"Help Wanted", the sign read. I stopped and pulled my earbuds out, the vaguely death metal music fading as the music left my ears. I peered through the shop's large front window, squinting to see against the glare on the glass. It looked like an ordinary shop. From what I could see the shelves against one wall were lined with random oddities. The opposite wall was lined with glassware of all shapes and sizes. Must be a pawn shop, I thought and looked up at the sign over the door. Sure enough, it named the place "Jerry's Thrift." I shrugged and put my earbuds back in, starting to shuffle on down the sidewalk, but something pulled me back to the shop before I had gotten more than a few steps. I'm not really sure how long I stood there and stared at the door before I finally reached out and pushed it open, stepping into the shop. The little bell above the door jangled out a merry greeting, causing a pretty brunette woman in a dark green sundress behind the counter at the far end of the store to look up from her phone and smile. "Welcome to Jerry's," she said convivially. "Just let me know if you need help finding anything." A couple of the half dozen other customers looked toward me as well. I shuffled around the shop for a few minutes, pretending to look at this knick knack or that. Why was I so nervous? I was just going to get an application to get my parents off my back about finding a job, and then leave. Finally, I steeled myself and approached the counter. Again the woman looked up from her phone. I could see that she was playing some mobile game. "Hi there," she said with a beautiful, enchanting smile. "What can I help you with?" "Um," I said quietly, "I saw the 'Help Wanted' sign on the window. I was just wondering if I could get an application." The woman regarded me with a look of concentration and looked me up and down for a minute, seeming to size me up from my half-untied converse sneakers to my scraggly red hair. Without warning, she turned her head and shouted toward a door that led to what I assumed was the stockroom. "Jerry," she called, "there's a young man that would like to speak to you." "No, no," I replied with a nervous, forced smile. "I don't need to talk to anyone. I'll just take an application." "Oh, we don't have applications," the woman said, turning her attention back to her phone. "My husband will be out in a moment to speak to you." I considered leaving right then, but again there was that pull, and I found that I couldn't make my feet move. As the woman had promised, within a couple of minutes a large, fit man emerged from the back room. He stood about six and a half feet tall with wide shoulders. A brown goatee peppered with gray adorned his chin and mouth, and his dark brown eyes regarded me appraisingly. "Hello," he said in a voice much higher and lighter than his build would have suggested, "I'm Jerry. What can I do for you?" I couldn't tell if it was the way he held himself with confidence, or the kindness in his eyes, but suddenly my worries were all but gone. "I uh," I started to stammer out. I met his eyes and abruptly the words rushed out of me. "I saw the sign in the window and thought I would check to see if you still needed help." Jerry smiled suddenly and nodded. "Certainly," he said. "Would you mind coming into the back with me?" He must have sensed my trepidation returning. "Nothing to worry about, son. Just a quick interview. I don't like applications and resumes; I prefer to interview anyone who inquires immediately." I found myself nodding slowly and started to follow him toward the back. He led me to a small table off to one side of the storeroom and motioned for me to sit. "Coffee?" he asked, pouring himself a cup from a coffee pot on the small table. It smelled good, but I shook my head. "No thank you, Sir," I said. "None of that 'Sir' stuff, please," Jerry said and took the seat across from me. "Call me Jerry." I nodded a bit woodenly and looked down at the table top. "What's your name?" "I'm Chris," I said. "Chris Manfeld." "If it's not too much trouble, Chris," Jerry said gently, "would you mind looking at me while we talk?" "I'm sorry," I said, lifting my gaze to meet his. "I have pretty bad social anxiety." "I hadn't noticed," the other man chuckled, a slight twinkle in his eyes. "Nothing to worry about. Plenty of our kind have it. It's not exactly conducive to business as usual, but it's not a deal breaker." He seemed to be talking more to himself than me, and he smiled wide when he noticed the confusion on my face. He waved away the unspoken question with his free hand and took a sip of his coffee, making a face. "Be glad you refused. Been sitting in the pot too long." He set the cup aside and regarded me silently for a moment. "Tell me a bit about yourself, Chris." "I'm not sure what you want to know," I replied and ran a hand through my hair. He merely stared at me, waiting. "I'm nineteen. I live with my parents. They're the reason I stopped in. They've been hounding me to either get a job or go to school, and I just don't feel like college is for me." "It's not for everyone," Jerry said, nodding slightly. "Any reason you chose my store specifically?" "Not really," I said, considering. "I was on my way to the arcade and saw the sign. Something called me in here, I guess. I know that sounds dumb." "Not at all," Jerry replied. "The universe is full of forces that push or pull us this way or that all the time. And no I'm not some crazy person who believes in the alignment of the stars affecting our ultimate destiny or anything like that." The thought had only been halfway through my head. "Do you have any special requirements? What times are you available?" "I don't think so," I said. "I'm available pretty much all the time. I don't really do anything." Jerry stared at me for several long minutes before slapping a hand on the table, causing me to jump. "Well, you'll do just fine for our nefarious purposes." He gave me a wink and a smile and stood. He offered me a hand which I shook with a nervous laugh. "Come on. I'll get you properly introduced to Mare." I stood, a bit bewildered, and followed him back out into the front of the store. The first thing I noticed was that the sun was starting to sink below the horizon. It had been just a bit before noon when I came in here, hadn't it? The store was empty and the door appeared to be locked now. "Well, you boys were certainly back there for a long time," the woman previously behind the counter, now sweeping the floor, said without looking up. "Can I take that as a good sign?" "Yes," Jerry said, "I think he'll do nicely." He turned to me and then motioned to the woman. "Chris, this is my wife Marielle. She and I run this shop together. Mare, this is Chris. Can you get him all the legal paperwork?" Marielle put her broom aside and moved behind the counter. She seemed almost to float across the floor like a spectre. Reaching under the counter, she opened a filing cabinet and produced a stack of papers. She put them on the counter and pushed them toward me with one of the most enchanting smiles I'd ever seen. "This is just the normal stuff," she said. "1040, W2, release form, consent to background check, direct deposit form, et cetera. Take these home and fill them out. Bring them back with your ID and social security card on Monday at 8:30 and we'll get you started. Did Jerry mention anything about pay?" "No," I said, turning to look at the man only to find that he was gone, disappeared back into the storeroom presumably. "Where'd he go?" "Of course he didn't," she said, rolling her eyes. "He does that from time to time. Just wanders off. Well you'll start at fifteen an hour, with full-time hours and full benefits. That's all laid out in the packet I gave you there. After a probationary period, if Jerry decides to keep you on you'll get a five dollar per hour raise." I stared at her stupidly, my mouth hanging open. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," I said. "It's just...that much? With benefits? What will I be doing?" "The usual stuff," she said, her smile widening. "Stocking shelves, sweeping up, keeping up the back room." After a few more minutes of her explaining what the job would entail she asked, "So, do you have any questions?" "How long does the probationary period last?" I asked. "That depends entirely on you, Hon," she said with a knowing smile. "Jerry will know when you're ready. I know this is probably a lot to take in. Are you okay?" "Yeah," I said, still awestruck by just how generous my new employers were, and the whole experience in general. She nodded and extended a hand to me. I reached out and shook it firmly. Something strange passed through me in that moment, like a tingling all through my body. Marielle pulled me into a firm hug. "Welcome to the family, Chris," she said. "It'll be nice to have some fresh meat for the grinder around here." She pushed me out to arms length and chuckled. "Just a joke." I smiled, the first genuine smile since I had walked into the store. Marielle let me out the front door, the sun nearly entirely below the horizon now, and waved goodbye as I started for home. * * * The next couple of months went by smoothly. I learned how to do everything in the store except run the register, which I was told only Marielle did. Every day was pretty much the same, but I didn't mind. It was steady, good work and amazing pay. My parents were off my back, and I had started saving money to get myself a car and possibly move out of my parents' house. Best of all, Jerry and Mare were amazing. Mare greeted me every morning with a cup of coffee and a box of donuts from the bakery across the street. Jerry always asked how I was doing and made a point to make sure I was comfortable with the work I was doing. After a few weeks, I started to notice something a bit odd. Not only were there few repeat customers, but I never once saw payment of any kind change hands. Anyone who came in to purchase items simply signed a receipt and left with their items. At first I shrugged it off and minded my own business, but after two months of having never seen anyone pay for anything, I was starting to get a little freaked out. I finally decided to ask Jerry about it. "Oh, our customers don't pay with money," Jerry said with a broad grin, looking down at me expectantly. I cocked my head to the side and looked at my employer quizzically. I could tell that he was waiting for me to ask what he meant, but I had this strange feeling that I didn't really want the answer to that question. I found my mouth opening to ask it all the same. "You've been working here for a couple of months, right?" Jerry asked before I could say anything. I nodded and he rubbed at his goatee, his eyes pondering as he looked down at me. His presence made me suddenly feel far shorter despite there being only inches difference between us. He turned to Mare where she sat at the cash register as always. "Mare, mind the front would you? I'm going to show Chris the office." The woman looked up from the game she was playing on her phone and smiled knowingly. "Is it that time already?" she asked. "Yeah, I think so," Jerry responded and turned toward the back of the store, motioning for me to follow without another word. "Have fun, Sweetheart," she said to me, also waving for me to follow her husband. Something in the deepest part of me told me to run, get out the door and never come back. Sure, these two had been nothing but amazing to me for the last two months, but something felt off about this whole thing suddenly. My feet started to move toward the back room as if under their own power. I followed Jerry through the storeroom, which suddenly seemed darker and more bleak than before, back toward his office. I'd never been this far back into the building before. It simply wasn't allowed. The older man took a set of keys off of his belt and they jangled as he unlocked the office door. I don't know what I was expecting, but it just looked like a normal office to me. He ushered me in and then used the same keyring to unlock a filing cabinet. "Have a seat there," he said. I took the chair he had offered in a daze as he pulled a file folder from the cabinet and handed it to me. "Open it up and tell me what you see." I did so. Inside the folder were hundreds of receipts, some dating back as far as ten years. It didn't seem possible so many could fit in this tiny folder. "They're..." I started to say and paused to turn a few over in my hand. "They're just receipts from the store." "Right," Jerry said, "but look closer." I did. I poured over every inch of several of the receipts, but saw nothing different. "Like I said," I told him, "they're receipts." He rubbed at his chin again and studied me a moment before taking a seat on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well," he said, a bit of consternation in his voice, "I know I didn't misread you. It must not have manifested yet." He held his hand out for the folder, which I gave to him hastily, and he removed a single receipt, holding it up for me to see. "I'm a sorcerer. So are you." I gaped at him. "What?" I said, nervous and disbelieving laughter in my tone. "That’s impossible. There's no such thing as sorcerers and magic. And I'm pretty sure I would know if I was one." He simply smiled and shook his head. "Not necessarily," he said. "If you haven't hit your breaking point yet, then you wouldn't have manifested. You see, I hired you to take over this store when I'm gone. Our business is kindness." Apparently, I still had a slack-jawed look on my face because he continued. "On every one of these receipts is imprinted a magical contract. When it's signed, the contract goes into effect." "What does the contract do?" I asked against my better judgment. "For that matter, if it's magical shouldn't people be signing in blood or something?" My employer let out a hearty chuckle and shook his head once more. "Gods no, son," he said. "I'm no Warlock, and you've seen too many movies. A simple signature will do, but it has to be given freely. The contract is simply a minor compulsion spell that compels the subject to do one random act of kindness per day." I thought about that for a moment, staring at the folder in his hands. "If you're wondering if the customers know, they don't. They know there's something odd about it, but they're pretty sure it isn't nefarious, as we've been around for almost two and a half decades now. I don't think any of them know it's magic." "Why?" I asked. I had meant to say something eloquent and meaningful, but that was all that would come out. "I told you. Our business is kindness. I woke one day, shortly after realizing my full potential as a sorcerer, and decided I didn't like the state the world was in. What was I to do about it? Did I go about killing people who did bad things? No. That would make me worse than the atrocities I wanted to get rid of. When I met Mare, she knew me for what I was. She's not a sorcerer herself, but her mother was, and she's sensitive to magical energies. I told her on our third date that I wanted to make the world a better place. I had already sort of worked out the idea of the contract, but the shop was her idea." "That’s like rape!" I blurted without thinking, pointing at the folder. He cocked an eyebrow at me, but didn't rush to defend himself, so I pressed on. "Let’s say that I believe you. Let’s say that I believe in magic. What you’re doing...you're taking away people's free will." "Oh?" he said, not seeming the least bit ruffled. "How am I taking away free will?" "Your spell forces people to do something they might not otherwise want to do. Kindness means nothing unless you have the free will to choose to do it." "I told you, son. The customers know there's something strange going on here, but they come in anyway. I merely use the inherent greed of the human condition to do my job for me. I don't use magic to make them come into the shop. I don't force them to sign the receipt. Besides, the compulsion wears off after a few weeks. By that time, most people are so addicted to the warm and fuzzies that come with helping someone just to help them that they continue doing good without being compelled." "Again, let's pretend for a minute that I believe you," I said warily, choosing my words very carefully. "Let's say that you are a sorcerer and all of this is legitimate. How can you claim you don't use magic to force people to come in?" "Because I don't," Jerry replied with a confused look on his face. "You did it to me," I said, heat creeping into my voice. "The day I came in here to get an application, I almost walked right by. Something pulled me back." "Okay," the other man said, understanding now. "That wasn't me. You were drawn to me, sure, but it was my magical presence that brought you in. It wasn't some evil spell that did that. Like I told you that day, the universe has a way of guiding us in the right direction." I sat in stunned silence for a moment, and felt my anger receding. I didn't want to believe any of this, but I knew he was telling the truth. "It still isn't right," I said, my earlier conviction waning. "It still seems wrong somehow." "Look," Jerry said, suddenly very serious, "what I do here doesn't hurt anyone. No one is rushing to give their life savings to a charity or jumping in front of trains to save lives. It's simple stuff, like holding the door for someone or paying a dollar and change to buy coffee for the person behind them in line at the gas station. When I started my work, this town was miserable with angry and hurting people. In the twenty-four years since those doors first opened, people have become kinder to each other, and our little town has become a place where people want to live to get away from the hatred and violence of the big cities." When he had finished, I just sat there, staring at the floor. My head was starting to hurt. Part of me wanted to be angry at this man that I had started to like so much, but what he was saying made so much sense. Who was really getting hurt in all this? No one. After several minutes of silence, I felt his hand on my shoulder and looked up to see him crouching in front of me. "Do me a favor," he said. I nodded. "Take the rest of the day and the weekend off. Mare and I can manage without you. If you still feel so strongly that what I'm doing is wrong come Monday, don't come in. I'll pay you two months wages for your troubles and you can find yourself a different job." "And if I do come back?" I asked. "When you come back," he said, emphasizing that he knew my mind was already made up, "we'll start trying to break you so that power of yours can manifest. After that, I'll start teaching you how to run this place properly. Like I said, I want you to take over for me when I'm gone." "Why me specifically?" I asked. "Mare and I can't have kids of our own," he replied. A small, soft sadness briefly took his eyes, but it was gone the next instant. "So I need a protege to keep my good work going, and you just happened to be the first one to apply for the job in whom I saw some good. There were a few other sorcerers who applied before you, but I sensed a darkness deep in them just waiting to be let out. I can't have that be the legacy I leave behind. So here you are." He stood and offered me a hand. After a quick consideration, I took it and rose from the chair slowly. When I reached the door to the office, I turned. "You're sure this is okay?" I asked. "Been doing it for over two decades, son," he replied. "People in this town have never been happier." A thought struck me as I turned to leave again. "One last thing. If no one pays for anything, how can you afford to stay open? How can you afford to pay me for that matter?" "I was wondering when you would ask that," the older man chuckled. "Nothing evil going on there, either. I sell my magical abilities to a very small, select client base on the side. People with money who want a quick heartburn remedy, or potion to make their roses grow stronger and healthier. You'd be surprised how much people will pay for simple things like that." I considered a moment before nodding, and left without another word. When I returned to work on Monday, it was with a renewed vigor for life and what was to come. Marielle poured me my cup of black coffee and handed me a donut, and Jerry and I retired to the stockroom to start breaking my walls as Master Sorcerer and Apprentice. * * * It had been twenty years since I started working at the shop, and another year since Jerry had sadly passed due to a massive stroke, leaving the shop to me. I could tell Mare still held sadness at her husband's sudden passing, but she insisted on continuing to work the cash register. She still had a cup of coffee and a box of donuts waiting for me every morning. My own wife, while having no problem with our business, had decided to go a different route and worked as a veterinarian a few blocks away. She and Mare got along very well. One night as I was doing evening inventory, the doorbell jangled merrily to announce that we had a customer. "I'm sorry," Mare said. "We were just closing up. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow." "Oh," I heard a young woman's voice say from where I was working. "I was hoping to get an application. I saw the sign in the window." "Chris," Mare called to me, "there's a lovely young lady here to see you." I emerged from the store room and sized up the girl. She was probably no older than I had been when I had started working here. The magical presence surrounding her was astoundingly powerful, but fuzzy like a blunted axe. I led her, Katie, into the back room and interviewed her briefly before making an easy decision. When we both returned to the front of the store, I nodded to Mare, who smiled that knowing smile of hers. "Mare," I said, "this is Katie. Katie, this is my employee and friend Marielle." The women greeted each other. "Mare, could you get Katie here the employment packet? She can start Monday." Mare just nodded again and reached into that same old filing cabinet under the counter as I turned and headed back into the storeroom to finish up inventory.


(Side note: if you’d like a little mood music- I suggest you put this on before reading.: song- Don’t fear the reaper Artist: Gus Black) The walk home was always nerve wracking. I constantly told myself that it didn’t bother me, but in reality, the last street lamp on my route plucks my nerves. It flickers on and off, and occasionally burns out, leaving those behind it to cast shadows of demons frolicking on the pavement in the dark. Or maybe they’re trees. I never really stopped to stare hard enough to look. But I pass it, and make it the half block more. My keys laced between my knuckles, tumbling through my front door until I am once again in the sanctuary of my own home, always panting from the near sprint the last few minutes of the trip. I’ve never been a brave one. I hear my brother call out “hello” from the kitchen, and I manage a “hey” back between gasps for air, and drop my keys onto our hall table. I go back to the door and lock the 4 locks and set the alarm, turning around to admire the hallway table. It’s one of my favorite pieces of furniture in our shared house. Tall and slender, the black oak table sits flush against our matte gray walls, adorned with pictures above it. On it. Next to it. Our house is definitely a pottery barn cutout; “settlement money” may as well be plastered on the front door next to the house number. But it’s ours. Bought by us after our parents’ untimely deaths. I don’t know if we have ever been the same. Tragedy has a funny way of affecting people sometimes. Holden started taking every course he could find on self defense. Weapons. Martial arts. Me? I hid. From my self, from the world, from everything I didn’t consider safe or comforting. Fight or flight. It’s either in you or it’s not. It is most certainly not in me. I walk into the kitchen and he’s sitting at the massive, dark marble island, typing away furiously at his lap top with a headset on. I smile at him and mouth “whats for dinner?” And he looks at me and shakes his head. I sigh. The fridge is threadbare, partially because he didn’t food shop, and partially because he eats nearly everything in the house. Dude is a human vacuum. I order a pizza, mouthing “pay for pizza” while making the hand gestures to him and I ruffle his hair as I pass. He throws some paper at my face and gives me the finger followed immediately by his award winning grin and a thumbs up. I laugh, and walk out of the kitchen to the sound of his discussion. A shower sounds so good right now. The second floor of our house has 4 bedrooms and one “extra” room, two of which are master suites on each end of the floor. That extra room is a panic room. Accessible from both master suites, its in the middle of the floor and set to the back. Essentially a metal box, fortified steal makes up the walls on all sides. It's armed with weapons we are both trained and certified to use; cameras, beds, bathroom with a small shower, outside line, it’s own power source- literally any and everything you would and could possibly want out of a panic room. It also has enough provisions to sustain us for a month should we need. By the grace of god, We have not needed. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* I turn off my light and go to bed. My sheets whispering against my skin softly as they wrap me in their cool, white embrace. I always need it cold when I sleep. The night was pretty cool so instead of turning on the air conditioning, I opened my windows. The breeze rolled over me and lulled me to a sweet sleep. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* I could have sworn I was sleeping for 20 minutes, but my clock on my phone read 1:57, so I had been sleeping for almost 5 hours when I heard the first sudden crash. I could feel my heart creep into my throat and felt frozen. I reached to turn on my light, and was puzzled for a second. “What the fuck?” I said out loud, to no one in particular. The switch slid back and forth with soft clicks, but it didn’t turn on. Something was wrong. This wasn’t just Holden banging ‘round, drunk on a Friday night. I reached into my nightstand and tapped the secret compartment that slid down from the top to offer me the hand gun she kept hidden. I racked a round into the chamber, and pulled the sheets back. I just have to make it to the safe room. Thats our plan. We don’t fight, we go for safety and assess the situation from there. My eyes trained on my window, still open to the 6 inches I had left it, and I scanned my bedroom, my eyes darting to the darkest corners, my mind betraying me with flickers in the blackness. I moved one foot out of my bed at a time, careful to not make sudden movements, and once my feet hit the floor I began my slow crawl to the hidden door in my closet. My body felt like molasses, almost as if I was restrained, my legs and arms nearly immobile as I moved. The sweat was beading off of me now, my skin electric. I could feel it dripping off the tip of my nose and down my chest on to my breasts, slowly beginning to soak through my shirt. I heard the first cry. I froze. Unlike anything I have ever heard before, and I was a flood rushing to the door in my closet. Throaty and growling, animalistic. And then another bang. I was at the door now, and I put my finger on the entry pad and felt the gush of air as it opened. The second. And a bang. *What the actual fuck is going on*. My hands were shaking. *Get in, get in, get in.* I poured myself into it, and typed in the code behind me to seal it for 48 hours, which wouldn’t activate until Holden put his own in. I heard another inhuman cry, and a bang. And I cursed at myself for not being braver. *Fuck, Holden.* I looked around the room quickly, and immediately knew he wasn’t in there. None of the surveillance equipment had been turned on, and all lights were still dimmed. Behind the door, I relaxed a bit knowing I was safe, and began to turn everything on while I pulled on more practical clothing. It takes 2 minutes and 38 seconds for the system to fully boot, which is a lifetime if you’re fighting for your life, or worried about someone who maybe fighting for theirs. We spared no expense, however, and by the time I got my pants over my hips and was lacing up my tactical steel toed boots, I had a full view of the entire house, including his bedroom. My heart bled in my throat as I scanned the wall of monitors for signs of life. Holdens, and whoever else might be in there. I turned on the sound and listened. The hum of Holdens ceiling fan softly floated through the speakers, and there he was, in bed. Sound asleep. I felt sick. I frantically searched the rest of the house in the screens, but not one movement, not one thing out of place. No activation of the alarm. No dark figure lurking between rooms. The infrared cameras doing exactly what they were supposed to. I ran my fingers through my hair and over my face and take a deep breath. *What the fuck is going on?* This room has its' own power source. My light didn’t work. Those screams. My mind races as I try to figure out what it is that I should do, and I decide that going to get him, that it is the only option. It’s the only way. I go over to his door and punch in the exit code, and feel a familiar rush of air as it opens; I am so quiet, church mice are envious. The floor feels like quick sand under my knees and palms, pulling me into its abyss with each advance. I can hear my heart beat. I get to the side of his bed and rise up. I can feel my throat close up, and the pressure build behind my eyes as I gently pull the covers back from him, the sting of tears burning behind them. “Holden,” I breathe, “Please, Wake up.” I feel his body shift below my hand. “What, Ryann, what are you fucking doing right now?” His voice is full of sleep. “Please, please, just come with me. please. I heard something. The lights are out. You need to come, just come please. Reaper protocol.” I’m pretty sure my eyes were more pleading than my voice. He looks at me and I can feel the tears burning their paths down my cheeks, lava down a grass path. “Oh, Ry, honey, nothings here. I promise” his voice is calm, assured. He slides his hands through my hair, and for a second I close my eyes and its ok. I feel his fingers come to the back of my head, and then pulls the back of it hard. My neck snaps back like an 80’s bracelet, and my vision blurs. “HOLDEN!” I thrash. I for a second I think I’m in my childhood home, and then I realize I am strapped to a bed. The walls gray. The frame metal. The bars on the insanely high window close, and thick. The bottom opened about six inches. The sheets white. The room cool. Theres a man standing over me telling me to calm down, but everything is underwater. He was never there, the man says. This is a dream, he says. Take a deep breath, he says. Please, we don’t want to medicate you, he says. I begin to calm down. My arms and legs are both restrained and I cant move the hair out of my face, and it’s in my mouth and sticking to me and I need it to stop. “Ryann, do you know where you are?” The man says. And I just look at him, *Is he insane?* “No, I don’t fucking know where I am. Where is my brother?” Calm but then “HOLDEN?! HOLDEN?! LET ME GO, LET ME FUCKING GO!” I could feel myself struggle. Futile. But I tried. “Ryann, you’re in Letchworth Psychiatric Institute.” He says, gently. “Your brother Holden, and your parents, were murdered 15 years ago. “ he paused. I could feel the sting of salt sliding down my face. *There is no way.* “No. Just mom and dad. Just mom and dad…” I trailed, “Not Holden. We live together. He does private security. I work for an attorney. I take the bus because I don’t like to drive. We order pizza because he never remembers to go food shopping.” I shook my head “ Not Holden. Tell me where he is. TELL ME!” I couldn’t tell if I was begging or if I was demanding, or if I was guessing. The man looked at me with such sympathy, I could taste it. “Ryann” he said " They were killed the summer of 2005. You killed them by accident. Someone had broken into the house. You were camping in the living room. Ryann, you shot them all, including the intruder, with the rifle your father kept in the closet. You have been here since this happened. Your family came running down the stairs. You didn’t know. You thought they were all intruders…” his voice trailed off. “ I tell you this once a month.” I just looked at him, the tears stopped. “I want to see my brother. Please. Just… let me see my brother.” I was calm now. I swallowed hard, and the pity mixed with sympathy in his eyes didn’t change. That’s ok. I was brave now. I’d find him. *You can be brave. Be the bravest you’ve ever been.


Sorry for bad spelling Once upon a fork, there was a batch of butter cooking in the oven. Naturally, all the flakes of candy wrappers were jealous of the butter. It sat in the finest pie tin of them all. Once it was done cooking, it got out of the oven to go harvest the fish. On its way to the basement of the dentist’s office, it saw a potato, who immediately stopped butter for a question. “If you have only one eye and you close it, is it blinking or winking?” Butter was immediately confused, but decided to continue this strange conversation. “Well, how many eyes do you have?” the potato looked him in the eyes and said “This week? the usual.” Butter shrugged off this strange conversation and continued on his way to the basement of the dentist’s office to harvest the fish. “So, how do I harvest fish?” butter thought to himself. “You know, I should really know how to do this, especially since this has been my job for the past 30 years.” the cat was at the berry bushes smelling the flowers, as all reptiles do in the winter. that was strange, because it was mid summer. butter was having a boring day, so he decided to join the cat in smelling the flowers. “SMELL.” said butter. “SMELL” eventually, butter decided two and a half hours of yelling the word “smell” at a flower was enough, and he got back to his walk to the job he still doesn’t know what to do. Once butter had arrived at his work, (for the first time in 30 years,) he pulled out the fish harvesting handbook, gifted to him by his boss who was too lazy to teach him how to do his job, or do anything but pay him and commit tax fraud. Butter opened the book. “A Guide to Fish Harvesting. Step one: Make sure you have the freshly killed fish all lined up on hooks on a string.” Butter looked at the actual fish, which were now rotted bones. “then take the first two layers of skin off of the fish” “already taken care of” butter thought to himself. “dig a hole in the concrete, and set the first two layers of skin on top of the pile of dug up concrete.” “well, I can scrape of the first two layers of bones off with a potato peeler if that helps” thought butter. “Now, remove the rain from the clouds, and water the empty hole you dug up. The more rain, the better the harvesting season is. for the people in animal crossing, not you, you dumbass.” “Might as well make something better for the people in animal crossing” thought butter as he lowered the clouds with his google assistant. “now that you have the clouds to water the holes, take the rest of the fish, and feed it to yoda.” “Whos yoda?” asks butter, who soon realizes who yoda is after looking at a pile of bones next to a dog sized water bowl and empty food bowl. “please note that yoda needs feeding daily.” “well its a bit late for that, says butter as he flips the page. he sees more steps, but decides to be done for the day “when you complete your task, record a 30 second video of what you did and submit it to me on google classroom. Dont worry, I will make sure NOT to mark it as “onion.” Butter looks at the mess that was made by the books instructions, and climbs the elevator to get back upstairs. The dentist looks at butter when he comes upstairs, and askes why he was there, to which butter responds with “shut the fuck up gordan ramsay, your giving me a head cavity. I work here.” “WELL I DONT LIKE YOUR LAMB CHOPS. NEGATIVE 300 OUT OF TEN GORDAN POINTS.” yells gordan. “now if you’ll excuse me, im off to do better things you panini head.” before butter completely walks out of the door, he turns back and asks gordan why he is a dentist if he always eats food and yells at it like a phsychotic judgemental butt head. like, its common sense that dentists dont eat, right? “well…” gordan is stumbling over his words. “well… well… I… I…” he is getting visibly nervous. “fine! you got me! i replace teeth with long term turnips! is that really so bad?” “it actually is” butter responds “you know teeth trafficking is highly illegal and tasty? I mean gross? I mean, I dont stay up til 3 AM watching random ass shit on youtube, YOU stay up til 3 AM watching random ass shit on youtube!” “That might be a personal problem” says gordan as he pushes out butter with a broom. “CURSE YOU PERRY THE PLATYPUS!!!!!” yells butter as he is being kicked out. Butter is back outside, and he is melting on a frying pan that is on the sidewalk. he sees some eggs walk his way and he thought they were going to join the party, but they walked into a cake bakery instead. He didnt notice them every coming back out, but he assumed they just went out the back or something. After telling his google assistant to turn down the weather so he could become a solid again, he walked to the library and asked if the librarian knew where any good cooking books were. the librarian directed him to the exit, because eating was not tolerable there, as she was a dentist in her spare time. butter threw a box of marbles at the librarian, and told her that she should try eating thoses, and they help with digestion if she ever wanted to try eating. butter walked out of the library and told his google assistant to load up some headphones, but then butter was reminded that he doesnt know where his ears are or how he even hears things. he decides that he will go to get some dirt colored, textured and tasting gold, because he wanted to buy something nice and expensive. As butter walked into the jewelery store, he noticed a sign saying “no robux accepted, and if youre gonna rob us, dont take my jacket. My mom will be mad.” an employee immediatly went up to him and asked what he wanted. Butter explained what he wanted, but later changed his mind and asked if he could have a cookie. the cookies were only for good boys, and butter qualified. sort of. he got a cookie. he went out to the bus stop to wait for his bus. butter wanted to play minecraft while he was waiting for his bus, but he forgot his phones password. he decided that he would just guess. he clicked random numbers, and his phone said “good enough” and let him in. he played minecraft, and inside the game, he tamed a villager and taught it how to download and play minecraft easily with a google assistant. Butter got off at his stop to go to the fish store. He thought he might as well try to figure out the rest of his job while he was figuring out what his job was. He bought some freshly killed fish, and returned to the basement of the dentists office, and greeted gordan ramsay by placing a pair of cards from cards against humanity on gordans face. he walked downstairs and repeated everything from before. he lined up the fish on a hook, took off the first two layers (still with a potato peeler) he dug the concrete, put the fish skin on the pile of concrete and put rain it the hole. he still decided that he could help the animal crossing community, so he activated his google assistant. He looked at yoda, and just piled up the rest of the fish on him. now, he was moving onto some new steps. “pour 1 cup of flour into the rain water” butter grabbed flour, and sprinkled it all over the water. he got a little on yoda, but thats ok. “chop the concrete so that it is done medium well. Speaking of medium, make sure to grab an extra medium bag of dog food for yoda.” butter gets a knife, and gets the extra medium bag of dog food and puts it in yoda’s bones. if gordon comes down here, he’d have quite the snack. dead fish, dog food, AND bones! “once you have done all of that, make some lemonade. hold a “lemonade stand.” essentially, what you need to is charge people 85 dollars to enter a drawing to win some lemonade. then, pretend that you have given someone the prize, but dont actually give anyone anything. go drink some lemonade, and go on a vacation, paid for by your boss.” butter looks at the book in disbelief, and talks to his boss for the first time in thirty years, and he confirms it.


The scariest things to me lately have only been in my dreams. If you just read that you might be of the opinion that a dream is not scary. I unfortunately disagree. I have had many bad dreams, nightmares that turn my stomach, makes the hair on my arms stand up and send chills throughout my body as I feel someone watching me from across the room. I posted once before on Reddit about the horror that haunted my dream and it has returned but in a different form. Something is there in my mind or in my room I can't tell which is which and I am constantly losing sleep over it. There are times in the early morning I don't know if I am awake or not. I haven't seen a psychiatrist or a therapist I can't deal with the judgement. I just wanna talk about it. That's the only way I can get it off my back, for a few months anyway. Until it returns. Let me set the scene for you. I have been working these last two weeks pretty intensely. The coronavirus has kept me in my room 24/7. I only leave to eat or go to the toilet and then I return. To my desk to my bed the daily routine. Last night was particularly intense I had to reorganise a drawing and set up the website. I got into bed at midnight and the lights were out in an instant. I started reading on my phone Stephen Fry's Mythos which is quite a nice read. Zeus overthrew his father Kronos and now he is King of the Gods. I read but didn't fall asleep as I usually do. I turned to each side of my bed several times but nothing I felt restless and the heat in my room started to make me sweat. I put my phone down and watched a movie. The same movie I watch to put me to sleep. The Lord of the Rings The Fellowship of the Ring. Don't get me wrong I love the film but some parts put me to sleep like baby drinking warm milk. I got to the point where the Fellowship were on the mountain above Moria (ancient dwarf city) and Saruman was trying to sink them with snow. I was still wide awake so I shut it down and just tried to close my eyes. In minutes I was dreaming. Odd this time it was animated. I have never had an animated dream before. But there I saw Gandalf the Grey and Bilbo Baggins on a ship smoking. Hoops of grey smoke lifting into the air. The dream transitioned to the mountain. Frodo was walking down the mountain, Gandalf ahead. I watched Frodo walk calmly through the snow. The view turned to face Frodo and I saw behind him. There was snow trailing itself together into large balls of snow. One on top of each other until a snowman was built. Ready with a face of anger the body of snow dragged itself behind Frodo. All the while it stated at me. Dark black eyes and a carrot nose. It passed over a tree and it sprouted arms and started to move faster. Frodo was gone. Gandalf was gone. All that was left was the snowman staring into my eyes. As if it was trying to see into my very soul. I was frozen in my bed. Paralyzed again. Like last time I could feel my bed around me but I couldn't move. My eyes wouldn't open, all I could see was the snowman and now I could hear it. A grunting movement as if he was gaining speed to come closer to me. I was sweating and then the cold came. A sudden powerful wave came over me and I jolted up in my bed. I could move again but I was drenched in sweat. My room was hot and I was breathing hard. I got out of my bed to get my bottle of water from across the room. I told Alexa to turn on my lights. They flickered and slowly a light faded into existence and there across the room it stood in a pool of its own making, the snowman. It threw itself at me and I tried to run but it's water caught under my feet and I slipped falling onto the floor. My head hit the wooden floor and I was back in darkness. I don't know what happened after. I woke up the next morning. No water on the floor but my bed covered in sweat still. My head pounded the next morning it was 5am and I could only shower and get ready for work. Another night haunted by my own imagination.


Marsh heard a loud clank from the engine room. “Open the gorram hatch, white man,” Kunta hissed in pain. Letting him into the craft through the emergency hatch, Marsh shuts the hatch and locks it. “How much blood did you loose ? Jesus!” “Bellona. She shot me,” revealed Kunta ,“She’s aligned her interests with the Syndicate.” “That’s bull,” dismissed Marsh. “Got some flesh and a peeking bone that says otherwise . She gon’ pay. I’m not the kind of man you flip sides on” “Why would she? After so many years, betray the revolution like that. Or me.” Marsh began to reason. “Fool! It Don’t make the slightest difference why she done it. She ain’t gon’ like being on the other end of this gunshot,” Kunta bellowed as he stapled his wound shut, “this mission is a gorram trainwreck is what it is. Where is Henley?” “He left to get me a crunk propeller for the rear shaft. Should have returned by now.” “Where do you think he gon’ find a propeller on a station full of Laserjets?” “The syndicate Arrowhead ships have backup propellers,” Marsh lights up as he hears Henley’s rover pull up besides the ship, “you alright Henley ? Did you find it ?” “There were Syndicate soldiers everywhere man. I couldn’t get anywhere near an Arrowhead class ship. Our cover is blown ,they’ve looking for us . Did you retrieve the package Kunta ?” “Bellona has finked on us. She tipped them off, Henley. Wretched woman. Shot me right through the deltoid . Lost her gorram mind.” “Bellona flipped? I wouldn’t believe you but after the ruckus I just saw out there, I think I might’ve even seen her with the Syndicate soldiers,” Henley declared. “So, Marsh, this ship gon’ fly or what ? Seeing as you still don’t got no propellers.” “If there is any power left in the barette engine, she might take off, but that’s pretty much it,” Marsh divulged, “she wont get us out of this station, let alone the atmosphere.” “Have you ever been captured by the Syndicate , young ’un ? Ever get questioned by them ? Ever had your toenails turned inside out ? ” Henley solicited, “I hope you get this thing started before we are surrounded by Arrowheads and you lose a couple fingers getting questioned about something you know nothing about .” “Give it a whirl kid,” Kunta interjected. Marsh boosted up the engine muttering to himself, “No.. systems.. ready.. to go.” The Carrier class ship lit up with a zhyyiuu sound, rose 20 metres in the air and hovered a bit before crashing back down with a thunderous cacophony, followed by loud sirens throughout the space station. Promptly, an Arrowhead class Syndicate Laserjet lowered besides the crashed ship. “Die before you are captured!” howled Henley, aiming his blaster. The airlock released the hatch revealing a woman. “Bellona ?” “Need a ride ?”she smirked “I got what we came for.


Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I opened his pages and sniffed, basking in the smell of his yellowed leaves. He smelled like home or a rusty old cabin on a mountain or woods surrounding a lake in the middle of a hot summer day. My fingers, covered in dirt, caressed the ink covered pages and beautiful words that echoed in my head as I read the stories inside. I laughed in delight as I discovered the wit and tales he held in his heart. his name was The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Works by Oscar Wilde. A mouthful to say the least, but despite his long name, he was quick and clever. Yellow highlighter in hand, I marked his pages, making note of words he spoke that intrigued or amused me. On the inside in fading pencil is my mother’s name in cursive. Lying on the couch, I shout to my mom asking if she’d read it. She couldn’t remember, but she might have. Perhaps in college or high school she held on to it and then placed it in the bookshelf and left it forgotten for the next twenty or so years. Despite being surrounded by many other books, he seemed lonely as I pulled his out and examined him. A brown colored photograph of the author and several companions graced the cover, covered in a thin coat of dust that I blew off quickly. Earnest seemed to stare up at me as I gripped him in my hands, staring back down at him, as if we were competing to see who would blink first. He was the victor of the battle, but it was I who held his protectively as I wandered the house, delving deeper into his pages every minute. I’d met a cousin of his before, and that cousin was why I introduced myself to this noble Lord. His cousin was a film version of the play, and he had amused me greatly. When I saw this Lord’s title I knew I must introduce myself. “Ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.” I told him as I admired the words that stemmed out from his spine, my fingers following each line, tracing the tattoos left upon his skin by the ink. He quickly replied to my remark and surprised me. “I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?” With a grin, I took him by the spine and whisked him off to the kitchen, where I grabbed turkey and bread and proceeded in making myself a sandwich. I knew at that moment we were meant for each others, that we appreciated humour that was well crafted and filled with wit. After a few minutes, I decided to propose, hoping to celebrate with a cold Dr. Pepper. Again, he surprised me. “Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.” I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.” He then informed me that he had broken off our engagement, because “it would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.” And so our life together began, and I introduced his to my family, who was greatly amused by his during Thanksgiving dinner. “Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.” The table erupted in laughter at his commentary, and then descended into loud discussions of politics, school, and work. *** The rest is silence - William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1599 It had been several years since our engagement, and he and I are still close. I picked him up and read and spoke to him on occasion, but at times I felt as though we were drifting apart, as if he’d become some book I simply placed on my nightstand and occasionally glanced at, flipping through his pages and reading a section before putting him down again. Sometimes I felt like he was still speaking to me, trying to grab my attention as I focused on other books. That was when I met Hamlet. He was shiny and new, with no other name written inside except for my own. He and I stayed up late, sitting on my bed with a bowl of popcorn and a Dr. Pepper, his black cover resting in my lap as I stared intently into his pages, my thumb holding my place as I popped another bite into my mouth before carefully turning the page to uncover the secrets inside. He was my very own Prince Charming of Denmark, speaking sweet words to me as I eagerly listened, taking them in and listening to his gentle voice soothing me. “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun doth move / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love”, he said, speaking promises into my ear. He was dark and mysterious, the ideal bad boy of my existence. His presence was alluring in a way that captivated my imagination and fascinated me in ways that Earnest could not. He was romantic yet enveloped by darkness with his black leather-like cover, like the void of the night sky. The silver words that spelled out his name shone like stars against this endless night sky. He was moody and restless, yet I loved him still, refusing to give up on my precious prince. His voice lulled me to sleep every night, the rhythm of his words like a lullaby to my ears, rocking me back and forth as he sang to me. His voice had the same feeling of black velvet on the skin, soft and dark at the same time, yet comforting in the cold winters as I wrapped it around me, drinking warm cocoa and reading in my bed as grey clouds cover the sky, blocking out the light of day, making time seem irrelevant to me. We stayed this way for a year or so, watching David Tennant on screen with a skull in his hand, reciting those words that Shakespeare had written so diligently in years before. At times though, as I held him by my side, I’d glance across the room and see Earnest watching, sadly, that same lonely look upon him as I had noticed those many years ago in the bookshelf, surrounded and yet alone. I felt a pang of guilt in my heart before returning to Hamlet, his words spoken quietly yet with a fierceness that was only possible coming from him. For a while, all was well, yet he began speaking harsh words to me. He did nothing harmful, but his words held so much power in them that I was harmed indeed. “ Let me be cruel, not unnatural / I will speak daggers to his, but use none,” I overheard him as I entered the room, before he began insulting me, yelling “Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.” Crying, I ran from him, grabbing my dear Earnest from the nightstand and running towards the bathroom. Shutting the door I turned on the water and stepped into it, lying back in the bathtub as I allowed the water to rise until it covered my face, leaving me in the silence except for the sound of the waterfall coming from the pipe, crashing into the water already in the tub. There, I was safe, away from my Hamlet, and at rest. “Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night,” I whispered, bringing my head above the water for a moment. Over the sound of the waterfall I could hear another familiar voice. “Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” *** The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I held Earnest to me tightly, staring out the window into the empty street and quiet fall colors that covered the grass, orange and brown and red. He had grown jealous of Hamlet and I, and yet he had remained patiently with me, his pages always there to be turned and to provide me with whatever I needed. I felt a pang of guilt at how I had used him without caring for him in return. I had betrayed him and grown to love another. My fingers returned to the brown photograph on his cover, blankets wrapped around me like some eskimo in the Arctic. I bit my lip, accidentally drawing blood, tasting the copper tang in my mouth. Earnest was silent, staring back up at me with a blank face, emotionless and tired. As if all had been lost and there was no way to return to the way we had been before. His pages felt cool to the touch now, no longer bringing the warmth I had felt. I had not returned that devotion that had been so present in the beginning, and the way he sat on the bed, turned away from me, the cover shut and blocking me out, I could tell the damage I had done just by looking. Sighing, I carried him outside, towards the swimming pool where I sat by the edge of the deep end, dipping my toes in the cool blue water, opening him to my eyes and reading what I had read so many times before, but this time, it felt so different. I didn’t deserve to read those lines, to touch those pages printed with ink that marked every word he spoke to me. Earnest spoke differently to me than Hamlet had, although during our time together I’d felt that the prince had truly cared for me. Yet he didn’t give me that same warmth and laughter my true love had so often provided me. He was witty and yet when I needed any comfort, he held me in his arms, gently wrapping those soft yellow pages around me, caressing my skin as I listened to his words. There was comfort in those words, unlike the cold harsh speech Hamlet would use against me at times. Yet Earnest was never unkind, too cruel or demanding. He was sweet. I stood, holding him to my chest, sighing quietly as I listened to the laughter of children in the backyard behind ours. They were probably having friends over, judging by the level of noise coming from it. As I turned to go back inside my home, I tripped, skinning my knee as he fell from my hands, away from me, into the deep end of the pool. I knelt by the edge, leaning forward to retrieve him, but he was already sinking into the depths of the dark lonely pool. I cried out his name one last time, before remembering something he had said so many years ago. “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.” My eyes had been opened, though I was not asleep, and I saw my reality as it should be.


“Sometimes I wonder if you like me…it feels like you hate me.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t know how to reply to that message that popped up on my screen as I scrolled through the messaging app. I was looking at other conversations when right at the top of my screen, the message popped up. It felt like a full ten seconds before the notification disappeared, though it was probably only one or two; they didn’t stay on the top of the screen for long. It couldn’t be my fault, right? This wasn’t my fault. I ran my hands through my hair; I didn’t even notice how oily it was from not showering for the past few days. I barely noticed how messy my room was as I waded around to my bed, putting down my phone and opening my laptop. I booted up the app again and navigated to the conversation. The screen went from a black or dark grey to a vibrant background. It was from one of my favorite video games, but I hardly cared as I put in my password. When I finally opened the app on my computer, I noticed that my friend went offline. I wondered why they would say this. They were my best friend after all. Even though we haven’t known each other for the longest time, I did tend to think that we were quite close. I had spent time with them several times, we went out to eat and shopping together, and we saw each other whenever we could. That was right, wasn’t it? It probably didn’t matter that they were being more distant lately. They probably needed to be alone. It wasn’t my job to look after them. However, it was concerning that they weren’t talking to me when I wasn’t feeling well. I’m trying to communicate that I’m not alright and they seem to not care in the slightest. It did make me anxious, that they didn’t care and all. They should be replying faster. At times they don’t respond to my messages, even when they’re online. I started combing back through old messages, trying to get a feel for where this message came from. I remember that a few months ago I did snap at them. I was a bit rude I will admit, but I don’t know what they expected from me. I get that they were going through a hard time, but I really didn’t want to deal with it. I mean, yes, finding out that you had a seizure is hard, but I really couldn’t deal with it. I had other things to deal with. I was on a self-exploration journey at the time and that took up a lot of my energy. So of course, I couldn’t deal with it and it was awful that they figured I could. They made a big deal about it, as if it was a regular occurrence. Yes, I’m busy a lot but it seemed like they didn’t care. They said that we should communicate better, and that set me off at the time. We had been communicating as far as I was aware. I messaged them all the time about things that I was dealing with, I just couldn’t deal with their problems right when they needed me to. It was inconsiderate of them in all honesty. I scrolled back a little further, when things were better than that period. It just affirmed what I was thinking; that we did communicate. We always talked, nearly every day. I would send them messages about video games that I was into or cool videos I found on the internet. I messaged them about new music that was being released from my favorite bands and I was always able to tell them if I was having a rough day. I wish that they were more responsive at times, sometimes leaving my messages on read for a few hours. This irked me, it utterly irked me. You could say that they did talk to me more when we first started to get to know each other, but I would honestly say that they messaged too much. I told them this a few times, that I thought sometimes they were clingy or messaged me way too often, but that’s just setting boundaries. You can say what you want but I’m not heartless for setting down boundaries. I’m not a monster for looking out for myself. Every therapist, psychologist, and psychiatrist will say that setting boundaries is healthy. I scrolled back down, images and messages blurring together as I tried to get back to the most recent message in our conversation. Nothing really caught my eye as I scrolled except for that conversation, that argument that we had. “I really feel like you don’t care about me or my issues” is the message that my eyes fell on. Of course, I cared I just didn’t always want to have to deal with them. They’re annoying, their issues are infuriating. “Whenever I try to say something, you call it boring or say you’re busy.” That’s true, because they were boring. They’re not an interesting person and I can be blunt about it yes. We’re still amazing friends, at least in my opinion, but a lot of their interests are just boring and otherwise dull. At least I can keep up with interesting things in life. At least I have good interests, I’m involved with things that are actually entertaining. “I just want to feel heard.” I understood that, which is why I was even more infuriated when they didn’t respond to my messages as often as they used to. I felt ignored and invalidated, and it’s not my fault that I didn’t always have time to deal with their life. I needed help and when I did, I reached out. I just don’t understand why they felt the need to come out and say this. I don’t always respond, yes, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not heard. “I want to feel like your friend again.” This one is the message that vexed me the most. We were friends, we were obviously friends. It’s not my fault that at the time they felt the way they did. They should just have re-evaluated themselves instead of sending these messages. I just really couldn’t place why they sent their most recent message. I thought that rereading over this conversation might give me some insight or some clarity, but it did nothing. I reached the bottom after another few minutes of scrolling and looked at the message again. I can’t believe that they’re so selfish. Don’t they understand how this effects my mental health? As I had thought before, maybe they just should have checked themselves out in the mirror first before really trying to blame things on me. “Sometimes I wonder if you like me…it feels like you hate me.” Yeah, it really does. \ This is a story that I wrote fairly recently. I leave a lot of things vague and up to the interpretation of the reader, and even though I have my own vision for the story there are a few different outcomes I've heard from my friends reading this story.


Once opon a time. Far off in a land of sun. A small girl lived in a Village deep in the valley. Day in and out she did her duties of the home. For she was the only one of her kin left to care for her elderly mother.Every night the girl would read her stories and look up in the sky and imagine for a better place far off from the home she found herself. Alone in her world, she continued through the motions of her existence. Doing just enough that kept her and her mother cared for. But one day, a terrible beast attacked her humble village, while All the good men sworn to protect it were off to distant lands to return riches to the poor town. No one seemed to be able to fight the beast. The monster stormed the village ruining homes and and eating all the food stored. And while the rest of the women and children fled. The girl stood up against the beast with nothinh but a pitch fork. Something happened inside the girl. She came to realise a great gift in herself, she was without fear. She lunged herself towards the monster. Doing what she could to try and scare it off. With one hard swing of the monsters claws she was thrown away. As she stood again to face the monster. From behind her approached someone, A wounded knight on a scarlet steed stepped down from his horse to lend a hand to the maiden. Together, Standing with the knight the girl was able to slay the beast. Her taking a final blow at its heart. In a puff of smoke the beast disappeared in the wind. And as the village gathered to see the aftermath the knight dropped to his knee in pain. The girl was no stranger to remedies of her heritage. And took the lone knight in to care for him. In only a night. The girls life has changed for all of a sudden she felt she had a purpose. And her life had become what she dreamt for. Over months. The the village was rebuilt and the food stores filled. Only now the girl spent her time healing the knight. From dusk till dawn the girl spent with the knight. A mutual fondness growing between them as the knight taught and showed her wonders of lands far from what she has known. Soon enough the knight felt at home with her and did what he could to help around the village. Spending his nights with the girl. And when apart, in their dreams they were together still till they came together again in the day. Joy and color filled the world for them both. But alas. It was short lived. The Knight, you see, was posessed. A demon that not even the pure love and all the remedies the girl concoted could cure him. With heavy heart, and pain strangling his soul. The knight had to go. To go fight the demon that keeps him ill. Knowing only when the demon was expunged could he return and honor the young girl as he truelly knows is right. As the knight rode off in the twilight sun. The young girl wept as her love went away and The shadows creeped towards the villiage once again. The young girl returned to her daily duties, caring for her mother, tending the gardens. And as time passed she grew ever more beautiful. And many suitors came to her door with promises of a happy future. But none would sucessede in winning her heart forever the way her knight conquered her nightmares. So today she still waits for her knights return. And even in sorrow she finds some solace in knowing. No matter how hard the loneliness was , or how far apart they were. The young girl was always with her knight every time she dreamt. And she knew with her soul, that she was always in the heart and dreams of her brave knight. "Untill we meet again, ever truly yours. Your brave Knight.


Logline: A man tracks down his mother's painting, which is worth millions of dollars because of its beauty, when he finally finds it, it may be worth even more than that. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Mike Swanson's mother, Sophie Swanson, was a renowned painter, a living legend at the time of her death, her artwork hung in art galleries and museums. A few weeks after her funeral, Walter Jessup, a billionaire and art collector visited him at his house. They had a long talk about Sophie's life, and Walter brought up a painting named Lola. Walter shows Mike a picture of Lola on his phone, "there it is, isn't she beautiful," Walter says. Mike agrees, he can't take his eyes off it, "That's probably the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," Mike admits. The painting is a realistic portrait of a young girl, couldn't be older than 18, singing into a microphone with yellow feathers in her hair. "I don't think any person could come close to the beauty of this painting; the person who posed for this is probably the most beautiful woman in the world," Mike says. "Keep in mind, the painting is over thirty years old," Walter says. "Still, I can't look away; it's love at first sight," Mike says. "It's the earliest painting ever discovered that your mom made. It's from before she was famous, living out in Las Vegas, trying to make a living as a lounge singer," Walter says. "That's crazy; I didn't even know my mom could sing," Mike says. "In good condition, I've had it appraised at 3.8 million dollars, but no one knows where it is," Walter says. "It's lost?" Mike asks. "I guess so, you see, the girl in the painting is a real person, her name is Lola, she was a showgirl at the Copa thirty years ago, now she's a singer in a Las Vegas night club, people have asked her about the painting, but she won't reveal where it is," Walter says. "Maybe she doesn't have it; maybe it's truly lost," Mike says. "I don't believe that. That woman knows where the painting is. If you went to Las Vegas and asked her for it, she would feel compelled to give it to you; it is your mother's painting. Think of it like this; it technically belongs to you anyway. If you return with the painting, I'll give you eight million dollars, that's double what the painting is worth," Walter says. "Eight million dollars! I'll get that painting for you," Mike says. "The girl does four shows a week, at a joint called The Troubadour, a dinky lounge with slot machines in the lobby. Good luck, kid," Walter says. Mike flies out to Las Vegas, he settles in, and the first night he's there, he goes to The Troubadour to see Lola. He sits in the back; the place is dead, the club has seen better days. A woman, looking to be in her mid-to-late fifties, comes onto the stage with yellow feathers in her hair, it's the woman from the painting, her eyes haven't changed, but life has taken its toll. She's introduced as Lola and performs a version of Unchained Melody; it's beautiful and flawless. When she starts singing, the few people left in the lounge, can't take their eyes off of her, she has a hypnotic presence. Mike found her, Lola, from the painting. When the song concludes, Mike tries to make his way backstage but is not allowed. He waits two hours for Lola at the exit, he sees her and tracks her down. "Hi, Lola?" Mike asks. "Yes, what do you want an autograph or something? A little young for my fan club but whatever," Lola says. "No, my mom was Sophie Swanson, I think you knew her," Mike says. Lola stops in her tracks. "Sophie, yes, I had heard the news, I'm sorry for your loss," Lola says. "Well, I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat?" Mike asks. "Sure, let's grab a drink at the bar," Lola suggests. They walk over to the Troubadour bar; the bartender is very familiar with Lola, "Hey, Lola, your regular?" The bartender asks. "Yes," Lola replies. "Alright, ma'am, a bottle of vodka coming right up," the bartender replies. "A bottle? I don't drink much, will I like the taste?" Mike asks. "Don't be silly, the bottle is for me," Lola replies. Mike turns to the bartender, "Oh, just a coke for me then," Mike says. "So, Sophie's boy, what brings you out to sin city," Lola asks. "Actually, you," Mike says. "I'm flattered, but you're a little young," Lola says. "No, my mom painted a portrait of you, I've seen a picture of it, it's beautiful," Mike says. Lola pours a glass of vodka and immediately drinks half a glass. "Your mother was always a talented painter, you know we were showgirls, right? Those were the days, youth, enjoy it while you have it," Lola says as she downs the other half of the vodka. "Do you still have the painting?" Mike asks. "Have you ever been in love?" Lola asks. "Love? What does that have to do with the painting?" Mike says. "Love is everything, do anything you can to keep it, because it can leave in a blink of an eye," Lola says cryptically. "But what about the painting, do you have it?" Mike asks again. Lola pours another glass of vodka and immediately downs half of the glass as the bartender brings Mike his coke. "Did your mother ever tell you why she made that painting in the first place?" Lola asks. "No, in fact, I didn't even know about the painting until a couple of days ago," Mike said. "They say you shouldn't fall in love at the Copa, but I was young, and I thought I was immune. His name was Tony; he tended bar on most of my shifts; he was the love of my life. The sweetest man you'll ever meet," Lola says as she drinks another half-glass of vodka. "Being a showgirl at the Copa was a tough business, but I was going to be a star, and into the club walked, Rico, mafia goon famous for his diamond pinky ring. He would always call the showgirls over to his table, show off, and try to get them to come back to his room with him. I was working that night," Lola says as she pours another glass of vodka." Rico had a reputation for getting a little handsy, but I had it under control. Unfortunately, Tony, filled with rage and jealousy, sailed across the bar and got into a fight with Rico, punches thrown, chairs smashed, and eventually, Rico pulled his gun and shot Tony," Lola finishes. "That's tragic; I'm so sorry you had to experience that," Mike says. Lola shrugs and drinks another half a glass of vodka. "So, what do you want with this painting?" Lola asks. "I'm being offered eight million dollars for it," Mike says. "Money, you're going to trade that painting for money?" Lola asks. "Yeah, believe it or not, that painting alone will bring in more than all the rest of her paintings did," Mike responds. Lola shakes her head. "Some things can't be bought, kid, I learned that a long time ago. You can't put a price tag on that painting; it's priceless," Lola says. "I know it's beautiful, but why is it so special?" Mike asked. "Your mom got me through a lot after Tony died, I drank a bunch, and I was sad, your mom got me through that phase of my life. That's actually why she made the painting. I had a difficult time; a few nights prior, I tried to commit suicide, so to cheer me up, your mom painted my portrait. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen; it made me want to live. I never tried to commit suicide again," Lola said. "Wow, I never thought that painting would have such a special significance for anyone," Mike says, as Lola throws back another half a glass of vodka. "Look, your mom was a special person to me, if you want the painting, I'll show you where it is, you can have it if you want it," Lola says. "Well, if you're willing to let me have it, I'll take it," Mike says as Lola finishes her vodka and throws down fifty bucks, "Thanks, George, Victor's got to pull the car around, the kid and I have a trip to make," Lola says to the bartender. Lola is taking Mike to Las Vegas General Hospital; they go straight to the top floor. When they step off the elevator, Mike sees a sign that reads, "The Sophie Swanson Psychiatric Wing." When they reach the ward, his mother's painting of Lola is straight ahead. It's the highlight of the entrance to the wing, that was a multi-million-dollar artwork just hanging there at the entryway to the psychiatric ward, hidden in plain sight. As they continued throughout the wing, some of the patients were still up in the middle of the night. Most of them thanked Mike for letting them keep the painting for this long. Over the years, the art has done so much for so many. The beauty had almost a magical presence; it made people forget their problems; it helped so many to get better. By the end of his journey to Las Vegas, Mike didn't have the heart to take the painting away from the psychiatric unit. He figured it would be better if his mom's legacy had been remembered for something good, rather than hanging up in some guy's collection. And though Lola was a shell of her former self, unable to move on from her one true love, the painting of Lola, stood as a symbol of young love, of what life could be, of a beauty that would stand the test of time.


It was late at night and Mark was awoken by the screech of his phone ringtone. He liked having an unconventional ringtone as it drew attention to him when his phone rang; it was the only way he could simulate being the centre of attention, for he was pushed to the back and forgotten about for most of his life. “Hello”, Mark answered. “Mark”, a serious, but sleepy voice replied, “this is Sharon. There’s been an incident down at the County Cemetery, please could you go and make it safe”. Sharon was the lead cemetery caretaker and Mark was second in command. “I can’t. I’ve been drinking”, Sharon offered as her reasoning. It was more than likely, though, as Sharon had become quite a secret alcoholic as of late. Mark had raised his concerns about her with her manager, but they had been brushed off. Nobody listened to him at the best of times – having little in the way of evidence made this more challenging to discuss. “Yes, Sharon”, Mark replied. He didn’t have much choice, but knew he’d get a time bonus for the late-night work. “I’m on my way”, he continued. Alone in his one bedroom flat, Mark got himself dressed in his workman trousers, a fleece to take the edge of the chill of the summer night and his high-visibility clothing, then put on his boots. They weren’t too good to drive in, but he knew he didn’t have time to waste. The County Cemetery had big thick iron gates at its front, with the letter ‘C’ from each word interlocking as a way of showing the county was together. “Huh. That’s odd, these gates shouldn’t be open”, Mark announced to himself. It was Mark’s job to open the gates at eight in the morning and close them at eight in the evening, during the summer. He was sure that he had closed them this evening, though he was distracted by the football playing on his van’s radio. Mark drove straight in, his van headlights the only form of illumination in the pitch-dark graveyard. The bright, white wide-beam of his LEDs shone over the rows of headstones. It was ordered quite distinctly; the left represented the affluent west of the county, while the right represented the poorer east of the county. The left was usually a little more well-kept, with tasteful keepsakes besides the headstones; Mark spent most of his time on the right, tidying it and ensuring the headstones were kept respectfully, though had been working on the left earlier today. He was a spiritual man and often took a moment to reflect on each headstone as he attended to it; Mark was six months into his job and felt those that had been neglected deserved some love, so often came back on his days off to clean them. Parking his van in his favourite bay, Mark turned off his headlights to find himself in total darkness. He reached over to the glovebox and grabbed his torch guided by his interior van light, then got out, his interior light fading as he did so. There was a noise – a rustle came from near the trees of the west area. There was no wind; it was a still night. Still fumbling with his torch, Mark had forgotten where the on switch was. Seconds later, Mark let out: “Aha! Found it!” as his torch lit. He shone his torch on the tree he thought he heard the rustle come from. There was nothing there, but he noticed something was odd. Several headstones laid broken on the ground; the gaps in the rows evident from the distance his was stood. Mark ventured over to the nearest broken headstone. There, he discovered the headstone lying flat on the ground. It wasn’t damaged, which meant it could be reinstalled. Mark paused and lit it up with his torch. it said: ‘Mark Longbottom, loved father, grand-father and great-grand-father’. He took a moment for respect. “Stay back”, a voice shouted. “Hello?”, Mark asked nervously. He hadn’t been to the cemetery at night before, and, although spiritual, had never seen a ghost before either. His call was met with no response. Mark continued to shine his torch around, looking for the next broken headstone he could see from his van moments ago. It was a little further away, so he made his way over, walking carefully to avoid interfering with the ground. He arrived. He lit this headstone. It said: ‘Mark Wigglesworth, gone too soon’. Mark paused for a little longer than last time. Any wording such as ‘gone too soon’ really struck a chord with him. He lost his uncle, who was like a father to him, at the age of ten; his only role model, gone too soon. Noting that so far both had shared his name, he let out an audible statement, as he thought to himself: “Huh, that’s odd”. “Go home”, the same voice as before echoed. “Who’s there?”, Mark asked. This time, he knew he had heard something and was a little concerned about the unlikely coincidence of both headstones sharing the same name. Mark stood and assessed the situation; both were within proximity and both had his name. It’s an unlikely accident; he had a small incline it was done intentionally. Nervous, Mark shone his torch around again, looking for further flat headstones. He found one. As Mark went a little further into the west area of the cemetery, he discovered another headstone that shared his name: ‘Mark Johannsson, found his home here’. This hit a certain note with Mark; he was at home in the cemetery, though not normally in the dark. He had taken the statement a little too literal. “Do not go any further”, the earlier voice stated. Mark was concerned: “What’s going on?”. The voice this time was strong and intense, as if it was a severe warning from someone. Taking his torch again, Mark shone across the west area. There was another headstone flattened. This was near where he was working only earlier today; he was digging out a grave for a funeral tomorrow. As this was closer to the entrance than the others, he thought this might shed some information on what has happened. Mark was now about sixteen foot away from the iron gates, shining his torch on to the flattened headstone: ‘Mark Parker’. There was no statement. This was a little more unsettling – Parker was Mark’s last name, too. He paused, taking a moment to reflect, though understandably uneasy. To reassure himself, Mark shone his torch on the nearby grave had dug, telling himself he would be back at work tomorrow. He walked over to check everything was as he left it. It was; his spade, the debris from the ground and his wooden markers, untouched from earlier. Then, out of nowhere, Mark was pushed. He dropped his torch in shock. He fell. He was in total darkness. His right leg took most of the impact from the fall. He then realised where he had fallen; he was in the grave he had dug. “Help!”, Mark shouted, hopelessly, thinking that if there was someone there with him, they’d come to his rescue. “Help!”, he repeated. Of course, there was no response. He tried to reach for his phone. With a struggle, he did, he managed to pull it out of his right trouser pocket. But it was broken. The impact from his fall had smashed its screen and it wasn’t responding to his touch. Mark looked up. He noticed the dirt was coming at him. “Help! Stop! Hello!”, he shouted, panicking. The dirt continued to fall on him, getting faster each time. Mark tries to reason: “No, please, help me!”. There was no response. Large quantities of dry, heavy dirt began to hit Mark on the head. It knocked him unconscious. The dirt continued to fill the grave until Mark was buried.


I’ve been following Jim Davies for a while now and let me tell you, this guy is by far the biggest headache I’ve ever had. A real, genuine, nice human being. Probably the nicest person on the planet. I just can’t seem to break him. Everyone has a weakness and it usually doesn’t take long to find it. Some people broadcast them and some people hide them away in tiny locked compartments of their souls, but I always find the key. Not with Jim though. I started out small. I would set up a mild inconvenience somewhere in his day to feel out his temper. Red lights, bad weather, the wrong meal at restaurants, etc. Mild stuff, but it adds up over time. It didn’t add up for Jim. Sometimes he wouldn’t even notice what I’d done because he would get distracted all on his own helping some poor old lady cross the street, or rescuing a kitten from a tree. Seriously. This guy rescued a fucking cat in a tree. You may be wondering, does it get any more cliché than that? You’re in luck. It most certainly does. Jim is the pastor at the United church in his perfect suburban paradise. He met his wife, Ruth, in high school and they have a daughter. Want to venture a guess on the name? Mary. Yep. A pastor with a daughter named after the ever so revered virgin herself. How original. Throughout little Mary’s life I’ve started increasing her attitude and disobedience levels. Jim has never even raised his voice. He came home to find Ruth in bed with another man and said they could “work it out, provided that’s what she wanted to do”. He even rides a bicycle to the call centre for the suicide helpline he volunteers with to help save the planet. His church operates a makeshift homeless shelter in the basement, that he furnished and stocks on his own dime. He doesn’t accept donations from the congregation because “God wants you to keep your money”, as if he’d really know. I got Ruth to take Mary and leave him. Cleaned out his bank account on her way out of town too. When I saw him wipe away a single tear and whisper, “good for her” I knew I had to do something drastic. Jim’s neighbourhood isn’t on a fault line. It’s never seen a tornado. Mother Nature has left this particular cookie cutter piece of American bliss alone. Until last night. I’m completely and utterly at my wit’s end. Every home in the area was destroyed. The people who survived have been flooding the big man upstairs with prayers, but not Jim. He just calmly surveilled the wreckage of his former life and salvaged the few surviving items. He even took the jacket off his back to give to the now orphaned Timmy Rogers from down the road. What a piece of work. I’ve already gotten requests from several members of his congregation in regards to making a deal to simplify their lives. Naturally I accepted, but I just know it won’t be the same when I finally collect their souls. The purity in his would have been a delicious deviation from my usual meals of corruption, and I’m sure his screams when he descended to Hell would have been the first true music I’ve heard since God kicked me out of Heaven.