Two and a half hours after touching down in Innsbruck and boarding the SUV that waited to greet her, Amelia Carver’s overnight expedition came to an end at a squat, crumbling structure in the rugged terrain of Saminatal Valley.

From Dublin to Austria to Liechtenstein, from 12am to 6, from civilisation to desolation, and she still didn’t know if it was worth it. Looking at the building, little more than an abandoned mound of concrete, it was difficult to see how it could be. She hadn’t accomplished anything of note since last year. She wasn’t expecting to receive any awards. There were no contemporaries she still wanted to meet. And even if by some chance she was to be acknowledged for her endeavours, she had no desire to receive a tacky statue.

Not that it mattered. She was contracted to be here so she was.

At least this year promised to be different, since Bertram was introducing something new. And she’d made her own assumptions about what that meant.

A special guest. An unexpected attendee. One that would be worth turning up for.

If it was him . “So, you’re not gonna throw me a bone?” she asked the driver, as he stopped by the secret military installation, which has been constructed by Nazi forces during World War II. “Not so much as a nod or shake of the head?” The driver, mannequin-like in black suit and mirrored sunglasses, said precisely as many words as he’d said since collecting her at the airport. A sum total of zero.

“Cool,” said his ‘fare’, adjusting the Venetian half-mask that covered the left of her face before popping the passenger door, the fabric of her crimson gown rustling as she got out. “Good talk, thanks for the riveting repartee.”

Out of the vehicle, in the pale morning light, Amelia shut the door and straightened her skirt. Gravel spat like an angry rattlesnake as the driver stomped the gas and crunched away.

“Rude,” said Amelia, tottering on heels towards the entrance, a rusted steel door partially concealed by tangled vines. Exactly the kind of place she wanted to spend the first evening of the last month of the year, when she could be curled up watching TV.

But here she was. Pushing through a squealing slab of history to meet another expressionless brute, who was as conversational as the one who’d dropped her off.

“Hey,” she said, as the passage she’d entered closed around her. “Am I last again? I’m always late. Shucks.” The grunt showed no emotion while placing a barcode-scanner type device against the scar on her neck, allowing a beep to confirm her identity. While he did this, she removed her phone from her clutch and tapped on it to display the invite she’d received, which was also scanned and accepted. Once done, the guard stepped aside, allowing her access to a drape-covered door. “Thanks,” Amelia said, maintaining eye contact with the goon while adjusting her breasts. “So…is it true? Is it Abyss?” No response, the bouncer flicked his eyes back to the wall. Amelia sighed and pulled the drape aside, stepping into a better lit chamber that she lost sight of immediately when a pair of calloused hands fell over her eyes. “Guess who?” came a gravelly voice, laced with playful menace. Amelia peeled the hands away and turned to face their owner, a beast of a man wearing jeans, a white cotton waistcoat and a wolf’s head mask. Blue eyes stared from its sockets, his lips curled up within its maw. “Wolfclawe. Always a pleasure.” Of all the associates she’d met since joining the Network, Wolfclawe was the one she liked most. He had a sense of humour to go with his violent nature and was capable of faking social niceties. “Carver,” he greeted. “Thought it was you I heard coming in behind me. Looking pasty as ever. Still not getting any sun?” “Still got the same machete?” Amelia asked, peering over his shoulder at the curved weapon strapped to his back. “Thought it might have broke from overuse. Heard it's taken thirty heads this year. Not jealous.” “Old Betsy’s stronger than she looks,” the masked man grinned. “What about you? I remember you saying last year how your kill-count was too low. Any success ramping things up?” “In Ireland? Not as much as I’d like,” she said, rolling her visible eye, the taped up hole of her masquerade mask concealing the empty socket of the other. “Came in with a solid thirteen. Three more than last year. But shy of the twenty I wanted.” “An improvement is an improvement. And you are a more discerning kind of killer. Targeting assholes who mock the less fortunate and lack empathy is a task in and of itself. Unless you're starting to feel less philanthropic?" “Nope,” Amelia shook her head, turning away from the wolf-headed killer. "If I'm compelled to get my hands dirty, may as well clean some shit up. Anyway, never mind that. We better grab seats if there’s any left. Bertram starts on time and we’re late.” The interior of the chamber had been prepared for Bertram’s event—rows of chairs arranged before a makeshift stage holding a podium, spotlights casting shadows on red curtained walls. The seats were occupied by figures in various states, some in their work clothes (boiler suits, leather aprons, lab coats, military fatigues), others in more casual attire, some sporting face-coverings (canvas bags, chrome constructions, cliched hockey masks or things that had been assembled from strips of flesh) some displaying faces not even mothers could love, but all unmistakably killers. “Indeed,” said Wolfclawe, following Amelia towards the front, where she’d spotted a pair of vacant seats. “Wouldn’t do to be kicked out, when I’m in with a chance of Best Massacre.” “You deserve an award for that,” Amelia nodded. “Speaking of awards, I guess you heard about the new one?” “Mmm,” Wolfeclawe said, turning into the front row behind her. “Lifetime Achievement Award. Arguably long overdue for a ceremony that honours psycho killers. Half us fuckers are near immortal. The question is…” “Who’s the inaugural recipient?” Amelia finished, nodding at the motley crew of weird and wonderful murderers she passed as she made her way to a seat. “You know what they’ve been saying on Instagrim.” “Well, it’s got to be Abyss,” Wolfclawe said, taking a seat alongside her. “How many times did he win ‘Killer of the Year’? Twelve? Does anyone have a better record?” “Not only that. Best Dismemberment. Most Depraved Violation. Goriest Cut. You name it, he got it. Every year for a decade. Until he vanished. He’s the GOAT, would be an insult to give it to anyone else. The question is…is he alive? All the rumours that circulate, about him being locked away by the Government, retiring to live as a lumberjack…being turned into mince by a ‘final girl’!” “Fuck,” Wolfclawe gasped, as she organised her dress on her chair. “I know! The ultimate humiliation for serial slashers…” “Not that,” Wolfclawe interrupted, touching her arm. “ That .” Amelia followed his gaze to the left of the stage, where three men stood partially obscured behind curtains, two of Bertram’s goons and… Him. Clad in an oil-stained pair of overalls, feet stuffed into boots that were coming apart, head concealed by a latex S&M hood replete with zips, straps and buckles, the seven foot tall hulking form was unmistakably Abyss. The shifting, awkward posture. The way his arms flexed. The movement of his head, glitching like stop-motion animation. She’d only seen videos but she knew it was him.

Wolfclawe was squinting behind his mask as he studied the granddaddy of killers. “He’s bulkier than I expected. Taller. But look how they’re restraining him. Is that a neck manacle? Connected to prods?” Amelia had noticed this too, but before she could consider it the lights dimmed and the piped music came to a halt. A hush fell over the crowd and all eyes went to the stage as the curtain on the right was thrown back, allowing a bearded man in a suit to stride out, beckoning applause.

Which he got.

In buckets. From all. Because this was their benefactor, Bertram Belasco, long-serving head of the Serial Killer Network. Amelia took part in the adulation as he soaked it up. In the five years since he found her and signed her up to his ‘club’, she’d come to respect him like everyone else. Being selected was nothing short of an honour. It meant her killer credentials were on point. It meant, despite the exorbitant subscription fee Bertram charged for membership, that she had access to all SK Network resources; anonymity, medical aid, protection and sanctuary when required. Luckily, she hadn’t needed to avail of much yet, being a small fish in the pond. A little treatment for wounds, some hacking to remove her image from cctv footage. All in a day’s work for the Network.

“Welcome, friends,” Bertram said, when the applause died down. “Delighted to see you all again. Our venue is a little less luxurious than usual but there’s a reason for that, one that will become clear soon. Before we start, I want to take a moment to say that this year’s nominees for our various awards were highly impressive—Kill of the Year, Sickest Mutilation, Most Creative Execution... You’ve outdone yourselves and I want to congratulate everyone for their efforts. You’ve made me proud and… Well, just… Well done.” “Weird start,” Wolfclawe whispered, and Amelia nodded. Bertram seemed more sombre than usual. “However,” he blurted then, perking up as his eyes went to Abyss. “Before we get to that…a surprise!” A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Amelia felt goosebumps on her arms. “As you know from my invite,” their host went on, “we have a special award tonight. And along with it comes a special guest. There’s been a lot of speculation online as to who it might be, with one particular name being mooted more than others. Well. I don’t want to keep you–or him–waiting any longer, so let’s kick things off with our first ever Lifetime Achievement Award. Won’t you join me please in welcoming…Abyss!” Applause filled the room as Abyss was guided out by the goons. His footsteps as he stomped to the podium were louder than the chants and cheers around her. But why was he secured like that? Was he here against his will? Was he a danger to his own kind?

“I know this looks weird,” said Bertram, as Abyss was brought to a halt alongside him, quivering as though volts flowed into his neck. “But sadly dear Abyss is not the force of nature he used to be. He’s had to keep a low profile these last ten years. Two decades as the world’s most prolific serial killer is something that can take a toll. He absorbed more pure guilt than anyone before him and handled it like a trooper. But there’s a limit to all things. And ten years ago today, he reached his. He had to be put away, for everyone’s safety. Just one more kill would have broken him, released the guilt, and we weren’t ready.” “What’s he talking about?” Wolfclawe hissed. Amelia shook her head. She had no idea. But whatever it was, it had the potential to be epic. As he spoke, Bertram retrieved an award from behind the podium, a grotesque creation made of twisted steel. “For you,” he continued, presenting the award to the monster. “With gratitude. But this isn’t your true reward. A polished lump of metal in your hands is nothing but a weapon. I know what you’d really like is…closure.” Abyss closed his fist around the award, gripping it like a bludgeon while Bertram raised an arm and clicked his fingers. Amelia sat up in her chair, watching the curtains at the back of the stage part and another suited mook wheel out a crate. “This is different,” said Wolfclawe. “What’s the old boy up to?” “Does everyone remember Diamond Lagoon, 1995? Abyss’ most infamous rampage. He took out an entire settlement in one night. An incredible feat of savagery. Sixty seven residents, sixty six victims, because one slipped through the net. A plucky young girl. Don’t you hate them? We’ve all been frustrated by one of those. For Abyss though, in a twenty year reign of terror, she was the only one who ever got away. The only blemish in an otherwise spotless career. And guess what?” Bertram moved to the edge of the stage as his man undid latches on the crate. “We have her here tonight!” Gasps in the crowd as the guard opened the box and a dishevelled woman fell out, barely getting her hands in front of her before hitting the floor. Her face was lined with age, her hair was grey. She whimpered where she’d landed by Abyss, whose head was turned down as he watched. “No way,” Amelia said, as Bertram and his goons walked off the stage. “Are we going to see a live kill?” “You’re free, Abyss!” Bertram called as he slipped through the curtains. “Let it go!” The crowd had gotten to their feet and Amelia joined them, all eyes on the scene, keen to see what would happen next. And what happened next was…like watching a movie sped up. 2x. Abyss threw his head back and howled. The woman screamed up at his hood. Abyss drove the trophy into her skull. The onlookers in the crowd cheered and jumped.

Amelia’s mouth fell open. Wolfclawe whistled. Abyss turned to the crowd and started to shudder. Not from being electrocuted, from something else. What was it Bertram had said? Amelia wondered. One more kill would have broken him, released the guilt. The shuddering turned to convulsions and Abyss roared, not now in fury but in pain. He staggered, his body shaking violently. His head jerked back, and with a sickening crack it split open, ripping through latex and spilling blood and bone to the floor.

3x. Black mist poured from his mask. Smoky tendrils shot forth, snaking through the air and filling the room. Writhing, maleficent tentacles, that multiplied and wriggled like worms before plunging into the heads of those below, squeezing screams from their lungs. Their bodies convulsed and their faces contorted as the Guilt from Abyss took control. Amelia watched chaos unfold beginning with Wolfclawe, who stared wide-eyed in horror from his mask as he took his machete, lifted it to his neck and sliced through. Hot, scarlet liquid splattered her face as she looked away, her eye falling on the killers behind her, who were turning their weapons on themselves, tearing at flesh, gouging out eyes, ripping their own jaws off in a frenzy.

4x. Tendrils of mist withdrew from falling bodies. Returned to the hovering mass over Abyss’ corpse. Amelia tottered, unsteady on heels slipping in blood. The screams were abating, the crowd was diminishing, not many remained on their feet. Not many continued to be overwhelmed by the guilt of their actions, encouraged by the fingers of mist that had entered their brains. All of their brains. Even hers. And that’s when she realised…she, too, had been invaded. But she, alone, was still standing. With a tendril of smoke connecting her to the pulsating mass, which was slowly drifting towards her from the stage. Drifting/oozing/throbbing, shrinking as it flowed into her head. Filling her mind with images of her victims. Bullies. Narcissists. Sociopaths. Bigots. Gaslighters. Abusers. Jerks. Am I supposed to feel bad for killing them? her inner voice queried. Am I supposed to break under the weight of massive guilt? And that’s when someone hit…

Pause. “I knew it would be you,” a voice behind her, Bertram’s, said and she turned, the last of the Guilt devouring her soul. "Thought we’d have more time to nurture your talent but Abyss’ willpower was waning. He was going to release it soon, one last murder or not. And it needed to happen in a controlled environment. It needed to feast after being locked away for so long. And it needed to choose a new host." "What…is it?" Amelia asked, aware of fresh darkness inside her. "A force as old as time," Bertram said, taking her hand. "An insatiable force that needs to be fed. But keeping it fed is not easy. And keeping it restrained? Even harder. You see what it does when it’s not. But it takes a certain kind of person. Abyss was that person before. Thirty years he held it—a record. But it fucked him up. He was a discerning killer too, once upon a time. An idealist. He focused his darkness, like you. Til he was chosen." “What…have you done to me?”

"I’m sorry,” Bertram said, leading her away from the carnage. “As its Guardian, I have to oversee the transference. It’s never easy. But it’s necessary. I do it to keep the world safe, believe it or not. Safe from unstoppable evil. It picked you today because you could hold it. But it’s going to change you, over time. It will naturally make you more feral. Less controlled. A rampaging beast, if I’m honest. But it will also make you a legend. The best of the best. With the Guilty Conscience fueling you, you'll be Killer of the Year for as long as you want. And the next Lifetime Achievement Award will be yours." Amelia’s mind was racing. His words sounded insane but she could feel it, a growing hunger that demanded to be sated. A hunger that would make her a Queen. "Then I suppose I have work to do," she said, her voice sharp, like the switchblade in her clutch. Bertram nodded. "And I’ve a new Network to build. Welcome to your new life, Amelia Carver.” “Glad to be here,” she replied, accepting a kiss to her hand. “I look forward to carving a fresh abyss."


Dorothy Einsberg, aged eighty nine, acted as if the world never left the 1950s. She was proud that she could still drive and rolled around in a candy apple red 1955 Chevy she bought with her retirement money. She couldn’t stand all of today’s SUVs, calling them “new monster trucks that all looked the same.” She got a few looks from male car enthusiasts, but whenever they complimented her on the car, she shook her head and called them “perverts.” The only places she frequented were the few left in Harrisburg still standing from her era - the old Shell gas station on 82nd St., the old St. Paul’s Church on 151st, and the Emanajation Street Hair Salon, where she always requested the same stylist.

	Dorothy grew bitter in her old age and only her nephew, John, stopped over to her apartment to run her errands, but he barely said two words to her. If it weren’t for her

long relationship with her sixty-three-year-old stylist, Helen, she would have no one in her life. Helen wasn’t anywhere near eighty-nine, but as Dorothy first told her, “you’re a tolerable age to talk to.”

 	Dorothy feared Helen would retire at any moment, but year after year, Helen would laugh and say, “You got me. I’m hanging on another year for you.” But as each year passed, Dorothy worried more and more when she entered the salon.

	She breathed a sigh of relief on this particular Tuesday as after she opened the door and the bell jangled, Helen was the first person she saw coming right up to the counter. Helen always greeted her warmly, and Dorothy always grinned back through her heavy wrinkles.

 	“Well, now. Your hair just keeps growing by the minute, doesn’t it, Dorothy?”

	“You don’t have to lie to me. You know it’s thinner each time I come in here, damn it.”

	“Dorothy, we have kids in here.”

	“I know there are kids in here.”

	Helen rolled her eyes, smirked, and motioned toward her booth. Dorothy shook her head, shuffled her tiny frame to the first seat on the left. Helen tossed the black apron on her, and Dorothy chuckled to herself.

	“What’s so darn funny now?” Helen asked.

	“I was just thinking, sweetie, on how if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”

	“Oh, come on now. Where do you get an idea like that?”

	Dorothy tilted her head to the side, and Helen nudged it back as she began to clip what was left of the brittle, wispy hair.

“Bound to happen. I’m ninety-one, dear. Could get a heart attack someplace, and the last thing people see of me is some white sheet.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. The sounds of Emanajation Street became music to Dorothy’s ears. This was her happy place, and no, she didn’t have to come here once a week. But like most of the salon’s elderly customers, she came to have someone to talk to.

	“So, how’s John?”

	“That nephew of mine just comes ‘cause his mother makes him. No good kid. Looks like I’m putting him out most of the time. ‘I need you to go to the Walgreens to get these pills,’ I say. He says, ‘Uh-huh.’”  	 “Well, kids are like that, Dorothy.”  	 “They shouldn’t be. Wally Cleaver’s not. He’s a fine young boy. Father raised him right. Even Eddie Haskel’s got more manners than my nephew. At least he fakes manners.”

	Helen paused the scissors over the top of Dorothy’s hair and laughed heartily.

 	 “What’s gotten into you now?”  	 “You’re talking about a TV show. No one acts as they do on TV, especially not from

Leave it to Beaver .”

	“Well, they did then. You was just a pup. You were raised in them crazy sixties, missed the good times. Times when boys respected their elders.”

	“My brother respected my father, Dorothy.”  	 “Wasn’t your father a military man?”  	 “Well, yes. But...”

	 Dorothy sighed and looked straight into the mirror.

 “No one respects you when you’re my age, honey. My face looks like a prune, and I don’t quite know when I got so old.”   	Helen checked herself out and rubbed the side of her face, studying a new wrinkle.

	“I respect you, and with this haircut, you look a whole year younger.”  	 Dorothy almost choked from laughter. Helen pulled out the handheld mirror and asked what she thought about the back of her head.

 	 “Looks fine. Just fine.”  	 Dorothy gave herself one last look in the mirror and, for a second, imagined her younger face from her wedding day in 1951 when she married her late husband, Tom. Her hair ran down in brown curls to her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed a rosy glow. Not a single wrinkle plagued her face, and her sapphire eyes sparkled.

	Helen lowered the seat, and the jingle jangle awoke her temporary happiness. Only a small cluster of white hair littered the floor around her chair. Helen styled her hair as best she could with the hair she had to work with, but she knew Dorothy had just come in to talk.  She paid with her senior citizen discount, waved, and was on her way.

 	 Dorothy drove her ’55 Chevy to the Shell and waited outside the pump with her hands on the wheel. After a few minutes ticked by, she honked the horn. After another few seconds, Dorothy blared it. She kept honking until a young employee from inside came storming out wearing a quizzical look.

 	 “Lady, what’s up? I had to lock up the store since I’m the only one in there.”  	 “Am I gonna get some service or what? I’ve only been waiting here forever.”

	“Service?”  	“Yes. To fill up my tank.”  	 “Oh, we haven’t done that in years, ma’am.”

	“You haven’t? Well, I got it done here just this last week at this very gas station.”  	“Well, I don’t know, see. I’m new here, and…are you sure because we don’t self-serve.”  	“Yes, damn it. I’m sure. Now, are you or aren’t you?”  	The employee pulled out the nozzle and gently nodded at Dorothy’s fading scowl.

	“Unleaded, ma’am?”

	“That will be fine, sonny.”

	Dorothy switched on the Oldies channel as he filled it up and looked straight out the window. She closed her eyes to the sweet sound of “Earth Angel” and pictured dancing with her husband in the galley kitchen as it played on their radio. He wrapped his arms around her thin, soft neck and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear.

	“That will be forty dollars,” the employee said, awakening Dorothy from her trance.

 	 Dorothy handed over two twenties.

	“Now, be careful driving home.”

	“Thanks.”  	The employee waved and then hurried back to the store, where a few customers huddled around the doors.

 	Dorothy was always on time for her hair appointments, so Helen thought there might be something off when she showed up three hours late the following week.

	“Dorothy...hi. I was expecting you a few hours ago. We’re a little backed up now, but if you can wait for about half an hour, we can get you in.”  	 “Nonsense. I’m here on time, just like every week. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to get my hair done before these people.” “You’ll have to wait your turn. I’m sorry.”

	But Dorothy didn’t sit down.

	“I’m here at the right time. I’m demanding you do my hair, Helen, now let’s go!”

 	The other customers grew a little agitated, and a little girl sitting in the corner spoke up.

	“She can take my turn. It’s no big deal.”

	“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to do that?” her mother asked.

 	The little girl nodded.

 	 Helen half-smiled.

 	 “That’s very sweet of you, little girl.”  	The girl grinned and kicked her legs back and forth while her mother exhaled and shrugged her shoulders.

 	 “Okay, I’ll be done here in just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” Helen said.

 	 Dorothy nodded and took a seat. The little girl’s mother shook her head and returned to reading her magazine. The girl smiled at Dorothy, and Dorothy smiled back.

 	 A

Men’s Magazine , a

Cosmopolitan , a

Sports Illustrated , and a

People  decorated a rack to Dorothy’s left. She was shocked to find a scantily clad model with the words: “Sex, Drugs & Death” printed in bold next to her.

 	 “Filth,” she muttered and stuffed it back in the rack. The little girl snickered. “The world today has no decency,” she grumbled.

 	 “Dorothy, I’m ready for you now.”  	 “About time.”

 	Helen threw her a funny look, thinking she appeared more crabby than usual.  Dorothy was the first to speak as Helen set the white apron over her lap.

 	 “Now, if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”  	 “Uh-huh. Didn’t we have this conversation already?”  	 “I don’t think so.”  	 “We did. You told me this last week.”  	 “Oh.”  	 “Dorothy...are you okay today? Do you know what time it is?”  	 “Sure do. Ten o’clock, just like it always is when I come in here.”

 	“It’s 1:15, Dorothy. I was worried about you.”  	 “It is? Well, so what if it is? I must have slept late or something.”  	 “But you never sleep late.”

	“Well, I guess I did today.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle Jangle.

 	 “You know...I sure do wish more young people today would act like Wally Cleaver, Helen. Even that Eddie Haskel had more manners than my nephew.”  	 “Right. I feel like you’ve told me this before too.”  Dorothy clammed up and stared into the mirror again. She strolled on Miami Beach with Tom this time, holding hands during their honeymoon. The sun set over the water and the last of its golden rays splintered and onto the waves.

 	 “Dorothy, you okay there?”  	 “Oh yes. I’m okay.”  	“Well, we’re done for today. Does the back look good for you?”   	“Sure. Thanks, honey.”  	“You’re welcome. Now remember, next week, you’re here at ten.”

	“Ten. Right. Sorry about that, dear.”  	“It happens.”  	 Dorothy paid with her discount, waved goodbye, and Helen called up the little girl who so graciously gave up her spot in the line. The following day, Dorothy walked in at ten a.m. Emajanation Street was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning, but that didn’t seem to faze Dorothy. Helen stopped mid-haircut on her teenage customer and rushed over to the front desk.  	 “Dorothy. What are you doing here?”  	 “Well, it’s ten a.m., isn’t it? I’m back at the right time.”  	 “Dorothy...I think you meant to come back next Monday. It’s Tuesday,” Helen said with her eyes racing between Helen and her impatient customer in the chair behind her.

 	 “I know what I’m doing, damn it. Now, are you gonna cut my hair or not?”  The other stylists and customers now directed their attention to Dorothy, and the manager stormed up from the back.

	“Is there a problem here, Helen?” she asked.  	 “No, ma’am. Everything’s under control. Dorothy, I’ll be with you in just a second.”  	 “Okay. That’s better.” As Dorothy shuffled over to have a seat, the manager rolled her eyes at Helen before returning to the back room. Helen frowned when she finally begrudgingly called Dorothy up to her regular post. She didn’t like the look her manager gave her, and she knew she was in for a talking later. Maybe it was time to retire after all.

 	 “Dorothy...maybe it’s time to look into assisted living. I can help you find one that works for you. You know, when you reach a certain age….”  	 “I ain’t living in a place where they tell me what to do all day. I’m my own person.”  “Uh-huh. But if you could, just let me help you. I can maybe start cutting your hair at home so you wouldn’t get confused and come out here.”  	 “Confused? I like coming out here. It gets me out of that apartment.”

	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle.

 	 Helen only pretended to snip her hair this time, but Dorothy didn’t seem to notice. This time, she flashed back to the birth of her son. ‘We got a crier,’ the doctor said. A tear trickled down her cheek as she remembered him on his deathbed a few years earlier, after his long struggle with prostate cancer. A  mother should never have to outlive their children , she thought.

 	“What’s wrong?”  	 “Nothing. Are we done?”  	 “Yes. We are. But are you sure I can’t?”  	 “Don’t do anything for me.”  As they approached the register, Dorothy opened her purse, but Helen brushed the money away.

	“You paid yesterday. Don’t pay again.”

	“You’re the boss.”

	Helen waved goodbye, and several customers and staff sighed collectively.

 	 By work day’s end, forty-year-old manager Julie Wilkoff did have some words for Helen.

	“Helen, you’ve been a strong asset to this shop for many years. But let’s face it, you’re getting old now. Maybe it’s time you retire. You can’t let friendship come before business. You’re gonna let this woman drive out all our customers, and we’ve already lost a number to Great Clips and Super Cuts.”  	 Helen rolled her eyes. She hated knowing she was there ten years longer than Julie, but Julie appeared to know what was best for her.

 	 “So, I’m giving you an ultimatum. You either choose between retirement, or I move your schedule around, and you’ll work nights, away from that woman. You are to have no more interaction with her at work. I don’t care if you see her outside these doors, but it’s interfering with our business. Understand?”  	 “But I’m all she has to look forward to in her week. She has no family, no friends, nobody.” “I understand. I understand that every time she comes in, she’s hurting our business,” Julie said.

	Helen hung her head, knowing that there was no arguing with management. It was either

Option A - work evenings or Option B - retirement. She didn’t want Option A. From the hours of four to nine p.m., she got to see her grandchildren during the week.

  	 “Well, I guess I’m going to retire. Congratulations. You’ve been looking for someone younger and faster than me for some time now. You got your wish.”  	“It’s not that. It’s….”  	 “Don’t lie to me, Julie. This was just the excuse you needed. I’ll clean out my booth, but let me warn you. She’ll be back, maybe even tomorrow. Then she’ll be your problem.”  	 As Helen gathered her things, Julie knew what she said rang true. She was a hands-on manager with her employees but hands-off with the customers. Julie barely knew any of the regulars’ names and never cut hair anymore. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle the Dorothy tornado. But now it was too late. Helen walked out the door and didn’t look back.

 	 The following day, Dorothy returned right at ten a.m., demanding a haircut. Julie took a convenient mental health day, leaving the problem to the other stylists. When Dorothy saw that Helen was nowhere to be found, she started banging on the front desk and repeatedly rang the silver call bell.

 	 New stylist Becky came running over with a forced smile.

 	 “Hi, Dorothy, is it? Someone will be with you shortly.”  	 “Where’s Helen?!”  	 “Helen...um...well.”  	 “Where is she?!”

	Another stylist looked over with a sympathetic look on her face.

 	 “Helen was let go last night, dear. I’m sorry.” the other stylist chimed in. “But one of us will be with you soon if you don’t mind waiting,” she continued.

 “I’m sorry,” Becky said before hurrying back to her customer. Dorothy banged on the counter once more and then brushed past the row of people awaiting their turn in line.

  The sunlight hit her face like the sun she remembered in Miami Beach. It was warm and comforting. It made her forget the world. She saw another car from the fifties drive down the parking lot and imagined that she had gone back in time. Her ’55 Chevy glistened in the sunlight that day. Once she found her way inside her car, she turned once more to the Oldies station, and “Too Young” by Nat King Cole came on, Dorothy and Tom’s wedding song. She cried with her head in her hands before giving one more look at Emajanation Street. Without any cars in front of her, Dorothy could see the goings-on of the shop she once loved and the stylist that was the person that she looked forward to seeing week in and week out.

 As Cole sang, “We were not too young at all,” Dorothy clutched the wheel and slammed the gas, speeding the classic car across the lot and into Emajanation Street with all the power she could muster. People dove for their lives as the bulky metal behemoth cut through the glass windows, spewing shards of glass in all directions. The crash threw Dorothy’s crumpled, bloody body onto the floor by Helen’s station. Her last thought was of reuniting with Tom and her son Jim, walking around town in the 1950s. She was smiling.


“Oh god damn it!” Sophie screamed as she realized that she forgot to take her work uniform with her yet again. She was already in a foul mood and this was the last straw that doomed her to a shitty day. She contemplated going back to her apartment to get it but decided against it out of pure frustration, instead, she continued walking. She was about ten minutes away from the café she worked at which gave her plenty of time to contemplate her misery, her life was anything but exciting, fulfilling, and happy. Living paycheck to paycheck, sometimes having barely enough money to buy groceries, having no friends and a terrible relationship with her family didn’t help either. She abandoned her dream of becoming a dancer because the bills won’t pay themselves and the classes were expensive as all hell – sometimes she thought about going back but then when the six am alarm clock went off she lost all motivation. Often she wondered why she was even alive, what was her reason to wake up each morning? Her life purpose. At this point, she woke up every morning out of pure spite and to piss off her parents. So she kept walking and wondering and asking herself sarcastically What else could go wrong?. When she reached the café Sophie immediately regrated asking that question because as soon as she closed the back door behind her she was meet with her boss’s very serious facial expression. “Sophie, can I talk to you for a minute?” She nodded and followed him to his office with a feeling that something was about to go down. She was right because as soon as she sat in front of the man’s desk he said “I’m so sorry but I’m going to have to let you go” a minute of stunned silence “What? Why?! I worked my butt off here for the past 4 years. What did I do wrong?” “You didn’t do anything wrong but we had some budget cuts and I can’t afford to keep you here with us” he replied while leaning on the desk in front of him. Sophie stared angrily at her – former - boss and got up to leave. “Have you told Stacy about this?” she asked mentioning the most recent addition to their team. “Oh… Stacy is not getting fired” he replied and at least he had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself. Sophie on the other hand exploded. “She’s been working here for two months! I worked here for years! I honestly wish her well but why the fuck am I the one that gets laid off and not her?!” silence again and the lack of answer spoke volumes. “It’s because she’s hot? Isn’t it?” again no reply and Sophie laughed bitterly “You are so pathetic,” she said storming to the door and throwing one last glance at the man “I expect my check for last month to be mailed to my place by the end of the week” Then she left. The walk back felt twice as miserable as the walk to work that morning. She promised herself she would not cry until she got back home and she kept that promise but as soon as she entered the studio apartment she collapsed to her knees and started sobbing. The weight of the situation and the pure exhaustion finally flowing free. She wanted to scream but she couldn’t because the walls of the apartment were as thin as paper and the lady who lived next door just had a newborn. She felt trapped and completely hopeless, she should be coming up with a plan or look for jobs but to be honest, she was done with everything. She just sat on the ground pulling at her hair, remembering all her failures and asking the world ‘why me?’. She even contemplated calling her parents and begging them to let her stay at her childhood home for a month or two but the very thought of that place made her want to throw up. It felt like hours passed before she finally stopped crying and calmed down. Still sitting on the floor, she raised her eyes to the dirty ceiling, she wasn’t particularly spiritual but at this point, she was willing to try anything. “What’s up Universe?” she sniffed before continuing. “It’s your girl, Sophie. Can you give me a sign? Cause I really don’t know what to do right now and honestly I kinda feel like jumping off of a bridge or something.” Nothing. Not a beam of sunlight a lighting bolt or a butterfly sitting on her windowsill. Sophie sighed and got up from the ground intending to walk to the nearest store and buy a bottle of wine. “I don’t know what I was expecting” she mumbled to herself and then again she thought at least it can’t get worse than this. It is safe to say that she didn’t learn the lesson the first time because as soon as she said that the sound of loud heavy metal music spread through the whole apartment only to soon be accompanied by the cries of a child woken up from its nap. Sophie groaned and walked to her closet to take out the broom so she could bump the ceiling a couple of times but when she furiously opened up the doors something fell out of the top shelf and tumbled by her feet. She crouched down and to pick it up and froze. Those were her old point shoes, a little dusty and dirty from the lack of use but still in pretty good shape. Then an idea struck her – I guess I have nothing to lose she thought and after packing a bag she left the house. You see when she picked up the shoes she remembered that she always wanted to try dancing on the street like some artists play music and paint for some stray coins the passers-byes find in their pockets. So she went to the busiest shopping street she could think of setting up a speaker and a hat for any donations put her shoes on and begun dancing. The first week she managed to gather ten pounds, she really enjoyed dancing again and some of the people that stopped to watch her seemed to enjoy her skills too. Sophie knew she wouldn’t be able to live off of the money that people tossed in her hat but something told her that she just had to wait and see what happens. And she was right when on the third week of dancing she decided to pack it up for the day and when counting what she’s made she saw a business card at the very bottom of the hat. It said: Mari Chase Manager of the ‘Spin’ talent agency 666 8764 802 Call me if you are interested in collaborating with us.

Needless to say, this one-time Sophie believed in the universe a little bit more.


"The storm is worse than I expected," Mares said, shaking the rain from his coat as he joined the poker table. He was a tall, wiry man with a sharp nose and the keen eyes of a gambler. The room was dim, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses providing a backdrop to the flickering lights above the table. The rain hammered against the windows, drowning out the distant sounds of the town. Carlos Biltong, still dripping from his walk there, glanced at Mares, who was shuffling the deck with the practiced ease of someone who knew his way around a card game. "Deal us in," Biltong said, pulling up a chair. He hadn’t planned on staying long, but something about Mares’s appearance intrigued him. Mares dealt the cards, his movements precise, almost mechanical. As the game began, the usual banter was subdued. Biltong was talking crazy, right off the bat. What if I never heard my grandfather’s story?” he said and threw in a few chips, his gaze flicking between his cards and Mares. Biltong's grandfather, a brilliant yet enigmatic scientist, had been the one to introduce him to the concept of iterative learning—specifically, the principle of reiterating time sequences with slight variations until the desired outcome was achieved. It was a method rooted in both machine learning and the very nature of time itself, a way to perfect an outcome through endless repetition. As a boy, Carlos Biltong had been captivated by his grandfather’s stories, which were always laced with the mystery of time and the possibility of change. His grandfather would often sit by the fire, a distant look in his eyes, and speak of how one could return to the same moment over and over, making tiny adjustments until everything fell into place. Biltong had taken these lessons to heart, applying them in his work with the Canadian Spacetime Agency, where his research into retrocausality was built upon these very principles. Perhaps, without his grandfather’s influence, Carlos Biltong would have been a different man—one who never played with the fabric of time. "So, Mares," Biltong said, breaking the silence, "what do you think of the grandfather paradox? Anything new?" Mares didn’t look up from his cards. "There’s always something new. But it's not about what’s new, it’s about what’s being missed." Biltong raised an eyebrow. "Missed?" "Yes," Mares said, his voice calm, almost detached. "The geoglyphs in Peru aren’t just marks in the earth. They’re messages. Warnings, maybe. And we’re not understanding those warnings." Biltong chuckled, though it was a nervous sound. "You’re saying the Nazca geoglyphs are trying to tell us something?" Mares placed his cards on the table, face down, and leaned back. "I’m saying they’re telling us more than we’re ready to hear." The rain outside grew louder. Biltong exchanged a glance with Mares, both men trying to gauge whether the other was serious. "What about it?" Biltong asked, his voice more serious now. "You said we could understand it." The thick smell of cigars and the low hum of conversation filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and the sharp tang of Biltong’s cologne. The two players sat around the dimly lit table, their eyes sharp, their hands steady. Chips clinked in neat stacks, and cards whispered as they slid across the felt. The small talk had been the usual banter of work, weather, and women, drifting on in time until Biltong sought to confess the workings of his mind. “It’s called the Grandfather Paradox,” Biltong said, his deep voice carrying across the table. “You go back in time, kill your grandfather, and poof—no more you. But then, who killed him?” Mares, seated to Biltong's right, chuckled as he thumbed his cards. “Time travel?. “It’s what that pyramid out in Nazca—what was it, five meters a side was about, they say.” “Not nowhere,” Biltong corrected, drawing out his words for emphasis. “They found it exactly where it was meant to be, inside the Nazca Lines. Like someone from the future just dropped it there. A three-dimensional puzzle piece in a two-dimensional landscape. Some people think it’s a guardian object.” "Guardian object?" Mares asked, leaning forward. His cards lay forgotten as curiosity got the better of him. “A guardian object,” Biltong repeated, savoring the attention. “Supposedly, it’s meant to protect us from ourselves. Remove it, and—who knows? Maybe that’s what’s holding everything together.” Mares snorted. “Right, and next you’ll tell me Eternals are real too.” “Maybe they are,” Biltong said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Maybe one’s sitting at this table right now, proving a point.” The cards had come to a pause as the players exchanged glances, skepticism coloring their features. But Biltong leaned back, confident, holding his cards as though they were keys to the universe itself. “Alright, enough talk,” Mares said, breaking the spell. His eyes flicked back to his hand, and the game was on again. “Let’s see those cards.” It was down to Biltong and Mares. Biltong, by far the older man, born in 2017 whilst Mares was born in 2053. But then, how old was his grandfather? Maybe he was an Eternal, like one of Isaac Asimov’s characters. The room seemed to shrink as Mares revealed his cards one by one. Four nines stared up from the table, high cards, exuding a quiet power. Mares leaned back, satisfied, certain of his victory. “Four of a kind - four nines in fact,” he said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Hard to beat.” Biltong’s grin didn’t falter. He laid his cards out with deliberate slowness, as though savoring each moment. “Unless,” he said, flipping the last card, “it’s a royal flush.” Mares gave a sharp intake of breath. Spades glinted in the dim light, from ten to ace. The perfect hand. The kind of hand you might get once in a lifetime, if you were lucky. Or maybe if you were cheating. Or maybe if time itself had a say in the matter. “What the hell,” Mares muttered, staring at the cards, disbelief and anger battling for dominance on his face. “That’s impossible.” “Not impossible,” Biltong corrected, his eyes glinting. “Just… unlikely. Maybe this is just the universe’s way of revisiting the present. A time traveler, proving a point.” “Bullshit,” Mares snapped, slamming his hand on the table. The chips rattled, some tipping over. “You’re saying you won because of time travel?” “I’m saying,” Biltong replied coolly, gathering his winnings, “that if I were a time traveler, I’d come back to this exact moment, play this exact hand, just to watch your face when you lost.” “What are the odds?” asked Mares.” I still don’t believe it. The pack must have been rigged.” “Well,” said Biltong, “I had Ace and Jack of the same suit.” The community cards were Queen, King, Ten of the same suit as my Ace and a Jack, plus two nines, hearts and spades. The five community cards (Queen, King, Ten, and two Nines) and my two hole cards (Ace and Jack) provided me my royal flush. Your two Nines as your hole cards made up your Four of a Kind: Two of the Nines were on the board as community cards. So, one other player, you, indeed had four Nines. You said: “What are the odds of this happening?” “So I was dealt Ace and Jack of the same suit. The community cards included the Queen, King, Ten of my suit (to complete the royal flush), plus two nines. You had to have the remaining two nines. The probability of being dealt a specific suited hand (Ace and Jack of the Same Suit) is, look, I’ll tell you if it’ll make you any happier. There are 4 possible suits and each has 52 cards in the deck. The probability of being dealt Ace-Jack of the same suit is: one in one hundred and ten point five. The probability of flopping a specific Royal Flush is one in two million, one hundred and eighteen thousand, seven hundred and sixty. The probability of Two Nines appearing in the remaining cards: one in nine hundred and ninety. So, the overall odds would be, well, let’s see, if my math is not too rusty, combinatorics as my grandfather would say, are a useful invention, and make stupid old time travel intelligent again, by retrocausality. I perfected a time sequence which seems real to you in which the overall odds of this specific scenario happening is one in twenty three billion.” There was a silence. A charged, uncomfortable silence, where the fabric of reality seemed to stretch thin, like a rubber band pulled too far. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper, as though something unseen had shifted. Mares laughed, breaking the tension, but it was a nervous sound, high-pitched and strained. “Yeah, right,” he said, forcing a smile. “You had me going for a second there.” Biltong just smiled, that same mysterious smile, as he pocketed the chips. “Maybe I’m just lucky.” But the words lingered, and the room didn’t quite return to normal. Mares stared at the cards, his expression darkening with each passing second. The thought gnawed at him—what if Biltong wasn’t lying? What if something was amiss? What if that pyramid out in Nazca was just the beginning? Mares felt that something had gone wrong, something beyond the game. Biltong’s royal flush had seemed like the pinnacle, the impossible hand, but in its wake, things started to unravel, slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his mind gave up. The table fell silent as his words hung in the air, the game all but over. The rain outside slowed to a steady drizzle, and the tension in the room seemed to ease, though an unease lingered just beneath the surface. Mares took his earlier winnings and boarded the train intending to be leaving Peru. He was definitely going to try and stay safe. That was when things began to fall apart. Getting off the train to relieve himself, in a station toilet that he couldn't find. The one on the train was broken. He bent down. A street lamp illuminated the platform, whereupon someone stepped out of the shadows asking, "Are you going to Nasira Almeida’s?" As he walked quickly, and he didn't want to hang around the toilets, he was soon done and then he heard a shot in the plaster walls, orange, they were, and the walls began to fall around him. As if plasterboard was being hacked away. He was behind a protecting wall. The police were closing in. Mares surrendered, bringing his hands up. He called, "Yes, yes, yes," but it was only the cleaner, dressed in orange, who spoke in Portuguese. “It is not for nothing that I am the great-grandson of the famous Mares family, which owns the mansion with a garden of fynbos," Mares muttered. He may be the enemy of other men, of other times, but not of fireflies, words, gardens, waterways, or sunsets. The police were polite, asking him to describe what happened. As he ascertained that they were holding him as a suspect for some murder, he asked what the charges were. "We will soon have this tied up," they said. A guard appeared in the cell when he mentioned food, and then a meal – quite pleasant, really. Mares began to reason with himself; this will soon be over. He needed some diplomatic help, as he hadn't informed anyone about his trip. It had turned out that he was committed not for the murder of someone who was in the toilet, but was being held nevertheless. This made no sense to him. His family approved of his work in the Canadian Spacetime Agency, as he had done valuable research. Basically, everything about this time and place was off. His girlfriend appeared on his cell phone.  "I'm on vacation. It's time I went out and had fun. That's why I'm here. I've been sightseeing. It's a beautiful city," she said. Mares took the bait. “We have our first retrocausality experiment set up,” she said. As Mares listened to her words, a chill ran down his spine. The retrocausality experiment—this was the culmination of all his work, the very thing he had abandoned everything for. Now, it was being realized without him. Flora continued to speak enthusiastically about the experiment, but Mares’ mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things had gone terribly wrong, not just with the experiment but with his life as a whole. The decision to step away from his work, the subsequent arrest and imprisonment, the alienation from his family—all of it had led him to this point, and he wasn’t sure he liked where he had ended up. When Flora finished speaking, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for a response. Mares forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside. "It sounds incredible, Flora. Truly, it does. But I think…I think I’ve had enough of time travel, of experiments. It’s not where I belong anymore." Flora frowned, her excitement dimming. "But Mares, this is your work. You can't just walk away from it. Don’t you want to see what we’ve achieved, what you started?" Mares shook his head slowly. "I did want that, once. But now, I just want peace. I’ve lost too much trying to chase after something that, in the end, might not even matter." Flora stared at him, confusion and disappointment etched on her face. "So, what are you going to do now?" Mares looked out at the city again, at the life he had once found so alluring, and sighed. "I’m going to find a place where I can be still, where I can live without the weight of the past or the future hanging over me. Maybe that’s in Toronto, maybe it’s somewhere else. But it’s not here." Flora nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mares. But I think you’re running away from something you can’t escape." Mares didn’t have an answer to that. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was running away. But for now, all he wanted was to leave behind the complications of his old life. As he walked away from Flora, he felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. He was free, thanks to her word which carried weight, but he was also alone, and the future seemed as uncertain as ever. He boarded the next train out of the city, not knowing where it would take him. As the train sped away from the city, Mares leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic clatter of the tracks lull him into a state of calm. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply be, without worrying about what came next. But as the train carried him further into the unknown, a nagging thought lingered in the back of his mind: Could he ever truly escape the past? Or was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, over and over again?


A caressing spring breeze carried the sweet aroma of the short-lived wisteria bloom through the garden patio in soft wafts, mingling with the scents of lavender and thyme and rose petal. Hummingbirds zipped in and out, flashing their red or blue or green bellies. The buzz of their tiny wings passing in loping drones over the distant laughter of children playing in the park. I sat in the cool dappled shade of the great oak, taking in deep breaths of the perfect spring day. The cubes in my iced tea tinkled against the glass like frozen raindrops as I sipped.

“Aaaaaahh!” I raised an eyebrow and turned an ear when I heard the child shriek with rage from the other side of the fence. She sounded like she was about four or five. The guardian sounded like either a young mother or an older babysitter. The child wailed; I could almost hear her fists beating against her guardian. “Give it to me! Give it to me,” the kid screamed and wailed again. “I don’t know what to tell you, honey.” “Give it to me!” the child's wail turned to a high-pitched peal.

“I don’t have it,” the guardian calmy assured. The child screamed again. “You’re lying!” “I promise. I’m not lying.” “Yes, you are! Give me forty million dollars!”

The guardian wasn’t chuckling, exactly. But I could hear her smile. “I don’t have forty million dollars.” A shriek of frustration. “Give me forty million dollars!” “Why do you think I have forty million dollars?” “Give me forty million dollars!” This time the guardian couldn’t help but chuckle, fueling the child’s rage. “Why do you need forty million dollars?” The child answered between choking sobs. “I have… to buy… things.” The guardian laughed. “What do you have to buy?” “I have to buy movies.”

“What if I buy you a movie?” The child audibly shuddered as she let the last of her cries subside. “O… k…” I finally let out a laugh. I had been holding it in even though there was no way anyone would have heard me over the child’s screams. I don’t know if the guardian heard me or not, but she laughed as well.

Martha and I sat in the den that evening, laughing for the half-a-dozenth time since I had told her the story of the forty-million-dollar kid.

She snorted, slapped her knee and shook her head. “Where do you think she even heard the phrase forty million dollars ?” “Probably from her parents.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah? Think we’ve got a lot of multi-millionaires in the neighborhood?” I shrugged and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably not. it's a good number, though.” “Maybe her babysitter really did have forty million dollars.” “I hear it’s a lucrative gig.” I turned to her. “You used to babysit. What did you get, two million a kid? Little more?” She snorted again and slapped at the air, only because I was out of reach and put on her little playful smile that I loved so much, her adorable dimples deepening “That was a long time ago. We didn’t get quite that much.” We chuckled together. “Who knows where she heard it. My guess is she heard it in a movie.” I flashed her my own signature smirk. “She sounded like a real cinephile.” We shared another laugh before turning our attention to the muted TV. Credits were scrolling across the screen, Martha’s cue to retire to the boudoir, and her novel, for the night.  She took a deep breath, “Well, alright,” and pushed herself up out of her seat. “Guess I’m retiring for the night.” She bent, kissed me on the forehead, and came away with a stern glance. “Don’t stay up all night, Ok?” I grumbled and waved her away. “I know. I know.” “I’ll tell you what I know; the last time you fell asleep in the den you complained about the crick in your neck for a week.” I gave her the old one-eyed squint that said, Go to bed already . “Ok. I’m just going to watch a little news and I’ll be right up behind you.” She harrumphed and narrowed a dubious appraisal on me before giving my bald head a final tousle as she left. I watched her go. Smiling as her much-heavier-than-the-day-we-were-married derriere swayed back and forth as she shuffled away. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I somehow loved her even more today than I ever had. How did I get so lucky?

I picked up the remote and unmuted the TV just in time to catch the dramatic opening theme of the nightly news. Red, white and blue graphics flashed across the screen, brighter than the anchor’s smiles as they were introduced. A mission statement from the local news team. I pushed myself out of my seat with a groan and meandered into the kitchen. I drank a beer as I slapped a quick sandwich together as quietly as I could. I grabbed another pop as I headed back into the den, the news droning. I slumped into my seat, slugged back a sip of suds and chomped a big bite of my sandwich. I leaned back and turned the volume up. … We’re asking all residents of Jack London Park to stay indoors. Again, both suspects are presumed armed and dangerous. If you see either suspect contact the authorities immediately. I eyed the sketches. They weren’t great. “You're never going to find them from those,” I muttered aloud and waved a hand. The anchor lady turned to a window in the corner of the screen. …and what do you know so far, Bill? Well, Carol, as we said before. The suspects are still at large after a violent and brazen bank robbery at Central Trust in downtown Saint Paul. The assailants are believed to have made off with over forty million dollars. I cocked my head and squinted. “Huh, what are the odds?” Again, we're asking all residents in the Jack London Park area to stay indoors. I slugged back another sip of beer. as the news segued into ads. I turned an ear. Had I heard something? I picked up the remote and nudged the volume down. Was that a rattle from the back door?


The message was strange by any definition of the word. RUN! A text that sent Mary Smithson out of her 469 Pellan Cul- de-sac home to check on her closest friend, who also happened to be her childhood neighbour. She matched across the small street and knocked on the silver door. She waited a little bit longer than usual before she heard footsteps hurrying to the door. She had mentally prepared a reprimand for Dylon Mathers for trying his usual attempts at Halloween pranks, but she was a little worried with the urgency of the text. She had already opened her mouth as the door opened slowly when she stopped herself. A stranger with ebony hair and brown eyes was looking curiously at her. He was well built, and had tiny specks of greying hair within his head. "Sorry, Nell. I was busy trying to make sure dinner didn't burn, what can I help you with today?" He seemed polite and calm about his words and he had a welcoming smile that nearly disarmed her, but he had called her Nell , why? She took a step back to ensure she had the right house (directly across from her), then walked back to the man. "Excuse me, have we ever met?" She asked trying to make sense the familiarity to which this stranger responded. "Very funny, Nell. We have known each other for a long time." His answer was short and matter-of-factly, like it was cemented in history, his probably. She was starting to get annoyed with this elaborate prank. She took a deep breathe and retrieved another figurative coat of patience to be worn for the moment. "Can I speak to Dylon, please." The man just kept staring at her as if trying to place the name, he was clearly a paid actor- one of the competent ones judging by how he stuck with his story. "I don't know any Dylon I'm afraid. Maybe Jenny knows. Please come in," he invited her in the house that seemed filled with a blaring Television and a shrieking sound from upstairs. "I have to make sure nothing burns this time round, excuse me." He left her standing there in the living room, walking away smiling as if the burning of food was some joke between them. She stared at his receding back and started walking around the living room as soon as the stranger left. There were framed photographs of the man with a blonde haired beauty with an athletic frame, a Roman nose and tiny freckles on her cheek. There were similar photographs with a young girl with flaxen hair and brown eyes, the explainable resemblance of a daughter to the woman. "The name Mathers does sound familiar but I can't seem to place it, Nell." The man in kitchen shouted at her while trying to cook. Everything felt foreign and out of place, it was not the house she had been entering for eleven years. This house was a family home with toys thrown around the living room, crayons and papers on a small table meant for a child, and the noise of a happy child somewhere above her. She had the pattern of little feet coming down the stairs as fast as possible and waited to see what was actually going on. The text had been sent ten minutes ago and this seemed a little too well planned for Dylon Mathers. The flaxen haired girl from the photographs stopped upon seeing her. She had an impressive outfit consisting of a ankled-length dress with an elegant maroon cape and a tiara on her head - a princess then. She only took a moment for her eyebrows to rise before she came running at Mary and jumped on her leg in an elaborate hug. "Aunt Nell, your here," she shouted in a pant trying to get her words across. "Mom says I'm almost ready, but your here now. Does that mean Abby is ready?" She seemed crestfallen at the prospect of this Abby being ready before her, and Mary didn't know how to answer this question. She said the first thing that came to her mind. "Not yet," she dropped to one knee in order to look the girl in the eye. "...but Dylon might help her get ready." She had hoped for some reaction, some tell tale sign that all this was some elaborate hoax, but the girl looked confused at the name. No child could fake deception like this, if it was indeed a hoax. "Who is Dee-lon?" she asked Mary hopefully. The entire scene was beyond strange. She needed to collect names, that way she could find out their history and apparently, hers too. "What's your name, little princess?" She tried to make it sound as playful as possible. "Princess Ellen Richmond...the first. Now bow!" The little tyrant demanded with forced airs. Mary played along dropping her head in a mock bow and thinking about any "Richmond" she may know from her past. With no apparent culprit in mind, she returned to standing by the princess who was apparently being chased by her mother who came running down the stairs after her. The woman stopped on seeing her. "Hi, Nell. Tell me you're not already set for the evening of trick-or-treating?" She looked impressed and shocked at the same time. Mary should have probably lied or made something up, but a glaring revelation had come upon her. The girl- Ellen- had asked if some Abby was ready, and her mother implied she would go trick-or-treating. The only reason she would ever need to do that was... The revelation made her apologise as she left in a hurry. The neighbourhood still looked the same. She could name every family she saw along with their children, at least that much was unchanged. She didn't bother knocking on her door and walked in to a cruel shock. There were framed photographs on the wall next to the door, and she looked at them as she walked into the living room.

In all the photographs there was a chestnut-haired man next to her. He was good looking but had a scar on his temple. His eyes were a teal shade that drew her attention and he looked happy-so did this Mary by his side. There was one photograph with a young girl with ebony hair and... She stopped dead in her tracks by this one. The girl had ebony hair...just like her, and despite the blue eyes, her facial features like her upturned nose, her eyebrows, and the shape of her mouth...they were too familiar to her. It was like looking at a slightly altered version of herself as a child. This was becoming too strange. The new neighbours she now had could be explained away as actors (convincing ones and probably well-paid) but this little girl was an impossibility. She had no children, not yet anyway. She had planned to maybe have one in the future, but the man in the photographs with the beautiful eyes was clearly a stranger. She wanted to find out where Dylon was but he wasn't picking up his phone. She walked into the living room to find the man in the photographs. He was watching a basketball match on a 42 inch flat-screen television which was clearly not hers. She looked around the room and could see certain things that were clearly foreign. "Honey?" He asked as he turned around. "Did you get a timeline for Jenny and Ellen?" These be the names of the woman and her child in Dylon's house, the ones she was supposed to go trick-or-treating with...along with Abby, her daughter. "Hmm, they said there almost ready. Probably ten more minutes." She was trying to stay afloat in a sea of new information and what seemed to be a different world than her own. She wanted to interrogate the man for some answers without seeming oblivious if this was still a hoax. She had to see the little girl, the one who was supposed to be her daughter . Seeing her would solve her conclusion to whether it was a hoax or not. No one could fake such a child, at least not that she knew of. "Where is Abby?" She asked hopefully as she tested out the name on her tongue. She found that she rather liked the feel of the name and saying it. "She's waiting for you in her room," answered the man who was still watching the television. With all her hopes hanging on the existence of a little girl, Mary climbed the stairs in a rush. She knew this house and knew only one other room would house a child. She rushed to the room next to her...well their bedroom.

From the door she could see it was painted pink with coloured paper butterflies on the walls. On the bed, wearing what must be a blue outfit with wings on the back, was the girl Abby. Mary was stunned by her presence despite preparing herself mentally for it. The girl seemed to be fidgeting in her dress making Mary smile despite her shock. She walked up to the little girl and knelt in front of her. She ran her hands through the frilly ebony hair and was about to touch her face when the girl backed up. "Stop you'll ruin my fairy face," she protested in a nervous voice. Mary smiled at the reaction, smiled at the choice of outfit, and also on the entire situation.

"Why are you crying, mommy?" She traced the wetness around her eyes and laughed lightly as she wiped it on her dress. "I just think you look beautiful, Abby." She wanted to say more but an idea came to her. "Abby, could you tell me your full name?" The girl looked at her curiously. "Abigail Kent." "...and your parents' names?" "Mommy and daddy." She realized the girl might not know her name, but she had given the name Kent .

"Can I carry my wand now?" "Where did we put it?" She asked playfully trying to mask her ignorance. "It's on your bed, mommy." Abby seemed delighted at knowing this-meaning she probably wasn't supposed to know where the wand was. That thought drew another smile from Mary...or whatever her name was now. She promised to get the wand as she left the room, and hurried into her room. She ransacked her purse on the bedside table and removed her driving licence along with another phone. Nelly Reed! The name was foreign to her, but the picture on the licence was definitely her. She scrolled the contacts on the phone and found her husband's number. The name on the information was Aaron kent, and she could not find Dylon's name or number on this other phone. She quickly picked the "wand" that was on her bed and was about to leave when the book on the table caught her eye. She walked to the bedside table and picked it up. She couldn't tell why the book had drawn her or whose it was. She flipped through the pages and stopped on a page with a marker highlighted word. Mary Smithson!

She nearly dropped the book, but decided to jump to the synopsis on the back cover. She read it carefully and gasped at her findings. Mary Smithson, her entire life, was a character in a book- a tragic drama. There was a perfect description of the protagonist's neighbour, who was named Dylon Mathers. A character who'd died in 2009, ten years ago. She looked up the name Dylon Mathers on her phone's internet and confirmed that there was a Dylon Mathers who lived at 472 Pellan, across from her. Just like in the book, Dylon Mathers had died ten years ago in a car accident with his mother, when he was fifteen years-old. She sat on the bed trembling with equal amounts fear and uncertainty. She was certain of her life. She new her name and that of her parents, but this entire situation was testing...no, breaking her foundation and beliefs. She would have stayed on the bed like that indefinitely if not for the sweet voice of Abigail Kent calling for her wand. This "Nelly Reed" seemed to have a good life, but it was a foreign one to hers. She would have to play along and hope she can get back to her world. It sounded even more promising that it meant getting to know Abby. Nelly Reed-Kent stood up, put on her best smile and went to help her new daughter get ready for trick-or-treating.


A tumbleweed rolled across the empty dusty road. Whatever pushed it along its way was unknown to Kristy as she baked under the brightness above her. She was hunched over the hood of her broken down El Camino. It was little better than sitting inside the hot car, but at least out here she could breathe. She had no water, and she had no idea how long she would have before the tow truck reached her. Kristy stared off into the distance toward the mountains of red sandstone. The bases of the mountains were blurred behind the water-like mirage rising from the ground. Looking at it made Kristy even more thirsty. She started to turn her head away until she noticed a large dark figure coming toward her through the haze. She stood up to see if her eyes were deceiving her. Sure enough, the figure of a tall, slender, and dirty man came into focus as he continued to approach the car. He had on a tank that used to be white, but it was now covered in stains of the sands that had clung onto his sweat. Kristy could also see that a small boy was following behind him. The dirt on his face matched that of his father’s. Kristy straightened up and tried to gather her composure. She quickly switched from being tired and groggy to alert and focused. She wanted to run into the car to grab her switchblade before he got too close, but she didn’t think that she had enough time before he reached her. “’Ya need some help?” the slender man yelled as he continued to walk toward her. She stood silent until he was close enough to hear her. “No, I’m alright,” she said cautiously, “just waitin’ on my tow. He should be here any moment now.” “You want some water while you wait?” the man asked. “We live just over those rocks and it wouldn’t take ‘ya too long ta git back.” Kristy was hesitant to follow a man she didn’t know, but her thirst got the better of her. After all, a man with a little boy couldn’t be that bad, could he? Kristy walked over toward the man without grabbing her razor. After about 5 minutes, all three of them climbed over a small mountain of rocks, and Kristy could see a rusty trailer in what appeared to be a small canyon. There was a little dirty pond of water near the rock wall, not too far from the trailer. Hundreds of flies flew just above the murky surface. The area smelled of dead animals and sulfur. Once they reached the trailer, the boy picked up an empty old plastic milk jug from the miscellaneous items strewn about the ground and walked over to the pond. The flies darted in every direction as the boy punched his arm into the water. After submerging the jug until it was filled, the boy took the water behind the trailer. “Is… is that the water you’re offering?” Kristy asked hesitantly. She followed the boy and saw that there was a small campfire burning in a ring of rocks. The boy picked up a pot that was sitting on a grate above the fire and poured the water from the pond into it. “Yeah,” the boy said, “it gets really clean after boiling it, I promise.” There was no way she was letting that water anywhere near her lips. But what was she to do? Should she politely excuse herself? Or should she bolt to the car and lock herself inside, despite the suffocation she would have to endure? Was she overreacting? Likely out of utter confusion, Kristy started to sit in one of the tattered lawn chairs by the fire. It wasn’t until she felt the drip down her elbow that decided against it. You aren’t safe , she thought she heard the boy whisper, but when she looked over at him, his gaze hadn’t left the fire. The man joined them near the lawn chairs. “Sorry for the mess,” the man said. “It’s been just me and the boy for past couple of weeks. We don’t ever expect any…

lady  guests while we’re here. This is really the perfect spot to catch the animals that stop at the pond.” Animals?  she thought to herself.

How can they catch animals out here, and in these conditions?

It wasn’t until then that she noticed the pistol tucked into the waist of his pants. Kristy clasped her hands together. “Ya know, I appreciate you all for your hospitality and everything, but I think I’m gonna head on back now.” She wished she didn’t have to pass the man to get back to her car. She figured her only option was to walk back calmly. “But… but you didn’t get’chur water yet,” he said, gruffly. “I’m okay, really. My tow will be here any minute now.” She continued to walk toward her car. As she tried to walk past the man to leave the canyon, he caught her by the wrist and squeezed it tightly. “What did that boy say to you?” he hissed close to her ear. “N- nothing,” she uttered. “I just didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be able to see the tow truck from here.” As he reached for his gun, she broke free from his grasp and grabbed a fistful of sand from the ground. She threw it into his eyes and ran back toward the car without looking back. She made it all the way back when she heard the unmistakable sound of a gun shot in the air. She collapsed onto the hood of the car. The light started to fade around her. “Miss! Miss! Are you alright?” Kristy jumped as she felt someone vigorously shake her shoulder. A man in a grey mechanic uniform and a baseball cap had awakened her. A tow truck was parked in front of her car. She peered around and realized that it was now dark out. “Was I sleeping?” she asked the man. “Passed out, more likely,” he said, and handed her a bottle of water. “Sorry it took so long for me to come, but you’re waaaaay out here. You got your keys?”


She was an Egyptian goddess Aset. Many pronounce her name wrong. She is from long long ago. Times were different then. She can’t tell their secrets to life and death but offers clues and hints to me. She is one of my guardians. I have many of them. Old and new. Times are rapidly changing and One needs be on guard. There are many evils in this world trying to make the humans die faster. From what I gather the faster the evil kills you the longer the wait into heaven. If you call the afterlife that. It has many names and many different stories. They are all quite the same though these stories. I wonder if others notice this. Aset comes to my aid when I’m in severe danger. She is a powerful old sorcereress . Many evils attack me at times. They know I know they’re there. I’m dying like everyone else though. You can’t escape the evil. Protection is given to some who are worthy. Only God knows these people. Who is your God though? I’m asked at times. We’ll I say it every time, God is my best friend. I love him. He loves me. He can be very strict to me at times though this God of mine is ancient but also very new. Older than any of the gods and goddesses. Even Aset. Younger than any in this decade as well. For he is omnipotent. I say he but that’s just me. Makes me feel safe. Guides me through life. Helps me when I’m down and about to give up. I’m very blessed. Who am I? I am you. I am God. Who am I? Sometimes she tells me I’m her. How could that be. For she is so gifted and powerful. Knows things before they happen. Has telepathy with my witnesses. ( they are my dogs). So fun to talk to these creatures. One time my boy had to go to the bathroom and told me he was going to pee his pants. I never laughed so hard. You don’t have pants! So funny. Even dogs crack jokes. It gets us through the day I suppose. Being human is hard. Lots of pain, lots of hurt. There is happy though, peace inside. If you reach this peace don’t ever let it go. Aset told me that the sun is the most important element in this universe. Without it nothing would survive. That’s what the evil wants. Your sun. When I sit out in the beautiful sunny days. I feel peace. The sun gives off such happiness. Such energy. Makes me feel alive. It affects all us humans. Aset tells me that the ancients knew the sun was important. Many gods were named after the sun. Many gods are the sun. Such beauty is shown if you let it in. I am blessed to have the opportunity to sit out and enjoy the sun. We all are. Aset tells me the second most important thing to us and our survival is water. Water is God too. Many gods were named after the water as well. Water was worshipped back in ancient times. We take it for granted now. The evil poisons our water now too. My eyes burn from the chlorine when I cry. So much burning that it left a red scar on my cheek. It’ll never go away. A strike from the evil. I try not to cry often. It hurts me so. Aset tells me so many things about life. I’m am not worthy of this knowledge but I am ever so grateful. They tell me when all of this is over, they’re taking me home. She wraps me in her invisible arms and hugs me. Everything will be alright. Whoever you wish to come home with you will come. The sad part is I can’t take any animals. Animals have their own set of rules and quests. I’m assured they will all be well. Not assured if I’ll ever see them again. Aset won’t tell me if that is possible. So sad. My babies. I don’t know what I’d do without them. I’m scared for them days to come. Animals lovers know in their heart what I’m saying. Beautiful angels on this earth. They keep humans from completely slaughtering each other believe it or not. They have important jobs. Unfortunately there are still evil beings in human form that have no hearts and hurt these poor creatures. You know who you are. Your punishment will come to you in time. These creatures who are hurt will forever live in peace in their next life. This helps me sleep at night but makes me very angry still. I want to beat this evil. There is just too much of it now. We need to come together as one celestial family before it’s too late. I don’t know how to make this happen. I don’t know if I even can. I’m unsure of my destiny. Guardians don’t tell and can only help in certain times. They are not omnipotent in the animal kingdom. Which is what we’re in I’m told. Such simple knowledge most of us take for granted. I’m glad she tells me of these things. Helps me stay happy and humble. To be poor is to be rich. I love being poor. It has made me a better person. I treasure and take care of things more. I’m thankful for all I’m helped with and more. I’m not like all humans. I’m not all different either. I just function on different frequencies . The main frequency is speed, fast fast go go. Why would you want time to go so fast. How can you feel peace going like that all the time. Some of us can’t do that. Some of you get angry with us that can’t do it. We have different disabilities then you do. It’s a challenging world. Not all is perfect and yes things could be much better. That’s at the top of the food chain though. There poisoned with power and greed. Aset tells me they’re not even human anymore. They have no idea how to live they are possessed. That fucking evil again. Why can’t we rid the world of that. If we did could there be a utopia? Is utopia even possible being human? The best we can do is to find utopia within ourselves. That’s what Aset tells me at night when I’m curled up with my furry friends for the night. I am a child you see. I feel safer as a child. A child happily playing with her toys. Guided by love. Guided by Aset and others. That come and go. They are new to even Aset. She only entered my life in 2017. What happened that year. Did the windows shatter out into the universe when my heart screamed in pain. She came to help me come back to life. Teaches me how to live and enjoy again. It was a long three years. Yes, Love. Love is beautiful and pure. Aset tells me we are all loved. Even the ones that have too much evil attached to them. They are loved. Someday they’ll be at peace but they’ll have to keep coming back till there at the bottom and can see the real meaning in life. Which is what? She won’t tell me that ever. No one knows and never will. Infinity is endless even if it keeps fleeing farther away. Most beings destroy the life sustaining planets. That’s why there are so many without life. In the end it is all revealed and we all move on to the next. Leaving no trace of whats all happened here. Only a whisper from the Gods. A whisper from us. The end, written by Tiffany Anne Epstein (only fiction please don’t be offended)


That's the thing about this city. No one lives in it. Except me. Me and my loyal dog Lick-- back off I named her when I was five.-- So here I am writing in a notebook I stole from the store that no one shops at. And if you want to know why everyone left. I don't know. I just grew up here all by myself and have never seen another person. Okay okay, calm down. I will answer all of your questions in time, but I thought it would be fun to write down what my days are like living in an abandoned city.

Entry 1

That first entry wasn't official. But this one is. Hi, my name is Bean. I came up with that name because it's my favorite food, and I guess I just called myself that. I think, from what I guess, I'm around 17 to 19 years of age. And I don't know my birthday so I celebrate it on the fourth of July. I came up with that by looking at a calendar. It was all bright and caught my eye so I chose it. And if you want to know what I look like. Too bad you'll have to wait.

So to start my day, I woke up with the sun then I got out of bed and woke Lick up. Also a note, she's more of a wolf than a dog, but she's domesticated so I don't know. You’ll find I don't know a lot of things. But what I do know is that after I ate a nice breakfast of toaster squares, I went to the school. I've been trying to teach myself more, and they have everything I could possibly need there. Today I tried to learn about Algebra. I didn't get it. The numbers confused me, and I wondered if there was a certain order you were supposed to learn these things. I also drew with Crayola's today. I drew that thing you see after it rains and the sun comes out. The red ink got all over my hands and made it look like I was bleeding. It was awesome.

Then I read an entire book about a guy and a girl falling in love. It made me cry. After that, I started to hear my tummy growl. I pulled out my iPod and blasted a bunch of interesting sounds. It's called music (you probably knew that). I did it as I walked to the store to get myself some food. I went to my usual store. The sign is broken, and I don't know the name. So I just call it The Store. I went to my garden that I scraped together. I picked some food from it. And also got a bag of dried apples. Lick and I ate together, and the two of us sat watching the sun go down. We sit at the top of a really tall building I use as shelter. I always do that. The sunset is pretty. Now I'm here writing my day. I enjoyed this. I think I might keep doing it. It does get a little lonely sometimes. But I'll always have Lick.

Entry 2

I decided to try driving again. It's been about two months since the last time I decided to drive to the store for dinner and ended up inside the gas station instead. And when I say inside I mean inside. I literally stepped on about a thousand chips as I got out. Lucky Lick decided not to join me. Since then I've been terrified. So today I have finally mustered up the courage to try again. I found the car I had crashed into the station, but I couldn't find the keys. So I went around to all of the cars, peeping through the window, to see if any of the keys had been left. Some of them did, but they were locked. I didn't want to have to break the window to get to them. I did finally find a newer-looking black van that was unlocked. I hopped into the seat without Lick and turned the keys. The car came alive and... jolted( that sounds right). I tried to remind myself which one was the stop and which one was the go. I couldn't quite remember so I tried one. I did remember to take the car out of the P into the D. I pressed my right foot to the go pedal and zoomed forward. I wasn't the best at keeping myself on the streets. But I made my way to the store without crashing. It was only when I got to the store I got so excited and forgot I was driving. Then when the wheel turned me into a tree I think I might have blacked out. Good thing the pillow saved me from any real damage. I evacuated the car-- yes, I looked at that one in the dictionary-- though I learn most of the words I use from the big box that turns on now and then. I heard a loud boom, and the ground shook a little. I don't think that it's really of any importance though. I had a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich on some stale crackers I found in a beaten-down house - I think you call it - for dinner today, and the sunset looked a bit redder than usual. I didn't do anything else exciting today. And the light is running out so I'm going to stop. Goodnight.

Entry 3

It's the middle of the night, and I'm writing because the big boom and shaking happened again, but even more than last time. I'm starting to think there is a problem now. I'm restless (that means you can't sleep right?), and so is Lick. She keeps whining and is now sitting in my lap as I write this. She's a bit heavy but it's the only thing to keep her from being scared. I feel sad for her. She's the one who took care of me. And honestly is the only reason I'm alive. She brought me food to eat and water when I was young. And she kept me from doing anything dangerous. Like one time I claimed a tree and fell out, breaking my leg. I sat there for a week waiting for when I could walk on it again. And she stayed with me the whole time and brought me food and water. I love her so much, and I don't know what I would do without her.

It’s happening again. The shaking. And I have this really strange feeling that there are other people out there. Out there causing this to happen. It makes me feel happy that maybe I can meet another person. But I’m scared at the same time. If they are causing the shaking then do I want to trust them? My curiosity is killing me. My stomach is a knot, and I'm starting to shiver. I want to know. So badly I want to know. So I might just find out. I'll come back too. I love this place too much, but I'll bring you along; I mean my journal. And, of course, Lick. Alright, I'm going to pack. See you.

Entry 4

It's morning now, and I watched the sunrise this morning because I won't be able to watch the sunset. I've never seen a sunrise or sunset so red as this morning. It was pretty but unnerving. I'm all ready to go. I've got some food. I've got a jar of peanut butter, Some food from my garden, and I picked some food from a tree that I like to climb. Ohm and some beans... yum. I don't know if that will last me, but I've seen Lick catch stuff.

I've also got my iPod with all my songs. Along with a book about how to survive in the wild. There is no sun today. So I'll have to wing it. Wish me luck.

Entry 5

Good news! The last time I wrote, a large grey blob appeared in the sky, so I followed that. It was an exhausting day. It's night now. I just walked through a large forest. It was a very yellow forest and looked amazing with the blue sky. Like my eyes. But my eyes are more grey. Anyway, I walked for what I think was four hours-- again the sun wasn't out so I couldn't tell.-- before something interesting happened. I met an owl! And it attacked me! I must have accidentally thrown a stick at its nest because it was angry. This spiraled into me getting covered in mud. First, the owl swooped down and scratched me on the face. I then tripped over a root and tumbled down a small hill gaining speed until I tripped again and started rolling instead. Then I rolled into a large puddle of mud at the bottom. Yeah, my hair used to be black. It's brown now. I didn't bother cleaning it because more and more events kept me busy.

I lost the grey blob at one point and had to climb a tree to find it again. The problem was Lick barked at me to come down the whole time, and I couldn't focus. I yelled at her to stop but it didn't help. By that time I was too high for her to hear me. I met several birds I didn't care about. And when I finally got to a spot I could see the blob again I was so high I didn't want to come back down. I stayed there for a bit and thankfully did not fall when I did decide to come down. I was tired and hungry. The sun came out and gave me two minutes of hope and told me what time it was. It was lunchtime. So I ate an apple with peanut butter for lunch. I fed Lick some carrots.

Then I started walking again, but my bad luck seemed to continue because as I did I felt yet another shake and heard another boom more vicious than anything I had felt in the city. I fell on my butt. It hurts now. Along with my face, head, feet, legs, and throat. Oh, I forgot to tell you about that one. Well, the reason my throat hurts is because, at some point during the day, I also lost Lick. So I spent the rest of the day yelling her name until I finally found her only a few steps behind me. Have no idea where she went or when she got back, but now my wrist hurts from writing this too. See ya.

Entry 6

I didn't write the past two days because I've been too tired. I spent those two days walking. I eventually found a river and washed my hair. And if you want to know, yes, I do wash myself often. There is a lake a little ways away from the city that I use. The days were pretty uneventful too. Which is another reason I haven't written. Just walking and trying to stay on my feet from the more frequent and ever-growing shaking that keeps happening. Lick found a friend. It's a small cat that is really friendly. It brought me a rat. I thanked it and threw the rat over my shoulder. I've eaten rats before but it's not really… not... I don't really like eating it. That was pretty much the first day. There were some more quakes and I found that they come in short spurts. And then leave for a long time.

The second day it rained all day. I got some walking in but it was wet and we were all tired. Plus there was lighting and Lick is terrified of lighting, so we sat most of day two under a tall brown tree with lots of leaves to keep ourselves dry. The cat was there too. I named it Jack. And if it's a girl I'll just change it to Jacklyn. No biggie. It was peaceful sitting there. The forest went quiet under the sound of the rain. I caught up on a lot of sleep the second day. We did walk a bit that day too. Maybe about for an hour and then we stopped in a cave that we shared with a couple of rabbits. I noticed something white falling from the sky. Except it wasn't snow. It wasn't cold, it was warm. I don't have a clue what it was or why it was there.

So that leads up to this day. It's morning so I haven't done anything yet. It stopped raining and it's cool for now but the sun is out so it's probably going to get warmer. Write later.

Entry 7 I found the city today. I walked all day and got here at sunset. This city is a lot like mine. But the thing about this city. Is that it's on fire.