The creaking library doors were the only thing to wake her. Drea had sunk deep into the worn armchair in the stacks. Della had already shook her awake once already and she promised she was making her way to the entrance. Drea stood, and slung her worn messenger bag over her shoulder. She remembered sitting back down to pick up a dropped pen when her favorite Mozart concerto 21 started. She leaned back, got lost in the melody and awoke to the doors closing. Drea’s feet skidded over steps as she raced down the central staircase and across the marble atrium. Too late! She watched the head librarian carefully maneuver her car into the powder soft snow that was falling from the sky.

It was a holiday weekend and there were no security guards tonight. They had cut most of the power to the newer part of the building, opting to route power to the older parts to protect the books. She pulled out her phone, 12%. “Shit! I was only suppose to wait out traffic. Look what time it is,” she growled under her breath. She looked around the barren marble atrium and then back up the stairs. “Conservator Della, probably has a charger in her office. I’ve been there once, it couldn’t be that hard to find,” Drea assured herself. She trudged back up the stairs and headed deeper into the library. Drea knew that if that door was locked, she was screwed. The phones on the first floors were in the locked offices. Her best chance was the Conservator’s office. It was located on the 7th floor, in the restricted section deep within the stacks. Drea cursed to herself. She never wanted to move halfway across the world, but what choice did she have. Her close knit family, stuck together, no matter what. In a year or so when the world went back to normal and they could be around people without masks on, she could finish her graduate degree and finally move away. For now, she travelled with the family. When her father was transferred to the dry dusty country with an ancient history, she took solace in her favorite haven. Libraries.

This particular library was housed in an ancient Citadel. She had become familiar with all the staff and almost all the nooks and crannies. The head librarian, the Conservator her official title, had finally started to trust her and was weeks away from letting her have free rein in the restricted section. She could only pray that the Conservator had a reason to come back this weekend. Shadows followed her as she hurried passed rows of wooden tables topped with green glass lamps. Stacks of books sat at the ends, waiting for librarians to re-shelf. This floor was a study hall of sorts. She looked down at her phone it was going to die before she got to the office. She glanced at the vintage gas lamps on every surface, and thanked the Conservator for her “traditional” tastes. She stopped short as she felt a deep vibration travel through the Citadel. “Oo gurl! Imagining things tonight,” she said aloud but kept going. She cleared the landing and blew past the middle floors, and raced up the last flight. Her sneakers squeaking as her feet flew up the stairs. They screeched as she skidded to a halt in the middle of the last marble atrium.

Before her a pillared wall with a closed double doorway. Drea’s shoulders dropped, the doors appeared to be closed and locked. She hung her head and turned to go back down.

The building shuddered again with another vibration, coming from the room behind her. It almost brought her to her knees, she stumbled and turned back to the doors. The doors were now cracked and a faint humming was coming from the opened doorway.

A magnetic tug pulled at her, and she drifted towards them. The hum didn’t sound human or mechanical but there was something about it. She squared her shoulders and rounded the desk. She didn’t think twice as she headed into the restricted floor. On the other side, she raised her phone high, the circle of light only extending a few feet. In the oldest part of the Citadel, the lighting was still gas, and always on. The stacks here staggered and gradually got taller in the center. Drea stayed on the main walkway, winding through the room, following the deep green carpet. The humming growing louder the deeper she got.

She shook her head and slowed, looking to her right and left, she found the source of the sound. The books where humming. “Wait, what?!” Drea stopped and reached out to the nearest shelf, touching one of the books. She nearly jumped out of her skin, the world shifted and her body reverberated as though it was a gong. Dragging in several deep breaths, she shook her head and stuck her hand out again but stopped just short of pulling a book off the shelf.

“No, I need to find a charger, and call Troy, so he can come and get me. If I ever find a way to call out. Why would these librarians keep all the tech in the offices! So picky when it comes to their precious building and books! Well, I get the books part at least. Humph, ok keep going,…no no no dammit don’t go out,” Drea stuttered as her phone died and the flashlight dimmed. “Shit,” she muttered.

She edged her way to the end of a stack and felt along the top, her fingers brushing the bottom of a brass lamp. “Thank you Della for being so old fashion,” she said and turned back. Any moment she would come upon the doors. Rounding another corner, a wave of vibration hit her square in the chest hard enough to make her stumble. She dropped the lamp and fell to her knees. The lamp went out, plunging her into darkness. She knew up ahead were the doors but the vibrations were coming from the Conservator’s office. She got to her feet to edge to the door. Then the books answered. All around her the books sounded like gongs. The sounds clanged through her head, again bringing her to her knees. The world around her shifted again but she stumbled towards the doors blindly, hands outreached. The books sounded again, calling to whatever was in the office. Drea stumbled and fell right in front of the doors.

The world was reduced to darkness and vibrations. Gongs ringing through her head. She raised her hand to the doors but before she touched it, a wave of vibration rumbled out of the office again, strong enough to knock her flat. Everything went black, vibrations pulling her apart and putting her back together in the span of milliseconds.

Then she was falling. Drea managed to flip herself over and watched as lights raced up to meet her. Her momentum slowed, and then she crashed landed and blacked out. Voices around her cursed and groaned as well. “Ladies falling from the sky? What is going on T.S.? You had better explain yourself and get to getting real quick.” She heard somewhere above her right knee.

Drea cracked her eyes and looked up into a group of men and women, all wearing dark clothing. Not one of them looked alike, nor were the same race, or species. ‘S hit are those pointed ears,’ she thought. Her eyes widened and she glanced around. Only one of them had noticed she had opened her eyes and he watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His dark clothing gave nothing away, but she marked his details before trying to move.

That’s when she realized she was laying on top of someone. The group around her discussed moving both of them, until she squeaked at the sight of the crumpled man beneath her.

“Aye! Now, just who are you and what’s your business here in Imaginary?” Drea looked up sharply and stared for a heartbeat. “What did you say? Where am I?” “I’ll say it again chit, who are ya? Do you know who you are laying atop? Get your arse up! Ham wake up,” A skinny man to her left chirped. Drea jumped to her feet and backed up into yet another large, very hairy man. The skinny one stooped and leaned close to the prone form. Drea tried to inch away but the burly hand clamping her shoulder wouldn’t budge. The man with the wide brimmed hat came closer but said nothing. “Uh, T.S. he’s not coming to. I think he might be fading,” the skinny one said. The crumpled body darkened and then winked out. The group gasped, as it was over in seconds.

The skinny one turned to the hat, “She killed him. You know what this means T.S. you have to answer the code. She takes what’s his and you serve her.” The man they kept calling T.S. turned to her and tipped back his hat. He surveyed her from head to toe and Drea took her first good look at him. He was tall, over six foot, swarthy olive skin, black hair, and his eyes were pools of darkness, with only the whites to mark them. Familiar, but how? He continued to frown at her and then turned to the others. “I don’t know what or who she is but she doesn’t belong here. Take her to the witch and get some answers. Send her back to wherever she comes from and tell no one. NO ONE, do you understand me?” The hat snarled and glanced around. The people around her jumped and looked down or away. Drea continued to search his face but he wouldn’t look at her. “Wait! Do I not get a say here? You can’t just man handle me like this! Who are you, and where am I? At least answer my questions,” Drea demanded. They turned towards her but barely spared her a glance. Another giant men came from behind and they picked her up between them. The hat looked her square in the eye and said, “Do not say a word girl. You are in over your head and a stranger here. You’ve killed a King and ruined any chance we have of restoring Imaginary to its former glory. You are going to Hecate and going back to wherever you came from. Take her, I will catch up,” T.S. growled and turned from her and the men that held her. “But wait! I don’t understand!” Drea struggled to break their hold but couldn’t pull away.

The giant men turned and started to run. They were fast, inhumanly fast, and the world blurred past her. They made several turns before stopping in front of a tall brownstone looking building. The stoop and the stones of the building appeared black with an oily sheen.

They hurried her up the stairs and into a dark hallway. Down the length was an open doorway, glowing brightly with shifting light. The giant men, picked her up and stalked down the hallway to the glowing room.

Inside sat a round covered table and a beautiful young woman, with the eyes of a crone, but the face of a maiden. She was dressed in more scarves than Drea had ever seen, the only visible part of her body, her brown hands and head. Her uncovered hair hung in fat heavy curls down her back, and her violet eyes snapped from face to face before coming to rest on Drea. All around her sat mirrors and bowls of water on every surface. Brackets hung from every available space on the walls and held torches. Keys hung from the ceiling clinking together on the wind of the newcomers. The giants stepped forward but said nothing.

They pushed her forward and she stumbled and caught herself on the table. The young old woman stared at her as she rose and straightened. They surveyed each other and Drea started to open her mouth, when alarms clanged through the buildings around them, bouncing off the walls.

The room went silent and then the young old woman rose and crossed to a window and cracked the shutter. “Hamlet is dead! Our King is no more. His light has been extinguished! Take heed, we could be under attack!” Hecate turned back and raised as delicate black brow and came to stand in front of Drea. The young woman recoiled as the witched reached out and touched her forehead. “GODSDAMN! She’s HUMAN! John! Charming! Out now, go find T.S. and bring him here. Ok girl, just how did you get here and what do you want?”

The witch moved around the small table and started to pull bottles off the wall. Not waiting to uncork them, she threw everything into a shallow bowl and kept moving around the room. Drea watched the items in the bowl crumble and the bowl start to smoke. She coughed as the fumes fill the room, she turned back as the witch approached. “I’m sorry girl, there is no time to explain, but if you have anything to do with the ruckus out there, we have to get you out of here quick like. Ah, T, here you are, close the door,” Hecate glanced at the door as it swung open silently and the man from earlier stepped through. Drea turned and opened her mouth again but he held up his hand. “You are in danger here. None of this is real and we do not exist. We are characters from literature and you are in the world of imagination. The longer you stay, the more you fade on the other side, so we are sending you back. No argument. I am Tally or T.S., as you may have heard,” the swarthy stranger drawled and smiled tightly at Drea. Her stomach flipped over. She knew that smile, she just wasn’t sure how yet. “Ok, so send me back. If you won’t tell me exactly what is going on, or hurt me, then get this over with and send me home,” Drea snarled with all the salt she was feeling. Hecate turned back to Tally and shrugged. T.S., blinked at Drea and then nodded at Hecate, “Do it, Tate.” The witch picked up the bowl and strolled to the nearest full length mirror and threw the bowl at the mirror. Instead of shattering, the bowl went straight through and fell into a void. After a second it lit from the inside and roared with light. Hecate turned to Drea and swept her hand before the mirror. “Tate, there are folks out front,” a gravely voice rumbled through the door. The witch turned towards the door and looked back. “It will stay open for another ten minutes. I suggest you go through and quickly,” Hecate said, nodded and turned to go. Drea watched her and murmured her thanks. Hecate stopped at the door and turned back, “You are welcome Drea Jackson, it was nice to meet a human like you. I wish we could of talked,” she said and left. “Now look here girl, forget what you saw here,” T.S. said and turned towards her. Drea started to make her way around the table. Her foot caught and she tripped on a low stool, but he was there before she started to fall.

Drea gasped as an electrical current passed from him to her. She jerked and fell into T.S. and for a moment they stared. “Hecate said you were human but could it be? I know you, but it isn’t possible,” he whispered and stared down into her eyes.

Drea, lost in his eyes, couldn’t close her mouth. He smelled like mossy sandalwood and every inch of him was hard. Her nostrils flared again and she leaned closer ever so slightly. “Same, but who are you? Why do you smell so good? Maybe if I just……” Drea leaned in, thinking to just get a little closer and drink him in.

More shouting outside made them both jump and pull apart. T.S. coughed and turned her towards the mirror. “Just close your eyes and you will be back,” he whispered. Drea tried to turn to look at him one last time but he turned her again.

He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I do know you, Drea Jackson. You are who gives me life here in Imaginary. You are the reason I don’t fade, and you read my story every year and keep me alive. You also wouldn’t have appeared here to me, if I hadn’t wished for you too.”

Drea tried to turn again but T.S. pushed her through the mirror and she was falling yet again.

She jerked awake to a frowning Conservator Della. “Drea! I’ve already woke you up once! Get your things and walk with me. You know we can’t be in the Citadel after a certain time. The witching hour is almost upon us and weird stuff tends to happen. Come come!” Drea looked from side to side and around the Conservator. She was back. Was that a dream? Where the hell did she go? What in the hell was any of that. Who was T.S., and what did he mean? She was so confused. Della continued to stare at her with her head cocked to the side.

“Ok, I’m sorry Conservator, I had a really strange dream and I’m not sure I’m actually here,” she murmured.

“Of course you are here child, this is the land of Imaginary, isn’t it, all libraries are! Now, come on, let’s get our things and head out!” Della chuckled and clapped. “Wait, what did you just say?”


Secrets are powerful things. They can offer hope, or destroy everything that someone has meticulously built. Everyone has secrets, and we are all fighting to protect this dark private corner of our soul. Hidden details affect every part of our existence, guiding our actions so that we can conceal that which lies in the shadows waiting to condemn. The problem is: what do you do when your secret is revealed?

Does it defer its power to the person who now holds knowledge of your unspoken past?

Does its power fizzle away, and you experience a sense of freedom in knowing that your burden is now being shared by another?

Or do you act out in a rage of carnal violence, intending to destroy the evidence before it destroys you? ___________________________________________ I have hidden my share of secrets, and I have seen the secrets of those around me. It’s the beautiful irony of my life, me, a blind woman who can see secrets. I can’t see anything physical, but I can see into the depths of the soul. I lost my sight in a car accident at the age of 16, coming home from the county fair. On that cruel day, both my parents and my sight were taken from me. Now you are most likely not going to believe this next part, but please just hear me out, okay?

I awoke in the hospital, staring into an inky abyss. I could hear the beeping of the machines, and the sound of people milling in the hallways, but my eyes would not allow me to perceive what my ears were hearing. Black. Just black. Nothing. Beginning to panic, I called out, and began searching with my hands; hoping in some way to orient myself through the sense of touch. My hand collided with that of my best friend Maddie. She was trying to comfort me, but her words were only a muffled noise.

The instant our skin collided my field of vision illuminated; my sight had been restored!

But something was off, Maddie was not her teenage-self, but only a child of seven or eight. She cowers in the corner as the silhouette of a large man blocks out the yellow beams radiating from the hallway sconce. I felt her fear and panic, as his hand raised above his head. I felt the blow as it resonated on her shoulder blade. Then it was gone. I was plunged back into darkness, and I heard Maddie’s voice as she tried to tell me that I was blind. I feel the moisture of tears flowing from my unseeing eyes. Agony and self-pity over the loss of something I had considered owed to me since birth, snatched away in an instant without regard for my emotions or petty desires. We sat in silence for quite some time as I processed my new reality, but there was a bigger question to be answered. If I’m blind, then what just happened? Moreover, I wanted to know if what I had just seen was true, or if it was just the pain meds.

I turned my head towards the direction I assumed she was sitting and explained what I had just seen. Maddie stammered. She had never told anyone about her childhood abuse, so there was no other logical way that I could have known this about her. And until now, Maddie is the only other person who knew about my “talent.” At first, seeing secrets was fun, being 16 and all, secrets were the breath in my lungs. I longed to know people’s dirty laundry and watch it unfold like an episode of cheap reality TV.

My touch had become a seeing-stone of sorts, showing me glimpses of people’s true identities.

I can tell you all about the people who have committed petty crimes, those who are cheating on their spouses, and even all the kids who snuck a cookie before dinner. All I had to do was brush my hand against theirs, and their secrets would replay on a live feed in my mind. It’s been 10 years since the accident, and my ability no longer entertains me as much as it exhausts me. I wear gloves everywhere I go. Seeing is actually my disability. It’s emotionally draining living in the secret shadows of others’ lives. As we age, our secrets develop this deep darkness that can swallow you whole if you allow it. Even though I’m still young, most of the time I just stay home and work in my greenhouse. Plants don’t hold secrets, they are pure light from nature itself. Calm reality unjaded by shame and guilt. Anyways, last week Maddie convinced me that I needed to get out of the house and experience the real world. She chided me, threatening the impending fate of becoming a crazy cat lady if I didn’t get out of my house and have some fun. So, in a moment of pridefulness I donned my gloves, and got out of the house to prove to Maddie that I was still young and alive. The state fair is an odd mixture of smells. There’s the sweetness of fresh funnel cakes, blended with the sharp vinegar of large dill pickles, topped off with the buttery saltiness of popcorn. The music and general rumble of the crowd is overwhelming to my now sensitive hearing. But I throw caution to the wind and allow Maddie to guide me through the obtrusion to my remaining senses, all in the name of good, clean fun. From the sound of the crowd, I can tell that tonight the fair is packed. Maddie guides me to a bench and tells me to have a seat while she purchases us some snacks from the vendor. As I sat waiting for her return, my gloved hand got caught on something sticky on the rail of the bench. I gently removed my gloves and began to try and peel away what I’m pretty sure was gum, from the palm of my right glove. At that moment, a man who reeked of beer stumbled back and his hand collided with mine, and I saw. I saw a woman with blonde hair and green eyes lying on the floor, I saw the fear in her eyes as she pleaded for her life. I saw a man’s right hand plunging a knife into her writhing body, and I saw the jagged scar on his right thumb. I heard him angrily pleading with her “Elizabeth, why did you make me do this?! Why?” I saw him dump her body in the lake, and I felt his present fear that someone would find him out. And just as soon as it had started, I was bombarded again with the sounds of fair, haunted by the violence that I had just witnessed. Maddie saw the man bump into me, and she rushed to my side. But before I could explain what I had seen, the murderer had slipped into the crowd, unaware that he had just committed a crime in my presence. Which is what brings me to you today officer, I feel like I am obligated to share what I have seen with someone. Elizabeth deserves justice, and I am going to do whatever small part I can to help her killer be caught. Maybe she’s a missing person? I can give you her physical description, and I can describe the location at the lake where he dumped her body. I could recognize his voice if I heard it again, and Maddie may be able to provide a basic description of the man. “Yes, this is all very interesting, we definitely can check into what you say you have ‘seen’, and if we have any leads we can follow up with you. I’m unsure of how we can bring forward a blind, eye-witness in court, but we’ll deal with that later. Until then, thank you for your statement, and we will let you know if we find anything. Officer Martinez will escort you out.” I could hear the smile in his voice, he was trying to conceal a chuckle. He thinks I’m insane. No need to worry about being a crazy cat lady, now I’ll just spend the rest of my life in the psych ward. I take off my glove, thinking if I could reach out, touch him, and tell him his own secrets then he might believe me. I’m not going down without a fight. Before I can get up to touch him, I feel another man’s presence beside me. I raise my hand trying to wave him away so I can illuminate his colleague’s mind. Officer Martinez must have mistaken my gesture as a request for assistance, and he reaches down and clasps my hand to help me out of the chair. I recognize his voice as he says, “Let me assist you ma’am,” and as my thumb brushes the jagged scar on his, my vision is ignited by brilliant truth.


Warm, rough hands reached out to Freyja’s, slipping a brass candle holder into her palm. Atop it sat a cream colored candle adorned with etchings of suns, moons and stars on its fresh surface.

“ Prove us wrong.” The voice mulled away into the depth of darkness before Freyja could find the words within herself to respond, or the courage in her limbs to reject the offering. She found her body frozen as still as the trees; the soft candle’s fire could not even thaw her. The dusk that had hugged her body moments before snapped into a deep, black darkness. The gods had willed the sudden-solstice.

With a hard swallow Freyja dragged her gaze from the ground, her eyes as heavy as two anchors. She was without the privilege of sight beyond her hazy circle, yet the boring eyes of villagers stung into her back. All she had to do was remain still and maintain the candle’s luminate offspring until morning.

Her legs steadied as she lowered to the Earth’s surface, her back against an elder pine. Freyja only wished for a simpler way for this night to pass. Sleep was too risky, consciousness was too nerve-wracking. All that was left was to pray. “I do not wish to return yet. I pray thee will encourage this flame. Nurse it to health. Hold this light for longer than its worth.” Freyja’s whispers were nothing short of fervent pleas. With each breath, the flame wavered and flung its heat higher. The night intertwined with rays of light, bending it around the hot drops of melted wax. A plump bead found its way to Freyja’s thumb, burning the soft of her skin. Her body shifted with a jolt of pain, though her hand held the candle upright. Freyja knew that her life depended on this miniature flame.

Once a year, the gods above would toy with their so-called faithful in an attempt to weed out the insincere. The sudden-solstice deemed itself a pleasurable and entertaining means of both revenge and justice. Only those who had succumbed to overzealous desires were placed with the pot and candle. The gods were in agreement that human life is far too joyous without their intermeddling. No one could have everything , after all. Freyja held determination close to her heart, it nearly beating in one. She prayed nearly every day, gave the village children chunks of chocolate and even broke the bars into equal parts. She saw no reasoning in this decision, but there was no room to fight it. Freyja knew she could maintain the candlelight’s strength, and for it she would earn her keep in a simple life she craved to keep mundane. The snow beneath Freyja’s body had melted away, soaking her clothes into an uncomfortable mush of fabric sticking to her skin. She savored the chance to feel it. Her hands had found their way into her lap, the metal of the pot warming her legs with drips of fresh wax coating its sides. The sting of heat was welcoming.  It was nearing dawn– animals had begun to stir and the pine above her began to shake with a blow of wind. “Curse you gods.”

With her own grumble the wind ceased, the flame diminished, and the scurrying of animals came to a halt all in one breath.

“No! Nourish the flame, gods! I’ve done nothing but good. I am the best citizen of my town! The best daughter and the best wife if you so choose me to live. I have friends who will bear children in the coming months! Allow me the same!”

Freyja cursed herself under her breath. Her voice had grown weak with despair. “I only wish to feel the sun’s warm kiss a day longer. I want to feel the joy of conversation and the aggravation of argument! You mustn’t even grant me a day longer than that. Please, gods, let me feel.” Nothing but silence and stillness followed. Not even the gods could care enough to snuff her ego out themselves.

Pit. Freyja recoiled her legs to her chest, the candle resting close to her body. Pat. The noise was annoyingly close. Pit. A drop of warm water landed on top of Freyja’s head, soaking into her skin. It felt like defeat. She tilted her head to investigate, though the gods had retained the darkness surrounding her. She had only felt the privilege of this life for just a morning bird’s song past a year.

Pat.

The depth of black swallowed Freyja whole. The candlelight drew its last breath with a drop of water holding its hand in harmony, both elements swirling to their end. Freyja’s breath hitched for a beat, realizing her fate had been sealed by fire and water itself.

“ Freyja, Freyja. Tch. You have yet to wane from the immortal sense of greed. And we thought humanity could change you.” Freyja’s hand fell into the soft cradle of her own hands as the goddess’ words dripped down her neck. Tendrils of thick, dark hair wrapped themselves around Freyja’s shoulders as the presence leaned over her.

“It’s time to be a goddess again, my dear. A year of light cannot last forever.” Immortal hands wrapped their slender digits around Freyja’s human body, grasping her chest and her head the tightest. Her soul began to flee as embers of a once-roaring fire, settling themselves amongst clouds of dust and smoke. An agony of emotion rolled through Freyja’s core. She saw the malnourished children grin with joy, chocolate smeared across their cheeks. She saw the judgment of older villagers, their gazes cutting through her. She felt the love, joy, and hatred all at once and then none at all.  The elder pine stood then, accompanied by an eighth of a candlestick, a rumble of ash, and disturbed dirt impressed with a handprint. The sun had breached over the icy horizon, sparkling the beauty of snow for miles to see. Village people broke from their cottages and began their days. Their days of farming, parenting, and arguing; their days of living.


Sam and Mia stood in the middle of the living room. They were both silent. Mia’s arms had been crossed since she walked in and Sam looked around the room for a distraction - anything that would allow him to not have to look Mia in the eyes. “The plants are dead.” “Yes, Sam. They’ve been dead for a while.” Sam gently rubbed one of the dried-up leaves and watched as it crumbled between his fingers. The debris fell to the floor, some of it even got on his socks, but he didn’t care. When did he ever care about anything? Not for a while, that’s for sure. At least not according to his sister. “C’mon, let's go get you into the shower. You reek right now,” Mia said, trying to guide him towards the bathroom. “No, I really am not in the mood,” Sam retorted as he brushed her hand off of his shoulder. Sam was very annoyed at Mia for showing up unannounced and proudly wore a look of discomfort on his face for her being there. “Does it matter if you’re in the mood if you smell that badly?” she responded. Sam was silent.

Sam’s living room stood dark and musty as if the fresh air had failed to find its entrance into the house for so long that it just gave up. The houseplants were dead, but it smelled like possibly something else had died too, though Mia had quickly decided that she would not explore the source. She was dressed in dark attire. An all-black dress was hugged tightly to her figure and fell just below her knees. Her heels, purse, the sunglasses that hung from the top opening of her dress, and her sunhat all matched. She stood out like a sore thumb in front of Sam, who wore sweatpants that seemed just a little too large around the waist as they sagged ever so slightly. He wore a wrinkled shirt that was most likely one of the causes of the many smells floating around in his house - it was either that or possibly his socks, or both, Mia thought to herself. Mia stood there waiting for Sam to respond to her, but he was not going to. “You missed the funeral. I know you knew it was today,” Mia continued. Sam could hear the sadness in her voice.

“Why does that matter,” he responded. But before he even had a chance to finish his sentence, Mia quickly jabbed back at him, “ Because she was our mom… I mean, is our mom.” Sam, still silent, hung his head a little lower. “I just couldn’t be there,” he said quietly as if he was just speaking to himself. “People were expecting you, Sam. The whole family. Do you know how many times I had to explain to people that I didn’t know why you hadn’t shown up yet?” Mia went on, “It was embarrassing.” Sam's eyes began to swell with tears. He looked away to hide them from Mia, but this only made her more frustrated with him.

“Look at me!” Mia demanded. Sam quickly turned to face his sister, showing her, with an angry expression, that the tears he had been trying to hide were now running down his face. “What, Mia? What do you want me to say?” he said in a loud, angry tone, “Do you want me to apologize for not showing up? For not being as strong and put-together as my big sister?” Mia was taken aback, she didn’t know how to respond and her usual know-it-all attitude had quickly left her being. Sam continued on, “I don’t know what you want from me - showing up here like you own the place. This is my house! And you just walk in here and expect me to just flip a switch and be strong like I hadn’t been crying my brains out for the last two weeks. She wasn’t supposed to go out like that. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I didn’t even get to… apologize,” the last few words barely left his mouth and were hardly comprehensible as he began to sob. He dropped to the floor and sat there, crying into his hands. Mia got down with him. “Sam… Look. I’m sorry.” she said apologetically as she gently rubbed his back, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you two were fighting.” Sam, between his sobs, let out, “She’ll never know… how sorry I am.” Mia’s eyes began to tear up as well. They sat there in silence once more, but now, Mia was comforting Sam. A few moments had passed and then Sam broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Mia,” he said to her quietly. “I’m sorry, too,” she said back. Mia pulled herself up off of the floor of Sam’s living room and extended her hand out to Sam. He looked at it for a second, debating whether or not to take it. He felt comfortable where he was at - like this is what he deserved - where he belonged. Mia, however, did not pull away. “Please take my hand, Sam,” she said. She thought to herself that if he would just take her hand, then maybe she would be able to help him. Sam reluctantly took it, and she pulled him up off of the floor. Mia looked Sam in the eyes as if she wanted her point to be very clear, “You want to show her you’re sorry? You need to honor her. This is not what she would have wanted, you know that, right? For you to just sit here and waste way - this is not it.” Sam let off a small nod. Mia continued, “Honor her, Sam. Clean yourself up, go take a shower, and we might still have time to make the last half of the reception. Be the person she knew that you were, even through your fight with her.” Sam stood there, thinking. “Sam…” Mia pleaded. “Okay… I’ll go,” Sam finally agreed.

Mia smiled softly, “Good. I will wait for you. We can go there together.” He walked down the hall and into his bedroom. After a few moments, Mia could hear the sound of the shower starting and the water running through the pipes in the walls. She made her way over to his couch and sat there, looking around his dirty living room. Mia couldn’t let it remain in such disarray, so she got up and started to pick up a few things. A few minutes later, after the sound of the shower had stopped and Sam had got dressed in a much nicer outfit, he walked back out to the living room. Mia had just finished doing a quick tidying up of the place. She reached over the couch to the curtains that were covering up the window and swung them open. The bright light finally made its way into the house, lighting up the room and shining right into Sam’s eyes, making him squint. Mia looked at Sam and smiled. “You look much better,” Mia said. Sam responded with the slightest of grins, “Thank you. I feel much better.”


I’ve been waiting a year for this day. I sit at the bar, chew on peanuts, and swill the last of a Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s 2:59 pm. The ceremony is about to begin.

The Steelers just scored a touchdown. The sports bar jumps with cheer. Five bucks says, right about now, she’s thinking about peaking her head out of the bride’s room just to see what all the commotion is about. When she does emerge from that soft shelter, she’ll shield her eyes from the altar. She can’t see me before the ceremony—that would be bad luck.

“I’ll take another,” I say to Jamie, the bartender. He brings me another PBR. The beer is cold. The Steel City air has a bite, too. It’s early October. If I had actually shown up today, I’d be on the altar right now sweating my balls off. Memphis churches run hot, especially these newfangled non-denominational ones. But really, between you, me, and this blue ribbon lager, I never had any intention of marrying Kaitlyn. I left her at the altar today and I am enjoying every moment of it. It’s 3:05 pm. My phone peals. I get a text from Micah, the best man. “You OK? Where are you? We’re praying that you’re close. In Him, M.” Yeah, Micah, I’m close alright—close to taking a shit. But yeah, no problem, dufus. I’m only 779 miles away. I’ll be right there.

Micah. What an asshole. He was Kaitlyn’s boyfriend ever since they met in Sunday school back in the 4 th  grade. Kaitlyn told me that she and Micah almost kissed one night after a school dance. Micah stopped an inch from her lips because he “wanted to put the Lord first.” He wanted to kiss her for the first time at the altar.

I didn’t meet Kaitlyn until a year ago. I didn’t even live in Memphis at the time. I saw her post on Twitter, “I cast my crowns at your feet, O Lord.” How she ended up in my feed in the first place, I’ll never know. I decided to follow her tweets. She posted all kinds of holy-roller shit like, “We are one day closer to seeing our Lord and Savior face to face.” Or, my personal favorite, when she would call upon her “prayer warriors” to pray really hard for something specific to happen a certain way.

Let me tell you about God for a second. Yes, he exists. Yes, he’s a he. And yes, he has a plan. But ain’t no “prayer warrior” gonna change that plan for nothing. The only human being who’s gotten remotely close to figuring out how God works is George Carlin. You know, that crusty dead comedian with the fart jokes and the surprisingly astute observations about human nature. One time he said something like, “even if a thousand people held hands and prayed with all their might, nothing would change, and, if anything, their prayers would probably make matters worse.”

I showed up at Kaitlyn’s church one Sunday. The preacher, Bobby John Smith, asked the congregation, “Is anyone ready to give up their life of sin and walk with Jesus!?” with “Jesus” having that southern jumble of extra vowels—“Jeeaazius!” I walked forward from the back of the room with crocodile tears the size of water balloons streaming down my face. “Help me, Lord! Please, help me!” I shouted, over and over. I faked a good faint right then and there at Bobby John’s feet. Kaitlyn ran from her seat on the front row to my side where she took me in her arms and told me she would pray for me and everything would be alright.

The trick to pulling off a long con like this one is keeping your stories straight. I say stories—plural—because you have to have two. The first, the story about your new life, you write with the victim. This gives her more of a “buy-in” before the bill comes due. The second, the story about your old life, you reveal slowly over the con. She has to know that you ain’t a saint, but also that you are reluctant to share too much because you are ashamed of your old sinful ways. Of course, both stories are complete bullshit, but you have to remember which way the wind is blowing.

“Hey, numb nuts, how ‘bout showing some Steelers pride!” Mel, an aggressive bar goer, yells at me. Poor fool. Ruining my buzz like that. In his defense, I am looking a bit sullen at the moment. But,

whatever, bra . And so, in my imagination, I push my fingers into his nostrils and then into his brain where I go “goochie-goochie-goochie-goo!” and fuck with his amygdala. He has a goofy ass look on his face for a second, bleeds from his nose, and then falls face first right into the ledge of the bar.

“Mel’s passed out again, Jamie” a different bar goer says.

“He’s bleeding! Call 911!” Jamie says. A group carries Mel away to the picnic benches outside to give him some air. The EMTs pick him up and take him to Mt. Zion. I never check on Mel to find out how bad the damage is. Usually, when I do the amygdala thing, the loser suffers irreparable brain damage. But it’s hard to say whether it’s the “goochie-goo” or the face plant that does the trick. Who cares? Mel sucks. Kaitlyn fell in love with me because she thought she brought me to Jesus. Over that year, we read every fucking page of her King James Bible together, three times. After the first time, she told me how Micah and she agreed not to see each other anymore because “God was calling them to other places.” After the second time, we started holding hands. She told me that she wanted to kiss me, but wouldn’t kiss anyone until her wedding day—that her first kiss would be before God. After the third time, she was a little stand offish because she thought it wasn’t fair that a man of my experience should be deprived of “sexual intercourse” but she had to wait until she was married. I said to her, “Don’t worry, Kaitlyn. This is my new life in Jesus. I am reborn In Him. I want to wait, too.” Then I got down on one knee, pulled an engagement ring from my pocket, and proposed. She said “praise Jesus” over and over. I took that as a yes. The hardest part of the wedding con ain’t fooling the bride. It’s fleecing the family. Pulling the wool over the whole family’s eyes is the equivalent of an Oscar Night sweep—best actor, best director, best costume, best screenplay, and best sound design—all in one. The trick here is, when the father pulls you aside in the laundry room, hands you a $10,000 check, and tells you to elope, you tear up the check and say no. He’ll want you to elope because of your sob story about having no family and no one at the wedding to celebrate you. You go through with the wedding though because it’s what his little girl wants. And once you have dad, you have mom. Mom really only cares about herself and how she looks—don’t ask me why that is. It’s like mom can’t handle a different woman having the spotlight. Something about matriarchy, I guess. But, at all cost, you gotta watch out for little brothers. They really don’t give a shit. They don’t want to be at a wedding in the first place and will expose you if you let on even the slightest hint of a sham. “Tad’s down!” Jamie shouts. “What the hell’s the matter with you people! Give him some air!” Jamie, Jamie. Tad’s had a heart attack. Tad’s been eating cheese fries and drinking Genny Light since the fucking 80s, so it’s a miracle he didn’t keel over sooner. Hold on, Tad. It ain’t your time. In my imagination, I reach inside his chest and give his oversized heart a little squeeze. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. He inhales and grabs his chest. He begins to sob like he did when he was 12 and fell off his skateboard.

“Tad’s OK,” Jamie calls.

Yeah, sometimes I save people. I ain’t good. I ain’t bad. I just am. I ain’t the devil, either. That jerk has been in the White House for the past four years. The devil ain’t too bright. Too much pride, I guess.

And so, right about now, Kaitlyn is in tears, jilted at the age of 25. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Kaitlyn. This was never about revenge or making a holy roller look foolish. I don’t even hate Micah, although the sandals and the white socks have to go. Actually, the reason I did what I did was to bring Kaitlyn and Micah together. After the jilting, Micah and she will leave the church. They’ll think it was all total bullshit (and, spoiler alert, most of it is . . . except the “love” part. That’s all you need). Kaitlyn and Micah belong together, but they won’t make it without this wound. And now they will love each other for the rest of their lives—an ineradicable bond forged from mutual misery. That’s God’s will. That’s the divine plan.


“We’ve got the results, 母!” Kazumi cheered. Warm sunlight jabbed at the old woman’s eyes, which made her close them tight. They stayed closed for a long time until the woman opened them again. Her lips curved into a smile, the biggest she could manage.

“This is huge! They could’ve found something.” the man said, his mouth curved into a grin. He dusted off his tie with his hands, then fixed the belt on his pants. Kazumi wore a suit for the occasion, the fanciest he had.

“Alright, see you later, 母! Wish me luck,” he said, twisting the cold brass doorknob. His hands were clammy, like a paper towel that’d been run under water, then heated in the microwave for a minute. He wiped his heated paper towel hands on the handkerchief he carried in his pant pocket.

↓↓↓↓↓ His hands were clasped in front of him on the glass table.

Kazumi was worried that he might make sweat marks on the table. He tried not to think about it though, and focused on why he was here. The women and men around Kazumi stared at him, some of them drank coffee. “When will the meeting start?” a man asked, his cheeks redder than the U.S. flag. “Do you think they found anything?” “No, it’s impossible. No planet has what Earth has.” A tall woman strode into the room, her head high. Her heels clacked against the wood floor, and she stood at the front of the table. “Say what?” she asked the woman who’d spoken. “You, what d’you say?” The woman from before stood and fidgeted with her fingers, then answered, “I said it isn’t possible to find another planet like Earth, miss. No other planet has living circumstances like Earth-“ “Oh, you fool, sit!” the tall woman said as she shook her head. “Yes ma’am!” the woman answered, her cheeks flushed. She put her hand to her forehead, then put her hands to her sides and sat. “Tsk,” the tall woman murmured, rolling her eyes. “Today we’re going to talk about...” Kazumi leaned closer to the table, biting his lip. The woman stared at him. “The other one we found.” Everyone grinned at each other. One man next to Kazumi even stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “So we found another one? How good are the living conditions?" a woman asked. She sat down at the table and folded her hands together. “Almost exact to Earth’s. There are salty waters and fresh streams, so we have hope. We’re gonna continue our exploration today.” the woman at the front of the table said. Everyone cheered, and someone exclaimed, “We’re not gonna die!” “Yes, yes. Now, Kazumi, since you funded this whole thing, what do you want to name the planet?” “Um... maybe Dōyōni?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. Everyone nodded in agreement. “Kazumi, we’ll reveal more details to you tomorrow.” His eyebrows were raised and he said, “Actually, can I be a part of the search team?” “Okay, sure.” the tall woman nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” Kazumi was happy, but he tried not to show it as much as he answered people’s praise and left the office to his humble home. ↓↓↓↓↓ The door creaked open as Kazumi turned the key. “How did it go?” a voice startled him, and he turned to see his mom sitting on the sofa. Kazumi smiled at her and took his jacket off, hanging it on the hangers next to the door. “They found one. It’s very similar, or so they said,” he said, “they’re sending out a search team, and I’m going with them!” Kazumi’s mom’s smile faltered a bit, but Kazumi didn’t notice, he was too busy reminiscing over his gain. Thanks to him, his family tree would continue, with him at the top of it. “I knew that putting money into this would be worth it!” he yelled, a huge grin on his face. And making those little ‘rabbit holes,’ that was the best invention he’d ever created. “Benzaiten is on my side today! Oh, maybe I shouldn’t jinx it.” "I’m going to see Dōyōni tomorrow!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. ↓↓↓↓↓ The remote was calling his name. He had it in his pocket and he couldn’t stop touching it for the life of him. “See you later, 母!” he said, waving and closing the door behind. He skipped to his car, the remote burning a hole in his pocket. Last night, after spamming the ‘reload’ button on his computer, he’d finally seen an email from the tall woman. It was calling him in to explore the next day, Kazumi could’ve jumped and done cartwheels on his lawn. Though the planet - Dōyōni, was lightyears away, the little ‘rabbit holes’ he’d created helped with that. And if they could possibly live on Dōyōni, it would be a great thing for Kazumi. He smacked his own hand, which was lingering around the pocket with the remote. “Get a hold of yourself!” he said as he combed his hair back. It’d gone lopsided in the battle of his hands, and he fixed it right away. ↓↓↓↓↓ Kazumi took the remote of his pocket into his hand and placed it on the table before him, as all of the other members had done. “Now, we’re going to Dōyōni in approximately... 10 minutes, go get changed and come back. A man at the table lifted his head and said, “Can we eat before we go?” “Not unless you want to either vomit your guts out in space halfway or have a horrible headache and stomachache.” the woman said. The man shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, not really.” “I’m so excited to go!” Kazumi exclaimed, walking into the changing room. Suddenly, his phone rang. Kazumi turned back to where it was on the table and grabbed it. “Hello?” “Greetings, is this... Kazumi Nomura?” Kazumi took a pause, his eyebrows furrowed before he spoke again. “Yes, who is this?” “St. Luke’s International Hospital.” “What’s going on?!” “Your mother has been brought to this hospital from your home.” Tears ran down Kazumi’s cheeks as he thought about the worst possible scenarios. “I’ll be there right away,” he said as he ran out of the office. He’d have to miss the exploration of Dōyōni, but his mother was so much more important than any of that. ↓↓↓↓↓ “M-mom!” Kazumi ran through the doors of his mother’s hospital room, out of breath. His eyes were widened, and his hands were on his knees as he gasped for breath. His mother stared back at him, her eyebrow cocked. “What’s wrong?” “Why are you in the hospital?” She shrugged, pursing her lips. “A neighbor passed by and saw her through the window. He said that...” - the doctor paused as she looked at her clipboard - “she was lying on the floor.” Kazumi ran to his mother’s side and gave her a huge hug, to which she returned with equal strength. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’m so sorry.”


The city was alive amid the harsh down pour of the storm. A few cars drove past by the complex, their glares flashed on his window which usually outlooked the buildings and structures of the eastern side of the metropolis, bright neon and dazzling lights complimented every skyscraper, but in his eyes they were only a blurred glow, like tiny circular objects which were colored in different shades. Sound of rain pelted 1lagainst the glass of his window resonated through his ears. He turned away from the unclear scene, eyes blending in with the mist, a blaring warning of a migraine setting off behind his head. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote lying on the sill and turned the movie volume higher to drown the noise of the rain. It was a rather lonely and cold evening for a twenty something boy who lived in apartment 309. He was now seated on the worn-out couch that looked like it had seen better days in front of a huge flat screen television, currently playing

Titanic

in 75, because he doesn't like setting the volume with numbers that didn't in the number five. All the lights had been switched off after he washed the dishes (he actually washed them) and swept the floor with a

broomstick  (yeah, his step-mom stopped by to rant about her husband, his own father, who wasn't always home. She demanded to clean his house for her.

His  house). And after a twenty minute long of staring at the world through his stupid window which didn't let him see a thing, he opted for wasting the night with a classic in the middle of his lifeless living room. An invisible gust hit him right in his left chest, a pang of loneliness resurfaced from the inky tar that he thought was supposed to be his heart. It happened two weeks ago and since then, it became an everyday routine. Agonizing pain of emotional neglect clung in to every tip of his fiber, like a fist made its way through his ribs and squeezed his heart so tight he was confused why it hadn't shattered. He had always been told he carried such fragile organ. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He was healthy as a caged bird that sat alone behind bars. Being fed daily, taken care of delicately, and yet couldn't attain a freedom to set its wings wide and fly. It had been like this for the past three years. Alone, isolated from the rest of the world, trapped inside his apartment he couldn't call his home. He should be used to it by now, yet he wasn't. Had something became wrong? Surely, there shouldn't be. He familiarized himself into being lone wolf. And a lone wolf never suffer from the miserable damnation it set itself into. But why? Why indeed, he doesn't know. The abject fear of being imprisoned by his own mind had always been unsettling. But it was happening now, and he refused to accept that. He wasn't like...that. He liked to think he was a lot stronger than his friends, his batchmates, anyone that he knew that might carry such

disease . Disease. Ah. Funny word. He wanted to cry, he wanted to shout a big ' fuck you ' to the rest of the world and curl atop his bed with his silly blanket covering him whole as if it could protect him from anything cruel and harsh coming his way. He wanted to end everything despite the good people and things happening around him. He had never feared death, for death is an escape, a relief.

As Jack and Rose ran around the lower level of the ship, with those stupid smiley faces and eyes adorned with whipped-ness while men (slaves) worked their asses off to burn coals, and as he succumbed to the darkness his mind had offered, to the black path that leads to the damness of his soul, a loud

bang!  echoed inside the whole house. Normally, he'd jump out of his wits. But this wasn't

normally.  He doesn't get depressed normally. Not him. Pausing the movie, he stood up and made his way towards the kitchen.ad towards the direction of the unexpected noise, though he was still trying to escape the haze his mind draped over him. It came from the kitchen. His eyes were greeted by an endless pit of darkness (no it was just because he turned all the lights off). The floor was hard and cold under his bare soles. The temperature inside the room dropped, must be because the heater was a nasty motherfucker who enjoyed seeing him suffer in the cold and was possibly waiting for him to die from hypothermia. Stupid ass garage sale. He swore he would never go shopping with his step-mother again. A brush of cold air swirled around the living room, sent a shiver down his spine, making him momentarily forget his depressing thoughts. Goosebumps broke down on his skin as the small hairs at the back of his neck stood. It was cold, very cold. Like It's-my-first-time-in-Antarctica type of cold. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness ahead of him and he could make out the light switch inside the kitchen. One step, he exhaled, and a puff of smoke came out of his mouth. Two steps and his body felt being dunk in a bath of ice cubes. Three more steps and - Someone just rang his doorbell. He whipped his head towards the direction of the new sound. He doesn't get someone often to ring his doorbell. And definitely not at midnight. He looked at the kitchen once more before heaving a sigh. "Coming!" He yelled, afraid whoever it was on the other side would think he was a lazy dumbass. But seriously, who would knock at his door in late evening while raining? His bare feet strolled the cold wooden floor towards the door as his hand switched the lights on in the hallway, pupils adjusting to the brightness. Those are really bright. I need to replace them as soon as possible. His hand reached the doorknob and was about to twist it open when another surprising

bang!

bounced off the walls of the apartment. It was from the kitchen but it sounded near, as if it was walking up to him and waiting for a right moment to kick him in the shin and slit his throat. Wouldn't that be surprising.

He thought as he contemplated whether to check whatever the heck was falling inside his messed up kitchen and if it was a murderer,

meh . He could careless about a murderer or a psychopath. They could kill him all they want and he would never give a fuck. It's better to be killed than to kill. And, in fact, he would rather be dead than deal with the thoughts swarming inside his mind, unlocking unwanted memories and traumas, and possibly a nameless emotion which could potentially kill him slowly by eating what morals and self-values he had left. Another ring of the bell pulled him out of his trance. He let out a groan and decided to open the door first. He could deal with the burglar/murderer/ghost later. "Give me a sec!" He shouted again while facing the mirror and fixing his bird-nest kinda hair. Fuck, is that pizza in between his teeth? He had pizza for lunch. Another ring. Fuck it. "Dude! What the hell is your problem?! I told you to give me a -" He stopped mid-sentence when he chanced a look at the person in front of him after he opened the door. It was a man dressed in jeans and black tank top paired with stompers and a bucket hat. His features were sharp, eyes a piercing green and lips thin and pink as if molded by angels, the poor lights of the hallway of the complex reflected on his tan skin. There was a dog tag hanging around his neck and a scythe slung over his shoulder lazily. A smirk appeared on the stranger's - "George Williams, I suppose?" The man grinned, flashing white and shining pearls.

"Y-yeah." George stuttered out a reply, heart slowly beating inside his chest. "Who are you?" "I think you know who I am." "Uhm, I actually don't. I don't watch a lot of anime or play a lot of RPG to know which character you're trying to portray- " The smirk on the man's face vanished. George tensed. "Cool weapon, though." He squeaked. He was met with silence. The man lick his lower lip, obviously annoyed, but George felt trapped in a trance as his eyes followed the movement. Shit. Okay. Not the time to swoon, George. Get a grip. "Uhm," He couldn't look the stranger in his eyes. The hallway wall was

really

interesting. "Do you wanna come in? I made roasted chicken..?" Silence. And then a huff. "Sure." The man grunted. George beamed, a child-like smile on his face. "Cool! That's coo - " The stranger pushed him aside and went inside the apartment himself. " - Yeah. Waltzed right in. Great. Feel at home, mister." "I go by Grim Reaper." George nodded as if it was a casual conversation. "That's an awesome name. I go by George but most people call me by my last name. Williams, ew. Like I have a name, Brenda. Use - " "Where's the food?" "Right! The food! You're here for the food. Which I cooked. Hold on." Like a foolish high school student who just glanced at their silly crush, George entered the kitchen with no caution, forgetting the fact that there could be a burglar inside. Or a murderer. Or a psychopath. Or a ghost. "If you can wait for five minutes and I'll just heat this baby up - Fuck!" A sudden force knocked him down on the kitchen floor. He could hear a growl over him. He felt a body weighing him down to stay on the ground, a cold slimy substance fell on his clothed chest. He heard snapping of sharp teeth and another loud growl. George's eyes widen when he saw his perpetrator. It was a large dog with canines as sharp as the knives in his kitchen, eyes flamed with burning red, scars and cuts spread across the entirety of its big face. It was drooling, and looking at George like a predator would to its prey. And they said dogs were man's bestfriend. Bullshit. The creature was on fours above him, snarling when he tried to scram away.

The impact of his fall made his lower back ache but it didn't matter as of the moment. It gritted its teeth right in front of his face, hot (bad) breath hit his nostrils. Too close. His eyes crossed at the creature presented before him. He didn't dare breathe. Because it might be his last one and he didn't want to die in the hands of a...

dog . He wanted to prolong this stupid situation and wait for help. Whose help? It would be embarrassing if the landlord were to ever visit his room, if he were to die tonight, and see chunks of his flesh and organs splattered all over the kitchen and a dog gnawing at his bones. Another growl, he closed his eyes and remained still, accepting his fate, waiting for the monster to begin its feast. An evident

swish

of a blade greeted his ears, and he felt the weight above him disappeared and the nasty breath was gone. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. The dog was gone. Like

gone

gone. There wasn't even a piece of whatever was cut off from its body on the floor. He gulped, feeling a lump was stuck at his throat. Too close. He thought he was going to be eaten alive.

George looked up and saw the man he invited (barged) earlier. He was sitting on the kitchen counter, wiping the blood off his scythe with George's kitchen towel.

Wait. Blood? "W-wha-" He tried to speak but it felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs and he was panting.

The man glanced at him, a brow raised up in question. "You alright?" Was he? Being trampled on with a large monster and flashing its razor-sharp canines before him was a routine he always did at night. Really. Seriously. But one stare at the stranger's eyes and he felt at ease. Safe. He shyly nodded his head.

"Good. We need to go." The stranger stated in a dismissive tone, jumping off the counter and sliding his weapon on his back. George stayed inside the kitchen as the other was already on its way to the front door. He immediately scurried off the floor and followed the man with curious eyes when he realized the man was talking to him. "W-where are we going?" He asked in a scratchy, barely heard voice. But he was heard. The man, or should he say, his

savior , stopped on his tracks and turned around, scythe swinging behind him, blade glinting at the bulb's glare. There was an unknown expression on his face that George found hard to decipher. It was cocky but angry. Seething mad, hot, but in a very smug way. It was complicated to describe when it was mixed with his wild thoughts. Subjective (very biased) thoughts. "I asked you," George started when the man was offering him nothing but silence. "Where are we -" The stranger interrupted him mid-sentence, eyes twinkling in poorly concealed fury. George wasn't sure if it was meant for him or for someone else. "We're going to hell," The man replied with a snarl on his face. "Pay old Luci a visit and have a little chit-chat about that bitch of his, who just attacked you, over a cup of nice and warm tea." Oh. "That's... cool. But I'm more of a milk and coffee type of guy, though - " "George." "Yeah, I'm sorry. Let's go."


Trigger warning - talk of murder and implied abuse. My lawyer advised – no, demanded, that I take a reprieve from the endless parade of reporters and journalists and well-intentioned acquaintances. That I allow myself some space to process what was about to come. A storm that had every intention to blow me over if I let it.

I was overwhelmed. Weighed down by the burden of proof that lies somewhere within me. I cannot recall the horrors they need me to remember, though I’ve tried and tried. Dissociative amnesia, they’re calling it.  A blockage of information associated with a traumatic event. My memory loss encompasses enormous gaps of my childhood. I can hardly recall any of the names of my grade school teachers. Concentrating, with my eyes closed, I try to picture the house we were living in when they said it happened. Can just piece together the color of the station wagon my dad used to drive, sitting in our weathered driveway. Gray. Like the color of the stray cat I found. Like the fabric of the collar I had made for him by hand, that I found in the trash along with the kitten, the day after my dad found out. It wasn’t that I had thought this normal, but I was content with letting the past close up behind me as I walked towards the future, letting it swallow all its agonizing secrets.

As it turns out, I was only walking sideways. Had no idea that my own mind was protecting me from memories that would only serve to destroy my sense of self.

It was my fault, he accused. I had taken the Ancestry DNA test in hopes of connecting with someone, anyone, from my mother’s side. She had died, he told me, in a rather tragic accident down the stairs when I was six. My dad had explained away that her family had disowned her, thrown her away. They weren’t even informed of the funeral. He said they had no right to her anymore. I think I remember a woman who may have been my grandmother try to visit me at my school. My dad found out, and I was transferred to a different district. I never questioned him when he was angry. I had assumed, when I submitted that test, that I wouldn’t find much. That if anyone cared enough to find me, they would have. Though, admittedly, I still dreamed about locating someone with a shared past that had been hidden from me without reason.  When the barrage of messages from my Aunt, my own mother’s sister, choked up my inbox, I clicked open each message and read the contents with a voracity I didn’t know I possessed.

My dad had changed our name after the death of my mother. I didn’t know that. I don’t remember life before her, even though I was 6, and by all accounts, precocious and bright. She had, she fervently insisted, been trying to find me ever since.

Though fearful, I acquiesced to her wish to see me. She flew out to meet me in Seattle, and we cried over pictures that she had brought of my mother. When I insisted that I didn’t remember meeting her or any other family connected to my mother, her concerned brow was the first inclination I had that something wasn’t right within my own mind.

She showed me memory after memory through pictures. I was there, seated beside my mother on a piano bench, green drink in her hand, juice box in mine. We were both smiling so hard that the corners of her eyes were lined with happy crinkles.  Seeing us seated together, love evident on our faces, it was the first time I can ever remember crying. So, we sat there. And she let me, for the first time, mourn my mother’s death.

It was my dad, she had sworn, that isolated my mother from her family. Stole her away, manipulated her into silence with the threat of taking me away from her. She loved me more than her own life, she had told me. And I cried anew.

I had a whole loving family waiting to embrace me, she stressed. Though the joy in her face belied the sadness in her smile. So much unresolved family trauma. So much time lost. I told her I was ready to make space in my life for them, and I meant it.

That was the plan, of course, until the FBI came knocking.

You see, my dad had been careful. Until he wasn’t. And I’d almost feel bad for my father, if the muscle memory of his abuse wasn’t such an insult to my ever-present trauma.

Months later, with my DNA that was ultimately linked to him, my dad was arrested on 5 counts of murder, including that of my own mother. His DNA was found on 4 bodies that had been recovered in the woods, miles from our old house. When they uncovered his connection, it wasn’t long until they reopened the strange case of my mother’s accident and ultimately declared it murder.

These brutal slayings occurred at my house, with me in it. State’s Evidence would show that I was there. Had likely heard these murders. Seen something damning. Smelled the bleach he used to clean the bathroom and the kitchen tile. Had probably even been in the car when he went to dump the bodies.

The problem? I could remember nothing. No amount of questioning could close the cavity of memory loss in my mind. The therapists labeled it dissociative amnesia. Privately, I felt it a blessing.

So, following the sage advise from my lawyer, I made to leave town for a while. I know the prosecutors have hopes that my buried memories will somehow resurface, but I’ve warned them it’s unlikely. If anything, the stress of the last few months has worn me down so hard, that I scarcely remember to breathe, to eat, to sleep.

Hardly able to mourn my own mother’s murder in solitude.

So here I am. A renovated lighthouse in France. Just me and the sea. How ironic, that I would be staying in a place meant to act as a beacon of light to warn ships at sea, so the crews make it safely home. I couldn’t even help my own mother, or the others.

I chose this location with intent. My Aunt had told me that my mother, before meeting my father, had visited France in her 20’s. Told me all about her quest to see the Carthusian Monks that produce her beloved Chartreuse. A terrible green liqueur she absolutely savored.  Her family would tease her mercilessly for it, but she held fast, insisting on its excellence.  Their monastery is just over the hills in Grenoble. When I find the will to move, I will go there and visit. Follow the flock of monks and honor my mother by tracing her footsteps. I imagine my bare feet walking the winding path up the mountain. Stepping on seedlings, feeling the light sprinkle of clean rain on my face, the universe doing its absolute best to absolve me of my sin of association. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get there. There will always be guilt until I can remember. I knew my father was a monster, but I did not know he was a killer. And honestly? I don’t think I want to remember.


Karana and I were walking along the snow and ice searching for home. We had gone out looking for food but a huge snow storm happened and we could see nothing. We are wearing heavy coats but my face is not protected and numb. Karana has started building us a house to hide and stay warm in. I don't understand how he can see in this blazing snow but I try to help. We make our house in the ground with a 3foot deep hole and an igloo for the top. We share our rations and melt snow for water to drink. It is night now, the only thing I am scared of is the polar bears that come at night. When I wake up Karana is already awake making us an early breakfast of meat. Our rations are low and the snow is not as hard as it should be. We decide to start early but when we look outside it's still dark, from the stars Karana says “It must be around 4:30”. Too early to start our journey. To waste time I decide to go through our backpack to see what we have, Karana has strong rope, a knife, an animal skin, flint and steel, a photo of his best friends, a blanket, and a pan; I have a thin chain rope, a notebook, a book, flint and steel, some meat, a bowl, some things for burning fire, a bandage, a shovel, a mashedy, and a tarp. All of this stuff comes in handy but it won't last us. We start our journey at 7 when things lighten up. As we walk we talk about my dogs and how Karana is willing to pay me for one when the mother has birth. I'm still thinking it through in my head but I say “ya, sure” to give him something to look forward to. Karana speaks about his grandfather and how he wants to be like him, train his dogs all that can be trained, and keep them in good health so they live for as long as they can. Then suddenly he stops, I don't understand why until I realized what he had just said and how it led up to current events. Karanas new baby sister, the 1st girl of his family had died from poor feeding and the cold, she did not live as long as she could. Tears start falling down Karanas face so I go over to comfort him, he pushes me away then looks back at me with anger in his eyes and punches me in the gut. It takes me a moment to realize what had just happened, I was on the cold ground, stomach aching and back sore from my hard hit to the ground. Karana eyes had changed from anger to sadness of all sorts, he no longer acted strong and brave as men did, he fell to the ground in a ball and crys, tears now making a puddle at the bottom of his right eye facing away from me. I don't know what to do, so I go over and put him on his feet, he says he just wants to sit for a bit and I don't reject that, from what I have learned u dont mess with Karana when he is sad or frustrated. So we just sit, we sit so long my legs start to ache and my body wants to run, but I sit still. We sat from 9ish to 12ish, never have I sat for this long I think I broke a record. Karana is ready to go again, he talks about how his dogs will be the strongest and fastest dogs I will know. I tell him to think again about my dogs, he thinks and goes “when my dogs are ready we will challenge you and win!” I don't say anything, just walk along, Karana expecting a comeback and not getting one, continues talking about how our parents must be looking for us right now and how they probably think we were eaten by the wolves or slaughtered by the polar bears, and comes up with all these crazy stories about us dying by animals. It's night now, dark and freezing with gusts of wind. We have to make a new camp, this time we make a fire so it's easier to see and when we finish moving it to the bottom of our pit. I make meat stew as Karana cleans and plays with stuff in our bags. We have to eat out of the pot cause we don't have bowls, Karana says that I make better soup then his mom while stuffing his mouth with soup getting the ground all colorful. I say “thanks” and look at him in that way that girls can say silently “slow down”; He stops eating and pulls out something from his bag, something I hadn't noticed before, he hands it to me with a smile of satisfaction and says “open it”. I don't know what to expect so I unravel the string and unfold the thin animal skin, when I see it I don't know what to say. It's a brand new pair of nice warm mukluks, the kind I've only seen Karana wear. When i look at him he's all smiles “I made them myself” he says. I smile, give him a hug, then put them on. They fit perfect and make my feet amazingly warm. “ I was going to give them to you for your birthday but I couldn't wait, and sooner or later Totuk was going to take them for himself” Karana says, putting his foot next to mine showing how they are the same. Totuk, Karanas older brother has been taking Karanas things lately so i understood. As we go to bed I think about how hard Karana must have worked on these just to give them to me. He knows how fast I go through shoes but he made them anyway. As we drift to sleep I dream about the tribe. When I wake up the colors of the moon shine as I step outside to feel the gusts of snow hit my face. I wake Karana so he can see the masterpiece the world gave us...a slight sign of hope. When it is light we step outside only to see white with a tint of a blue sky. We move forward for 1 hour to slip and fall on a smooth wet surface. “We have found our way!” Shouts Karana. The Great river of Zire, this shall guide us home. I clasp Karana’s hand as we walk on to the frozen River that will lead us back to life.


“Did you find anything yet? I want something weird, something no one’s watching, you know?” “Yeah, I get it. I’m trying. Look, I’m on page thirty-two of the search, ok? First ten pages were all the same shit.” “Oooh, what about that one.” “Uhh, let’s see. Monster Boss. Some kind of show. What do the comments say? ‘Its like if The Office happened in hell.’ ‘Omg wtf is this?’ ‘Low budget arthouse crap.’ ‘I don’t get it. Is it supposed to be a joke?’ ‘How are there three seasons of this?’ ‘The monster is kinda hot, ngl.’ ‘Something about this sets off red flags, its too amateur to look that real.’ Huh, I don’t know, not a lot there to go on. I’m down if you are.” “Sounds terrible. Start it up.” ….. Happy sounding music starts playing. A shakey camera darts between a rows of trashed office equipment in what looks like a cave. Nervous people in torn suits scribble at crumpled paper on broken desks, one of them is typing away at a computer with a cracked black screen, mumbling something to himself. A hard cut to scenes from the show, people laughing and crying, some of them bleeding, most of them keep shooting wide eyed looks off screen. It flashes to a long table as the music gets happier. People sitting in broken office chairs, trembling smiles, the shaking camera looks at every face and then trails the length of the table and swings up to something wrong. ‘Monster Boss’ appears in block letters, with a happy chime above the wrongness. The camera shakes closer to what is obviously the Monster Boss. Someone whispers “help us.” The music cuts out and the camera stays on the Monster Boss for far too long. It’s all wrong. The thing is tall and stands on two legs with too many joints. Its skin glistens, like a frogs, but the muscles beneath it look strong. It must be ten feet tall. It’s wearing a suit. The ripped fabric of it is stained with dark watery marks. The suit is far too small, so it looks like it’s wearing kid’s clothes, the pants end halfway down its legs and the sleeves are stripped and fluttering, snagged on thorny protrusions that blotch its arms like a rash. The back of the suit is torn nearly in half, making room for what looks like a massive hunchback, except that it wiggles. Not a hunchback, a mass of tentacles. It’s like a huge anemone growing from its back, the semitranslucent appendages slimy and long, caked in bubbly mud where they drag on the cave floor. It has two arms, equally over jointed, that end in hands with six fingers. Fingers which are just too long, each tipped with jagged claws that seem to pop in and out like a cats. Its face is indescribable. Only features make any sense. A beak, teeth, the head changes shape constantly, it has a wig stuck to its head, dark matted hair smeared in grime with what might be a mushroom growing out of it. It’s looking right at the camera. Something that should be eyes stare into the screen. Stare through the screen? Or is it looking at the camera man? The frame is shaking violently now. Hard cut. A woman appears, sitting behind a desk. A cut runs down her cheek, rumpled and oozing, she smiles into the camera and the words ‘Human Resources’ appear under her. She’s shuddering as she speaks, her eyes never stay still. “I love it here, at work. It’s where I do all my work. It’s good work, because, I have a good boss,” she laughs then, a sound that is high-pitched and crackles at the edges. “Why did I choose to work here,” she asks, clearly repeating a question. Her smile is so wide and tight that a part of the cut pops open and red and greenish white strarts dribbling down her cheek. “Oh, you know. Same reason as everyone here. Met the boss while I was out at a club. We started talking in an alley, when I was getting some air, and… well, woke up and I was here. It’s a literal dream job.” She looks around, the clicking of a keyboard tip taps out something that sounds like the chorus to ‘I need a hero’. “That’s too obvious, Frank, it’ll know,” she whispers at someone behind her. “You think it knows music,” a man’s voice, quiet and jumpy. Hard Cut.  The woman is sitting very still, everything about her face is tight and carefull, except for the tears. Typing sounds come in like a kid hitting a piano, erratic, clumsy, barely covering the sound of whimpering behind her. “Oh, the boss? He’s the best. No, no I don’t think I’m his favorite. I don’t think there is one, really. It’s more like we’re a team, you know. Leadership? Oh, ok, sure. I mean he seems to like Doug; I think he’s trying to teach him the ropes, get him ready for management you know. And then there’s Tina, not really sure what’s going on there. She’s just, so lucky, to get all that attention.” Something cracks in the background and there’s a muffled scream. Hard cut. The cameras focused on knees, the picture looks upside down, the knees are rocking, and tangled hair keeps slipping into the frame, someone is whispering "nonononononononono". Hard cut. A yellowed, filthy base is dripping rusty ooz and holding up an upside-down water jug made plastic, cracked, and empty. Two young men with empty cups stand around it with Monster Boss looming over them. The word ‘Intern’ appears below both of them. One of them is laughing, the sound seems nervous, almost questioning. The other man smiles and stares at his cup, his eyes painfully wide and unblinking. The laughing one keeps shooting glances at Monster Boss, the towering figure is statue-still and unreadable. Then Monster Boss looks like it bends its head back and its mouths go wild, several going at one and overlapping, “kaa kaa kaa/hosh hosh hosh/ reeegrsh” the laughing intern’s voice stumbles and the one staring at his cup tries to smile harder. Then the boss grabs the not laughing interns’ arm and pulls so hard the man barely flinches. He doesn’t look at the mangled stump, he giggles and blacks out, falling off screen. The other intern is hysterical now, pointedly trying not to look at anything as he becomes more and more manic. Monster Boss is still again, only moving when it slurps at the end of the arm in its hands, like it is a glass of water. Hard cut. “You know what it’s doing, right,” a middle-aged woman ask’s, her filthy dress somehow tight and tidy and her greasy hair tied back into something closer to rope than a braid. She’s in a dark corner, her arm is twitching uncontrollably and she’s holding it to herself with her other hand. “It’s fucking playing house with us.” The words ‘Tina’ and ‘Secretary’ appear under her, somehow skewed and off center. “It’s acting it all out.” She bites her lip. “No, no. It’s smart. It’s too fucking smart. Right. It looks at us like we look at pigs. You know. Fun to play with but tasty too.” Her whole-body shakes, she listens to something off screen. “Like me,” she laughs, and the sound is hard and grating. “Fucking great, are we really doing this shit? Are we even sure that this is what it wants? Does it even matter what we do?” A bundle of translucent tentacles floated into the shot, slowly, almost teasingly, and brushed against her face. They turn the skin pink where they slide. Another twist of tentacles appears at her shoulder, twisting up, snaking around her neck. Monster Boss’s face slides into view then, head height, inching straight at the side of her head. Before it gets to her ear, one of its mouths explodes in sound, “brwahahaaaa!” Her face is contorting, twitching into a dozen half decided expressions, it almost looks like she’s growling for a moment, as Monster Boss screams spittle onto her face. Hard cut. The woman is back. Snail trails outline the places the tentacles touched with raised red sores along the outside edges, the skin between is a valley of oozing yellow-green. It’s clear it hurts to talk, but she does all the same. “Evil,” she laughs, and the laugh is hard and hurts, and turns into a scream. “No, it’s not evil. The world’s not that simple. We’re just a game, to it. Barely toys. I think it sees what we do, and it thinks, well, that could be fun. And this is the closest it can get. No, evil doesn’t come into it. This,” she says, sneering around at the cave, “is the same god damned thing as outside. It comes down to power. More specifically, it’s about power imbalance. Right. The boss,” she freezes, yelling erupts off scene, someone laughs and yells “good work everyone,” and then there is silence. “You can’t fight it; I don’t even know if it can die. There’s no escaping it. Yeah, it hurts us. But I don’t think it really see’s us. It’s like a little kid grabbing at a bug. Always surprised to see the mess in his hand. But no time to think of what it means because there’s always more bugs. Right. You know we’re all going to die here, right? Hmm? Oh, Doug… Doug’s a piece of shit.” Hard cut. “Hey, Brady, right? Yeah, new guy, great. Let me grab you for a second,” a tall man with slicked back hair and a bloodstained suit grabs at another man’s crotch and laughs. The other man is shaking hard, he gives an empty laugh and asks, “what is this place, why are we here?” The man with the slicked back hair moved his hand to Brady’s shoulder, “that’s adorable. Where are we? Work my man! The great American dream! This, this is the company of the future. That man right there,” he says, pointing across the jumbled desks and neurosis ridden ‘employees’ to Monster Boss, “is the visionary man that will carry us all to greatness.” He sighs like he’s looking at a work of art. “Are you crazy? This is hell, isn’t it? Why is this guy recording everything, what happened to his face man? That thing is a fucking monster.” The punch came in hard, followed by another, and another. The man with the slicked back hair kept hitting Brady, even after he fell to the ground. Brady kept screaming “where are we,” in between the blows. Hard cut. The man with the slicked back hair is sitting casually on his desk, arms folded, oblivious to the blood spatter on his face. His suit is the cleanest disaster in the cave. He smiles at the camera. The words ‘mnager n train ing’ and ‘Doug’ appear around his waist. “What do we do here? We work.” He laughs and shakes his head. Listens for a moment, and scoffs at someone off camera. “What are you talking about, pay? Man, you work to live. Same thing here. Some people are just better at it than others,” he says, straightening his suit and smiling at something off screen. “Look, this is a great job. What do we make? We make the business work, that’s what we do. And yeah, just like any business we have loss, we have workplace accidents, we have to make cuts sometimes, that’s just business.” He smiles at the camera, faint scars crisscross his face, glinting in the low light. Hard cut. Doug stands over Brady where he lies on the ground and screams, “why,” into the room. Brady’s a mess, his clothes are torn and full of the dirt he’s squirming in. Doug is breathing hard, his arms hanging at his side, he’s looking at the man on the ground with wide eyes and a smile that shows every tooth. Monster Boss walks up behind him, and stares down. The man on the ground is screaming now, no words, just sound. Monser Boss leans down over Doug’s shoulder, its tentacles reach around from the back of Doug’s head and caress his face as it reaches one finger towards the screaming man. One of the claws comes out, and he paints a line into the man’s leg with it. Doug smiles and laughs, one eye closed as a tentacle slides over it. “That right there,” he says and chuckles, “that’s why you’re the boss, Boss.” Then Doug grabs a jagged broken pen out of the dirt and carves ‘WORK’ into the screaming mans head. Hard cut. “Look,” Doug says, still sitting on his desk and smiling. His face a tangle of red trails and oozing liquid, his eyelid swollen and red. “Some people are just born better, that’s the truth.” he says, nodding at his own words. “I’m just a leader. And what this place needs is strong leadership. We need to stop coddling bad workers. We need to make them strong. Because strong workers make a strong company. And if you can’t cut it here, well, you don’t deserve to be here. It’s all about the bootstraps. All these people are just meant to be workers. But me,” he straightens his jacket again, his knuckles red and split, “I’m here for the job. I deserve this position.” He fingers guns the camera. Then frowns. “Tricked, trapped, abducted? Please, everyone plays the victim. No, I responded to an ad on Craigslist. Said something like, ‘workplace training, with the possibility of a full-time management position if everything went well during the trial period.’ And, I got to say, it's going pretty well.” He listens. “Of course, they do. Everyone loves me here.” Hard cut. A black screen appears, the same happy tune from the beginning is playing, a string of random letters, white on a black screen, start scrolling down as the music plays. Nonsense letters, a few words appear here and there. Then there are a few paragraphs that just say ‘work’ over and over again. With the happy final note a giant white word fills the screen, ‘HELP.’ The episode ends. ….. “Ummm…” “What the fuck was that? Was that real?” “What? No! no way. I guess special effects are just more affordable these days, any idiot can get good monster effects now.” “Good? That thing looked real. Real real! And the people? I haven’t seen that good of a performance from Emmy winners, did you see them?” “Come on, really. Look, no. This is the real world, there are no monsters. This is just someone’s twisted fantasy, or maybe a bad joke. It’s tasteless. Right. A little too obvious. Probably some rich kids’ art school project. No way something like that could be real. What are you doing?” “Something was really wrong about that whole thing. No, I don’t care. I’m calling someone, I’m calling the cops.” “Jesus, they’re going to laugh you off the call. You remember that movie Cannibal Holocaust? All those people thought it was real. Or that time that guy did a radio show about a story he did, and people really thought aliens were invading. You want to be one of those people?” “You saw that, you saw it. That thing wasn’t CG, those people weren’t acting.” “Look, look. If it was real, you think it could have made it into three seasons? Huh? You think no one would notice something like that, here, on the internet? No one would allow this online. It’s here because it’s not real. Its garbage, it’s not my thing, so what? We’ll watch something else.” “…fine. But you have to leave a warning in the comments. At least do that.” “Ok, great. Look, writing it now. ‘This is a steaming pile of horse shit, and no one should have to watch it.’ There, good?” “Sure whatever. I want to watch something stupid now, something fun.” “What about that one with pug and the robots?”            “Ooooh, I love that one. Yes.”            “Perfect, let me find it.”            “I think I’m going to have nightmares about that shit…”            “Not if you’re head’s full of whacky sci-fi family hijinks you won’t!”            Rainbows and stickers flash in bright colors and a peppy voice-over fills the room. The cartoon fills the space, washing out everything else, dulling memories and softening edges until laughter cracks through the dark room in a world where monsters aren’t real.