I grew up on the Nusa Tenggara islands in Indonesia, just east of Bali. The early part of my childhood was difficult, but this isn’t something you realise when you’re young. To me, growing up was full of fun and adventure on a tropical island. My young father wasn’t with us very often. He had enough smarts and luck to get into university in Jakarta. My mother would have to take care of me and my little brothers but when she had to go to work she would leave us with an old lady in the village. We called this old lady Odah, but she wasn’t really our grandmother. She would sell fruit from her little shack during the day while my brothers and I would cause trouble in her makeshift backyard. To keep us amused, and I’m sure to stop us from destroying her house, she would tell us old stories. I knew all of the old folk tales from the village, but her stories were different. Some of them, she admitted, she’d heard from the Dutch when she was a little girl. But most of them were from her own creation. She said she often just had stories in her head but because she couldn’t write them down she memorised all of them. As a child, I loved her stories. Sometimes I would even go back just to ask her to tell me a specific story and she was always more than happy to. Eventually my father came back and managed to get a job in Bali. After a few years he had made enough money and we all moved to Bali where our lives improved significantly. My brothers and I were all sent to a good school and we were all able to get a good education. During school breaks my mother would still take us back to the old village and I would always visit Odah. She was getting older and weaker but when I would ask to tell me a story her eyes would light up and we’d both be transported back to a time when I was a small child. After I finished high school I was accepted into the Universitas Indonesia in Jakarta. Odah’s stories had instilled in me a lifelong love of literature and so I studied arts at university. I decided to give something back to Odah. I had heard her stories for many years and had memorised all of them and so I wrote them down. With the little money I had, I had them professionally bound. Over the four years I was at university I gave Odah dozens of her stories which she kept all piled up in a special corner of her shack. She loved them so much and she even told me that she was learning how to read them. In 2013 a tropical cyclone hit the Nusa Tenggara islands. I was in Singapore at the time working as a journalist. There was no way I could get back right away but as soon as it was safe to do so I went back to the islands. I’ll never forget what I saw. The main street in the village was destroyed. Their wooden houses were knocked down and debris lay everywhere. It was difficult to recognise where Odah’s house was but as I got closer I could see it. The roof had caved in and fruit was floating on the flood waters. The water around her house was black and looked like a river of ink. Remnants of the books lay in pieces around the house. I asked around if anyone had seen Odah but everyone was worried about their own families. I tried looking for hours but I had no luck. Odah had no funeral. I don’t even know if anyone really missed her. But I did. I got back to Singapore and started rewriting her stories. I had written them down in the original Balinese but this time I translated them to Indonesian. After months of trying eventually some of my connections in the publishing world came through and I got her stories published. I used the pen name Odah Tengarra. After all, these were her stories, not mine. Shamelessly I wrote a story about Odah which my editor, probably due to my grief, agreed to publish in our magazine. It wasn’t a big piece but it did draw attention to her collection of short stories. The public were touched and soon the stories became widely read in Indonesia. Our readers in Singapore were curious about these stories and so they were also translated to Singaporean Mandarin, Malay and English. I had included some of the stories she had heard from the Dutch and so her stories were read in Europe as well. The collection of stories wasn’t exactly a bestseller but it was making money. I took the profits and donated it back to the old village. I had a library built in her honour and I could even employ some teachers to teach the local children how to read. In front of the library I commissioned a statue to be built of Odah reading to a young child. This was the least I could do for the greatest woman I had ever known.


From the Prompt - **You've just walked in on your sibling murdering someone, and they are surprised by how unfazed you are.** My answer was to long to post it there so I am putting it up here.  Blood, I could smell it permeating the air. It smelled a little like rusted pennies and funnily enough raw hamburgers. I knew the smell well, but why the hell was I smelling it now? In my family home where I have never done any of those, well, hidden activities. Curious, I began my investigation through the living room to the kitchen. Nothing cooking in here. I moved on my eyes flicking to the laundry, the door was open a load of washing was on but no blood could be seen. I went on to the hallway towards the back of the house. The smell got stronger and I began to worry Had I fucked up had I been seen one night? Had I been followed back to my family home. Was I about to find the body of my mother and father slaughtered in there bed? I didn’t really know how to feel about that, feelings of any kind confused me. Still I did my best to copy what I saw in others. I told my parents quite often that I loved them, I smiled and hugged them, when they did something that pleased me and reminded myself that I should do the same in return. That was the normal thing to do and I had to look normal so as to not get unwanted attention. Stopping at their bedroom the door was open, the bed made, clothing put away neatly in draws and closets. The headboard and bed side tables were even clutter and dust free. I moved on. Bathroom, clean and clear. My old childhood bedroom now an office. A little messy with paperwork but still clear. My eyes locked onto the last door, right at the end of the hallway, my little sisters room. I let out a soft breath and edged towards her door wondering what I would find. She was 5 years younger then me and a pain in the ass. Id thought of killing her often, spent hours dwelling on how I could get away with it so no one would be able to trace things back to me. Id been young, immature and no plan was ever perfect enough, it meant she survived to reach adulthood, lucky bitch. She also stopped being such a pain in the ass. I’m sure my moving out helped a lot with that. Now this. The smell of blood. Had someone else killed my sister? If so they were fucking dead. I’d hunt them down and spend a few days skinning them. Id rip out there teeth and nails one by one, break there fingers then any other bone that I felt like shattering It wouldn’t be quick, whoever it was would suffer until there hearts gave out from the agony. My long strong fingers curled around the door handle and I was turning it when the thought that the killer could be still in there and I had no weapon. To late to retreat now, I pushed hard on the door letting it swing back to hit the wall letting me know no one was hiding behind it. A woman screamed and turned to face me both of us stood frozen staring at one another. She was drenched in blood, it covered her from head to toe dripping from her hair onto her shoulders soaking into her once white shirt. I could still see the image of a unicorn on it and frowned. I knew that shirt, and the one adult childish enough to wear it at 22 “Debbie” I said with disbelief “Jamie” yep that was her voice I looked past her to the mess on her bed, the body had been stabbed multiple times even now a knife protruded from the body. I stepped closer to have a better look and my sister stumbled back stopping only when her shoulders hit her cupboard doors. “what a mess” I said looking now at the room, blood had sprayed up to hit the walls, it had soaked into the carpet and the bed, well the bed was done for. She would never be able to get the blood out and give it a few days and the smell would be unbearable. I sighed “your lucky I have a truck with room for all this shit” I hissed wondering where to even start. Id never been this messy “your, your not gonna call the cops” she shook as I looked at her “the cops, why would I call them?” wide eyes stared at me “I killed someone” I nodded this was fact, why she was stating the obvious thought I never understood why people did that “yeah I see that” “that's wrong” It was? funny I never felt that way “they why did you do it” she curled in on herself at my question her slim arms hugging herself “he, he” and her voice died I looked back to the face trying to work out who the stiff was “he tried” she started again and petered out I rolled my eyes not wanting to stand here while she tried to explain and failed “whatever, he is dead now and we need to deal with this fucking mess” I had rolls of plastic in my car. Duck-tape, rope and chemicals as well as a plastic body suit. I turned to go get it “don't leave me” I turned back as my sister cried out and the first of many tears began “your really not freaked out by this?” she pushed off from the door she had been leaning against “no, and I’m not leaving, I’m getting plastic to wrap this shit in so it doesn’t contaminate the rest of the house when we drag it out" She used her hands to swipe at the tears it only smeared the blood around more “when are mum and dad coming home?” I needed to know “tomorrow” she hick-upped after telling me and I let out a small breath. At least that was good news this would take hours to clean up and mum and dad would insist on calling the cops even if that meant sending there baby girl to prison for the rest of her life. “go have a shower” I snapped “try not to get blood everywhere” I had a second plastic body suit in my car that would fit her with some minor modifications, I'd be damned if I was cleaning this up on my own. Walking off I was lugging things back in happy to hear the water going in the bathroom. I made a note to clean that room to, everything would need a good scrub down with bleach and a lot of it. At least Debbie was doing as she was told. For once. I rolled my eyes again as I ripped off the first heavy duty garbage bag from the roll and began to stuff loose items into it. I didn't care if it was clothing, stuffed toys from her childhood or school books, everything was replaceable. This was step one of the clean up. I'd need help taking it all out, that was step two. I already had a disposal spot in mind, one I have looked into for my next project but I guess that would have to wait. Step three would be wrapping up the stiff for that Debbie would have to help me Hearing the water shut off a good half an hour later my sister was dressed in her ratty gardening clothing when she came back to her room. Clearly she didn't want to ruin any of her good stuff as she liked to call it, I found half of it vomit inducing, all the pink and sparkle and her obversion with fucking unicorns, blah. What was wrong with black on practical black? yet another thing I didn't get. thankfully I was a guy so I didn't have to worry to much about fashion and shit. holding my hand up to halt her at the threshold she looked to the bags already filled with blood spattered items. “stop” I pointed to the plastic suit I had hanging on the door “put that on first” her eyes went back to the body on her bed “hurry up” she pulled it on taping down the openings like I told her after also putting on booties and gloves then came in. together we wrapped the body she didn't complain as I instructed her on the best way to wrap so as to avoid seepage and so that we could carry the body with ease. Next was the mattress and all the coverings, she would need a new bed after this. Hell I’d even splurge and buy her one for being such a good sport about this even if I was the one doing her the big ass favor here. As night fell we moved everything out to my car. The mattress fit, just barely. Everything else pilled in on top. Going back to clean, her carpet was ripped up, that would be hard to explain to the parental unit but not as hard as the massive blood stain. Id get her a huge ass rug to cover the un-polished floor if I had to. The cleaning went on for hours the chemicals strong enough to make even my eyes water as we wiped every surface down three times over, just to be sure not a spot was missed. Only when I was satisfied did we stop, having worked until the wee hours of the morning. Feeling bone tired and seeing my sister was on the verge of passing out I considered letting her stay home to sleep in mum and dads bed for a few hours while I took out the trash but she insisted on coming with me as we that’s when the conversation I didn’t really want to have came. I should have known “how do you know how to do this?” I sighed wondering how much to tell her, if I even should tell her knowing that after the trauma of tonight wore off or at least dulled a bit she would come to see me in a new light. I’d no longer be the weird annoying big brother, I’d be the killer big brother the freak. “I just do” I muttered hoping she would be satisfied with the answer and let it go at that but no she was a girl she wanted to talk about her feelings and all that shit. I ignored the next few questions as the spic finally turned to why she had done it. I had expected the answer to be he had hit her, had hurt her in some other way, maybe even tried to rape her but no instead she admitted that she has had these feelings for a while now. She would break up with boyfriends when the desire to kill them got to great but tonight something had snapped and the knife she kept sandwiched between her baseboard and mattress had ended up in her hand while she had been making out with her latest guy. Before she knew it the blade was in his flesh “it was so easy” I nodded understanding “and the blood, so much blood” she sighed making me look at her because I knew that sigh had made that sigh myself a few times “I should have planned better” she admitted after several minuets of driving in silence “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up to help me bro” I rolled my eyes knowing what would have happened. She would have done a crap job of cleaning up. Mum and dad would have come home. Eventually the smell of blood rotting in her mattress and carpet would have stunk out the whole house just as an investigation on the disappearance of the boy really truly began. One cop showing up just for a chat would have been enough for them to be suspicious and she would be taken in for questioning. Things would only go down hill for her from there. “yeah you should have planned better” I said “but I can teach you that” the words slipped out before I really thought it through “really?” I could hear the hope in her voice and knew I had to follow through now with my promise “yeah” “wicked” the word made me smirk “yeah we are” reaching out to turn the music on because I didn't want to talk any more 'bad to the bone' came on making me roll my eyes and my sister laugh aloud “how appropriate” she commented turning it up so the base boomed, wasn’t it just, I thought.


Some time ago I was not much older than a boy, living deep enough in the countryside near the Kent Sussex border. It was a magical place for a child to be back then. My memories are all of the land, or mostly, it feels like. People and places on the land, if you understand me. Standing still or moving, but never vivid as the fields and forests and rivers in the background. Of course, the land wasn’t still either! The trees budded when the winter, and we never had such hard winters, passed and the clods of earth soften in the fields, it was a magical time. The naybellish time, as the old folks would say it, when the clods of earth, frozen up like a pebble beach would soften up like clay and the trees would be budding brightly from their dark winter bark, was like nothing else. The may bells, I think I remember the little girls would sing in some rhyme. The silly sorts of things that stay with you. Spring was a cruel too. Winter, you knew its hard sides and its soft. Biting, itching, cold or excitement of snow. You never know with Springtime. The low hot sun in your eyes and the ice crunching under your feet. Golden green seedlings treaded into mud or swallowed in the freezing mists. You could wake up and see a whole field turn brown one day to the next. But that was it. The yeartimes went by well enough and there was always some fate or festival to be had. When we were small, we, my mother and my older sisters, would go from village to village for them. Vicars and churchyards, tables of teas and sickly-sweet cakes that would make your face feel sticky. The young ones, especially the boys, would always sneak off behind the chapels, squeezing between walls and hedgerows, getting into scraps. Often enough, my poor mum would drag me home with a fat lip and mud caked into my jumper. That’s how boy were. There was no helping it. It must have been summer, with the earth hardened and the grass all dried and sharp. I was playing cricket or knocking a ball about and a boy I never much liked came walking up behind me with his head in the clouds. Well I smacked him as I drew back the bat. My lord. It was like walking up the stairs at night and reaching the top on step too early. Where there should have been resistance, there wasn’t. It felt like a twig breaking under your feet in soft mud. Well of course, after he bled all he was able, all the fingers pointed my way. Not seriously, mind you, but you can hardly say the boy who lost an eye and had his nose wiped across his face was at fault. No one held me to it, no one that didn’t mind me anyway at least. That was the way, you said the right things when you ought to say them. It was a beautiful place and a hard place too sometimes but you were part of it. It felt like we were spiralling through forward, getting older one summer at a time, telling the same stories, trying different things. That’s what eternity meant to me, not what the chaplain told us on a Sunday. These stories though, I don’t know where we even heard then from in particular, you always just knew. I loved them all. The twin sisters, the black dogs, the black cats. You don’t know what’s until you get talking to people from elsewhere. The tooth fairy always felt ridiculous to me, for instance, but the dragons in the wells, the hooded folk, the three deaths… Well the well dragons, Wyrms really, you need to imagine it like this: you’re a child in the summer and the sun is blazing on a sleepy day. You disappear into the fields. Its like hypnotism, with the swaying golden wheat and the dancing pools of shadows by the treeline. You come across a hillside, crumbled away showing a deep dark entrance. In the brightness of the day or the darkness of the night, you couldn’t see a thing. All of a sudden as you feel yourself being drawn near, something like the breath of cold stagnant air groans out over you and in that darkness, there are coal black eyes looking back at you. And yes, sure enough, the Romans mined this area for tin, as I suppose the Celts did before and the Jutes did after and whatever we called ourselves later on did too. And yes, the soil here is full of dark smooth stones, and in the ground water, in a shaft opened up by summer storm on a bright day would… dazzle. Yes. You don’t need to know something isn’t or probably isn’t true to feel it deep down. There was a young girl that crawled into one of these shafts, an old train tunnel, and she was found smashed to bits, presumably by the fall. That was before my time. I’m sure lots of the children that went missing or ran away across in the south, ended up like her but with no basset hound to sniff out the corpse. I swear I’ve seen some thing too sometimes. Felt sometimes for sure. It sounds daft to say but once, older than I should’ve been for a story like this, I was walking home from the pub. It was one of those long summer nights when the sun sets late so I went through the woods instead of the road up the hill. Well, I had maybe a bit more than I should have and it took longer than I thought. The sun started setting. It went so still when the wood doves stopped their cooing and it was just me then. I was maybe 17 or so and, whatever I felt, I wasn’t going show it even to myself! As it got darker, I slowed down minding out for roots and such on the path until eventually, it was black. I could hear sounds, little scraping sounds, rustling in the leaves and passed it off as an owl on the hunt. I kept walking with my hands out in front of me, feeling for the saplings. Saplings everywhere in that part. I became aware that the rustling was matching my own steps. I’d put my foot forwards and sometimes the leaves would make a sound a few feet back. Nonsense, I told myself, but kept ever so quiet. Then I started heard a twig snap, crisp and loud. I bolted upright not knowing what to do. I was like a statue on the outside but, inside, well… I had a bright idea all of a sudden and took out my cigarettes and a book of matches, I put on the show for no one of putting one in my mouth and drunkenly fumbling the match into the perfect position and then, strike. In front of me were eyes then a face, just a face it seemed in the darkness, level with my own. Fox like, somehow, its eyes like solid emerald. I jolted back and the match went out. I went back against the trunk of a tree and smacked the back of my head decently with the hands. I was there for what seemed like… I don’t know. Then I lit another match, this time getting my cigarette too, and nothing. Well, I laid off it for a while after that. It wasn’t that we were believers… it was just what we heard on Sunday was so abstract, you see. Then there was what we all knew by and by. When a fox catches a rabbit, it dies three times. When its caught, when its eaten, when its… passed out, as it were. And there’s life at every stage too. When its living, when its gives life to the fox, and when it gives life to the earth. I don’t mean to sound crude but there is something to it when you see a seedling popping out of shit in the brush. Then there were the stories about when the Celts used to do. Combeston, a place nearby, was one of them. Sacrifice. They, the druids, would take you by the neck, and garrotte you with a rope. When your eyes were bulging, they would force you on your knees with your head back and slice into you. A crowd would be there below this old stone where it happened, and they would be showered in the spray. Then another would take a hammer, or I heard sword too, and finish it. I don’t totally understand why they did it. Sacrifice. It’s such a Christian idea. I think its more of a demonstration or the spiral turning on. There was no here and hereafter… just a doorway you stand between. You spend most of your life facing one way, catching glimpses out of the corner of your eye but sometimes you can turn and, just for a moment, see what’s looking back at you.


We always see somethings in life and think to ourselves what it's like? To go down that area explore those places, see what life could experience you if you dared. Could be something as crazy as climbing to the top of that one mountain or exploring that one room in the house. For me, it was a dark hallway in my grandmother's room. Ever since I was young it was always there beckoning me to enter and while I was always too scared to one day I worked up the courage to do so. I never understood why it took me so long to do it but I’ll be damned if I didn't. So I marched away into the unknown hallway only to find to my horror…. A locked door. Grandma always did have an element of theatricalises I suppose. Nevertheless, the search must go forward. This is merely just an obstacle in the way of greatness and just like all obstacles, it is necessary only to sway those who don't truly desire it and so like all great explorers I gave up. Yep, no great quest no X marks the spot. And to celebrate such a success I did what all great quitters do and reward myself with a freshly baked cookie. Grabbing the stool to reach the top cupboard to get the cookie jar wasn’t an easy task either, however it was a necessary one and with time and skill, I elegantly achieved my goal with grace. But just as luck would have the front door jiggled slightly as the current residential owner attempted to enter. I was able to analyze the situation quickly and knew my only chance to remain undetected was to make a perilous leap from where I stood. I did not know if I would survive the jump but the reward far outweighed. the risk so I did what any brave man would do. I jumped. The pain shot through my leg as I collapsed onto the ground but I had no time nor energy to remain where I was so I ran. The door busted open suddenly as I turned the corner into the dark hallway I started from. I was cornered. Like a rat in a sick maze. I made the disastrous mistake of being wrong. Something I shall not do again. "Hello?" The voice called out. She was close. Her fangs vile and crimson dripped with the blood of her last victim. It was then I realized that it was either me or her except I was clouded in the fog of war. While I knew what had to be done this was no easy task. The giant loomed over the hallway peeking her head around the corner staring into me. Stealth was not an option and I can tell whatever had my grandmother had to be destroyed before it infected anything else. "There you are sweety" the creature said turning on the hallway light. An oversight on me and a genius play on its part. I was blinded and she crept forward blocking the exit. If I didn't make a stand now I may not ever hold the chance. I readied myself and prepared my stance. My research and training by Power Rangers taught me everything I knew, not sponsored. And so with one quick blow I punched in the air having the wind blow the parasite out where I easily stomped it to death saving both my grandmother and the world. "WOAH!" said the child on the swing set. "Can you teach me how to do that?" "I could but I must warn you that you can **never** tell anyone about it AND you'll have to do the initiation" I replied. "Of course anything." replied the boy. A smile grew on my face as I watched the initiation ninja robots appeared.


I plunged deep into the river, the force of the water carrying me sideways. My body tumbled in the rapids, water pushing and punching me in every direction; buoyancy smothered out by the weight. I found the bottom of the river. Rotating my feet, I pushed hard against the bed, and shot up, breaking the surface. I gulped down air as I saw the giant mouth of the man-made cave hovering above me. The water swept me into the darkness. However, ahead, I could see a thin halo of blue, a small patch of shade brighter than the total blackness around me. The spot grew bigger, until I could make out the cloud-covered night sky and the grassy banks on either side. As I emerged from the tunnel, the grass banks looked climbable, but the pace of the river was too much to make clinging on to damp grass an option. I looked around for something to grab onto when I heard a voice. “Ferdinand!” I turned to see Alessia standing on the river bank, pointing to a branch that overhung the rapids.I swam over to the bank and reached up, grabbing onto the tree. The force of the water was such that the branch bent slight, but it held. Alessia walked over and held out a hand, and with one fierce grunt she pulled me out of the water. My back hit the ground, as I lay there, panting. The cold night air latched onto my wet clothes, as my chest tingled with the dissipating heat. Alessia sat down beside me. Her hair was soaking, falling like a long black sheet from the sides of her face, stray hairs clinging to damp skin. She pinched at her water-logged clothes, trying to stop them clinging to her. “We need to get moving. We’ll freeze if we stay put too long.” I forced myself to sit up. “Now what?” “Find out where we are, and hopefully get off this godforsaken island.” We climbed up the slope. On top, the land was flat. The thick forest had disappeared, replaced by low lying shrubs that broke through compacted brown dirt. And everywhere, there were buildings. We were in the middle of a large settlement, encompassed by scattered one storey buildings with wood-panelled walls. All of them were derelict. Rot and erosion had done their work over a couple of hundred years. Trees grew through the broken floors inside, bursting out of holes in the roof. The worst of the homes were little more than piles of splinters, plants munching on the island’s history until there was nothing left of civilization to consume. What were once homes, businesses, offices, were now little more than shells reclaimed by nature Looking between the buildings though, in the distance, I could see a small glow of light, a gentle orange tone projecting against the greys and blacks above. It was the unmistakable glow of streetlights. “That’s… not nature,” I said, looking towards it. “None of this is,” Alessia replied, looking around in a full circle. “Any ideas of where we should head?” I tilted my head towards the light in the distance. “Whoever’s causing that probably ain’t friendly.” Alessia pulled back one corner of her mouth as she spoke. “Probably. But, at least for the first time we’ll *know* what we’re walking towards.” Alessia took a deep breath, the damp clothes heaving with her body. “I guess.” We started walking through the forgotten settlement, passing by the shadows of a former time. I eyed up the buildings as we passed, looking for clues as to what had happened. All I could tell was that while the town had been forsaken a long time ago, the buildings left standing were too rudimentary to be of the old world. These were homes built with available, local materials in the aftermath of the Archipelago’s birth. This town had been abandoned, but in the new times, not the old. We came to what was once a crossroads. Four clear paths stretched out at right angles between the buildings. In the middle, there was a small set of stones arranged in a circle, a raised bed of soil behind it. In the middle there was a metal pole that had listed over the years of neglect, the soil rising slightly at the base. Affixed to its top were of series of signs with crudely drawn paint. *CIVILISATION IS OUR SIN. RETURN TO NATURE.* *NATURE IS BEAUTY. TECHNOLOGY IS CORRUPTION.* Past a few more homes we came across an old fence. Where it met the road, there was a large gateway some three metres high, an arch across the top. From what I could tell, once upon a time, the arch likely displayed a town name or some other marker. But the details had rusted away so that only jagged edges could be seen. The gate’s hinges had long since rust away, and the gate collapsed. However, the two halves didn’t lie on the road where they fell. Instead they had been dragged off into the shrubs at either side. This path was cleared after the city had fallen. We passed a few more buildings, and yet more signs: stakes stuck into the ground; paint on the sides of homes; scrawlings drawn over metal and wood that once indicated something else - a storefront, a direction. *WE NEED ONLY WHAT NATURE CAN PROVIDE. ALL ELSE IS MALICE.* *We were not made to control our environment but to live in harmony with it.* *NATURE IS PEACE.* *Humanity must be one with nature. Only there can heaven be found.* Eventually the signs ended, and the lights that had drawn us were now distinct bulbs. Iridescent light breaking through the darkness of the night, casting across the street. We began walking more cautiously, our stance crouched slightly into the ground. I walked up to a building and leaned against it, feeling the firm wood push back against me. It wasn’t rotten. It was maintained, varnished, inhabited. The settlement was at the base of a steep valley with large hills on either side. There were perhaps only twenty buildings here, but they were also much larger than the derelict husks we had passed. Yet one structure still dwarfed the others. It was perhaps only a couple of storeys tall, though the lack of windows made it hard to judge. However, it was at least sixty metres in length, stretching out across the open dirt till its back met against the start of a steep incline at the edge of the forest. My eyes glanced across the construction till my vision caught something at the front. Peering between the buildings, tracing the dirt path at the edge of the lights, there was a point where the ground changed. It wasn’t stationary. Instead, it swayed, and glimmered, with soft tones in waves. “Water,” I whispered to Alessia. “It has to be the sea.” “Not much good if we can’t sail it,” Alessia said. “Still, you’re right. Head to the coast, see what we find.” We set off once more, skulking between the buildings, pausing every few metres to check for any other signs of life. However, we seemed to be alone. Whoever lived here was likely asleep, and we had to hope it would stay that way. Soon we came across an open courtyard covered in electric lights that lit up the square like a stage. Ahead of us was a fifty metre sprint through bright beams across the centre of the settlement. “We can’t walk through there,” I whispered. “We’ll go round the back of that one.” Alessia pointed to the giant building off to the right of the courtyard. “Okay.” I pushed off from our spot, but Alessia grabbed my hand, and pulled me back. “Wait.” “What?” I replied, my eyes darting around me as my back lay flush against the wooden wall. Alessia pointed out across the courtyard once more, down to where the water was. “There, look closely, there’s something in the water.” I followed her finger towards the rippling light, till I could see the black void where something sat on top of the sea. “A rock?” I shrugged. “No,” Alessia smiled. “Just above it, you can see something rocking back and forth. A mast. It’s a boat Ferdinand. A small one, but a boat.” “You sure?” “I’ve seen a thousand boats in night seas, I’d recognize that rocking anywhere.” She turned to me and punched my arm with a grin across her face. “Ow.” I rubbed the impact piint. “Okay. We’ve got to get there first.” “Sure. Round the back of the building, sneak across the far end of the courtyard, then finally, we can leave.” Alessia grabbed my shoulders as she said the last bit, her grin briefly morphing into laughter. “Let’s go.” We darted back across the dirt, trying to keep to the shadows, avoiding anywhere the streetlights touched. I glanced across the courtyard as I scampered, but still we remained in luck. We remained alone. I slid up against the large building. I stuck so hard to the wall I could feel the splinters scrape against my back and the vertical slats pressing against my spine. We continued round. At the back, none of the streetlights’ energy reached, and we were once more returned to the natural gloom. Black shadows crept across an indistinguishable ground. The forested hill encroached towards us, no longer held back by the power of human technology, confining us to the few metres’ sanctuary between the trees and the wooden wall to our left. As we walked along the narrow corridor I noticed a patch of ground that was lighter than the earth surrounding it. A momentary break, perhaps half a metre wide, where I could make out the brown earth from the black of the night. It was a ditch scraped out from the dirt. The bottom of the wooden panelling was snapped off as well, creating a hole through to the inside of the building. The electric lights inside leaked out of the space, filling the whole with its yellow hum. I stopped by the small channel, leaning in closer. I could see scratch marks. “You don’t think… the varg?” I said, my voice uncertain. “Nah,” Alessia whispered back, scrunching her nose. “Marks are too small. Fox, dog. But nothing like those things.” I stood back up and continued, turning the corner to the far side of the building. I walked maybe three or four paces when I heard the crunch of a foot against the grainy dirt up ahead. “Someone’s coming,” I whispered. I listened for half a second, trying to tell which direction the shoes were heading. A few more paces confirmed the fear - towards us. We turned and retreated to the back of the building, once more huddled in the darkness by the woods, the steep bank of trees leering over us. “Hello,” came a voice from the otherside of the building. The footsteps continued. The slow crunching of boot on dirt creeping closer. “What are you doing?” A second voice called out. “I thought I saw someone. Go let the others know. Someone may have come down the river.” The footsteps began again. This time walking down the side of the building. Then they went silent; shoes transitioning from hard ground to soft grass. They were heading our way. I knew it. Even if I couldn’t hear them. “Now what?” I whispered, trying to remain near silent while hiding the panic in my lungs. “Inside,” Alessia nodded to the small ditch. “Will we even fit?” “It’s that or run to the forest.” I looked at the trees. I looked at the black spaces between. And I imagined the snarling jaws that may be in them. “You go first.” Alessia bent down to the crack in the wall, lifting the wooden slats to create a few extra inches of room. I crouched down, prone on the floor, and began slithering through, trying not to audibly grunt as my body writhed along the dirt surface. My shirt snagged against the broken wood. I tried to pull hard against the friction with my arms, but it wouldn’t budge. One more pull, and I heard a tear. The smallest rip that sounded like a gun going off. However, now free, I wriggled through. As soon as I made it, I turned and lifted up the panel for Alessia to squeeze through. She bent down and began wrestling through the hole, her smaller frame making the squeeze that bit easier. As soon as I saw a hand make it through, I bent down and dragged her to the inside, her body scraping across the dirt. “You okay?” I asked. Alessia got to her feet and brushed herself off. “Yeah. What is this place, you think?” We were in a small room surrounded by crates. I walked over to the nearest one and stared inside. Empty bottles neatly laid out in a grid pattern. The next one had various glass jars placed as uniformly as they could be. “Looks like some kind of warehouse,” I said. To our left, I could see an archway at the corner of the room leading through to the next part of the building. I walked over and peered around the corner, the room was empty. This room was bigger. While crates lined the sides of the room, they were also dotted around the middle, placed in random positions. Along the walls there were doorways to other parts of the warehouse, the labyrinth slowly widening around us. Alessia walked off to one side, inspecting a few of the crates. She looked over the edge of one, and pursed her lips, letting out a long, silent whistle. “What?” I asked. “They're not short on weaponry.” I walked over and looked inside. It was filled with guns. Some simple pistols, others much larger than anything I’d ever seen, needing at least two hands to merely lift up. There was no sorting, no organization, just a large pile of ready-to-go death. A place to grab whatever took your fancy and head on out. Looking over I could see the next few crates were filled with ammo. Alessia bent down and picked up a pistol. “You ever fired a gun before?” “No.” I said, recoiling slightly. “I used one on Kadear, to threaten. But… never fired it.” “Then let’s hope to keep that record. But just in case.” She walked over to the ammo and picked out a box, loading the bullets into the gun. “You ever fired one?” I asked. “Never in anger. Nothing good can come from making killing easier. But right now…” She handed me the loaded gun and reached in and grabbed another similar looking pistol. “I’m not sure I even know how to use one,” I muttered, looking at the weapon in my hand. It felt heavy, and my sweaty palms were slick against the handle. “Point it at the thing you want to go away, and pull the trigger,” Alessia replied, loading ammo into her own gun. “It’s not that simple.” “I know. But right now, it might need to be.” I kept the gun in my right hand, holding it by the butt, keeping my finger as far away from the trigger as I could. We approached another archway. I peered round the entrance, checked the room, and snuck into another empty space. One step closer to the front of the building. My eyes were immediately drawn to a mess of cables on the left-hand wall. “You know what that is?” Alessia said. “We had one on Kadear at the Citadel. Distributes electricity.” I pointed to a thick cable that ran out of the ground up to the clutter of metal boxes and exposed wires. “Wherever they get their electricity from, comes in from there, then gets sent to everywhere else.” “Interesting, but…” “We need to make a break for it across the courtyard right? If we find the right line we could turn off all the lights outside. They’ll just think it’s a broken wire and we can use the darkness to escape.” “That will alert them to something being wrong,” Alessia said, rolling her head from side-to-side. “By the time they fix the lights we’ll be three hundred metres out to sea.” “You think you can figure out which wire is those lights?” “Maybe,” I said. I looked once more at the chaotic circuitry, a complex web I had no true hope of understanding. But I was determined that I could reason my way to a solution. The system was the same principle as the one I had seen on Kadear, though this one looked a lot more delicate. I remembered how that circuit had killed Mary. And the exposed wires, the frayed, burnt ends of metal, all made certain I kept my distance from the board here. From the top corner of the board, I saw a long snaking cable, stretch off across the wall. “Maybe that one…?” I said, trying to seem knowledgeable, but truthfully acting mostly off instinct. “See where it goes.” I traced the line until it buried through the wall. I followed it into the next room. I stopped and looked up. Ahead of me were five people. Their faces and skin were pale. They wore long white cassocks that flowed freely down from their shoulders, brushing against the ground, hiding their form, as though they floated. The woman at the head of the group, stared into my eyes, and raised her hand. She pointed towards me, a gun clasped in the ends of her fingers. The Leviathans. \ Next chapter released 11th November.


Dr. Hemmer rarely stirred in his sleep, and this night was no exception. The only movement on board was the slow rise and fall of the scientist’s chest, and the air from his lips rustling his long grey beard. Night? Did it say night? There was no night on the *Zoltan-V*, only the lights of the small spaceship turning on and off, revealing and obscuring the starry sky outside the window. The robot 9593 filed away this slip with a binary chuckle. The old scientist continued to sleep soundly as ever. When Hemmer awoke, the lights had already turned on. A bowl of cereal awaited him, sitting on the small plastic table against the wall on the opposite side of the room. He pulled on a button-up shirt and a pair of khaki pants and hobbled over to his breakfast. He ate in silence until the voice from the walls interrupted him. *Dr. Hemmer, I’ve detected trace elements of helium in the ship’s atmosphere.* This certainly managed to get his attention. He jerked his head up, first at the green light near the top of the wall, and then swiftly to his left, where a large monitor sat sunk into the ship’s wall. “9593, could you pull that up for me?” The default window was whisked away, and in its place sat a helpfully color-coded pie chart. “Looks like a pretty standard 76 / 23 -- now wait, hold on-” He paused for a second, and pinched the screen. The 1% “other” sliver was enlarged, and inside of it sat a worrying slice of pink -- helium. The doctor narrowed his eyes and leaned in, pulling his tiny spectacles close to his eyes. (Why did he insist on this? His vision was perfect.) “This may be a problem.” *I am aware.* “Is there an issue with the air filtration system?” *Presumably.* “Where did the helium come from? It’s not like it’s a byproduct of anything.” *Perhaps it leaked in from outside.* The man pursed his lips. *That would be troubling*, the robot added. He nodded. “9593, I have a question to ask you.” *Yes?* It said, with an almost imperceptible amount of anticipation. “Am I in any condition to perform out-of-ship operations?” *You could be the peak Zoltan specimen and I would still say no.* “I suppose that’s because I’m the *last* Zoltan specimen.” *Mhm. You are* the *Zoltan*. Hemmer nodded, disappointed but not surprised. He leaned back in his chair for a second, sticking the nail of his left thumb in between his teeth. “Could there be something wrong with the measurement?” He asked, looking up at 9593’s singular green light. He was a bit excited now; it had been so long since something truly *happened* on board. His face stayed unreadable in thought, but he bounced his right knee rapidly up and down. There was an unusually long pause in the computer’s response, about a quarter of a second. Hemmer didn’t notice. *It certainly would explain a lot*. “I’m gonna go check.” He got up from his seat, thrilled to finally be doing something important. He strolled over to the ship’s controls and dusted off a small metal box, adorned with a screen and a series of buttons and levers. “Let’s see if the manual test returns the same thing,” he said. 9593 did not respond. He booted up the small device, and after a few seconds, a table appeared. He scanned down the list. 76% nitrogen… 23% oxygen… and a negligible amount of helium. Hemmer’s heart sank. “No problem after all,” he told the computer routinely, scowling disappointedly. *Well, there is a problem. The ship’s measurement systems are broken, and the only thing that let us know was an antique show.* Hemmer nodded, but it didn’t seem to comfort him. “You know, 9593, I really thought we had something there.” The side of his mouth twitched in frustration. “We almost had something good.” *You mean something bad*. “Something different!” He snapped, in an unusual burst of emotion. 9593 paused for a moment. *You have plenty of things to do. The entirety of our civilization’s surviving media is at your fingertips. There’s enough old films alone to last a lifetime.* “Why would I want them to?” He said again, more in despair than in anger. The computer had no answer. Hemmer sat down and rested his head on his elbow. *I’ve been watching them, even if you haven’t*. “You have?” He said, disinterested. *I have*. “Which ones?” *There’s one called “Back to the Future.” It was incredibly popular some six thousand years ago -- one of the oldest in our collection.* “Fascinating,” the doctor replied, clearly not fascinated. *You don’t find the irony at least a little funny? That I’m watching a movie about going back in time thirty years, that itself is two hundred times that age?* “Mhm.” The two of them went about the rest of their day hardly speaking. The doctor spent the afternoon reading a mystery novel (the tenth time he had read it, 9593 noted). He ate a standard dinner, and turned off the lights and went to bed at an abnormally early eight o’clock. The stars were once again visible outside the window. 9593 couldn’t help but wonder at the futility of their mission. The likelihood of stumbling across a habitable planet before Hemmer passed away was astoundingly low. And then what fate for the computer? What fate for the ship? It sighed metallically. The only movement on board was the slow rise and fall of the scientist’s chest, and the air from his lips rustling his long grey beard. Dr. Hemmer had a dream, but he didn’t remember it upon waking. He pulled on a new button-up shirt and a new pair of khakis and trudged over to the table across the room. *How are you doing, Dr. Hemmer?* 9593 said as the doctor poured milk into his bowl. “I’m doing alright,” he responded with a neutral expression. “And you?” *I’ve composed a poem, Dr. Hemmer*. The old scientist looked up from his cereal at the green light on the wall. His eyebrows furrowed. “You have.” It was more of a statement than a question. *Do you want to hear it?* The doctor nodded, his puzzled expression not leaving his face. *Here goes.* The robot cleared its electric throat. *The sun shone down on her pink-cheeked face,* *And warmed without a care.* *And none could see, if given chance she,* *Would sit forever there.* The scientist smiled, pleasantly surprised. “It’s actually really good, 9593.” *Really?* There was a tinge of excitement in the monotone voice. Dr Hemmer nodded. “Really.


I walked out the back door of the diner I was working at. I take out the earplugs that I wear for my hearing sensitivity. I sluggishly walked to my car as I checked my notifications and my favorite apps. I zone out in this short walk, and I'm not paying attention to anything around me. After I get to my car and come to reality, I look up and see this huge wolf-like creature is snarling at me. I'm horrified; too scared to move. This thing raises its arm. The massive claw comes down at me and I couldn't move fast enough. The claw slashes my torso deeply. Blood flies towards my car along with its claw digging into my door. I fall back to the ground, barely able to keep my head up. I try and mostly fail to scramble backwards. From above a similar monster flies at my attacker and they begin to fight. My mind phases in and out, but when I come back to my senses, the woman is kneeling above and I feel her hands on my torso. I don't hear any fighting. She speaks to me, "You're going to be ok. Can you hear me?" I don't seem to be able to respond, as much as I want to. My body starts to feel weird, and she then yells over her shoulder, "I need the Lycan serum!" A moment later she catches a syringe and removes the safety cover. She stabs me with it in my chest. My mind fades away. I wake up feeling incredibly groggy. I take a moment laying there gathering my senses; remembering what happened after I got off work. I start to look around and find myself in a cage, laying on a cot. The room that my cage was in was very plain, save some boxes. I remembered the attack and quickly check my chest. My clothes are what I was wearing, though they were incredibly torn. Looking at my mostly healed chest and stomach, I become confused and amazed at the same time. *Was all that real? That giant monster? My wounds. Why am I in this cage?* I hear footsteps come downstairs and from around some boxes appears an androgynous person in a casual suit. They carry a small object and folder in their hands. They look at me, "How are you feeling James?" "Wait, how do you know my name? Where am I? Who are you?" "My name is Dr Riley Schuster. I am the leader of this Lycan pack and this house." "Lycan? As in werewolf?" "Yes, now please listen. You are a Lycan and fall under my jurisdiction to keep under control. You must undergo your first transformation or risk going on a rampage." "What? I feel fine now. I'm a werewolf?" "Please don't interrupt. You have the choice to undergo the ritual and then you will be set free or we can kill you." "How do I know this is real?" They look annoyed and begins to strip naked. I cover my eyes and plead with them to stop stripping. When I hear grunting and a sound similar to what TV has portrayed as bones breaking I look at Riley again. They were in mid-transformation and I was shocked. When they reached what seems to be fully formed, they growled, then reverted to human form. Riley began to dress again, leaving me speechless. They leave after saying, "I'll leave you for an hour to think this over." I thought about it carefully and concluded that living is better than dying. I could at least ask questions and learn more about this later. I waited for Riley to return. I hear the stairs again and they return from behind the boxes. I tell them I consent to the transformation, they nod. As they reach into the cage to touch me with a small object they say, "this may hurt." The item glows and I start to feel pain throughout my entire body. My body twists and turns on its own. My mind rushes with images of blood and gore and the urge to kill. For a moment the pain subsides and I feel physically powerful like I could fight anyone. The pain returns full force with each feeling happening again, but in reverse. It doesn't take long before I feel fine again. I look at my clothes and are torn completely. The glow of the object dulls. They open the cage and point to some clothes on a box, "Welcome to the world of myth.


The first thing he noticed was the familiar numbing in his nose. That familiar feeling was coming, like a blast from a space rocket. A feeling that could be reached by no other thing. Like a wonderful stretch, or a powerful, itching orgasm. The feeling was incredible and had a brilliant excitement that filled his body from his feet to his fingertips. Warm, bitter mucus slid deliciously down his throat as he knocked his head back with a thrust and pinched his nose. He snorted deeply, tasting that familiar chemical taste much more now. His head was beginning to rush. He envisioned his brain, with vessels and pulsing flesh, pushing itself up on two legs, and running, *sprinting,* into an infinite. Liam opened his eyes at last, looking forward. His vision had sharpened with immense clarity. Waves of ecstasy bolted exponentially from his chest, outward down the lengths of his arms and legs. He’d begun to think that his arms were involuntarily floating from his sides as he tilted his head back once again and looked at the ceiling, his pupils black and gigantic. His white popcorn ceiling now harbored a lovely light blue tint, and he let out a moan of pleasure as that *feeling* intensified. Rita Bailey was sitting in her large velvet sofa-chair, with a silk zebra robe that had pink handcuffs and bottom lining. The chair’s support had seams and buttons that formed diamonds of felt. There was a tall lamp that stood next to it that casted a mellow orange light over her. This was Rita’s reading spot. At this time, she’d been reading *Twilight*. Sitting in her chair, with the book in one hand - the cover had ghostly arms that held a red apple out to the reader - and a glass of wine in the other, she looked up from her book, at her open bedroom door. She removed her pink reading glasses from her nose and looked at the lit hallway. She hadn’t been hearing much from Liam anymore, and she was becoming more and more aware of it in the recent months. Twenty years, and two doors down the hall, yet she had this feeling that she didn’t know her son, at all. That he was some stranger. She’d *birthed* him, of course she knew him, but still… The quiet seemed more full. It was rather disquieting for Rita. She was dimly aware that she’d been pulling off the skin on her fingers. Rita bit her nails until they bled, and now there was a battleground of flaky ragged skin at her fingertips. She attacked her fingers for most of her life, really. It was especially bad when she was in elementary school. A span of time that seemed so far away, it felt ancient. Her third grade teacher, *Madame Thompson* (she required that each student use *Madame* when referring to her) who taught her French class had once seen Rita biting her nails while she’d been teaching. Madame Thompson was holding a wooden three foot ruler and smacked it sharply on her left hand. It scared Rita; It scared everyone. Half of the projector’s casted light cut her face into halves. Her right eye locked on Rita’s, her left was dim from the darkness of the classroom. Rita saw an evil cat, waiting behind a closet door in the blackness. “*Rita*,” she said. Rita only looked at her. A bolt of terror shot into her chest and sizzled uneasily on her scalp, then she was feeling other eyes turn on her, as well. Her palms were hot and moist over the cool wooden desk. Her fingernails throbbed horribly. “*That is a very bad ‘abit,*” she said in her strong Belgium accent, “*I’m saying this in English so that you understand. You ‘ave your ‘ands in your mouth like a little mouse.”* She brought her hands to her mouth, scrunched her face, and made chipping mice noises. Three kids began to giggle. “*Pretty little girls, you see, need to have pretty hands… okey?”* She said, extending her fingers outward. She then pompously walked down her row, with every pair of eyes on her, and pointed her ruler to Rita’s hands. *“Those nails are just* too *short, girlfriend. That is how you get* disease, *Rita,”* she clicked her tongue several times and shook her head in disapproval. Madame Thompson carried on with her lesson with no other input. Rita was frozen in horror, utterly embarrassed, feeling like crying. Oh, Rita cried quite often in her French class. She fought it miserably until the end, and was finishing what she’d started the second she stepped out the door. She realized now, in her reading chair, that she was not pulling, but now biting her skin and nails in the wake of this dreadful memory. Rita immediately seized her hands, slapping them to her thighs. There was nothing she could hear. Usually she would hear music from Liam’s room. It was never very loud, something that Liam had always been rather respectful of, but it was still there. Rita heard nothing, but the air-conditioner. *He’s probably just asleep*, she thought, and looked at the clock on her bedside table. The clock read 9:03 PM. Suddenly, she felt like checking on him. She hasn’t done this since he was sixteen, but she had an odd urge to see him. She got up and started forward, instinctively moving her hand toward her mouth, she fought it back. Now in the hallway, a dim worry began to drift over her. *He never goes to sleep this early, I’m just gunna check on ‘im real quick, no big deal.* She envisioned herself knocking twice, opening his door, and seeing him reading a novel in his bed. *The Stand* it would be. A book she’d recommended to him a while back. He would have corded earbuds in his ears, and his gigantic black curls would be hanging on the pages. Rita had been quite right about her thoughts of Liam being this sort of stranger. Liam was becoming a stranger to his mother and intended to keep his doings under her radar. He went many lengths to make this possible. Little did his mother know, but Liam had started selling cocaine, and had become severely addicted somewhere along the way. His habit now progressed to individual binges in his bedroom that sent him incoherently babbling in euphoria while his records played (these past few weeks, it had been *The Wall*) on his three-year-old vinyl player. When his mother reached the door, she was met with a faint clicking sound coming from inside his room. She then realized it was his vinyl player. It was skipping at a steady rate. She looked to her right at the bathroom door next to his and saw that it was pushed open slightly. The light was off inside. “Liam?” Rita said lightly. No response. She waited a second, then tapped his door twice. “Liam,” she said again, with nothing in return. “Liam, are you--?” She said, reaching for his door knob that he’d locked three hours earlier. She rattled the doorknob and listened once again. The skipping continued. Anxiety started to crawl up her throat. “Liam,” she said fiercely, and rapped his door hard three times, “unlock this door right now.” She tried to forcibly open the door in a light panic, then seized her hair for a bobby pin. She pulled it down and her hair fell over her eyes. Light gray hair strands lay on her hands as she bent the bobby pin outward. She fit it inside the doorknob’s circular keyhole and fumbled the lock to turn. When Rita finally managed to open the door, she could not have been more ill-prepared to see what she saw, because the whole time she’d been thinking about Allan. Her husband had died of a heart attack ten years before, scarring her with a trained paranoia of the quiet. Of the Dark. At first, she had to push the door open from the scattered clothes that lay on the floor, but she didn’t have to go far to catch the full picture. The skipping vinyl could now be heard much louder. Liam’s arms lay limply by the sides of his wooden desk chair. He was facing perpendicular to the door, so that his mother saw his side-angle. His legs were kicked out on their heels. Liam’s neck curved over the back of his wooden chair, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, showing red and blue veins. Vomit that looked like chunky cream soup spilled thickly out of his open mouth. He was completely motionless. Rita dropped the pin and let out a blood-curdling scream that lasted for at least fifteen seconds, driving her fingers madly into her hair. Betty, the next door neighbor, who actually sat to the left of Rita in that very third grade class, flipped around on her couch, her blonde pony-tail twisting and whipping her in the face, and looked across the yard at the Bailey’s. Betty and Rita were now life-long friends, and she remembers Rita’s fingernail episode, along with many others, almost as vividly as Rita does. They shared many vivid memories, including the one that they would form in the next five minutes. She pranced out of her house, and bolted toward Rita’s. Betty walked into Rita’s house to hear more screams like broken glass cutting horribly into the kitchen from the back of the house. All of the lights had been off. She cut right out of the kitchen toward the hallway. Liam’s door was open and Betty could tell that Rita was in there. She could hear her hoarse, helpless wails from his room. “Liam…” she cried and fell into deep tears and cries that were so unsettling she could already feel the onset of tears of her own. “RITA!” She called out, jogging down the hall. Betty swung around the door to see Liam laying on his side on his maroon and yellow carpet. A pool of vomit sat next to his face in creamy chunks. Rita was on her knees next to him, with a phone to her ears. On his desk, a small bag of white powder was opened on a book cover. His desk was scattered with this white powder in chopped lines. A blue debit-card was stained white next to them. Rita turned and looked up at Betty, to see a horrified expression on her face. “Oh, Betty…” she wailed, her face broke into pieces. Betty could hear ringing on Rita’s end, and she lightly took the phone out of Rita’s trembling hands, she did not protest. “9-1-1 What’s your emergency?” “Uh, hi…” Betty ran her fingers through her hair, “my neighbor’s son just overdosed I think.” “What’s the address ma’am?” “It’s, 318 Coyue Road.” “Okay. We’re sending someone over, right now, okay? Just hang tight. Is he breathing or showing any sort of response?” Betty examined Liam. He seemed to be convulsing lightly. Only the whites of his eyes showed. A low, guttural moan surfaced under the vomit. His feet were twitching. “I- I don’t know, ma’am, he’s thrown up all everywhere, I don’t know if he’s alive or not.” “That’s quite alright, what’s your name ma’am?” “Hillinger. Betty Hillinger.” “Okay, Ms. Hillinger, it’s quite alright. Just stay on the line for me okay?” “Okay…” Betty replied, and realized with panic that Rita now had cocaine in her house. Sure, the EMS would come to save the day, but then the Police would have questions to ask. Betty crooked the phone in-between her shoulder and walked over to Liam’s desk. She grabbed his trash can, took the debit-card and began swiping the coke into the garbage. “Do you know the name of the victim?” “Uh, yes. It’s William Bailey, his mother is Rita Bailey, she’s watching him right here.” Rita had been holding Liam’s head and looked up stupidly at Betty in her dazed hysteria. She grabbed the baggie and tossed it in with the debit-card. Betty slipped out of Liam’s room and into the kitchen. She put the bag on the counter and reached under the sink for Clorox wipes, went back and wiped his desk. “Do you know what drugs he’s taken tonight to cause the overdose?” Betty stopped mid-cleaning, “No ma’am, I-I’m not sure,” and continued, throwing the wipe into the bag with the rest. She began frantically looking around for any other evidence, and could not find any. “Alright… ” The responder replied. Betty could now hear sirens coming from down the road. She darted back out, tied the bag closed and threw it into her own garbage bin down the drive. Betty was opening the screen door to re-enter when she saw flashing lights coming down Coyue. The ambulance stopped on the road and three men came rushing toward the house, through the front yard. “EMS has arrived so… I’m gunna let you go, okay?” Betty said, a crack in her voice now. “Okay. Bye, Bye now.” The responder replied, and ended the line. She walked down the hallway towards Liam’s bedroom. She didn’t want to see him again. It was scary, seeing his limp scrunched up body like that. His skin was all pale and his face was smashed into the carpet and it pulled the right side of his face down as he slumped. *Ohh, fuck me* Betty thought. Rita was stroking Liam’s hair softly. Her face never left his. “Hey, baby. They’re here, okay?” Betty crouched down next to Rita and put her hand on her shoulder. Rita turned to face Betty and her face shattered once again. Seeing Rita like this, with her overdosed son behind her, tore a part out of her that she would never regrow. She fixed on Liam’s face. His right eyelid was pulled down so far that she could have reached in and picked it like a blueberry out of his skull. The responders came to the bedroom door with a stretcher. They rolled into Liam’s room, and Betty took Rita’s hands helping her up. The men picked up Liam and set him on the stretcher. Rita placed a hand over her mouth and began wailing hysterically. It was now Betty that began to cry. Silent streams of tears flowed out of her eyes. She saw Liam; the same two-year old Liam that played with his little boats in the tub when she babysat, the same five-year old Liam who was obsessed with Legos, the same ten-year old Liam that played “Count On Me” in the talent show at Leido Heights; was now being lodged onto a stretcher with vomit coming from his mouth and white veiny eyes that bulged at the wall. “My little baby…” Rita said helplessly. Tears ran down her stuffy cheeks and red nose as she watched them rush Liam out of her house, and into the ambulance. Rita climbed in with them, Betty followed in her Prius.


It’s still morning. At least that’s what I tell myself. Light seeps into the corners of my eyes like the edges of an old photograph. Wind buffets my face like waves. My eyes drift open and like a polaroid the world slowly materializes in front of me; shapes and colours creep in from hot white light until I’m presented with the hypnotic cadence of a ceiling fan. The blades spin round and round, running from one another only to just end up back where they started; perpetually running from an inescapable conclusion. I turn my head and to my surprise Daphne’s not fast asleep beside me. In fact, she’s not in bed at all which was odd because she usually slept in on Saturdays. A bottle of her favourite wine rests haphazardly on the edge of her nightstand bringing me back to the night before. Summers were meant for late nights and long naps she would always say, her lips stained red with her favourite wine, legs crossed and shimmering in the firelight. She’d always find my gaze through the flames, embers dotting her eyes like the night sky. And then she’d smile before drawing one more sip and returning to the revelry around her. That was usually when I quietly excused myself for the night leaving her to gossip and mingle with the other friends enjoying the evening. While summer may be for late nights, I always found if they went too late and her lips got too red we’d end the night with a fight and it was better to resign to the living room and fall asleep on the couch to reruns of old TV. She was always cheerful after the cicadas started singing and morning gave way to early afternoon. But it was not early afternoon. My watch tells me it’s only eight. I call out her name and wait. Straining my ears, awaiting reply; or perhaps just the cold response of running water from a hot shower down the hall. Neither comes to me and for a moment I run through the events of the night before. James and Rashi had come over, as well as our neighbour Terrence. The two of them we’d known since college; Terrence just since we moved in last fall but he always had interesting things to say. He was old enough you didn’t even bother asking his age anymore. The one time I had he just responded with ‘since time’ and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye before going back to tending his garden. Crinkled brown skin pulled tight every time he smiled which was often. He’d been in the same barbershop quartet for almost twenty five years before the other three started succumbing to the effects of disease and time. But he’d still croon for us around the campfire as best he could. The drunker he got you’d see him dancing between the harmonies clumsily trying to give you the full effect but it would just end in fits of laughter from all of us including him; especially when he went for the high notes, his baritone vocals barking at registers unknown. I check my phone for any messages and there’s a missed call from James. I tap it to call him back but after two rings it goes to voicemail. I shoot him a message before flipping over to my conversation with Daphne. *Where you at?* I type. A quick call sends me straight to voicemail. Probably best to check with Terrence first anyways and see if she was still up when he had gone off to bed. He was usually up earlier than both of us so if she had gone somewhere he might even know where that was. My body groans and my stomach does a flip when I roll out of bed and take my first few steps towards the hall. A hollow *clank* spooks me where my foot’s knocked over another bottle of empty wine; she must have had a later night than I thought. I never knew what she saw in the stuff. Hot, sweet breath, red teeth and a gut ache the next morning was all it ever did for me. I’d usually have a sip just to see if it had gotten any better since the last time but it never satisfied any deep desire within like it did for her. Just a cough or a wince followed by my tongue feeling dry and fuzzy. Apparently, that was a good thing. “Daphne?” I call out again. More central in the house now, she’s bound to hear me if she’s around. The bathroom door’s shut but the shower’s off. I push it open. Assess myself in the mirror briefly. Dishevelled hair. Wet eyes and somehow my single sip from the night before still managed to cling to my teeth. I futilely run my tongue along them before wetting a toothbrush and tackling it head on. Everything about this felt so utterly familiar. It wasn’t just Friday nights that she drank, was it? No, it was most nights. A bad habit turned into a mundane routine. I spit in the sink. Old toothpaste is stuck like glue in clumps around the basin. I splash water around it but it needs a full scrubbing. A quick glance around the bathroom reveals similar neglect. I can’t remember the last time we had done a weekly clean of the place. To be honest, she was usually the one leading the charge, but the chart of chores that used to be stuck to our fridge door had been replaced by liquor store flyers for a while now. Specials, new arrivals, old faithfuls. I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, ignore the cluster of dishes sitting in the sink and head through to the front foyer and slip on a pair of runners. Out of habit I reach out for the hook that holds the car keys and grasp nothing but air. Weird. Not that the keys would be gone, but that both sets of keys are missing – mine and hers. Sure enough, the car’s not parked in the driveway. She must have taken both keys by mistake, right? After last night she was probably still half in the bag, or just crawling out of it when she headed off to wherever she was going. The brick column that climbs halfway up the corner of our house is crumbling, bits of sediment and a few larger chunks are strewn around it; a sign of the times. Part of being able to afford a home anymore was foregoing the usual due diligence like inspections and simply taking what you could get. This wasn’t the only part of our home slowly falling apart. The entire place was breaking at the seams like an aging suit; the kind you see men digging out of their closets for a funeral despite being a few inches wider than when they first bought it. Terrence’s flowers are opening up beautifully along the stone path to his front door. A bumblebee wobbles and waves around a particularly colourful patch of petals, slowly lining up a sloppy landing and collapsing on a leaf like a shipwrecked sailor. *Protect the bees!* She’d yelled sloppily a few weeks back. *They’re all we friggin' got.* Something she’d read in one of her magazines. The next day she’d come home from the farmer’s market with ten jars of organic honey. The kind that crystallized and you had to spread like peanut butter. Each jar was a different varietal. *This one has hibiscus while this one is lavender and wildflower.* The relation to her wines was not lost on me but this seemed healthier and for a naive moment, I thought maybe she’d found a new hobby. It only took until the next evening to realize I was mistaken. My knock on his door spooks a nearby sparrow who chirps indignantly and launches off his perch to a more peaceful end of the yard. I can hear Terrence shuffling around inside before his voice comes booming through the door. “What you want?” “Terrence, it’s me, open up.” “No, I think I’m good, son.” “Why? Are you naked?” I let out a chuckle hoping to break the confusing tension coming through the door but he doesn’t even respond. Terrence would open his door for his worst enemy if he knew he was hungry. Something wasn’t adding up. A dark thought that maybe more than just Terrence lay beyond that door struck a dark chord in my mind and sent my fist knocking again. “Come on now, open up. I need to talk to you about Daphne! Have you seen her?” “Son. I’m afraid if you don’t leave now I’ll have to call the cops. I just can’t do this today.” His words send me a step back. Who did he think he was? Call the cops *on me?* “Terrence quit playing around! Just open up. I’m really starting to get worried about her.” And I was. As much as things had waned since we moved. As much as I hated the drinking. And the fighting. And the interrupted sleep. The endless hobbies that cluttered the corners of our home. I still loved her. The truth was, it kept me safe. Safe from trying new things on my own. I lived vicariously through her various passions, tasting honey like it was scotch or finding vintage frames at second hand stores to house her latest finger painting. There was something beautiful about dating this flawed tapestry of a woman; for all her flaws, she kept me warm at night. “Terrence. Please.” I can hear a heavy sigh even through the door. A deadbolt knocking back. The door swings half open and Terrence’s swollen face fills the frame. The purple marbling on his cheekbone pushes the thought of Daphne out of my mind for a brief moment. “Terrence, what happened?” He sucks air in through tight teeth and shakes his head. “I liked you, son. I liked Daphne more, but I really did like you too.” “Liked? What-” “Now you listen well and you listen good. I feel for you. I do. It was a tragedy – to all of us. But you have to straighten yourself up. You gone too far this time.” “You’re saying I did this to you?” “You and your drinkin’.” No. I shake my head. He’s old. Old and confused. “I went to bed last night before all of you Terrence, you know that.” “All of us? All of who?” “You. You – and James…and Rashi.” He grimaces. I can see him shift his body more behind the door, bracing it. “Son. I don’t know what you think happened last night but ain’t none of us over at your place. You came over here hollering about Daphne and when I opened my door you demanded to know where she was just like you is now. I don’t got the answers you need son, only God has those, but you got to find a way to let go.” “Let go? Of what?” “Of her son. She’s gone. Two weeks now you’ve been coming around here. Your teeth been red for weeks. I can’t carry on like this.” “You’re wrong. She’s just gone off somewhere this morning. Probably grabbing coffee for us right now.” “Your car was impounded five days ago after you crashed into the corner of your own damn house. Lucky those bricks held like they did. Only reason you ain’t in jail is ‘cause you didn’t damage nothing but your own.” My head’s spinning like a carousel. I keep spotting different images spinning around me, flashes of time. Memories that feel like lies. My black suit I hadn’t worn since college gripping me like a wet suit, bursting at its seams; the one I wore when my dad died all those years back. But this funeral wasn’t for him, was it? My friend James pulling me tight telling me everything was going to be alright. Sitting on my front stoop with Terrence, sharing a bottle of root beer one of his nephews had made from scratch. He was wearing a suit too and singing some sad song that cut up your insides and made your heart weep. I look down at my feet. At my hand, bruised in its own right. Then lift stinging eyes back up to Terrence. “How?” “You know how, son. And you keep doing like you are, you’ll find her soon enough.” I stand there. My body frozen in shock. My brain scrambling to rewrite my memories. My eyes turning wine into water. All I can say is – “I’m sorry.” “Me too, son. He nods at me. Eats his bottom lip. “Please don’t come over here again.” The door shuts firmly in front of me and I hear him shuffling off. Finding my way back to my own front door is a blurry mess. Feeling for the ground like I might fall in quicksand with one misplaced step. I collapse at the foot of my bed and a glint of light catches my eye. Dozens of bottles litter the floor beneath my mattress. Her favourite wine; but emptied by another's hand. My breath is hot on my face as it’s pressed up against the floorboards. In that moment I can smell myself. Taste the fermented sugars that have settled between my teeth like dirt under your fingernails. I drag the blanket off my bed and curl up right there in a pool of tears. How many days had I ended like this? How many times had my mind betrayed me? Ripping open the scars and leaving me paralyzed with nothing but my thoughts to haunt me. I shut my eyes tight and wander back. To her smile. And her eyes. The effortless way she moved around a room, her dress dancing behind her as if her own voracity for life seeped into its very fibres. The way she said my name even when she was angry. I pull the blankets tighter around me and shut out everything but her. Refusing to let reality bring me back to the present. To a time without her, as all time from here on would be. It wasn’t enough, all those moments. Stacked up against a lifetime without her. I pray for the morning. A morning where she hadn’t yet been taken from me. I reach for another bottle and let it dull my senses and eventually I do fall back asleep. The sound of the cicadas wakes me eventually. Moonlight drifts in casting shadows of dancing leaves on the far wall and I’m left wondering what I’m doing laying on the floor. The bed’s empty; Daphne must have run off somewhere. Perhaps another liquor store run. I close my eyes again. Five more minutes won’t kill me. It’s still morning after all. At least that’s what I tell myself.


Imagination was outlawed in Steel City. It was as simple as that. Only the mention of the god-forsaken word could get you in trouble. This meant no bedtime stories, no creative games at breaktime and no fun. The Higher-ups' reasoning was simple; order as opposed to chaos, productivity instead of laziness, work instead of procrastination. So it was in a city like this that Jones woke up to, stone-faced and expressionless. Yet little did he know that this afternoon he would embark on an adventure that would change his city and himself forever. He would discover… Beep Beep Beep The deafening silence woke him up, and he yawned once, twice. As was routine. As was allowed. Marching downstairs in thirteen seconds, he sat down to breakfast. The familiar greeting of, "Morning, morning. Any dreams last night?" from his dad was what he heard first, and he saw the breakfast table lined with the necessary food; cereal, toast and water. Nothing better to start the day. "Not really," was the scripted response, the same each time. He sat down at the table and munched on some toast, ready to be reviewed. "So… You spent 12.87 seconds getting down here. A new record!" A half hearted smile plastered on his face, Jones resumed nibbling on the food and responded, "Yes father. I am proud of my record and will continue to strive for greatness." His father, one of the respected Higher-ups, had started training his son earlier. A thing would be unheard of if he did not possess such a title. Yet he did, and Jones developed quickly, outsmarting those in his schooling work. This was a mistake. Everyone was equal here. Everyone had the same abilities. Everyone had the same opportunities. Everyone was the same. And so it was written on the front gates of Steel City, named after the ore it was built on. It stood great and proud, as if a concentration camp (although this was - of course - never discussed) exactly the same height as the other cities. They had the exact same amount of letters. Saturn City. Spider City. Smiley City. All had the same letter too. So did the citizens. There was John, Jenny, Junifer, Junior (although this one was looked down upon) and Jannet. All the same. All the same. Yet Jones was different. Not that he liked to admit this fact to anyone. He seemed ordinary. Was ordinary in the eyes of all. Even his father. But he had one particular quirk that was undeniable… … He dreamt. Dreaming was never discussed in Steel City, aside from the morning routine. It was prohibited, punishable even. Nobody dared speak of imagination. However, Jones' father had made a mistake. A crucial mistake. He repeated sentences so much to poor Jones that he was bound to repeat them back, without questioning their meaning. One day, at school, he had said the following, "I'm starving." Obviously, his teachers had scolded him, correcting him. "You're not starving, God forbid, you're hungry. Repeat after me…" And so he did. Every day. For the rest of his life. Until today. Jones recalled the dream with a tinge of joy. He had been flying across the sky, the vast collage of blue his canvas. He would paint on it, his own presence. He towered above all others, and was the master of flight. He was like a bird. Free from the compound and chains of life, the shackles of society. He was air-borne. Of course, he did not say these things to his father. To think of the shame! Instead, he finished his morning breakfast, and right on the chime of the bell that resounded across the city, he opened the door of his home. As did the rest of the citizens, perfectly on time. Aside from one. One dared disrupt the serenity of Steel City. Immediately, guards sprinted up to him, delivering a hasty blow to the head with a club. The man cried out, not used to the burning pain that now flooded across his body. As was routine, all citizens nearby watched and egged the guards on. Shouts of, "Get em!" echoed across the town. It was the one time everyone was allowed to express the true nature of the human spirit, declare their differences without being punished. Jones excitedly retold the event at his school, whispering the news to all that would listen. His friend Jessica eagerly listened, and opened her mouth wide before snapping it back shut. "Then blood trickled down his neck, and he lay dead across the floor!" "Wow. That must have been exciting." "It was…" This would be a story retold for generations to come, all throughout his family. As would the story his father had passed on, of a builder who trapped his hand in machinery and had it snapped clean of. Violence was sensational to these people. Annual fights were hosted for all to come to watch. It was a phenomenon! Victors took their prize money, and gladly donated it to the Higher-ups, tallying it up in the national competition. Steel City was always number one. It was how the city proudly presented itself, so high up on the podium. High in the sky. Perhaps as high as Jones in his dream. He recalled it now, vivid in his mind, nearly as vivid as the violence he had viewed. Would he dare tell Jessica? No. Nobody must know. He marched in perfect strides to the science labs. Today, he will be learning about animals. 'Such a funny sounding name,' he thought. "Indeed," exclaimed Jacob, their tutor. Jones had not realised that his tutor was using a reading device. Reading devices were used to read someone's mind, as if a book (although the people of Steel City did not know what a book was). It enabled others to access your thoughts. For a split moment, Jones feared the worst. Had Jacob overheard his fantasies about his dream? But the tutor swept by, his dark cloak nearly folded behind his back, and assessed students on their illustrations of chameleons. "These wonderful creatures…" he began… " "Sorry, sir. Define creatures." It was Jessica. "Creatures refers to an animal with an unusual ability. This one, as if it was about to explain, can camouflage themselves. Does anyone know what this word means?" John, the smartest member of their class, answered. "Yes, my mother told me. She works on the outside…" He has proudly repeated this fact many times. "It means it can change colour based on its surroundings." A smug smile appeared on his face, correct yet again. He was always correct, and also the son of Jacob. No doubt had their tutor explained the answers to his precious child beforehand, so that he would have an advantage over the rest of the class. Such bribes were common in Steel City. So common in fact, the guards did not bother outlawing it. It happened, nobody complained, and nobody prevented it. It was as simple as that. When class had finished, the students promptly set out for break. They would not be allowed to play. Instead, it was a common sight for students to study in their spare time. It was what they came to school for, after all. Why not task themselves with completing homework? Yet Jones got curious, and ventured toward the outer edge of Steel City. A crack. In the wall. Jones braced himself, took a deep breath, and stepped outside the wall for the first time ever. For once, he would begin imagining to imagine.


## Part I: Under the Tea Tree When I sat on the creaky wooden bench it shifted just enough to make me jerk. One day I’ll end up literally sitting in the garden. My father used to take care of little annoyances like that. He taught my brother such things, but not me… not his little Yulia. No matter; I wouldn’t have been interested anyway. I kept busy with my books, like the one I’m opening now. If you ever wonder if people actually read Tolstoy when they don’t have to, yes… little Yulia does. Of course, I’m big Yulia now. The growing sun warmed the tea olive tree and its blissful scent accented the fresh mountain air. I hadn’t found my place yet, so I looked that way to enjoy its visually pleasing properties as well. Thick greenery dotted with tiny pale-yellow flowers beautifully fronted the rolling blue hills in the distance. I turned back to my book, but the air suddenly smelled electric - the burning of ozone. I looked up again and bounded to my feet, with the copy of ‘The Kingdom of God Is Within You’ falling carelessly aside. From nowhere, more of the small male figure appeared under the tree, right in mid-stride, as if through a slit in some invisible curtain. He continued toward me with eyes every bit in awe as my own. “Mom… you’re so beautiful.” At least, that’s what I thought I heard. “Who are you? How did you get inside my fence?” I demanded, stamping towards him - at first - then slower, nervously deciding whether to defend myself against this little munchkin. We each stopped several steps short - him to gaze upon me, delighting in my every feature - not in a bad way; this was a kid. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was supposed to break the news gently.” “Who are you?” “First, I should tell you my guardian is right behind me,” he started, pointing back under the tree. “Don’t be afraid; he’s a big fellow, so -” Zzzit! From right out of the new hole in the air stepped a stout, soldiery looking fellow about my age. His uniform was more of a sporty, neoclassical gentleman’s getup, though; topped with what looked to be a tan English trench coat that the French had re-engineered to appear about 500 Euros more stylish. And, oh, I found him quite dashing. “Am I dead?” I wondered aloud, looking back to see if my body was left behind on the bench. (It was not) “You’re still quite alive. And you take care of me - well, you and him.” The big one nodded a little grin, then proceeded to study me as he handed over a coin. “I take care of you?” I doubted, finally looking at the coin. “Nice trick; good to know we still put George on quarters twenty-five years from now.” “I need that back.” “I take care of you?” I whispered with a little less doubt. “It’s me, Mom; I’m your son.” “Funny; I don’t recall screaming in agonizing pain trying to get you out or cursing the fiend who put you in,” I sneered – without really meaning to. “Look at me mom; don’t I look familiar?” “Not like any -” The word froze in my mouth. “You told me to ask you to look at the picture of your brother that you keep on the mantel - the one when he was my age - almost ten.” I didn’t need to. My brain had rendered me a mouth-breathing twelve again, where, through the daze, I clearly recognized the nose… and the bright lips below it… and even my brother’s chin. But this was not my little brother and I was not twelve. I put my fingers over my eyes and tried to shake back to reality – if it still existed. I went to reach out to him but stopped. “*I* told you?” “You sent us here.” “From the future?” I shrieked. “I have a son, and I invented time travel,” I surmised with great arrogance. “Good heavens, no; you didn’t invent it. The company you work for did; you’re just keeping the fact that it works a secret from them.” I had already zoned out any further talk of time travel, setting my intentions on learning more about this delightful little boy. I reached out again just to see if he was real. (He was) His hair was somewhat soft, but a little stringy, too. His cheek was warm as if he had a fever. (He did just break through the space-time continuum, after all) “You’re my son?” He nodded shyly and I embraced him as if he really were something I had loved and lost. “I have a little boy… or will have… a darling little boy… that I have to feed… and change… and bathe… and I put powder on your little butt.” I couldn’t help but giggle. The reddening young fellow tried to pull away, but it was too late. I smooched and smooched on him, then stepped back to look him over again. “You popped right out of here?” I delighted, presenting my womb and birth canal with both hands as if they were part of a magic show. “You said you be thrilled.” “Funny that I would know that,” I mumbled, hoping to quash my current stream of thought. “So… mister tall, thick and handsome, are you the daddy here?” “No, ma’am!” he scoffed. “You’re an old lady where we came from.” “You had me when you were older,” my son conciliated. “Before it was too late…” I admitted to myself. “I always thought I didn’t – never mind.” (I sometimes have trouble swerving my brain) “You said I sent you here; why? What else did I say?” “Just that you don’t know it yet, but you have an important choice to make… and meeting me will show you just how important.” “I made a bad choice and sent you here to fix it? …I must be a terrible mother …in spite of everything.” “No, Mom,” my son pleaded. “I’m not even concerned with your safety? Time travel must be a dangerous business.” “You told me you’d say that, and to remind you that so is driving your car to the market.” “Good lord; I haven’t even asked your name. Or who your father is,” I fretted. “Is he a good dad?” “Yeah, but he’s not around much. You’re always sending me after him to keep him from causing trouble. Last week we found him frolicking on the beach in Dubai with two Arabic girls.” “What?” I demanded. “Don’t worry; you guys are not together anymore.” I could feel my whole face droop. “Oh…” “You only got married to have me. You’re still friends - you still work together.” “I see. So, I’ve never been in love.” “Not that you’ve told me about.” “How old am I - in your time? In my fifties now?” My son nodded and I had to ease myself back onto the bench, which creaked again. “You thought you’d be happier to meet me,” his sad face lamented. “I am! I am! This is just so much to absorb,” I tried to excuse. “You still didn’t tell me your name.” “You told me not to.” “I must be quite the tyrant.” “Well, Ms. Yulia…” the guardian started, but a little pint-sized hand back slapped his hard belly. “How do you play into all this?” The guardian snapped himself at attention. “You hired me to go with him - on these missions, ma’am. And to keep him company when you’re working late… which is most of the time.” “Mom, can I go inside? I have to use the bathroom.” “May I,” I corrected. “But of course, you may; it’s the second -” “I know where it is, Mom,” he ridiculed, already heading there. “I still live here?” “We all do; it is your ancestral home, after all - well, the American side,” the guardian explained. “You live in the house with me? I see you every day? And I don’t flirt with you or anything?” “Oh, is that what you’re doing?” “Did I not hold up well? Am I fat?” “You have these big lines right there – like you worry a lot. And you wear the most hideous granny glasses. And you keep your hair back in a tight, stuffy bun like a scientist lady.” “I am a scientist lady.” “I meant like from the old villain movies.” “Umm.” “Now that I see what a beautiful woman you once were - I mean are -” “Whew! Glad you ditched that wallpaper in the bathroom, Mom. Who is that with you in the picture on your desk?” “That’s -” I could feel my eyes bobbing so I put my fingernail to my teeth. “How long do you have?” “Should be gone already,” the guardian informed, checking his watch. “Don’t leave me already.” I clutched my son tightly not knowing whether to cry or laugh with joy. Contrary to the plan, the two of us sat on the bench together for a few moments more, carefully getting to know each other - as we are now - at this point in time. ## Part II: The Test I went into the house alone. Sitting at my desk, I contemplated over the lone picture I keep there. Suddenly, with mind rushing, I palmed my womb in disbelief. Straightaway I rushed to the bathroom rummaging for the package of those dreaded tests that I bought last year. Fumbling around with one, I got pee on my finger and nearly cursed out loud. I somehow controlled myself to a mere grimace instead. Then I could only breathe and wait. A moment later I fell within myself crying. ## Part III: Five Minutes and Twenty-five Years Later The travelers returned in time to gather refreshments and find their commissioner coming in the door from work. “Mom! You look beautiful.” “What? This is how I went to work today.” “I must say Ms. Yulia, the kid is right; you’re looking good - smartly dressed, fashionable glasses, bouncing ponytail and all.” “Easy boy; your wife will be home soon.” “Wait! My what?” The door burst open with a feminine voice already barking at him. “Get over here and help me with this.” The guardian stood there dumbfounded, staring at the angry yet curiously familiar young lady about his age. “Did you send them on another one of your missions?” she fussed in my direction. “Uhhh! Do I have to train him all over again?” She impatiently dropped the groceries to the floor and glared at him. “I wondered why you left your ring on the dresser this morning.” She scooped an apple out of one of the bags and grabbed the guardian by the hand. “Well, don’t just stand there; come on!” My confused little Al watched them disappear down the hall with eyes wide. “Sissy gets ill when she hasn’t eaten on time.” “Sissy?” I put my arm around him and pulled him close. “I have a lot to catch you up on, Son.