Angus Hooper boarded the cruise ship Heaven’s Orchid, taking a light transport from the nearest space station. His travel was work-related; attending a conference meeting on the ship. Angus was a plumbing and sanitary engineer for the colony back home. The profession was honest work and well paid, but it was not a discipline that garnered high status. He knew the conference on maintenance and upgrade would be dominated by the more glamourous divisions, the ‘service-providers’ and management-types, that like talk a lot about all things impractical and flippant. Once on board the conference ship, he felt his mind and body shift into a more relaxed state. These conferences usually felt like something halfway between a holiday and the usual work. He took the omnidirectional lift from the check-in to his floor on the ship. The company would only pay for a cheap cabin but, privately, he preferred the modest practically of the middle decks. It was comfortable without the gaudy ostentatiousness of the more expensive suites. As he walked down the corridor leading to his cabin, he noticed one of the wall panels had been removed, and its display, changed from the usual artificial window projections on the other walls to read “Work in Progress” in black-on-orange lettering. As he passed he looked in, and had to do a double take. It was a creature, moving slowly and holding onto the mess of conduits that made up the ship. The creature was a roughly cat-sized crustacean. In appearance, it looked somewhere between a coconut crab and a spiny lobster. It’s tough carapace was covered in a film of dirt and grease, which seemed to blend or camouflage the creature against the ship’s internals. Its underside was a mess of limbs of various sizes and functions. Two black, mottled eyes on stalks stared back at him dimly. Seeing but not processing what it was seeing, more like a camera’s lens than an eye of an animal. What was it doing – eating ? Of course not, it must be something to do with repair. A pest wouldn’t make itself as visible to passers-by. After a pause the creature resumed work, slowly weaving between the wires and pipes. Angus watched, fascinated. Feelers and fine claws tested the cables, bringing some nearer the creature’s head for inspection. Larger implements moved obstructing cables out the way. “Angus!” the voice startled him, as he turned around to see a smiling man in blue overalls. “Are you here for the conference?”. It was an old work colleague who had transferred a while ago, Angus recalled him boasting about a new job on a cruise ship before he left. “Bob, what the hell is that!?” Angus said, gesturing to the creature. “Straight to shop-talk Angus as always” bob laughed. “It’s the latest art-life novelty I picked up on a stopover at one of the new settlement colonies. Bio-engineered artificial maintenance drones is they’re official name, but us on the Orchid crew just call them plumber-crabs”. Bob reached in and picked it up. He put one of its large, curved limbs around his own and the other crab’s legs followed independently. It hung from his arm upside down, sloth-like. “pretty cool” Angus said. “yeah, but it certainly isn’t pretty!” Bob replied. The two continued down the corridor till they were outside Angus’s cabin, and the conversation shifted to-and fro, between catching up on their private lives and talking about the crab. Angus had initially thought the crab had been put there by Bob to do a specific task. But Bob explained the crabs were almost completely autonomous. They moved around the ship at will, and were capable of completing virtually any small-scale maintenance task inside the ship, unnoticed or with minimum disturbance. Since the crabs were installed, the Orchid had gone from a track record of near-constant breakdowns to being the most reliable ship the Heaven fleet. Bob claimed, they’d become a necessity. “how intelligent are they?” Angus asked. Bob answered “These guys? Pretty dumb. All the cognitive processing is done by the queen. She has a rudimentary artificial intelligence installed in her neural linkage. She’s also pretty dumb, but she can understand basic instructions communicated by text.”. “here” Bob handed him the crab. It hung weightily from his arm. Bob opened up his communicator and typed “message BAMS queen: This drone to accompany Angus for duration of conference.” Bob laughed “He’ll keep you company for the stay”. Angus rolled his eyes, as he looked down at the crab, which in response, tightened its grip round his forearm and shifted to a more comfortable position. Angus entered his cabin. He coaxed the crab off his arm and onto a desk, where it sat a gingerly on a pile of its gangly limbs. The crab stared at him vacantly as he unpacked his compression suitcase, the clothes expanding as the shape-memory alloy completed the uncoiling programme. “Maybe it’s hungry” Angus thought, “…but what do crabs eat?”, he looked around the cabin, stuck his head in the minibar. With some hesitation he offered a peanut to the crab. The interaction was not like those he’d had with natural animals on the colony. The crab was neither shy not boisterous, and it seemed indifferent about the food. He’d found that if the peanut was placed in one of the crab’s smaller claws near its mandibles, the crab would accept the peanut, gnawing it calmly as it continued to follow his movements with its eyestalks. Angus made himself a cup of coffee to relax for a moment. He still had half an hour to wait before the auditorium opened upstairs. The crab looked at him with the same detached coldness as it passively played with one of it’s larger claws. After unpacking Angus drifted upstairs and watched one of the plenary sessions. But he kept drifting off, all he could think about was the crab. The possibilities back at the colony! Just one of these things could half his workload. He could finally get away from the daily emergency repairs and rote-tasks, and focus on the big project long overdue. Like the new heat exchangers on the digesters. And that’s not all, he could set up his own maintenance contract company. Hell, with a few modifications maybe he could even send squads of them out to renovate abandoned shipwrecks out in deep space and sell them on as working vessels. The possibilities were endless. His daydreaming continued on and off through the day’s sessions. At lunch he saw Bob sitting alone at a table across the mess deck – He made straight for him. They spent the whole dinner talking about the crabs. “It’s just a basic system, cobbled together” Bob said, “I haven’t even bothered with voice interaction for the communication, it’s still just command line. The AI is also Just a basic royalty-free sourcecode. The hard work was all done in the lab by the breeder I bought her off really.” Angus agreed “I find that with all of these bio-engineered tools. The ground work really matters. You know I tried a mammalian-cellline based self-healing pipe once about ten years ago. It caught a flesheating infection not long after I’d commissioned it. I had to pull it all out, and replace it with new, old stuff! We finished with three skips filled with these slimy, rotting veins and arteries. The smell was vile!”. Bob quipped “technology eh?”. Angus continued “but I have to say Bob, these plumber crabs are something else. Its certainly cool to see bioengineering done right for once” Bob suggested “After lunch, do you want to go downstairs, meet *Her Majesty* !?”. Angus lept at the opportunity: “yeah for sure! it’s all electrical stuff in the next session – my boss sent me here to learn about plumbing right?” In the core of the ship the artificial gravity was uneven, making them both nauseous. They stumbled along a damp, dirty corridor filled with scrap and raw materials. Behind an old disused water tank was a door. It was cramped, and they had to stoop to get inside. The room was dim, lit by the blue shadows of old screens. In the centre sat the queen. It was roughly pig-sized, propped up in an old chair in the centre of the room. It looked like a woodlouse, with hundreds of arms folded over each other, protecting eggs in various stages of gestation that clung to its body. A mess of cables and wires ran from it’s flank into the electronics at the back of the room. The surrounding room was thick with juveniles, shuffling around amongst the bric-a-brac. Bob said “So, this is my setup. It’s pretty hacky, but I got it up and running”. Stepping over the wires, bob turned one of the screens to face them better. It showed details of technical drawings, maintenance log summaries “the screens are mostly for my benefit. The crab receives them as neural uploads directly”. Angus looked back at the queen, which almost seemed to show a glint of recognition. Angus was quietly inquisitive. The two spent a lot of time down their discussing technical details, and touring around the rest of the ship’s core, before they got too queasy and had to go back upstairs. The next day, Angus was still thinking about the crabs. Partly due to the one bob gave him, which was still sitting his cabin’s desk, watching him calmly. On his way to breakfast, he noticed the panel had been repaired. After another day of inconsequential presentations, Angus returned to his cabin to work on a longrunning issue with the plant on the colony. He thought the change of scenery would give him a fresh perspective. He was not in luck: he stared at the same old diagrams, but everything seemed correct. He looked at the crab sitting on the desk, “Don’t suppose you have ideas?”. He quickly received a text message: BAMS ORCHID1: good afternoon Mr Hooper. Can I assist you ? Startled, Angus explained the problem he was working on. The queen replied. BAMS\_ORCHID1: drone 137 will inspect the issue… The crab waddled across the desk, and stared at the digital-twin plans of the colony on Angus’s computer screen. After a long pause, a detailed discussion ensued between Angus and the queen. They arrived at a fault diagnosis: a part that had been installed backwards by contractors last year. With the issue resolved, Angus was in an upbeat and chatty mood. “I’m surprised you’re not more involved with the conference. You clearly know a lot about engineering, probably more than a lot of the other AI’s in attendance”. “Thankyou Mr Hooper” the queen replied. Angus asked “Is there anything I can get you in return? Anything you would enjoy?... what do you like to do in your free time? ”. The queen replied “I am a bio-engineered artificial maintenance system. I think only of maintenance. It has been hardwired into my basic fulfilment drives. Much like your dopamine system rewards you for human behaviour, my biological neurotransmitters have been repurposed to seek reward through fulfilling my primary functions.” Angus replied “but, isn’t there any part of you left from the natural genetic stock you were synthesised from? Surely, those biological drives can’t have been removed completely. Otherwise, how would you function day-to-day?”. There was a pause. As Angus got up to make himself something to drink, midway he received a reply: BAMS\_ORCHID1: my drones miss the sea. As he sipped his tea, Angus contemplated this reply. He looked at drone 137 sitting on the table. It’s once dozy demeanour now struck him as oddly wistful. This creature, simultaneously completely at home, fulfilling the purpose it was made for, while also completely separated from where it originally belonged. He finished his drink and washed his cup out in the sink. On a whim, he put the plug in, and let it fill with water. He took a salt sachet from the room service meal he had the night before, and emptied it into the sink. He picked up the crab, and put it next to the sink. The crab enthusiastically charged into the sink. Splashing around for a few moments, before it settled down, half-submerged and content. The water was now dark with oil and grime from the Crab’s carapace. And the crab itself had changed colour completely, it’s natural blue and yellow colours coming through the oil and grime it was caked-in. He hadn’t even noticed before, it’s largest claw, was biomineralized, and now cleaned, it glinted with a mother-of-pearl like sheen. Angus sat and watched the creature, as he relaxed before bed. The next morning was the last day of the conference. Already many people were saying their goodbyes, packing up, and leaving to catch early-transfer shuttles. Through the now half-empty presentation sessions, Angus huddled over his computer, jotting down his idea. At the coffee break, he went to an additive manufacture demo stands at one of the expo booths, and had his idea 3D-printed. The host gave him the spiel “Look at the quality of that edge…”, Angus quickly thanked him, scanned his business card, and left. After lunch, he stole some salt sellers from the mess deck. Back at his room, he scooped up his crab, and took everything down to the core to see the queen. He dropped the drone off, placing it on the queen’s lap. “I have an idea about how I could repay you, if you’d like?” he texted to the queen. He dragged the water tank from outside into the queen’s modest room, and fitted the simple 3D-printed filter. He used a fire hose from further down the corridor, and filled the tank, emptying the salt into the water. As the tank began to fill, the crabs from around the room quickly piled into the water, clamouring over each other for positions, some dropping from the ceiling directly into the water. Before he had filled it completely, all of the crabs were in or around the edge of the water. He turned off the hose, and stood back for a moment. BAMS\_ORCHID1: “Thank you so much Mr Hooper. My drones are very happy. How can I illustrate my appreciation?...” “I have been in communication with my Master. Previously you enquired about obtaining one of my units for your own work.” She curled to look down at drone 137. She secreted a gelatinous material from her abdomen, and fed it to the drone. “This is royal jelly” she explained. “in a year’s time, this drone will moult to become a queen, should you wish to take it with you to your colony as a gift. I have programmed the drone to pair with electronics for communication”. Angus took the drone back. He didn’t know what to say. He replied “I have to go now, I still need to pack before we dock. Nice to meet you!” The ship pulled into port, and Angus disembarked with the rest of the conference attendees. Along with his memory-alloy suitcase, he was now also carrying a box, with holes in the lid, in the other arm. He split from the main group to walk up to the Custom and Excise desk. “Anything to declare?” the guards at the desk asked. Two inquisitive eyes peered out from the box holes.


For 20 and a half years did the *Stellar Compact* survive through countless conflicts, turmoil and general chaos, they deemed it was time to expand the Compact's borders, the leaders turned their head towards the Arcadian Wormhole, a deep space Anomaly which was, for years, decided too dangerous to study more closely, but because of the major decline of this great stellar nation, the situation was deemed extreme enough to allow for closer study of the Wormhole. For that they sent a man called Captain Charles Bailey along with his ship, the Rotarin, and its crew on a mission to research and eventually enter this Wormhole. Charles looked out the window of the main bridge section of the Rotarin at this oddly beautiful swirling mass of nebular remnants that seemed to slowly be getting pulled into an odd whirlpool looking dark hole in space. Charles may have had worries that this "Wormhole" was just a black hole, but after seeing it for the first time he decided it not to be so. After staring at the phenomena for a while he decided to go to the science section to see how the research was going, they had gotten a sample of strange energy which seemed to come out from the wormhole, this was intriguing so they decided to study it. As Charles walked down the spinal corridor of the ship and walked past many of his crew he heard some commotion coming from the main chamber in the science section, it didn't sound too worrisome so he kept his pace. Once he arrived he saw the young science officer Cathrine jumping up and down with excitement. "*Did you find something?*" Charles asked in his gravelly voice, Cathrine, only now noticing that her superior officer had arrived, straightened up and said, maybe a bit too formally, "*Sir, There was something irregular about the energy sample, I had noticed it when i was putting it through the room's speaker, because why not, it sounded like a pattern, I did a bit more with it, put it through some filters, etc. and once it had gone through enough of them it started sounding like a voice!*" Cathrine then put this finding through the room's speakers, and yes, it did indeed sound like a voice. At first Captain Charles wasn't convinced that this meant anything, but having known Cathrine for a few years made him trust her judgement, not even mentioning that she currently looked like she absolutely believed that what she found was indeed a voice, and he did find the usage of the room's speakers quite creative. So he said "*Alright, let's say it is indeed a voice, this might mean there are intelligent lifeforms on the other side, correct?*" Cathrine responded with an excited "*Jup!*" and then hastily adding a "*Sir*" at the end according to the ship's regulations. "*So you think we should send a probe through, I assume you'd want to do that?*" Charles continued. Cathrine replied with "*Well yes, but we probably have to outfit the probe with a few protections since it might not withstand the theoretical pressures inside the wormhole.*" Charles said "*Alright, you'll be doing that for the rest of the day, I want that probe ready for tomorrow.*" "*Understood, sir.*" Cathrine said. The next day the probe was ready, it got launched with a few minor celebrations, but other than that, the day was as boring as most days are, out in space, not much happens, the next five days were like this, just a lot of waiting, they did do daily scan to try to find out what happened to the probe, but they found nothing. After these five boring days, they saw a bright flashing light coming from the Wormhole, the light engulfed the entire bridge window, blinding Charles and his fellow Bridge crew. After the bright light had faded, they noticed a small smoking object, the probe. Even in its damaged state it seemed to still have gathered a lot of data, the data itself, was incomprehensibly strange, everything past that wormhole seemed oddly different, and that made Charles shiver a bit, he had served the Compact in many of it's wars, he had seen hundreds of strange and horrible things, but the fact that he'd never seen something so, ungrounded in reality. It truly frightened him. Suddenly, the warning sirens started to wail on the bridge, Captain Charles immediately looked at his Tactical Officer, Lukas, who seemed to frantically be taking a scan of the wormhole, something was wrong. "*Lukas!*" shouted Charles so that Lukas would hear him, "*What the hell is going on!?*" Lukas looked at Charles with a worried expression "*I don't know sir, these readings don't make any sense!*" "*Well at least turn on the Defence Systems, we might at least be prepared if they're on!*" Charles shouted at Lukas. Charles heard the familiar hum of the Defence Systems coming online amidst the wails of those goddamn sirens. Suddenly Charles' ears rang and the floor of the bridge shook as a seemingly massive shockwave hit the ship, the shockwave seemed to originate from the wormhole. "*Sir! Damage to the hull in Section Three, floor: twenty-two! Reported 4 wounded and six dead, a conduit seems to have exploded!*" Shouted Lukas as Charles was still trying to get up after he fell to the floor. "*Well stop talking and send the goddamn Medical Team!*" Charles shouted back at Lukas. Charles had already stood up when he noticed something very concerning, as he stood on the bridge of the Rotarin he looked out the window and saw these gigantic, black crab like claws slowly coming out of the wormhole. "*What the fuck!*" Screamed Charles. The two claws suddenly jagged forward at an unnatural acceleration, the claws stabbed into the ship's hull and held it tightly. Charles watched as his crew descended into panic, he watched as the Defence Systems opened fire upon the claws, but to no effect. Charles, a man which had stood as an icon of bravery through the Compact - Selarian war, felt true dread as he saw what else emerged. A large chitinous head, with a gaping maw of hundreds of rows of teeth and one central deep, black eye above it. Charles felt like it was staring directly at him. This incomprehensible creature was staring directly into his eyes. He stood there, still, for a solid minute, while his crew was shouting orders and trying to get their Captain to respond to them. To be honest, Charles felt like he didn't care anymore. Charles stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating. But still, he stood there, simply staring into this large black void of an eye. "*Isn't this whole thing just simply amusing.*" Charles said calmly, he simply gave a small chuckle as his vision went black and his body fell on the floor, dead.


Grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything. She would say the wind was the melody, the trees the percussion, and the critters that filled the land were the vocals. She used to hum along with the sounds of the microwave and washer. She’d harmonize with the racket of traffic. She’d even dance to the scrubbing of the dishes. She was an amazing woman who heard the beauty in everything. I loved her dearly, but sometimes wonder if the loss of her sight also led to the loss of her mind as well. Grandpa once said she was always like this. She was a whimsical young lady, which turned her into a magical old crone, spending every moment see could following the sounds. I might not hear the music she could, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t catch myself whistling along with the birds sometimes on my walks home. Her favorite song of all, was the sounds of a summer night. I would often find her in the back garden late in the evening. Surrounded by fireflies and flowers, resembling a fairy queen on her throne. There she would let the sounds carry her away to some place the rest of us could never seem to find. And in those moments, she would open her mouth and let loose the most beautiful sounds a human could make. Her tone was both earthy and light, and with the addition of the toads, crickets and owls, the song would almost become ethereal. And for a small moment, anyone there to bare witness would be swept away with her. This is where I found myself often, whenever I felt alone, or stressed or sad, grandma’s song was there to ground me. So, on the night she passed, I found myself there again. I settled myself in her normal spot, closed my eyes and listened. But all I found was silence, as if the world was mourning her loss with me. All that was there to accompany me was the tears on my face and the stars in the sky. Each one seemed to shine a little less bright this evening. In the years to follow I would find myself there often, and all though the melodies of the night air returned, I could never find that song again. The world continued as if nothing had changed. That house stayed with the family, as was tradition, and soon became home to a family of my own. And one summer night, while I thought everyone was asleep, I heard that song again. Every so faintly, it floated into the house through an open window. My feet brought me out to the garden, my whole mind feeling entranced. And in that garden, my little one sat. Voice as sweet as honey, the universe sang back to her. My grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything, and for the first time, in what seemed a lifetime, I heard my grandma again.


I've lived in the same house pretty much all my life. We moved when I was five and, now at eighteen, I still live here with my parents. Since we've been living here for so long, some things just go wrong and sometimes with no explanation. On one morning, my mom went to take a shower and noticed the water wouldn't get hot. And she absolutely cannot take cold showers. She asked my dad if he could fix it and he didn't find anything wrong. Like I said, sometimes things break with no explanation. My dad looked up a guy online and asked him to fix it. We had never heard of this guy, but he had good reviews and we were kind of desperate. The guy came, took one look at it and asked my dad for money to buy an expensive thing to fix it. He said a bunch of technical therms I won't bother to look up, the point was that he needed more money. My parents paid him. He said he would fix it in two days. On the first day, he didn't come. My dad called him, he said he was busy and would fix it tomorrow. Tomorrow arrives and he doesn't show up. Again, my dad called him and got the same answer. One week went by and we just stopped hearing from him entirely. My parents called their lawyer and, as of today 03/29/2020, we're still trying to sue him. He gave us a fake adress so we wouldn't find him. But this story has somewhat of a good ending. You see, my dad loves poker. He tried to teach it to me several times so we could play together (I'm more of a Rummy type of gal). When he's feeling down, he goes to his local poker club and just plays until he either lost all his buy in money (usually 50 bucks, nothing too big) or is too tired. And he's good. Really good. After this whole thing was over and we thought we would never see the guy ever again, my dad went to the poker club. And, because God tries to be funny once in a while, he ran into the same fucker that scammed us. The guy even had the audacity to tell my dad he would stop by our house the next day and fix our damn heater. My dad told me that he thinks his anger turned him into an even better player than before. Remember when I mentioned that the buy in was only 50 bucks? Well, the scammer went all in and my dad got all his chips. He went all in again after the rebuy and lost another round to my dad. This continued to happen for the rest of the night. My dad went in with 50 bucks and got out with more than a thousand, all from the guy who scammed us. Now, I understand this story is hard to believe. But my dad swears it's true. His poker buddies confirmed to me that it happened, just not as quickly as my dad made it seem. The game started at seven pm and my dad only left the table at three in the morning. But, even after hearing this story several times over the last year, I still don't know how to play.


Braahnk. Braahnk. “The Croaks are coming.” Mortimer rocked back in the rickety chair. Took another swig of sweet tea. The breeze blowing through the porch cooled his leathered skin during the midsummer's night. “Ain't no such thing as Croaks, Papaw.” Little Averitt says he doesn't believe. But his wide eyes and his goosebumps betray his words. “They're just bullfrogs.” Averitt continued. The boy's grandfather turned to him. “There're bullfrogs out there for sure. Cicadas and 'gators. Cottonmouths too.” They scanned the swamp that stretches out beyond the front porch. There's plenty out there that could kill a man. Braahnk. This time Averitt jumped. Mortimer let out a chuckle. Averitt climbed off the floor and edged closer to his Papaw. “You gotta be careful this year, boy. You're finally ripe.” “They don't take little boys away!” With defiance, Averitt belted out his words. They say the Croaks only snatch children of at least eight years. Averitt's never seen it happen. He's never been friends with older kids either. Mortimer enjoys toying with his grandson, but he knows Averitt had better stay close to home this summer. The Croaks aren't too concerned with the child's belief system. A lack of belief didn't keep Mortimer's friend safe. Nor his brother. Of course, everyone in the small town of Henry believes the boys ran away. That they do believe. Braahnk. “Is it time for bed yet?” Averitt's getting awfully fidgety. Even more fidgety than an eight year old ought to be. Mortimer throws another gulp of sweet tea down the hatch. A few cubes of ice rattle around the empty jar. He stands to stretch. Back pops like a corn cob thrown on dying embers. “I suppose it is, boy.” **biscuits and gravy** “Averitt, get down here! Breakfast's ready!” Eleanor didn't believe. She's had to listen to her husband talk about Croaks her whole marriage. Sure, she didn't meet Mortimer until later in life. And she didn't grow up in Henry. But she's the best Grandma Averitt could ask for. She treats him like her own. Treats him to fluffy, buttery, cathead biscuits topped with her famous sausage gravy for breakfast. Half-asleep, Averitt makes his way downstairs. “Did Papaw keep you up late again last night?” Mortimer's not going to let Averitt answer this one. “I wouldn't dare such a thing, Ellie!” Averitt flashes a grin. “We heard the Croaks last night, Grandma!” That lights her up. “What did I tell you about fillin' that boy's head with lies!” “Aw, they was just bullfrogs is all.” “But you told me--” Mortimer won't let his grandson protest. Now's not the time. Gotta let Eleanor get off to the neighbor's house. Too many goats to milk and not enough hands. Eleanor heads to the wash basin to clean up. Scrubbing dishes, she's still hot. She's spouting off to no one in particular, but Mortimer sure can hear it. She dries the last dish, washes her hands, and heads for the front door. Pauses. Turns. “Don't scare the poor boy, Mort.” She walks over to Averitt and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. He's not too keen on grandma-kisses, but accepts her affection. She's going to be late. Eleanor turns and heads out the door. Mortimer walks over to the window. Watches her walk down the dirt road. Once Eleanor is a sufficient distance he turns back to Averitt. “You better believe those were Croaks, boy! Every ten years. Middle of summer they come.” Only by accident of birth did Averitt miss the last Pickin'. He's more curious to hear the tale again under the safety of daylight. Mortimer and Avery sop their plates clean and head outside. No breeze today. The oppressive heat does a number on Mortimer. He finds his seat and pulls out a handkerchief to fan himself. Averitt plops down at the edge of the porch, feet dangling over the side. Grass hasn't been mowed in a while and the taller weeds graze against Averitt's calves. Averitt's eager to listen. Sweat's already forming on Mortimer's brow. He wipes with the 'kerchief and resumes fanning. He begins the tale: “The Pickin's been going on for longer than Henry's been a town. Every ten years they come. Middle of summer. We never know when exactly. It always varies by a couple days. But they'll be here this year. They'll be here soon. And every ten years we hear the same excuses. So-and-so ran away. Charles was killed by his father.” Mortimer pauses. Charles was his friend. He's remembering. “Mr. Haddick didn't kill his boy! He loved Charles. He'd do anything for that boy. Anything.” Averitt turns to look at his Papaw. Mortimer tries to hide it, but Averitt catches the handkerchief swat a tear from the corner of the old man's eye. Averitt doesn't acknowledge it. He knows better. Turns back around. Kicks at one of the weeds. Mortimer composes himself. “The Croaks are horrible creatures. They'll snatch you from your bed. From the porch. From your parents' arm--” He sees the boy twitch. Shouldn't have said that. Averitt's parents both died a couple years back. Mortimer continues. “But they love to hunt in the swamp. You don't venture out to the swamp this summer. Not to fetch a ball that was tossed too hard. Not cause someone dared you. You shouldn't even want to leave this porch this year. The Pickin' will happen soon.” What little hair Averitt has on the back of his neck begins to rise. He wants to hear more. “Tell me what they look like Papaw” Mortimer wipes more sweat away. His 'kerchief is soaked now. Keeps trying to fan himself regardless. “They look like bullfrogs, for sure. Sound like 'em too. But you know when you hear a Croak calling you. Sends a chill down your spine. Mesmerizes you. You only hear a Croak call once. They enchant you. You lie in bed, sheets pulled to your nose. Stare at the ceiling, not daring to move a limb. The Croaks are coming. You know they're out there. You know they're Pickin'. You know you're next. But when you hear it, when you hear the call, all fear leaves your body. Your soul detaches from the flesh and is lifted from the bed sheets. Braahnk. The call is a sweet melody now, divorced from the one that draws you closer. The Croaks are coming. They lurk in the swamps. They wait in the shadows. And they hunt at night. Slick skin the color of moss. A bullfrog's body, hundred times over. Tall as I was before gravity took its toll. Then it smiles at you. Teeth like daggers, you'd welcome a rattler's fangs deep in your flesh rather than look any longer. But by the time you see the smile you're already gone. Then it hops. Feet like a grizzly pound the ground, claws dig deep into the soft mud. The call brings you closer. Then it pounces. Like a cougar it grabs you, fangs sink in deep. They drag you deep into the swamp. You'll never be seen from again. They take you back home. Back to the Other World." Mortimer looks down at the floor. He stops rocking in his old chair. He pauses. Thinking. "We don't speak of the Other World.” The comforting embrace of the sun's rays isn't warm enough to stop the cold tingle running up Averitt's spine. Too scared to move. Mortimer cups his hands round his lips: “Braahnk.” Averitt falls off the porch. He whips his head around to see Mortimer cackling. “Papaw!” Still laughing, “I think it's time we head inside. The shade we're under now ain't doing us no good.” **whiskey** Wrapped up in a blanket, Eleanor has her nose in a book. Mortimer's not concerned with the title, some sappy romance he reckons. “How do you stand being covered up like that?!” Even inside, even at night, Mortimer is still fanning himself. He lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips. Draws in slowly. He doesn't drink like he used to, but the burn helps him get as much sleep as he can. The house is still. “Why don't you go check on Averitt?” Eleanor doesn't look up from her book; she just wants Mortimer to leave her in peace. He obliges. Takes the stairs carefully. The bones of the house are getting weak and he doesn't want to wake the boy. The door is cracked slightly, a sliver of moonlight illuminates the hallway. Mortimer pokes his head in. Averitt's not in his bed. Mortimer coaxes the door open. “Boy, get away from that wind--” Braahnk. The breath leaves his body. Cemented to the floor, his veins freeze. Averitt tumbles out the window. Life fills Mortimer's body once again. He runs to the window. With a thud, a shadow plops into the yard. It comes closer to his grandson. Mortimer turns and runs for Eleanor. “Eleanor, Eleanor! The Croaks are c--” He makes it to the top of the steps and in his confusion trips. He tumbles, house slippers over head, down the stairs. With a crack, his skull meets the solid oak wall. “Mortie!” Eleanor drops her book and rushes to her husband. The trickle of blood slowly flows down the step. She runs upstairs to find an empty room and an open window. She rushes to the window, scans the yard. Nothing. **ice water** “Drink up.” Eleanor's neighbor passes her a glass of ice water. Hands still shaking, Eleanor accepts. Thankfully her neighbor has one of the few phones in town. Eleanor hurried over as fast as she could. The officer sitting across the table from the two wraps up the interview. “We'll find Averitt. I promise. He's the second child this week to run away. For the time being, I suggest you stay here. When you're ready, we can help you prepare for Mortimer's funeral.


Annette Myers worked her way out of nothing; she was born into a lower-class family; her father was a laborer who worked two jobs; her mother was a housekeeper. She understood what it was like to be poor; she made it her life's goal never to worry about money again. Right out of college, Annette got a position with Wilkes Global World Bank, dealing in subprime lending, high-interest borrowing, and payday loans. Gradually, she made her way up the corporate ladder, with a strong sense of strategy and a creative mind to make profits, she was able to increase earnings for Wilkes Global significantly. Throughout her career, she developed a number of business-inducing programs, a car title loan that has an interest rate of 300%, a tax return loan that will enable customers to collect a tax refund in advance, and an installment loan that was like a payday loan with the benefit of a longer payback period, usually spread over months, even years. In the company, she was a superstar. Her ambition to become the first female CEO was in reach. After years of impressing the Board of Directors, Annette was eventually promoted to CEO at the age of 48, the youngest CEO in the history of the bank. Her determination did not end there; she managed to move ahead and make the bank even more profitable in her tenure as CEO. Ten years later, Annette was a multimillionaire living in a mansion, vacationing on her yacht in different Caribbean islands, and flying on her luxury plane to faraway destinations. At last, her dream as a kid became a reality. Unfortunately, when you believe you've got everything sorted, life hits you like a ton of bricks. Annette had been finding herself worn down for a couple of days, she eventually broke down and went to the doctor, following multiple blood testing and scans, it was discovered that Annette had lymphoma, it had spread to an organ outside the lymphatic system, and was considered stage four. Annette's doctors had a plan, multiple rounds of chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and a whole lot of medications. Annette was willing to work despite sickness, but the Board of Directors feared that if she died at work, it would hurt their stock price. They gave her a symbolic position on the board of directors, no voting rights, but the opportunity to attend meetings, exactly what she always wanted, the chance to attend more meetings. She respectfully denied, concentrating on getting better. Annette was a survivor, the doctors gave her a year to live, and a year and a half on, she was still living. When another chemotherapy cycle had finished, she sat in the waiting room, preparing for another PET scan to see whether her cancer had decreased. A man in filthy clothing, appearing homeless, walked in and sat across Annette. The two started a discussion about their cancers, as it turned out, they were each diagnosed initially with stage-4 lymphoma. Still, this man had survived ten years after his initially diagnosed death. "How did you do that? How did you survive this long?" Annette asks. "I've made a lot of sacrifices, many others can't accomplish what I've accomplished," the man notes. "I want to know, I've overcome my diagnosis by six months, I'm a fighter, I will sacrifice," Annette says. The man considers for a second, "I'm going to tell you, but I'm not responsible if you die along the way," the man says. "I recognize the repercussions; you're not going to have any blame," Annette says. The man proceeded to tell her about a place deep under the Himalayas, loosely interpreted as "Heaven on Earth." "It's not a convenient place to get to; it's a treacherous path. If you don't die getting there, you might die coming back," the man said. Step by step instructions were given to Annette, "This is where you need to commit to your sacrifice, or else it was all for nothing," said the man. When he was done, he was called in for his PET scan, leaving Annette with her decision. Annette's scans revealed just a small change in her cancer; she will need another cycle of treatment, something that will challenge her will to live. Thinking about Heaven on Earth, was it real, why would the guy in the waiting room tell her if she wasn't meant to go? One week before the start of her chemotherapy, she decided to make a journey to Heaven on Earth. "You're going to have to join one of those groups that climb Mount Everest; the group is going to have a Sherpa and a ton of supplies. It's going to cost a lot of money, but it's going to place you on the right path," the man from the waiting room said. Mount Everest is where Annette started with a friendly group of mountain climbers. They were all very eager to get to the summit, Annette knew she was only going to be with them for a short time. "On the trek, you will meet a fork in the trail; one route will be blocked, marked as too dangerous, the other is for the climbers of Mount Everest. Take a path marked as dangerous, named Yahya Passage," the man from the waiting room said. Annette did what she was told as the Mount Everest group paused to get water, she snuck by the closed path and began to hike the Yahya Passage. It was treacherous; in some places, the surface on the cliff was no wider than her shoe; in some areas, the ice was so slippery that she would have been better off with ice skates. Annette finished the passage and came across a pair of shacks that seemed like they were about to crumble. "After that, you're going to look for a retired Sherpa named Arandeep, ten years back, when I made this trip, he was already old, I hope he's still alive on your journey, he was the only one who knew how to get to the trench of nightmares," the man from the waiting room said. Annette knocked on both shacks; nobody was there, she sat in the snow and waited for about three hours, an older man came down from the mountain, Arandeep. He agreed to take her for $10,000. She had the money in her bag. The journey to the trench of nightmares was not terrible, Arandeep assured her that while it was snowing, however, travel is impossible in certain places, she was lucky. The trail continued into a cave that went into a mountain, lower and lower, they descended into the cave, they must have walked three miles deep into the Earth. Suddenly, the trail came to an end, and there was a 400-foot drop into the trench. It is as far as Arandeep would go, he said at his age, the trench of nightmares is too tricky. "Scale down the trench of nightmares, the trench will be freezing, but it will get warmer as you continue walking through the trench," said the man from the waiting room. Annette scaled-down the trench and started to walk; it was freezing and treacherous; there were three occasions when she nearly fell, but she survived. "At the end of the trench of nightmares, you'll see a temple in the distance; that is your destination. You'll be searching for a Shaman by the name of Sanaya, if he isn't there, wait," said the man in the waiting room. When Annette emerged from the trench of nightmares, the temple, far smaller than she had imagined, was just half a mile distant. Exhausted, it seemed like it took hours to travel half a mile. She came to the temple; there were hot springs all over, but she didn't see anybody. She entered the temple; it was only one room. In the middle of the room, there was a fountain, as Annette went to touch the water, a man stopped her speaking in plain English. "Stop what you're doing, why are you here?" the Shaman asked. The Shaman asked her to tell her story, Annette told him of her journey from childhood to cancer. The Shaman said he was going to help her, but she was going to have to give up all her earthly belongings, give up her former existence entirely, and lead a life of servitude. Annette agreed to make those sacrifices. The Shaman offered her a book of Psalms to read every day, he claimed that as long as she maintained her changed life and continued reading the Psalms daily, her disease would not return. It wasn't what Annette had expected, she traveled to the center of the Earth, and all she had got was a book of Psalms in exchange. She marched back through the trench of nightmares, followed the route left by Arandeep, ascended the Yahya Passage again, and returned home. When Annette returned home, she immediately gave away all of her things, donated all of her money to charity, and renounced anything having to do with her former life; she dropped off the grid. Annette began her life of hard labor, working for bread, struggling in fields, roadside markets, and other manual labor. It's a hard life, but her cancer was gone. Each year, she will undergo a PET scan to ensure that cancer remains in remission. Five years into her new life, she was working at a farmer's market on the side of the road when a Rolls-Royce pulled up, a longtime executive with the Wilkes Global Bank got out. Annette was quickly noticed by the executive, as she was attempting to hide behind some oranges. He was so relieved to see that she was alive, that there were rumors that she had died. Before leaving, the executive offered Annette the opportunity, $100,000, to set up an insurance fund and three months of work getting it off the ground. Annette declined immediately. The executive left his business card and said that she was the best in the business, and if she ever changed your mind, she should give him a call. Annette hung on to the card; it was a temptation. Annette hated her new life; it's what she's been striving to escape since childhood. She asked herself, was it worth living if you had to suffer for it. A couple of weeks after, she made the phone call to the executive. She took the job and went to the headquarters of the Wilkes Global World Bank. It was time to sign the contract; she made sure she had a PET scan prior, and everything was clear. She was about the sign on the dotted line at the bottom of the contract but then paused. It was at the time that Annette changed her mind and went back to her hard labor existence. Maybe it was chemotherapy, perhaps it was the radiation that finally did its job, or maybe it was a Shaman in a hidden temple in the Himalayas, there's no way to say for sure. What she realized was that she was defying the odds—being alive and poor beats rich and dead any day. Those who tempt fate rarely make it long enough to tell the story.


There was nothing left. His favorite coffee place, the bustling streets, the way people walked along the footpaths, his wife, his children, family, friends, society, everything. There was nothing left. The sky was red, the air burned violently like the harshest burst of fire from a dying sun. His skin, hands, feet, legs, eyes, mouth, it all burned as he emerged from the rubble. He had lost his engagement ring during the desperate struggle out. His shoulder felt like it was shattered, but the pain was but a subtle sensation, an afterthought. He already knew what had happened as soon as his world collapsed upon him. The world was gone. All those sleepless nights reading articles on the instability of the current governing powers, or the rising civil unrest as supply lines were cut and more and more people rioted in the streets. He barely acknowledged his wife and children anymore, the blinding white screen, it had showed him the oncoming storm. He mentioned it in passing to his co-workers, on his way back from the espresso machine. His eyes sunken holes, his white-collar shirt wrinkled, with strands of morose grey hair falling over his face. They all nodded and agreed that the world was shit. But it was ordered, and everything would continue. He would fake a smile, force a laugh, agree and move back to his daily routine of waiting for the end. He would finish work, wave goodbye to his cohort, and drive back home. Waiting for the end. The skyscrapers glistened in the golden hours of the sky. Billboards light up and moved around, animated with electronic life. The highways sprawled for miles, littered with many like himself, stuck in their cars. Waiting for the end. The wind howled. The horizon was scorched skyscrapers, billboards and highways. Bright green particles danced in the wind, performing a final waltz for the end of world. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the apocalyptic performance. Yes, he thought, this is the end. The distant groan from a collapsing city block in the far distance, agreed in unison. His coughing scarred him to his core. Blood splattered the soot covered rubble. Yes, he thought, as his diaphragm croaked and spluttered with such immense pain. This is death. He reached for his phone, standing among the buried heap of his dead world. There was one message, shining, flickering through the fragmented glass. We love you. He held the phone close to his broken body. He heaved one final sob as his vision began to blur. His entire life, he tried to grasp onto something, anything. The way he saw his son catch a ball in the backyard, sandy blonde hair ruffled, big blue eyes and gleeful gaping grin directing itself in his direction. The way his wife’s hair smelt as he lay in bed with her, arms tight around her in the late hours of the night. The way his baby daughter laughed happily at her mother’s attempts to entertain her. He tried so hard. But there was nothing left.


It is a well-known fact that for a demon to be brought across the Earth-Hell barrier, the sacrifice of a living creature must be made. So well-known, in fact, that it is the first spell that any burgeoning mage learns. Without that spurt of vital power, the most a demon can do from Hell is helplessly watch events unfold on Earth. For example, Sai the demon watched helplessly as his Earth-born daughter was dragged onto a sacrificial altar. The worst part was that even though he could hear her screams, he had no idea what she was saying. She'd been raised speaking her mother's native tongue, something Sai could never wrap his head around. Still, despite not understanding his daughter's language, there was one word which was the same across every language Sai had encountered. "Mama!" Sai's daughter cried, "Mama!" Sai flexed claws that could shred solid steel impotently as he watched the scene unfold. A zzyyanzzroth demon like him had little in the way of magic, but he had enough of an education to open a scrying pool to Earth. In the middle of the hellish, heat-blasted landscape around Sai, he could see a dank, dark cavern. Grim, hooded figures etched runes in a ring around Sai's struggling, caged daughter. A bald woman with a ceremonial axe waited next to his daughter, ready to execute her for the purposes of bringing him into their world. Most demons would do anything for the chance to escape Hell. At this moment, Sai would have consigned himself to an eternity of torment if it would save his little girl. A cold, detached part of his mind noted that the runes and the ceremony and the fancy axe were all entirely unnecessary. All it really took to cast a sacrificial summoning was a demon to target and an unlucky sacrifice. Sai froze. He looked down at his claws. And then a grim determination flooded him. He didn't know his daughter's real name, of course. He'd been banished back to Hell long before she'd been born. But his daughter had a name to him. "My daughter," Sai whispered, pleaded, begged, "My daughter, please. My daughter, be safe. My daughter, be free. My daughter—" The cultist raised her axe to strike. "MY DAUGHTER, I SUMMON THEE!" Rage and grief and pain and fury crystallizing into a single, quivering moment, Sai flexed his claws and slashed through his own chest, shredding his heart like an axe through an innocent little girl's neck. A flare of magic—old magic, primal magic—left him as he gave up his life for the spell. A simple summoning spell, to take a demon across the Earth-Hell boundary. With a pop of displaced air, his cowering half-demon daughter materialized in front of him; seconds later, he heard a clang as the surprised cultist's axe bit empty air. The burnt orange sky was fading from Sai's vision, and he knew he was about to die. The cost of a summoning spell was, of course, a life—and his was the only he had to spare. Slowly, his trembling daughter looked up, at the empty, heat-blasted plains of Hell. She looked at Sai, bleeding out onto the floor. Her eyes widened with primal recognition, and she stood. "Papa?" Sai smiled. "Hey... sweetie." She clapped her hands to her mouth. "Papa!" She ran over to his side, slipped in the puddles of his blood, and fell. Quick as lightning, Sai caught her with one dying hand. "I... gotcha, girl. I gotcha." Sai's daughter's lower lip trembled as she pushed herself to her knees. She tried to speak, but only managed to choke out a sob. Sai smiled sadly, and he felt his eyes close. It took a while for a zzyyanzzroth to die, but die they did, just like everything else. "'ts okay, daughter." Sai whispered, "Wouldn't... understand you... anyways..." And with that, Sai fell still. A.N.


The police arrived at the apartment of Jacob Jones. Jacob was a twenty-eight year old, healthy young man, and though it wasn’t unusual for the police to find a body of a young person who had died of natural causes, there was one glaring reason to suspect something foul. Jacob’s face was contorted into a face locked in an expression of extreme horror. His eyes were wide, the mouth was open in a silent scream, and his arms were frozen above him as if defending himself from an attacker. The investigators took pictures and as many notes as possible. They hoped the toxicology report would give some indication as to what had happened to him. Unfortunately, over time, nothing other than the state of his body was discovered that led them to anything other than natural causes as the reason for his death, and it seemed to be an isolated event. The police never came across another case like Jacob Jones and quickly closed his case so that his family could bury his body. Stephanie was normally a careful person, but since she had broken up with her boyfriend, his constant texts were distracting her. That day alone, her phone interrupted a meeting, she had bumped into a boy at the super market, knocking him down, almost rear ended a car, when her phone went off, and had trouble sleeping because of his constant texts. She wanted to turn off her phone, but since it was a work phone, and she was always on call, all she could do was turn it on vibrate, and hope over time he would stop texting. That night she had a terrible nightmare that woke her up. She couldn’t remember what had happened in the dream, but she knew she was glad to not have kept the memory of it. By the end of the day, she was tired from the restless sleep, but not as tired as she might have been if her ex hadn’t finally stopped texting. She was both relieved, and surprisingly saddened by not having received a text from him. She had become accustomed to the constant interruptions. Now that she went a day without them, it felt less for some reason. She wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and she took the drop in text messages as a win. The couch felt more comfortable than usual as she slumped down, letting out a deep, relaxing breath. She needed to close her eyes for just a moment. She knew she would be ready for bed soon. Her eyes slowly opened when she heard a sound coming from outside her house. Sluggishly, she walked to the window to look outside. She didn’t see anything near where her trashcans were sitting, but when she started to look around, she saw a kid in a hoodie standing across the street. He seemed to be staring at her and that made her uncomfortable. She closed the curtains and stepped away from the window. She heard the sound again, and curious, she walked back to the window. She stayed on one side, and just opened them enough to peek through. Across the street stood the same boy. He seemed to know she was peeking out the window and was staring right at her. This time when she took a closer look, she saw that he was holding a metal baseball bat. Periodically, he would flick his wrist and strike the metal trash can next to him, which she thought was equally strange, since everyone in the neighborhood used plastic trash cans. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a metal can. Suddenly, he lifted the metal bat and pointed it at her, smiling. Then, just as suddenly, his smile vanished, he lowered the bat, turned, and walked away into the darkness. Once he was out of sight, she called the police to make a report. The lady on the other end said she had taken note of her accounts, and would file it, in case the boy showed up again. After some time, she was able to get back to sleep, and she groaned when her alarm went off way too early. She almost called off work, but decided to push through, though she felt she hadn’t slept in days. As she walked out to her car to leave for work, she took a quick glance across the street, expecting to see the boy again. She didn’t see him, but something else made her do a double take. Across the street, she noticed that the trash cans were all plastic. She looked around to see if the metal one had been moved. She was too tired to care. She figured it was more than likely that someone took it back inside. Half way through the day, she found herself having trouble staying awake. Her eyelids slowly closed and then almost immediately snapped open. ‘Okay,’ she thought. ‘Maybe I should go home after all.’ She began to tidy up her office desk to leave, when she heard the same clinking sound she had heard the night before coming from outside her office. She followed it to where she thought it was coming from. As she turned a corner, her eyes widened as she saw at the end of the hallway the same boy she had seen the night before. He stood there, still wearing the same hoodie, and still holding the same metal bat. Next to him also stood another metal trash can, and she quickly looked around to see if there was anyone else there to confirm what she was seeing. Though she could see people in the office going about their day, none seemed to be hearing the sound, and none looked her way. “Who are you?” she asked, suddenly feeling her legs get weak. The boy, seeing her lean against the wall to hold herself up, charged her, holding the pipe with both hands in front of him. She defensively held her hands up, grabbing the pipe when he was within range. The force of his momentum knocked her backward and she fell to the ground, with the boy on top of her, and the pipe between them. She struggled against him as he tried to push the pipe into her throat. Desperate, she began crying out for help. When no one came to her aid and her arms began to weaken, she closed her eyes, expecting the worst. All of a sudden, the pipe disappeared from her hands, and she could feel someone’s hands gripping her wrists. She soon realized that the hands weren’t trying to pin her down, but only keep them in place. She risked a glance by slowly opening her eyes. One of her coworkers was on top of her, holding her wrist and saying, “Stephanie! Calm down! It’s just me! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” Seeing that it wasn’t the boy on top of her, and knowing that she was no longer in danger, she relaxed, still breathing heavily. “My God, Stephanie,” the man said, releasing her. “Are you alright?” She blinked away the fogginess and looked around, seeing many of her co-workers watching. The man helped her up, and half-carried her to her office. He could tell she was exhausted, so he said, “I think you should get home and get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.” She agreed and collected her things. On the drive home, she tried to remember the nightmares she was having, but couldn’t remember details. She could only remember there was a boy in it them, and he seemed familiar, though she didn’t know from where. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open while she was driving. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was close to home, she would have pulled over to take a small nap. All of a sudden, she saw a person standing in the middle of the highway, and she slid off the road to avoid him. The car stopped so quickly that she hit her head on the steering wheel. When she looked up, she saw the same teenage boy she had been seeing in her nightmares standing in front of the car staring at her. He started to move towards her, and she tried to climb out of the car and escape, but he was on top of her as soon as she was out of the car. “What do you want?” she screamed at him. “I want you to die,” he replied. “Why?” she asked, trying to push him off. “Because I enjoy watching people die,” he said with an evil smile. “Now,” he continued. “I’m going to take this rock and crush your head in.” He held up a big rock for her to see. She screamed as he lowered the rock, snapping her awake. She found herself in the front seat of her car, still parked at the top level of the parking garage at work. Still shaken, she tried to regain her composer. She felt so tired, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep, though she knew the boy would be waiting for her. She let out a scream when all of a sudden, something hit her windshield hard, shattering the glass. She quickly realized it was the boy. He had swung the baseball bat, crashing it against the windshield. Panicking, she switched the car into reverse and slammed on the gas pedal. She knew her reflexes were affected because she was so tired, and when she saw the small wall in her sideview mirror, she didn’t have enough time to slam on the brakes before she crashed through the barrier, and began falling backwards towards the ground. She was still screaming when the car hit the pavement. She snapped her eyes open, and found herself lying down on her couch at home. Her heart was racing, and she felt like she was going to have a heart attack. She slowly sat up, when suddenly her front door was kicked in, and the teenage boy entered carrying the baseball bat. She stood up and tried to run the opposite way, stopping in front of the front window where she had first seen the boy. When she turned to see if he was chasing her, she saw that he was holding the baseball bat with both hands like he had with before and using his momentum, shoved her through the window, glass spraying everywhere. She was still screaming as she opened her eyes, and found herself at the grocery store bumping into the teenage boy, knocking him down. It was at that moment she remembered where she had seen that boy before. He was the stranger she bumped into earlier at the grocery store. “I’m sorry,” she said, noticing that he was holding a baseball bat. He stood up and spat, “You will be!” Her heart was racing as she walked backwards, crying and panting, trying to catch her breath. His eyes seemed to be glowing as she moved away from him. She barely caught a glimpse the truck before it hit her, silencing her for good. The police found her body a day later when a coworker stated she hadn’t been to work in a few days and were becoming worried. They found her body on the couch. She appeared to have suffered from a severe heart attack, and that would have been the end of the report, if it wasn’t for the way her face was contorted in a frozen look of fear, and her arms being up in a frozen state of defense. News broke out about the deaths that were beginning to mount. No one was able to determine what the causes were, except from acute heart attacks. It was a year later before the deaths suddenly ended. There was never an explanation as to what had happened, or why it had stopped. Jake was upset that he had to move to yet another city, but his mother always had trouble keeping a job. It wasn’t long before someone annoyed him, and he began the short wait for her to fall asleep. To his pleasant surprise, he didn’t have to wait long. He followed her in her dream as she walked down a city block. When she turned into an alley, he decided it was his chance. She stopped in her tracks when he followed her into the alley, dragging his metal baseball bat. “Well, hello there,” he said, anticipating her fear. “Well, hello there, Jake,” she replied, turning around with a smile, instead of fear in her eyes. “What? Who are you?” Jake said, unsure what to do next. “I’m Emma,” she replied. “You’ve been a very naughty boy.” Jake let out a scream as Emma flew towards him. “I’m not sure what happened Mrs. Anders,” the doctor informed Jake’s mother. “It would appear he had a brain aneurysm, and though it didn’t kill him, he appears to be brain dead.” Emma woke in her dorm room. She shook off the fogginess of sleep and walked to the wall where she had mapped out Jake’s crimes. He wasn’t the first Dream Stalker she had encountered, and he probably wouldn’t be her last. “One more down,” she said to herself as she used a marker to check off his name. Her list had grown, but she knew one day, her work would be done.


I would sigh if I could get myself to move. I have been sitting here for 45 minutes, maybe more? As soon as I read his letter, that old familiar feeling in my bones returned. Each limb was heavy, too heavy to move. As if I had been dipped in cement and set out to dry. A permanent gargoyle of some sort, never to move again. I like to imagine that onlookers could see my sad gargoyle face and think to themselves, “Oh my! Now there is the epitome of pain and suffering! It is palpable that this creature has suffered the most out of anyone! It makes one cry to even bear witness to this creature’s eternal misery!” Yes, that would be something. As I turn to stone, my eyes water and burn from not blinking enough. The walls are so bright, they burn those imaginary colors in my retinas that dance around my peripherals of my vision. “Can’t I get myself to move? Even just a little finger?" My thoughts race as I panic over whether or not I have control over my own body. "Surely I could move if I wanted to? Right? How long has it really been? No way of knowing except by looking at a clock. C’mon. Just look at a clock.” My inner monologue spiraling out of control is interrupted by a brash, unpleasant meow and I remember that I forgot to feed my cat, Albert. He jumps onto the bed and headbutts my leg to remind me that his dinner is late. I reach over to pat him and I realize that the spell is broken. I can move again. Like a new-born deer, my legs wobble as I take my first few steps. I stumble my way into the kitchen, where I grab the wrinkled, smelly bag of dried cat food and I pour him his dinner. “Not too much now, Albert. You’re getting fat,” I say to him as he scarfs down the kibble I have put in his bowl. Now that I am up, I shouldn’t return to the bed, but it has a siren’s call. I walk back into the bedroom and pick up the letter back up. I’m going to reread it to make sure that all of the words are still the same. Maybe they will have rearranged themselves to tell me that he’s decided to stay, or he has gone to the grocery store? I pick the letter back up. The paper was surprisingly thick, like card stock, and a rich, creamy shade of off-white. I always kept high-quality paper in the house. Never to use. But only to fantasize about using when there is something important enough to use it. I guess this was important. I read the first sentence and there is a sharpness in my chest so painful, I audibly wince. The words haven’t changed. They are still the same. This time, instead of being heavy, I am hollow. My bones are made of glass and the slightest movement might cause them to shatter. There is a void inside me. The thought of food provides no comfort, sleep is temporary relief; I know that the emptiness is waiting for me when I awake. Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I nearly sprint off of the bed to check if it’s him. No. It is my phone carrier. Letting me know that an update is required. The heaviness returns. Even that fleeting moment was bliss compared to now. I will call him instead. I dial the number frantically, there is the sound of ringing and the sound of his voicemail. They blur into one quick moment. I leave no voicemail. I call again. And again. And again. No luck. Defeated, I walk over to the liquor cabinet. I grab a bottle of vodka and take a swig. It burns so much that I reflexively start coughing, but I drink it anyway. A tingling warmth courses through my veins and for a moment I feel alive, full of fire and vigor, ready to have another go at life. I laugh to myself and chuckle, “Fucking jerk”, to myself, which stirs something inside me. Playful giggles turn into heaving sobs within a quick moment as I try to sputter out, “Fucking asshole!” between loud, exasperated breaths. Then I don’t quite remember what happens next. It was as if a banshee took over me, I shrieked until my voice was hoarse. Tears cascaded towards the ground. I slammed doors and punched walls, leaving my knuckles bloodied, purple-ish blue and swollen. The walls and doors bore no marks of my fury. I thought I was stronger. I paused to look in the mirror once the fire and liquor in my veins diminished. My face was a reddish-pink, with eyelids so swollen, you could barely see my eyes. I had somehow cut my eyebrow in all my thrashing and it left streams of rust colored blood all over the left-half of my face. How long ago did I cut myself? I inhaled through my teeth sharply as I patted the wound with a damp washcloth. I cleaned myself up and the puffiness of my face started to reside. Sniffling and limping back to bed, I felt the pain rising in my chest that demanded it be attended to. I neatly folded the letter and put it inside my dresser drawer. Albert lay asleep on the bed. I crawled underneath the covers. I wrapped my arm around him and cried a little bit more. “I just have to make it to tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “To tomorrow...” I don’t remember when I fell asleep. But when I woke, Albert was there and the letter was still in the drawer. It was a new day. I got out of bed.


“These sessions are built on you being honest with me.” She says with her fingers gripping each other over her bony, arthritic knee, her eyes behind thick rimmed glasses balanced on her nose and whenever she moves she smells like sand. Everywhere smells like sand. There is sand in his shoes every day when he walks to work. His dog chews the sand at the bottom of the water bowl; his wife takes her tea with a splash of milk and half a teaspoon of sand. If he gave her an honest answer, he feels guilty because he knows he shouldn’t be drinking on the job. But if you were me, he thinks, you’d do it too, he thinks. He always thinks. Always wants to tell her that there’s no shame in taking the edge off of a job that shows just how far down those edges drop. He’ll never not be at work. Try being honest when you do what I do, he thinks. See how far that’ll get you. His wife’s bouquet was coated with sand the same way her veil was encrusted with it, weaving its way into the carpet as she walked barefoot across the desert. Across the church to the altar. All of it, sewn in between her teeth. Her kisses burn now. She's not the sea now. At night now he sleeps alone, with a pillow that smells like sunscreen and covers that sting him like sandpaper. He doesn’t want her to feel it the way that he does. But he leaves sand in boot prints on the landing and hand prints on the mirror wherever he goes for her to cry over, later. There’s a scratch to his voice like gravel. Like sand. The next day he walks to work with the very same sand that coated the inside of his throat during the night crunching between his toes. So dehydrated he eats it in a hope he will find something within it all that makes him feel as though what he eats in the night will grow his muscle like it used to. Just like normal. They walked across the sand in walking boots and through the sun in fur coats. Sand sticks to hot sweat. Sand sticks to hot, dishonest sweat. There’s always a Jeep just ahead of them kicking up sand in their faces that sticks to the creases of their foreheads and the inside of their eyelids. It makes it so difficult to see anything other than an orange shower of desert and hear anything other than the roar of an artillery Jeep. Makes it difficult to hear the gunfire. “Jacobs is down!” His friend is lying there in the Iraqi sand breathing like a maniac. He sees the sand on the other side. Try being honest when you do what I do. See how far that’ll get you. “Jacobs, listen to me.” He holds his friend’s hand tight against his chest. He whispers a prayer. He doesn’t believe in God. Not anymore. “You’re gonna’ be okay,” he says, “Jacobs? You hear that? You’re gonna’ be alright.


(WP) The Scorpion’s Children El Scorpio was a huge name in my neighborhood; he was more a living legend than an actual person, to me. But his men and women, his children, as he called them, were different, just like he was. “We might be a gang, but we aren’t thugs. A gang may be what we started out as, but we’re a family now.” The voice was husky and soft, faintly accented; there was a musical quality to the man’s words. The day I found him in the kitchen, talking to my parents, I was already in a foul temper. School had run long and track practice had been especially brutal that day. “Come in here, son, won’t you? And watch it; I already told you to stop slamming that damn back door.” My father scowled at me, but it faded when he smiled at the man that was sitting at our worn kitchen table. My mother placed a cup of hot, steaming coffee in front of our guest, smiling sweetly. I watched our visitor, unable to help it, curiosity moving to replace the irritation I felt. “This kind young man has come here to make you an offer,” My mother said, and she smiled at him, her eyes misting over. I looked between the three of them, confused. “I don’t understand.” The man smiled at me, taking a cautious sip of coffee. “I’ve heard much about you, young man.” He said. To my untrained eye, he looked like a bruiser, someone who stood in dark corners waiting for orders from a loaded, mysterious boss. His tanned olive skin was almost entirely tattooed; there were even a few on his face. A bird, with its wings spread to take flight, peeked out from his shirt collar. When he realized where I was looking, he grinned, his cheeks warming as if he was embarrassed. “I’m El Scorpion, and I wanted to ask your parents if you wanted to intern at the youth center, once track ends. It would look good on a college resume, but I won’t force you.” Up this close, he didn’t look so threatening. Still, I was wary. I didn’t know El Scorpion from anything but rumor. So why was he interested in me to begin with? My suspicion must have showed on my face, because he laughed. “You’re not the first person I’ve asked, kid, and you definitely won’t be the last. But I’ve seen you around the neighborhood. You always help your neighbors. Hell, just a few weeks ago, you helped a kid fix up his broken bike chain, no questions asked.” I blushed, rubbing the back of my neck. I wasn’t anything special. I was just a kid in a huge town, a running junkie that fed my addiction through track and cross-country, looking for a fresh start. “I’m nothing special. Honestly. I was just being a good neighbor.” He was shaking his head before I was even finished with the sentence. “Think on it, will you? I can help you achieve your dreams.” Leaving his now cold and half drank coffee, he smiled and thanked my parents for their time, saying that he would come back soon on the way out.


WARNING! OF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR DISNEY EXPERIENCE RUINED DO NOT READ THIS.(because true disney enthousiasts will probably downvote me. Man! I'd downvote it!) I'm going to change multiple endings to disney movies were the villain wins in the end. Ruined childhood here we go! Cinderella: When the stepmother crashes the glass slipper and cinderella tries to show the other one, the stepmother crashes that one as well. The older stepsister marries the prince and cinderella is married off to a swineholder who makes her clean and wash for the rest of her life. The mice are exterminated and given to lucifer. Snow white: The apple instantly kills snow white and her beauty gets lost within a few days. The dwarves decide to bury her and as the prince walks by the evil queen discuises herself as a beautifull princess and marries the prince, trapping him in marriage for the rest of his life. The dwarves all get depressed and their little house gets dirty and old. They themselves work in the mines without joy for the rest of their long dwarflives. The little mermaid: As Ursula becomes a giant she kills Erick and reduces Ariël and her father to little brown shrimp people at the bottem of her cave. She herself takes over the ocean and rules it with an iron fist. As human and sea kingdoms fall apart under her reign, Ariël and her father are forced to look on as their not able to escape the curse. Bambi: As the hunters killed his mother Bambi did not listen to his father and became depressed. He stopped playing with his friend and even stopped going outside of his hole. He eventually got beaten by rivals. Dumbo: Dumbo tried to fly but the ravens could not encourage him enough. When he tried to fly in the circus, he fell down and broke his leg. His mother never got to see him again since got send of too a run down zoo. The mouse was later catched by a cat. Mowgli: As baloo and bagheera fight shere khan he turns around and kills them. As mowgli comes running with the fire he sees that he is to late to save his friends and is crippled with grieve. As shere khan ends his live he is king of the jungle once again. Tarzan: Clayton manages to capture tarzan in a net. He killes al the apes and leaves professor porter behind in the jungle. He forces Jane to marry him by threatening to kill tarzan. He puts tarzan an disply in a cage for all to see. Mulan: As she is left behind in the snowy mountains, Mulan almost freezes to death. She tries to get to the palace in time but arrives just as the huns kill li shang. She returns to her home only to find it invaded by the huns as well. Mushu never gets his pedestal. The lion king: Scar deceives the lionesses that simba killed mufasa. He doesn't even look at simba but lets the hyena's finish the job. As akela grieves she agrees to marry scar. He remains king of the savanna until he dies and his son takes over. His son is even worse than his father. Alladin: Jafar is not so easily fooled by alladin and does not wish to become a genie but instead wishes to become a free genie. He captures the genie ones again inside the lamp and sends alladin to the northpole ones again. Jasmine is forced to marry him. Peter Pan: Captain hook kills peter and wendy and her brothers are trapped in neverland forever. As the magic fades away the lost boys grow into grownups and become pirates themselves, sercing beneath hook. Neverland will never be the same again. 101 dalmatians: The two handyman decide to kill the puppies immediatly without fighting over who bashes or skins them. Cruella shows up a week later with her new coat. She becomes the most envied woman because of her fashion choices. Belle and the beast: The beast dies as belle did not truly love him. Gaston did not die but held himself up with the help of a loose rope. Gaston says that belle needs a stable home and marries her. She never went to the palace again. The beast was made into a rug.


You’ve been an absolute mess since you discovered the shimmering doorway after years of searching, and read the word “Sinemagicae” on the other side. There are four other doors, labeled Absquaqua, Sineigne, Anbsqueterra, and Sineaere, each hiding its own secrets. You go back, day after day, sitting in the room with its crystal walls and onyx doors, staring at the letters marking the door you came through; the letters confirming what you always knew about your world. The world you had hoped to escape from when you found the door that lead you here. You had been forced to take Latin in high school, so it didn’t take you long to puzzle it out. Five doors, five worlds, each lacking one of the five elements. The words on the other four doors could be translated to mean Without Water, Without Fire, Without Earth, and Without Air. And you sit on the gleaming floor, bound to the only world without magic. Of course, you try the other doors, but none of them ever open. At least once per day, you make a slow circle around the room, turning each knob hopefully, only to be met with firm resistance when you desperately attempt to push the door open, the magic calling to you, needing you to get there even if it kills you. But every day, you drag your feet back to Sinemagicae and a world that no longer holds any enchantment. Until that day, when you went to brood in the liminal space of crystal and onyx, and for the first time you aren't alone among the mocking doors. At the threshold of your door, you stop when across the room you see what could be a ghost of you: a fellow traveler, slumped on the floor, eyes glued to the door marked “Absquaqua.” It takes you a long time to move again, but when you do, softly closing the door behind you, she jumps up from the floor and turns to face you. She stares at you, mouth agape, before a whisper escapes her lips. “You come from another world?” she asks, familiar tears streaming down her cheeks. You nod, and she wipes her eyes with her fingertips, leaving behind a smear of blue-green makeup below her left eye. “Show me *water*?” Tentatively, you nod again, and push the door open behind you. It would be easy enough to fill a sink or grab some bottled water, but you want her first time to be special. You take her to a small, quiet beach just as the sun is setting. You watch her wide, brown eyes take in the last of the sunlight glistening on the waves, the water painted with every color of the sunset. The tears dripping from her face mingle with the salt of the ocean as she drops to her knees in the surf, gently running her fingers over the tops of the waves. A wide smile takes over her face as she looks up at you in awe and whispers a single word. “Magical.


Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom. I take not even the slightest comfort in knowing that in that world, any man who refused the opportunity to work with Archibald Norington was a damned fool. Now, when I see where his hubris and his lust for notoriety have taken us, I find myself wondering, *What did I feel I had to prove, and to whom did I need to prove it?* The ship we arrived on has long since disappeared into darkness. Our line of rowboats is guided by small lanterns propped on each bow, the lot of us trusting Archibald’s famously instinctual sense of direction. But in my heart of hearts, I know unquestioningly that we approach the nameless mountain. I’m no stranger to fear or anxiety. The primal fear coursing through my veins is not born of my own thoughts. It’s a feeling native to this place. I feel like a rabbit seeking warmth in a den of wolves. We should not be here. “Jenkins,” I’m addressed, “stop shaking the damn boat.” I was unaware of my trembling. I don’t acknowledge Winslow or his remark, but I take a deep breath, clench my muscles, and steady myself. Soon I see a green glow on the horizon. Like a faint mist at first, but growing in intensity as we draw near it. “What is that?” asks Winslow, over the sound of his oars in the water. “I could tell you,” Archibald calls back from the lead ship, “but I won’t for the sake of your own sanity.” I write down the exchange in my log. “Cryptic cunt,” Winslow mutters under his breath. I leave that out. Before I know it, the green is all around us, a bright, pulsing glow from the depths of the sea. None of the lore of the nameless mountain has mentioned any such phenomenon. I wonder if Archibald truly knows its source. I have my doubts, but I was hired to record his journey, not my opinions of him. I peer over the edge of the boat. Do I see faint, dark shapes swimming under the surface, or do I imagine it? Soon I look up to see green light reflected against a dark surface, and a short while later I can hear the water splashing up against the rocks. The nameless mountain rises before us. We skirt around the side until we arrive at a large split in the mountain, as if it had been cleaved in two by God himself. *The ancient arrogance of man. Believing his own image could reflect that of a deity.* My skin erupts in gooseflesh and a chill creeps down my spine. The thought is not my own. It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Neither male nor female. It is toneless. Emotionless. Yet somehow it speaks with absolute authority. Do I tell my companions? I immediately chide myself for my own foolishness. No matter what I tell them, all they’ll understand is that I’m hearing voices, and I’ll find myself chained to a rock the instant we reach the shore. If I’m lucky. *“Who are you?”* I think as loudly as I can, if such a thing is even possible. Silence. Lightning strikes above, briefly illuminating the nameless mountain. I cannot see where the peak meets the sky. Perhaps it surpasses it, bridging us to the heavens. Who are we to know? *You are nothing.* Tears are running down my face. This is not my imagination. I am being spoken to by whatever being dwells in this forsaken place. Foreboding seeps into my bones, icing my veins. None of us are prepared to meet what awaits us here. Yet I cannot run, and I cannot warn the other men. An urge to jump in the water in a desperate attempt to swim back to our ship is dismissed when I look over the boat and see more dark objects than before. Just deep enough below that I can’t make out their true shape. But I can see their immense size, and the speed at which they move. I don’t need a voice to tell me what will befall me should I attempt that venture. My fate, it seems, is sealed. When finally we reach the shore and step onto solid ground, the green glow vanishes. We find ourselves in perfect darkness. Torches are lit after a period of cursing and stumbling, and we look around us. We stand on a small beach encased on either side by mountains, angling inward toward each other to eventually create a narrow alley. That path is the only way onward. Archibald takes the lead. If he is as fearful as I am, he’s doing a masterful job at disguising it with bravado. A smaller part of my consciousness posits the question of whether he has the emotional intelligence required to experience fear. Petty as the notion is, I allow myself a small smile. It does little to subdue the pit in my stomach and cold coursing through my veins, but it’s something. Our troup walks in a single file through the mountain pass. As an extra precaution we’ve tied a single rope around each of our waists, the length of rope between us about that of a man. It’s a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay together. Another small comfort. Dissonant whispers echo in my ears. None in the party reacts, so these too must be in my mind. Perhaps I have gone mad. The void in my stomach grows. I lose track of time as we march. At times it feels like we’re ascending. Other times descending. Other times, not moving at all. The whispers in my mind grow louder and louder, til I can hear nothing else. Soon they are joined by fleeting, incomprehensible visions that are forgotten as quickly as they appear. With every step my inner world becomes a chaotic storm of light and sound. Colors I’ve never seen blossom into fantastic shapes and fade away. I see seven silhouettes, vaguely humanoid, standing in a row. They beckon to me. The whispers in my head seem to be coming from them. Before I can truly see them they vanish in a swirl of smoke. I come to my senses and find that we’ve truly stopped moving. The mountains surround us in a perfect circle, and the ground we stand on is pristinely smooth. “Dead end,” Winslow says. “An astute observation,” I reply, my intrinsic sense of sarcasm briefly outweighing primal fear. Winslow glares at me. From the rear, Quinn, the company cartographer, calls us to attention. “What happened to the trail?” he asks, his voice shaking. We all turn and face what simply cannot be reality. We are encapsulated by seamless mountains, too steep to climb. There is no path to be found in any direction. We are trapped. None of us knows what to say. Even the legendary Archibald Norington is left staring forlornly at the starless sky, facing the reality that his sense of self purpose led him to a doom he cannot understand. Soon I hear the whispers return. Only this time, everyone else hears them too. Archibald snaps out of his trance and holds up a hand signaling our party to remain silent. The gesture feels less than necessary. At first, no words can be made out. The whispers sound like a harsh wind in a summer rainstorm, fluctuating from a deep rumble to a shrill scream. It sounds as though they descend from above. As the sound gets closer it gets quieter, calmer, until all the whispers have coalesced into one discernible voice. The one that spoke to me twice before. *The writer was warned*, it says. *The writer could have saved you.* The men all turn to me. I can’t see their eyes, for their faces are masked in shadow. “What does it mean, you were warned?” Winslow asks me. I no longer see any reason to lie. I tell them what I heard when we arrived. After a long silence, Archibald says, “You knew we were coming into the presence of a god, and said nothing?” “Would you have believed me? Would it have changed anything?” My breath is wasted on words of reason. Archibald grabs me and lifts me easily into the air. “You killed us all with your cowardice.” There is an inhuman hatred in his eyes as he throws me into the mountain. My breath is driven from my lungs and my vision swims. He’s on me again in an instant. He grabs my shirt in a hand and strikes my face once, twice, thrice. I feel my jaw break, my teeth dislodge. Surely someone will come to my aid. Someone will remember whose venture this was. Who truly led us all into ruin. *Insatiable lust for more than what is given will lead all mankind to ruin.* Archibald draws a knife and plunges it into my chest. A sharp pain in my sternum wakes me in my cot in the lower deck of *God’s Compass*. I know I dreamt, but I have no memory of it. The door to my cabin opens and I’m blinded by the light of a lantern. When my eyes adjust, I see Winslow, fully dressed and looking impatient. “They’re getting the boats ready. I suggest you prepare.” Winslow gives me a moment to light my own lantern before he returns to the upper deck. I dress quickly, and then dig through my chest to find my log. Archibald has asked me to document the entire voyage for his memoirs. When I find the log, my thumb touches a damp spot on the leather cover. Odd. I pull my hand away. My thumb glistens red in my lantern’s glow. *Blood?* I see that the corner of the cover is crinkled, as though it’s been heavily used, though I haven’t written a word in it. But when I open to the first page, it is my handwriting. *Why in a former life I agreed to take part in this expedition, I couldn’t begin to fathom.


(WP) Stasis The seasons didn’t change anymore; in fact, they hadn’t had a real season in years. Now, we were stuck in the strange limbo of winter and spring. The land had been ravaged, the plants and animals were enchanted into a deep and unnatural sleep. No one knew what caused it, exactly, but that didn’t stop the rumor mill from going on and on. Some said that it was a dangerous, contagious plague, caused by supernatural, otherworldly mischief. Others were convinced that this was only the beginning of the blight on the land, a precursor of what was to come. Astrologers were brought in, as well as thaumaturges that claimed for a certain sum that they could set everything to rights again. But it turned out that the princess was the one who set out on a quest to restore balance, and she chose me, of all people, to accompany her. Never mind that I was only her handmaiden because my mother was a cook in the palace, or that I was crippled with a twisted foot and have to walk with a cane. “I’m going on a journey to try and fix the land,” She told me, her face already locked in a scowl that let me know she wasn’t going to be talked out of this mad quest. “And I want you to come with me.” I stared at her, certain that she was pulling an ill-timed joke on me. But she didn’t laugh, or smile. She was completely serious. The first word out of my mouth was “Why?” She blinked, as if, of all the things she’d expected to say, that was the last thing. But no matter how I pleaded, she wouldn’t budge. Either I was going with her, or she wasn’t going at all. It didn’t matter, what the king and queen said, or their cabinet of advisors. The princess was going with her servant. Only this wasn’t just for companionship, I realized later. No, my purpose in this was sinister, but I didn’t realize that until later. \*\* We both rode a horse, with her behind me, holding the reins. We were following a lead, and I gritted my teeth, feeling my bones rattle with every new hoofbeat. There had been rumors that the source of the disruptive magic came from tainted river water, and the princess thought that it was as good a lead as any to start with. We left our steed tied to a tree and walked on, with me struggling to keep up. Even on a manmade floor it was nearly impossible for me to stay upright, let alone the forest’s. Roots and plants lingered under my feet, and I swore as the pain increased. The princess shushed me, holding out a hand to block my way. I looked at her, confused, but then the scent of magic, sharp, sweet and distinctive, tinted the air. “I can sense something within the heart of the wood. Something old and powerful. Come with me and see where it’s coming from.