The Faith of Thelma Faye I remember feeling protected as I snuggled in the warmth of my mother's strong arms. My bed was veiled in a green canopy. She spread her warmth so wide it encompassed our whole world as we could see it. And there were a lot of us. She was like the old women who lived in a shoe. So many children... Except she knew. She sheltered and nurtured us and taught us everything she could before setting us free out into a world unknown. She taught our family history and mysteries of what could be. When gentle breezes rustled the leaves she whispered be calm and know that you will always be loved. When tempests roared she assured no matter what could befall us we would be cherished and remain a part of the universe, a crucial arc in the circle of life. And so I matured watching the magic of a world just waiting to embrace and show me a place. “Mother,” I would ask, “what is the sound I hear?” “Ah, listen to the angels sing,” she answered as we surveyed a little white building with a tall point above the roof top and a sturdy glistening portal. I would watch weekly as beings filtered in and out of that building. Appearing downtrodden as they went in and uplifted as they filed out. “Why the difference?” “They have left their burdens inside.” “What is the point on top for?” “It points to the one who washes away their sorrows.” “What is the portal made of?” “Well, that is a family heirloom. Your grandmother gave her all for that doorway.” “Whatever do you mean?” So my mother told me her story. “I started growing up very close to my mother's knee,” she said. “A little too close and I was being overshadowed. Workers were busy building this edifice. They needed something spectacular for the opening. They realized the gift for their dilemma was standing right before them. My mother was very, very old by this time and had withstood many, many heartaches along with many blessings. She considered it to be a most honored blessing to provide the material necessary to create a masterpiece that became the great oaken doorway into their new chapel. You can even get a glimpse of the alter and railing inside when the door is flung open. Those are also your grandmother's contribution.” I gained a new respect and admiration of the little building after that. “Tell me, Mother, what will I be?” “What will be, will be. The future is not ours to see,” my wise mother reminded. And so the season seasoned forth and I took more interest in the beings I beheld. There was a cute chubby one. She often scampered about until a pretty lady the fair-haired tall man called 'Margretha' beseeched, “Don't get dirty, Gertie.” Sometimes I could spot 'Gertie' with other children as they gathered about the stump I now knew was Grandmother's and they would listen to stories or sing songs much like the angelic ones I heard coming from the chapel. It was a peaceful and enriched time in my life when I could also watch the critters of the sky or the sneaky, squeaky squirrels, as Mother said they were, scurry about. Then the winds blew stronger and colder. I watched in wonder as so many of my brethren departed to a bewildering fate. The warm, green, friendly leaves that had veiled me for so long changed to magnificent colors then let go and floated away leaving me totally exposed! “Oh, Mother! What is happening?” “It is time. Remember all I have taught you. What will be will be. Go forth into the world.” She released me and down, down I went! “Oh, ouch!” I bounced and rolled but didn't go too far. I was sure one of those sneaky squeaky squirrels would gobble me up or save me for later, as Mother had told us. I would provide proper nourishment then go lickity-split out and become part of the warm humus of the earth ready for a new cycle of life. Is that really all there would be? I was hoping for so much more. But what will be will be. I will be grateful and as helpful as can be. Suddenly one of those beautiful, colorful leaves landed on top of me. Very welcoming and warm. Perhaps safe again? It was only a day or two then the leaf was lifted. “Oh,Mother, look at this beautiful leaf I found! And look at the perfect acorn it is hiding!” It was cute little Gertie and her mother, Margretha! “Oh, that will be a cherished addition to our cornucopia for Thanksgiving on the altar.” And so I was carried inside the chapel, arranged with other beautiful gifts of the land and placed on top of the altar Grandmother had sacrificed so much for. I got to hear close up praise and thanksgiving to the One who had sacrificed so much for so many. Yes, it was so fulfilling to be so loved. I understood now how these people felt as they laid their burdens upon the Christ and were nurtured with His body and blood and heard the words of scripture balm their troubled souls. If I could have I would sing praises,too. I was proud to be a tiny part of His creation. Thanksgiving passed to the next holy day and I was put away into a deep dark place. But I could still hear some of the merriment and singing and reading of the Word. I learned much. Time passed and as each Thanksgiving rolled around I was once again placed among the bounty. But some of my luster must have faded. Margretha rummaged around in the closet. “Here are some acorns that will work for the children's craft project. We will gather fresher acorns next Thanksgiving.” I found myself staring up at Gertie, her small pink tongue eschewed to the corner of her lips, as she meticulously glued me to a wooden stick and fashioned it with others to create a frame for a crayon drawing. For good measure she drew a little happy face on me beneath my burnished crown. Now I hang smiling out over the children in a small room. Of course, honored to be of use. Bonus! I get to hear of parables and miracles of the Good Shepherd. Once again years pass. Gertie grows and I am pleased to see her as a beautiful young bride dressed to walk down the aisle with a long veil swirling around her ready to pool on the floor in a perfect photograph along side her handsome young gentleman with wavy dark hair. I can hear familiar chords drifting down from above having witnessed a few ceremonies in my time on the altar. Soon, Gertie has a babe in her arms whenever she passes through my room. That babe is dressed in a long white gown and I know she will be presented at the baptismal font for her Christening. Wonder what her name will be? Sort of wish I had a name and I could be Christened. “Acorn” is okay, I guess. I am content. I smile. Yes, I have been forgotten about hanging a little lopsided midst other kid art creations. Suddenly Gertie pauses in front of me returning my smile. “I think this is a frame I made years ago. Kind of dull and crumbly. But the picture is of rainbows which my children love because it reminds them of God's promises. Maybe I should reclaim it and have the children refresh the colors.” So she packed me up with her other teaching aids to take me to her house. Oh, good, I can get to know her children better! But, alas, I never made it. Well, maybe my jaunty little cap clung to the stick and made it there but the rest of me was jumbled loose and fell on the way out the door. I rolled beside a large stump in the front courtyard of the little church. Kind of reminded me of the parable of the seed sower. Wonder where I landed. What will become of me? As I looked closer I realized there were two stumps. One much older and moss covered. Yes, Mother and Grandmother. Well, I felt old and dried up inside so figured it was now time for me to become fodder for the fold and be recycled for the next life. But to my amazement I was veiled again with freshly falling leaves and a dollop of moist earth and could feel myself reaching new sprouts down into the earth to take root. Within a couple of years I grew to be a healthy sapling. Praise be to the Good Lord, I could look around the growing neighborhood and witness Gertie's children growing just as fast. Unfortunately, some long-nosed busybodies decided a sapling tree did not belong in this spot because it would grow way too big and ruin the foundation just like that other mighty oak had been doing for too many years. It had to come down. Gertie came to the rescue. “You know the children have been wanting an experimental project making paper out of wood chips. The fine soft wood of this young tree could provide the perfect pulp for their creativity.” Not that any of it was pleasant but I was hewed, chipped, soaked, died a new color, wrung out, spread out to dry and miraculously I had a new form. Mother always said what will be will be. I don't think even she would have expected this. I was a very rough form of parchment the children could draw on. I traveled home with them and was pinned to some boards of cork more than once where I got new views of a variety of families. When they bored of me I was crumpled and thrown into bins to recycle. Now I had multiple lives. I was processed into many types of card stock. I can't name them all. Maybe I have passed through your hands, held your words on my face? I had the world to embrace still searching for my final resting place. 'Recycle, renew, reuse' became the cry of the land to save the planet so I have never been completely erased. But let me tell you of just a scrap. I was on a rack, way to the back. Before me were greeting cards, sweet sentimental thoughts usually in rhyme. I was one of the chosen. I went along with a beautiful girl with long flowing red hair. She sat at a desk a long time deciding the perfect adjunct to say to express all her emotion. She held the card open long enough for me to catch the drift of the message. It was to her mother. How sheltered and special she had been made to feel while learning important life lessons at her knee. Of course, it reminded me of my own supportive mother. Then she picked me up and wrote in the very middle “Thelma Faye”. I rejoiced. I finally was given a name. It sounded melodious to me reminding me of the angels singing so many years ago in the simple chapel. She licked and sealed my flap and pressed a stamp for good measure. I was whisked away. Flew like the wind way above the earth. When I landed I barely recognized the cherub-like white-haired lady that plucked me out of the delivery tube. But, yes, harkening back years and lifetimes ago I was sure it was Gertie's little child. Gertie's child must have been Christened 'Thelma Faye' just like me! What I learned about her was she never cared about recycling. She cherished everything ever given to her especially by her children. That is not to say she didn't reuse things because she reused me. I was tucked or more like crammed away with other mementos and long forgotten. Then one day a beautiful woman shuffled through all the confusion and found me. She was moved to tears. On the back of my unassuming facade, along with the gooey flap and jagged seam, was written in flowing script, never to be rewritten, a heartwarming poem about motherhood and how it would carry on into eternity. It included a phrase or two of apology for not being the kind of mother she had aspired to be. Oh, and a happy face smile! To this day, though she is starting to gray, the red-haired woman has me - a lowly envelop with faded rhyme - framed and hanging in a place of honor on her bedroom wall so she can be reminded daily of the faith of Thelma Faye.


Stepping steadily forward with arms outstretched Sheldon moved closer to his prey. Twin sister Zoe was approaching from the opposite side in a similar manner. Inching ever closer to the clueless rabbit, Sheldon caught his sister’s gaze and mouthed 1, 2. “Sheldon! Zoe!”, the deep voice bellowed across the yard. The twins froze in place, moving only their faces toward their father. Upon seeing his clouded features they walked toward him in unison. Father was the tallest of the three, his long dirty blond hair held back in pony tail with a leather tie. The dark gray hair tie matched his leather jerkin. Throwing his black pack over his shoulder he addressed them, “you two were getting too close to those woods.” “Father”, Sheldon began, always at the ready with an excuse,”we would never go there, we were trying to catch the rabbit for a stew”. “Of course you were”, Father grumbled,”and what if the rabbit ran into the woods?” “Well we wouldn’t follow, Father”, Zoe chimed in,”we’re smarter than a rabbit”. Father stared at Zoe a moment as if trying to decide her sincerity,”the woods have taken many people. People who don’t come back. They are just…gone. Some say it is an evil witch, tricking people; others say the woods themselves are enchanted and everything in it is trying to kill anything it comes across. Once you step into the trees, you are gone. GONE. Do you both understand that?”

“Yes Father”, they replied in unison.

Fishing coins out of his black pants pocket he handed them to Zoe,”if you can’t catch the rabbit, find food at the market.” She slipped the coins into her matching black pants and nodded.

Father eyeballed Sheldon,”make a trap son, make the rabbit come to you.” “Of course Father”, Sheldon’s shoulder length blond hair bobbed up and down against his brown leather jerkin as he nodded while he spoke. Father harrumphed as he started to head down the trail to work, pausing a few steps away he reminded them, “the woods took your mother and brother Wesley, I can’t loose you two as well.” An hour later found Sheldon brushing grass off his black pants while standing to survey his rabbit trap. He looked over to see Zoe whizzing a stick over her head for the dog to chase. Brown pointy ears could soon be seen through the grass as the rabbit began to hope toward the trap. Sheldon and Zoe were not the only ones watching the rabbit. Jokko honed in on the rabbit and bolted across the ground, white and brown fur almost appeared to be flying he was running so fast. The rabbit sensed the danger and turned and ran toward the woods. Jokko changed course in full pursuit of the rabbit. Sheldon began running and yelling, “Jokko, No!”. Zoe started running toward the group, “Sheldon, stop! Not into the woods!”. Sheldon caught Jokko just at the edge and they teetered for a moment on the black line at the edge of the trees. Zoe watched them slowly fall over the line, into the woods, disappearing as they fell. She ran right up to the line and screamed, “SHELDON!”. There was nothing to see, it was as if the trees and bushes covered Sheldon and Jokko in an instant. Running her hand over her short spiky hair she had visions of a similar disappearance six years prior. A four year old wisp of boy chasing a butterfly, wispy almost platinum hair flouncing in the breeze as he giggled. Mother was yelling his name, trying to get his attention. Wesley had looked up just as he’d cross the line into the woods. Mother never hesitated. She ran right after him and seconds later had disappeared as well. Zoe screwed up her face in determination and plunged into the woods with her fists balled up.

Zoe glanced back immediately and could not see her home, the yard, or the sky. The tree top branches stretched out and twisted around each other like they were all holding arms. The knotted network made it difficult to see any sky beyond. Bushes and smaller trees made it difficult to see a path or move very far. Twigs kept clawing at Zoe’s purple jerkin and snatching at her black pants as she struggled to move ahead. Hearing a whistle she pushed harder toward a clearing, hoping it was Sheldon calling Jokko. As she burst through she was relieved to see Sheldon and startled to see two of the most beautiful people she had ever seen. Barely covered in matching gauzy white outfits with hair so light it almost glowed the smiled at Zoe. Dulcet tones rang out simultaneously,”beautiful girl, come here and spend time with us”, each reached a hand out to rub the space between them on the log,”we would love to entertain you, you are so pretty and we are so bored. Come and sit with us.” Zoe took one step toward them, feeling a pull as if an invisible rope was wrapping around her, begging her to move toward the light, the beauty. Sheldon waved his hand and pointed toward the ground at their feet. Zoe saw the skeletal foot in leaf litter and shook her head to clear the cob webs. “Have you seen a dog?”, Sheldon was asking them. “We can give you something better than what you seek, you can be here, happy, forever”, the gorgeous beings looked from Sheldon and Zoe and back again. Zoe ran toward Sheldon, “we must away, there is nothing good for us here brother.” “Agreed”, the clasped hands and pushed back into the forest. It didn’t seem to take very long before they were met with another small clearing. Water sparkled from a fountain in the center. Above the flower shaped fountain resided a canopy of multicolored silk protecting the water from falling leaves. Pewter mugs resided next to the fountain at a little table. A variety of fruit bearing trees ringed the clearing. Sweet smells of apples, pears and other fruits filled the air. Sheldon started toward the fountain. Zoe grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him back, “what are you doing?”. “I’m so thirsty, and hungry, why shouldn’t we fuel up before moving on?” “Sheldon, the last clearing appeared to be a permanent stop. There is a reason people do not come back. Maybe this is another trap.” “Zoe, I am so thirsty and hungry!” “Me too brother, but really we have eaten a short time ago, I think it is this place”, Zoe tugged at Sheldon’s arm, trying to get him to follow her through the clearing. After some cajoling they finally pushed past the fruit trees and continued their trek. Funnily enough the hunger seemed to dissipate the further along the walked. They moved along, holding hands, not trusting the dark deceiving forest. Just as exhaustion was starting in Sheldon paused and pointed ahead, “Is it lighter there or am I hallucinating Zoe?” “If you’re hallucinating then so am I, let’s proceed with caution, yes?”, Zoe’s blue eyes held Sheldon’s and he nodded in answer, his hair had small bits of tree in it now. Zoe smiled and reached over to pull out a small twig, “you should have gone with short hair like me brother.” Sheldon reached atop her head and flashed a leaf in front of her eyes, “this little guy was hitching a ride on you, so I’m not so sure that super short hair is really the answer”, he waggled an eyebrow as his lips curved up in a smile for the first time since leaving the food clearing. The plunged ahead with renewed vigor and came upon a circle of light inside another clearing. Inside the circle stood Jokko. “Jokko!”, the twins cried out as one. Jokko woofed and pranced but stayed inside the light circle. “Sheldon knelt down and snapped his fingers, “come on boy, come here Jokko, it’s okay, it’s your old pals Sheldy and Zo!” Jokko wagged his tail and made a series of standing jumps followed by woofs, his white and red fur flouncing. The white fur was peppered with red spots as well that seemed to dance as he jumped. Sheldon moved closer slowly while looking around, with Zoe right beside him.They each looked at the woods around them and the ground they traversed. As they crept forward they continued calling Jokko who continued his happy antics in the white circle. Finally upon broaching the edge of the light Sheldon looked at Zoe, “Shall we?” Zoe nodded, “together okay? Do a countdown, just in case, I want us to be together.” Sheldon started, “1…2…3…” At three they both stepped into the circle and were suddenly transported. Blinking they took in the artificial light and the gray metal walls. A thin humming could be felt under their feet. Jokko was nearby barking lightly and circling a tall woman. She was wearing gray pants with pockets and a white button shirt, her long blond hair was pulled back with a gray ribbon. Looking at her and then each other Sheldon and Zoe whispered, “mom?”, together. Her laughter made the crinkles around her eyes scrunch up, “still in twin sync I see! I am so glad you two made it!” A slender boy slid in behind her and tugged at her elbow. Glancing back her smile grew broader, “Sheldon and Zoe, you remember Wesley?” The twins nodded and Zoe flew over to him and hugged him tightly. Wesley struggled a little and then gave in to the warm embrace. “What is this place? Are we dead? Why didn’t you ever come back?”, the questions tumbled over each other as Sheldon looked around the strange place. “This place is only available to the courageous. You were courageous to risk the woods, most people don’t. You were courageous to pass by ‘eternal happiness’ offered by the tree sirens, you were courageous to pass up basic needs to accomplish your quest. Finally, you were courageous enough to enter the light. This place”, she gestured broadly with her free hand,”is a ship of possibilities for only the courageous. She was holding a rectangular object with light words on it. “What is that?”, Zoe asked pointing to the object her mother was holding. “It’s a PTS, a portable tech screen, it helps us get work done on the go.”, with that she tapped a few things on the screen, “follow me kids and I’ll get you settled, you can catch up with Wesley. You’ll have to give him a little bit of time, it has been six years and he was only four when he last saw you.” “Wait, mom”, as her mother looked up from her PTS Zoe asked, “can’t we get dad? We know the way now, we can bring him.” “I’m afraid not dear, the way is sometimes different for different people. He has to find his own courage. Otherwise I would have come for all of you long ago. I am sorry.” Both Sheldon and Zoe recognized a few people they had known from town as they followed their mother down the corridor. At one point they walked past a window, stopping for a moment they gazed at stars that seemed to be floating around them, and down below, patches of green and blue. “One last question mom”, Sheldon’s whispered as he pulled away from the window. “I’m sure there will be many more but what is this one?”, she ruffled Wesley’s hair. “Why a circle of light? Was that supposed to mean something?” “It does to some people, the rumor is that it used to be a witches hut but they decided to update it.”, with that she pushed a button and a door slid into the wall, “here you are, the beginning of a new life.” By Stephanie Prahl (Writing as Renee Ferrell) Steffprahl@gmail.com


TW: abuse, gore. The soft glide, the mellifluous grey floss puncturing material of a half embroidered flower. A prick of sharpness diving into tight threads, straining to pass, then breaking through. The journey of the thread, drawn away from the subject in a long hiss until it doubles back to create a quiet symphony. It was the only note that Helena would appease.

   She never used to be so solitary. Her house was once filled with artifacts, parties, and guests that would make Queen Victoria blush. Extravagance filled the library and parlor, painted in Scheele’s green. The drawing-room was wrapped in a deep burgundy of textured wallpaper, keeping all the noise inside as it ricocheted from room to room, echoing down the halls. She would laugh and gleam, misguided, young, and in love. He was a boisterous man, full of life and wealth. Lucky , she thought, lucky that he chose me .    Another prick, another pull, creating a dainty flower of the same grey shade. 		Helena’s mind reeled.

Oh, Joshua .

Once their lives were vibrant, colossal. Now it remained insipid and ashen in her mouth. It was never sunny anymore, any golden rays, vanished upon the water's edge. No shine to caress the pellucid windows of this old, silent house. Only space and silence, for which she was endlessly grateful.

Joshua was a kind man, brimming with affection toward his bride. All Helena had to do was merely suggest and he would reward her with every desire. They spent long summer days, walking beside the beach, romanticizing the rest of their lives together. They planned parties, elaborate dinners, family gatherings, and a family of their own one day. The entertainment ensued but Helena never became the mother Joshua always yearned for her to be. Nor he, the father. Their conversations never stopped, only shifted from light to a dull and lifeless pale yellow. Helena threaded another colorless floss on her needle.

Money began to attempt to fill the void that a child might have. The couple poured every decadence into masquerade balls, elaborate dinner parties, and their own home by the sea. The only thing Helena requested to keep was her Scheele’s green parlor. Conversations with Joshua became trenchant. The incessant deblaterating about politics, money and the lack of family became nauseating. At first, Helena would try to be patient with her passionate and deafening husband, occasionally nodding to his excitement of ideas. Sometimes she would offer a polite and weak smile at his passions until she was exhausted by the folly of it. Joshua became broken, pieces of him strewn about in the house. Parties became increasingly smaller as money ran dry. He wrapped the past around his palms like a life raft, inviting some neighbors from time to time for tea and brandy. Those neighbors talked . They spoke of hysterics, compared notes about their wives. Wives spoke to their servants and gossip was rife in their home. It became unendurable.

“Helena could not give her husband a child and now, she won’t give him the small courtesy of a word!”

“Oh, how melancholic she is! Her husband fauns at her every request. How could she be so ungrateful?” Helena writhed. Her isolation grew and she took up textiles. She began with embroidery as a way to help ease her mind. She tried her hand at knitting and crocheting. Sometimes she sewed but she loved the art of embroidery the most, feeling safe with thick skeins and floss in her hands and her Scheele's green on the walls. Vibrant color on the edge of mint and dandelion. A green that was alive, demanding to be seen. Although the paint was chipping, Helena refused to paint over it. She never minded, it was part of a pact she made with the ocean long ago when she picked this place for her own. She often left the windows open, letting the sounds leave so that they were never stuck inside to harm her.

She struggled to pull another thread through, almost ripping the weathered material as it strained against the floss as it pulled. A grunt followed by a pregnant pause before she continued. Her flowers were truly taking shape.

After years of silence, Joshua decided a change was needed. He ordered a carriage and asked that Helena purchase all the skeins and floss she desired. Her face stoic, she complied. Her stomach was already bubbling with anticipation to get back to her quiet abode. She loathed being in public with those… prattlers. Several hours proved useful when Helena found colors that appeased her tastes. A sooty grey, with silvery flecks that caught one's eye if you turned it ever so slightly against the light, a red, deeper than blood, and an amber. She clutched them like a newborn babe.

When the carriage arrived, Helena felt her stomach drop and boiling heat rise up around her collar and neck. Her arms stiffened, the floss digging into her palms as she stepped into her favorite room. Her green, her comfort, her solace were peeled away. Gone. Left in its place was a mummers brown, textured and sluggish. Helena could barely stand, her knees bent slightly, her supplies strewn on the hardwood floor. A sound that hasn’t been released from Helena in a decade fell from parted lips, skewed and twisted in horror and rage as Joshua- sweet, maudlin Joshua- approached his adored wife.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Helena’s throat strained and pulsed as it released another sharp cry, an animal being tortured. She lept at him, contorting and scratching until it was all black and the sounds stopped jouncing off the walls.

Helena pulled the last bit of stitching through and tied off the end. She stood back, drinking in her masterpiece as she grinned. For the first time in a decade, her smile traveled up from her shoulders, up to her eyes, crinkling her nose in childlike glee. Joshua sat, struggling through his bonds, covered in blood. Delicate embroidery of dandelions and lambs ear upon the lines of his mouth, woven shut. His face was wet with blood and tears as he strained to speak, muffled by filagree. His tongue writhed wildly at his closed lips, his teeth, and upon the roof of his mouth. His throat worked hard to scream but it was guttural and choked. He already knew his attempts were futile. As he looked upon his wife of twelve years, her smile splayed upon her pale and withered face as two large knitting needles jutted out from each ear, blood pooling where her corset met her breasts. The taste in her mouth matched her husband’s, now. Ashen. Helena cachinnated, hugging herself, wild with the sound of silence.

Lucky, she thought. Lucky that he chose me.


        The extra room was really unnecessary when Darren accepted the lease. He lived alone and far enough away that no one from back home would come to visit often- if at all. Still, though, he liked the idea of a two-bedroom place. Maybe he could turn the spare space into a writing office and art studio. Maybe it would be empty for a year.        Darren decided to bring a small desk with a humble chair into the room by the window that overlooked the small lake backdropped by the tiny square of woods that people enjoyed to pretend were enough nature despite the mountains being ten minutes down the road. Nevertheless, the faint sounds of children playing war and adults enjoying the wildflowers and trees would hopefully inspire him. That room would be the most monumental setting of his young adult life.        In this plain room, a cookie-cutter lookalike of everything else in the apartment complex is where January would bring a newfound inspiration for the novel that had entered a continuous cycle of writing, rewriting, and being forgotten about. The words flowed for his mind, through the fingertips, to the page on the screen before Darren would have a chance to notice that headway was being achieved. Fully-fleshed characters with vivid scenes and coherent storyline developed perfectly.        February delivered a hidden talent for painting. Using the woods and water as an idea, the room became filled with watercolor images of friends fishing together, hopeful to bring a prize bass out from under the surface to brag about; lovers clutching each other tightly in the snow as others glided gracefully across the ice on figure skates; and colorful depictions of deer and foxes running through the trees to find food and shelter for the night before the sun would rise and bring new priorities for sustenance and shelter. Friends would compliment the paintings and a few collectors even bought some works.        The first draft of the novel was finished in mid-March. Almost exactly at the halfway point in the odd-numbered month. A heartwarming tale of two high schoolers stumbling into a world of magic and wonder by accidentally moving a loose brick in an old mansion. The two friends were the catalyst to a great war between good and evil with fleshed-out god and devil leaders who commanded their armies. The novel was written through the eyes of a woman who had been a child when the war happened and was writing as a memoir with historic facts about how the Heroes of Wonderia (as they became known) had gone from ordinary children to epic heroes. The novel was given the title

The Walled World  as a hint to how the story would be tipped off.        The first calls from the publishing houses came in late April after the rework on the book had gone as smoothly as the actual writing. A dear friend and (secret) potential lover would give free editing advice after being emailed a copy of the five hundred seventy-three-page tale. She helped him with grammatical errors and character inadequacies with criticism on how to make the exciting scenes more fun to read, the book would be an even six hundred pages after her help. Darren landed on the company that offered the most money for a first-time author and his paintings became solely based on his world of Wonderia. Those works would eventually be released as mass-produced copies in a book for the hardcore fans to get more of a fix before the follow-up was released.        May came with a sudden lapse of joy. After four straight months of goodness, Darren would get a call while he was dusting the surfaces. By then, the room had become crammed with bookshelves over packed with science fiction, horror, and fantasy works, completed and in-process paintings piled high in a corner, and a few plants that helped bring some life into the area. His uncle had died after a four-year battle with blood cancer. That night, the walls and carpeting silently cradled Darren’s mourning body as a large bottle of cheap whiskey was drained down his tight throat.        The process of heartbroken alcoholism would continue as the room sat empty for two weeks in June when Darren would fly home to attend the funeral. This rekindled a flame with the friend who had edited his book. Dinner and a walk in the park exposed years of hidden love and plans for her to visit soon.        July would see the spare room being cleaned of a collection of empty wine, beer, and liquor bottles with dried blood and vomit stains removed from the walls. Vacuuming and dusting would also take place just about every day in anticipation of Darren’s new girlfriend and old best friend, Kiara’s, visit. A few paintings that would go in the Wonderia art collection were finished in here and sent off to the publisher’s headquarters.        Kiara came to visit in August. If the walls of this room had eyes, it would have silently viewed the two painting cutesy images of favorite book scenes and imaginative date ideas completed to old love songs playing on a ten-year-old speaker. It would have also have witnessed long kisses and playful touching before the sounds of pure romance echoed from all about the apartment. In this room, Darren had truly realized what true happiness felt like.        In September, the return to school and cooling meant fewer people gallivanting around the lake outside. No more hearing children scream loudly as their parents watched from a blanket on the grass. The birds no longer floated around the surface as they began their journeys to warmer places until next April. This month was instead reserved for long phone calls to Kiara and the book publishers, who were planning a tour for Darren to take around the country to make his name and title more well-known.        The soft, cold breezes and crumbling leaves of October brought cinnamon scents and spooky decorations into the room. Darren would write ghost stories to supplement the book income and paint scenes that depicted haunted houses and cackling jack-o-lanterns. Warm tea and candy also became a regular consumption for this month as nightly horror movies were watched in darkened excitement. Kiara also visited again this month for Halloween activities and horror story aid.        Thanksgiving became a big priority in November. This is also when the inanimate space of the office would learn that Darren would not be renewing his lease. The far-away girlfriend and the six-month tour in the first half of the year to advertise the book would mean another year at the apartment would be exchanged for hotel rooms and moving in with Kiara. The room would have experienced emotions of sadness or sorrow, but being unliving would just sit as if nothing happened. The smell of turkey filled the apartment and the room as Kiara aided Darren in cooking a meal way too large for just two young people to consume themselves.        December brought snow and gift wrapping. Little boxes in colorful paper with the names of various friends and relatives scribbled on them piled high. A couple more stories were written in the holiday spirit to cash in on the feeling of nostalgia for holidays passed. The most memorable gift that would be brought into this room was a little ring studded with diamonds and the words “Forever my love” etched in the metal that Darren would use to propose to Kiara. She would say yes, forever solidifying their love for one another. Darren would enter the room one last time on December thirty-first to bring the last bit of packed boxes out to the truck that would deliver his belongings to Kiara’s front porch.        The room said nothing. Darren would never stop to think that one room could bring so much in just a year for him. Who remembers a room? Soon enough, the small space used as an office would see new residents, some staying for a year, others staying longer until the complex was eventually torn down and the river covered over and trees cut away a decade later to make room for an expanding neighborhood. Though the room felt no emotions and did not live, if it had, it would have smiled- dying with the fond and sad memories of many past residents.


My fingers trembled against the thin paper that was tightly within my grasp. I unclutched them slowly one by one until my eyes were met with the countless wrinkles that spread throughout the photo like the flu. Today was the most painful day of the year, July 12th. Exactly one year ago today I was in Spain on what was supposed to be the best vacation of my life, with my best friend and lifelong partner, who was taken away from me far too soon. We were swimming in the water, when he suddenly pulled out a dazzling ring from his pocket. I was instantly filled with joy. For four years I had been waiting for him to ask me that special question, and finally that dream was becoming a reality. Then for the next few moments everything was perfect. Just as abruptly as the pure joy came, so did the panic that soon arose. A round of gun shots fired in the distance, more than 20 bullets cut through the air. Screams rang like church bells as commotion broke out throughout the entire beach.

I was one of the many frantic people who ran left and right without a sense of direction. However, I wish I could have reacted better to the situation, calmed my mind, and took action like Nathan did. What if I reacted faster would that have saved Nathan’s life? Constantly I get lost within my thoughts believing that his life could have been saved by a simple arm tug, or reassurance that help was on the way for the others. This common thought haunts me and I find myself time and time again, going through various scenarios in my head, about what could have been done differently. I’ve never been caught dwelling in the past but this is a memory I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake.

 I would give anything to switch places with him. He deserves to be here more than me.

He saved a few people's lives that day. It’s selfish of me, but I wish he wouldn’t have saved those lives, I know it was the right thing to do, but if he hadn’t he would probably still be alive. Leaving Spain was like leaving the old me behind. 2019 met me with devastating problems to face, like keeping up with the cost of our home, maintaining a good work schedule, and taking care of my mental needs. Therefore, the new me wasn't as bubbly, outgoing, and optimistic as the first. Losing someone in a terrorist attack isn't something that you can just sleep on, it rattles your soul. I saved all the money I had for keeping up with our home. It was Nathan’s parents place, and he loved it so much, so I didn't get the proper therapy I needed. My friends told me I should really consider moving out as living in my deceased partner’s home could do more damage than good. Yet, I stayed for Nathan.

I began to feel my palms grow sweaty, as the thin paper stuck to my hand like glue. Panic arose in me just like that day on the beach and the stuffy room didn't make the situation better. Horrifying echoes of zooming fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars clouded my head. I remember being pulled away from Nathan’s cold hands when the paramedics arrived, as my legs left the warm water.

A searing pain grew into my right shoulder as blood from my wound colored the water red. To this day I shutter at the thought of strong ocean waves, due to its resemblance of the heavy currents that covered my head, while help came to my rescue. Taking a walk down memory lane, I travel to the bed and lay on it for one last time. Thinking about it I realize I haven’t slept in this bed since before Spain. It was too painful to even look at, let alone sleep in when I got back from the hospital, so I resorted to sleeping on the couch.

I continued packing up boxes, still clenching the worn photo in my hand. Photo by photo I am reminded of Nathan, as I see a flash of all the memories we had together. I am oddly comforted knowing that maybe Nathan saw a whirl of the good ol days as he blinked for the very last time. For one of the photos I wrapped, I was reminded of my 21st birthday where Nathan and I share a goofy smile, and vibrant pink feathered scarfs tightly fastened around our necks.

Then I walked to the next shelf, taking down one of our more recent photos together. It was a picture of Nathan and I opening the door to our hotel room. I was confused at the time on why he wanted to snap a picture of that moment but he blankly responded “Just because my GIRLFRIEND looks so hot.” I raised an eyebrow but smiled. I now understand the true reason he used the word girlfriend so frequently. Most likely it was to savor the word for the last night before beginning to use Fiancé, but I bet if Nathan was still around he’d say “You were looking hot though!” The night before July 12th, Nathan and I went on a date and talked about our future together. I was actually thinking he was going to propose that night, until the waiter bumped into something and the red wine that was on the tray spilled all over my white dress. At that point I

figured he concluded that it wasn't the right moment to pop the question. Right before the spillage of the wine fiasco the waitress kindly took a picture of us. I glanced down at my sweaty hand to see that moment, as the crumpled little paper was that very photo. It always holds a dear place in my heart as it was in fact the very last photo taken of the two of us. It remains an essential part of my everyday life as it travels from my wallet, to the wall, to the frame, to the shelf, and now to the moving box. I stare at it one more time before putting it away. Curse you July 12th.


Mama was a superstitious woman. She hung the dreamcatcher with the bristling white feathers above her bed, and her wooden bedstands were brimming with opalescent stones brought by mysterious vendors to ward off the pernicious spirits, the entry ways were lined with salt, horse shoes were hung on nails, and in the center of her room was the Hamsa, the evil eye watching over her. Despite all her protective symbols, Mama was never content, she always needed more. Mama loved to say she knew the future, specifically my future. I remember days in my youth, sprawled under the sun-kissed garden, her angelic voice calling me, running through our field of lilies and roses, the chickens cooing and pecking at the floor as I strolled by. Those sweet summer days when the rays of light shone through the full branches really gave mama’s garden an ethereal glow. I saw the sunspots, marks of heaven, across her face, and she would smile at me, but somewhere hidden behind those eyes was always a glimmer of fear. In the night, under the guise of her protective symbols, we sat out in the twilight, and looked up at the stars accompanied in complete harmony with the cricket’s chirping, hidden in the leaves, and the crackling of the wood, the maple burnt scent, and the ash rising upwards. She got deadly serious. I remember the reassuring face vanish. Her face went pale and still, as if she saw a vision. Her eyes went dead, beady, and she spoke with a voice I never heard before. She was visited by a famous seer who lived in the mountains, the hooded man only appeared on rare occasions. He came to see her when she was pregnant, all those years ago. Mama boasted of her talent in the prophetic arts, the celestial bodies spoke to her and she listened. The famous seer laughed at her. Mama could not see the future. She did not know the man she loved would leave his seed with her. She did not know he did not love her. She did not know he would vanish before dawn when he found out. She knew nothing. She must stop her false prophesizing. She was angering the spirits, the nights were growing colder, the winds were growing bolder, dark days were coming, people were disappearing. She needed to stop. In return the seer, who was a kind man duty-bound to the people of the mountains, would give her a vision. This was her reward for her cooperation. Mama smiled and wished for one thing. She wished to see my future. The seer took her to this very spot, he waited for the right moment. While the fire was burning, he pulled out his seer’s bones and scattered them into the fire, the bones hissed and moaned, a teakettle of pressure building until the bones grew dark and grey and Mama got the vision. Her eyes were mesmerized, unmoving, even when the smoke burned her eyes, she kept still, and she wept. I asked Mama what the vision was. She told me, under the light of the fire, my life would be beautiful. It was foretold my life would have purpose and meaning beyond my understanding and that I would be happy. This happened a year ago. Ever since that day, when she told me of the vision, Mama began to change. The next coming days her spine began to curve, her shoulders would bend. Mama would say nothing, but I knew she was afraid. Below her eyes there began to grow blotches of green and purple. I wanted to call the doctor, but Mama said no. Within weeks Mama looked like she had aged years. I noticed clumps of hair fallen on the ground. I do not know if she ripped them out or if they fell on their own. Mama stopped getting out of bed one day. She stopped wanting to move. Her bones became so stiff I could not budge her at all. It was like she was nailed down. Her arms and legs started to grow thin and she would not eat. I brought her soup, but her teeth became so brittle sometimes I found a tooth swimming in the broth. I took care of her. When the nights were cold, I brought her more blankets. When she was hungry I made her food. Mama is growing deathly sick and tired. When she thinks I am not looking I know she has her painful tears because I have to clean them later on. It was a Tuesday. I was twelve years old. The sky was an ominous grey, not the grey of a light rain or a pleasant windy day, but the dark monstrous grey of amassing clouds, the grey of a tumultuous thundering storm. I awoke early that day with the feeling of falling. I felt something was terribly wrong. I went to the kitchen to make mama her green tea. I was heating the water to a boil on the stove, watching the singular bubbles come to the surface, warming my hands over the heat, and I felt something. It was behind me. Something watching me. At first I was scared but it was not there to scare me, it was there to pity me, and I grew sad, and the water began to bubble and the loud hiss came, and I heard a quiet croaking groan. It came from mama’s room. I went to her door and dared to peek in. A chilling cold wind washed over me. I will never forget that chill. The freeze in every bone and joint in my body, tingling from the base of my spine up to my neck. I opened the door and saw Mama there on the bed. She was sitting upright. She had on her all her jewelry, the spellbound stones, the phantasmagoric display of gems and crystals adorned on her neck and arms, the enchanted blanket with the five pointed star, the dreamcatcher stood still, the bed was overflowing with the minerals which were promised to protect her. Mama was dead. She was grey, pale, and still. “When Mama?” I started breathing heavy. I felt a boiling hot surge of anger poured over me, pin-needles poked every inch of my skin, the universe was prodding me. “When will my life be good?” “When mama?” I started to yell “What use was the gems and the crystals?” “Mama?” “ANSWER ME” … And the boy grabbed the mother by shoulders and shook her violently, the jewelry spilled on the floor, the stones cracking under the pressure, and he yelled at his dead mother, and the evil eye, the Hamsa, stood in the center of the room, watching.


I write this now from a hospital bed not far from my hometown. Though I am labeled delirious and force-fed medications whose names I cannot pronounce, do not believe that this testament is anything other than truth. It was two days ago, several miles away from the outer shelf reefs from the coast, when I was aboard a sailboat that drifted seemingly aimlessly over the waves. As the setting sun reflected its vibrant hue on the lapping crests, I, the schooner’s sole passenger leaned against a railing as I stared out across the waters. My name is Howard Phillips, and I was out on this solo sailing journey to find a new clarity in life.            Three days before was my father’s funeral. My relationship with my father was a perplexing one; I looked up to and admired the man but felt like I never really knew him too well. I found myself wondering about the conversations that would never be had, the beers never drank together, the lessons and the stories that would never be taught or told. After the funeral, I had expected to feel some clarity and peace but instead found only distraught and confusion, and I now often wonder about my own life and where it could lead. I was left this small sailboat in the will, and I found it a sign of what to do next, and, without a second thought, put everything else on hold, loaded up the boat, and sailed off into the unknown with the belief that I myself could be known.            Now with the currents pulling me ever outward from land, I treated this as an autopilot for the craft as I stared in a yearning way into the waters below. I watched as I saw a small school of fish swim by. Though I could not identify their breed, I mused at the occasional scaled adventurer who would jump from the water away from their brethren as they tasted the open air and observed a whole new, alien world. I admired these displays and began to wonder if this was some metaphor from the universe I was meant to see – some natural guidance on my own mission for self-discovery.            As I watched the fish surface to dance above the cresting waves, I felt I caught a glimpse of something further ahead in the water. It seemed like two orbs of crimson as if two eyes were staring at me from below. But when I scanned the waters to better see these supposed eyes, they were nowhere to be found. I supposed whatever bigger fish they belonged to had swum away; or, more practically, it was a trick of the light of the setting sun as it distortedly emulated back to me.            I shrugged away from the shimmering vision and turned to face the mast. As I did so, I saw a large onyx storm cloud approaching fast in the distance. I rushed to the wheel yet was too late as the rushing gales moved at a seemingly supernatural speed, enclosing on and whirling the small boat in all directions. As my vessel lurched aggressively to and fro, My only option was to cling to the railing for fear of losing myself to the now crushing waves which hurled against the sides of the sailboat like slapping tentacles of a great Kraken. The schooner broached and was nearly knocked down. As I was raised into the air I looked down at the opposite end of the boat and saw that the mast was nearly parallel to the water. I then peered into what I believed to be the murky depths below – except that, with a flash of thunder, there appeared to be land not far below me. With that quick blaze of light, I witnessed an unending plain of putrid mud amassed with the carcasses of decaying fish and horridly foul, less describable things protruding from the sludge. I thought I would feel relief by knowing there was land not far below should I capsize, but instead an even stronger fear gripped me; a primal fear that whispered in my heart of the unknown horrors hidden beneath the waves, as the unknown, lurking darkness between the spaces of rot and decay beckoned for I to join it in eternity.            I witnessed and experienced all of this and more in that split second in the boat’s rocking, in that short burst of illumination. But now the ship had leveled out and rode the waves on the merciless winds, whose howls in My ears sounded more like mournful ghosts of all the lost sailors who fell to their watery graves in all the histories of man who came before me.            On the horizon, I saw once again those dark crimson orbs from before, though now they rose from the waves instead of hiding beneath them. With churning waters to mark its rise to the surface, the thing slid into view above the dark waters. Those soulless eyes sat as two windows of malice against the face of a towering loathsomeness as it rose to face me. Two monstrous scaly arms rose to cast in my direction.            I turned my face and cowered in a squat huddle against my forlorn vessel, unable to hold my gaze upon the goliath for fear of losing hold of my sanity. With my eyes squeezed shut and my whole self trembling I prayed for release from the leviathan’s wake.            The sailboat lurched again, this time with such force that I was knocked into the air and hurdled into the water. I felt the unsettling sensation of the sludged mire below; the masses of decay and putrid remains pouring over and surrounding me as I sunk deeper into the concoction of fetid slime and rotted scales which cut deep in my skin. I felt it seep into my nostrils and under my eyelids, and the groping carcasses felt like an incalculable sum of vengeful hands gripping me, pulling me deeper and deeper still into my shallow grave. My consciousness faded, and all went into nothingness around me.            That’s when I awoke next in a hospital near the coast. I don’t know how I escaped, or what became of my father’s boat. I only know I was found washed ashore – bruised and littered with abrasions, but I was alive.            As I lay on my hospital bed, with no company but the memory of that nightmarish storm, I realized I had found the clarity for which I had set sail; though it was a clarity I would wish on no one, and wish only that we all could remain in our blissful ignorance of the truth – the truth that, as men, our place in this world is that of mere play things on a board of cosmic proportions for being far beyond mortal comprehension; that the storm that man finds themselves trapped within is at the whims of those who rise from the deep. ((This was a small tribute to one of my favorite authors, H.P. Lovecraft, with heavy inspiration from his short story, "Dagon."))


     As New Year’s Eve approached Wilson felt he had little to look forward to–another boring party with inane gossip, too-loud music and endless repetition of resolutions that everyone knew they wouldn’t keep but that they still invented year after year supposedly “to carry on the tradition,” but, more likely to cut through the annual boredom fest.       A bright spot, however, had emerged three years ago and repeated itself two times since–the appearance of the stunningly beautiful and intelligent blonde lady who engaged several of the party guests in conversation that one actually could rate above the junior high school level in intelligence.

      Wilson, however, must not have travelled in her social orbit, for, despite their annual game of locking eyes across the room, she never seemed interested in approaching him.

He, of course, could have approached her, but he found her appearance extremely intimidating.      Additionally, shortly after the third year’s festivities, three mysterious men dressed in black apparel from head to toe followed Wilson to the area of his apartment. The men never closed to more than a block of him, but they still seemed very interested in his every movement. Also, for a good half hour after he entered his apartment they stood on the sidewalk in front of his building staring up at his living room window.       He could not, of course, directly link the fact that the “men in black” seemed to pop up and suddenly follow him to the apparition of the blonde bombshell, but the timing seemed much more than just coincidental.       Finally, Wilson could take the suspense no more. Although by nature extremely faint of heart, he decided to swallow his fears and confront the trio.      However, when he got within a couple of feet of the men, one of them raised what looked like a .357 magnum and aimed it in his direction.

Luckily, Wilson took shelter behind a parked car and the “bullet” only grazed his head.      “Wait, who are you and why are you shooting at me?” he shouted.      “The annual party you have attended is open only to a very exclusive guest list,” the apparent leader of the group yelled back. “Those who approach our female colleague must either be a member of her team or

one of our enemies. We cannot tell you more until you come with us.

        “Should you decide to turn down our kind invitation and appear at our annual meeting next year, at that appearance you will be finished. It will do you no good consulting any authorities because we have spies at every level. Their instructions are to eliminate anyone who interferes with our mission.”      The statement peaked Wilson’s curiosity while at the same time putting his sense of self-preservation on high alert.       He approached the men, thinking that they would stick to their word, fill in the details of their mysterious mission and, perhaps, reunite him with their stunningly beautiful and intelligent leader.      The trio then grabbed him, tied him up, blindfolded him and threw him into the back of a windowless van, which then sped away down the street and onto what sounded to Wilson like a major multi-lane highway.      After driving around for what Wilson estimated at about an hour, the van stopped in front of a rundown motel and dragged him up to the second floor before throwing him onto the bed and removing his blindfold and the ropes that bound him.      Standing in front of him in a skin-tight leather outfit was the beautiful blonde from the annual New Year’s Eve parties.      “I have done nothing wrong or illegal,” Wilson shouted. “Why did you and your henchmen bring me here? What do you hope to accomplish by kidnapping an ordinary software salesman and roughing him up like this?”      “Enough of this insolence,” the blonde replied.

“I am Zelda, mistress of the silver global kingdom. Your so-called fulltime occupation is of no interest to us.

Your value to us lies in the second life you have lived for at least the last three years, if not longer.

You have information we need and we intend to extract it from you–either the easy way or the hard way.”       “I have nothing that you possibly could want,” Wilson replied, “unless you need software to upgrade your computer system or want to learn new techniques for hacking into the systems of a rival gang. In either of those cases, I can probably make you a very reasonable offer.”       “You have absolutely nothing with which to bargain,” the blonde shouted. “We have all the chips on our side, and, if you do not follow our rules it will result in the endgame for you.

Now, completely outline your strategy and tell us what we need to know to accomplish all our objectives.”        “Okay, you win,” Wilson said. “Have your men take me back out to their van and I will lead them to the place that contains all the answers that you seek.”       The three mysterious men then roughly loaded their captive back into the van.

They rode around for about three hours along many darkened local streets and back onto a major highway before entering the parking lot of one of the most gaudy looking buildings they had ever seen. The building looked to them like an oversized pinball machine.        Wilson opened the door to the building by activating what looked like a giant pinball machine flipper with an app on his Smartphone.       To the surprise of the three henchmen, however, from four sidedoors in the weird building emerged four robotic creatures wielding huge paintball guns.

      “Don’t underestimate the firepower of their guns,” Wilson shouted. “They can wipe you all out with one squeeze of their triggers.”        With that the robotic creatures led each of the henchmen into what looked like a convoluted section of a pinball machine.

Then Wilson pushed a button on his Smartphone and each of the three men was forced along a path until they stood before a huge sign reading “Game controller champ–one million points.”        Then the entire “pinball machine” lit up and Wilson and his captors and supporters found themselves standing on a huge, glitzy stage.        From another side door a larger robotic creature led the blonde bombshell, now blindfolded and tied up, to the center of the stage.       A man who looked like a 1960s gameshow host then appeared in the center of the stage.

He presented Wilson with a gold trophy and announced, “You have won the New Year’s Eve Paintball-Pinball Competition and the prize of $1 million.”      He ordered one of his men to free Zelda and declared, “for three years, Zelda and her team have put up a valiant fight. They have come in second and they have earned the second-placed prize of $500,000.”       The curtain then closed on the presentation as “Auld Lang Syne” blared from speakers on the sides of the stage.


Many time cycles in a different notion of our galaxy, Gitfangula was born. Wait, that really is not fair. How could I possibly begin the story of those two that way? In the celestial voids of Marnus and Minuous, there was a plan (oh, yes, that’s much better). In the minds of the elders of those sacred spaces, there was an urgent need to create a place where their thoughts could meander and grow without causing too much of a headache. At first, this idea, like all great ideas, was considered controversial and silly, so no more was said about it, until one day when one elder made the terrible mistake of using more than the mindlinks they had developed over the centuries. Instead, he did something that many thought to be impossible in such a gaseous and insubstantial region. He actually made a sound. There were rumours that such things could be done with their physical presences, but this had been strictly forbidden since the Poor Times. There had been so much conflict and pain that it had been decided that everyone should just shut up…and keep their thoughts to themselves. And it worked. And then it did not work. Rumours flew fast and hard between the different mindlinks that something from the past had invaded the present. The idea that someone would actually forget how peace was created seemed so ridiculous that they had to laugh in Marnus while many other guffawed in Minuous. No, this was not the truth. But there were others who did believe it could have actually happened. An elder who had not spent much time crossing through the different nebula and quasars out in his dull part of the universe knew that sound was a very powerful quantity. Without giving the creator a name, he had to trace back through the mental messaging and thought patterns of all the other elders until it was clear who it was that spoke (even the word sounded unusual). And then he responded. It is very rare for someone to receive a psychic punch. The last recorded episode occurred in the history of the elders when they were still vocal. But this was something quite planned and difficult to make real. But it worked. It worked very well. Soon, the victim once again became vocal, cursing his state in the only way he knew how with the only word that he knew: “Gitfangula!” There are many theories as to how or why the word existed. Some believe that it was the name of the elder who decided to punch out the other near the Marnus border; others believe that it was a particular patch of nebula near the Minuous territory; either way, it was the first word spoken out loud in a generation and it was shared with every elder who was connected to the Great Consciousness*. *[Oh, the Great Consciousness was not spoken of during the Silent Era. It was a term that only existed when certain members of Gitfangula tried to understand their origins. Many terms were first put forward and tried: the Mental Meandering, the Unspoken Speakables, even the Hard-to-Say-It-with-Just-One-Phrase Spot. It was certainly less of a mouthful than these others; it was much more useful when people knew what a mouthful was.] And then things proceeded very quickly. The first timegates opened up in the dust and heat of the elders’ once sacred place, allowing life that was still quite primitive and raw to grow. With time, there came moments. With moments, there came incidents. With incidents, there came remembering. Now, there are many in Gitfangula who believe that this was truly a worse moment in their history than the first sound. Despite their deep respect and awe for The Great Consciousness, they often felt that things would have been easier without sounds, timegates, or even their fabulous market, Tectonia. Maybe there would have been less wars, less problems, fewer batarchs attempting to rip out their guts if they travelled through the wrong gate. But that is all speculation. What is past is past. Until…well, the arrival of those two. Their parental entities were so proud when their birthing chambers announced the arrival of the entities that would be known psychically as Gork and Slarb. Arriving within the same time frame, the announcement on the mental feed was loud and spontaneous: “Hear me, oh citizens of Gitfangula! The arrival of two noble births has taken place, and I am sure that all Gitfangs are proud to share in this moment of great importance. Let us celebrate!” A wild intercranial cheer went out as the new life forms grew and accumulated all the necessary knowledge needed to become citizens. Their parental units did expect something like this and had stored plenty of food units and other goodies to revel in their good fortune.* * [One more note: both Gork and Slarb, with different parental units, were what could be considered the high nobility of Gitfangula, with entities in their past linked to the first sound, the founding of Tectonia, and the establishment of controls over the timegates; they even had one named after them. This does matter.] It was a propitious start to their careers. Both Gork and Slarb attended their education sensorials on the same dates; both Gork and Slarb used the same timegates when their parental units – okay, families – made trips to other realms for education and restorative reasons; both Gork and Slarb made long trips to Techtonia to buy things, gossip about other dimensions, and boast about all the batarchs they were going to hunt and fight. But they never met. It was only by accident that they became a duo that the citizens of Gitfangula would detest, hate, love and finally admire. It was a neural newsflash that no one could have ignored. “Citizens of Gitfangula, we are under attack!” Both Gork and Slarb felt the fear on the neural network, and they were themselves also a little scared by the news. “We have a new enemy on our borders and they wish to use the timegates to invade and destroy what we have created! We need to watch these portals and make sure that there are no alien entities among us. Who will join us in this great battle?” The psychic roar was above what anyone expected – a few days would be needed for a complete recovery – and the citizens of Gitfangula prepared themselves for battle. And Gork and Slarb? They both looked for a ship. Now, there is some debate whether it was outright cowardice or strong practicality that led them to the outer edge of Tectonia. That was where the newest and best vehicles for time jumps and the like. The owner, a large entity who refused to vocalize his name – it was Dode, so you can understand why – wanted to clear out his lot before the worst of the coming war touched his business. Seeing that Gork and Slarb had both arrived at the exact moment that the announcement was made, he felt overjoyed at his luck. “And to what do I owe this shared honour?” Gork saw Slarb; Slarb saw Gork. They both saw the vehicle. “We want the Nectar!” Many moments later, they would debate about who first said that they both wanted the car, but for Dode, it was a sale, and he refused to confirm anything for any of his customers (not good for repeat business, even in the case of war). So, Gork met Slarb. And then they met the Nectar. When they pooled their credits, they found that they had exactly the right amount to purchase it (an equal split between the both of them). And Dode knew that he was done for the day. Gork and Slarb did a simple tour of the inner consoles, rest chambers and the power sources and fell deeply, totally, and cripplingly in love. “We are not fighting any invaders, are we?” “No, we certainly will not.” Again, there was a debate after events about who began the conversation – it was on the psychic feed – and who drove into the timegate. But most of the discussion ended when the citizens of Gitfangula realized that the war was over. The Nectar, as it passed into the nearest gate, collided with the invading army, killing the entire armada and making their deaths vivid and clear through the neural connections all Gitfangulans could access. The fact that the invading army was small enough to be crushed and burnt to death by one of the exhaust ports on their ship was not discussed. Celebrations were long, psychic and vivid; from Marnus to Minuous, the leaders heaped praise on the families of Gork and Slarb; the Nectar became their favourite ride; and the timegates were considered safe and reliable. Gitfangula was now known as a tough, stable and important port of call for travelers, all thanks to an accident of both combustion and dumb luck. And Gork and Slarb would continue to have many adventures together. And those tales will be told on another day…


(Trigger warning: this story contains brief implications of negative mental health as well as physical violence and implications of death) What you shall read is the account of the last conciseness known to man, it is a single tale of many that we warn reading this page is a danger to you, as it could affect more than just your mere mind but the outer world as well. Please recite this passage shall things unravel, as it will be your own common foothold to our plane. Anything that you see is but its perception forming in your mind, if this continues destroy this page and anything found within the contents you found it with.

Time is an unraveling consistency, it goes up and down, yet never to its side, forward but never back. That is why a mere moment was all that mattered, I watch the back of my mind now to the day's events that had led me to within the end. My life was a boring and normal detachment, walked through my home day by day, worked my job, got sick, felt hungry, it was a mess. However, it was mine and mine alone.

Today, however, began with a ping of pain, no memory of it before that moment. I sat up in bed, my head pounding as I stood up to get ready for the day. I peeked down at my phone, my hand shaking gently as I read my messages. No work today, a sad day indeed for my life. It was closed for some big event, a thing I had no mind for. I slumped up, feeling my body ache and shiver. I lurched outside my room, moving through my home toward the restroom. I slipped in and dug for some medicine and downed them, the pain in my throat was intense, as my body shoved on to the front room. The window curtains dragged on the edge of the windowsill; my things strewn in the dawn light as they were pulled further by my hands. Letting in the bright morning orange light, it was a chilly morning, and the small light did extraordinarily little to warm my soul. It felt like a deep fog filled my heart and soul.

I shambled towards my couch, hoping to lie down for a moment more before life could continue, to give my body a moment to process the illness and my meds to start. However, a knock approached my door making me groan and whine as I slumped up. I cracked the door open enough to see, but no one stood at my door. Nothing but a simple pamphlet on a large worn-down book מוקפל etched deep into its leathery cover. I pulled it from the ground with the pamphlet, it showed a large circle of light with the words Eclipse! The wonders of our world! Experience it today! Written in a bright and colorful text, showing a picture of glasses that came with the pamphlet. I carried the two in and set them both on the coffee table, confused as I flicked on the lamp to read them both further. The pamphlet felt fresh and clean, while the book felt ancient, rugged, and leathery, ripped, and torn apart at the edges of the bindings. I slid down to the couch, flipping open the first few pages but they were alien to my eyes, only mumbled and as if water had caused the ink to flow across the pages. They even felt still dampened a touch, inky and full of despair.

Each page turned felt less and less dampened, until I finally turned to a single page I could coherently see. An image of a boat, resting on the shores of an unknown beach. The section of the book at first felt unreadable, but as I started, I understood the text’s meaning the tale of the eclipsed, underneath a name was written. No, not simply written but carved into the parchment. Francis Drake, the name rang familiar but I am not sure from where I had heard it.

I pulled back the pages, attempting to read the worn-down text. It was alien to my eyes, but a single passage unveiled itself to me. A single paragraph written in an old English handwriting,

My Dearest Elizabeth,

I am glad to hear you are doing well, my journey to Panama was a failure. We encountered blow after blow during our assault. In truth it was foolish of us to face them in our ill state, plague runs rampant on our ship. Many men have fallen ill, and I fear I shall be next. I wish to warn you of a damaging issue I have encountered on this journey. During our voyage to Panama the men had awoken me from my slumber to inform me of a ship off the starboard, we sent a man to the ship and uncovered nothing other than several corpses. These however felt wrong, many of the bodies were charred black with no signs of burning surrounding the corpse. No ash or soot anywhere despite the slightly rough waters we found ourselves in. The men then found the captain, he was miraculously alive, but his body was pale, he refused to eat or drink a thing. The men brought him aboard and found he brought a single item with him. I have sent it with a merchant ship headed for our homeland. This letter shall hopefully reach you safely with the package as well. I may not return home to you, but please understand my care for you.

I held the single page in my hands, reading it repeatedly. Many thoughts ran through my head, my head hurt worse. My body felt gross, my chest felt heavy, and my mind hurt. I stood, pushing myself towards the doorway. I needed air, something other than my stuffy apartment. I forced my door open, a loud and freakish SNAP. The door handle had been ripped off with ease, holding its barren and splintered self within my hand, The door’s hinges being bent in an off direction. I shook and took deeper breathes. My hands quaked and my legs wobbled as I felt my head getting lighter, the light outside to great and blinding me.

Then it went silent, Nothing but the barren depths of myself and the emptiness around me. I reached my hand out to the void and felt a strange sensation in my hands. As if they were being held, it was calming. My breath steadied as I looked around. Before a single speck of light filled my eye. It showed as a small ring, I began my approach. Breathing heavier and slowly the light grew and grew until it was blinding. The hands release me, before I woke.

My back was in pain, I felt blood from my back. I gripped the ground, feeling cuts and bruises on my hands. I didn’t know where I was, but as I sat up. I heard a deep bellowing noise, as if it was trying to get my attention. Nothing rang clear from it, but I felt a pull. I felt a guiding hand of this invisible force guiding me. I couldn’t move my legs; they were barely functioning as I dragged myself further along. I began to see clearer; I was still at my complex just further down the building. Having gone from my 3rd floor apartment, down into the windshield of a car. Glass and metal filled my back, my mind cleared more as I finally heard the honking of the car’s horn. Voices of people coming from their homes as I began to panic. My drive pushed me further as I felt a hand touch my back. It was nothing like normal, numbing and shivering I forced my legs to life. I forced my body to move further and further, my head no longer pounded but my heartbeat like a drum.

Every force in my body pushed me further as I reached the stairwell. The void filled in and out of the world around me, as I saw glimpses of small, encircled light. Voices of inhuman things spoke, as I pressed myself up the flights of stairs back to my apartment. Each push throbbing through my body before I finally felt a pain pierce my hand. My broken door digging into my hand, but it was nothing. Only a moment of pain before I reentered my home, the book no longer on the table I left it, it sat open below my feet soaking pages as a single word written in black spattered ink. Eclipse, it felt like a calling as I picked up the book. A single voice echoed in my mind.

Forgive the mind, Find the time, view my brilliance, once per time, Find the courage, and remain in line.

It was odd, not familiar to me. I pulled my damaged door as shut as I could, collapsing into a pool of my sweat and blood. I reached behind my back and gripped a shard of metal and pulled. My heartbeat from the fear, but no pain ever came. Nothing but the sense of relief, each piece pulled, was another wave of relief, from my hands, my back, even a few shards in my head. It felt like relief, not pain, not pleasure, simply relief. I stood and thought on what powers that I possess. As I looked out my window, I saw the few people of my complex discussing the events that occurred. I felt another pull, another drive as I pushed myself to my room. Grabbing a backpack and stuffing the book into it. The book glowing a barely noticeable orange hue, I glanced to my table, the glasses and pamphlet still left unopened and untouched. My head hurt as I looked, I knew what came next.

I grabbed the pamphlet and glasses, rushing from my home and flipping through it. Reading each piece as the people of my complex gathered more and began to point to my home. My body shook, my head hurt more as I ran to the back exit of the complex and snuck to the side streets. Nothing caught my eye from the pages, things about how the event occurs, some old history on people who worshipped the events, and then I read it.

“Experience the wonder today! Follow our times here!” Below a chart of many areas covered by the eclipsed with timeframes. My area was listed for an exact strike at 3 p.m. My head hurt further, as I looked towards the sky. The sky clear, and my mind hazy. I looked down, and grabbed my pocket, my phone was gone and left behind at the scene. I shuffled towards the main streets and looked in a mental blur as I finally focused myself onto a tech store. I stared at the glass pane and felt a pang of pain. The voice echoed again.

“ The Time, we must make the time, follow.” It spoke and pushed my soul, Dragging my feet into the store. A man approached me, his voice blurred in my mind as he seemed panicked, trying to set me down. I could not, I would not sit. I shoved him aside, his body collapsing against the chairs as I grabbed a phone. Giving it a gentle tug as its stand snapped apart. I looked down at it, 2:07 pm. Less than an hour left, I turned back towards the doorway. I saw a flash of red and then a flash of blue. A white and red truck, as well as a set of black cars parked outside the storefront. I stepped further, before the world crumbled around me, the void filling my body as I felt once again at ease. In this void, many more specs of glowing orange rings filled it. Muffled crowds of voices filled it, as my mission came clear to me.

I approached further into the specs, and I awoke once more. My chest burned, my hands felt bloody, however it hadn’t come from me. I could only see a single side of everything. I looked down, several blackened masses at my feet. My chest smoking and burning more and more. I knelt down, grabbing from the pile a handful of the burnt soot. I looked about, people screaming, some running, others fainting, I could do nothing but give a gentle grin and laugh.

My feet moved on their own, approaching a single man on the roadside. Lifting him from his place, removing a rag he wore and covering my body with it. Dropping the man to the floor, my head rang and when I turned to look, he was gone. All that remained was the tatters of his clothes. I moved further; the time ticked down as I glanced. Only a mere 10 minutes remained. My body moved to a crowd that began to form, a small group hoping to view the once in a lifetime event. The bag I wore felt warm, digging, and retrieving the book, my smile grew wider as I placed it onto the ground. Reading the booklet, I could understand every sentence, every single letter was like a calling to me as if guiding me to my purpose.

They echo through my head, a tale of warning. This book should not exist and now I seek freedom. However, I cannot complete the task, I am but a single servant to my great ancestor. It required everything, many people to view its covered eyes, a host such as I to fill the void, one of lonesomeness and deep ill will. The final key comes with the stars themselves. When the time is right all the followers must see his coming.

I read the passage as it finally rang clear to me. I looked to the time, and only a single minute remained for my chance. I had finally understood what the beast asked of me. I gave it my mind so that it could guide me to what this world needed. I needed to see when to do what I must, and now all must witness his glory so that we may all finally be free.

“You awaken yourself my child, you will be an emperor of these poor souls. Be my voice, be my guiding light my dearest child. I know you seek freedom, and I can finally give it all to you. Free them.” The voice spoke, its depth clear. I looked up, staring at the sky. The world darkened around us all. My smile stretched beyond its limits, tearing of flesh as I approached closer to the crowd. I gripped the men, as they screamed, we walked further, grabbing increasingly as they screamed and begged for freedom. I heard the trumpets form as the sun’s glowing essence grouped together. We felt free as the voice spoke to us, we watched as the crowd viewed our immense image. They screamed, but it fell on deaf ears as we watched the sun and moon dance together.

We all smiled, as we became one . We all laughed as they all joined . We were no longer Alone. We were finally Free.


Three of the Carlson siblings were standing in the afternoon sunshine in their mother's backyard.

 "It's hard to believe that Mom is going to move." Chloe, the oldest, was talking to her two brothers.            "Mom's been talking about it ever since Dad died. She said the winters in Ohio are too cold," Cooper replied. Cooper was just one year younger than Chloe.  "I thought she was just talking about moving, that she would live here forever." Caleb was looking around the oversized yard. "Houses built today come with yards the size of postage stamps. You could never play baseball in my backyard as we did here. I'm going to miss this place." Caleb was two years younger than Cooper.            Bang! The back door slammed shut; Chloris, the youngest, came outside. She had a can of soda pop for each sibling. "Let's go up to the treehouse, one last time." Chloris was one year younger than Caleb.            "I haven't been there in years; it might not be safe." Chloe protested. She was always overly cautious.            The treehouse was a shed built on stilts. At that time, the oak tree next to it provided shade. The children would look out the windows and try to grab the branches. The tree was too far for them to reach. Now the oak tree embraced the structure.            "The steps look good; I'll go first." Caleb had always been fearless. The wooden steps were sturdy as he climbed to the top.            Caleb saw a few dried and sticks covering the wooden floor, but otherwise, the treehouse was just as he remembered it. He took a few cautious steps to discover the wooden floor was just as safe as the steps.            "It's safe!" Caleb stuck his head out the window by the door. "Come on up." "We spent many fine hours here," Chloe said as she entered the treehouse. "Chloris, I'm glad you talked us into coming up here."  "We won't have another chance to relive these memories after Mom moves," Chloris told her siblings. "Look! There's my doll." She seized a dust lump that was tucked away in a corner. "I wondered what happened to it." Dust covered plastic face. The once beautiful lavender dress was moth-eaten and covered in dirt. "I spent a lot of time with my dolls up here."            "We planned many adventures when we up here." Caleb was surveying the neighborhood from the east window.

 Cooper joined Caleb to take in the view. "We couldn't see the whole world as we thought, but we had a pretty good view of the neighborhood. Do you remember watching Mrs. Rollins sunbath?"  "She thought no one could see her behind that privacy fence." Caleb laughed.  "Both of you claimed to have a clubhouse meeting every day that summer," Chloe told her brothers.            "Mrs. Rollins just happened to sunbath at the same time as our meetings," Cooper explained.            Chloris took a drink of her soda pop before sharing another memory.  "I used to come up here to write. I think the higher altitude helped my imagination."  "Higher altitude! This treehouse is on stilts, not the top of Mount Everest!" Caleb scoffed at his younger sister.            "Even if the altitude isn't that much different, I still did some of my best work up here. I was sitting right here when I wrote a story for my sophomore English class. I won an award for that story." Chloris said.  "Yes, we all know you won an award. Your ability to make things up is legendary." Cooper teased his sister.  "That's the reason I became a full-time writer," Chloris explained.            "I decided to study architecture because of this treehouse," Chloe added. "I thought it would be advantageous to have a house on stilts if you lived in a floodplain."            "I liked it up here so much that I studied aviation. I love to fly," Cooper said.            "I became an assistant football coach; I don't think the treehouse had anything to do with that career choice." Caleb grew thoughtful before adding, "it's a wonder that none of us went into law enforcement . . . after that night." Caleb brought a memory they all shared.            "I thought we agreed to never talk about it," Chloe chastised.  "Caleb's right to bring it up," Cooper argued. "Mom will be safe when she moves away, so it's finally time to talk about Bernard Jenkins and his mother."            "I guess you're right," Chloe reluctantly agreed. "It's time to stop being afraid."            "I think we can all agree that Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman," Cooper stated.  "Remember when she gave us apples for Halloween? We threw them away as soon as we were out of sight," Caleb said.            "I was too afraid to even a small bite because I didn't want to end up like Sleeping Beauty.

Chloe remembered.            "The fairy tale with the poisoned apples is Snow White , not Sleeping Beauty ." Chloris corrected.  "Whatever. the point is that I didn't want to eat a poisoned apple, and I didn't want any of my siblings to eat a poisoned apple." Chloe replied.            "Why did we even stop at that house?" Caleb asked.            "Mom thought we should be friendly neighbors. She said Mrs. Jenkins spent her entire day in that house with her abnormal son. She didn't know what was wrong with Bernard, but Mrs. Jenkins wouldn't let him leave the house," Chloe remembered. "I think Bernard is a couple of years older than me, that is if he is still alive."  "I don't know if he's alive, but we know that his mother is dead," Caleb spoke their secret out loud.            Cooper got very serious and started telling the story. "It was supposed to be the perfect night to see Mars. All my friends said Mars was closer to Earth than it would be for the next fifty years. I brought my telescope to the treehouse so I could get a good view. I remember looking at all the stars, thinking about how bright they were. I was getting bored with that when Caleb entered the treehouse."  "I started looking around the neighborhood." Caleb picked up the narrative. "First, I looked to see if Mrs. Rollins was in her sunbathing spot; naturally, she wasn't there."            "I came into the treehouse and asked you to check Mrs. Jenkins' apple tree,"  Chloe told her part of the story. "I was sure it would look bizarre because it produced poisonous apples."            "I followed you to the treehouse and saw everyone standing by the window. I pushed Chloe out of the way so I could look." Chloris continued the story. "I saw Bernard carrying his mother outside."

           "I remember you said it was strange for Bernard to come outside in the middle of the night, carrying his mother. I took the telescope from you so I could look for myself. I'll never forget watching Bernard dump his mother into that hole." Cooper shivered at the memory.  "We all watched as Bernard shoveled dirt into that hole," Cooper said. "None of us said it out loud, but I knew she was dead."  Chloe added to the story. "Over the years, I've tried to think of a reasonable explanation. I thought, maybe she died of a heart attack, and Bernard didn't know what to do, so he just buried her. He might have seen someone bury a dead bird or rabbit, so he did the same thing to his mother. I think that might be possible."            "There's a huge problem with that theory." Caleb reminded his siblings.            "Yeah, that note we found nailed to the oak tree is a problem!" Cooper reminded them.            "I'll kill your mother if you tell," Chloris recited. All the siblings remembered the note.            "That's when we vowed never to talk about that night." Chloe said, "We just couldn't take the chance."  "Now, there is a perfectly healthy apple tree growing over Mrs. Jenkins." Cooper was looking out the window towards Bernard Jenkins' backyard.  "Do you think it's safe to tell the authorities what we know? After all, it's been thirty years," Chloe asked.  "I think we should wait for another thirty years," Cooper said.  Caleb pushed Cooper out of the way so he could look, "We should wait. After all, Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman, and I don't think anyone misses her."            Chloe came to the window to look at the Jenkins' yard. "It's been a secret for thirty years; a few more won't hurt."  Chloris finally took her turn at the window. She saw a big sign by the apple tree. "I can find your Mom."            That was all the Carlson children needed to read.