the water is running faster now and wider than ever. I can hear a sound as well, almost like a whirlpool or a waterfall? I pick up my pace, going into a half jog, fearful, but excited of what I might find. The closer I get the louder the noises become, until suddenly before me is indeed a whirlpool. The water is swirling and dancing before disappearing into to a large drain or grate? I look around, across, on the other side of the drain, I see a large mirror. I look closer, edging as close as I dare to the rushing water. In the mirror,or window, or whatever it is, I see a women. A beautiful women, absolutely perfection, standing in front of a perfect house. I see myself in the mirror, well is it me? It’s like a perfect version of me muscular, attractive, and I’m playing catch with my son while holding my daughter in my other arm. There’s flowers blooming and the weather looks perfect, like a vision of perfection. “Looks nice doesn’t it?” Rasps a voice in my ear. I jump startled, the hooded old man is back staring at me. “Just walk over to them and it all becomes your reality” he says with a half smile on his lips. “What about the water?” I say, my voice cracks with fear. The old man smiles, “there’s no water son, that’s just your fear, go ahead, trust me” I take another look at the mirror, the women is waving to me, with an almost pleading look in her eyes, begging me to take the step,to rescue them from this perfection hell they are trapped inside. I take a step forward, cautiously towards the water that supposedly isn’t there. I take one more look at the old man, “don’t hesitate” he says. I turn and leap towards the other side with every bit of power I can muster. The water hits me such force the air is knocked from my lungs. I struggle to breath as I am forced round and round, and then suddenly down into darkness. I land with a plop, air rushing back into my lungs and I am screaming as loud as I can. I can see nothing only darkness, there appears to be a sort of slime that I have landed in. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, I appear to be in another room this one circular, almost like a tube. To the one side I see movement, the old man is back sitting on a giant ball of hair? Surely not my eyes must be playing tricks on me. I approach him, it is indeed a ball of hair, fashioned into a sort of chair, that he is perched on, like a of king of the underworld. “Who are you?” I scream. “What is this place? Why am I here?” He simply stares back at me, a huge smile splitting his face. “I am called many things” he finally says, “but most call me Life.” As to where you are and why you are here, you allowed fear to grab you and you are now down the drain.” “Why?” I ask pleadingly. “Why what?” He says smirking. “Why me, what is it about me that caused that to happen?” “Nothing about you caused it to happen” he says the smirk is now gone replaced by a twisted frown. “We simply needed a human to feed on.” “We?” I ask. “Yes, we,” he gestures across the room into the darkest corner. As I turn a creature I can only describe as beast stands, and idles towards me. It is pure blackness almost seeming to suck up the what little light filters into the room from the grate above. It stopped right in front of me, I tremble with trepidation of what will happen next. Black drool comes from where a mouth should be and it’s wispy body seems to float. It moves closer to me there is no body heat at all, in fact the air around it seems to be colder. It comes closer and closer, then suddenly everything goes both hot and cold at the same time, I struggle to breath my mind goes into hyper drive and starts to race out of control. A sudden burning deep inside my chest like somebody ripped out my heart, and lungs, and stomach, and replaced them with hot burning tar. It was a pain that cannot be put into words, it simply was the feeling of darkness inside me. I stand up as straight as I can, struggling to breathe. The monster has vanished from my vision, I turn around and yell at the old man, who is giggling like a school girl. “What was that, and where did it go?” He looks at me and stops laughing, “that, that was a demon we call depression and he is inside you now, that’s where he needs to live.” I stutter, unable to get words out, “what,why,why why wh w” My body goes weak, my legs unable to support me. I stumble and fall, the world goes starts to disappear, “see you tomorrow” the old man crackles. This is the last thing I hear. Then there is nothing, blissful unadulterated nothing. Suddenly I become aware of myself, I don’t remember going to sleep? All I know now is that I am awake......


I felt the little shafts of light making their way passed the trees, and through the window doing their best to greet me. The warmth goes unappreciated as I try my best to collect myself. I’m still being pulled to go back to whatever dream I just woke up from. Wherever I was it has to be better enough than waking up, or maybe just so I could stay just a little bit longer. Every morning is this same little ritual, confused as to why I’m here just long enough to be disappointed. Little reminders of things I knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to remember. I don’t remember things like everyone else does, or at least mostly everyone. Tempus Syndrome is what it’s been explained to me as. I can only hold so much in my head before my mind decides what’s important, and what can be left out. Not being able to remember phone numbers, not being able to remember names of people I met at parties a month ago, what shirt I wore a week ago, and even what I had to eat for lunch three days ago. I can try and sift through it all, recall little notes and flags in my head to get back there. Sometimes I can do it, other times I just get frustrated. There’s at least a few things I can remember for good, my name, my family, how old I am, how tall I am, what my home looks like. Little things that keep me here, at least I know who I am. Other things I know is I can’t work, I’m a burden on my family, and I’m going to die someday. I wouldn’t be able to write everything I remember, because even then I’d forget things while I was writing it. I was asked to write this out to help explain what Tempus Syndrome feels like. It’s fucking awful. I feel like I’m floating in my own head living moment to moment. Everything around me is permanent, this little story will have more permanence than my entire life. You just have to read it once, and it’s with you forever. I have to reread something, write it down, and read it again later to remember it longer than a couple weeks at best. It’s only going to get worse, already most of my life is just blurry. More of my life is forgotten than remembered. At least I have that one grace, I sometimes forget what my life has been. I’ve had conversations over the years where people tell me I acted a certain way, said things from years ago. I can piece it together enough to know I was there, but honestly I just agree with whatever anyone tells me. I’m waiting for them to fix me, maybe I won’t be able to recall everything from my life, but at least being able to remember my dreams. Remember if they really are worth not waking up from, or if I should just appreciate the morning light.


I was always taken away by the beauty of the woman I loved. Her sheer presence could make me smile, even on days where darkness overshadowed the light. The simplicity of her “Hey!” when she walked through the door of my house had me jumping in excitement like a young child opening presents on Christmas. She was the person I wanted to spend every second of every day with, taking cringeworthy pictures and putting them on Instagram, or recording me when I danced around the room as if I was Jamie Bell in Billy Elliot. Our love was simple – and equal. We first met in college in Sociology. It was the first day of the term and the universe already did us a favor by having the teacher make us sit next together. We were both slightly awkward and although we wanted to start a conversation, it was difficult for us to do so. I finally got the confidence to say the word, hello and in that same sweet way she always does, she looked at me and said “Hey.” It took us twenty minutes to start talking to each other, but after that, we couldn’t stop. It got to so much talking that we eventually started dating. But relationships aren’t easy. To keep a relationship vigorous is one of the hardest things to do as many factors can intercept the relationship and knock it off course: The stress of your job or schoolwork, financial issues, new people that come into our lives, they can all damage a once happy relationship – they can all dispossess you of the woman you love. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She no longer gave me the long-detailed responses I used to get when I messaged her “How was your day?” It was now just: “fine” or “good”. I was inexperienced with relationships. I was naïve. I didn’t know how to tackle this issue because I didn’t know what the issue was. Was it me? Was I the issue? I went to her house to see if she was in, to see if we could speak about this and overcome it. I didn’t want to lose her, she was the first person that made me feel such warmth, such happiness. I didn’t want that to be stripped away from me. She opened the door and I froze. I hadn’t planned how I was going to come about the issue, I just knew that I wanted to. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t the heartfelt greeting I wanted but with the way things have been going lately, I wasn’t surprised by the way she greeted me. “I need to talk to you, about us, things are different between us.” “I can’t, I’m busy.” She wasn’t busy – I knew that. I wanted to be wrong, but I knew that she was lying to me. She shut the door before I could reply, I stood there for minutes as I had frozen in time. The same night I decided to message her so that I could try and say what I wanted to. For hours I sat there listening to the same 1975 songs, waiting for a reply from her. I never got one. For the next couple of weeks, I tried to try and speak to her, but she never returned the favor. I went back to her house and knocked on the door like I did the previous weeks. She answered the door and started with excuses pulled from thin air. “Stop with the lies!” I couldn’t take the worrying or the hurt anymore and I told her exactly how I was feeling. I told her about the pain of not seeing her in weeks, the constant worry of upsetting her. It was all too much. For several minutes I poured my heart out to the girl I loved about how I couldn’t cope not seeing her and feeling as if I had hurt or upset her in some way. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and on her cheek and said the most painful sentence I’ve ever had to hear. “I think this is the end for us.” She was right. We no longer shared the same amount of excitement about our relationship and it was clear that we needed to move on, and after the longest and most soul-wrenching hug of my life, I walked out of her house and said goodbye to her for the last time.


Recently I woke in a city park. It is very cold here and everyone looks miserable. There is some relation of hopelessness in the eyes of passersby, yet it is relayed with confidence. Sometimes even swagger, I suppose. They are at home in their misery. Is this how I feel? Is this how I look? So many memories are lost to me this time. How do I know such things and how do I know where I stand in relation to them? I suppose these are the questions of life. Still, the interest builds. I do not know how old I am or how long I have been like this. Did I know my childhood before? Was it recent? How old do I even look? I am afraid to find out. Maybe next time I will think myself young again. Something of hope is helpful in my journeys, like a dim candle to illuminate a distance forward. I am not sure how I know this, but it rings true. I will permit this hope to stay. Exploration offers reward, so I explore. Perhaps the reward will be mundane, but just as well will it be rewarding. Someone of little material and value as myself would be hard pressed to find any reward malignant. Anyone should be hard to find a reward malignant, I suppose. Does cold have a way to clean the air, or does it rob the lungs of something to give the illusion of cleanness? No matter. I enjoy such weather because the air feels free of polluted encumbrance. Why should it matter the source of this attribute? Upon inspection, it would seem my original assessment is correct. Destitution plagues the city. Whether affluent or poor, tall or short, each neighborhood treats interlopers with prejudice if they do not belong by shared purpose. Each prison intent on pursuing rivalry with some others in some way. How long it must take for anyone to leave them, to seek new life and grow, when such systems of feedback and reinforcement permeate the world. Such is madness. Such is life. I am searching for an embassy, an island of indifference where I may find sustenance if not shelter, when a curiosity skews my path. A woman walks alone with bread seeking others to share it with. I find myself approaching her. “You’ve seen better days. Would you like a sandwich?” Who is this silver in the night? I must have asked as I received her offer. She tells me she is no one, or at least this is what I hear. Something is different about her eyes. Have I seen this before? “Can I help you in any way?” Eyes of compassion. It has been so long since I recognized such a character. Posture confident but burdened, pained and sympathetic. Who are you, to contradict yourself with blazon grace? “I am anyone really, but most of all I’m me.” Have I heard her right? These words make no sense but carry weight. “I would like to know you.” She beckons me to join her. Conversation persists like a polluted river, perturbed and unclear, yet I am determined to discover her. I have found something of worth in the ashes of this place, who shines and knows her own value. I do not even know myself. What has she discovered that I have failed to? What has she understood that I cannot? “What do you think of the world?” We have been offering food to others. This is a regular route for her and others treat her kindly. “I think there’s a lot of pain. I think there’s not a lot of hope.” Both of these are clear to me, but it occurs that I have not often found another who opines such as myself. “What do you want to do about it?” “There’s a lot I want to do, and more that I wish I had done. Now I’m just doing what I can. I used to be a mother, but times are hard.” She is eager to share herself, and I understand her words with clarity. “What changed?” “I made a lot of mistakes thinking they were right. Anything is the right thing when it’s all you can think to do. This city is my home, but it was never home for my children. They each found their place, and I have to find my own way again. It’s hard to stop caring for others, though, after you realize it’s all you have.” “Why?” It seems the only method of preserving the dialogue. “Everything in the world is either broken or hurting. The most we can do is try to help people who are hurting. Maybe they can find a place to be at home, at least.” “What do you mean?” She takes her time before continuing. I begin to accept the silence as an old friend when she returns to me. Somehow there is more sympathy in her eyes. It is the sign of tension, forcing outwards a nature which would prefer internal safety and semblance of comfort. A familiar nature. “Anywhere you look, there is pain. It is all we see and all we talk about. An entire generation knows nothing but anguish. The other day, I heard that children set a homeless man on fire so they could share it with friends. A broken world is no place for children. They will grow to only know hurt, or become just as broken as the world that raised them.” Truth is often miserable. However, I find myself internally twisted. When conversation is so elusive, I cannot fathom the possibility of neglecting this instance. Yet it pains her to relay understanding to me. Is this the cost of wisdom? “All we can do is move forward. If I don’t see you again, I hope you find your home.” She leaves me some place, having guided me to a shelter. A certain quantity of time has elapsed without my knowledge. Am I leaving so soon? How long have I been here, anyways? \- I am not in a city this time. Far from any city, I think. The road I wonder is dirt and rock, reaching trees all around beg for sunlight to satiate their endless hunger. Am I a tree, now? Have I forgotten so much that my time among mankind is eclipsed by a new dawn? Something begs me forward. It is clear to me now that I am on the verge of death, a dangerous absence of water pains me in body and mind. Someone beckons me forward… Soon I wake in the company of another. A man of direct character, eyes beaming with interest. We are beyond the limits of a city, and the weather is fair. “Hello, wayward traveler. What inspired your movement here?” I seem to be in much better condition. This man seems to have committed himself to my safety. What effort did he exert for someone unknown to him? Who is this character who would make sacrifices for a stranger? “I am Herald. Who are you?” Did I speak just now? How long can I endure this misery? What do I even have of my past? I remember so little this time. If the past is constantly taken from me then what is any future worth? “Slow down, now. Take your time.” *Has he heard me?* “Yes.” His answer is haunting. It interrupts the procession of thoughts I knew to follow. That would have followed. Now my mind is vacant but for a singularity. One connection, between my mind and the world outside. His eyes are intent on knowing me. “Who are you?” I manage to speak. “Patience, my friend. I see there is much work to do. Please, speak yourself.” An arrangement that taunts me. There is something beneath, I can tell with slight focus, but it is obscure. What does he seek from me? Of course! How could I be so dense? “I am me.” “Yes. A very good start. What is meant by that?” He teases me with the slightest progression of conversation. It is a treat to indulge a progression I have been missing. “I have been me. I will be me.” Is this correct? It seems to follow but I fall short of understanding it. “Precisely. You are well traveled, friend. That has certainly left you wise. I have observed many others to fall short. You are the quickest to make the first leap, friend.” He calls me friend, and I know he speaks truth. Something of understanding accents his words which is redoubled by his eyes. A smile rewards my inspection. Herald continues to speak, “Take your time, friend. Lead me to your next question.” Who is this person? Is he a daemon, who captured understanding without earning it? A god who has decided to confront and mock me? I should think not, for I have no reason to. He has offered one truth foremost. He is a friend. “What is the first leap, companion?” My words do not come out precisely as intended, but they are precisely meant. “It is the first thing to know, which implies understanding thrice.” Something awakens from a recession of my mind that was distantly known to me. A curiosity of intensity I never experienced before. This feeling is the most certain I have ever known. Before I permit myself to analyze it the force commands me forward. “The first known is me, I know myself. But I do not understand. You mean something further, do you not?” “Indeed. Can you tell me what it is?” The curiosity fades, but does not return to whatever chasm it was drawn from. I find myself scrutinizing the question. My mind has never been so resolved. It has never been so quiet. “Take time and rest. My home is just along the path ahead. Come when you are ready, friend.


I spread out my hands, and the green light poured out of my palms. The villain screamed and floated up into the air suspended by my power. Suddenly, he stops, and tears started coming out of his eyes, “what have I done?” he whispers. That’s my power, to make the lowlifes worldwide feel remorse for what they’ve done. Now, you’re probably wondering how I got this power. Well, it starts on a cold day just two days back before right now. Like I said, it was a cold day, uncommonly chilly for this late in the season. I wouldn’t know though, I had recently moved to Michigan, and from what I’ve heard they’re cold year long. Since we were just arrived I didn’t have to go to school until the next week. Me and my mom went to the store to buy me supplies and new clothes. I discovered my power while my mom was outside reading a magazine and waiting while I browsed through the shelves of pencils, paper, notebooks, and so much other supplies I bet you you could build a house with them all. I think a teenager was trying to shoplift some stuff, but all I saw was a shape barreling toward me accompanied with the music of the store manager yelling. Like any natural human being would do I held up my hands to protect myself. That’s when the light oozed out of my fingers and encased the teenager. Everyone around me starred, I did too. The person in the bubble dropped the supplies, “I don’t need these,” she said. “ why am I stealing them?” Then, as if on its own accord ( I’m sure I did nothing) the bubble turned a darker shade of green and let the teen out. I think now, it does that when a person’s truly realized their mistake. I don’t know if it’s in the water supply, the atmosphere or what, but this was the first time I’ve experienced my power. I’m starting to suspect it was in me all along. I’ve always had a way with words, but my language hasn’t always worked, and light has never poured out of my hands. Well I would be happy to have a normal life and never have my power come up again, but just my luck two days after the shoplifting incident today, in fact, I was strolling down the street when I saw a jewelry store robbery. I chased after him knowing I was possibly the only one that could help right now. Even though he was larger he was slow, weighed down by his bags of jewels and gold. Just when I was behind him he turned around, “stay back!” he growled, and that’s when I held up my hands. Now that we’re all up to speed, let’s go to what happened after. “I don’t need that money,” the robber said, “ take it. Give it back,” and he held out the bag to me. I took it, and walked back to the store, surreptitiously dropping the bag in front of the shop. It was dangerous, sure, but I didn’t want anybody asking questions about how I got it. With my honorable task done, I turned and walked toward home.


Stupefied, the little girl sat in her chair while her grandfather repeated the same card trick again and again. She watched him shuffle the pack. “Pick a card. Look. Don’t tell me. Put it back and here, I shuffle it again. The card is gone, right?”, he wore a mischievous know-all smile and took out the same card from his pocket. “How do you do it? You have to tell me.”, Samantha insisted. “I will teach you. Now go, help your mother with the dishes.”, he would grin. Samantha always believed her Grandfather to be a magician. “Grandpa is the greatest of them all.”, she would tell her friends. Her grandfather’s trickery never failed to amuse Samantha to the fullest. He made a coin disappear and pulled it out of her hair, put a piece of cloth in his coat and brought out a bunch of roses. Samantha would clap and laugh. Samantha-7 years old, pale yet beautiful and fair haired- lived with her mother and grandpa in a summer house. Her father was always travelling for work. Johnson came home once in a blue moon. “Why don’t you stay? It will make me happy.”, Samantha would tell him. “I will, darling. Someday.”, he replied. Samantha was a much loved kid. While her father stayed away, he wrote a number to letters to her. Her mother, Julia, would read Samantha a letter everyday before putting her to sleep. “Daddy is working very hard for his little girl. He wants you to grow up into a beautiful and kind lady. Be nice to everyone, will you?”, Julia would tell her. She always replied with a nod- nod of agreement. “Samantha Linhares, Warden calls. You’ve got a visitor.” Samantha walked down the stairs to find her Dad waiting. She has grown into a fine lady. Her hair is a mess but she is still beautiful and adorable. “Hello?”, she greeted her father as coldly as it could be. “Hey sweetie, How are you?”, her father tried to make a conversation. He examined his daughter head to toe. All this while, Samantha only wondered if she was dressed appropriately to be seen by her father. Her ways had changed since last time they met. “I see you have dyed your hair red. Looked better before. You had beautiful hair.”, Johnson soon realized that he might have hurt sentiments of his daughter. “This. It looks fine too. It does.”, he approved. Ten long years had passed, since Samantha saw her family last. She was 18 now and with each year passing, she only got angrier with her Dad for being away all the time. Johnson did return for his daughter but too late. Samantha had joined college and stayed as far from home as she could. “Grandpa is not well. He wants to see you.”, Johnson said. “I don’t plan to see him any sooner.”, Samantha replied. “Sam, it is bad. Please come see him once.”, Johnson said helplessly. “It is bad.”, these words kept ringing in her ears. Samantha had hated her grandpa all these years for a reason. But all of a sudden all the reasons seemed stupid to her and she realized that she had known it for a long time. She just never was strong enough to face her grandfather again or to justify her behavior. Samantha left with her father to see Grandpa one last time. She recalled her time with Grandpa and cried all the way to the hospital. As soon as they reached, she was taken to her Grandfather. She found the old man lying in his bed with a number of machines synchronized to his system. Samantha had seen similar machines long time ago. That was when Julia fell ill. Samantha, in her thoughts went back to that time. The beeping of the machines got louder and she could see Julia and everyone there. She saw herself younger again. “What are you doing, darling?”, Grandpa asked. “I am writing a letter to daddy. I will tell him that mommy is ill and he needs to come back to her.”, Samantha replied. “Her condition is deteriorating. I am worried that we won’t be able to help her any further.”, Samantha was there when doctor told them this. That was the first time when she was angry with her father for not being beside her. “Help her. Why don’t you help her? You are a magician. Use your magic tricks and bring her back to life.”, Samantha had expected a lot too much from his magician grandfather. “She died because you did not save her. You killed her.”, those were her last words to the oldie. After that there was just hatred and anger. A pat on her head pulled Samantha out of her thoughts. “Grandpa, you are awake. I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”, Samantha held his hand. “He can not talk. He wrote this for you.”, the nurse took a diary from the trolley and gave it to Samantha. Samantha opened the diary. On the first page was a roughly written note: ‘Dear Sam, Grandpa loves you. I am sorry my magic did not work when you wanted it to. Please do not hate me anymore. I had promised that I will teach you a magic trick. Here is a step by step instruction that you need to follow.’ Second page: ‘Raise you hand and hold your fingers together.’ Third Page: ‘Now place your hand on my chest. Feel the heartbeat.” Samantha did as instructed. She felt the heart- Once, twice and a flat line showed on the heart monitor. Next page: ‘Hey Magician, you just made my heart stop.


I'm playing with my dolls while it rains outside. I feel a little bit hungry but I know Mama will bring me dinner soon so I keep playing. I have two new dolls and pretty new clothes for them as well. I have made a giant castle for them to live in. They will be princesses with dragons and no one will ever hurt them. I hear Mama coming upstairs and I'm excited that I will get to eat. But when she arrives, she has no food. She is not happy and when I ask her what's wrong she says nothing and goes back down. So I go back to playing with my dolls but I can hear her walking back and forth downstairs like she is looking for something and I worry and try to think of what could be lost that I could help her with. Then she comes up again and she's wearing her jacket and boots. "Are we going out?" I ask. She doesn't answer me but gets my jacket and boots out and tells me to put them on. "Is Daddy home?" I ask, already knowing that he isn't, since I never heard his car arrive but I also know that whenever we go out in the evenings, it's always with Daddy. I wish I could take my words back because Mama looks so angry that I am scared. So I stop asking. She just says, "Hurry and get dressed." So I forget all about my dolls and try my hardest to put my boots on without asking Mama for help. When she sees I'm ready, she takes my hand and we walk down. I see that I wasn't able to tie my laces properly and they're slipping open but I don't want to make Mama late. So I keep walking. We go out. Mama has brought our umbrella which she opens, and we start walking. It is raining a lot. I would like to jump in the puddles but Mama is in a hurry. I try once more. "Where are we going Mama?" "To get your damned father home." I wish that I had stayed quiet. She keeps walking and when I struggle to keep up she picks me up. But it is a long way to wherever we are going and she has to keep putting me down for breaks. I am wet despite the umbrella. Mama is wet too and all her makeup is spoiled. I love Mama and she is very pretty but now she looks like an angry clown. We finally reach a big building like a castle and Mama stomps in. The people at the gate look at us but do not stop us. We head to the entrance. There is another man at the door. He tries to stop us and when she doesn't listen he says that she should leave me outside but she doesn't listen and pulls my arm so hard that it hurts and because I can't keep up I fall. The man helps me up and tries to tell her once more but she yells something at him and drags me again and I now know to run. It's a long corridor and Mama walks through, a bit slowly now. There are yellow lights but it is still not bright. I don't like it and I want to go home but I can't say it. So I walk along. Suddenly Mama stops at a door and pushes it open. Inside, there are some men huddled over a table playing cards. She looks in but then she decides this wasn't where she wanted to go. She doesn't close the door and for a second the men and I stare at each other before I am dragged along. Then she kicks open another door. I can see some men walking down the corridor to us, trying to reach us but she doesn't bother. Inside the screaming begins. I see my father. For a split second I see him happy and playing with his friends, like I have never seen him before but then he realizes that we are here and his face freezes over like ice. And Mama screams. I can't understand much of what she is saying but she keeps saying she is going to kill herself. She has let go of my hand so I step back to near the door because I don't think we are wanted here. I want to leave but I don't know where to go. Two ladies run out while I stand there. And then one by one, some of Daddy's friends also walk out. I recognize one of them and he pats me on the head as he walks out. My Daddy grabs Mama by her arm and walks her out. I follow them. She keeps yelling but walks. He is very angry. He's says something angry to the people at the main door. Then we walk to some cars and I see our car there and we all get in. We drive home. Daddy drives fast. Mama keeps screaming but Daddy doesn't answer. They keep doing the same when we get home so I quietly go up to my room and go to bed. I try to sleep through the noise below. I think of my dolls and the castle I was building for them. When I wake up Mama and Daddy are asleep so I sit and I build my castle. After a long time, I smell something delicious cooking downstairs. I tiptoe down and Mama sees me and cheerfully says, "Come, see. I made our favorite breakfast. Sit." And I sit. I am relieved. Maybe they have forgotten. Daddy also comes out soon, asking how the best girl in the world is doing. That is me. Maybe last night was not so bad and I imagined everything.


“I just don’t understand. She was fine, when she called. She had just gotten home, I could hear her unloading the grocery bags!” Paul Sansky wept into his gloved hands, breath coming out in puffs of steam on the chilled night air. He sat on the back-end of the ambulance where the paramedics had led him immediately after his arrival, anguished screams erupting from his chest. Their services weren’t needed here. His fiancé was dead. Detective Harvey Deluth looked down on the body in the snow, her skin like ivory in the moonlight, her lips an eerie shade of the palest blue. Andrea Tatum’s orange hair ringed her head like a fiery halo, eyes gazing upward, unseeing. He bit down hard, grinding his back teeth, furrowing his brow. A sigh escaped him, and he straightened himself, turning his attention to his friend. “She—she said she’d call me right back. I don’t understand!” Sobs wracked Paul’s whole body now. Deluth lay a hand on his shoulder, comforting him, as best he could. Deluth was not a man of many words, and though he’d known Paul for years, this was the eighth death in Darrow this winter, and it was only January 16th. His heart, like the earth outside, was becoming colder and harder; desensitized, with each passing day. Still, for it to be someone he knew...again. “I’m so sorry, Paul. Look, we are gonna do everything we can to figure out—to put together what’s happened here, okay? I just need you to answer a few more questions. Please, come inside.” Deluth nodded solemnly to the medical examiner, and he nodded back, kneeling somberly in the fresh snow to zip up the body. As in the seven prior deaths, Andrea’s seemed completely unassuming. There were no outward signs of trauma to be observed. It was as if she had literally walked outside her front door, down the sidewalk into the yard and just dropped dead right there. By now, Deluth was ready to ask the right questions, he just needed to dance into it slowly. Questioning grieving persons had never been his forte. “Paul, did Andie say anything when she said she’d call you right back? Was there...a reason? Did she hear something? See someone?” He sat across from Paul in the living room recliner, where her coat was still draped where she’d thrown it when she came in. Grocery bags were visible in the kitchen floor where she’d sat them down. The door had been wide open, no sign of forced entry; and this is how it had been at every house that came before. A life interrupted; just stopped dead. “Umm...uhh.” Paul wiped the tears from his ruddy cheeks with the back of his sweater sleeve, breathing heavily as he attempted, fruitlessly, to recover from the heaving cries. “Harvey, she just said, ‘Paul, honey, lemme call you back, ok?’ And then she just hung up. She didn’t give me a reason to think—I mean, I just don’t know, why would she have gotten off like that?” He stared at Harvey, his eyes bloodshot, heart clearly broken. “Paul, I really wish I had an answer for you, but you know, at this point I just don’t.” There was a moment of silence that passed between them, Paul’s head back into his hands, before Harvey reluctantly resumed his line of questioning. “Paul, was...err...there a possibility that Andie might’ve been...pregnant?” The broken man’s head shot up from his hands, mouth agape. “How could you know? We—we hadn’t told anyone!” “Because Paul...” “But how? She was adamant, we don’t tell anyone until—“ “The others were too, Paul. They all have been.” More silence. It was eerie, how silence invaded that space in a dead woman’s home, the flashing blue lights of the officers cars outside still pulsating through the frosted windowpanes. Harvey cleared his throat and shifted his weight. Suddenly the wool of his coat was very scratchy and uncomfortable. He hated these sorts of exchanges. “I am not supposed to comment on open investigations. I’m sorry, that won’t happen again. We don’t have all the pieces, all the information...” Paul continued to stare, then stood up and paced, hands frantically tousling his own hair. “You’re saying she’s dead because she was pregnant? Someone is killing pregnant women? Who did this? Who did this to my Andie?! Harvey!” His voice rose in a panicked crescendo, resonating off the walls, and Deluth stood, stopping him, grasping him by the arms. “Paul! Get ahold of yourself.” They stood still, locked onto one another, Paul’s eyes wide and heavy breaths passing between them. “I—I uhh—okay. Okay.” Paul stammered, shakily sitting down. Deluth gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. “Is there someone I can call for you?” “Uhh...no. No. My mother, I called her. She’s coming in from Hawesville. She’s on her way.” Deluth hesitated only a moment, and then nodded. “I’ll be in touch, Paul. Again, I’m...I’m so very sorry.” He turned toward the door, placing his hat back onto his slicked back hair, and closed it behind him. On the way to the car, he paused, looking down at the imprint in the snow where Andie had fallen, dead; likely before she hit the ground, if her autopsy followed the same pattern as the others. No outward or inward signs of trauma. No sign of struggle. No explanation for death other than sudden and inexplicable cardiac arrest. He grumbled, sighed, and opened the door to the vehicle, leather squeaking as he sat down in the seat. He turned his gaze to his partner, Vick, who had declined to go in. He’d known Andrea too, and at the sight of her body had become ill and vomited. “Does she fit?” He asked weakly, “She does, Vick. She was pregnant too. Like the others.” Vick shook his head, rubbing his clammy hands on his uniform pants. “My God, Harv. Jesus. Who is doing this? Why? Deluth furrowed his brow and clicked his teeth, twisting his mouth in thought, then placed his hands on the steering wheel and shifted the vehicle into drive. “It’s not a someone. It’s a...something. I’m sure of it now...” The tail-lights of his vehicle faded away into the winter night, exhaust billowing up into the air behind him.


(WP) Tortures of the Damned When you get to Hell, the last thing you expect is to see your stepdad, the coolest man in the world, sitting atop its throne. “My son, at long last, has come home!” He booms, standing up to greet and embrace me. “Dad? I don’t understand. I don’t get what you’re doing here, much less why you’re—” Your father, who is really your stepfather but raised you as his own, gives a great boom of a laugh. “The King of Hell?” He finishes, smirking; his face reminds you rather unpleasantly of the cat after it ate the canary. “I was as shocked as you were, when I first got here. Now I’ve got full run of the place!” You stare at him, your jaw on the floor. Growing up, he was your biggest role model; you wanted to be just like him. He raced cars, treated your divorced mother like royalty, was always kind and firm with you. So how had he ended up here, of all places, in the afterlife? The question must show on your face, because he smiles, looking like his old self. “Oh, kiddo. There were things I did before I met you and your ma, things that I was so ashamed of that I barely even told her anything.” There’s naked vulnerability in his expression, something you’d never seen when he was alive. “But here! Let me give you a tour of the place! God, your ma would’ve loved this place, kiddo. Hotter than the damn desert on a sunny day in California.” He laughs, and you follow him, eyes sweeping across the barren, fiery landscape of Hell. Your father points to a firelit pit, thick with the stench of blood, tears, and pain. “That over there is The Pit,” He says, nodding over to it. “Fortunately, that honor is reserved for some of the worst people to ever exist.” *And I didn’t qualify,* he adds silently, his eyes narrowing to slits as he observes the tortured and the damned. The area is so dark and shadowed you can’t make out that much; the only thing you can really hear are screams and the insistent, vicious *crack, crack, crack* of the whip. You make out the silhouette of a thick and stocky man with a thinning, gray goatee and little, beady brown eyes. “Hey, Dad, isn’t that… Isn’t that…” “A certain Hollywood movie producer who used his power to hurt unsuspecting young ingenues?” Dad replies, smirking so hard that he can’t keep the wicked glee off of his face. “Oh, yes. He may have escaped punishment in the mortal world, but you can be sure that The King of Hell and his subject never forget.” He’s pleased as punch, and despite yourself, so are you. It does what’s left of your soul good to see villains getting their just desserts. “Well, Dad, you’ve done great for yourself in the afterlife. I mean, The King of Hell, that’s really something.” “And it’s all yours, kiddo. If I’m the King of Hell, then you’re its prince.