“You will take 12 paces and turn”. The referee paused and looked to both men to ensure he had their attention. “Upon turning you may fire when the flag I hold hits the ground. As per the agreement this is a duel to the death and you may continue to fire until only one is left standing.” The referee realised the folly of such words but tradition dictated he say his passage. “Do you understand gentlemen?”. Alfred and Franklin both turned their heads to the referee and nodded their acceptance at the rules and the understanding that this was a duel to the death. The referee continued, “If either man fires before the flag hit the grounds...” A voice called from the crowd “We know the rules grand master pomp, take your rules shove em up your arse and give us the blood we came for, let them have at it!” The referee twitched as he always did when his ceremony was interrupted, none the less he acquiesced and once again noticed his life was to please the hoards. “Very well. Gentlemen you may begin the walk.” One. Alfred took his first step. In 16 years he had fought and won 53 duels, some for honour, some for fun but all for power. Now only Franklin stood in his way of being the greatest duelist in the land of Seackhan and with that came the fame, fortune and power that make a man grow old and fat. Maybe he would grow old and fat but today he only wanted his guns. His trigger finger twitched, it knew it would soon have to the pull the ring one final time, the hardest time, but his legacy demanded it. Two. Franklin’s right foot moved like a club hammer to its second step. His knee’s felt weak, his guts a wreathing mess of nerves and terror. It was not the duel he feared but his hands that wielded a gun. His father had taught him to shoot before he could walk and by the time he could walk he was already on the path of the duelist. He had vowed after his last duel 10 years ago to never lift a gun again but then Alfred had walked back into his life. Now he found himself taking the walk of the duelist, readying for the dance of the gunslinger one final time. Three. Alfred felt stronger with every step. His guns light on his hips, his mind focussed on the dot he envisioned between Franklin’s eyes. Franklin, the one everyone said could shoot the eye of an eagle from a hundred paces, Franklin the merciful who gave quarter to his opponents, Franklin the coward who had thrown his guns down because he could not walk the path of the duelist. Everywhere he went they spoke of Franklin, after today they would speak of him, Alfred Dead Eye. Four. Franklin stuttered, he was back in the town of Faldago staring at the face of a mere boy who lay dying with a gunshot to the neck. Franklin had missed, the boy should be dead and the ritual complete. He watched as the life flowed from the body of the dying duelist into his own, slowly the boys eyes became glass, the chest moved slower, the breath left his body and finally the twitching ceased. Franklin stared at the face of the boy and then turned to see the streaked face of a girl, the boys lover he guessed. He turned back to the boy and for the first time ever found himself repulsed. Five. “When you kill a man, you do it fast and you do it straight”. They were the words of Alfred’s father but Alfred had learnt there is no killing fast or straight, only killing. People have these notions of honour and chivalry. Fools, all of them, Alfred thought. What honour is there blowing a man’s head open? No, the path of the duelist is not honourable or chivalrous and there is no room for love or kin. The path of the duelist is a path of power. Today, Alfred thought, that power will be mine. Six: Franklin’s mind lurched again, back to the time when he had won his guns. The gun, it is said, picks its owner and the gun can be wielded by no other until it is won. Franklin knew this not to be true, he had not won his guns, he had taken them. He had set out on the long walk, him and five companions set to find their guns as apprentice duelists were sent to do. Those that returned with their guns would be deemed duelists, those that did not would be set to go on the great wander. Franklin returned a duelist Seven: Alfred seethed with hatred, for 16 years he had wandered. He had won his dueling guns in the first year, using common pistols he had shot an old slinger who thought he could still duel, he had his dueling guns. In the second year he made his name, by the tenth year he was accepted as one of the great duelists. Now, today, in this moment, he would win the guns that belonged to him. Franklin the great? Franklin the robber more like. Alfred steadied his finger, he steadied his mind. He took another step. Eight: Franklin saw the guns at the same time as Alfred, they both saw the guns. They hung in the air as only unclaimed dueling guns do and they called to their owner. Alfred was faster, more adept and more determined to claim the guns. Franklin was slow, hesitant but he feared the wander, more he feared his father. He unslung his bow, nocked his arrow and followed the motion of Alfred. He asked Alfred for forgiveness and let the arrow loose. Alfred fell from his horse and Franklin rode past to claim the guns. Nine: Alfred’s father looked at him, shame in his eyes. For generations the family had all been duelists, none set for the long wander. Alfred protested he had been robbed but his father said the gun chooses not the person. “You wander now boy, you find the path, you find your honour and maybe one day you can return.” Alfred looked at his father but no forgiveness was there, only a hard stare that set him on his way. Ten: For ten years Franklin had not dueled. He vowed to never consume the life force from another duelist ever again, to never stare at the face of pain again and to never take that which was not his to take. The guns felt heavy on his hips, his finger was moist, his breathing ragged. Now Alfred had come, Franklin always knew he would. In 6 years as a duelist he had slain 35 people but none of them were Alfred. The guns called to Alfred, the guns compelled Franklin to answer. Eleven: Alfred stared at the people in front of him, did they remember who he was? He looked for his fathers face in the crowd but knew he would not find it. He had heard he died but two years after he was set to wandering, a drunken brawl, it sounded fitting to Alfred. Alfred heard the clink of Franklin’s boot, time to duel. Twelve: The final step was all Franklin needed, he was a killer. He senses heightened and his palms dried. I am prepared to die, I am prepared to kill, the gun is me and I am the gun. His finger twitched, it itched. He was ready to kill. The duelists turned, the flag dropped, the brothers fired.


Not my first story, but my first in a while. Felt like writing, wrote this, decided to share. I'll welcome any criticism if it is constructive! \ He felt like he had been pushed into the sea with brute force and murderous intent, leaving behind the boat that allowed him freedom from the waves and the deep that scared him and inviting in the deep and dark waters of the Atlantic under him. He had no brick tied to his leg, his arms were not tied up, but he knew that he was destined to die here. He knew he would eventually sink deep, further and further down until breath escaped him and water filled his lungs, becoming just another part of the sea floor.  He had not asked to be pushed, and he hope whoever found him would know that. He had been pushed, he thought, his thought screaming at him. I WAS PUSHED. But he knew whoever found him would determine his death as a suicide and move on. If they ever did find him. They probably wouldn't.  His father had drowned. He had just remembered that now. His father had boarded a plane from England where he was on business, a plane that was headed toward an airport in New York. That plane had crashed. Right into the Atlantic, where he was now drowning. His father had survived longer than he would. His father had used his seat as a raft, ultimately found the life raft from the plane and used that. His father was careless. He had punctured the raft, put a hole in it. He had sunk with increasing dread, praying to the god who may or may not have been there. He was at the bottom of the Atlantic now. His father had always been careless.  He had a chance, perhaps a small chance, but a chance nonetheless of meeting his father at the ocean floor. Maybe he would be found and taken away by a mermaid to ATLANTIS, and he would be accepted into their society and would live a new life.  As he continued to sink deeper, he thought of who could have pushed him. There was a party on the boat, not a large party. Just a small party. 10, 20 people. Maybe. For all know he could have slipped. But he needed to blame someone that was not himself. He couldn't have been so careless, not like his father had been careless. He wondered... could he have been?  He felt himself getting weaker and weaker, sinking deeper and deeper. He saw fish swimming around, swimming in their world, a world that was not his, he was just simply an uninvited visitor who was careless enough to find himself sinking in the Atlantic.  As a young man he had never feared death. At 14 when he heard the news his father had gone missing, presumed dead, he had not feared death. At 14, when he heard his father had found the raft, his father had a chance to survive but didn't, he had not feared death. When his mother was struck with Lupus which could ultimately kill her and at the very least would give her excruciating pain, he had not feared death.  What he had feared was hopelessness. The feeling of dread and pain that accompanied the feeling that he had no more power. He had no power now, he could feel his body giving up, relaxing, finally realizing that he would sink, and keep sinking. He closed his eyes one final time. Saw nothing.


I wrote this based off crimes I know from news articles, and personal memories.  I do not have a name. I have discarded the name my parents gave me. They died this morning. Call me Joe. Ordinary Joe.  At the empty store I put down a hammer. The cashier said it was 11500 won. I searched my pockets for money. The cashier looked at me and asked me if I had done well on the final exams. She called me a student. Small talk. I said I was not a student. She asked me what I was doing now. I asked her if she had children. She looked at me strangely and said a daughter. I asked where is she. She said at cram school. I asked her how many hours she spent in cram school. She said from after school to 12PM. I noticed her mobile phone was on and to the side with a game playing on it. I gave her 11500 won. I went to the windows and closed the blinds. When the cashier walked toward me I pulled out the hammer and killed her. I took a picture with her phone. I took off the phone case. I walked out with the phone and a different clean hammer. Store CLOSED.  I looked through her phone. From the call records and pictures I knew who the daughter is and which cram school she’s in right now. I took a taxi. I stood outside and she came out holding a backpack. 25 minutes early. She started walking towards the bus stop. I followed her and called her name. She looked at me. I asked if that was her name. She said yes. I said her mother was dead and showed the picture. She looked at it and cried in shock. I patted her shoulder and asked what score she had gotten on the final exams. She kept crying. I kept asking her and she said she failed while crying. I took her backpack and took out her papers. She failed at most of the subjects. No hope anymore. She stared at me. I felt bad for her. I took my hammer out and killed her. People started screaming. A man charged at me with a suitcase. I broke his arm and neck with the hammer. Another man tried to attack me and I killed him. I ran away. No one chased me.  I ran far away until I came to an apartment complex. A man and a woman were arguing outside the apartment building. I listened. They were husband and wife. Their child was standing behind the mother. The mother slapped the father, and he covered her mouth and started hitting her. The child cried. The child looked like he wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill them. They would not suffer any more. I walked out from my place with the bloody hammer. They stared at me. The father called me a psycho. He tried to punch me. Funny. He was doing the same to his wife. I killed all three of them. I ran away.  I was shot by police officers soon after. Bullets in the right arm, leg, near the chest. I tried to stand up but couldn’t. I could not kill everyone. I could not even kill myself. I could not be a hero they need.


We never found grandpa's gun. The family lore on that one was either that the neighbor lady or his nurse took it. We never found that money he said he hid either. We sold the house and some guys gutted it out and flipped it. I hope they found grandpas money cause we sure didn't. He wasn't a rich man anyway, we're most of what he left. Only a few things of his are still here, almost all army stuff. Grandma has the trifolded flag with her, my uncle has his purple hearts. There was some other war paraphernalia my dad and uncle found, photos, a Japanese flag, and something they told me they wouldn't tell me about, all of it got lost. And apparently there was at a time a Japanese rifle, but Grandpa stored it in the garage and it too disappeared. I don't have anything of his, but I got handed down something he took. A Japanese bayonet, all that is left of grandpa's war. It now has no handle or scabbard, it's dull and rusted but you can still see the markings on it. It has a mount to be put on a gun, to stab enemies, like my grandpa, when they are close. It was made for a very personal kill, seemingly ancient and barbaric to me, but from near in history. The bayonet even has a large hook, I guess to catch cavalry swords. It's Japanese etching make it clear, this gun mounted sword does not really originate from my family, at least it's not American or even Polish for that matter. But I hold it, and I truly don't know the specifics of how Grandpa got it. I know he lied that he was older to get into the army, shipped off to the Pacific to fight as a teenager and kill strangers. Although I was too young to hear anything dark from him about the war, my dad has since related some of it. As a kid I was told he had bad dreams, I didn't understand what that meant, my understanding as an adult is pretty lacking. Sure, you can say Grandpa shouldn't have stolen from the battle field, maybe it was things like the bayonet that haunted him, but I'm pretty sure the damage was done. The man who lost the bayonet surely didn't need it anymore. If he could get anything back to his family I imagine he'd have a letter sent to them, his wedding ring maybe, certainly his bayonet was low on the list. And was it really his? It was issued to him to stab at enemies away from home on the remote islands of the Pacific. Come to think of it, we don't have Grandpa's gun, or bayonet. I presume they just belong to the Army anyway. Or maybe Grandpa lost it, whether it was in his garage in Chicago or on a beach on Iwo Jima I'll never know. I hope I keep a close eye on my family heirloom and keep it, although I don't really know it's story, and for all those war stories too dark for grandpa to tell, I wish I could tell him thank you.


The hospital was grimy. The floors looked sallow like the patients writhing on the beds. I was gripping my arm, praying they would not stick me with the dirty needles they were passing around. I was completely blind, having left my glasses back in the room. Blurred outlines of people walked past me. One leaned in close enough for me to get an overview of their face; it was focused on the break I had suffered. The pain was making me want to vomit. The adrenaline was the only thing keeping me from sobbing into the stranger’s arms. I was picked up and put onto the used bed that smelled of curry and blood. I begged them not to put anything in my veins. “Please please please! Do not put a needle in my arm! I am scared of them!” I had to lie to ensure they would not be offended by my true reasoning behind my unwillingness to use a syringe. One of the men came up to me and tried to reassure me. “Do not worry. No needles. No need.” His voice was attempting to be calm and soothing, but it was too raspy to be truly settling. I shifted uncomfortably in the bed to sit up. The pain from my arm shot up and gave me a migraine. “We must get you to America to heal better,” the doctor said. “This is no place of modern medicine.” He gave me a sling for my arm, and when I tried to give him some money, he waved me off. “No needle, no charge,” he said with a wry smile. I swung my legs over the bed, hitting the ground immediately due to my tall stature. I stood up straight and made my way through the hectic environment I somehow ended up in. There was no clear reason why I was there. I couldn’t remember losing my glasses, or stumbling out of the hotel, or breaking my arm, yet all of these things happened. And now I had to find my way back. While still blind. I trekked through the foreign country and ended up a few blocks from the market I had gone to a few days before. Relief flooded over me. I now knew where to go. For the rest of the trip back to her hotel, I had to put her face practically two inches from the road signs to know I was going the right way. Finally, I made it. I took the elevator back to my apartment, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the guests because I would be unable to see their faces. No way to react when you cannot see emotions. I walked to my room, reached into my pocket, and was shocked to find my key there. I opened the gold-lined door and stepped in. Nothing was out of place. Not a single thing. My glasses were on my night stand next to my bed. I put them on and felt the greatest sense of calm come over me. First things first, get rid of this broken arm. I went over to my bag and pulled out the only pill I could salvage. It was a Tylenol, but it would have to do for now. I went over to the mirror to assess if I had any other injuries. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same curly brown hair, hazel eyes, stress acne on my chin, and small tits. Still pretty unimpressive, but nothing to be worried about. I sighed and walked over to gather my things to return to America. *It was the doctor’s orders, mom. I can’t remember how I broke my arm.* I thought of excuses to make it appear like I had accidentally (and bravely) gotten hurt. I had taken this trip as a way to get volunteer hours in to get into medical school. Didn’t seem to be working out so well though. The trip coordinator had gotten arrested the first day we had arrived for stashing illegal drugs up his anal cavity. It was rumored he gave it away with a powdered fart. The professor leading the trip had gotten into jail attempting to bail the coordinator out because he used slanderous terms against the leader, saying he put the “Dick in dictator.” The other students had tried to keep normalcy going by volunteering at the places they were assigned to; however, the locals angrily waved them off, saying they were oppressive white people who could shove their privilege up their ass. I had gone back to my hotel after that, and that was where my memory ended. I strained my mind to try and find if I had anything to go off of, but nothing came to mind. A fleeting thought of asking my ex-girlfriend quickly died off when I thought of the first night we got here. Everyone had gathered in my room to take some shots, and I had walked out on the terrace to get some fresh air. Once outside, I had looked around at the bustling activity below. A dog was picking out of the trash with a homeless man next to it, doing the same. A woman was sitting on the curb talking to what looked like her son, adjusting his clothes and giving him some food to eat. He had a black eye and was staring straight ahead, looking angry. A man stepped out of the building behind them. He was taller than most of the locals there, but still shorter than her. He walked down the street, stepping into a puddle that hit the back of the mother. The son turned around, ready to shout, but the man had already made it halfway down the street, moving swiftly through the crowd. I was waiting for my girlfriend to come back from the liquor store and saw her come out right as the man was passing by. I tried to get her attention, but that man blocked her line of sight. I could have sworn he looked up at me before talking to my girlfriend. My girlfriend blushed and gave him a coy smile. He flashed a grin back and held her groceries. She giggled behind her hand, just as she had done when she had started talking to me. The man led her to the building, and I was leaning against the terrace, nearly about to fall off from trying to see my girlfriend. The man kissed her on the cheek. She kissed him back. They looked into each other’s eyes before a loud shout was heard. It was the boy, shaking his hand in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. His mother followed close behind, trying to pull her son away from the tall man. He gave my girlfriend one more smile before calmly walking toward the boy. She looked at her watch and quickly ran into the hotel, missing the action outside. I stomped back into the room, ready to confront my now ex-girlfriend. Back outside, the man had spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to say, *Let me buy you a drink for your troubles.* The boy seemed to give in, but one touch of his black eye sent him back into fight mode. He put up his fists and spread his stance, ready for any hit. The man put his arms down. He stood completely still. The boy took it as an opportunity and sprinted toward the man. However, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man’s eyes. They were neon green; they were glowing. The man smiled at the boy and pointed his index finger at him. “What’s wrong? Why so hesitant all of a sudden?” His voice sounded like a thousand voices, all struggling to be the main one. The mother grabbed the boy and took out a cross from her necklace. She thrust it forward, trying to keep the man back. He smoothly glided toward them, not even blinking when the cross was thrown at him. He picked it up and put his hand out as if he was giving it back to the woman. She carefully reached for it yet never had the chance to grab it. Her hair burned, and her entire body melted into sludge that reeked of burning flesh. The boy turned around at her scream and watched her melt. He stared at the spot her body had just stood. He flew to the ground, grabbing at her remnants, expecting it to be some sort of magic trick. But when he pulled his hands up, he felt something brush his finger. He grabbed it and shined it in the street light. It was a single golden tooth. The only inhuman part of her body. Before he could even react, the man pointed the cross at the boy and melted his body. He then stepped into the two puddles of people, sliding his foot in between them, mixing them. “You live, you survive, and then you die. At least you had your mommy.” He stomped into the puddle, splashing his pants and continued walking.


In the fall of 1996, I was on the cross-country team. Before each race, the team would warm up by running the course. During one such run, I was forced to stop because I almost shit my pants. The key word here is almost. In my youth, I knew not to test fate, so I turned back around leaving my team and headed straight for the restroom. The toilets were metal and disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers. I immediately exploded when I sat down, and I knew right then and there that I would be dropping out of the day’s race. My team, my family, and my friends were counting on me to finish—like always—dead last. Would they be disappointed if I weren’t closing out the race? When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my team (and their families) were waiting for me. Apparently, the story had gotten mixed up, and they were all under the impression that I had actually—in actual fact—shit my pants. There was nothing I could say to make them see it my way. Needless to say, there were jokes. These jokes continued the following week at school when everyone was telling the story. “Troy shit his pants and couldn’t run.” “Hey, Speed Racer, did you shit your pants?” “Keep on walkin’ Shit Pants.” Then, about a month later at the Fall Sports Banquet, I received the Most Improved Award. Now, you might be thinking, “Most Improved? I thought he always got last place.” Well, by the end of the season, I was no longer last. There were usually one or two people right behind me trying to steal my spotlight. As my coach was delivering his introduction of my award, he regaled the audience with the mixed-up version of the story, the one where I actually—in actual fact—shit my pants. So while everyone was red-faced and laughing so hard they were crying, I had to get up in front of all of them and accept my “Depends Award”—my coach’s nickname for it. A very pleasant experience. The truth is on that fateful autumn morning, I didn’t shit my pants. I just sharted a little.  \* \* \*  In the year 2000, I had gained a little weight after graduating high school. I was a little chunky, not super chunky, but enough to make my belly button talk. So in January of 2001, I decided to start running again. By the summer of 2001, I was full-blown OCD about it, running 5 miles six days a week. One summer day, I began my run like any other day. My course was a 2.5 mile run away from my house. About a mile in, I started to feel a little weird, but as any runner will tell you, stopping is out of the question. As the road straightened out, I noticed a group of guys riding four-wheelers on the old railroad tracks that were parallel to my course. No big deal. Common practice. At the 2-mile mark though, I started to feel cramps—I had been here before. Then, as I was just about as far away from my house as humanly possible, it happened: full-blown bubble guts. I tried to remain calm, but my body wasn’t having it. Why had it come on so fast? Was this some kind of karmic retribution? What had I done? I tried turning around and running back, but I realized very quickly that my colon could not hold its contents at that speed. So I tried walking briskly. Nope. Still about a mile and a half from home, I began getting hot flashes and goose bumps. This was going very, very badly. I was not prepared for this digestive incursion. Some immediate decisions had to be made, and I was not emotionally prepared to make such decisions. What should I do? What could I do? I was already clenching cheeks, tip-toeing on the side of the road like some cartoon bad guy. I could barely take another step. Should I go in my shorts? What if it leaks out and runs down my leg? Everyone driving by will see, and they’ll think, “I knew he really shit his pants that day. ‘Almost,’ my ass.” I decided that my only option was to go in the bushes. Wiping logistics would have to be determined later. I waited for all the cars to pass, then ran off the road and over to the train tracks. I looked around, saw that the coast was clear, then squatted down over some rocks. I’ll spare the details, but just know that the details were very messy...very hot and very messy. Only once I was relieved of my burden did I remember the guys riding four-wheelers just 20 minutes earlier. What if they came back? This operation would be compromised. I don’t know if I could escape fast enough. If I pulled up my pants too fast, I’d have shit all over my back. And what would they say? “Shit Pants is at it again.” “My God, he can’t stop himself.” “Look at ‘im. Just squattin’ there. Little pervert.” Getting caught was not an option. I couldn’t survive it socially. The anxiety set in, but I still had to figure out how to wipe. Should I use my underwear and just leave them there? What if they could be traced back to me? I grabbed some leaves and prayed to God that it wasn’t poison ivy or poison oak. I’ve never wiped so fast and so unthoroughly in my life. I pulled my pants up, checked for passing cars, and when no one was around, I ran back out to the road and walked home as if nothing had happened. When I got inside, I threw my underwear and shorts away, then got in the shower and rinsed off. I was an animal that day.  \* \* \*  For years I was fine. Life was good. That is, until yesterday. For the last month, I have run/jogged/walked a five-mile course two or three times a week. Yesterday, I decided that I would run once it cooled down. I figured 6 pm would be good. It would be cool enough, but the sun would still be out. Last time I ran at night in San Pedro, two men—on two separate occasions—swung at me as I ran past them from behind. One of them even said, “What the hell?” as he swung. Apparently, in San Pedro if you are running toward someone at night, you don’t have good intentions. I also had to make sure I got past a certain spot in the bushes by the beach while the sun was still out. That is not a place where I want to frolic in the dark. Last time I was there, the city was doing construction, and I saw a woman with a stroller go into the bushes down the very manicured dirt path (kind of like a little side park). I thought, “This gentle mother must know a way around the construction,” and I followed her only to realize too late that I had just been led into a homeless encampment/drug den trap by its supplier. That wasn’t a baby in that stroller. That was crystal meth. Thank God I had on running shoes because running is exactly what I did. I have no qualms about openly running from people. I do it all the time. Prior to yesterday’s run, I had drunk a total of 8 espresso shots and had eaten only a bowl of cereal, two hard-boiled eggs, and an apple with peanut butter. I didn’t consider the consequences. Years of peacetime had made me forget the scourges of my rectum. It wasn’t until right around the secret homeless encampment/drug den that I realized something was wrong. My insides started to twist; my mind started to panic. Again, I was at almost exactly the farthest point from my house. I decided that I had to just keep going. I only had to make it back. And, actually, that seemed to work for a little while. My future started to look brighter. Then 23rd street hit. I had been walking for a little while at this point, and I thought I would run a little more since I was only about a mile from home. After about 10 steps, I realized that running was now off the table. If I ran another step, I would dump. Up until this point in my life, I’ve never had to clench so tight. You know when you swallow air to make yourself burp? Well, it was kind of like that but heavier, considerably more miserable, and on the other end with a lot more fear and regret. A group of misfit teenagers were on the other side of the street. Two seemed to be arguing and the rest watching. Was a fight about to break out? As a teacher, I’m used to intervening in these situations, but a gang fight might be just the distraction I need if I suddenly find myself with shit running down my legs. With all the attention on them, I might be able to clean myself up with a sock or something before anyone notices. Maybe they’ll all get involved and it’ll really become a scene! However, much to my dismay, they stopped arguing and went on their way. I was left with 13 more blocks to go. My head down, my breath heavy, my pace quickening (as much as my clenched butt would allow), I charged on. Every few blocks or so, I would get a wave of severe cramps with the understanding that I could blow at any second. I thought maybe if I sat down it would help, but that was also chancy since my body might interpret that position as a command to release. So I kept going, wincing and whispering “Oh my God” over and over. About five blocks from my house, things got really serious. I walked over a piece of upended sidewalk (from tree roots) and the bubble guts came on so hard that I almost just let go, but this was not Bellaire-Neffs Road. There were no train tracks or bushes to hide in. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen out in the open for everyone to see. I pulled from deep down inside me. This will not be the day that I shit myself in public! I held it in as hard as I could knowing that I was probably causing irreparable bodily damage. My poor lower intestines. They don’t deserve this! Just a few blocks from my house, I walked—head down in full panic—past two men standing near their stoop. Judging by my demeanor, they knew something was wrong. What was that in their eyes? Sympathy? Disgust? I couldn’t dwell on such matters. I rounded the corner and arrived home. I entered the code to my building, ran up the stairs and into my apartment, and tore my shoes off. Side note: I just bought these shoes, and they are half a size too big. So in addition to battling a severe case of diarrhea, I also went running in essentially what might be described as Asics clown shoes. Needless to say, when I was finally on the toilet, something really, really special happened. I literally screamed when I finally let it go. And then I—out loud—thanked God for bringing me home to glory.  Not again bubble guts, not again.  P.S. Is this why they call it “the runs”?  P.P.S.


Tough Love There was a list of things he had to do before the big date tonight. For the last week he’d been envisioning how the evening might go. From the location of their table to the color of his suit, everything needed to be perfect. Thats because thats how she was. She was a perfectionist, and without affirmation, he would be left to wonder what he could have done differently if all did not go accordingly. It had been almost a year since he’d seen her. Leading up to this day, there were many difficult nights trying to piece together his feelings. The last time they had met, he was not in the best place to speak my mind. They had both ridiculed each other on the night of a friends wedding which was out of character for them both. The truth of the matter was that they were drifting apart. In all honesty neither of them had direction in life. He was working for minimum wage, while she had learned to latch onto those with security. Those who could impress her with their success and status. Over the last year he had transformed for the better. Each morning was spent running around his neighborhood and the second hour stretching, completing his yoga practice. The consistency had taken him almost a full year to develop. Sheer determination alone could not take full responsibility. It was his drive to overcome his mistakes that woke him up in the morning, she was his morning sun. Getting into the office, he arrived 15 minutes early so that he would greet and thank his coworkers for their hard work. This way of thinking was new, and had become habitual as he genuinely cared to connect with others. In the last year he had taught himself to be grateful and show up to work with optimism and charisma, which had led to overall growth in the workplace. He treated them like her, and they received his gratitude kindly. The hope was that she would be able to see the changes he had made in his life. While getting dressed for dinner, he envisioned what the rest of the night might look like. Would she lay in his arms until morning? Or how would their first kiss be? Should he make the first move or would it be like in the movies, sudden and passionate. Most importantly he considered how or when he might tell her how he had always loved her. He had never heard her mimic those words back to anyone but those successful boyfriends she had in the past. Tonight he felt reassured as he had financial security and renewed confidence. Hopefully he was just as worthy as the rest, he was in their league. Arriving 15 minutes early, he took initiative to talk with the manager, slipping him a 3 digit bill to reserve the best table in the house. The manger smiled and proceeded to give him a two top overlooking the entire establishment and paired him with his most seasoned waitress on staff. Looking over the wine selection they went over which bottle might be best in season. They chose the Chablis 1992, which was far from fairly priced. Looking down at his phone, he debated whether he should txt her. It was 8:00pm. Approaching his table, the waitress asked if he would like to start with a single glass of the chablis which he declined. “No that is alright. I think she may have miscounted the time” “Certainly Sir, I will be circling around, please let me know if there is anything you need” As 8:15pm turned into 8:30pm, he sat there alone with his glass of water and untouched bread. Over the next 30 minutes he had become more present than he had been all day. Sitting up straight in his chair, he watched as the jazz band played an upbeat new rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” Smiling at the waitress as she made her rounds, he did not feel much pain. Instead his focus drifted to a young couple sitting in a corner booth away from everything. It was a young man and women, no more than a few years younger than himself. The two of them half way decently dressed and were fooling around about something. He watched in admiration as they picked at their appetizers and drank their beers from the bottle. In the preceding years, this is how he and his best friend had been. He considered this with a bittersweet feeling. The waitress circled back again, it was 8:50pm. “Excuse me sir, I wanted to apologize that we had accidentally corked the Chablis. We won’t charge you for the bottle, but my manager had asked that we at least charge you for one glass.” “Thats quite all right, you can charge me for the bottle, and please if you don't mind, would you would take it over to that couple over there with the calamari.” “Sir I’m not sure that they’re a couple, they seem more like friends” He watched as the two giggled to each other about something. “Yeah, they do look like friends. I’m sure they’ll be happy to receive it then.” Paying his bill, he tipped the waitress kindly and proceeded to leave the restaurant. It was 9:00pm and he had been given up. Walking by the booth where the younger pair sat, he overheard the waitress as she informed them of their gift. He did not look back to see their reaction, continuing stride. While paying for his valet ticket, he began to feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. Looking down he saw a text from her. In it seemed to be an explanation from her that was too long for him to pick up at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into his car, turned on the ignition and began to roll the windows down. Then he heard a yell. “Excuse me sir” It was the young gentleman. “I just wanted to thank you for that bottle of wine for my good friend and I” “Sure, not a problem” He said this with a courteous smile. “By the way kid. If you love her, tell her.” The young man began blushing, and opened his mouth but couldn’t speak a word. “Worse things can happen than you not telling her” Letting these last words settle, he put his car in drive and took off. On the way home he let the fresh air outside blow through his car. On that drive he received another message from her, but did not look to read it. Instead he followed his nighttime routine, organizing his materials for the day ahead. As he wrote down in his journal the 3 things he was thankful that day: I am appreciative today for my health, that I am able to exercise and feel energized each day during my runs. I am grateful today for my job and the amazing people I work with who make my days easier. Lastly I am thankful to have had been stood up tonight. You have taught me the greatest love of all, and that is to love yourself. Txt Message from: Hi, I’m so sorry, my phone didn’t update for day light savings.


“Tell me about it all William. I need to know so I can help you OK?” 1 Week earlier It was a dark rainy day in the small town of West Hembrook. The rain had been pouring for the last 3 days. The rhythmic tapping on the windows accompanied by the mighty howl of the wind through the suburban streets was annoying and made it to hard to sleep. I lied awake on my bed. Staring at the ceiling. Moving my gaze only to check the time. 2:56 a.m. 4 Minutes. 4 more minutes till that hour. Till that other world opens. Till i can escape and explore that bizarre yet inviting taste of a reality not so infected with the human disease. Plagued with nothing unlike the world I live in now. The world I live in now has nothing but war. Crime. Sickness. Cold. I crave that other world. An addiction so euphoric I don’t need substances to escape from the death that’s plagued my life. I hear the faint creak of my closest door. I look over to see the door slowly open. I stare at my closet waiting for it to appear. A tall well dressed figure. Clad in a suit you’d expect to see in a 1930’s movie or at a celebrity party. A top hat atop it’s dark what I’d expect to be it’s head with it’s black and white gloves and fancy dress shoes. It’s face had two beady eyes that would seem to glow and a smile that would be ear to ear if it had any. I had felt under dressed with a grey hoodie and blue jeans with some white sneakers. It slowly emerges from my closest. It stands there almost reaching my ceiling. It must be at least 8 feet tall if not more. It extends its long slender arm with an open hand as it awaits me to take it’s hand. I get up out of my bed. Walk towards it and take it’s hand without hesitation. It speaks to me in a voice that’s almost raspy and dry but yet comforting. Relaxing. “You know the rules young William. Correct?” It says. “Of course.” I reply in a voice almost confident. Truth is I'm kind of scared. This figure brings comfort but unease at the same time. “Then please repeat them to me before we make way.” It says softly. “I must never spend more than 3 hours at a time in your world. I must never reveal this world to anyone else from my world. I must never take anything from your world to mine. And I must never fall asleep in your world. I believe that is all of them.” I say unsure. “You are missing one. Never ever go to the garden. You understand? Tis the only place off limits young William.” “Oh yeah. Of course. What is so important about the garden?” “Tis a place of sickness and death. Much like your world. Unlike your world the garden will mystify you with it’s enchanting beauty. Before it corrupts you entirely and feeds upon your darkest desires as it slowly drives mad.” It explains. “ Oh.” “Promise me young William. Never go near the garden. Promise me.” It demands. “I promise.” I reply. “Very good. Now we can be on our way.” “I never did ask. What can I call you?” I ask. The curiosity had been gnawing at me for some time. I never had the courage to ask it though. It might have been I felt uncomfortable or I was just too rude to even want to. “Ahh. Young William you can call me Oswald.” It replies. I nod my head and it leads me into the darkness of my closest. Just like before Oswald cover’s my eyes with it’s hand as it mutters something under its breath. I feel a cool breeze and suddenly the sound of birds chirping. The smell of roses and strawberries. The feel of warm sun upon my skin. The sound of a running river. Oswald removes it’s hand from my face. I look around and smile unable to hold my excitement. I almost laugh as I turn in a circle taking in a such rare beauty. No darkness. No rain. No howling wind carrying the scent of pain and death. Just the smell of roses and a world full of the most positive things I could imagine. Deer ran free in a field just left of me. A town just down the road made of stone full of creatures not human but friendlier and more human than you’d ever find in my world. Free of the emotions that drive the greedy man or the violent psycho that roams free in that cesspool of rotting happiness. “Now young William. You know what this is.” It says gazing down at me. “Of course. It’s a Homeward orb. It'll bring me home.” “And this?” It asks as it holds a golden dial attached to a bronze circle with series of different suns on it. “It’s a sundial. You use it to tell time using the sun's location. When it gets to the sun in the middle I set it down and step on the orb to go home. If i don’t something bad will happen. Right?” “Ah yes. You’ve got it all. Now run along young William. The clock is ticking.” It says. I smile at it and bolt down the stone road towards the town waving as I run as fast as I can. Oswald waves back with those beady eyes staring me down and that smile filling me with unease. I don’t fear this creature. But I just cannot be fully comfortable with it.


The time turned quickly from one to two. Twisting and turning on his double-sized, double-topped mattress, Jason couldn’t sleep. He reached eagerly for his glass of water and upon connection, something strange happened. At 1am, he couldn’t quite believe that anyone would have the audacity to ring the doorbell. Swiftly, he manoeuvred himself out from under the warm protection of his covers, and into the cold darkness of his hallway. He edged gently towards the door, careful not to give away his presence to a potential intruder. Reaching reluctantly with his right arm, he pried open the peephole. Standing roughly three inches from the door, was a tall, slim man. He was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello?’ Jason questioned, slowly backing away from the door. There was no reply. ‘Who’s there?’ he questioned again. ‘It’s me.’ The man replied in a delicate, almost musical voice. ‘I err, think you’ve got the wrong house.’ Jason wasn’t sure why, but he was shaking. ‘I don’t often get the wrong house Jason.’ The man moved closer to the door and placed his eye firmly against the peephole. Startled, Jason quickly backed away from the door, unplugged the lamp to his left, and armed himself with it. With an odd surge of courage, he revved up his vocal box and attempted to sound as intimidating as possible, ‘I’m awfully sorry, but you have definitely got the wrong house. I doubt you have anything useful to say at this time in the morning, and I certainly have no desire to speak to you. Good night.’ Jason checked all four locks on the door, and limply moved like a scared rabbit back to his bed. He sat there, upright for the next half an hour, hoping and praying that the man had gone. \* \* \* Time turned again, this time quicker – Jason still couldn’t sleep. He looked at his digital alarm clock, except this time, it was no longer casting its ethereal green glow across the room. The doorbell rang again. Jason spasmodically sat upright in bed. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. ‘Right’ he remarked definitively to himself. ‘This buffoon is asking for it.’ He whipped out his mobile phone and dialled 999. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the emergency services how can I help?’ ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but there appears to be a man outside my apartment, and he won’t go away.’ He tried to mask the quivering impudence of his voice, but it was no use. The doorbell rang again. ‘And what is the address sir?’ The distant voice at the end of the phone was comforting, to a degree. ‘Number 1, The Terrace, New Street, Bradford.’ The words leaked out of him like helium from a balloon. ‘Hello? Did you get that? Is anyone there?’ He clutched the phone tightly to his ear; the line was dead. ‘Hello?’ He uttered once more. Not sure how to rectify the situation, he got out of bed once more, and feebly dragged his chest of drawers in front of his door. There was only one thing for it, to sit and wait, and hope that the man had gone away. \* \* \* His neck was stiff. He’d been sat upright against the drawers pushing all his force on it for what felt like hours; in reality, he’d been sat cooped up in his room for only twenty minutes. A knock at the door. ‘It’s the police.’ Jason’s eyes lit up. ‘Finally!’ He scrambled to his feet, moved his barricade and ran to the door; precisely unlocking each of the four locks. Stood to greet him were two policemen, one short and fat, the other tall and slender, ‘We received a call from this property about a lurker.’ Said the fat one questioningly. Jason blurted his reply at breakneck speed, ‘Er, yes that’s right, there was a man, he was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest.’ ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ The fat man’s nonchalance ground Jason’s gears. ‘We’ll do a quick perimeter of the building, check everything’s normal.’ The tall policeman didn’t say anything. He stood there staring at Jason, and then, on command, sauntered off after the fat one. ‘What a strange pair.’ Jason remarked to himself as he slammed the door closed and did up two of the chain locks. He sat there by the door, eagerly awaiting their return. \* \* \* Ten minutes went by and there was no sign of the policemen. Jason rose from his squat to check the peephole, there was nothing but the cold white glow of the street lamps – he was shaking again. It didn’t seem conventional to him that two policemen could get lost when carrying out such a simple task, there was only one explanation. Jason placed his eye against the peephole to have another look. Startled, he fell away from the door, there was another eye looking back. ‘Hello? We finished the perimeter; can you open the door?’ Reluctantly, Jason opened the door, and was again greeted by the two officers. ‘Christ, what took you so long?’ He berated. ‘Sorry about that, my colleague Simon here got distracted by a very friendly squirrel.’ Perking up at this statement, the tall officer countered. ‘That’s not true, it was you who was taking fancy to that squirrel.’ The two turned two each other, covered their mouths and began angrily whispering. Jason, not in the mood for such a ridiculous argument, cut them off, ‘Er, excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but, are there not more important things to discuss?’ The fat man turned his attention back to Jason, his little red face blushing at the embarrassment of their domestic spat. ‘Well, we finished the perimeter, didn’t find anything!’ Jason released a sigh of relief. ‘We are going to have to ask you a few more questions though, just in case anyone else reports anything. Would you mind hopping in the car?’ Jason got into the backseat of the car and began answering the obviously routine questions. His mind drifted, and by the time it was done he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d said. It was 3am now and he was tired. Walking back to the house, he waved goodbye to the officers and relished the thought of a nice cosy bed. He then remembered that in his flustered state he’d forgotten to bring a key out with him. He tried the lock, and thankfully, it was open. Jason deftly applied all four of the chain locks and flopped into bed, without even bothering to take of his dressing gown; slowly, he began to drift off to sleep. Just as he was almost there, he heard a movement. Snapping into to action he flung himself upright in bed and turned on the lamp. There, standing in the middle of the room was a well-dressed man in a dark blue suit, with a large overcoat and clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello Jason’ he muttered wryly, as he stepped towards the bed.


This is a real story. I was 20. I had been robbed before when I was younger. I didn’t expect to get robbed so close to my neighbourhood. I thought it was safe around my home. I had recently spent all the money I had gotten in a summer project on my brand-new smartphone. My parents never gave me much money, so I highly valued every item I owned. That morning I went to the orthopaedic surgeon, my appointment was at 0745 sharp. My shoulder and lower back were in some pain. I had to go there that early because at 1000 I had my university lessons. I brought my wallet, my keys, and my brand new phone with me. The appointment went well. I walked out of the clinic and crossed the street. I sat at the bus stop, waiting for the next one. I was the only one there. There wasn’t anyone around, as it was quite early. Bars were just opening. Most owners didn’t want to miss the early commuters. First thing I noticed about this guy is that he was bloody tall. I’m talking 2.1 meters tall. The second thing I noticed was how tan he was, and his gold rings and chains. These helped me to identify him as a Romani Gypsy from the local community. I had gone to school with a lot of them, and I got along with most. They were proud people that didn’t like to be disrespected. I always knew how to make them feel like they were running the show. Mostly, they left me alone. The third thing I notice, he’s looking at me. He had these huge hands. He was a bloody big fella. “Good morning mate!” He said, in a very chipper tone. *Not a good sign.* “Good morning mate!” I replied in a lower tone, but still friendly. “Waiting for the bus. Yea?” He said. *Too chipper for a Tuesday at 0810.* “Indeed, friend.” *Keeping it cool. Answer his questions but without giving him too much rope.* “Well here’s the thing mate. I’m missing a coin for the bus. You wouldn’t happen to have one?” *There it was.* “I might have just the one.” Funny stuff, this was true. I had about 3.5 in local currency in my wallet. I had a debit card, with some money in it, my bus card, my uni card and the library card. Not much to rob. However, the phone was in my back pocket. I slowly and casually moved so that my back was against the bus stop. “Well fella, let’s see it, quickly.” He demanded. “Give me a minute sir.” Rule number 1 to avoid conflict, be respectful and do not show aggression. “I think we might come to an agreement…” “Give me the wallet, or your mum ain’t going to be hugging you again.” “Look, seriously, give me a minute. You want to rob me, you rob me. You are going to rob me anyway no? There isn’t a way that I’m going to avoid this from happening, so just hear me out.” Guy was looking confused, this was working. “You better know that, small fly.” “Okay, so look, I’m Loud.” I extended my hand in a greeting gesture, waiting for him to shake it. “What’s your name, mate?” “What’s your mother’s name?” *Okay, that didn’t work too well.* I took my hand back, and I got my wallet out of my pocket. “Look, give me a minute.” I open my wallet and hand him my ID card. “I ain’t bullshitting you, my name is Loud. What’s your name?” He took my card. He looked at me. Looked at the card. Looked at me again. By this point, I bet this robbery wasn’t like any other robbery he had done recently. “My name is Alpha” He handed me back the card. *This is good.* I had given him something and he had given it back. “Right, look here Alpha. Extend your hand. I’m going to give you my stuff.” He did. “I have 3.5 with me,” I said, putting the money on his hand. “No bills whatsoever.” I showed him the inner fold of my wallet. No bills there. “I have my debit card, on red numbers I’m afraid, bought the sister a present yesterday.” I gave him my debit card. “I have my library card and my university card.” I gave him those. “And finally, that’s my wallet here.” I gave him the empty wallet. He was confused. He didn’t know if he was supposed to run or not. “Now, before you take off with that whole pile of objects that are worth less than a tenner: Hear me out.” “I’m hearing you.” *Good!* “Alright, well, here’s the thing. It’s bloody early mate, and I haven’t had breakfast. Have you? He moved his head side to side. He was paying attention. “Right. So, I suppose that if you do take all my stuff, you are probably going to go get some breakfast. A big fella like you can’t run on an empty stomach.” He nodded. “Right. So… here’s the thing, if you do rob me, and take all of my stuff, I need to cancel my card, and my bank will ask what happened to the card. I will have no other choice but to present a complaint in the local police, and they are a bunch of idiots. Now, I happen to be very hungry myself. I live around here and I can tell you 100%, that bar right there.” I point at a random bar on the other side of the street. “That bar right there has the best croissants that you are going to have in your life mate. They are the best. Coffee isn’t too good, but the croissants man, the croissants… delicious.” He was still looking confused. “So, instead of robbing me: Why don’t you come with me. I invite you to the most awesome breakfast in this side of town for 3.5 that you are ever going to get. You did say that you were going to use my money for breakfast anyways. We get ourselves some coffee, just two guys. Talking shite about life. No robberies, no need for you to get in trouble, and I can hug my mother tomorrow. You get your free breakfast anyways, mate, and none of the problems.” I didn’t think it was going to work. I thought he had seen my mobile phone and he was going to punch me in the face, knock me on my arse, kick me some more and then take everything I had. To my surprise, he gave me back all my stuff. “Walk.” Talkative fella he was. We crossed the street and I was behind him. I didn’t want him to see my phone. I opened the door to the bar. Moved my hands to invite him in first. Barely fit through the door he did. My backside was always out of his sight. “Hello, chaps!” I say to the bartender and someone that was in. “Long time no see! Do you still have those awesome croissants?” Let me reaffirm something that might not be immediately obvious. This was my first time in that bar. No one knew me there. Bartender looked confused by my friendly approach. I didn’t know if they had croissants. This was a proper Hail Mary. “You betcha!” *God loves me.* “Sit down Alpha! They have them!” He sat down. “Two coffees and two croissants, please.” I asked. He went to prepare the coffees. “3.85!” The bartender replied. *Maybe God doesn’t love me that much.* “Alright, I’m a bit short on change. Could we make it only one croissant? I’m not hungry anyway.” “No problem. 2.85!” I handed him the full 3.5 euros. “Keep the change, brother.” So, I came back to the table. Bringing the coffees and his croissant. “Here it is, man. Best croissant in this side of town I tell you!” He took his coffee to his side. I took mine. I gave him the croissant on the third plate I was carrying. “Where is yours?” He said. He looked at me. Neutral expression all the way. “Oh!” I lowered my voice. “That bartender, he upped the prices. It was 3.5 for the whole thing, I didn’t have enough for two croissants, but you go ahead, mate. I’m not hungry.” “Oh.” Pause. “No.” He said. What he did next surprised me more than getting my high school diploma. He took the plate. He took a fork and a knife. They looked out of proportion with those huge hands of his. He cut the croissant in half. He picked one half with his fingers, careful not to touch the other one and he passed me the plate. “You said you were hungry.” He said. *What. The. Fuck*. So, for an hour. We sat down and we ate. He agreed that the croissants were good, thankfully. He told me about the business. He said that he was in the copper business. He would grab junk, take all the copper out and sell it. His dad started the business and he joined when he was 14. Fuck school, he said. told me that his sister wasn’t arranged to be married yet and that it was a problem because his daddy was getting angry. I said I understood. I didn’t. He talked far more than I did. When we finished, he went to the bar. The other lad and the bartender had to look up. “Good croissants mate.” He headed for the door. I followed behind. “Well Loud! It was awesome to rob you.” He held his hand out, but not for a shake; the fingers extended upwards, arm close to the chest, bent elbow, open thumb. I took the queue like a champ. High five. \-CLAP- Shoulder bump. Hand across the back. Proper bro hug. “You are welcome to rob me anytime if you are going to be this nice, brother.” He laughed. I went to the bus station. Less than 4 coins shorter than I was when I left home. My phone was still in my back pocket. I saw him a few more times before leaving the country. He was sometimes accompanied by some friends. All those times, he pointed at me and his friends waved their hands in my direction. They mostly laughed. Once, we walked into each other. I asked him about the copper business. We talked for a bit. He said he still goes to the bar for croissants from time to time. Best croissants he’s ever had. \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong. Do let me know. Once again, thanks.


\[ I \] Matilda stood atop a hill staring into the void where the ocean and the night sky met. She often waited by the shore and dreamed of the day she would get to leave her cursed land. Her disparity was as sharp and painful as the crisp morning air and held tight within her upper chest. She had longed to break free of the chains that imprisoned her to the land of her ancestors, and felt ashamed upon their defeat in a sense. Her village had been burnt to the ground by savage invaders and she lie witness to the mass slaughters as they had served as a second sweep in the night. They went around raping and finally decimating her and the remainder of her Tribe following the settling of the fires they had cast in the dead of night. She had dreamed of her capture and sexual assault systematically by each full moon, and found insanity lay with those who avoid sleep. She walked down the formed paths that she had once fixed with her cousins and admired each Redwood tree she passed knowing that they were the only living organisms that witnessed and could confirm that all those who’d she had lost were indeed real at one point of time. These trees she had once climbed upon in playfulness now only reminded her of that night when she lost everything. They had ransacked her village with no remorse or reason that she could understand...and left only two out of every ten of the village. She was one of the last 200 of her Tribe, and they narrowly escaped with barely even that before the wave of disease hit. The evil spirits brought forth by these men with the skin the color of dead fish bellies and the eyes the color of death itself. They had done this on purpose and she knew it. She had also initially known why they were there, as her father had told her that this day would come. They had came in search of her Golden Fleece. As the fire roared in her dreams she reminded herself of the last command she was given by her father to run. She shook anxiously as they made eye contact for the last time and she had no room to object as his fellow Warrior took the lead and threw her over his shoulder and whisked her off into the night as had been his orders. They had made the strategic plans and moves to help her and select few others climb up the giant 200 foot tall tree. They climbed for what seemed like forever and remained in the softened trellises of the heavens until they learned the language of the enemy. This too was command by her father and she was too afraid to disobey the orders of their leader. Her father had been right so often in the past that it seemed detrimental to assume he knew what he was talking about this time around. Time passed and it wasn’t until it was only her and one other left alive that she felt it were the proper time to descend from the giant Redwood. They had both mastered the language of the dead-eyed savages and she felt comfortable waiting on her yard to proceed to fulfill her following commands to guard the Golden Fleece. There along the shore she continually paced back and forth maddened by her grief...screaming into the crashing waves. They argued with her relentlessly and she often left the beach deterred and defeated that she had lost her voice screaming into the void whilst the ocean continued on with its reckless clashing. She was told her howls were the screeches of nightmares, but each night she would return to try and cry out each tear as though she were reuniting her lost family with the ocean. She felt her eyes swell like the waters she stood in, and felt nothing as time never waivered the sadness she felt deep in her heart. The second she stood outside of that ocean she felt a massive indescribable weight bearing down upon her shoulders and crushing her spine with the weight of the world. She held herself responsible for the death of her village and felt the empath disease cripple her as though she were caught in an unpredictable tide along the shore. It was a burden she carried from protecting the Golden Fleece. The details of time were not hers to worry aboot, as she had the body of a child but the sharpened mind of Warrior having recently returned from combat. She felt indifferent to the now lazy and pretentious dead-eyed savages all around her, and found it ironic that they had campaigned across her land stating that they were superior to her and all those who didn’t look like them. In this time of ignorance they had lost sight of their initial goal to retrieve what they had came for, and sat down and turned to stone with no intentions of standing up unless they had to. They had come for the Golden Fleece and forgotten mid search as they were busy boasting of their victorious conquests to one another until they forgot how to fight all at once. It was none of her business to judge these heathens who continued to rape women and children, but still she found it hard to not stab an obsidian arrowhead into their throats at times. She would postpone on acting on this compulsion as her sole purpose was to hold her position near the void until the Warriors of the sky came to retrieve the Golden Fleece. How had she came to be in possession of such a sought after article? It was a late gift from her late father, and a priceless family heirloom carried down through time since the beginning of the existence of the Earth. It was gifted to her Tribe after they had saved a woman from drowning soon after they witnessed her falling from the sky into the ocean. She said that if she would have died that the flood that followed would have washed over all of the land because of how high she had fallen from. She was hysterical as she often clenched a box and argued with the severed head of her dead husband. She managed to speak Yurok with aid of this corpse and spent copious amounts of time giggling at her husbands non-verbal jokes. Since her crash landing our Tribe watched as our trees began to grow at more rapid pace, and took it to be a side effect of the sky woman and whatever magic she had carried with her in her leather bag. Our tribe found it best to leave her in peace as she wandered around yelling orders at her husband, and they often jested that her poor husband must have known she was darkened in the mind when he agreed to their nuptials. She would live the rest of her days hiding in our trees, and was said to have used her magic to shrink our Tribes people, as we too had been given the same growing properties that seemed to have accelerated the growth of the Redwoods. It was done out of her compassion for us, as she worried there would come a day in which those who she escaped from in the sky might find giant trees guarded by eight foot Warriors to be a giveaway of the presence of magic. We were reduced to the heights of neighboring Tribes and our trees continued to grow without us. Upon her old age she felt safe enough to sit down and explain the importance of her mission and finally told us of the curse brought by the Golden Fleece. Before the world had started turning there had been nothing but chaos amongst the Gods. They seemed to argue about what to do with a rogue star and they worried it would cause damage to the other surrounding worlds if left unchecked. The sky woman had decided that the only way to slow down the star was to add weight to its tail and she appointed herself in charge of making the star slow down. She made many magical items and crafted them from objects found only on living planets. By the time she had fashioned the Golden Fleece the other Gods had decided they wanted to sell the star for profit and that her project was no longer relevant. She attested this deal because they knew nothing about the star and its potential to collide with everything. She explained that it was on a collision course where if it met another star even half the size head on...that the stars and worlds would be swallowed up by darkness and nothingness. She pointed out the precise time when and where the two stars were calculated to met but the Gods only cared about their own selfishness and chose to continue with their bargaining. She stated that one of the smaller stars following the wake of the destructive star had water on its surface and an island where she thought she had seen life. To this the Gods laughed and made fun of her active imagination. She set out to prove that life could exist on the star and decided to help it grow into a planet. She with the aid of her now dead husband worked to make a series of devices that held up the golden net that surrounds the Earth, and this net kept life safe to flourish as the star continued to chase the star of destruction. She had put a Golden Fleece on multiple stars trying to get them to spin just enough so that she could figure out which held water. She needed the clouds to prove that there was enough water for her and the Gods to live, as they were looking for a new home to settle on as refugees. Her family found out that the clouds had appeared and that the couple had been correct and decided to call off the trade. To this decisions the sketchy buyers lost their temper and demanded they continued with the sale. They found out what she had done and so they took her and her family captive where they are chained to chairs held down by magic lighting. The Gods remain stuck asleep talking to one another and conversing with no one all at once. Her husband came to save them but only managed to save his wife before getting caught. They captured both and chained her to a wall and raped her as he was forced to watch in horror. When her spirit remained unbroken and she fell into shamelessness they thought the only way to break her was to make her watch as they ripped each limb off of her beloved husband and threw the long limbs into the sky so that he would cease to exist. This was too much for her and she became so enraged by what they had done and with that unmeasurable rage: all of the devices she had made began to power-up and work all at once as her screaming voice commanded them to retrieve his body from the darkness. The devices stored her orders and held her operations secret until they could give her enough powers to move metal into any form she needed. She fell into madness until a soldier who kept guard for the traders took shame on what they had done to her and he hid away two pieces of her husband to bring her back from cusps of insanity. This act of defiance and rare selflessness gave her the ability to remember her husband and she was able to ward off all those wished to rape her, as she was still chained to the wall. The soldier helped tone down her anger and often brought her kindness with his company whenever she asked for him by name. There they stood learning aboot the sciences and laughed at her troubled youth together, and so they continued to do such as they waited until her devices had enough magic lightning stored to break her free from the metal chains. One day she ripped her rosey hands from the walls and directed the soldier to guide her to where he had hidden the two pieces of her husband that he had salvaged, and thanked him for his ability to break protocol to save her and her beloved husband. She promised she would return the favor in kindness and that he had given her hope in people once more by his actions. The intelligible soldier had never been acknowledged for his originality and was confused by her praise considering he was still a soldier. She left him to dwell on her appraisal upon retrieving the two decapitated pieces and then proceeded to mold a sheet of metal around her husband's head and another piece around his severed penis in order to preserve them. She felt embarrassed for her husband as she knew he was modest and prudish to the extent that he’d be annoyed how much others had been talking about his penis up until this point without his knowledge. For a scientist and a male: he didn’t seem to find penises as funny as she did, and it gave her moderate joy knowing this would be mortifying for him to learn once she figured out how to resemble him. She would often chuckle to herself and mumble disapproval that his penis was unhelpful when it was not attached to the rest of him, and that he already had a difficult time keeping his pants on. She continued rummaging the sky in search of her Golden Fleece needed to help mend her broken husband and find route to escape the prison in the sky. She became frustrated as she rushed aboot and eventually slipped and fell from the sky into the ocean. She explained to the locals that she fell in conical black shell in the sky and had fallen out of a conjoining shell that allowed them to shape time in form of an hourglass. She had lost control falling in noticed it were the wrong shell she had exited, as there was no moon in the sky where she had landed, and it meant she was stranded with no way to return home. Here is where she came to be as she mourned her lost love and found the courage to make one more last device: a Golden Fleece that would be the most powerful in comparison to the others. She spent the rest of her life building the device in the shadows of the Redwoods, and finished just in time to give it away before she died of grief and she resorted to casting herself from the widows peak and fell up into the sky where she had originally come from. Long story short: that’s how the Yurok Tribe came to be the protectors of the Golden Fleece. Matilda had always loved that story growing up, but she often was left mourning the fact that she’d never get to hear her father retell the story over a fire. Upon mastering English she continued to abide by the orders to keep details of the Golden Fleece and its location between her and the Tribes until the sky people returned. She often admired the sky woman and her journey and also avoided romance because she too feared her future husband would be ripped to pieces if she ever wed...as had been taken aside and warned that she had the same curse that the Golden Fleece had brought upon the sky woman. As time passed she found it safest to take the Golden Fleece and tack along the outside of a book so that it wouldn’t be recognized by the dead-eyed savages that roamed aimlessly on her yard. She had learned the method of consolidating as it were passed on from the sky woman, and did this task by hand before she climbed down the Redwood tree. The book appeared to be an ordinary looking book, but it was lined with gold as this was the magic bestowed upon the book by the Golden Fleece. The gold that brought the book alive had once been the exact gold that was historically reaped from her own river by the dead-eyed strangers...as they came in droves from far-and-wide looking for fortune yelling “Eureka” whenever they found smallest amount of gold pieces settling along the straits and narrows of her river. How odd these dead-eyed savages appeared to her, as she watched them drink poison and fall to the curse of Hera. They would destroy and rape whenever they drank the poison of Heras bottled rage, and in turn their hair began to fall out over time. Their children would also be cursed by this voluntary poison drinking and so would their children, but no matter how much she tried to tell them about this gene alteration, she was only met with contempt. They assumed her broken English meant she were challenged mentally and her demeanor too guile to ever be taken seriously, and so she began to simply stare at their thinning hair to point out their inadequate genes nonverbally. The pale-skinned visitors became offended by this and decided it best not to talk to those who still lived in the Redwoods. She watched quietly from the shore as they left the river in flocks...bored of the scavenger hunt they had given everything up for a few bits of gold. She came to the same spot where the river meets the ocean and waited patiently for the Warriors the sky woman had been promised would arrive as to assists the last commands on what to do with the Golden Fleece. One day she became burdened beyond consolement walking with the ghost of her father but he was unable to speak to her despite her desperate listening. She fell crumpled in a ball of shame for having forgotten his voice and became ill with a curse from Hera, as she had wished to try and force Matilda to admit that she was not worthy of her father. She left with the Golden Fleece and traveled up north where the village was filled with more lights than the night sky. She kept walking until one day she came across a drewery place where it seemed to rain whenever she was near a large dirty river that divided the land. She found comfort in the fog and enjoyed how the murky skies matched her grieving heart. She set forward a plan to learn all that she could about the gold that powered her device and decided she could probably build her own if she had the proper parts. She began asking those living in the rain for help until one day she met a strange man who called himself a Viking. This term isn’t commonly used as they had once been defeated by the Tribes in the North and were rumored to be a myth, so she began to question if he was really a Viking. She observed him quisically and remained doubtful that he was Viking, as he seemed impartial to social injustice and chose to stare downward at his feet wherever he walked. His vanity was noticeably more important than hers and he seemed to bask in the attention given to him by females who took note of his broken sharp eagle eyes and the stump leg that he often hid. He seemed to demand her attention at all times as he was unaccustomed to be ignored, and often resorted to booming orders if she playfully ignored him. It wasn’t until she saw him running one random rainy day that she was almost convinced that he may have actually been a Viking at some point in his younger years. She consulted her magic book and was enamored by the image of him trying to smile when she searched for his battle history as a Viking. She became infatuated with him and fell under a spell that caused her to sleep whenever she wasn’t crying, as she became bored without the Viking yelling at her for no reason. She told him of this weird new development and he began to laugh at her as he was just excited to see her openly admit that she cared about him. As he laughed she began to smile for the first time and they both noticed that the rain had finally stopped. They made habit of awaiting the other and began to test if the rain only came when she was not near enough for the Viking to be content with the day. She often took joy in knowing he thought the rain only happened as proof that he missed her, and with that: she learned to love the rain. She didn’t tell him about the device in her possession, as she had became attached to the Viking and still dreaded the fate he might face if he decided he still wanted to wed her as they had previously agreed upon. He told her of his wish for a son and she became ill and frightened that he actually looked forward to fulfill his intent to wed her, and she began to destroy the land and dreams of everyone around her. She knew she could never wed the Viking and he became offended by her absence and began to yell at anyone near him, as he secretly hoped she would appear by his side once more giggling and softly informing him that he needn’t yell before walking away until he was left with only the option to follow. The secret of her curse lead her to withhold more secrets from him and he grew angry with her for all the things she wasn’t allowed to say. In the meantime she had helped construct a new device with the aid of a kind-hearted couple who used music to cast their magic. She and the kind-hearted couple found the finest materials and made her a new and improved Golden Fleece. She ran away from both the rain and the Viking as she had found out he had grown bitter towards her many secrets and given up on her all together. She knew it was for the best, and lived each moment hating how much she missed the Viking, and knowing she had given him reason to hate her. She found it best that she return to the trees and continue to await the Warriors who were to hail from the sky. One day she returned to read her magic book and was surprised when a man who resembled Mars appeared under a chapter marked the book of faces and said hello as he introduced himself as an Argonaut. He invited her to join him in battle as they marched the streets demanding justice for the children that lived with little hope. She had known the terrors of injustice and decided to take up arms and join the Argonauts in battle, and appreciated that they too wore skirts in battle and donned war paint on their face. They gave her shelter and food as they prepared to storm the land, and even found way to introduce her to their leader: the First Minister. They fought side by side trying to save the children of the Argonauts homeland and were left retreating until she could return the next year. She felt guilt leaving them so soon but knew the children were in good hands under the protection of the Argonauts. She felt the one who resembled Mars saddened by her leaving in a way that reminded her of the Viking and decided it’d be best to tell him of her quest to protect the Golden Fleece. Upon learning her secret he grew more comfortable with her and she found his heart was hardened from his many years in battle before her arrival. He found her interesting and at some point had attempted to call her out by her Yurok name. She was amused by his frugal speech, and informed him that her true name was not meant to be said verbally, as it kept her awake at night whenever people said it aloud. He was confused by this and the man continued to tell her how he had found out her real name by researching her battle history and relentlessly struggled to pronounce it with his thick accent. She fell tired of this quickly and explained that her name was the Yurok word for “Sir” and that he was to address her by her English name: Matilda unless he would find resort and be comfortable enough to call her by her real name which was “Sir”. She told him and his comrade (who is known as Hercules by some): informing them of the origins of her name. She had been born with no name and date of birth, and received her name after she was raped as an infant at the age of one and a half, and then left abandoned on the side of the dirty river where it now rained. She avoided looking at them as she informed them both that her father had once called her “Sir” to make others stand at attention, and then gifted her with the Golden Fleece as a means to provide her further strength to heal from having her sexuality stolen from her soon after birth. The name was to remind her that she was not a victim to her circumstance but a person that other men commended and her endless might was why she was chosen for the task of protecting the Golden Fleece. The Argonauts understood and felt off-put by this tragic history, and fell back into the habit of calling her by Matilda out of their own comfort. She fixed her unkempt hair and wiped away her teary eyes and they continued to enjoy each others company instead of dwell on her quest. She wished that the one who looked like Mars had never brought it up, but was ok with letting him know her secrets. She worried his rage would manifest if she didn’t continue to embrace him, and found it silly how he enjoyed hugging her as often as he did, as though he wasn’t sure she were real and physically standing next to him. She realized upon having the discussion surrounding her Yurok name: that he stood a bit taller taller and his laugh seemed more bolstuous, and this made her smile sincerely in the same way that she once had with the Viking. He became less enraged as they walked, and she remained persistent and calm while listening to his resolve of conflicts unending. She seemed distracted by his earnest and polite demeanor and gifted the him the honor of the secrets she had once kept from the Viking, but avoided telling him aboot the Viking himself for a reason still unknown even to her. She found herself blushing and decided that she’d be honored to run beside him in battle but knew they held no romantic commitment to one another. They argued about a conversation she had held with Captain of the Argonauts, as she had updated him on the details of her quest and lack of success thus far. She found she admired this leader and laughed with the captain as she finally began to ask if he knew of the random Viking wandering around on her land yelling. They held a conversation of friends who had known one another their whole lives and she felt safe enough to provide secretive details that she knew could never be revealed to the other Argonauts at any cost. As she told the Captain she was relieved to see the Captain had a Redwood figurine nearby and she remembered that the Viking still needed her help because he was old and his leg had began to transform into a tree trunk. With that she began to miss the Viking she still loved and left the one that resembled Mars to continue brewing in his need for hatred. She wished the Argonauts goodbye and promised to return, but only after they came to her shore...to this deal they all agreed. She felt her heart was a bit more heavy from the battle they fought but knew that her aid was appreciated mostly by the Argonaut who resembled Mars and his Captain. She knew she would miss him and the Captain at her side but knew that if she were to stay she would be left probably wanting to wed the one who bore resemblance to Mars, as hoping to stop him from returning to his battle ways. She dismantled all thought on the matter as she worried this fate would conjure whatever curse was projected by the Golden Fleece. She returned to her land near the shore, where she was greeted by fire. Her yard had caught aflame while she was gone and the leader of the dead-eyed savages was now standing too close for her comfort as he pretended to have not taken part of setting the fire. She stepped begrudgingly off her sky boat and found that everything in her yard was now on fire and/or racists. She grew impatient with Argonauts and secretly worried that they had forgotten her soon after her departure. She could not yell across the ocean and was left and to make the rational choice by herself as whether to suit up for battle, and lastly found it wise to consult and ask for the support of the Argonauts leader: the First Minister. This was a woman of high respect to all Argonauts and Matilda had been very impressed by the leader she had briefly met on her travels. She wrote the woman who lead the Argonauts and held her voice loud enough for the world to hear, and waited by her magic book for any word pertaining to tactical advice the leader could provide for such a predicament. She had never seen a fire grow so wildly, and watched as it swallowed people whole with no intent of apologizing. She sat tight and waited for both suggestion of the First Minister and for reply from her respected Argonauts as they all were still left fighting in the dark trying to save the children along the land of what is now known as the North Sea. She sat impatiently trying to learn how to be helpful in a time of great danger and noticed that her magic book somehow had physically become lighter in weight. She had asked the Argonauts for their help casually at some point on her journey, as the music had made the her magic book too heavy for one person to carry. She decided to lament her true darkness to these friendly Argonauts and how the quest had been delayed due to her curse that caused her to weep stronger than any sea, and the boredom she fought as she struggled like a child, fighting to stay awake. They showed no hesitation in handling the task of lightening the payload of the weighted contents and helped her fix the item that had began degenerating the strength along her spine under its massive weight. Time seemed to quicken its pace since her return when she had been cast into a fire, and she grew frustrated that the thickening smoke lingered enough to obstruct her view of the stars. The Captain of the Argonauts had once told her that he’d remember her each and every time he looked up at the moon, and they left knowing one anothers darkness and the understanding that he too held curses from the Gods. She missed her Argonauts each night as it lay eight hours East to her time and since she had only broken the sound barrier once…she already doubted her abilities to even begin design on a sky boat that could fly fast enough to catch the up to the Argonauts in time for Christmas. \-A Traditional Yurok origin myth composed and re-mixed with Greek myth by: Matilda Brooks US Federally Recognized Property #562-6146, Yurok Tribe, CA.


This was inspired by a writing prompt a friend found: ************ She was 99 when I met her, I was 24 and enraptured. She had lived a life more full than any, and was still vibrant going into her 100th year. She taught theoretical Physics at my University, it was her 4th or 5th PhD, I'm not sure. Every 10 or so years she would move into a new science. She said it kept her young. For someone just shy of 100 she looked amazing. Her bright white hair was full and lavish. Her skin, wrinkled, but still healthy. Her eyes a bright blue, almost shining. She wore very little makeup, because she no-longer felt that she had to cater to anyone but herself. She smelled of lavender and honey and lye, and old soap recipe she had used for decades. She once joked that it was the same soap that Cleopatra used. I asked her for the recipe once, and she gave it to me. I swear that it is the fountain of youth. I always wished that she was 70 years younger... Her mind was amazing. She could talk on any subject as an expert. Quantum entanglement was her current favorite subject. How particles at a distance can just know that they were a part of each other, no matter how far away they were, and would change to complement the other, not to match, but to complement. The year was 2022. I was a Post Grad, and I was trying to find my way n the world. I was so close to leaving my doctoral program because I was frustrated with my lack of progress. I had been in the program for 5 years, and I felt that I should have graduated. She talked me out of quitting. She encouraged me to continue on through my research in multidimensional quantum entanglement and multi-dimensional temporal implications on large-scale matter. She explained to me that it didn't matter if others thought it was crazy, it just mattered if I followed the math. Even if I never find what I am looking for, I could still find something interesting. And I did. That summer I had a breakthrough. I cracked the code. I proved my theory. I found the key to time travel. But before I could tell her she was gone. Not, dead, but gone. Nobody knew where she went. It took me years, decades really to finally complete the formula. And on my 97th birthday the Mobius Machine was turned on. I called it the Mobius Machine because there was one trick to Time Travel, and it fixed all the paradox problems. You can't go back to before the equation was discovered, and I first discovered it the fall of 2020. I decided that I would go back, go back and finally be with the woman of my dreams. I didn't have much time, myself, but we would finally be of an age. I didn't know what happened to her that day, or where she went, so I went back as early as I could to take advantage of what time we could have. I arrived in the fall of 2020. No knowing where she would be I looked up her name on the campus directory, and found nothing. I swear that I had met her that winter. I then looked up her name online, nothing. I then went to her cottage. It was a small place in Newton, out of the way, on a lake. When I walked up to the door I notices a For Rent sign in the window. As I looked at it I noticed my reflection. I don't know why I didn't notice it before. Maybe it was old age. Maybe it was the sun. Or the smell of fall in the air. But for the first time I noticed my bright white hair was full and lavish. My skin, wrinkled, but still healthy. My eyes a bright blue, almost shining. And I smelled slightly of lavender, lye, and honey. ............. The prompt was for a unique romance story between a time traveler and an immortal... I just decided to make them the same person. This is a first draft, more like a concept, I want to flesh it out some. I'm not sure what the best way to go is. Part of me originally wanted her to send herself back in time 70 years, or longer, or unhinge her in time. But this is what felt right at the time. I also want to make a side effect of Time Travel Immortality, but I may hold off on that. I just love the idea of a Immortal Time Traveler trapped as a 97 year old woman. Edit: fixed divider for mobile.


Three men sat together for tea. A simple fisherman, a wise sage, and a man thought to be the most enlightened man in all the lands. The first two were old friends and spoke freely. The third simply sipped his tea and listened, as one might expect from a man so wise. The first man sighed and looked at the others. “My friends, I feel as though I am trapped. The mistakes I have made are like shackles, and I can never escape them. No matter what I do now, the past cannot be changed. Once a moment has past it is gone. Even the ones that feel close enough to touch are air when I try to grasp them, though they bind me like iron. I thought perhaps ones such as you could help me learn to accept the cage I find myself in and know peace.” The second man smiled and said “there is no need to accept a cage when you can escape it my friend. You see time like a great beast, gobbling up the moments of the past so only their echoes remain. But time is like a river, and once you see it, you can begin to learn how to swim.” So he took his friends hand and brought him back through the river of time to his youth, and showed him all the secrets he knew. And the fisherman saw the river, and thus he learned to swim. Together, they returned to the moment of the tea they had been having. “I can never thank you enough my friend” the fisherman said, embracing the sage as a brother, “you have shown me more of the world than I ever imagined existence, and freed me from the cruel prison of time.” Then for the first time, the third man spoke. “It is a powerful truth you have discovered, even if it is a lie.” “A lie,” the other two exclaimed, “how could it be a lie? We see the river of time before us and we swim in it’s currents.” “You see a single thread and think it the whole tapestry. The truth is that there are an infinite number of universes, where every possible event occurs. Everything you could ever imagine and an infinite number of possibilities you could not. And each of us is nothing more than a point of view. You do not go back in time and change what you have done, you simply choose to view a reality where things played out differently.” Turning to the first man, he laughed, a hollow sound bereft of mirth. “You were closer to the truth, for at least you knew you were trapped, even if you could not see the cage. For the terrible truth is this: you control nothing in this world or any other. Everything that might occur does, and though I can choose to experience anything possible, I control none of it. There is nothing new, nothing old, everything simply is.” And because an infinite lifetime of powerlessness had ground his soul to dust, and the only thing he could still feel was the pain of others, he chose to view a world where his words awoke this final enlightenment in the other two, and in sudden horror they fled this reality, screaming in the vaults of their minds and beating at the walls of cage they had never before felt, a cage that could never be escaped because it encompassed everything that ever could be. And the third man chose to view a world where the fleshy machine he was riding gave a cold, cruel smile.