Hi, nice to be part of this community. here is my first short story it is called the Line Surfer : - There is no afterlife. Fact. No Heaven, no Hell, no Valhalla, not even purgatory. There is only the line. Of course, it doesn’t start as a line. It’s more of a triangle, or a pyramid even. From birth to death the apex gets closer and then there is just the line or a point. It is at this point you have reached the summit, the triangle of life lies below you. It is here you will meet the line surfers. That’s what I am, a line surfer. You will have your own name for me. A spirit, a lost soul, a ghost, a spectre, or a phantom, the list is endless. Every society, every tribe, and every culture have a name for us. But we call ourselves the line surfers. It is a name that conjures pictures of handsome young people having fun in the prime of their lives. Fit and healthy people living close to the base of life’s pyramid. Their future lies ahead of them, their spirits filled with the boundless enthusiasm of a life yet to live and their bodies filled with the glowing health of youth. The truth could not be further from this. We are grey and feeble; we are the shadows of a life that was. A life that should have been and gone. We are that last pathetic ember buried somewhere in the ashes of a once-roaring fire. I can hear your arguments. If there is no afterlife, then how are you still living? How can you still tell this tale? Well, let me clarify, I officially died seventy years ago. There was nothing special about my death. There was no drama, I died because my body failed. But it wasn’t peaceful, I fought for every breath, I battled for every extra moment. When the time came it was only my body that died, somehow my soul clung desperately to the tip of life. My spirit grasped frantically onto the apex of that pyramid; a still glowing ember trapped in the ashes of a life extinguished. I don’t know why it happened to me. No surfer does, the brief interactions I have had with others have told me that. We meet occasionally, I didn’t know what they were at first, a vague greyness on the void we exist in. It was a long while before I came close enough to realise what I was seeing. That there were others came as a shock initially, but over time I came to realise that there were many. I have also seen them extinguished, finally and for good. Mostly it’s the new ones, frightened and alone, the realisation of life having ended still fresh in their minds. I see them wobble and dim, fading like a star going behind a cloud, the balancing act required to maintain existence not yet honed. Often it is when they first see others that they fail to surf, that they fall from that apex. Is it good luck or bad luck that helps me surf for so long? I don’t know. I don’t have the time to philosophise on such matters, for doing so would surely be the end of me. This reality requires one’s attention and does not allow for such luxuries. But it is barely an existence, believe me when I tell you that there is a reason all ghosts look pained. It isn’t something that they’ve carried over from their physical life, it is the pain of hanging onto this sliver of being. There is no respite, there is no moment to stop and get your bearings, for that moment would be your final moment. This is what we do, this is line surfing - a continual balancing act on that final thread of life. I can hear more questions. Why hang on? If this struggle is so difficult, why continue? Why not just give up and fade from existence like the countless billions before you? Why not face up to the fact of the matter and simply accept your time’s up? I ask myself these questions constantly. The truth is I don’t know. Somehow, at the moment of death, my soul reached out and grabbed the line. In the shock of those last moments of normal life my soul somehow fought on, it forgot to die. It was instinct or perhaps cowardice, or maybe just a fluke of nature. I don’t know what, I have no answers. But I wished I’d let go then. Because now I can’t. I have prayed for the courage to stop, to just let go and accept the inevitable. Accept that I have died. But somehow a vestige of me lives on, flickering between life and death. A ghost in the machine. I suppose deep down it is the survival instinct, that same instinct that caused me so much pain as I lay gasping for my dying breath. An unwillingness to face the ultimate void. But even as my memories of a life lived fade to nothingness and the nothingness of the surfing becomes like all I’ve ever known I still cling on. But why? There is nothing to exist for, except existence itself. It can only be for this, everything that was mine to look at or touch or love has gone, I have passed it by. This is all there is for me now, everything else lies below, untouchable except for some fading memories. It is difficult to put into words what it’s like here, of course, it’s not a line we surf, nor it is the tip of a pyramid that we balance upon, these are just metaphors. It could be described as walking a tightrope in the dark, always buffeted by an uncertain wind. Or clinging desperately by the fingertips to a frozen handhold on a granite cliff face. But it’s more than that, it’s a desperate balancing act to preserve a memory of life, a taste of consciousness. And it’s constant, one mistake, one slip of the mind, one wrong….


I've gone madly insane and grown to love myself. I've journeyed through a thousand leys where between numbers 9 and 199,500 I found myself, many times. I found myself in a cold room with log walls and wooden floors. The stench of fresh game, peate and cold. An old woman with a bigger mustache than mine licks my face. Slick silvery saliva slide onto my brow as she drags her tongue across my forehead from one temple to the other then tells me to believe in myself. I don't like that so I squeeze through the cracks in the floor boards and... I found myself outside my father's room, not his room now but the one he shared with my momma when he was still my hero. I can hear two voices arguing inside, one squashed and one pounding. When I enter they are both him, and he fights himself until I take them both by the hand and say I loved them. They tell me I must learn to control myself, I thought that was hypocritical so I left. As I close the door they began to argue once more, typical. There is nothing but scintillating lights so I walk until they stop hurting my eyes and I found myself at the mouth of a cave whose path seems to lead up to nothing. Walking inside I see my mother on our old couch with a book in her hand waiting for me, the warm spot where I learn to read and trust sits ready. I am more tempted by this comfort than anything but I don't linger. I move on and my old elementary school appears, where I learn a love for music, stories and the unfair nature of adults. I continue walking towards middle school where I learn how to type 60 wpm and that people can be selfish. I go faster through Highschool, where I learn the most, that the truth is often veiled. That anyone can lie to you. I came to the cliff edge and look over the abyssal chasm that would be the rest of my blip of existence. Then back at the climb I have taken where all the instructors of my past linger in varying forms of interest. Beckoning me to follow paths I have already past. I turn and step off into myself, trusting. I fall for so long that I begin to fly and i found myself soaring above oiled plains heading toward an ocean of water and people. My grandfather is waiting when I land and I cry for hours on his shoulder while he recites every piece of advice he ever gave me. I look up to thank him for making me human but I've wasted my time crying and he has faded away. The sadness is too heavy with the weight of the feelings I cannot express. I am pressed into the hard earth until I am separated and move through it. I found myself disjointed both in mind and body. I float for years through substances hoping to stick myself together, not knowing it was solvent to my glue. I drift into a fairy circle where a woman wearing an apron dress of my ancestors flowing with every color put my pieces back together. She is kind, funny, understanding and fierce. She feeds me from her circle, the taste is bitter but I could not live without it so I ask to take more. I eat until I am full and realize I have left none to regrow. The woman begins to weep in my arms so I pick her up on my back and we move away from her home. I found myself walking for miles through a nothingness that screams out with all the things left ignored and unfulfilled. The words bite and tear at my clothing, taking strips of my flesh, sucking moats of my energy. Regret drives me to my knees where I continue to crawl towards something I do not know. After millennia I come to realize the voices are mine, all of me from all of time who all have a common emotional response towards me, hatred. Before I allow myself to be crushed by the unfathomable burden of my criticism I feel weight lift from my back as my hands are taken. Through the immense pressure of my self worth I am lifted and... I found myself looking into my own oceanic eyes as the woman in the hangerok brings me to my feet. I am frightened and overjoyed to see that she is me in a way I can never be alone. She is everything I have ever thought, everything that I have ever felt, every scar I have created. I look back to the start of my journey and see she had been along the entire path, pushed behind me, ignored. When we had come to the circle we had arrived together, but I was the only one that ate. I apologized and hugged myself, becoming singular for perhaps the first time. The voices do not stop but hinder and cut less as I make my way towards the end. When I emerge, I found myself whole.


Once upon a time, there was a fisherman… Now obviously there have been a lot of fishermen, and there are quite a lot of stories about fisherman. This is not the story about the fisherman who caught himself an undine and brought home a wife, or the fisherman who hooked a crown inside a fish inside a fish inside a fish and became a king. This is not the story about the fisherman who had a magic rod that could reach around the world. Or the fisherman with the enchanted hook that could ensnare whatever you asked it to. And it's certainly not the story about the fisherman who had a miraculous net that could catch things which were lost. This is a story about a fisherman who had a rather unusual friend. The fisherman lived in the village of Rensk, which lay alongside the river Typhon, though nobody calls it that any more. Every day he would leave his house, make his way to the river and begin fishing. There he would remain until the dipping of the sun in the sky told him it was time to go home. Now what you must remember is that this was a long time ago. Back when you could meet the devil sitting on a tree stump, and dance with faeries in the shadow of the moon. Back when the world was a lot older and wilder than it is now. One day, as the fisherman sat by the river in his favourite spot, he noticed his luck seemed poorer than usual, the fish less willing to bite. As the morning wore on the fisherman became increasingly frustrated. Until, just as he was preparing to leave and try somewhere else along the bank, he noticed something glittering in the river bed. No doubt some trinket dropped further upstream. Carefully the fisherman reached into the water and deftly plucked the item from the mud in which it was lodged. A small and battered snuffbox lay in his hand. Finding it to be heavier than he expected, the fisherman opened the lid to see what was inside. As he did so, he heard a crack of thunder and felt a dull pain in his hand like the echo of a flame. Without thinking, he let the open snuffbox fall to the ground. All around him grew dark and the mouth of the snuffbox yawned wider and wider like a great cavern. When it seemed as if the snuffbox stretched from one horizon to the next and all about was black as night; there was a great rushing of winds and out stepped a tall, thin figure wrapped in a long black cloak. “Greetings” said the figure “I, am Death.” Now in those days Death was always getting trapped in snuffboxes, or sugar pots, or bound inside the shell of a walnut. Everybody knew a friend whose mother had an uncle who had met Death in some far off market place. It was no great trouble to anyone apart from Death himself to be trapped in a snuffbox. For the business of Death went on regardless, and we see only one of its many facets. You could no more inconvenience Death by trapping it in a snuffbox than you could diminish the darkness of night by closing the lid of a box. Nevertheless, Death was pleased to be free from his confinement and thanked the fisherman accordingly. Enjoying the day’s fresh breeze and the gentle babbling of the river, Death sat down on a nearby rock to appreciate his new found freedom. Somewhat at a loss and filled with curiosity about his new acquaintance, the fisherman returned to fishing. Glancing from time to time at the strange figure on the rock. Presently the man took out his lunch, a few small sandwiches wrapped up in brown paper. Death looked at them with curiosity, for while Death may know a great deal about the ending of life, he knows very little about the living of it. The fisherman, seeing Death’s quizzical gaze, offered him a sandwich. “But I have nothing to offer you in return” said Death in confusion. For Death is a thing of duty and exchange; Life for Death, mortality for eternity, and had never known a gift or a thing freely given. But the fisherman, handing over part of his lunch, merely smiled and said “What are a few sandwiches between friends?” Death politely ate the sandwich and pondered on the man's words. Or one word in particular. For Death is rarely a welcome companion, and if Death had any friends before this, no stories are told of them. By the time the sandwich was finished, Death had come to a decision. Death thanked the fisherman for his kindness, for his sandwich, and for his friendship then went on its way. The fisherman scratched his head, finished his lunch and returned to his fishing. No record is kept on Death’s opinion of the sandwich. Many months passed, and the fisherman thought little more of his strange encounter. Until on a still and quiet evening, while the fisherman sat at home, there was a single tap on his door; though he had heard no one approaching. Opening the door, the fisherman was surprised to see Death standing patiently on his step. An older man might have been afraid to see Death unannounced at his door, but the fisherman was young and had known no sickness in his life; so was merely pleased to see his unusual acquaintance again. “Come in my friend and warm yourself by the fire” exclaimed the fisherman, his initial surprise rapidly replaced by his usual amiability. And so Death entered his house as a friend. Little is known of what was discussed at this, their first true meeting as friends, but they talked long into the night and before he left, Death promised he would visit again. Soon they settled into a routine. From time to time there would be a gentle tap at the fisherman’s door and it would be Death, come for dinner. Occasionally the fisherman would be out walking when he would suddenly spot his friend strolling quietly beside him and together they would travel down paths and tracks that the fisherman would swear had not been there before. They would wander for hours as Death went about his appointed task, and the fisherman saw many strange things on those days. And so it continued. Months might pass between visits, sometimes it could be as long as a year. But eventually, the Fisherman would always hear a soft tap upon his door, or see the gentle shifting of black fabric from the corner of his eye and know that his old friend Death had come to see him. Each time, Death would apologise for his lengthy absence, for not having come to visit in so long; but every time the fisherman would smile and reply, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” One day, while the two were out walking, Death turned to the fisherman and said “For many years you have welcomed me into your home, and yet I realise now that you have never visited mine. Come, I must make amends for my poor manners.” The fisherman received the invitation without fear, knowing it was offered with kindness. He knew his friend had no need of tricks or deception, that if his time were to come then that would be the end of it. There would be no discussions. And so they began their journey to the home of Death. They walked for what seemed like hours, though the sun never moved in the sky as they drew steadily closer to mountains whose names the fisherman did not know. In time they came to a valley nestled at the base of one of the great mountains, and in this valley there sat a small house. The home of Death. But I shall not describe it here, for those who Death has welcomed into his home are few, and we are not one of them. What I may tell you is this; through the house there is a cave. It extends deep into the mountains and as far as is known it never truly stops. The walls and floor are carved from the rock itself, a smooth and unblemished obsidian. And in this cave there are caverns without number and in each cavern there are candles. Thousands, millions of candles. More than can ever be counted. And these candles burn with a flame like none you have ever seen. For Death's home is a place of perfect stillness. No breeze stirs the air and no tremors shake the earth. The flames of the candles do not flicker or dance, each stand as steady as rock, as if carved from gleaming glass. Through this cave the fisherman was led until the two of them stopped in a cavern seemingly no different to any other, by a shelf that looked like all the rest. Death gestured towards the sea of candles and spoke: “Each of these candles is a life. Some burn long, some burn short; but, in the end, all burn out. That is when I come for them.” The fisherman looked at the dazzling array of flames in wonder. “This one is yours.” Death continued, pointing. At first the fisherman was unsettled to see such a thing. But as he looked at his candle he saw that it was tall and proud, no doubt with many years left to burn and his mind was put at ease. With that the two of them returned to Death's house for what I imagine was a rather strange meal. Many nights in the years to come the fisherman would dream of that cave, of its many candles and of his friend walking its endless labyrinthine halls and corridors. In time the man fell in love and married. At first his new wife asked him questions about his old friend, “Who is he? What does he do?” and so on. But each time she asked, her husband would give her the same reply, with a small smile and a wink, “Only what he must, and nothing else.” His wife never grew tired of asking, and after every visit would repeat the same questions, to the same response. Until one year, when the sickness had been laid thick about a neighbouring village and many had lost their lives. Word came from the village that his wife’s sister was afflicted and not long for the world. The fisherman's wife packed a small basket full of her sister's favourite treats and set off to visit her one last time. When she returned, the fisherman knew his wife had seen his old friend about his work, which in times past she had been so curious about. Never again did she ask who his strange friend was or even enquire after him at all, and the fisherman never learned what words may have passed between them. Years more passed and the fisherman and his wife were blessed with a child, a baby girl; and for a time they were happy. Yet from the moment of her birth, his daughter was a sickly thing, fragile and frail as if she were knitted not from flesh and bone like the rest of us, but rather cobwebs and starlight. His neighbours whispered and gossiped in hushed tones as he passed; that while his newborn was certainly beautiful and fair, she was altogether too delicate and surely was not long for this world. The fisherman pretended not to hear such idle chatter, but every day his brow grew more furrowed and his heart heavier. At night the fisherman lay awake listening to his daughter's troubled sleep, leaping from his bed at her slightest cough, watching over her while she slept in her crib. Soon the fisherman became filled with a dread for when his old friend might next come to visit. He had seen King and Emperors, bishops and popes, sorcerers and enchanters, rich men and poor men, saints and murderers, all plead with his friend, offering him anything they could for just a little more time. But nothing would stay his friend’s hand from his appointed duty. The fisherman knew that eventually his friend would surely come. Soon the fisherman no longer left his house for fear of meeting his old friend somewhere along the path. Every knock at the door, every crunch on the garden path he would jolt, expecting his friend had come to take his daughter from him. But some things cannot be avoided, old friends among them. At last the day came when he heard a gentle tap on his door. There, waiting for him, was Death. While in his youth he had known no fear upon receiving such a guest, now his heart trembled. “Greetings my old friend, how have you been?” he asked. For it is a terrible thing to turn away a guest, no matter who they may be. “I am well” intoned death. “Please excuse my long absence, it has been some months since last we met.” The fisherman, as he always did, merely smiled, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” To the fisherman's relief, his old friend began to walk and gestured for the fisherman to join him. With each step that took Death further away from the house, the fisherman's heart grew lighter. He barely paid attention to what he said and didn't even notice where they walked until a familiar valley came into view. Presently he found himself in Death's home once more. The two friends sat down to share a meal as was their habit, and Death left to bring the freshly prepared dishes in from the kitchen. Now alone, the fisherman was suddenly overcome with a desire to see for himself just how much time his daughter had. Getting up from the table he made his way to the entrance of the caverns that sat behind the house. He wandered through the cave as he had done many times before, his feet carrying him without conscious thought, to his own candle still nearly as tall and proud as when he first laid eyes on it. There, next to it, he found a tiny candle that he knew could only be his daughter's. So small that the flame burnt almost level with the shelf on which the candle sat. The Fisherman stared at the candle which resembled not much more than a thimbleful of wax with a wick no larger than an eyelash. Then he stared at his own candle, still tall and proud after all these years. He knew what he had to do. Fiercely the Fisherman gripped his own candle in his hand. Gently he raised it up from the stone shelf on which it had rested, unmoving, since the day he was born. Carefully he brought it closer to his daughter's own tiny candle. Ever more carefully he tilted his candle and let some of the liquid wax at its top overflow and trickle down to the small candle below. Imperceptible at first, as each new drop of wax joined his daughter's candle, it grew ever so slightly taller. The Fisherman smiled as he turned his candle a little bit more, and the candle below grew noticeably bigger. His plan was working! In his mind he pictured the delicate young baby, now with time enough to grow into a woman. His heart buoyant, he resumed his task, a stream of wax cascading down to the candle below. Hours fell from his candle, then days, then months, then years... And for perhaps the only time in all the aeons that have yet been and in all the aeons that are yet to come, a candle in Death’s cave flickered and wavered. But the fisherman did not notice and continued to tilt his candle yet further. In a blink of an eye the faltering flame was extinguished, drowned in the onrush of liquid wax. The fisherman’s heart stopped and for one brief merciful moment he thought it was his own candle he had foolishly extinguished. Then he only wished it was. His daughter's candle sat below him, its brilliant flame snuffed out. The fisherman was as still as the candles surrounding him, as if he were carved from the very same stone as the cavern itself. Then he felt a horror which few before or since have felt. Desperately he tried to relight his daughter's candle, bringing his own flame as close as possible, he held the burning wick against the now lifeless one. Willing with all his might that his candle should relight his daughter's. Intently he focused on the flame and the wick, ignoring the hot wax that poured over his fingers. Seconds that felt like years passed. The fisherman staring so hard at the wick he almost thought it might burst into flame from the intensity of his gaze alone. Just as all hope left him, when he was certain all was lost, a second flame leapt to life, his daughter's candle burned once more. Joy overwhelmed him. But in an instant he felt a searing pain in his hand. So intently had he been watching the flame he hadn't noticed his own candle had burned down to where he was gripping it. Instinctively, reacting to the pain, he let go and watched as his candle fell towards the ground. With a rushing as of a great wind, like that he had heard many years before, his friend Death now stood beside him; a single hand outstretched to catch the falling candle. Sitting safely in Death's palm, was the fisherman's candle. Death's gaze passed between the now tall candle on the shelf, burning once again, and the tiny one in his palm, hardly more than a scrap of wax and a wick no larger than an eyelash. The fisherman saw that Death knew what he had done and he felt ashamed for trying to trick his old friend. Death closed his hand, and when he reopened it, the candle was gone. “When you entered my home you had many years left to burn. Now they are gone.” said Death. For the first time since they had met, the fisherman thought he heard sadness in his companion's voice. “No matter,” said the Fisherman looking over at his daughter's candle burning tall and proud. “What are a few years between friends?” And with that he passed through the cave, to the lands that lie beyond.


Stella of Vault 21: 1, The Sea of Sand. A girl roams the endless sea of sand in search of food, water, shelter, anything. As the sun sets she begins to become more and more hopeless she drinks the last of the purified water as she crawls under a rock outcropping. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Taking out her blanket and lying down in the small alcove. she turns over and sees the lights of New Vegas. A tear rolls down her cheek. She thinks of her past home the only place she knew, Vault 21. She misses it, her family, her friends, her home. She remembers how her family would roll dice every night to see who got the extra food ration. Her first job was at the general store. Her Nuka Cola Collection at this point she tried to stop herself from crying to prevent herself from getting dehydrated but she couldn't. She soon fell asleep. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Waking up sometime later she realizes in the alcove is a door, this door leading to a vault entrance, Vault 11. Hoping someone is inside she activates the intercom. \_ "Hello," she says \- "Is anyone in there" \- "I'm from Vault 21 please answer" Nothing She asks once again but no response so out of desperation she loads up her Pipboy 3000 and opens the door. With a loud screech of rusted metal and steel, the door opens. She cringes back trying to cover her ears. Now open she realizes something is off. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ "Next time on Stella of Vault 21: Will she find food or water within this derelict vault? What horrors await inside? \- Tune in next time to find out.


what used to be the Fries family home a young woman awakens much like the others, dizzy, confused, and nauseous. As she rolls onto her back, Teagan and Dexter enter the home. (Kim) “Who…where…” (Teagen) “Rest, Ms. Fries. It’s a troublesome ordeal the three of us have been through as well.” (Dexter) “Fries? Like that crazy doctor?” (Teagen) “Mhm, before us lays the great granddaughter of Nora and Victor Fries. Her grandfather was adopted by members of the Fries family shortly after Nora fell ill. Between Victor dedicating his life to finding a cure, and his eventually transformation into Mr. Freeze, the young man was raised never knowing his real parents.” (Kim) “You…you…” (Teagan) “Help her up Dex, she can recover in the car. “ Once in the car the trio head back towards Gotham. Kimberly comes to fully halfway to their destination and Teagan catches her up to date on everything. They arrive at a long abandoned apartment building. (Dexter) “I don’t think that’s up to code…” (Teagan) “Adrian should be done with a quick search…they should be out here waiting for us.” (Kim) “If what you told me is correct, they should be able to handle a situation shall it arise.” (Dexter) “Yeah Adrian’s a badass, I’m sure they’re just waiting for us inside.” Teagan sighs and the three exit the car. They enter the building and Teagan immediately calls out for Adrian. (Teagan) “I can’t feel them…Adrian!” Teagan takes down one of the hallways before Dexter and Kim can stop her. (Kim) “There’s more to their relationship then meets the eye?” (Dexter) “I think so, neither have said anything but I got lost my first night in the headquarters and found them sleeping in the same bed sooooo…” He shrugs sarcastically and motions for Kim to follow him down the hallway and after Teagan… Teagen glides slowly through the first floor, looking in every room for any sign of Adrian. As she gets closer to the stairwell she finally picks up on a presence but it’s not Adrian. She flies up the stairs in a flash. She flies into room 2A and once again finds it empty. But as she turns to leave she’s grabbed by the face and forced down to the ground. Someone holds her arms down while the other covers her face. ‘ (???) “Calm down little dove…I think we can help each other.” (??? 2) “Hurry up I can’t hold her for long.” (???) “Right, here’s the scenario. We have Adrian and clearly they mean something very important to you little dove. So we’ll let them…and you go without any problems if you just help us find-“ (??? 2) “Company!” The person jumps to the left to avoid being hit by a green cannonball that destroys the balcony door and coats the floor in glass. (Kim) “Be careful you twit Teagans over there!” (Dexter) “I’m still new to this lay off.” He goes to fire another at the strange holding Teagen down but the stranger stands up and holds Teagen out in front of her. Dexter quickly pulls back, almost hurting himself in the process. The second figure tackles Kim and takes her into the hallway. Dex takes his off the masked stranger in front of him for a split second. When he turns back, they’re gone and Teagen s on the ground bleeding. Dex begins to dry heave and double over in repulsion. He’s suddenly grabbed by the stranger and forced against the wall. (???) “Hard to play hero when you can’t stand the sight of blood…” The stranger uses their free hand to rip a chunk off their mask off. Dex kicks and tries to scream as the strangers face proceeds to bleed profusely. Debs starts to hyperventilate as he feels it…his own face is bleeding. Slowly, it washes over his vision and he comes close to passing out. With this, the stranger throws him into the bathroom. (??? 2) “And here I thought you said you weren’t crazy like your great granddaddy?” (???) “I’m not…but sometimes extreme measures are needed. Where’s the Fries girl?” (??? 2) “Knocked out stone cold in the hallway. No trouble at all.” (???) “Perfect, come we must find the Luthor boy before they come to.


An international spy with a reputation for debauchery, a martini always on his breath, and a closet full of tuxedos, Rex Flint possessed all of the suave and slick characteristics that made him the envy of everyone. Men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him. He was famous for his quick wit, charming personality, and ability to stay one step ahead of his adversaries at all times. However, even Rex had some vulnerabilities, and his sworn enemy, Vladimir the Vicious, was well aware of how to exploit such vulnerabilities. Vladimir had gathered an army of Rex's ex-girlfriends, all of whom had a reason to want him dead and had the inside knowledge to get it done. First, there was Karen, the girlfriend who used to send food back to restaurants and, when dating, drove Rex crazy with her lousy attitude toward service workers. Karen held a black belt in karate, but Rex was just as skilled, and they fought to a draw after an epic battle. The conflict continued at various locations, including a hotel, a grocery store, and a restaurant. Karen was able to tap into her true inner strength at each site by employing her mastery of the art of complaining. When she kicked Rex in the face at the restaurant, she said, "This steak is undercooked; if I wanted it this raw, I'd go to a farm and milk a cow." "This hotel room is too cold; I don't remember ordering the refrigerator suite!" Karen said as she hoisted Rex over her shoulder at the hotel. "The sign posted says 20% off, but the register rang it in as 15% off; I want to see a manager!" Karen said as she punched Rex into an end cap at the supermarket. It all came down to a showdown at the deli when Karen had him cornered, and he came dangerously close to surrendering. Rex, however, saw something out of the corner of his eye that would defeat Karen for good; her true kryptonite: dry chicken. "I believe you ordered this thinly sliced," Rex said to her as he pummeled her with slice after slice of dry chicken. "No, No, no! It's so dry, and there's no one to complain to!" Karen said as she spontaneously combusted. Next, there was Rebecca, the girlfriend who was a bad driver but refused to admit it. When dating, she scratched Rex's Aston Martin and then denied it was her fault for the next 48 hours, claiming that the curb had "come out of nowhere." One night, Rebecca broke into Rex's compound to steal his beloved Aston Martin, the car she claimed he loved more than her. She had driven it for three minutes before she made an accidental collision with a fence, which resulted in it catching fire. After causing him significant pain, Rex was utterly beside himself. This attack led to the two of them engaging in combat. Rebecca was a weapons expert and again had Rex in a stalemate. "Admit it, you're a horrible driver," Rex said. "Never," Rebecca replied, "you're just obsessed with cars to make up for inadequacies in other areas of your life," as she grazed him in the arm with a gun that was hidden in her dress. The conflict continued to escalate, with both sides taking turns firing their weapons at one another. At long last, Rex had a solution that would put an end to this matter once and for all. He tricked her into a high-speed chase on the 405 freeway. On the eight-lane highway, they were weaving in and out of traffic while traveling at fast speeds. To Rex's surprise, she was handling herself reasonably well, and he started to think he was wrong. When Rex was on the verge of losing, he made a last-ditch effort to save the situation by calling Rebecca on her cell phone. Rebecca couldn't resist picking up the call, and after she did, she drove her car directly off a cliff. Finally, Vladimir sent Marta, the one that got away. Marta was the only one who knew the truth about Rex's true self, which was that his middle name was Philomena. She was also aware that Rex was picked on by the other spies because of his passion for The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and the fact that he spent his free time creating Tick-Tok dance videos. Marta was quite knowledgeable in the field of psychological warfare. After only ten minutes of conversation, she was able to reduce Rex to childlike crying and seeing a shrink five days a week. Rex had been defeated. With the help of his therapist, Doctor Weintraub, Rex could confront Marta and admit that he still had feelings for her. To his surprise, Marta realized that she also had feelings for him. Rex apologized for his past mistakes, and Vladimir the Vicious was defeated by, of all things, the power of love. Foiled again, Vladimir retreated to fight another day, vowing that next time, he would go nuclear... send Rex's mother.


From the moment she was born, everyone seemed to love Lucy. Like a human lodestar, she had the ability to draw warmth out of anyone around her. She succeeded at everything she attempted, and attempted almost everything. Without a doubt, she was the brightest, kindest, most beautiful woman I ever knew. On a Thursday night, in the heart of a New York blizzard, Lucy took her own life. When they went to bury her, the ground was so frozen they could hardly dig her grave. They lowered her into the cold earth, to cover her presence and hide our shame. There she lies today, bereft of the warmth she inspired in others, abandoned by the world and its people. I have tried talking about it many times; her mother refuses to discuss it. It is an open secret, something that happened and must not be mentioned, better consigned to history than examined in the light of day. That may be, but I can’t keep going like this. I need to talk about what happened. I need it to be told so someone else can remember. One final time, to set it in stone. *In the year of our lord 1518, in the city of Strasbourg, France, a woman walks from her home. She enters into the streets and begins to dance feverishly. Soon, multiple people have joined her. Together they dance as if their very lives depend on it, shaking uncontrollably to the rhythm of an ineffable beat. The illness spreads, there appears to be no obvious vector of transmission. For some, just knowing about its occurrence is enough to spur on an incident. No medical intervention seems capable of easing the ailment. The townspeople turn to god for help. Mass sermons are held, exorcisms are concocted to evict the demon that has gripped the town. It proves ineffective, but this does not stop the peoples’ prayers. There is a sense of the town being held together by prayer alone. Meanwhile, the diseased dance until they collapse from fatigue. Only then are they relieved.* When Lucy died I locked myself in a room for four months. I didn’t see another soul, didn’t hear a voice other than my own and the ones in my head. I ate very little and said even less. I wanted to come to terms with the grief. I wanted to memorize its features, to read its movements and learn its manners. I wanted to size it up like a rival gladiator before a bout. It worked, maybe a little too well. By the time I left the room I could describe every facet of the grief in utmost detail. I can still remember those descriptions today, but I’ve long since forgotten what Lucy looked like. I didn’t cry for years, I still rarely do. We don’t get to decide between what haunts us and what we leave behind. What happens to those things that are forgotten? Those people? A hundred years from now no one will remember Lucy, no one but the earth. Where do those thing go? Where is Lucy now? Everywhere and nowhere. Gone and yet fractured, smashed into a billion little pieces, digging in under my skin. What does that make us? What does that make me? *In 1300 BC, the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten has had enough. In one fell swoop he abandons the old pantheon and replaces them with his own god, Aten. A single man, destined to be the sole intermediary between his world and the next, decides to usurp the gods. He outlaws the worship of the old pantheon. It is largely unsuccessful. In response, Akhenaten’s madness deepens. His laws grow more brutal, his convictions more dire. On paper it was a simple thing: the gods are only as real as they are believed to be. It is he, the pharaoh, who decides what is real for his subjects. And yet the gods are fighting back, refusing to die. As if they know what follows.* *Akhenaten decides a new capital is to be built. In alleyways and dark corners he is dubbed a heretic, yet no one dares to oppose him. The pharaoh’s might is absolute. What was supposed to be a religious execution has become a bitter war, one Akhenaten does not survive. After his death, all signs of him are swiftly erased, along with any mention of his foolish god. The old pantheon is soon returned.* I disappeared from the world. Not in a physical sense but certainly in a spiritual one. I retreated further and further into myself, until I couldn’t recognize who I was. To the world, I became a ghost. In a way, I think it was an attempt at punishment, a way to create a connection between myself and Lucy. None of it was my fault, it just made more sense if it was. At least then I had someone to blame. I quickly managed to put up appearances. It’s not difficult to teach yourself how to go through the motions. Lucy became my excuse for everything, the reason I went home early, the reason I didn’t go out on Fridays, the reason I stopped writing and the reason I couldn’t pick it back up. I didn’t tell anyone of course, it wasn’t any of their business. From the outside it must have looked like I suddenly stopped, like everything about me had ground to an abject and indefinite halt. Lucy’s death was a single, immaculate puzzle, and because I had made myself one of the pieces it had become impossible to solve. That was how I liked it. But life stops for no one, no matter how badly we want it to. In time, the rapturous drumbeat of your heart is destined to overpower any lingering regrets, and you will be forced to stand back up. It wasn’t that I didn’t still need Lucy, it was that I had been faced with an ultimatum: Give up life, or give up Lucy. Some part of me still had enough sense to know it wasn’t what she would have wanted. To hold on any further would mean despoiling her memory past the point of no return. She would die again, and this time I *would* be the one to blame. All these facts were true, even if I was the only one who knew them. They were real, even though they were only in my head. Even from beyond the grave, Lucy had the power to change my life. *In 1519, one year after the Dancing Plague torments Strasbourg, the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortéz lands on the shores of modern day Mexico, determined to conquer the newly discovered land for his king and country. A year later, Cortéz and his men arrive in the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán, a glorious city built upon the waves of a great lake. The city dwarfs anything Cortéz has ever laid his grubby little eyes on.* *They are received by the Aztec Emperor Moctezuma, who declares Cortéz an incarnation of the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl, the great feathered serpent. Cortéz is lavished with gold and proceeds to claim this mighty empire for his king.* *The story isn’t true, of course. The Aztecs were far from uneducated. They understood warfare and deception as well as any European warlord. It is, however, the story that was told for generations, a recollection of events so outlandish and intriguing that it could not help but spark a match in the world’s collective imagination.* *It helps that the Aztecs did not get to tell their side of the story. Tenochtitlán was raised to the ground like a modern library of Alexandria. Whether or not Cortéz was a god, he would ultimately herald destruction of biblical proportions.* For all of Lucy’s childhood her mother would always tell her not to believe in anything. ‘Don’t let anyone decide for you’ she would say. Lucy took it to heart, how could she not? When we are young our parents are like gods. We believe their every word because there is nothing else to believe. Those words gave her hope, they became Lucy’s foundation, the very core of her being. They elevated her, allowed her to reach ever better and greater things. They also killed her. When Lucy’s life fell apart there was no one to turn to, no one to blame but herself. She struggled under the weight of her own genius and the implications that genius created. It was torture. It wrenched her apart from the inside out. I tried to help, to find the right words like I’m supposed to do, but I couldn’t. There was no way of reaching her. She was already gone. I hated myself for that. I still do. … In a perfect world she would have had somewhere to turn. There would have been a figure or ideal to grant her comfort. A God, to deliver absolution. Higher powers provide ambiguity, they serve as a sticky, waxy substance through which we can glance at the truth without being exposed to its power. It’s why there are no wordless gods. The language isn’t just necessary, it’s the point. Language and truth can never occupy the same position. Viewed together they form perfect parallels, lines skirting each others’ edges but never intersecting. In just the same way that I can never make you feel how it felt when Lucy died, even though I remember it clear as day, a god could never have helped her any more than she could have helped herself. But what does that mean? That it isn’t real? That it isn’t worth trying? Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is to be haunted, to be gripped eternally by the feeling that there is something just out of reach that you can’t quite put your finger on, infinitely distant yet uncommonly familiar. After all, real events have no power. It’s only when we start telling them as stories that they begin to carry weight. It’s only when we tell them again that we can make sense of what happened. Often, by the time we do, the real thing has already been lost. So we walk in circles, following the stories we ourselves laid down as tracks, trying to capture the nature of the thing we lost, certain that if we could just hold it in our hands once more, that it would surely bring with it some new perspective, some ancient, antediluvian truth that would make our pain feel just a little lighter. In that sense, we have already become like gods. Because that’s all a god is: a false guide, circling something real, a memory thrice recalled and twice recorded, not a lie, but something adjacent to one. Maybe that was what Lucy needed to hear. Maybe it’s just what I want to believe. Every night I lie in bed and close my eyes. Every night I feel the life drain from my body as my consciousness fades. Every morning I am born anew, without sin, or pain or memory. Every morning I have to reconstruct myself from the broken shards of what remains. I never come out quite the same. When I die, I too will be a memory. Everything I am and was will be compressed until I become a single thing with many facets. A god, a dream, a notion. No one will remember the pain. No one will remember the loss, or the sorrow and horror of a life cut short. No one will remember who I really was. But that’s okay. The earth remembers. The earth *always* remembers.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - Do you like to give your characters more backstory or secrets that you don’t include in the story? Does it help you know how your character will move forward through the narrative or is it just something special to amuse yourself? Do you hint at any of the backstory or secrets in the writing? - **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


Hi peoples! So, I'm relatively new here, but I've recently started writing short stories to deal with my anxiety, and this was the first story I wrote. I can't say that my anxiety is gone, but I feel like life is beautiful again and that I've found my purpose. Better late than never, right? Why do you write? I'm sharing it here as I would love to hear your feedback. Cheers! \ In a green-lit forest that’s buzzing with all kinds of life, under a strangely shaped birch tree that’s 125 years old, on a forest floor that no human has ever set foot before, grew an *Amanita Muscaria* mushroom with red skin and white warts distributed more or less evenly across its surface. 🍄 This was no ordinary mushroom. It was sentient, and it went by the name Anita. She was different from all other mushrooms in her community as she was the only one who was aware. All other fellow mushrooms had no idea of what world existed outside of their little stems. She would give living things around her a name to make them more sentient, even though she couldn’t communicate with anyone. Mimmy and Emmy were the mushrooms closest to her. They were mushrooms of a different kind, a special kind considered to be one of the most beautiful: *Laccaria Amethystina* or *The Amethyst Deceiver*. When young, these mushrooms would have a distinctive deep purple color, a color so vibrant and alluring that Anita would often wonder if they were really a Terran species or something brought to Earth by aliens. 👽 Anita liked to imagine how her life would have been like if she was a mushroom of a different kind, a more unique kind like Mimmy and Emmy, or even like Dea and Lea, who grew two trees down and were of a dazzling kind called *Phallus Indusiatus* or also known as *The Veiled Lady*. Dea and Lea rose from the ground a few weeks ago as the most ordinary mushrooms. Very unassuming at first, they soon grew a net-like skirt that made them look very gracious and elaborate. “Why is everyone more impressive than I?” Anita would often wonder. 😔 Days in the forest went by very monotonously. Everything was happening as it was supposed to, each thing casually interacting with other things in its surrounding as if they had been programmed in advance to live in perfect balance with each other. The tree that was giving her shade from the sun was thin but with a rich crown, its slender branches swaying on a windy day, and delicate leaves changing colors with the passing of the seasons. The tree was host to many insects Anita wasn’t fond of; there were ants, spiders, wasps, and even moth and butterfly caterpillars. The abundance of insects also meant the tree was often visited by insect-eating birds like woodpeckers. 🌲 “What if the woodpecker gets tired of eating moths and develops an appetite for some mushrooms? What would I do if he decides to expand his menu? And how come he doesn’t get a concussion from so much pecking?” Anita would wonder. Not to mention how terribly annoying these woodpeckers were. Anita was a night owl, and she would often get lost in thought while gazing at the stars above her, contemplating the meaning of life and her place in the vastness of the Universe, only to get awoken by the maddening pecking of the irritating bird. This bird seemed to peck for all kinds of reasons — to establish territory, excavate a nesting hole, and find insects. Anita would often worry, “What if this pecking fool eats his tasty meal and then poops on top of me?” 💩 Anxious, Anita would look up at every pecking sound coming from the old birch tree. When she wasn’t annoyed by the woodpecker, she would be overwhelmed with melancholic thoughts. “I’m just a FUNGUS, and there’s nothing FUN about it. You’re doomed to remain grounded in one place, your destiny depending on the mercy of woodpeckers, insects, birch trees, rain, the wind, and other things the Universe seems to like more than mushrooms.” She believed someone was playing a weird joke on her, making her sentient but unmovable. She was becoming increasingly anxious about the future, knowing that if danger ever came, she would have no choice but to fade into non-existence without having accomplished anything meaningful. Time flew by as she jumped from one thought to another, blaming the Universe for her uneventful existence. It hadn’t rained for three weeks, but one summer night, on July 17, the rain finally came, and it came in abundance. It would rain uninterruptedly for seven whole days. 🌧 There were times when only a few drops would fall on her cap and nights when she would be completely immersed underwater. On one occasion, a slimy snail climbed on her cap, trying to avoid the incoming water. Anita didn’t worry that she could drown; she could actually hold her breath for several hours. What she worried about was rotting away. “Finally, my greatest fear will come to be: dying slowly in solitude by rotting.” She tried to deal with her overwhelming anxiety by shifting her thoughts to some other things. She started thinking about rain and how all the hydrogen and oxygen atoms bound in each water molecule have been here for eons. “It’s the same water molecules changing from water to vapor to water again. The only way we can get new hydrogen or oxygen atoms is if a meteor containing water crashes on Earth.” 💧 “Does that mean that some of this water passed through the kidneys of humans? Was this water once part of the Aegean sea? Have some of these drops fallen on a mushroom that’s as sad as me?” Wondering about random things tired her. She rarely slept, but that night, she drifted slowly to sleep. When she woke up, she was 2 cm taller and had a friend: a new mushroom rose from the ground right next to her. “Just another fungus that does nothing,” Anita complained about her new friend she considered to be very ugly-looking. “He’s not even a day old, and he already looks like a badly aged mushroom.” “That’s not a nice way to make friends,” the new fungus said with a sharp-witted voice that only someone who has lived through thousands of years and witnessed the rise and fall of species would have. Anita had been waiting for someone to speak to for weeks, and she’s imagined the conversation multiple times in her head, but now she was lost for words. 😨 The wind came and went, seventeen butterflies flew by, and the crescent moon appeared and disappeared from the sky by the time Anita uttered her first words. “Do you have a name?” she asked. “You can call me Myo.” “Do you know what’s wrong with me”? she asked Myo. “The thing that made you sentient made me sentient as well. We call it the mycelial network. We don’t know its origins, but we know it’s been here for a billion years. We’re all part of it. You’re not the only one who’s sentient. We all are. Mimmy and Emmy. Lea and Dea. Everyone. You’re just the one who’s trying to detach herself from the mycelium.” “The mycelial network?” “The mycelium we’re part of is 2,200 years old and has given life to hundreds of thousands of mushrooms over the ages. The mycelium senses everything that’s happening above ground; leaves falling, insects crawling, the wind blowing. Nothing passes unnoticed. Recently, it sensed you. Your anxiety, to be precise. Your anxiety is untangling you from the network, and it’s making your symptoms worse. And so it sent me to act as your mentor mushroom and tell you our story .” 📚 “What do you mean our story?” “We, fungi, came to Earth some 1.3 billion years ago. We were here even before plants. There was a period of a few million years when giant fungi existed. Can you imagine that? Huge fungi a few meters tall; we were the tallest thing that existed for a time. It was we who made life on Earth possible. All the life you see around you in this forest exists because of us. We prepared everything so that other life can exist. Today, we keep a lower profile, but our goal is still the same: maintain life on Earth. That is your purpose, too. Your purpose is not to exist for yourself. It’s to exist for others. You will grow and die, and new life will grow out of you. And so on for billions of years until the Sun consumes the planet.” 🌎 “But I want a different purpose. There must be something more than that,” Anita rebelled. “What higher purpose is there than existing in perfect harmony and balance with other organisms in order to support all kinds of life?” “My wish is to leave this forest and see what else is out there.” “I knew a mushroom just like you once. We called him Bebel the Rebel. Every five hundred years or so, a mushroom like you and Bebel appears. We believe it’s due to some kind of an error in the mycelial network. You want to detach and exist on your own.” “What happened to Bebel?” asked Anita. “We had to let him go. He was trying to detach from the mycelium by force, risking to poison every fungi and plant in his local area.” “Did he find happiness?” “He didn’t find anything; it found him.” “What do you mean?” “The mycelium is also like a messaging system. We use it to send signals to each other; look at it as an early warning system to protect us from things like pests. That week when Bebel detached from the network, we had a terrible aphid attack. Aphids are these creepy-looking, sap-sucking insects that can infect us with viruses that are deadly to us. A few of us died in the attack but managed to send a signal. Unfortunately, no one was able to warn Bebel as he was no longer attached to the network. He died three days after becoming an independent mushroom.” 🐛 Myo’s words slowly turned into an echo. Anita was now having an internal conversation with herself. “Should I trust this weird mushroom? Could he be telling the truth, or was the story about Bebel only that, a story?” But the more Myo talked, the more she grew to believe his words. It was a too-detailed story not to be true. Anita was about to ask Myo to tell her more stories about fungi when she heard a voice she had never heard before. A few seconds later, she would also see something she had never seen before. Humans. And not just any humans: tiny humans. 🧒🏻🧒🏽🧒🏾 The approaching humans seemed to be a group of ear-splitting children accompanied by an oddly-tall grownup who was their teacher. They were on a field trip, looking for curious things that grow in the forest. One of the children shouted, “Miss Day, we found one. Oh, it’s so beautiful.” Before she could activate her defense mechanism, a group of a dozen five-year-olds surrounded Anita and stared at her with curious eyes. No one had ever looked at Anita the way these five-year-olds did. At first, she felt slightly uncomfortable, but soon, that discomfort transformed into enjoyment. She was heartened by their zest for knowledge and adorable nosiness. Truth be told, she felt flattered they were taking such a keen interest in her. 👀 “Can I touch it, Miss Day?” one of the students asked. “Go ahead, Penny, but be gentle.” Anita felt a chubby and squishy finger touching her red cap. It touched her a few times before it retreated. “What you’re looking at here is an Amanita mushroom, which is part of the fungi kingdom. Do you want to hear a fun fact? The mushroom you see here is just the fruiting body of the fungus. The rest of it is buried underground, and it’s part of a larger organism we call the mycelium.” “Why is it hiding from us?” asked Tommy. “It’s not hiding from anyone. That’s how this mushroom connects with other mushrooms and plants around it. They need the soil to be able to cooperate more effectively.” “Do they go to sleep when they’re tired?” Jojo asked. “That’s such a good question,” Miss Day laughed in excitement. “They don’t experience sleepiness like we do when we’re tired from learning new things at school. They never take a break from keeping this planet alive.” “Does the mushroom know we’re here?” “It knows. It can sense us. The entire mycelium network below us knows we’re here. It’s very sensitive to vibrations.” At that moment, the tiny humans started jumping and thumping on the ground. “Let’s make the mycelium network dizzy.” “And that’s why it hides from people,” Miss Day thought to herself. “Take a look at the Amanita mushroom. Do you know that we wouldn’t have been here today if it wasn’t for mushrooms?” “We would have been at school?” asked Jojo. “No, I mean we wouldn’t have existed at all. Not me, not you, not Tommy, not Penny, not your parents, not your grandparents, not your brother or sister. We wouldn’t even have forests or flowers. Mushrooms made life possible.” 🌱 “Mushrooms are superheroes. They should make movies about them,” Penny said. “They surely don’t get the credit they deserve. But they’ve always been fascinating to me, and I hope you find them too. Now, shall we get going? We have so many things to explore in this forest. Follow me; let us go look for some woodpeckers.” The children left, but Anita would hear them in the distance for a few more hours. She even felt a bit heartsick when they left. “I can tell you’re sad the humans are gone. They tend to have that effect on you. Such a remarkable species”, said Myo. “They seemed fascinated by fungi. I had no idea people thought that of us. But how can I now exist with all this immense knowledge contained in me?” To that, Myo said, “Learn to appreciate the little things and the world you shaped. Start looking at things through a deeper lens, knowing that a small part of this world exists because of you. You’re a creator of life. And such a beautiful life you’ve created. This birch tree that imposes itself above you? It’s here because of you. That annoying woodpecker? He’s pecking on that poor tree because of you. Wouldn’t you rather be a part of something grander than yourself? Don’t detach from the network Anita; your place is among us.” 🥺 It suddenly seemed like ages ago when Anita would dream of being something more than a mushroom. Now, she couldn’t imagine herself being anything else. It seemed like Myo’s storytelling aged her considerably and transferred some billion-year-old wisdom to her. She knew that her inner voice was telling the truth: she was destined to do something great. Only not alone but in connection with others. Together, they will protect the age-old tradition of maintaining life on Earth. Kingdoms will fall, and civilizations will come and go, but she and the other fungi will be working secretly from underground without anyone noticing. They will be the imperceptible weavers of life, silently pulling the strings from behind the scenes. There was a pecking sound coming from the birch tree, and she looked up. It was the annoying woodpecker. The only difference was she didn’t find him annoying anymore. On the contrary, she was fascinated by his untiring persistence to find a tasty meal and survive. She glimpsed at Mimmy and Emmy, and instead of feeling jealous, she was in awe of the beauty of her species. Even the wind felt differently. Only a few days ago, she found the wind to be an inconvenience, disturbing her comfort and de-focusing her from her deep thoughts. Now she felt its power and importance, trying so hard to make Earth habitable. She even heard a voice, as if the wind was speaking to her as it passed. She didn’t capture every word, but to her, it sounded like it was saying: “You and I are very similar, Anita, whoosh. We both bring balance to this world, whoosh. Your power lies underground and mine above. Accept your role. Whoosh. The planet needs you.” 🌬 The wind and its whispers disappeared unannounced as they arrived. Anita looked at Myo and said, “I’ve existed for three and a half months, but I’ve never had a friend. Would you be interested in becoming my friend?” To that, Myo smiled and said, “Gladly. Now let me tell you the story about how our Universe began.” 🌌 “Our Universe?” “Yes, there are many universes, each different from the other. But that’s a story for another day.” Myo started talking with that wise voice that made Anita a little bit uncomfortable and suspicious when she first met him. She looked up to the cloudy sky, as she often would every night since the day she grew from underground. Suddenly, the clouds cleared, and a bright star appeared. At that moment, she knew: it was going to be a beautiful night.


I was a part of a group of southern Mesopotamian people whose name I’ve long forgotten. My earliest memory was gazing at the August sun as my father unloaded luggage from the cart. We were settling into a mudbrick house on the Euphrates river. It was near a quaint port-side village. It was nameless now, but later it would be named Babylon. Life was normal for the first 11 years of my life. We hunted, farmed, drank, did everything as we were supposed to, I never got sick, never injured myself, nor tried to. I had never seen my own blood. I never will. The year was 1502 BC, I was 11 years old. It was a period of instability as Hittites— a vulgar people from the south, marched on my town. I joined with my fellow children, we had shields made of wood and no sword, and we marched into battle with our fathers and grandfathers. Little did I know, a shield was the last thing I needed. Everyone but myself were slain, and my city was sacked. I was unscathed. The Hittitian scimitars hacked into my shoulder, but would not cut, their swords stabbed at my belly but would not go through. I slinked away in the fog of war, terrified of the fragility of my company, and my own inability to die. The wheel of history turns, 400 years pass. In the Kassite Dynasty, my Babylon was renamed Kardunias by Gandash of Mari, then taken by Shutruk-Nakhunte of Elam, and then again by Nebuchadnezzar. I had slowly aged to about twenty-five years old, and I realized that I will stay like this for a very long time. Since the Hittitian scimitars of 1502, I had lived alone. I participated in no wars, fighting only to defend the small parcel of land I have drawn for myself, and only when I know I can slay the invader. I wanted no word of my immortality to spread. During these years I tried to injure myself, escalating my efforts until they were all exhausted. I had starved myself of food and water for six months, tied stones to my feet and descended to the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea, I had bathed in the lava of an erupted volcano, I had flung myself from the highest cliffs into the jagged rocks below. And through all of it I incurred not a single scratch. My health was constant, an apparent real rule in a world where all rules were made up. It was 567 BC, when the name of the ruler was still Nebuchadnezzer, though a different man entirely, built the Hanging Gardens. It was... a beautiful place. In the majestic flat shores of the Euphrates rose this mountain of rich flowers and exotic walnut and juniper trees, pristine water fall from the sky, birds and fowl lived in harmony with one hundred thousand terraced white bricks. It was always my wish to go inside, to climb the wide stone steps between the embossed columns, and be within the Garden. I had accumulated some wealth, and sentries to the garden were easy to talk to. But my age had tricked me into immense patience, and it was another mere 600 years before I travelled back to Babylon, and my heart was broken to see the garden in rubble and ruins, my people raped and slaughtered. That was when I finally left Mesopotamia. My journey took me to China, Japan, North America, South America, and back to the Cradle of civilization in Africa. Twice the ship I sailed on sank in a storm, and twice I walked the rest of the way along the ocean floor. Very few things of note happened in the next two thousand years. It was 1969 AD before my wanderlust was once more awakened. It was unbelievable, but that bright diadem on the brow of the sky, man named Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin had set foot upon it. How I envied them! I was still fancying the thought of imprinting my boot print upon every square inch of the Earth, yet this man, whose life will expire like a whisper in the wind, had placed his own upon the stars. With my heart fluttering, I applied for a job at NASA. I was not a particularly curious man, and I had taken no interest in the sciences, for they seem to evolve and spread faster than I can walk, rendering any studious efforts wasted. But I had been to many places, and spoken many languages, and I knew the perfect combination of words and tone to say over the telephone as the interviewer named Gus Redman asked me “You have no education at all? What can you do?”. I said those words in that tone, and I got the job. It was merely ten years later that they sent out the first space craft into the voids of the sky. I had risen in rank and education, and thus participated in every decision in its design. I was not aboard it, but I watched with such love as a father would to his son as Voyager I was sent off into the world. It was 16 days later, on the Voyager II that I rode. As the countdown ended, I felt the most unnatural force push against my back. I accelerated to a speed I never thought possible, through the atmosphere, past the blue skies, and into the vast black expanse. Not once did I look down. Even before leaving the stratosphere my mind was already on other worlds, where the landscape was free from the germs of empires. They had asked me to wait seventy-five years, after the plutonium batteries have exhausted themselves before I could pilot. The Voyager II’s mission and responsibility to Earth would be exhausted, all instruments would shut off, and the spacecraft would only then be mine. I sat immobile for two hundred years, perhaps I hoped this washed my own body of all Earth’s responsibilities. Amongst the gifts of my colleagues was a telescope and a hand pump. The idea is I would collect space dust and pump into a container to pressurize and expel it in the direction opposite I wish to go. This would be my only way to control or accelerate the spacecraft to avoid orbital capture. They feared that I would be pulled by the gravity of a star and crash into it, however unlikely. To them, to be stranded amidst fusion explosions of 27 million degrees for eternity was a terrifying fate. Though to me, I only need to wait for the death of the star and climb onto the ejected material of the expanding upper core. Though these trinkets wouldn’t last even five hundred years, they were the well-wishes of a dead civilization. I gazed behind me, the sun of that August Mesopotamian day was now just one of a billion other stars, 50 billion miles away. The last shred of solar wind caressed my ship over 160 years ago, marking the final exit from the influence bubble of the Sun. I felt an unusual sense of longing, not for that now invisible pale blue dot, but for the other Voyager. It was to be my only companion in the eternity of time, my son, and we were headed towards the opposite ends of the universe. I turned my gaze forward, and relaxed. In about a hundred years I will be entering the Oort cloud, and it will take another 60,000 years to pass it. Then if I wasn’t picked up by extraterrestrials already, it would be another 240,000 year wait until I swing by Sirius, the brightest star visible from Earth’s sky, followed by Pav and GJ 754, 100,000 years later. In about 100 million years I would have completed one half orbit around the Milky Way Galaxy, and then it would be time for me to leave it, perhaps to Andromeda. I fancied that if I wanted to be even more patient, Andromeda will be crashing into the Milky Way in about four billion years anyways. After that will be when the real sights begin, I plotted my path towards the crab nebula, some 4.6 light years away. For an immortal, looking forward to something was a dangerous practice. Time moved fast enough when I was looking back. But I couldn’t help it. I want to see galaxies collide, I want to see stars born, I want to peek inside black holes, bathe in cosmic dust, have planetesimals formed upon me, I want to strike a pose in front of super novae. For the first time in my life, anticipation welled inside my chest. I had two hundred years of space dust collected now and pumped it behind me to accelerate forwards with half the force of a silent fart. No wars. No tyranny. No anger. No games of status that my fellows cling to day and night in the entire whisper that was their existence. I gave myself as a gift, for the grand thespians of the cosmos deserved an appreciative observer. Upon this ephemeral craft I journey, into the unknowable infinity. With constant velocity, and an eternity to savour it. What a show it will be. Though I am already prepared for it, I wish the universe never ends.


Friday, October 18, 2019. Fort Hill Cemetery. Montauk, New York. There was a bitter chill in the air. As the wind whistled through the dying leaves of autumn, Nick Cappotelli could feel the cold enveloping him. Though he wondered how much of that chill was external and how much of it was internal. He secretly wondered if he was the only one who felt it. A shiver danced down his spine. Cemeteries always gave Nick the creeps. It was a bleak, gloomy setting, and he knew he wasn’t alone in feeling that way. But this was different. The feeling Nick had that day wasn’t akin to fear; it was remorse. It was just past noon, but the sun had refused to make an appearance all day. Grey storm clouds loomed overhead, threatening rain at any minute. It was as if even the sky was mourning the loss of Francesca Cappotelli. Paul Cappotelli, Nick’s father, had put a temporary halt on the services, as they were still waiting for a few family members to arrive. Nick scanned some of the faces in the crowd as he tried to distract himself, tried to shake off the chill. A lot of people had turned out to pay their respects. They were all huddled around the casket in rows, shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough to smell everyone’s perfume or cologne or cheap aftershave. All the men were clean shaven. Everyone was clad in the same respectable black attire. And everyone wore the same somber expression on their face. Nick could hear their muffled cries, their moans and whispers, their muted conversations. “This hurts more than I could have imagined,” he heard his Uncle Pete say. “I’ll never forget the smell of her sweet perfume,” whispered his Aunt Linda. “She was such a kind woman, so sweet,” he heard another woman whisper to a man Nick could only assume was her husband. He didn’t recognize either one of them. “What’s going to happen to all her stuff?” he heard his Aunt Janice inquire. He knew she was just fishing for free stuff. *Never change, Janice,* Nick thought. *She was the sweetest.* *The kindest.* *The best.* *I’ll never forget her.* *I’ll miss her so much.* Distant relatives from all across the country had flocked to the Hamptons to say their goodbyes, all red eyed and teary, all acting like they hadn’t seen this coming. Francesca Cappotelli was eighty-seven-years-old, and her health had been in rapid decline. So, when Fran died suddenly of a heart attack, nobody was truly surprised. And nobody suspected a thing. Nick had gone to great lengths to avoid his brother, Gino, and his sister, Carmella. It was only a matter of time before they brought up the elephant in the room, their inheritance. His father was a whole different story. That man was poison to Nick. Persona non grata. Nick didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to speak to him. He just wanted to get through this taxing day. And Nick’s mother had done an excellent job of avoiding him all day. And Nick happily returned the favor. He couldn’t bear to face her, couldn’t stand to see that accusatory glare. *I know what you did.* That’s what that look said to Nick. Like she was anyone to judge. Nick knew all their dirty little secrets. In fact, there were no secrets in the Cappotelli family. Sure, they all had skeletons in their closets, but the closet doors were wide open in the Cappotelli household. While attempting to avoid his immediate family, he wound up brushing shoulders with his cousins, Bobby and Stefanie. “I’ll miss her,” Stef said, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief, her dark makeup smeared and running down her cheeks. “I’ll miss her too,” Nick said. “She was one of a kind.” “Remember when we all used to sleepover?” Stef asked. “Grandpa had the Nintendo set up for us. We’d play Mario Brothers for hours and grandma would surprise us with cookies or Rice Krispie treats.” “I have some of her recipes,” Nick mentioned, just trying to make conversation. It had been a while since he’d seen his cousins. “Of course, you do, Mr. Chef,” Stef teased and tried to smile, but her eyes still gleamed with tears. “You’ll have to show us how to make those Rice Krispies one day.” “You got it,” Nick promised. “Yo, man, my condolences, bro,” Bobby muttered. Nick could smell marijuana on him and his eyes were bloodshot. Nick didn’t take too kindly to Bobby showing up under the influence at their grandmother’s funeral. But he had no right to judge. So he decided to let it slide. “I know how close you and grams were. You going to be alright?” “I’m hanging in there,” Nick sighed. “Hit me up if you ever need to talk. I’m always there for you, man.” “Thank you,” Nick feigned gratitude. “I really appreciate that.” Nick tried to remember the good times. Bobby’s recollection of Nintendo had sparked his memory. Nick, his brother and sister, and his cousins used to sit in front of the television for hours, taking turns playing games like Zelda and Super Mario, getting frustrated whenever they lost or couldn’t complete a game. But what a celebration it was when they did finally triumph over Bowser or the evil wizard in Zelda. And Francesca was there for all those victory celebrations with brownies or ice cream sundaes or whatever their hearts desired. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could almost smell his grandma’s baccala frying in a pan of hot oil on Christmas morning. Like every grandmother, Francesca couldn’t bear to see anyone go on an empty stomach. Pasta, meatballs, peppers and onions, fried fish, salted cod, broiled chicken with lemon and garlic. Francesca was the closest thing the family had to a professional chef. Her artichokes were critically acclaimed in Montauk. It's what inspired Nick to become a chef. Francesca had ignited a passion that Nick had transformed into a successful career. He worked for five-star restaurants across the tri state area. And he owed it all to his grandmother. But that wasn’t all she did for him. His grandmother taught him how to read, how to do laundry and fold clothes. She taught him the importance of religion and prayer. Had taught him how to speak Italian, which came in handy when he met Isabella one summer. He was 13, maybe 14 at the time. He’d taken a trip back to the old country. She barely spoke a word of English, but if she spoke Italian slowly enough, Nick could keep up with her in conversation. In hindsight, that was probably the greatest summer of his life, he just didn’t realize it back then. He often found himself thinking about Isabella and what might’ve been. He wondered if Isabella ever thought about him too. His sister, Carmella, was in attendance with her boyfriend. What was his name? Toby? Tim? Maybe it was Thomas? Nick was sure it started with a T, but that was all he could remember. As much as he tried to distance himself from her, he was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually, he saw her approaching with her lapdog boyfriend in tow, and he took a deep breath and braced himself. In typical Carmella fashion, she made sure to stand out with her hair, makeup, acrylic nails, and short black dress that ended just above the knees. She had a tanning booth glow to match her glowing white teeth. Nick was waiting for her to start posing for Instagram pictures. “Funeral selfies are very popular nowadays,” Nick quipped. “Be sure to get one right next to the casket.” “Nick the dick,” Carmella whispered. “You never miss a chance to be a prick.” “It’s in my nature,” he smiled. His first smile of the day. “How are you holding up?” “I’ve seen better days.” “We all have. Have you seen mom. She’s a hot mess.” “I haven’t talked to her since this morning.” “Trying to avoid the family?” “I can certainly try.” “That reminds me, Gino was asking about you.” “Tell him I’ll be okay.” “Tell him yourself. Oh, Nick, you remember Tony, right?” *Tony,* Nick thought. *I knew it started with a T.* “Of course,” Nick said, feigning remembrance. They exchanged nods and awkward handshakes, and Tony offered his condolences. “Has anyone talked to dad about…you know?” Carmella asked vaguely at first. “Did he speak with grandma’s attorney? Was her will finalized?” “It was finalized,” Nick whispered, certain of the fact. Then he excused himself. Nick ran away from one sibling and ended up running straight into the other. He supposed it was best to just get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid off. Gino was straight out of *The Jersey Shore*. Tape up haircut, spray tan, gold chain tucked into his shirt, rings on every other finger. Nick was surprised he didn’t show up wearing sunglasses. Gino could be annoying at times, and he had no filter and said whatever came to mind, but his heart was always in the right place. Gino was the youngest of the three. And even though Nick was the oldest, he’d always gotten along better with Gino than he had with Carmella. “Did you see who showed up to pay their respects?” Gino asked. Then he told him before Nick could even take a guess. “Jenny Washburn. Man, she was a looker back in high school. Now, look at her. Girl, are you a pinata? Because I’m going to need a blindfold before I hit that.” “We’re at our grandmother’s funeral,” Nick whispered. “Try and conduct yourself with a modicum of dignity.” “Sorry, you’re right. She doesn’t kook that bad, anyway. I’d hit it…with a truck.” “Gino,” was all Nick said under his breath. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll knock it off.” As annoying and irritating as Gino was, he didn’t mind talking to him that day as much as he did talking to Carmella. He could feel Carmella’s accusing eyes all over him, judging him, just like his mother. *I know what you did.* Like she had any right to judge. Like any of them did. But he knew he’d get no judgment from Gino. In the days since their grandmother’s passing, Gino had constantly tried to console him, patting him on the back, assuring him that it would be okay, that their grandma was in a better place now. But Nick was inconsolable. “Have you talked to dad?” “I’ve been avoiding him like the plague.” “Well, did you hear anything about grandma’s will?” “I know we’re all included in it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t know how much you’re getting. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s ample.” “You’re right. I shouldn’t be worrying about that right now, anyway. It’s silly. Forget it. How are you doing?” “This is one of the hardest days of my life,” Nick said, feeling he could be more open and honest with Gino than he could with his other family members. “It’ll be alright,” Gino told him. “At least she’s not suffering anymore. She was sick. It was going to happen sooner or later.” “Excuse me,” Nick said, feeling quite ill himself. At least he had ripped the Band-Aid off by talking to his siblings. Now it was time to take the stitches out and talk to his mother. He saw her excuse herself from his Uncle Pete and Aunt Linda and start walking towards him. Sofia Cappotelli didn’t take her eyes off her son the entire time. Those eyes, that stare, it gave a clear impression of her thoughts. *I know what you did.* “How are you doing?” Sofia asked. “I could be worse. You?” “I’m managing,” she said. Then she added, “You look nice.” “Thank you,” Nick said. “Gino looks...presentable. I’m grateful for that. Carmella looks–” “Like a streetwalker?” “You said it, not me. Have you spoken to your father?” “I haven’t talked to Paul since we got the news about grandma.” “Maybe you should. I know he wants to talk to you. Life is short, you know.” He didn’t appreciate that last little dig she threw in there. But he let her have the last word. He was just grateful the conversation was over. The last of his family members had started to arrive. Soon, the priest would say a few words, recite a few prayers, then they would lower Francesca into the ground, and she would become one with the earth. Nick was shocked to see Isabella there. But her dark shoulder-length hair, caramel skin, and hypnotic brown eyes were impossible to forget. He spotted her easily in a sea of family members and close friends and approached her slowly and gently. “Isabella?” he asked, acting as if he barely even remembered her. “Isabella Argento? Is that you?” “Hello, Nick,” she smiled. “How many years has it been?” “Too many.” “I still remember that summer in Italy.” “It was beautiful,” Nick said, referring to something entirely different. Isabella blushed. “It’s good to see you again. But I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” “You and me both.” “Oh, and by the way, it’s Isabella Resnick now.” “And is Mr. Resnick in attendance?” “*Doctor* Resnick is in Atlanta, performing open heart surgery.” “Lovely,” Nick said, feeling slightly let down. Though he tried not to show it. “So, what brings you all the way here?” “I was in New York on business when I heard the news from my mom. So, I decided to come out here and pay my respects. Your grandmother was always so kind to me and my family. We never forget kindness. It’s a rarity nowadays.” “How long have you been living in the US?” “A while now. I should have reached out earlier. I left Italy after I graduated college. By then, I was fluent in English. I took an accounting job in Atlanta. And that’s when I met William.” “Any kids?” Nick asked. “Not yet, but William and I have discussed it. How about you? Is there a Mrs. Cappotelli in your life?” Nick flashed his bare hands, no wedding band. “One day, if I’m lucky.” “Girlfriend?” “Not at moment. What can I say?” Nick shrugged. “I’m not as popular as Carmella.” “Nobody’s as popular as Carmella,” she said, her accent still thick. They shared a laugh, and she offered her condolences again. Then she walked out of his life just as fast as she had walked back into it. When the crowd dispersed and Francesca had been lowered into the cold, cold ground, Nick took a moment to pay his respects and say his final goodbyes, alone. He stood over her grave, arms folded in front of him, and took a deep breath. His father walked over quietly, and Nick flinched as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “It had to be done,” Paul Cappotelli whispered. Yes, it had to be done. And Nick was the unfortunate one to do it. He was the only one Francesca Cappotelli still trusted. She hadn’t given the family much of a choice, at least from their point of view. She was holding out on them. Rumor had it she was looking to adjust her will and cut them all out of it. They had to act fast, before she had the chance to do anything drastic. Nick was the only one who could still get close to her. The only one of her grandchildren she trusted and respected. Carmella had no drive, no focus. She avoided working like it was her actual job and depended on her parents or her boyfriends to fund her lifestyle. Francesca wasn’t a fan of her granddaughter using her looks in order to get by. And to Francesca, Gino was an utter buffoon, wasting his life away, bouncing from one meaningless job to the next. But Nick was smart, bright, promising, a hard worker, intelligent, trustworthy, loyal. Or so Francesca had believed. Paul Cappotelli procured the poison. But Nick was the one who had administered it. His father assured him that it was untraceable, that it would show up as a heart attack on any autopsy report. And at her age, with her declining health, nobody would have a reason to question it. Nick was the culprit. But none of their hands were clean. They all had their reasons. Paul’s construction business was failing, and he was in debt to the bank, struggling to pay back his loans. The IRS was breathing down his neck. His employees were threatening to walk out on him. He needed money, and he needed it fast. He had pleaded with Francesca for financial relief, swore he would pay back every penny with interest. But Francesca refused to lend a helping hand. She’d grown weary of her family, of their greediness and recklessness, of their neglectful and selfish ways. The way she saw it, she wasn’t responsible for their irresponsibility. Her son would have to find a way to save his own business. The same went for her daughter-in-law. Nick’s mother had sunk all her money into her own business venture, a clothing boutique. While she did have an eye for fashion, she was barely covering the rent. Needless to say, the store wasn’t doing well, and she didn’t even own the property. Her only choice was to try and stay afloat or pack up and admit defeat. And Sofia Cappotelli was not one to lie down and admit defeat. She was stubborn and never liked to admit when she was wrong or made a mistake. And the love Sofia had for her mother-in-law was paper thin, if it ever really existed in the first place. Gino needed money to fund his selfish lifestyle. Carmella was the same story. But they were the only ones that weren’t quite in on it. Sure, they assumed the passing of their grandma meant they would be receiving their inheritance, but they weren’t aware of the circumstances that had brought them to this point. Paul felt it was for the best. But he also didn’t have a lot of hope for his daughter and youngest son. And between trying to fund his business and care for his children, he was going broke. This money would alleviate so much pressure, solve so many problems. And then there was Nick. The good son, Nick the saint, or Nick the dick, depending on who you asked. In his heart, he wanted to believe he was a good person. But he needed money, just like anyone else. Chefs, as talented as they may be, work long hours for very low wages. Most restaurants don’t even offer benefits or health insurance. But that wasn’t the problem. Gambling was Nick’s vice. And his debts were enough to scare even the most notorious gambling addict sober. Nick was in debt to some very unsavory individuals, and they were going to take more than a couple of fingers if he didn’t pay up soon. But Francesca was stubborn. She wouldn’t budge. She wanted her family to work for what they had. So, they had to take drastic measures. His father was the one who had suggested it, but Nick was the one who went through with it. And he’d have to face that for the rest of his life.  \*\*\*  Monday, October 21, 2019. Early morning. Nick was summoned to the office of Herman Winesap, his grandmother’s attorney. He assumed it was in regards to their inheritance and how it would be divided up among the family. He also assumed everyone else would be there. So, he was bemused to see that his mom and dad were not present. Neither were Gino or Carmella. He walked in alone to Winesap’s office and shook Herman’s cold, dry hand. “Have a seat,” Winesap said. Nick accepted his invitation and made himself at home. He looked around at his otherwise empty office. “Are we waiting for anyone else?” “No, Mr. Cappotelli. Just you.” “What’s this all about?” Nick asked. “Just a formality? You need me to sign something?” “Well, yes and no. Mr. Cappotelli, your grandmother made extensive changes to her will prior to her death. Were you aware of these changes?” *That bitch,* Nick thought. *She was one step ahead. She must’ve figured out we were plotting behind her back and took us out of her will before we made our move.* “No, I was not aware,” he said quietly. “I was under the impression that the whole family was to be included in her will.” “That was indeed the case, as of last Monday, a day before your grandmother’s unfortunate passing. My sincerest condolences, by the way. On that day last week, Francesca amended her will and listed you as the sole beneficiary.” Nick was stunned, floored, speechless. He couldn’t utter a word. But internally, he was beyond elated. Every single penny of Francesca’s vast fortune would go straight to him. Not to Gino or Carmella or his parents, but him. The rest of his family wouldn’t see a cent. He was rich; rich beyond his wildest imagination. “I’m going to need your signature on a few documents before we can proceed,” Winesap said, shuffling papers around on his cluttered desk. Nick was more than happy to scribble his name on the dotted line. Once the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed, Winesap opened the top drawer of his desk. “Oh, this is for you,” he said, handing Nick a sealed envelope. “Your grandmother insisted I give this to you in the event of her death. As her attorney, she also insisted that I not read it.” Nick opened the envelope and his smile suddenly dissipated. As he read his grandmother’s words, the grim, harsh reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He was now the sole beneficiary of his grandmother’s fortune. The same fortune his family had been plotting to secure. *Dearest Nick,* *I never expected it to be you. Your father, sure. That no good son of mine has been waiting me out for years to get his hands on my fortune. But I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you.* *You were always my favorite, Nick. Which is why it almost hurts me to write this. In the event of my demise, I’ve amended my will to have all my money and assets transferred to you.* *I hope you understand what this really means, Nick. You all wanted me out of the way in your greedy pursuit of my money. Well, if you’re reading this, you succeeded.* *You can have it all, now. Everything I have. It all goes to you. Now they will be gunning for you instead of me. I hope the thought keeps you awake at night. I hope you won’t be able to focus, to sleep. I hope you spend every waking minute looking over your shoulder, wondering who is going to stab you in the back, figuratively or literally.* *Who is it going to be, Nick?* *Gino? Carmella? Your mother and father? Who can you really trust?* This was Francesca’s final revenge. She knew her time was coming to an end. She knew her family was conspiring against her, and she knew it would be the one closest to her to plunge the dagger into her heart. And now, she was returning the favor. Francesca Cappotelli was gone. But Nick wasn’t too far behind.