Deer Drum was meant to be a prosperous island with a reputation for culture and the arts. Yet here all that remained were less than two dozen residents huddled together in a few canvas canopies. Their faces looked drained. The trauma and hunger had sucked the tone from their cheeks. Loose, pallid skin hung from their jaws. Bloodshot eyes stared longingly at the world, hoping to wake from their nightmare, and unable to sleep in case worse ones returned. Xander and Sarid took me to an older lady called Eir. She was the island’s only doctor, and it was nothing short of miraculous she had survived. She had a burn on her right arm that was slow to heal with thick scarring at the elbow that made it difficult to bend. Her skin was pearl white and, although she was officially in her mid-fifties, the events had aged her to the point of seeming frail. She laid me down on a table and began asking me about my symptoms. She slowly ran her hands across my body, prodding different spots to see where the pain was most acute. It didn’t take long for her to make her diagnosis. “Two broken ribs and a concussion.” “How do I get it to heal?” I asked. “Don’t do much. Rest. It needs time,” Eir said. “The worst of it will pass in a few days. Then you can move about a bit. But it’ll take a few weeks for the rib to properly set in place again.” I sat up on the table, holding my right side for support. “And long-term?” “Long term, you’ll be fine.” I looked at Xander and Sarid. “Where do I stay?” “We can house you,” Xander nodded. I had assumed Xander meant ‘we’ as in the island, but it quickly became apparent he meant him and his family. It was his boot and arm that had caused my injuries, and now I was a guest in his home. There were four of them in the tent. Xander, his wife, and two children. His wife, Kurbani, was a quiet, petite woman a few years younger than Xander. She didn’t speak to me regularly. When she did it was usually pragmatic - asking me if I needed help with something, or offering me a drink. Throughout the day various other islanders would come by the tent. A few came to speak to me; the innate desire to learn about and from others hadn’t left the people of Deer Drum. But most came to spend time with the two children. Those left had come together and rallied round the younger generation, perhaps in part sensing the children needed the support. Though I suspect it also gave them some purpose. Xander’s son, Novak, seemed to need the distraction. When people came to visit he could laugh and regain himself, but alone he seemed withdrawn and docile. His sister, Mirai, was three or four years older, and perhaps that extra maturity, being nearly an adult, gave her some extra strength - that or it forced her to hide the pain. A few days of staying with Xander and his family and the pain in my head passed and my chest was beginning to heal. Quick movements still hurt, but the constant background stinging had subsided, and I could walk around without any hindrance. Now capable of it, I tried to help out as much as I could, mmall missions like fetching wood for fires or helping out with meals. However, I seemed to become a treasure as soon as they discovered I could fish - even rudimentarily. Anyone else who knew their way around a rod and line had been killed in the attack, and with no livestock on the island, the survivors' diets were lacking protein. I managed to fashion a rod from an old piece of metal, some string and a pole; and spent much of the day down by the edge of the sea, seeing what I could catch. It was odd to think it was less than two months since I had caught my first fish with Alessia. My first attempts had been met with ridicule, and now here I was, helping keep an island alive. The process of catching fish on a moving boat didn’t perfectly translate, but I was able to make do, catching enough for everyone to have a small portion most evenings. I couldn’t help but wonder how funny Alessia would find the idea of me being heralded as a great saviour for my fishing skills. After several days I was approaching full fitness and it would soon be time to decide when and where I would go from Deer Drum. It was nearing the end of the day, and I was silently contemplating my next journey by the ocean’s edge, when Xander came to find me. I smiled and nodded as he approached, but both of us remained quiet. There was still a degree of silence between us; part distrust, part solemness, part the bruises on my ribs caused by his boot. The gentle evening breeze rustling in nearby trees, the waves slipping over nearby rocks, continued to talk, but we did not. We both just stared out to sea, watching the sun bob on the horizon. “Looks like you’ve got another good haul,” Xander eventually said, looking down at the basket of fish by my feet, their dead tails reflexively twitching. “It’s been a good day,” I replied. “How’s everyone at the camp?” “Good, well… as good as they’ve been.” I gave a shy, uncertain smile. Silence, the status quo, temporarily restored. “I’m sorry for what happened,” Xander said. “I’m not sorry that we attacked you. I have a family to protect. But... I’m sorry we were wrong.” “Thanks,” I replied. I was unsure of what more to say. He was certainly trying to make amends. But the truth was my chest still hurt, and my torso was still covered in blue and black. “We can’t take the risk that one of those bastards might still be here,” he added. “It would help if you knew why,” I said. “They said it was for the books…” Xander said, his eyes fixed on the waves. “What?” I replied. “The one thing they took. The periodicals. The same books you came for.” My eyes widened. The same books that had brought me to Deer Drum - the same ones I was chasing - were what led to the island’s downfall. A whole culture was all but erased over books that a few weeks ago I believed were useless to everyone in the Archipelago but me. Xander continued. “They demanded we hand them over or they would start shooting. We did. But then they went through with the killing anyway.” “What did they want with the books?” I asked. Xander twitched his nose. “No idea.” “If they killed people afterwards…” I paused, thinking through the facts. “They may have come for the books, but they also came to murder.” I saw Xander reflexively turn his head away from me, his eyes fixed on a point out to sea, his entire mind focussed on that one wave. “Sorry,” I said. “I just wish we knew why.” “You’re not the only one,” Xander replied. “But that’s not what matters right now. Surviving is.” I hummed in sympathetic agreement. “Sun’s getting low. We may want to head back to the camp before it gets dark.” I pulled the fishless rod out of the sea. As I did, something caught my eye, a cylinder gently floating among the waves. “What’s that do you think?” I said, signalling. Xander lifted his hands up to his face, blocking out the evening glare. “Looks like a mast. It probably came from the wreck those fuckers left up the coast.” “Wreck?” “They arrived at night One of their boats ran into the rocks and they had to swim the last bit. The one blessing we got. Couldn’t bring all their weapons ashore.” Xander turned to head back to camp. I took one last look at the mast, then followed Xander. “Is the wreck still there?” “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s all waterlogged. We made sure no one was getting anything off that ship.” “But the wreck’s still there? And some of the cargo?” I walked a couple of paces ahead, so I could turn and see Xander’s face. “Yeah. It’s sunk, but it’s there.” “There might be information on that boat. Seals on equipment, signs, something that might tell us who these people are, or at least where they came from.” “That boat’s fifty metres out to sea surrounded by rocks. You wanna go play explorer, you can do it alone,” Xander said, his jaw tensed. “I would love to find out who did this. I’d love to have my revenge. But we have to survive first.” “Can you at least show me where it is?” Xander ignored my question, his eyes narrowing on something up the hill. He hushed for me to be quiet and then crouched. Turning around, I could see a row of trees and an old brick wall at the edge of a field. Crouched down behind the wall was one of the woman from the camp. We crept up the hill and squatted down by the wall next to the woman. She peered over the top, staring out across the open space. “What’s up?” Xander asked. The woman squinted. “There’s someone there. Moving between the trees on the other side of the field.” The gap of open farmland was around fifty metres across. I scanned the opposing woods looking for the attacker. “They’re stealthy,” the woman said. “They stay down for a long time not moving. But they’re there. I’m certain of it.” We both stared, waiting to join in the shared knowledge. We paused, frozen to the spot, for a few minutes until we saw it: a brief flash of a silhouette moving from trunk to trunk. They appeared, darted a few metres, and then disappeared behind the next timber thick enough. “Stay here, keep an eye on them. I’ll get some others. We’ll get the shit.” Xander said. I shook my head “If you go back to camp now, and they follow you, things could get worse.” “So what do you suggest?” Xander whispered. I thought for a moment, the ideas tossing and turning in my head. “I’ll go the other way. Off to the left. Either they follow me, in which case you wait five minutes and leave. Or, they stay put and I can sneak up on them.” Xander thought for a few seconds, then nodded.. “Go.” I looked to my left. The old wall turned to rubble quickly, leaving me exposed. I wanted the person to see me. But they were also likely armed, ready to take a shot if any person stood out long enough. I had to find cover. A short distance away I could see a thick beech. I stood and ran towards it. As soon as I made the sudden movement, I could feel my ribs twist and twinge in my chest. I panted and limped my way to cover. I let my back fall against the bark of the tree, taking quick shallow breaths as my lungs grated against the broken rib with each inhale. Hesitantly, I peaked around from my shield and peered across the field. At first I saw nothing, but then the figure moved between the foliage, heading parallel. They were following me. The plan was working. The next tree big enough to hide behind was some twenty metres or so. Taking one, large, painful breath in, I ran for the next spot. I didn’t make it half way before my lungs gave way. Instead of a crouched sprint, the last several metres were little better than a staggered, upright walk. My spine slumped against the uncomfortable trunk of an old oak tree. I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the pain, but my thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling out across the meadow. “Ferdinand!?” I recognized the tone immediately. I couldn’t help but feel a warmth come over me at the sound of that bemused, angry, condescending tone. I scrunched my face, my panged breathing suddenly calmed. I stood up, and walked round the tree, marching straight into the open field in front. The target appeared from the forest opposite, walking out to greet me. “It is you,” she called out.


There they sat; the three of them. The feeling began at the ends of their toes and slowly crept like electricity up their bones and through their skinny legs. The drops of the healing waters remained on their skin and immediately they felt the magic of the place pulsate through them. “Do you feel anything?” Beatrice was always the more headstrong of the trio. “It’s gonna take more than a few minutes! Be patient!” Margot retorted at her friend as she looked over at the third member of the group, Jessica, and rolled her eyes. The three friends sat waiting on the banks of the Spring. That’s what they called it, the Spring. Any other body of water on the whole of the Island needed its proper name, but not this place. It all started a few years ago when it seemed like everyone everyone knew was coming down with polio. The sufferers would dip their legs in the cool water, play with the ripples, toss in stones, hope and wish, and inevitably be healed within moments, though some weak in faith required a few more treatments. Father Walsh reluctantly raised funds to bring the ill of the Village to the Spring, douse them in the water, see them heal, and praise the Divine and thank Him for giving the people of the Village these miraculous waters. New and would-be mothers spent hours at the Spring, then, would move on to the local parish to praise the Divine and give thanks for the healing waters they had been given. Father Walsh had a telescope that he would let the children of the Village look through after Mass every Sunday. First, the Sacrament, then the Heavens. He kept papers by his bedside and would scribble notes on them as he was inspired by the majesty of the universe and the wondrous majesty of the Divine he witnessed when gazing through the lens most nights. His flock knew him and his eccentricities well and in the Sanctuary, they would laugh and giggle at the homilies he would deliver about the wonders of the world the Creator had provided. It was a revolutionary time, and the doctors and professors on the Mainland were steadily making intellectual progress. Father Walsh desired to see the fusion of higher thought with that of the pondering of the Highest of them all. Father Walsh would begin his recent homilies in a similar fashion: “We are all here this Blessed Sabbath to come and partake of the Sacrifice of Our Creator. We also know that there are many temptations amongst us: false idols, natural wonders that draw us further from the Divine… waters that claim to heal without the Touch of the Almighty. I must surrender the fact that many have claimed to be healed by the Spring and its appealing waters. However, we as men and women of the Faith must guard against the denial of the Divine’s Touch on these waters. In fact, there are learned men, scientists and naturalists that reliably claim that the Spring is in fact just that: a spring. A naturally occurring spring of naturally occurring water rising from the earth. While I fault no one for dipping their extremities in the waters, be aware of the fact the Divine above is the cause of these supposed ‘healings,’ not the Spring itself. ” The congregants scoffed. How could this backcountry priest know anything about polio? About the toll it took on the families. Their children - their next-in-line - knew that there would be no more if not for these waters. It truly *was* as if the Divine had dipped His own toes in the Spring and blessed it Himself. One could feel the pulsations up the back, through the neck, and around the skull. Headaches were no more; pain did not exist. Afternoons-out became commonplace in the Village and nearly everyone went to the Spring after Sunday Mass. Father Walsh would become reluctant, but bless the Spring nonetheless each Sabbath, hoping to indirectly demonstrate to the villagers that the Divine had touched these waters and that that is why they were miraculous; the Spring was not simply a supernatural phenomenon, but proof of Heaven’s Grace. He noticed that many began drinking the liquid and claimed the healing of fevers, melancholy, and dipsomania. Wives would dry-out their husbands on Saturday night, see them fit to attend Mass on Sunday morning, catch them drinking Sunday afternoon, then promptly bring them to the Spring before dusk that evening. “Divine above. What am I to do? My parishioners, my congregants, my flock, they are turning their eyes toward the less-than-sacred. Toward waters that I do not feel in my deepest of soul are holy - not sent from You above. Great Creator, Grand Architect of All, what am I to do?” Father Walsh prayed, asked, and pleaded with the Divine more each evening than he had the one before. “Let us look at your wonders, shall we, and reinvigorate in me the faith that has sustained this Island for ages.” Peering at the sky above, the priest saw the familiar constellations, planets, and the Majesty he was accustomed to. “Well, that *is* odd, is it not, Father above?” The Moon had seemingly shrunk *again*, not drastically, but noticeably once more. It should never have been this diminished in the Heavens this time of year. “What, oh Divine, is becoming of this Heavenly body? Why does it seem to continue to diminish?” Father Walsh was perplexed. \ “It *does* appear small.” Bishop O’Malley knew little of astronomy but gazed at the Moon often as he pondered the Mysteries. “What, Reverend Walsh, makes *you* feel as though the Moon is getting smaller?” “I have been watching the Heavens nightly for several years now - since coming to serve the congregants of this Island - and I know well these bodies in the sky. There is something amiss; something quite off about all of this.” Father Walsh peered once more through his diminutive telescope. “I can see that the Moon above has diminished. There is no manner in which it should be *this small*. Something is just not right, Brother. I’ve noticed, in fact, that something has been ‘different’ about the skies in the recent weeks, but I can now place it: the Moon itself is small; smaller than it should be.” “This all seems like guff to me, Brother. I’m sorry to say, but this all does not seem possible. While the Moon does seem out of place and small, who are we to judge the Divine? What would make the whole of the Moon succumb to the mass of the Heavens above? There is just no manner in which this could happen.” “I know, I know. But, you must believe me, Bishop O’Malley: something *is* amiss.” Father Walsh tried to convince the wary bishop of his theory: that the Moon itself had begun to shrink progressively since the discovery of the healing powers of the Spring: “Brother, I tell you, I tell you, I do: the Heavens above have not been the same since my flock have been dipping their toes in and drinking the waters of the Spring. Stars have ever so slightly shifted, entire constellations are being altered! Orion’s Belt doesn’t even fit anymore! But, most tragically of all, the Moon is shrinking, day by day.” “Why is this so troubling to you, Reverend Walsh? What are you getting at?” “Bishop, you must understand, the Moon, as odd as it seems, controls the waters of the earth! The Moon dictates to our earth how and when the tides shall rise and fall. Without this heavenly body, fish will no longer know where to swim. Fishermen will not know where to fish! Villages near the sea, like ours, will perish! Even the Spring, as inland as it might be compared to our small Village, will be overpowered by the sea! These methods, these tides, these *reliable* methods keep all life in check.” Father Walsh could hardly compose himself and he was blushing in the presence of the Bishop. “Bah!” “No, my lord. I do tell you: this is troublesome.” “Well, what are we to do?” The Bishop knew the consequences of Father Walsh’s theory. \ “Before we depart, I do have a message to give all of the Village. The Spring is hereby off limits to all.” An audible gasp lifted to the vaulted ceiling of the old cathedral. “I know many of you rely on these waters, but they are not Holy! They are in fact destroying your fellow man. You must have faith in what I say: these waters will destroy us all.” The parishioners had heard this nonsense before - that all use of the Spring was unholy and that they must give the Divine their thanks before, during, after, and always. “I mean this! It will be folly to continue to use these waters!” The congregation began to leave the cathedral and directed themselves to the Spring. Children were hobbling on crutches; elders were barely walking down the stairs leading away from the Sanctuary. The Spring was their only hope and their last resort. Father Walsh and the Divine had failed them habitually. \ “Please, I beg of you! Stop! This Spring is not the answer!” Father Walsh implored his congregants. “Then what in the Hell is the answer, Father? Don’t tell us anymore of that nonsense you preach in your rambling homilies.” A bold member of his Flock spoke up and the rest followed suit. They shouted and threw stones and branches at him. Some spat. “Alright, alright. But… you must listen! All of you!” Father Walsh was able to still the crowd. “The Moon! The Moon is diminishing. It’s becoming smaller due to the use of these Waters… due to the use of this Spring! We cannot use it anymore! You, Beatrice! You, Margot! You, Jessica! It might save your legs… it might have already! It might! But, it will inevitably destroy us all!” The crowd scoffed. “To Hell with him!” “No! No! I beg of you to *not* use these waters ever again! The Moon controls the tides. It dictates to the waters around our Island as to what they shall do. I swear it. Oh, please, I swear it!” “Run him out of the Village!” Some shouted. “Send him back to the Mainland!” Shouted others. “Kill him; hang him!” Shouted some. \ All were eventually healed. There was no pain, no headaches, no trembling, no weakness, no polio. When the waters rose they deconstructed the Cathedral and brought its remnants inland for firewood. As the sea encroached and even more livestock died and crops failed, the Spring became their only respite. Eventually, the waters of the sea overtook the Spring and the parishioners waited for finality on the rocks above. They all surely perished, and the Spring let out a hollow creak as its waters succumbed to those of the cold, dark Sea.


"I have no fear, except that which i wield on behalf of the master" -The nameless Pain, or perhaps a feeling of tension. This was my first memory of being born. I was not an infant, but rather, a thought. A conjuration, brought forth by anxiety, fear, and distress. This fear, pulled out and shaped by curiosity and imagination, became my body. my mind was fresh, open to the moderated tweaks of darkness and faceless nightmares. I opened my eyes to see my first sights, a blackness that i could not blink away. My tense body became relaxed in the empty space and the numbness gave way to the feeling of icy coldness and a sort of thick semi-liquid, enveloping my body, restricting any movement to only slow gestures. My eyes finally took to the dark, adjusting and widening, they saw a crystalline window before me, shielding me inside a casket sized cell. I pushed a curious hand through the icy gel and touched the window, it became as ash and drifted outward off of my hand as the climate of my cold shelter shifted to a wet heat. The gel peeled off the back wall and nearly pulled me out of my cell as gravity ripped it into the darkness. I braced my hands on either side and looked outward into the endless dark. I saw tens, hundreds, even thousands of similar crystal cells hanging in a web of deep purple sap. Finally, I glanced downward and saw, far below, a black watery floor, lighted only by luminescent bodies which moved like massive eels, building waves as they glided about the otherwise calm sea. I began to think of where to go next, what i might find, and what i was there for. The curiosity built to a squall, then suddenly, my cell began to tremor as the sap-like gel it hung upton began to tense. My eyes caught movement above me and a new creature came into vision. It Was bigger than myself many times over, it's comparatively small, metallic black body was suspended over eight legs which all became as triple pronged hooks from the knee joint. It had a V shaped head with a dozen eyes set between two horizontal mouths encircled with fangs of varying sizes. It was obviously coming toward me yet i felt no fear. It exhaled a fine mist which paralyzed my muscles bringing a second wave of the displeasing tense feeling. I spoke no words and it briefly paused to look me over, perhaps for injury, then it pulled me onto it's back with more of the familiar webbing. There, I came to rest between a few other individuals in the same situation. The others looked dazed, bored even. But I imagine I looked different, wide eyed, very interested in what might come next. After all, this creature could move much more intuitively than myself, or so I thought. A sudden burst of light, like I had never imagined possible, flashed under the creature from behind us. The creature jolted and somehow lost footing. we were now, one and all, falling toward the sea. The paralysis would make this situation tricky, even though i felt no fear i knew for some reason I couldn't survive well in the depths for long. I fought for control, struggled mentally, screamed within for my body to move, but nothing happened. Whatever the light did to put me in this situation also untethered us from the creature, so i was in free fall along with the other people who were silently falling to their inevitable demise. I fell with my eyes wide open, I would miss nothing in my last moments, perhaps on contact my limbs will begin to move again. But they didn't. I hit feet first and speared into the waters. only a few feet away, the large creature slammed into the sea resulting in an ebbing tide which stirred me to the surface where i drew another breath. My arms felt a sting, a tension fading and being replaced with a burn. Good, I thought, throwing out my arms to shove liquid under me as though climbing out. This did not work, this hot, stinging, liquid was not like my serene icy gel back in the cell above. I tried a new method but only found myself going under again, so i stopped. I reached out with my senses trying to spot something that wasn't sinking into the endless depths and I saw a massive stream of lights coming toward me from beneath. It seemed to be falling up, the only way i could describe it's speed at the time. I felt the water well up as it was nearing the surface, It's mouth began to open showing to me a darkness even deeper than pitch black. I sat still, unsure as to what action to take. Suddenly it shifted upward at an angle and breached, engorging itself with the multi legged creature which I had identified as my determined tour guide. I felt alone again, even if the empty eyed people had escaped. But it was hardly the time to worry, This new guide had broke surface and fell right on me. I may have lost some of the remaining air in my chest but it made my grip all the more desperate. The eel-like creature rose again almost immediately and seemed to slow to a halt, beaching itself. What fortune would have me survive such a trip. I eagerly ran up the belly of the beast to try and see land or whatever it was resting on. I finally came to the mouth and could smell what i would later identify as the inner parts of the multi legged creature. Almost being overcome with a dizziness from the scent, I managed to hop to what I was hoping to be solid ground. Landing, I quickly found that it was merely solid in appearance. I sank to my knees before I could react but I hit a second layer that seemed quite stable. I found it to be adequate for catching my breath, so I awkwardly sat down the rest of the way to the muddy surface. It smelled like the thing before, everywhere. This was easily the first smell I could recognize strongly enough to call my first. This was unfortunate but not as much as the reason for the smell. My vision had to resharpen as the beached thing had been so brightly colored until finally coming to a stop here. As my perception began to focus I spotted mounds of dissected Multi legged creatures, all apparently spat up from these monstrous eel beings. I decided at that point to affectionately refer to the multi legged things as "Line guides" as they traveled on the webs of sap and guided me toward a destination I never got to previously. I felt something new, anger. I felt for the line guide, perhaps because it was the first other living thing i had seen, or perhaps out of pity for their apparent role as a consistent victim of the now vilified water monsters. They were an easy villain in my young mind, they were bright and hurt my eyes, they kill things that I hardly got to know, and nearly drowned and crushed me. On top of all this, they slobbishly park their overindulged, comatose carcass on the banks of the old victims of their overeating. This thought, coupled with my own easily distracted curiosity, replayed the fall. What was that light? Where did it come from? Instantly, I found myself blaming the wicked eels, assuming they had some sort of maniacal weapon to capsize unknowing line guides so they could slurp them up. I was absorbed in this random quandary for some time. But I digress, since my search for answers has only begun.


Tim leaves city hall taking his frustration out on the ground with every step. A few people reach out to introduce themselves and comfort him, but he ignores them and pushes forward. He throws open the door outside and sits on the steps. Between tears, he looks at Bass Creek, the town that is alive. People are walking are laughing. A father is carrying his child on his shoulders. A car passes by with a young couple laughing in the front street. "Why can't you just accept this place, Stephen," Tim says. "Tim?" he hears Velma's voice. He rolls his eyes. She always likes being the peacekeeper. "Velma, please don't try to persuade me to go back inside. I cannot handle Stephen's pretentious bullshit anymore," Tim says. Velma sits next to him. "No, I actually agree with you," she smiles. "You do," Tim narrows his eyes at her. "Yes, this town is amazing, and Stephen is way too far up his ass to realize it," she says. "Oh, great," Tim stumbles over his words. He was prepared to be mad at her, and he is left confused. "Come on, let's explore this place further," Velma takes his hand and start to run through the town. People wave at them as they run. Tim is quick to wave back at every person they see. They pass by a diner, a general store, and a gas station, and at every spot, they stop and stare. After running for several moments, Velma stops in front of a library. "Wait," she steps closer to the doors. "Really, you choose a library?" Tim looks around for alternative locations, and Velma enters behind him. Tim shrugs and enters. No one else is in the library, and Velma has already made her way to the middle of the shelves. Tim goes to the aisle that has a sign on the edge with a random set of numbers. Velma is looking at a collection of books on historical events. "How much do you know about the world before the war?" Velma asks. "Uh, I don't know. I have picked up things from other travelers and random scraps, but outside of that, I guess little." "Humanity did so much that I bet that this shelf doesn't even cover a fraction of a percent, and it could all easily be forgotten in a few generations." "Not if I can help it," Tim and Velma strike defensive poses to a middle-aged woman with glasses who jumps back in shock, "Sorry, you two must be new. I should know better than to sneak up on people." "No, we are sorry," Tim relaxes. "Do you get new people a lot around here?" Velma asks. "Not really, but they tend to have similar behavior," she holds out her hand, "I am Barbara, and I run this library. I understand your fear of humanity losing its knowledge, but if I have my way, this library will not go the way of Alexandria," she brings her hand up to her face, "I am sorry you two probably haven't heard of Alexandria. It is a library that got burned." "Uh, you are correct. I have never heard of this library," Tim rubs his neck, "I am Tim." "I'm Velma. What other books do you have here?" Velma asks. "Oh so many, follow me," Barbara guides them through the shelves, "We have biographies, cook books, fantasy, romance, mystery, comic books, science books," she turns to them, "We do have some science fiction books, but we tend to keep those restricted because people tend to have averse reactions to the stories." "I am going to be honest. I understood little of what you said," Tim replies. Barbara laughs. "Don't worry. If you decide to stay, you can immerse yourself in the literary world," Barbara replies. "I would like that," Velma says. "Same," Tim says. A beeping noise comes from the front of the library. "Don't panic. It is just my coffee. Have either of you ever had coffee?" both shake their heads, "I will bring you a cup." After she walks away, a book falls on the ground. Tim walks over and picks up the book. "What is a yearbook?" he asks. "It is usually something that a school makes to show who attended that year," Velma stands next to him, "I have never seen one." Barbara slaps the book out of Tim's hands with a panicked look on her face, "Don't open that book." "What?!" Tim holds his hands in the air as if accused of a crime. "That is how it starts," Barbara scratches her face, "Find your friend and leave now." Barbara slams her head against the shelves. Tim and Velma take that as a sign to run out of the library. When they reach the street, they see the entire town is slamming into buildings. Two cars get into an accident before them. "What the hell is going on?" Velma asks. "I don't know, but we have to find Stephen," Tim says.


In the year 2042, the world was annihilated in a storm of nuclear fire. Humanity, the dominant species of a dying planet, chose its own destruction over cooperation. My great-great-grandparents were two of the lucky thousand chosen at random to survive extinction. When the bombs fell, they and their peers were taken to The Bunker, a massive underground city built to sustain human life indefinitely in the event of nuclear war. The holocaust came and went and all communications from the surface world ceased. That was it. The end of the human race save for a small pocket living deep, deep below the ground. The first Governor of The Bunker kept tabs on the surface, periodically checking radiation levels, air quality, and so on, but the equipment on the surface quickly fell into disrepair with no one willing to brave the wasteland to maintain it. The population growth quickly began to overwhelm the available resources of The Bunker. By the time I was born, the governor had instituted a strict, One Child policy. Second children were routinely executed by the governor's security forces along with their law-breaking parents. The orphaned first children inevitably became street rats, rebels, and criminals. Just after my seventeenth birthday, the war began. A group of radicalized Orphaned stormed a security outpost en masse. Eighty seven people, including the entirety of the security garrison at the outpost, twenty officers, were killed. That was the first of many battles between the Orphaned, and the governor and his police force. With access to weapons, the Orphaned swelled in numbers until they included nearly a third of the Bunker's nine thousand residents. That's when the war found me... "Quick, get inside, hurry!" Mom was sweating as she helped me crawl into the ventilation shaft in my bedroom. It was barely wide enough for me to squeeze inside and the cold air trying to push me out made goosebumps form up and down my body. "Mom, please!" I cried quietly as she gently replaced the vent cover in front of my face, "You need to hide too! You and dad!" "Shh…" she pressed a finger to her lips and peered into the vent, looking into my eyes past the louvers, "We'll be OK sweetie. You just stay quiet, alright. We'll be OK, I promise," I could hear gunfire and shouting outside the apartment. "I love you," Then she was gone. I waited in the vent, trying not to make a sound for what felt like an eternity. The gunfire grew and grew in intensity. The lights went out, replaced by dim, red emergency lighting. I heard shouting. Dad's voice? Then my brother Nathan's. Then my mom screamed a shrill, painful, scream that ended as abruptly as it started. More gunfire. Louder now. I heard glass breaking and loud crashes. Then the apartment went silent. Gunfire continued outside in the halls, more distant now. I could hear footsteps, heavy, walking around the living room. Two? No, three sets of boots. I swallowed hard and tried not to breathe. I felt like my heart, pounding against the steel vent, would give me away. The door into the bedroom opened. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. My heart raced. My mouth went dry. It felt like the vent was going to squeeze me to death. Someone walked in. I heard three more steps. They ripped the sheets off the bed, flung the mattress across the room. I could hear furniture sliding across the floor and things breaking. Then a curse, more footsteps, going away from my hiding place this time. Then, quiet. I could still hear the fighting outside the apartment but it was growing more and more distant. I waited until the only sound I could hear was the ringing in my ears. It may have been an hour, or a day. I wasn't sure. Eventually, when no one came, I carefully pushed the vent cover out, and shimmied my way out of the ventilation shaft. My room was absolutely trashed. Debris and broken furniture lay everywhere. My clothing had all been ripped from the closet, scattered on the floor and trampled. There were bloody boot prints all over the place too. I swallowed, and crept out into the living room. I saw my dad there first. He lay on his back near the front door. His head lay in a pool of blood. There was a large bullet wound in the center of his forehead. His eyes were rolled back and bloodshot. My brother sat slumped against the wall, three gunshot wounds in the center of his chest and his face covered in black and purple bruises. My mom was the worst though. She lay sprawled out on top of the kitchen table, her clothes were tattered and torn nearly off and her chest was a bloody mess of stab wounds. I stood there in the doorway, staring. I didn't want to, but I couldn't look away. Tears welled in my eyes and still I just stood there and stared. I was one of them now. One of the Orphaned. One day, we'll all go, I remembered Dad's voice, We'll just pack up what we can make a life on the surface. He had been on the Bunker's science staff. I remembered him trying to convince the governor that the surface would be livable again. I remembered him losing his job because of it. They had called him crazy. I remembered his stash of supplies then, hidden. I darted across the kitchen, trying not to look at my family anymore, and found the loose floor panel. I pried it open and tossed it aside with a clang. There it was. A big gray duffle bag, covered in dust. I yanked it from its hiding place and opened it. There were weapons inside, a security submachine gun and handgun, and an old hunting rifle with wooden grips from before the great war. I took them out and made sure they were loaded, then checked the bag again. It was full of canned food, freeze-dried ration packs, purified water, medical supplies, ammunition, and even a few toiletries like toothpaste and soap. I ran back to my room and grabbed what clothing I could find that wasn't covered in blood and tossed it into the bag then threw the strap over my shoulder, and steeled myself. The tears had dried now, leaving a salty film on my face. I washed them away quickly in the bathroom, and left the apartment. The halls were dark, just like home, with red emergency lights bathing the Bunker in an eerie glow. I knew I needed to get to the governor's office. The Bunker entrance was close by, according to maps I had seen. The way I figured, the battle would distract everyone and, with any luck, I wouldn't see anyone along the way. Even so, I crept along quietly, my head on a swivel and my gun at the ready. Dad had taught me to use it. How to aim, and how to squeeze a trigger if I ever had to. How to clean and maintain a weapon. He had been preparing me for this my whole life, I realized. I reached a corner and heard voices. I peeked around carefully and saw two security troopers in full gear searching the lifeless body of a young man wearing ragged clothes. An SMG just like mine lay in the blood next to him. I swallowed the lump in my throat, checked that my safety was off, whirled around the corner and squeezed the trigger. I didn't let go until the gun stopped bucking with recoil. My ears rang as the deafening gunshots stopped. The two men in the hall had been reduced to a bloody pulp by the hail of bullets. I lost control and wretched at the sight of them. Sweating, and shaking, I quickly searched the bodies for ammunition, reloaded my weapon and darted further down the hall. My stomach was still in knots and my breath was coming ragged and shallow. I had to go, I had to get out of this hell. As I approached the large open doorway to one of the main community areas, I could hear more fighting below. It was a large, three-story space with a ceiling that had once simulated the sky on a sunny day. It was dark now, bathed in the same faint red light as the rest of the Bunker. I was on the upper level and I crept around the periphery, staying low and close to the walls. I watched the battle unfolding below, on the ground floor. A squad of security officers in the middle of the long chamber were being beaten and bludgeoned and torn to pieces by rebels armed with kitchen knives, hammers and a random assortment of other tools. Another squad was engaged in a heated firefight with a group of rebels three times their number. A third squad burst into the chamber from a doorway on the second level and mercilessly mowed down the rebels that were beating their comrades on the ground floor. The entire chamber was filled with acrid smoke and the stench of fear, and sweat, and blood, and death. I hurried along to the opposite end of the chamber and left as quietly as I had come. I had to be a ghost, or I would doubtless be caught. I found an exit and darted through into a completely black corridor that ended in a T-intersection up ahead. I crept along, hugging the wall as best I could. I heard voices, footsteps. I looked back and forth and heard a second set of footsteps behind me. There was nowhere to go. Panicking, I dropped to the floor, pressing myself as tightly into the corner against the wall as I could and trying to protect my head. The two sets of footsteps entered the corridor at the same time. There was a brief pause, a wordless roar and then a deluge of gunfire opened up just over my head. Several sets of boots sprinted past me in the dark. I heard bodies drop to the floor. I felt their blood spattering over me and tears running down my face. Bullets whizzed past and ricochets bounced off the walls and floor. I felt a round bite into the back of my shoulder and I stifled a scream, though I probably would not have been heard over the din anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed myself tighter, tighter into the wall, trying not to move, or make a sound. Then someone fell on top of me. A man. I could feel the stumble of his beard against the back of my neck. He did not move, or breathe. I could feel his hot blood seeping through the back of my shirt. More boots sprinted past, more gunshots, around the corner this time. Shouting. Cursing. Then, silence. I allowed myself a long, shaky exhale. My back and shoulder throbbed. I pushed the body off of my back and got unsteadily to my feet. I reached back to where the bullet had struck and my hand came away red, though I didn't even know if it was my blood or not. I continued to the corridor intersection. The fighting had moved in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Relieved, I ran, as fast as I could, toward the Bunker's main entrance. It had not been opened in over a hundred years, but I hoped against hope that it would work. I reached a long staircase going straight up and climbed, still clutching my weapon in one hand, the other hanging limp at my side. At the top of the stairs, a massive steel door blocked the way into the entrance chamber. To the right, a smaller door stood open with a sign that said, 'Administration' flickering above it. I went inside. I was sure this was the governor's office. The place was ransacked and picked clean of anything of value that was not bolted down. At the center of the room, stood a large round desk with a computer console built into it. I went over to it and breathed a relieved sigh when I saw it was still functional. I set my bag down on the desk and began searching the terminal for a way to open the door. A file caught my eye as I dug into the system. It was labeled, 'surface analysis records'. I opened it, expecting to see a log of files sixty or more years old. The file at the top of the list, however, was labeled with yesterday's date. I opened it and my eyes began to scan across the data. Normal. It was all normal. Oxygen levels, radiation, temperature, everything. Normal. Livable. "What are you doing!?" I heard a gruff voice growl from the door. I gasped and grabbed for the handgun in my duffle bag, pointing it at the door with my one good arm. I cringed at the pain the sudden move sent through my other shoulder. An older man in a tattered suit stood there, unarmed, studying me with cold eyes. The governor. I was sure. "You," I said, my voice coming out weaker, and smaller than I expected. "Get away from there," he barked, stepping toward me. "YOU DID THIS!" I shouted, "YOU KNEW!" Before I knew what I was doing, I had crossed the room and squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the governor's chest and sent him sprawling to the floor. Before he had a chance to say anything, to do anything, I had emptied the magazine into his face, leaving nothing but a red smear across the floor. I was hyperventilating. My hands shook violently and tears streamed, unhindered, down my face. He had known all along that we could leave. Why? What was the point of all this? I screamed and began kicking the body as hard as I could. He had killed them all. Everyone that had died in this stupid war. All that blood was on his hands. I began sobbing uncontrollably. I felt ribs crack. I started stomping down on his lifeless chest, letting all my anger and frustration out. I felt it cave in beneath the blows. I wished that he was still alive to feel it all, to experience hell with the rest of us. Finally exhausted and sobbing I turned away from the bloody mess that had been a man, and returned to the computer terminal. I found the door release, and activated the protocol. I heard an alarm blare outside the office and stepped out to see the massive steel door sliding slowly open. I walked out into the entrance chamber and it slid closed again behind me. Another alarm and a hiss of air filled the room as the atmosphere equalized with the outside. A second giant door groaned and screeched, and finally slid apart, revealing a dark, rocky space beyond. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, tossed my weapon inside and proceeded to climb the cavernous tunnel up, up, up. After climbing for what felt like forever, I reached an old rusted overhead door meant for vehicles, with a pedestrian door next to it. I turned the handle on the smaller door and pushed. After the rust on the hinges cracked, it swung open and a blinding light washed over me. I took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and let it fill me up. I stepped out into the sun and for the first time in my life, I was free.


I went to summer camp when I was a kid. My mother saw an ad online and insisted on it—this great, big, family-owned place tucked between some mountains in the Adirondacks. Summers in my small Vermont town were dull and uneventful, and though this was an attempt to fix that, I wanted nothing to do with it. Not because of the outdoors or anything. I didn’t mind being bunked in a dusty cabin, packed with strangers and spiders, without bathrooms or electricity. Nor did I think I was too cool for the silly games and activities proudly displayed on their website. It actually seemed fun. I just felt guilty having any sort of experience without Lily. She’d only been gone a few months. Cities and towns rushed past my window, growing few and far between. The wooded northern roads led us into a long stretch of evergreen tunnel. I gazed silently out the window, doing nothing to hide the bad mood I was in; I was a soon-to-be teenage girl who, on top of having her first fight with her parents, had just had her first period. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the car with them for two hours. I’d sometimes catch Mom’s eye in the rear-view, but she remained unusually silent. The mother I knew would have spent quite some time reviewing the dangers I could have faced that summer. Things like ticks, sun poisoning, bears, or becoming one of the two hikers a year who go missing in those six million acres. But there was none of that. Not even a word from my dad, who was always good for a laugh. I’d hardly spoken to either of them since Lily. I didn’t even wave bye when the ferry took off for camp. A thin white haze covered the water that day. I stared out over the side of the ferry as we drifted into it, face turned to the breeze as I pressed against the rail. There were two dozen other girls and boys on that boat, and most of them seemed to have already known each other. Some were chatting excitedly beside me, while others zoomed past in a game of tag or in search of other familiar faces that would light up when found. I took it all in, hopeful of what the summer had in store. The charms of Lily’s bracelet clinked against my wrist in the misty wind. Shuttle busses met us on the other side of Lake Champlain and drove small groups at a time down the winding road that eventually led to Burntwood Grounds. I was of the lucky few that had to wait for the last one to double back. The longer I spent on that bench by the dock, slouched against my bag, the more anxious I was to get there. I daydreamed of all the fun I might have, clinging to Mom’s promise that this place would feel like home soon enough. When my shuttle finally arrived, I took the very first seat and watched the others file in to the very back, wondering who, if any, among the group would be my friend by summer’s end. I imagined Lily sitting in the empty seat beside me choosing my next best friend. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would have done. But then I felt a knot in my gut, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her see all the fun I was having. After driving through an old, small town, whose bricked factories had long since shut down, we were treated to breathtaking glimpses of the Adirondack mountains, rugged and impossibly large. We couldn’t see some of their tops above the overcast, and eventually lost complete sight of them as the shuttle barreled down the forest road that lead to the camp’s entrance. We stopped at a seemingly innocent gap in the trees where a large branch-lettered sign pointed us inward: WELCOME TO BURNTWOOD. Beyond was a dirt road that ascended just slightly, as though taking you up to an entirely new world. I could feel a shift in gravity as we rolled through. At the end, the trees opened up once more and spit you out onto the largest field you’d ever seen. A single golf cart sat markedly in the distance. The other ferry-goers stood around a campfire beside it. They all perked up when they noticed the last shuttle approaching, watching as it dropped us off just a short walk away. Two girls by the fire clapped their hands and squealed at the sight of their friend behind me; she shoved past to go hug them. Counselors in bright orange shirts greeted the rest of us, gasping over how much everyone had changed since they’d last seen each other. I noticed several eyes pass over me and move on to someone else. It was clear that everybody knew everybody around here, and that I wasn’t yet one of them. An older gentleman with darker skin and a goatee stepped forward with his hand held high to get our attention. The pin on his shirt read “Simon.” His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Okay everyone, listen up! Now that you’re all here, and your bags are off to inspection, let’s take some time to catch up, make a s’more, or two—but not three!” He shot a comedic glance at one particular boy, alluding to an inside joke that I was on the outside of. He paused for laughter and then continued, drawing out his words in a slow, dramatic fashion as he paced back and forth, waving his hands as he spoke. “But first! I just want to say a few things before we begin the 46th summer here at Burntwood Grounds.” The crowd erupted into applause. Simon stood by with a grin and waited. “Yes! Forty-six summers of love. Love for each other. For ourselves. For nature. We are all truly blessed to be here—this, you know. But what you may not know is that things here are not always perfect. Just like each and every one us. There are parts of us beneath the surface—parts we may not like. Parts we deny. Maybe parts we aren’t aware of. Parts that make you who you really are, yes, but parts we can improve upon. Which is why our theme this summer is *self-discovery and growth*. Understanding who we are, for all the good and all the bad. Searching within ourselves for our true identity and embracing all parts of it so as to discover, not just who we are, but who we truly want to be. Find yourself. Love yourself.” He let the words sink in. A group of older kids in front nodded their heads and muttered a phrase under their breath that the rest of the group then repeated. It reminded me of church. I shuddered at a vision of Lily’s casket at the altar. “Now...” Simon concluded with a clap. “Who is ready for the best summer of their life!” The crowd cheered and broke into an excited frenzy, grouping up with the friends they hadn’t seen since last summer. I took a seat on a log by the dying fire, invisible among the buzz. Another girl my age sat down on the other side and poked some life back into the embers, preparing herself a s’more as the fire gasped and was alive once more. I tried not to look when she dropped marshmallows onto the dirt and put them on a stick anyway. She, too, was sneaking glances my way, and my struggle to avoid it only made it harder to do so. It made my palms sweat. But she didn’t seem bothered. She enjoyed her snack while playfully poking the pit with her stick, moving to a song that must’ve been playing in her head. My tempted eyes lingered longer, noting the many differences in our appearance: her straight blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders while my curly brown locks were hidden inside my bun; her bright green eyes were tempered with a stroke of hazel where my plain browns were dull and tired; her pale, freckly skin was worn with dirt and scrapes where my sun-kissed body was a smooth caramel, clean and moisturized. But the closer I looked, the more I saw familiarity in our distinction, as though created from the other’s shadow. The crackling of the flames grew louder. I heard the girl’s voice call out from behind them. “I like your bracelet.” I looked up and saw her take a big bite of her s’more. “Thanks,” I mustered. “Do you want one?” She was mid-chew, with marshmallow on her lips. I shook my head. I wanted to thank her but then seconds had passed. Her eyes kept meeting mine as she continued to chew. When she finished, she grabbed everything she needed to make another and moved herself next to me. “You’ve never been here before,” she stated, quite strangely. She was playing with the fire again, stabbing her stick in and out of it. “First time,” I said with my eyes to the ground, where my feet awkwardly tapped. The chatter around us was growing louder. I could feel the girl’s attention on me, so I asked, “What about you?” She huffed a laugh as she licked chocolate off her hand. “I was born here.” I froze. The fire hissed at her as she continued to poke it. When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t kidding. “I’m a Lovel,” she said. “Marcy’s my mom.” My stomach sank further. Was I supposed to know who that was? It was bad enough not knowing a single thing about Burntwood, now I was screwing up the only interaction I’d had all day. The girl could sense my anxiety. It seemed to amuse her. “My family owns camp,” she explained. “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. “Maddie.” Charlie reached down for the graham crackers and marshmallows and fixed herself another. “Maddie,” she repeated to herself. “Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.” Those big green eyes were begging me to join her. So I grinned and agreed, to which she joyfully tossed the bag of marshmallows my way. “This is my fourth one,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. Here.” She held her stick out for me to take, and without hesitating I grabbed it, not realizing it was the end that had been in the fire. It burned my hand worse than I ever had before. I shrieked and stared at the throbbing red mark seared into my palm, shooting a frightened glance at Charlie who was looking guilty as ever, her hands clasped over her mouth. The sea of children surrounding us parted as orange shirts hurried over. Simon pushed to the front, took one look at it, and immediately rushed me onto the golf cart. Gasps and murmurs tailed behind me. As we sped off, the roof of the cart rattling with every bump, I looked back at the receding crowd and saw Charlie wave a sad good bye. I waved back. — Burntwood only continued to expand, like a web, roads through the trees leading to various village-like sections of log cabins. It was hard to pay much attention to any of it given the pain in my hand. After what felt like far too long, we’d finally stopped at what appeared to be the main area of camp. Two large buildings faced one another, separated by a view of the lake beyond. Simon led me into the left building, through a lobby and into an open recreational space where two women—one young, one old—stood face to face behind a table, in the midst of a seemingly important discussion. The younger woman froze at the sight of us. “Medical,” Simon announced. The younger woman’s face softened as she turned to face us, the older woman’s gaze still on her. A white glow from the day’s overcast sky was pouring in through the window wall behind them, casting shadows of the tables and sofas all around. The younger woman stepped out from around the table. “What happened?” “Sorry, Marce. She was cooking marshmallows with Charlie. Grabbed a stick by the wrong end.” The older woman, whose wrinkled neck disappeared somewhere inside her purple shall, began to walk off but paused by Marcy’s side. “Fix it,” she muttered. “Yes, mother. Come,” Marcy added to me with an outstretched hand. I followed her to an office in back, taking a peak over my shoulder to see Simon with his arm around the old woman, heading for the exit. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my injury. Marcy’s office was small and refreshingly cold. Safe to say there probably weren’t very many air conditioned spaces at Burntwood, but the Hemlock Building was easily the most modern area of camp, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was no wonder head staff spent most of their time there. Marcy sat me down beside her desk and pressed a cold rag against my hand. I followed stray streams of drops down my wrist where Lily’s bracelet softly lay, her initials shining from the light above. “So how do you like Burntwood so far?” Marcy asked with a sarcastic grin. Her teeth were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. She might’ve been forty but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, unlike Charlie’s, was brown and wavy, and braided around the top of her head. Her eyes dark, but soft. “I know this place can be intimidating,” she said, “but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. Trust me. I’ve been here my whole life.” She motioned for me to hold the rag while she searched inside a first aid kit. My attention, however, was bouncing from wall to wall, each heavily decorated in Burntwood memorabilia. T-shirts and bandanas from years past spread open and nailed to the wall. Posters and pictures, and spray-painted trophies. Hiking gear, oars, ski poles, and an autographed hockey stick hung above the door. Marcy was rubbing ointment on my hand when she noticed my stare. “Chris Tremblay. Have you heard of him?” “Yeah!” I gasped. “My dad has his jersey.” “Well, he went here,” Marcy grinned. “Years ago. Just a small little thing like you. Knew nothing about camp. Didn’t want to be here,” she added with a raised brow. “And you know what he said to me on the last day? He said it was the best summer of his life. Cried when his parents picked him up. So he came back the next summer, and the five after that. Even dreamed of being a counselor some day but was too committed to hockey when the time came. After the Rangers drafted him, he visited us before heading down to the city. Said he owed everything to Burntwood. That it changed his life.” She must’ve noticed the skepticism in my face, as she leaned in closer. “When he first set foot on these grounds, nobody knew who he was. And when he left that day, there were kids wearing his name on the backs of their shirts.” I glanced once more at the blue shine of his stick above but didn’t feel any better; the air around Burntwood was still heavier than it was anywhere else. And I was still the fool who got hurt in her first hour there. I winced as Marcy began wrapping my hand, pressing the ointment down for a refreshingly cold sting. When she asked me to sit still, I apologized. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.” But she could see that I was not. She paused, the roll of gauze still in her hand as she worked through something in her mind. “Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly. “Something not many people know?” I nodded, and she continued, wrapping my hand as she spoke. “The woman who founded this place? She got burned real bad too. Her name was Eleanor. She lived in a shack deep in the woods with her family, many years ago. The man who owned it let them stay there in exchange for work. You know, helping on the farm. Stuff like that. And so for a while, that’s what they did.” The wrap got a bit tight, so Marcy unwrapped a few layers and began again. “It wasn’t a great life, but they had no where else to go. So every day, they worked and did all they could to survive in that little shack. It wasn’t easy. And the landlord didn’t make it any easier. You see, he was a very bad man. He was cruel. He worked them too hard, especially the children. Sometimes he’d withhold food if they weren’t working hard enough. When Eleanor stood up to him, he hit her. Almost broke her jaw.” Marcy turned and rummaged through the first aid kit once more, items jangling inside as she continued her story. “Of course, Eleanor then realized that her family was in danger, and that, despite the food and shelter, she needed to get them out of there. Whatever it took to keep her family safe. So late one night, while the landlord slept in his big, empty house beside them, she hurried her four little ones out into the darkness, carrying sacks filled with as much as they could carry. Food, water, clothing.” She finally found what she’d been digging for, pulling out a small pair of scissors and cutting the wrap from the roll. “It was a very windy night, something that should’ve worked in their favor. But just as they were about to reach the only road out, a gunshot rang loud into the air. And it was *chaos*. Eleanor cried for her children to run, not even realizing she’d been shot. She collapsed, shouting still for her children to escape. Her eldest daughter, Shereen, turned back and saw her mother bloody and struggling. So she went back for her, despite Eleanor’s pleas not to. More gunshots were fired, and the kids were disappearing down the dark road without anyone to look after them. Shereen was holding Eleanor in her arms, watching the life slowly fade out of her.” Marcy dragged the first aid kid closer to her and peered inside, this time taking out a small roll of tape. I waited curiously as she took her time. She taped down the end of the gauze and finished with a gentle, loving tap. “But the landlord showed no remorse. When he reached them, he picked Shereen up by her hair and dragged her over to a nearby tree, where he beat her mercilessly. Slammed her head against the tree over and over. Her brothers and sisters were frozen in the distance, watching in horror.” I watched in horror myself, wondering why on Earth she was telling me this. Her stare had drifted somewhere beyond the wall in front of her, as though watching the entire scene play out. And then, to my surprise, she returned to me with a faint smile. “And then a lightning bolt struck the tree, killing the landlord instantly.” My eyes grew wide, the pain in my hand subsiding for just a moment. For some reason, I was more nervous than I felt I should have been. “What happened to the girl?” I worried. Marcy’s face lit up. “That girl is my mother. And she owns that tree now.” She closed the first aid kit with a snap and rolled out from behind her desk, now directly in front of me. “She turned the most painful time of her life into something wonderful. She built a community for her family and all those in need. And ever since, this place has been blessed with a history so rich and full of love, you can feel it.” Marcy took my injured hand and held it gently in hers. “*You* are part of that history now, Maddie. Your pain is not forever, but the power of this place is. I promise.” Her eyes were glossy and assuring, almost mournful. I wondered if my parents had told her about Lily. I could feel the charms of her bracelet being pressed against my skin, as images of her gap-toothed smile flashed in my mind. Her little face peaking from around the corner. Her style. Her attitude. The way she always defended me. The pink walls in her room. The white walls in the hospital. The way she looked the last time I saw her. “Here,” Marcy said, bringing me back. She held out a couple pills for me to take but then recoiled when I reached for them. “I’m not supposed to give you these so…” She put a finger to her lip and dropped them into my hands. I stared at them, fighting flashes of nurses dosing Lily to sleep. I played with her bracelet as Marcy fetched me a bottle of water from her mini fridge and slid it across the desk. I didn’t move. “Do you need me to open it?” she asked. I shook my head despite the growing sting underneath the wrap. I pretended not to feel it. After watching Lily battle the way she did, for as long as she did, I felt guilty ever being hurt. I didn’t know real hurt. I looked up at Marcy. “Do I have to take these?” She blinked. I expected her motherly instincts to force them upon me and was surprised when she said, “Of course not.” She gestured for me to hand them back to her, studying me as I did so. I wasn’t sure why, but she seemed upset by this, and that didn’t feel good. So I forced a smile and asked her more about some of the things in her office: black and white photos of the early days, contrasted by colorful ones of her and her family at various places around camp; purple pool noodles in one corner and tall tiki torches in another, both part of some camp tradition, as it appeared most things were; and a large stuffed-animal of a blue and white wolf sitting atop a bookcase. It was cute. She was going to tell me about it when a sudden wave of voices rushed through the window; the others had hiked their way over and were marching into the next building. “C’mon,” said Marcy, still eyeing me curiously. “Let’s get you back to the group, yeah?” — The Dining Hall was far less comfortable than the Hemlock Building. The air was thick and sticky, and smelled of sweat and body odor. About a hundred campers, ranging anywhere from seven to fourteen, were packed into tables that just barely fit their capacity. I could feel sets of eyes from all directions shoot my way after following Marcy through the screen door and letting it slam shut behind me with a loud crack. We stood aside as counselors on stage were attempting to silence the crowd, while Shereen and Simon stood carelessly in the far corner chatting with other seemingly prominent people at camp. I met eyes with one of them, a woman with thick glasses and an oversized crescent moon hanging from her neck. Marcy gave it a moment and then clapped this rhythmic giddy-up kind of clap, to which the crowd repeated and fell silent. I already wanted to be just like her. With all eyes now certainly my way, I was more than relieved when I’d spotted Charlie in the center of the room motioning for me to sit next to her. Her mother gave her a nod and wished me off with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Charlie’s grin shielding me from the stares as I shuffled past other tables to get to her. She gasped when saw the wrap I was now donning, half-heartedly hiding laughter from behind her perfectly unburned hands. “I am so sorry!” she giggled. Her voice cut right through the otherwise silent crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the glares from nearby staff. And neither did I; her laughter made me feel better than anything. I sat happily beside her and watched the introductory festivities before us, as the entire staff took turns introducing themselves and then performed a very corny skit as a way to go over all the rules. Bathroom buddies, aquatic safety, hygiene, after hours. In a very poorly acted scene, two young boy counselors pretended to sneak out of bed at night, only to be eaten by the camp monster, the Nightcrawler. “A beast of many forms!” another counselor cried from underneath a black blanket. She was wearing a plain purple mask with two little holes for eyes. It was silly, but the looks on the faces of the little kids in front told me that it worked. As the night progressed, I found myself buying in to Burntwood more than I thought I would have. I laughed at all the dumb jokes and clapped along to the songs I pretended to know, watching enviously as Charlie and her friends belted out the words. I’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, especially not at our age. I admired her just as much as I admired her mother. I’d almost wished they were my family. Then I remembered what Marcy had said. That I was forever one of them. I hoped that was true. Charlie went on to formally introduce me to the other girls at the table. Whether their early disdain was all in my head, or Charlie had had that much pull, they seemed genuinely excited about befriending ‘the new girl.’ They gave me their own version of orientation over pasta dinner, ranting about the people and all the things I’d love and hate. I got lost when they shifted to reminiscing on previous years, but I listened eagerly and laughed accordingly. When the night ended, our counselor, Sarah, took the nine of us over to the girl’s side of camp. A circle of cabins surrounded a small field and sand pit, with more cabins extending along the water. We sat on the docks where rays of the setting sun fought through the overcast to say goodnight. The mountains beyond looked like something from a painting. We did ice breakers and went over more rules, and when the shuttles pulled up with our bags, it was time to settle into the cabin we would be calling home for the next four weeks. It was just a short walk from the docks, something Sarah assured we’d appreciate on those scorching summer days. After hauling bags heavier than ourselves up a small hill, we reached a large, but otherwise ordinary looking cabin. It didn’t appear to be any better or worse than I’d imagined, but when I reached the wide steps of the front porch, my heart stopped. There was a pretty, floral-painted sign on one of the beams: WOOD LILY. I stopped as the other girls passed. Charlie turned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I stared at it a moment longer and shook it off. “Nothing.” “Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned. “Wood Lily’s probably my third favorite cabin.” I looked at her, to which she added, “Out of fourteen. That’s pretty good. It’s not as nice as Pine Palace but at least it has electricity.” Her voice trailed off somewhere beyond me as I stared up at the moths circling the yellow porch light. I wasn’t there anymore. I was dragging Lily’s bag up the hospital steps, my mother at the top walking far ahead of me. I blinked and it was Charlie again. I buried the memory and followed her inside. The interior was certainly nicer than expected. The lighting was dim and there was still dirt on the floor, but overall it was neat and well-spaced. There were bunks lining the wall that disappeared into a back section, and a stairway in the corner leading up to the counselor’s private room. The girls immediately began pairing up and discussing who would get which bunk. I was too afraid to ask Charlie. And I didn’t have to. She took me by the hand and pulled me further inside, to the very back where it turned right and extended into an almost cavernous area. This part of the cabin looked older, as though the rest had been built around it later on. “This one has the best view,” Charlie explained as she climbed the top bunk and dove into it. There was a window overlooking the woods, with a clear line of sight to the river beyond. You could just make out the shimmer of the mountains’ reflection in the twilight. She stared out at it while I stuffed my clothes into the dirty drawers. She’d hardly had anything to put away, as her actual home was somewhere on the grounds not far from here. “You can use one of my drawers,” she offered. She’d spun around and caught me standing idly by my bag, debating whether or not to take Lily’s bracelet off. I hadn’t taken it off since the funeral. Not once. But I wondered if maybe it was time. “Does it hurt?” Charlie blurted. I was staring down at my hands. “Yeah,” I replied. I wasn’t sure which thing she was talking about but it didn’t matter. Sarah went around and checked to make sure everyone was properly situated, and after one final reminder of the after-hours rules (and a strong recommendation not to stay up too late), she bid us goodnight and turned off the lights. We listened as the thud of her footsteps disappeared upstairs, waiting for silence before throwing whispers across the room to one another. We got a few giggles in before her voice called down for us to go to bed. My eyes were heavy anyway, it had been a long day. The growing pain in my hand was a reminder of that, and of the fact that I was having too much fun. This pain was deserved. “Maddie,” whispered Charlie. Her face was squeezed between the bed and the wall, staring down at where I lay. “I’m happy you’re here.” “Me too,” I replied. And I was starting to mean it. I thought that was it, when Charlie continued. “Can you do something for me?” She sounded sad. Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation in her big, green eyes. “What?” She paused, and then said, “Can you sleep on your stomach.” Confused, I said nothing. “Please?” she tried again. “Sleep on your stomach, okay? Tonight, and every night.” I nodded as though this was a casual request. But she didn’t move. She was waiting for me to do it. I rolled over, my injured arm now forced wall-side and without much room for comfort. I could hear Charlie above finally move away, rolling onto her stomach as well. “Goodnight, Maddie.” “Goodnight.” I was very uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This was so unexpected. And strange. But strangest of all…when sounds of Charlie’s unconscious breathing trickled down into my bunk, I didn’t move. I stayed on my stomach the whole night. I didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing I did.


A thousand lollipop sticks were scattered on the ground at her feet – she was close. Becky had followed the trail through the upside down forest, across the lake of sangria (which had been great) and down into the depths of the woolen valley. Everything here had been knitted by Mother Earth herself; every blade of grass, every petal of every flower, every twig. Even the animals were woolen. Due to its fabricated nature, you could sleep comfortably anywhere in the woolen forest; but at your own peril. Many unwitting wanderers had been knitted into the landscape as they dreamt, disappearing into the woolly background, never to be seen again. Becky was tired and she gazed longingly at a pile of knitted leaves near an old woolly oak tree. Two big round eyes suddenly popped out from the pile, they stared at her for a moment, then the whole pile erupted to reveal a woolen octopus. “Well, hello stranger, I am Monty, may I ask what exactly you are doing being un-woolen in the woolen forest?” Monty sounded a little like a 19th century aristocrat. Becky didn’t really appreciate his tone. But she had business to take care of. “I’m searching for the giant caterpillar” she announced with a smile. “I know he’s close – I saw his lollipop sticks! Have you seen him?” The Octopus raised a knitted brow and replied inquisitively “You know Francis? Oh, we’re very close ourselves actually” Monty said, a rye smile climbing into the corners of this mouth. He went on “The trouble is…” he squinted at the woolen moon and pondered for a moment before continuing. “Francis never has really told me anything about himself other than his name, and… well, his sexual preferences” The octopus took an exaggerated peek around before leaning in slightly and whispering (quite loudly) “*He likes to be dominated*” Monty withdrew, his brows raised and eyes wide with the pleasure of revealing secrets. Becky nodded knowingly and also withdrew, squinting with new thoughts. This may not have been the information she was looking for, but it could be a good sign. Like many people who enjoy domination, perhaps Francis was a little sick of being in control. There was hope yet. Monty had started talking again, something about how odd Becky looked with her shiny cheeks and wet eyes, when something caught Becky’s eye just beyond the Octopuses shoulder. It was an un-woolen door. Aged, purple and peeling, it seemed comfortably nestled into the matted undergrowth, as though it has always been there. It stood out, and yet blended in perfectly, unassuming, an organic portal. It silently called to her. She walked forward, hypnotised, deaf to Monty who had begun to elaborate upon his and Francis’s sexual exploits. The door creaked open slightly as she approached, like a seductive finger, beckoning her. She slid through the gap as though she was nothing but a sheet of paper, and the door closed silently behind her. She stumbled and looked down, in awe. Her toes began to mould into the light, pastel orange sand. It was so warm and welcoming. A breeze kissed her face and before her, she saw a vast, lilac ocean. The water glistened and morphed, as though alive, wobbling in the rich pink evening light. Just on the horizon, amid a few white clouds, Becky could see an island. She felt the pull and knew this was where she needed to be. She approached the lilac ocean and hesitantly dipped her toe in, wincing, afraid of the cold… but there was no cold, her toe was met with a wobbly solid surface. She pressed down harder with her foot and fell forward slightly as the surface broke – it was jelly! Becky scooped up a little and gave it a tentative nibble. It tasted like parma violets – not bad, not bad at all. She looked at her watch. It had a black background, and 3 white circles running around it, like a target. along each white circle there was a ball. a blue ball, a green ball and a red ball. The only marking point was a small rainbow coloured circle set at the top centre of the watch. The 3 balls were slowly inching their way towards each other, at different speeds two from the left and one from the right. They were all just a few millimetres away from the rainbow circle. With no more time to waste, she plunged into the ocean of jelly and began to smash a path through the lilac with her flailing and determined limbs. Jelly flew about her in all directions, but she kept her eyes on the prize. Soon though, she got to a point where the jelly was almost up to her chin, and she knew – she’d have to eat her way through. The pink light poked out from behind the creamy clouds and warmed her cheeks as they filled with jelly. Becky felt like a hamster trapped inside a giant cosmic trifle. After an arduous and mildly terrifying journey, Becky began to see a blurred patch of green through the tower of Jelly in front of her. Spurred on, she munched fiercely until a few seconds later, she bit her way through to fresh air. She flopped to the ground, and the jelly contorted and squelched as she landed, slipping away under her heavy legs. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, grabbed her stomach, and threw up dramatically. She looked down and saw that her vomit was comprised of hundreds of lilac coloured jelly babies, who then scrambled to their feet and ran, haphazardly, tiny jelly arms in the air, back to the lilac ocean. A second later and the path that she had created was sealed up – the lilac ocean appeared as serene as it had been when she arrived. She raised an eyebrow, her mouth hanging open slightly, before shrugging and getting to her feet. The mission was more important than the workings of this land. “Francis!’ she called. “Francis, I know you’re here – there’s no point in trying to hide, and… there’s nothing to hide from! I just want to talk to you. Your family sent me!” She heard a rustling in the jungle in front of her, and she ran forward, pushing through the giant leaves that separated the beach from the woods. She stopped, staring in wonder at what was ahead of her. The trees were not knitted, nor were they leafy. They were gigantic lollipops, rooted into the ground, swirls of colour, against a backdrop of leafy green plants that held a somewhat solemn air in comparison. This was Francis’s paradise. Jackpot. She looked for a path and saw hundreds of tiny footprints trailing off to the left. She ran, following the trail hungrily. Finally, she reached a clearing. “Francis! Please, don’t be scared” she said softly. “I’m Becky, and I’m here to help you” She crept around quietly, scanning the area for a hiding place. Her eyes rested upon a particularly bulky looking leaf. It was quaking slightly. She approached slowly, and peeled back the leaf. A very tired looking caterpillar looked up at her, each of his eyes had the weight of a thousand lives in them. “Hi.” He said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. Becky smiled sympathetically back. “It’s time Francis.” She said softly. “You ought to face things.” “But… how do I know it’s going to be ok?” He asked, trembling slightly. “You don’t.” Becky shrugged. “This has to be your own choice Francis, you can stay here in this unchanging paradise until the day you die if you like, it’s always been up to you.” Francis came out from behind the leaf and sat on the ground, his legs hanging limply by his side. “I am very tired” he said. “I know.” He laid down on the dusty floor and let each of his eyes flutter to a close. After a few moments, Becky reached into her satchel and pulled out the blanket. It was woven of the finest silk and big enough to cover Francis’s entire body. She draped it over him gently and then sat on a rock on the edge of the clearing, nearby a gigantic orange and purple lollipop. She checked her watch. The balls were almost entirely aligned – she had just made it. Her relief took her by the hand and led her into a deep slumber. She woke to the feeling of a soft breeze upon her face and she glanced sleepily around. But it wasn’t a breeze, it was the flap of a wing. Were Francis once slept, there was now a beautiful, gigantic butterfly stretching out his wings as though he were reaching for the sky. “I feel so alive! I can’t believe I was so afraid – thank you, so much.” Said Francis with a grin. “Hop on my back and I’ll give you a lift home!” He offered. Becky gathered up the blanket, then jumped on. They flew off into the pink sky, mission completed.


It was the 16th of May , they had been roaming the countryside of England for 2 months and had ended up at the Grand Old Hotel. The name was appropriate, it felt as if the whole place had always had the air of being past it's prime, as if the chairs had sagged since the day they were installed in the lobby, the hedgerows were always overgrown, the discolored wallpaper peeling from the day it was installed and as if the plumbing had been finicky from the day the contractors left. There wasn't a lot of staff, but the few that were around carried themselves with the grace befitting servants of a royal court. As if their regular patrons were accustomed to a life of privilege and prestige , with exacting standards they would not hesitate to complain loudly if the tea wasn't the perfect drinking temperature when it was served. It was all a bit disconcerting for him. He had never exactly been poor, but interacting with self styled butlers, manservants and maids was an incredibly foreign affair to him. He always felt as if he should apologize to them all. His discomfort manifested itself in an over-courteousness that the help didn't seem to appreciate. It felt as if they looked at him with a kind condescension and even a bit of pity. *Look at the small town bumpkin who is in over his head* their gaze seemed to say, with no apparent recognition of how the Grand Old Edifice was no longer what it used to be and neither were the patrons. She had no such troubles, she carried a sense of effortless authority with herself that he found utterly captivating. Knowing what he knew about her, it seemed rather strange and even somewhat unfair that she could phrase a command in such generous terms that everyone wanted to wade on her hand and foot. She was never rude or brusque , but she never made requests. She never asked "Could I get a Pina colada" , instead it was simply "Could you please get me a Pina colada" , the difference was subtle , but it was mesmerizing and sometimes he simply found himself admiring her as she spoke to the help. Such effortless beauty, he thought. I wonder how much effort it takes to maintain? It was 2:30 in the afternoon and they had made their way to the old gazebo after lunch. He sat looking at nothing in particular, but noticing almost everything at once, the slightly overgrown hedges and the gentle breeze coming off of the ocean that was north of them. The breeze made the trees and bushes sway and played with her yellow sundress.. He stole glances at her here and there, not wanting to disturb her reverie and she let him, not wanting to disturb his. He felt a little guilty and she knew it. He felt as if he was getting away with something that the likes of him did not deserve. First there was the difference in age , not a lot but enough to raise eyebrows here and there. What was much more disconcerting than that though was how just being around her made the knot in his chest feel a little less... undecipherable. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this reprieve. In fact he was quite sure that the way he lived his life was pretty solid grounds for never feeling the way he felt and yet , here he was , sitting in the slightly overgrown , but still lovely, Grand old gardens letting his mind slip into day dreams of all that had happened here. He must have started to make a face, because suddenly she said "Tell me about it". The question jarred him back to reality and he looked at her sitting next to him, her large grey eyes peering up at him as if what he was about to say is all that she had ever wanted to hear. "Oh , I'm sorry , I must have gotten lost in a thought" he said. Mhm , she hummed , you've been doing it since we got here, just standing around looking at things and then you get this look. A look ? Yes , a look He smiled and looked deep into her eyes... He was too old for this he thought, well, not that old, but still So, will you tell me or do I have to get one of my butlers to torture the information out of you ? He laughed a genuine laugh , she knew what she was doing and she was enjoying it He must have simply gazed at her for a few more seconds and she seemed to almost lose interest in the question when he said "I love old places like this" Of course you do old man , this is your milieu right ? He laughed again, but it was tinged with a small bit of embarrassment.. How old do you think I am ? Old enough, she said with a shy look on her face Well, not old enough for any of this to be relate-able.. What then ? He thought for a second before saying .. Have you ever felt nostalgic about a life that you never lived ? It's so strange, being here, being separated in time from all those lives that this place has seen , all those parties that were held here , all those kisses that were stolen in this gazebo all the petty arguments and jealous rages. All the minor political intrigue and all the satisfied afternoons shared by people just like us. All the people that came before us and touched the silverware, the scuff marks on the old ceramic plates made by bygone patrons who are naught but ashes and dust now. It's breathtaking, the amount of life places like this see and now, he hesitated, glancing at the overgrown azaleas. Now what ? She asked earnestly .. Just , you know , Decay ? Irrelevance ? Memory ? It's almost as if the Grand remembers and while it still stands here, there is something of them still left , it stood a mute witness to all those lives and in a way as long as it stands , it will hold on to the memory of them all. Sounds sad. Yes, it's Quite melancholy , but , I like it. You like being sad ? She asked, more of a statement than a question , with barest tinges of hope and sadness mixed in with her delicate timbre. Yes, I do , he said and felt his breath pour out of him as she rest her head on his shoulder and gently nuzzled against his neck I understand, she said finally All he could do was smile weakly and enjoy the faint smell of the cheap hotel conditioner in her hair.. You can't fix me , you know... I know. She confirmed. You can't fix me either , but , do you mind trying for a bit ? He hesitated a few seconds too many .. I'll try too , she said weakly.. Ok, he said, k , she repeated. It was a lovely afternoon.


It’s nice to meet you again, old friend. It’s been too long. A week is not too long. My my if a week is too long then I might as well retire. Well yes, I guess time is in the eyes of the beholder. Please, come sit with me on this bench. You must’ve been standing all day from your job. Still courteous as ever I see, yes. But, why do you want to meet at this bench? It’s not nearly as nice as your or my place. Because of simply the air my dear friend. The sounds of crickets that gather and the setting sun. Still dramatic as ever too. Please do tell why we’re here. Maybe fate. Possibly timing. It could be even- No no, I meant, what do you want to talk about? Well I don’t know. In that case, what does it mean to feel empathy? Excuse me? Yes, empathy. I-I mean, when I see another trainee feeling anxious on the first day I feel bad for them. That is sympathy my dear friend. Empathy is the human reaction to feel sadness or remorse for those in sorrow despite not knowing their ‘pain’ dear friend. Well isn’t human kindness to comfort people in their time of need? Is it true that it would fall under kindness, the question I proposed was what empathy is like? Dear friend, that is how it’s like to feel empathy. It’s knowing the person’s sadness and understanding that then comforting them. Not true, friend. That is comfort. It’s telling the person what they need to hear not empathy, which by easing their sorrows. It often gets mistaken for it simply because of how foriegn the word is. You're infallibly wrong. To be in a person’s presence in their worst is empathy because both people try to process the experience one person has gone through. You may be right, but is empathy not an emotion used to ease the sadness of tragedy? W-Well yes. But was I wrong no I don’t think so. Yes I was wrong about my previous line of reasoning. However my good friend, trailing back, if the point of empathy is to ease one’s sadness why is it not all that comforting? No but it is. Well when my dog died you were there for me. I remember what you told me too. ‘It’ll get better. I'm there for you.’ Word for word I swear good friend. Yes I do remember that. But that is still sympathy. I had ties to the old chap just like everyone at the funeral. I just don’t get how one person can just walk up to someone and say, ‘hey I know it’s hard, but it’ll get better,’ and then never exist in the person’s life again. That’s simple enough to explain. We’re able to because it’s what makes us human. To try and have a little empathy, to give a person people around them, so they’re not alone. But you know as well as I dear friend, that it was not the case with you. You shunned anyone that tried to ease the sadness of the ol’ chap. I believe, if I’m not mistaken, you said, ‘How can you understand? He wasn’t your dog!’ and you were in the right to say so. The dog was yours not anyone else’s. Y-Yes I did say that, but I got through it thanks to you guys being there for me. Ultimately however, you said empathy was to make someone happier or at least not as depressed as they were. But, in those pivotal moments a closed door was worth more than an open one to a grassy field.” Yes, I’ll have to concede this point to you good friend. You know that I do miss talking to you. Only a week has gone by. Yes, I know, but it’s not the same now. Excuse me. But why are you sitting at this bench on your lonesome self. I have this new job and I sit here with my dear friend nearly every day. He passed due to some circumstances and I miss ‘em terribly. Well mind if I sit down? Please. What happened to them? Heart attack. Nobody suspected it either. He would come here day in day out and paint gorgeous sceneries of grassy fields, beautiful parks, and I even once saw him paint a snowy ice lake and there isn’t one to see in miles. Oh my I think I saw that person on my way to work, yes, the one with the ridiculous painter’s kit right? Yes, that’s the one. Also, if you don’t mind me asking that is, what would you speak about on this bench? All sorts of topics. The last one we talked about was empathy. Empathy? Why, what a strange thing. Please do go on. To summarize essentially I don’t believe one could understand someone with empathy alone. It’s existence is only here to just make someone happier when all it does is make someone even more miserable. Sympathy is the only thing that can truly motivate one to trudge through the storm clouds. Nonsense acquaintance. Empathy is just as powerful as sympathy. Although I haven’t experienced such a loss I do know that empathy is stronger when you have someone with you on your journey. Thank you. No problem. We can talk all night and all day. Whatever you need on your journey. We can even be two people on a bench.