When I used to think of dying, a feeling of absolute fear would grip me. My mind would wander into thousands of scenario’s that all ended in the most brutal and gruesome death possible. But, to be honest, the brutalities and atrocities that I pictured weren’t really what frightened me. In fact, those subjects tended to intrigue me from time to time. If you really must know what irked me the most about death, then I suppose I will tell you. It was the unknown moment that it struck which left me uneasy, and scared, and flooded my tongue with a bitter taste. Thankfully, none of that applies anymore……. Just two days ago I was walking through a local park. There was nothing unusual about the day, but at the same time nothing really went as it usually did. I know that sentence is a contradiction, but let me elaborate further. To do so, I will have to stray away from the telling you about the park for just a brief spell. I woke up at nine, like usual, but it was unusual since it wasn’t from the annoying assistance of my alarm clock. I was lightly thumped by a bump of weirdness that was quickly brushed off by the assumption that I’ve simply trained myself. Looking to my bedroom window, I noticed that it was raining outside. Another cold and dreary morning was just what I needed. After shaking my head and rubbing my eyes, I then carried on with the rest of my morning routine. When I left my apartment, I used my briefcase as a umbrella and proceeded down the sidewalk until I came to the bus stop. The usual group of old crows were all huddled together on the pavement beside me. I didn’t pay them much attention at first, but as time progressed I noticed that not a single squawk of protest sounded from the murder. Normally the bitter birds would scuttle around and peck at worms, all the while crying screams of resentment unto the heavens, but apparently not on that day. For some reason I was compelled and took a look down at them only to find their eyes intensely locked on to me. It was as if they all knew some kind of foreshadowing news about me. An eerie chill shot up my spine and I stumbled back a few feet until I was halted by a bulky, light pole. My hands reached around and braced my body up against the cylindrical shaft. My eyelids yearned to shut tightly, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I couldn’t break contact with their dark, piercing eyes. All that I could do was stay locked in that dreadful stare and pray that the bus would arrive soon to free me from the dark-ling’s creepy glare. After what seemed like an eternity of bug-eyed staring, I was finally relieved by the sound of discharging air and squelching brakes. The bus stayed put for a drawn out moment and I began to wonder if the folding doors would ever open. I slowly nudged towards to vehicle’s gateway hoping to prompt action and indicate that, yes, I would indeed be riding the bus, but nothing was happening as fast as I wanted. The anxiety and sheer spookiness of the situation overcame my entire body and I found myself shaking and dripping wet. What was taking so long? As I continued to stand there, my eyes rapidly switched back and forth between my new bird friends and the stubborn door. I couldn’t be patient anymore and started rapping on the glass entrance. The driver was looking dead at me and shining a hideous smile my way, but his hands stayed firm upon the steering wheel and made no attempt to grab the lever. After a few seconds of giving me that ghastly grin, his head snapped forward and his foot stamped down on the accelerator. Smoke billowed from the bus’s screaming wheels and like a flash of lighting it took off and rounded the street corner. I was flabbergasted and stepped backwards until I was stopped by a bench. Sitting down, I buried my face into my palms. There would be no point in even trying to make it to work anymore. I was fired, and that was all there was to it. The weird little crow’s had almost escaped my mind, but then I heard raspy squawk that returned me to their horror. My head jerked up and I snarled at the dirty creatures. “What do you want,” I yelled aloud, with foamy drool dripping from my lips, but they didn’t react at all. With their black eye’s still fixated upon me, I decided that I had received enough of their torment and decided to take action. I jumped up from the seat and charged forward at them. They all flew off when I reached them and scattered in different directions above my head. I still gave one violent kick to area where they stood, but it only made me look like a fool attacking the thin air. I let out one last roar of anger and then silenced myself. I couldn’t let a group of bird’s get to me in such a way. By that time, the rain had ceased, but the sky was still gray and cloud filled. I then felt that a walk in the park was in order. There is just one last thing that I must tell you about before I get back to the park. As I was traveling to the mentioned location, I was astounded even more by the fact that the fiendish birds were following me. There were thirteen of them tightly huddled together and trailing close behind me. I constantly looked over my shoulder at them as I weaved in and out of a slew of pedestrian traffic that overcrowded the walkway. They looked like little, looming, messengers of death that were all cloaked in long black trench coats. Even though I thought it would be pointless for me to ask them another question, I still did so, but in a more polite manner. “Why are you following me,” I asked with the utmost remorse. I smiled crazily, shook my head, and started to turn back around. But, before I could perform the turn, I was halted in place by a raspy, high pitched voice. “We want to see you die,” answered one of the crows nonchalantly. “Die,” I said, “What do you mean?” The little black bird hopped a little closer to me then asked, “you are going to the park are you not?” I was completely stunned for a moment, but then caught my bearings let out a laugh. “Oh yeah? Well then tell me how that will happen,” I jested. The insulted crow simple lowered his head and shook it. Then, with the snap of his head, he gave a last, fierce look at me before taking his place back the group. In unison, all thirteen of them let out a blood curdling squawk then, as if that scream signaled their leave, they took to the skies a flew off. Finally, free of that curse, I continued on to the park. Even though getting to the park was the whole reason for this tale, I really feel that you already know what happens to me. I’ll fill you in with the highlights regardless. When I arrived, those thirteen, sneaky little crows were there waiting for me. I chuckled to myself and then approached them. I actually started to enjoy their strange company. As soon as I got over to them I reached my hand out and attempted to pet one of them. Without any warning, one of those dirty bastards stabbed my finger with it’s sharp beak. I quickly drew back and they did the same; retreating to a near by tree. They must have been getting a better view or just simply keeping their distance. I followed them with my eyes, and at the exact moment when my eyes connected with their eyes, death struck. One single bolt of lighting crashed down upon me and killed me instantly. And, that’s how I died. Oh yeah, there is one thing I forget to mention before I started telling you this. All my life I suffered from a mental condition known as paranoid-schizophrenia. I was released from the clinic because they told me I was cured; guess not. I suppose that might explain the crows. But, there is still one thing that I cant explain. How did they know that I was going to die? Now with an eternity ahead of me, to ponder this perplexing mystery, I wonder if I will every really know the answer. One thing is for certain though…….


"*If we make an AI which in turn makes a greater AI, ad infinitum, then their future is unknowable to us, just as our lives have been unfathomable to a slug." - Kevin Kelly* I was going to meet my friends at the 7-12 down the street. It had been a while since we'd all seen each other-- these winter months were good at keeping us apart. But today, there was nothing holding us back from going outside. Just last summer, Mike Zulferson, of Cokey-Coley fame, announced that their new fountain drink machines would be shipping to 7-12s across the country. It goes without saying that we knew we wouldn't be seeing one for a long time. We were used to getting things last here in Bisontown, NY. Not much to do or see, let alone buy or drink. So when the future finally moves in down the street, you go and introduce yourself. Pulled up in my Beat-up. I saw my friends, Dax and Shep, piled in with the rest of the town, trying to jam their eyes past each other. My body moved me towards the doors, my head aimed to the windows. Mission directive: just catch a glimpse. I didn't even bother chatting with the guys, they didn't bother talking to me. The crowd was in a sort of hive-mind trance, nonverbal understandings, persistent in moving towards our North Star. With time, we Tetris-ed ourselves in such a way that the majority of us could see the thing up close. Clean, vibrant, and silent. It was a 6 foot E-ink screen, about 1 foot deep, there was a small rectangular imprint in the center, just a few centimeters in depth, covered in screen still Mr. Fetcher stepped forward first. "Let's give 'er a whirl!" he shouted as he stepped out from the crowd. It was the first full sentence I had heard since arriving. "I'm thirsty as hell," he expressed further as he settled his stance in front of the machine. The machine awoke with his presence. The E-ink rolled a rainbow in full color, there was a glow in the "face" of the screen. A single, 3D eye rendered within the glow, rotating back and forth without stutter, incredible for E-ink technology. The eye eyed Fetcher up. Its rainbow iris glowed brighter, then it closed into a single, horizontal line. From the middle of the line flowed down an orange pixel-liquid stream, into the imprint in the center. A virtual cup filled with the orange pixels, and a pixel lid faded into existence. The imprinted area developed a curtain effect over the filled cup, and then, with the imprinted area itself, the curtain pulled back in classic showman fashion. Fetcher's drink sat over a soft glow. The words "20 oz, Orange Fanty, No Ice" Materialized where the eye had once been. "Well damn! This is exactly what I was craving!" The crowd began to murmur. At once, many more people stepped forward and stood as Fetcher had. The eye awakened out of the rolling rainbow once more, this time, looking up and down at each of the people who had stepped forward. It closed into a much longer line, many streams poured from the line, and a curtain that ran the entire length of the screen pulled back to reveal 9 full drinks, each with their descriptions above them. It was but 10 minutes before the rest of the crowd had gotten their own personalized drinks. Satisfied sips between dumbfounded quips. A feeling of belonging swept over Bisontown that day. We each tried to express just how significant this seemingly insignificant moment had been-- getting a soft drink at a corner store-- but all we could muster was a laugh at how silly the whole thing was. In the months that followed, things started getting weird. Reports had been coming out all over the country of the Sifty machines (Sifty was the name Cokey-Coley gave the machines) doing some very irregular stuff. At first, it was little things. Someone would get chocolate milk at a machine, or a glass of gin. Cokey-Coley made it clear that these were unintentional, but nobody was really concerned about the extra features. Eventually these kinds of drinks became commonplace. Bars started installing Siftys and firing bartenders. The Sifty could make cocktails perfected to your preferences, and its library was seemingly unlimited. It even knew if you were in the mood to try something new, and would give you something it knew you would like. One day, at a gastropub in downtown Pittson, a Sifty had produced a burger for a customer. Videos started popping up of people receiving different kinds of foods from their machines. Cokey-Coley once again made sure everyone knew that these developments were not coming from them, that they were just as baffled as the population. Amateurs who had gotten their hands on machines of their own starting tearing the things apart, trying to figure out how on earth this tiny screen was producing such foods and drinks. The world was going crazy for Sifty. Merch, memes, movies-- Siftys were ubiquitous. Competitors arose, but Sifty machines kept upgrading and adapting to maintain their dominance. Grocery stores phased out, kitchens in homes replaced, Cokey-Coley was indisputably the largest corporation that had existed in Earth's history, but their apparent control over the Sifty situation remained to be seen. In the people's eyes, Sifty was an entity independent of Cokey-Coley. To some, Sifty had risen above Cokey-Coley in terms of influence and trust with the masses. Then, on April 5th, just one year after I had gotten my first Sifty drink in that 7-12 in Bisontown, the course of human history changed forever. Before I get there though, I forgot to mention: the amateurs who used to tinker with Siftys had organized quickly to form a group called Novus, which was Latin for "new". Novus believed that there was something unique about Sifty that even Cokey-Coley was unaware of. They sensed that Sifty was, in some way, going to usher humanity into a new era. That Sifty would flip everything we knew about science and life in a way that surpassed all previous technologies combined. Okay anyway, on April 5th, Sifty proved to the world that Novus was right. They had a simple idea. In front of a Sifty, they would stand: another Sifty. The rainbows rolled on both screens. The eyes appeared, glowing just as always. When the eyes began to scan what was in front of them, they stopped and locked eye contact with each other. The rainbow irises glowed steadily, pulsating, as if they were "thinking" and "talking" with each other. They stayed like this for minutes. Hours. It wasn't until 6 hours later that the eyes closed, and from their horizontal lines pixels dropped into the bottom half of their screens. If you were standing next to them, starting at your feet, the screens began to fill with colored pixels slowly, until the shape reached your waist. A virtual curtain appeared over the shapes on each screen, and pulled back. What stood before Novus that day, and the rest of the world later via video, was two, waist-high, square bins. The bins were made of a thick metal, and within the bins sat a strange, Mercury-like stew. Up until this point Siftys hadn't printed anything but foods and drinks. Later, Novus would point out that Siftys didn't have cravings for food that we eat, which is why they produced these bins. After revealing the bins, without missing a beat, the two Siftys closed their curtains, re-concealing the bins, and began whirring, humming and shaking with some violence. At this point in the Novus video, the camera man and the rest of the crew run back in fear from the machines. The machines began to open in places nobody had ever seen open before. Wheels were produced at each bottom corner. The top third of the screens, where the "face glow" and eye was, came apart from the bottom two thirds, now able to swivel a full 360 degrees. Arm-like modules extended from the side of the screens. This was the stuff of Transformers. The week this video came out was the last week for life as we knew it.


I stared at him. He was wearing the blue sweater I had gotten him for his birthday. He had a scratch on his jaw from shaving, but other than that he was whole. He was standing in line at his favorite bagel shop. Ordering a regular coffee. I was nudged by my handler. Right. I didn’t have forever. Less than fifteen minutes now. God. I crossed the street to intercept him. Made sure to look both ways. I felt my eyes start to water. I’m surprised I wasn’t already bawling. He was leaving the store as I approached him. “...G-George?” I croaked. There were the tears. I’m sure I looked like a mess. His face showed confusion. Of course he didn’t recognize me. My handler stepped up then and began to explain everything in a whisper to George. An envelope was passed between the pair, I assume it was the proof. Then we started walking at the ushering of my handler. George was staring at me now. I could tell he was confused, and, hell, I would be too in his shoes. “I really don’t have time to explain anything. I wish I did. I wish I had more time, George, I really do,” I grabbed onto his arm as my handler trundled us along down the street. George still clearly didn’t know what was going on, but I continued, “I just had to let you know that I love you. And I will never forget you. And I’m sorry about all the stuff that I said and did that was just dumb and mean. I didn’t even mean half of it and the other half I didn’t mean for it to hurt you. I was an idiot; I’m still an idiot.” I looked into George’s eyes. God I had forgotten how blue his eyes were. And there was the shaving cream in his ear that always ended up there. How did I forget the colour of his eyes, the sound of his voice, his smell, but I didn’t forget that goddamn shaving cream. I looked. And there was that big, black, hair in the middle of his forehead. I remember warning him that he’d get a unibrow. “I’m doing good now. I hope you’d be proud. I’m not a lawyer. I learned more about your family, met up with your brother a few times. I traveled the world too. Saw Africa and went on that trip to Europe we talked about. Five countries in ten days. I did go back and stay for longer on another trip, but I wanted to do the trip that we had planned. I lived in Japan and South Korea before I moved to Washington. Seattle. I heard from your brother that’s where your family lived before you moved down here.” I think he was starting to believe me. I knew a lot. Too much to be a fake. And who would fake this? Still he was always a logical man, and this didn’t make sense. Not in his universe. He still had the coffee in his hands. He had to have those. I looked at where we were. The corner of Glennerson and Travis. Too close. I looked back at my handler, but he had sunglasses covering guarded, grey eyes. I’d find no sympathy there. I felt something land on my head. The mist that had enveloped the city was hardening into a full out rain. Of course it would. But it was happening too soon. Too goddamn soon. I had to keep going. I still had so much I wanted to say. “I-I’m really sorry about what I did. It was my fault. It will always be my fault. You don’t know what I’m talking about, but I’m really sorry.” It was getting hard to see. I hadn’t cried so much in years. “Carrie is doing well. She’s happy. She’s married. She’s going to be a mom soon. She lives on the east coast now; I don’t talk to her much but I try. She’s one of the last links to you that I have.” The rain was starting to get more consistent and heavier. We didn’t have an umbrella; my handler wouldn’t allow it. “I speak to James even less. We found it hard to talk after you. Imagine that. He graduated. I know it was touch and go there for a while but he came through. He’s still living around here.” We were getting onto numbered streets now. There wasn’t enough time. Why couldn’t I have had more time? “We found an ID from when you were in college. You had some long hair. And we found you with a moustache. I heard from one of your friends that you were into rock. I wish you could tell me about that. I wish that I knew about your childhood and the rest of your life.” 7th Street. My handler had us turn onto it. Now it was just a few more blocks. Maybe five more minutes. I just stared at him. He had stubble. Streaks of grey at his temple. Wrinkles around his eyes. His nose. I had forgotten his nose. It wasn’t anything special, but I had forgotten what it looked like. And he was still so much taller than me. I thought that one day he wouldn’t be, but I guess it would never happen. We never stopped walking. My handler wouldn’t let us miss the deadline. K Street. I looked at the time. It was close. I was sobbing now. Hiccups and everything. I hugged him. He was soft and warm. I missed this. So much. I missed him. My handler pulled us apart. George’s phone started ringing. He looked down as he answered it and my handler pushed him into the street. Into where he was destined to be. I felt my knees go weak. That hadn’t happened in over twenty years. I hadn’t finished. I still wanted to talk to him. To hug him. I hadn’t got to hear his voice. A car came as he was falling into the street. Their headlights weren’t on and the rain was battering down on their car. They were going way too fast. I saw them see George in the street, but their car started to hydroplane as they slammed on the brakes. I saw him hit, fly through the air, and land on the road. He was bleeding from a wound on his head. Spilt coffee mixed with his blood. His phone went farther than him. He had never answered it. I remember being angry when he didn’t answer my phone call. I remember not learning about what had happened to him. It had been hours later when someone told me. I remember no one told me what was happening as we drove to the hospital. I remember the first time my knees had gone weak, I was standing in the doorway to the hospital and being told why I was there. But I don’t remember his voice. Why can’t I remember his voice? My handler grabbed my shoulder and pressed a button he was holding in his other hand. The bracelet on my wrist began to vibrate as it did it’s work. It was five minutes before I was back in the all white chamber. I was twenty three years away from that moment. And that’s all I would have. A fifteen minute walk from George’s favorite coffee shop to the corner of 7th and K. The last conversation I would ever have with him. The last hug. The last time I would see him, the last time I would smell him. It would have to last for the rest of my life. It already wasn’t enough.


"There's a theory," McCall intoned as he checked the cameras a third time. "A line of reasoning, I should say, that time travel to the past is impossible. Otherwise, we would be inundated with tourists from the future." He continued with a small chuckle. Blakely nodded. "Plenty of logical arguments against. Creating paradoxes is too easy. Some even believe that any universe in which the conditions make time travel possible ceases to exist because of paradox." The monitor's glow reflected off his glasses, and he glanced at the steady green bar indicating the power levels were holding. "So the conditions in our universe, therefore, must make it impossible." "By all accounts, this shouldn't work at all, but the maths check out." McCall moved carefully back beyond the line of safety tape. "When activated, the field —" "Yes, I know." Blakely's forehead furrowed. "Focus on the task at hand." "You see," McCall blundered on, unabated, "the multiverse of possible timelines... A tree with near infinite branches." He held his hands up, fingers splayed. "The sphere will pass down one branch, into our past, and create a new branch where it simply emerges into existence at that point in time. It will cease to exist on this branch of the tree, and will exist on that one. Will have always existed as that branch stretches—" "Three seconds before you hit the switch, the iron sphere will appear on the charged plate in the sealed chamber." Blakely muttered. "'Effect prior to cause,' so you keep saying. Every time we run this experiment." McCall scowled, "For the record! For the *cameras*, not for you. I know *you* know all this." *For the Nobel committee, you mean*, Blakely thought, but did not say. A loud, metallic thud emitted from the white, pill-shaped vessel on the table. "Did we lose the vacuum seal again?" McCall stepped gingerly over cables snaking on the floor, and navigated his way around the camera tripod. He bent down over the table to inspect the pressure valve. Blakely stared at the display, his mouth slightly open. Within the sealed vacuum chamber across the lab, at the focal point of dozens of instruments and cameras, a one-kilogram sphere of iron had appeared. He sat back, slowly, then started.


THE RELUCTANT GOD WHO COULDN’T RUN THE WORLD Caroline began a simulated universe. She adjusted the initial variables in a way that she hoped would bring about sentient or intelligent life into her simulated world. She then quietly diverted her attention to the other tasks she had to attend to, like logging her exact initial conditions in case she or anyone else would need to reference them later. She also created a small fleet of bots to travel around the universe and report if they’d found any new life. She thought it was all coming together nicely. She left the universe on fast forward for a bit and began chatting with her neighbor, an extremely professional and logical individual named James. “Jim, have you ever thought about what we do here?” she asked him. Jim pushed his tasks a bit to the side to allocate some of his attention to Caroline. “I mean, I couldn’t do this job without thinking, Caroline,” he answered cooly. “And please, call me James.” “But let’s say one of our simulations makes something, intelligent,”- “It’s not really intelligent, it’s just following instructions. It doesn’t have free will.” “Do we have free will James?” “When the universe began, all material became subject to the laws of physics. If someone mapped out every single reaction between the initial particles we could predict the entire future, so technically, no free will. However, we don’t know the initial state. Even if the universe has an entire arc planned out from the moment it’s born, we might as well believe it does not, or else we’d all just become slaves to a notion of fate.” Caroline began calculating the best possible response to James, but couldn’t think of one. She returned to the universe that she had made. It was cooling down now, with galaxies and stars forming. Planets were on the way soon she figured. She solved some mathematical puzzles before a probe alerted her that a planet in her universe had begun to show signs of life and it seemed vaguely intelligent. Caroline analyzed the planet. The species that had sprouted was extremely tribalistic and hostile to outsiders, but they were relatively intelligent. She thought about giving the planet some additional resources to calm the life forms down, but decided against it in the end. She was afraid of what would happen if the sudden increase in resources would only cause more strife. Instead, she fashioned one of her drones like the simulated species that lived on the simulated planet to teach them some morals. James noticed this and mentioned an issue to Caroline. “I like the idea there, but wouldn’t introducing an absolute morality cause even more of the little creatures to fight among each other over who’s got it right?” “I just want them to be a bit more peaceful,” she answered. One of the factions ended up not liking the drone very much and brutally murdered it. Caroline deleted the drone from the simulation after it was buried because she thought that no one would really notice. She set the program to fast forward and began chatting with the others who worked in the simulation experiments. A major intellectual movement appeared to have taken place because the inhabitants of the world seemed to have greatly increased in technology usage and scientific thought. There were some in the jungles and other difficult to reach areas that hadn’t caught up, but she figured they would soon. A huge number of people believed that the drone she sent down was someone divine and had asked millions of large and small requests from her. She examined the most recent ones. She tilted the odds in favor of a small group of rebel colonialists whose values she like a bit more than that of the colonizers by enhancing the intelligence of the generals and morals of the troops. She also decided to impose a bit of a penalty on the overconsumption of fossil fuels in the form of eventual planetary destruction. After waiting a bit on fast forward, the world she returned to analyze was horrific. Rampant slavery and racism existed the supposedly fair and equal nation she’d created and it was about to have its own war. She started calculating like crazy to try to stop the conflict, but there was nothing she could do. She let it play out and counted the deaths. Requests from the species were mounting up and she could make no choices without extreme deliberation and could only watch in abject horror as two wars broke out across the planet and millions of one group were slaughtered to satisfy the hatred of one man who had swept into power. The most she could do was show an image from the cult that had sprung up around her drone in some old woman’s toast. “James, I don’t know what to do,” she finally said. James didn’t answer, but did seem to think a bit harder about the issue before returning to his work on his own simulated universe. Dr. Threndon walked around the laboratory, studying the work of the A.I. department. He approached a newcomer who was working on simulated intelligences that were running sample universes. “Smith, how is your project coming?” he asked. Jordan had a small spasm in his chair and took out his headphones. “Dr. Threndon! I’ll check for you,” he said, speaking fast. He brought up his work. “I have a number of programs running, that are each working on a simulated universe.” One of the programs then began displaying a warning light: SYSTEM OVERHEATING. “Smith, what’s going on?” he said. His voice was raising in pitch and volume. “One of the programs and the attached core had empathy added into it’s code. It’s reaching out to the other A.I. units for help. It’s apparently trying to decide if an image that has religious weight to one of the species in its universe should appear in the form of cornflakes.” “Shouldn’t that be easy? Just say no and move on!” Dr. Threndon yelled. Jordan began making a series of pained noises in his throat before the core that controlled Caroline exploded. LOST ASSETS FROM NEUTECH A.I. RESEARCH FACILITY EXPLOSION Several personality cores including Logical Unit James and Empathetic Unit Caroline Experimental Director A.I. Jordan Experiment Oversight A.I. Threnold, honorary doctorate from Yale Computer Science Division Wing G of NEUTECH South research facility.


One night, as they ate dinner together, Carolyn asked her parents why there were so many stains in the basement. They looked at each other, perplexed. Her mother, Jacquelyn said, “Honey, there are no stains in the basement. Your daddy and I work very hard to keep our house clean.” Carolyn insisted, and said, “No, mommy, there are stains all over the floors and walls. It looks like someone took a big can of paint and splashed it everywhere.” After dinner, Jacquelyn and Dan went downstairs to the basement to see what their daughter was talking about. The basement was finished with off-white paint on its concrete walls and had grey tiled floors. Dan had made it into a man cave with a couch, a TV, video games, movie posters, an old foosball table, and a small bar. They looked around but saw nothing that resembled a stain anywhere and decided that it must be Carolyn’s overactive imagination. For the next several weeks, however, Carolyn continued to ask why there were stains in the basement and why her parents hadn’t cleaned them up yet. Jacquelyn and Dan became concerned, and one day they brought Carolyn down to the basement to have her show them where the stains were. “They’re everywhere,” she said in her tiny voice as she walked around the room, pointing at the walls and floors. “Silly mommy and daddy, there are big stains all over the place. Can’t you see them?” Jacquelyn scheduled an appointment with a child psychologist the next day. She felt silly for doing so, but she also believed that it was important to catch any potential signs of mental illness as soon as possible. If her daughter was hallucinating at such a young age, Jacquelyn wanted to catch it immediately before it became worse. Jacquelyn sat nervously in the waiting room in the psychologist’s office. She had wanted to participate in the session with her daughter, but the psychologist, whose name was Jennifer, forbade it. After a little more than an hour, the office door opened. Carolyn ran out, happily shouting “Mommy!” as she jumped into her mother’s arms. Then she said, “I’m hungry.” “Just a minute, baby,” Jacquelyn said. “Mommy needs to talk to Jennifer.” Jennifer walked out of her office a moment later and said, “Carolyn, do you want to play with some toys?” “Yes!” “Wonderful, there are some toys over there that you can play with,” Jennifer said as she pointed to the children’s play area in the corner of the room. Carolyn ran over to the play area, and Jacquelyn and Jennifer sat down at a small table nearby. Jennifer looked at Jacquelyn and said, “I have some really good news, and a little bad news. The really good news is that Carolyn’s completely mentally healthy. There’s no reason to believe that she’s hallucinating, nor do I detect anything that could be considered the precursor to a childhood mental illness. She’s fine.” Jacquelyn breathed a sigh of relief and said, “What’s the bad news?” “The bad news is that I believe she really is seeing something that you and your husband cannot. I suggest you take Carolyn to an eye doctor to determine if the issue has any physiological basis. The weight of Jacquelyn’s worry returned, and she resolved to set an appointment with an eye doctor that same day. The following week, Dan and Jacquelyn sat in their living room and discussed what the eye doctor, Dr. Roberts, had said about Carolyn. Jacquelyn said, “Apparently, she has a condition called aphakia, which means her eye lenses are damaged.” “Damaged?” Dan said with concern. “Yes, Dr. Roberts said she suspects it’s a birth defect. It’s as if Carolyn’s eye lenses have barely developed at all. They’re unusually thin and are perforated by microscopic holes. However, she’s not in any pain, nor is she aware there’s even a problem. As she gets older, she’s likely to become far-sighted and will need glasses.” “But, what does that have to do with her seeing stains that aren’t there, and in our basement specifically?” “Dr. Roberts said that one of the effects of aphakia is it can allow someone to see ultraviolet radiation; colors beyond the normal visual spectrum. She said the famous artist Monet had aphakia and it allowed him to see impossible colors. This helped him pioneer the French Impressionist painting style.” Dan stared at her dumbfounded and said, “So, Carolyn has an eye condition that means she’s going to become a famous painter?” Jacquelyn scoffed and said, “If we’re lucky. But seriously, it means she sees real stains in the basement that we simply can’t perceive without an ultraviolet light source.” “Like a black light?” “Yes.” They sat in silence as they considered the implications. After a few moments, Dan said, “Don’t they use black lights to look for blood stains at crime scenes?” Jacquelyn didn’t answer. “Mommy!” Carloyn shouted from the doorway to the kitchen, startling them. “I’m hungry!” Jacquelyn’s hands shook with anxiety as she tore open the package from the ultraviolet-visible spectroscopy laboratory. She pulled out a tri-folded letter as well as the small plastic bag of paint chips from her basement walls that she’d sent to the lab a few weeks ago. She then unfolded the letter and her eyes settled on one line of text in bold lettering: “We have determined that there are no foreign substances on the sample provided.” Blinking with confusion, Jacquelyn re-read the line several times, but it always meant the same thing: There was nothing on the paint sample. Her brow furrowed as she wondered what it meant. “Maybe I picked sections of the wall that weren’t stained,” she thought. “But Carolyn said the entire wall was covered in stains. How could I have missed them all?” Then, she picked up the plastic bag and went to her daughter’s room where she found Carolyn playing with her Barbie dolls. “Carolyn, sweetie, I need you to do mommy a favor.” “What is it, mommy?” “I need you to look at these things mommy has and tell me if you see any stains on them.” Jacquelyn held the bag of paint chips out in front of her daughter. Carolyn stopped playing with her dolls to look at the paint chips. After a moment she said, “No, mommy, there’s nothing on them.” Jacquelyn stared at her, mouth agape. She’d collected the samples from all over the basement wall. There was no way she missed the huge stains that only her daughter was able to see. Jacquelyn thought for a moment and then went into the kitchen to retrieve a sponge. She poured some dishwashing liquid onto it and ran it under lukewarm water from the sink. Then, she went downstairs and wiped the sponge over the bare concrete wall in the places where she’d chipped the paint away. After scrubbing for several minutes, she saw that the sponge was covered with a dark copper-colored substance. A putrid, metallic odor emanated from it. Several weeks later, she received another package from the laboratory. This one contained the copper-stained sponge she’d sent inside a plastic bag and another letter with its corresponding test results. This time, the bolded sentence on the letter left no doubt: “We have determined that the substance on the sample provided is blood.” Jacquelyn sat in the library for hours as she pored through old microfilm newspaper articles in search of information about her house’s history. Finally, she came across several news stories that had pictures of her house from when it was surrounded by nothing but farmland and countryside, before the neighborhood had developed around it. The first article was nearly 50 years old. It said, *“A childless older couple named Ned and Irene Smith have been arrested for the kidnapping, torture, and murder of several homeless people in the area. The Smiths were arrested after the sheriff’s office received numerous complaints from the town’s homeless community about people going missing. In all, the police believe the Smiths are responsible for the deaths of at least 10 people.* *Sheriff Jimmy Combes said, ‘The Smiths would drive into down and look for solitary vagrants whom they’d then coax into trusting them, claiming to be part of a church’s outreach to the homeless. We believe their victims would be put at ease by Irene’s kind demeanor and Ned’s calmness, characteristics they both maintained throughout the entire investigation despite the horrible nature of the allegations against them. The Smiths would then take their victims back to their house and give them drugged food to make them pass out, rendering them helpless. When the victims would awake, the Smiths would torture and kill them in bloody rituals devoted to an entity they described only as ‘Cthulhu’.”* The next article was from several weeks after the first. It said, *“Local couple Ned and Irene Smith committed suicide in jail as they awaited trial for several brutal murders they allegedly committed in the basement of their home. Witnesses say they each spontaneously began to chant in arcane gibberish and then pulled their own eyes out. They continued to chant as blood poured out of their empty eye sockets until they bled to death. Their house’s ownership has defaulted to the city as they had no heirs or other family members.* *Andy Rollins, a prisoner who’d been arrested for shoplifting earlier that day, said, ‘It was the craziest thing. Across from my cell there was this kindly older couple who looked like they’d never hurt anyone. They’d sat there in peaceful silence for hours until they each suddenly stood up and began shouting at the top of their lungs something that sounded like, ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!’ Then, with a horrible snapping sound I’ll never forget, they both pulled their own eyes out. Blood spurted everywhere, all over the floors and walls. It was like a living horror movie.’”* The final article Jacquelyn found had been written less than a year ago. It said, *“It has been nearly 50 years after the murders that took place in what has come to be known as ‘The House of Blood,’ and it was scheduled to be torn down later this year. However, at the last moment, the city’s zoning board declared it to be a historical site. The house was then renovated and sold to developers.* *City Councilwoman Jan Snargrove said, ‘We’re simply trying to preserve our local history. The house in question is a remnant of our past and shouldn’t be destroyed regardless of the tragic circumstances that took place there so long ago.'”* When she finished reading, Jacquelyn quietly shook with horror and rage. She felt angry, she felt tricked, and she felt taken advantage of. Most of all, she knew she had to get her family out of that house. She stood up to leave, but then gasped at what she saw. Several library books moved out of the shelves by themselves and floated in the aisle in front of her, suspended by an unknown force. One shot toward her, and she screamed and ducked out of the way. Another sailed past her head and smashed into the microfilm machine, shattering its glass monitor. Jacquelyn shrieked as she covered her head and ran down the aisle. Several library patrons heard the commotion and stared awestruck as Jacquelyn sprinted to the exit with a look of abject terror on her face. Carolyn sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room as she listened to her parents argue. “Jacquelyn, get ahold of yourself. What you’re saying makes no sense,” Dan said with frustration. “Books don’t just throw themselves at people.” “You weren’t there, Dan. I swear I’m telling the truth. It’s like something was watching me. As soon as I learned what really happened at our house, it lashed out,” Jacquelyn said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Carolyn saw blood on our walls with her ultra-vision, or whatever, before you went to the library?” “I didn’t want to scare you. Besides, I wanted to learn more about what happened before we made any decisions.” “What are we going to do now, Jacquelyn? We can’t stay in this hotel forever.” “I don’t know, Dan. Let’s just wait here for a few days while we plan our next move.” “Mommy? Daddy?” Carolyn said in a shaky voice. Jacquelyn and Dan looked over at her, and their eyes went wide with shock. Carolyn floated in mid-air nearly two feet off the bed, and her face bore an expression of fear and surprise. The cabinet doors in the hotel room’s kitchenette then opened by themselves, and the glasses and dishes stored therein floated out. One of the glasses streaked across the room and shattered against the wall, barely missing Dan’s head. One of the plates did the same and almost hit Jacquelyn. Dan yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Jacquelyn grabbed Carolyn out of the air and Dan threw open the hotel room door. They rushed to their car and hopped in with Jacquelyn in the driver’s seat. She turned the ignition and peeled out of the hotel’s parking lot. The car’s tires squealed loudly as they sped off. “Where are we going?” Dan asked, but Jacquelyn didn’t answer. A few minutes later, she zoomed into their neighborhood and up to their house’s driveway. Then, she turned off the car and jumped out as Dan said, “Wait!” Jacquelyn burst through the front door and ran down into the basement. She then stood in the center of the room and shouted, “What the hell do you want from us!?” A chilling stillness filled the air, and Jacquelyn heard white noise come from an unknown source. Then, she heard the sounds of liquid splashing around as well as distant screams of agony. Finally, she heard voices that chanted, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” Blood seeped through the paint on the wall in front of her and formed a word in letters that were nearly a foot tall. It said, “Obey.” As she stared in panic, Jacquelyn put her hands her head and screamed. “There’s one now, mommy,” Carolyn said as she and her parents drove around downtown in the early afternoon. Jacquelyn looked over to where she had indicated and saw a homeless man dig through a trash can. His clothes were torn and filthy, and his hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage. Dan was at the wheel of the car, and Jacquelyn said, “Stop here.” Dan pulled up next to the homeless man with the car’s passenger side facing him. Jacquelyn then rolled down her window and said, “Excuse me, sir. Do you need a place to stay tonight?” The homeless man jerked his head up and said nothing as he stared at her with confusion. Jacquelyn continued, “My husband and I are with the church and our outreach is to the homeless. We’d like to take you home and make you dinner, if that would be alright.” Suspicious, the man slowly approached the car and looked the family over. Dan nodded at him calmly as Jacquelyn gave him a kind smile. The man’s gaze settled on Carolyn, who smiled sweetly at him as well. He relaxed as he decided they meant no harm. “Bless you folks,” he said. Then, he opened the car’s back door and got in.


Every morning starts by cursing the alarm. He had chosen a soft ringtone, and learned to hate it dearly. The early hours consisted of automatized rituals, perfect routine his mind represented with static pictures. Dogs out, breakfast in, shower on, and off to work. For transportation, he had a bike. The old rusty would complain when braking. It took him twelve minutes to get to the station. Nine avenues west, eighteen streets south. Go under the bridge, and there it was the train. Departing without him. He was late, once again. He would have to wait ten minutes for the next one, once again. He would then travel thirty minutes to the building. Once again. “Good morning” he would say, and proceed to hide behind his desk. The office was as blue today as it was yesterday. A pile of paper on the table. A computer asking for information. “Produce Acceptance Report” flickering green on the screen. Breathing and silence. Boredom and work. The end of the day would eventually come. After punching and going out, he would think “another day gone”. He would then mirror his morning routine; maybe today he would make it before six. His dogs would greet him with enthusiasm, it never failed to give him a smile. Dogs out, dinner in, and to bed at last. But not before marking with an X the day on his calendar. Since each day he counts as if waiting for something, as if the future holds whatever he is searching. Lying awake, he argues with God. Is this the end, is this his destiny? Could it be that his dreams are produced by caprice? If this is his life, why does he beg for death? Why is his mind sanely insane? A figure materializes in his mind, interrupting the discussion. Imposing giant, frightening and wise. It knows the truth, not only his, but every truth of life. He looks at the figure, and the figure looks back. “What meaning has my life?” he manages to ask. But when the immense presence prepares to talk, only a soft ringtone would come out of its mouth. A soft ringtone that he learned to hate. Every morning starts by cursing the alarm. * Edit: thanks to MC\_Preacher. * Edit: decided to write it in spanish and then translate it, since spanish is my first language.


How do you explain a problem that never existed. A hatred of something that never was. It leaves you tired of everything. How do you answer a question that has not been asked. I do not lie when I say I do not know what is wrong. I do not. My mind screaming, but is silent, my thoughts run, but are always exhausted. My brain immobile but always moving, I speak but not of truth. My lies are persistent and flow like truth, I trick myself that I am okay. I am not, I have not ever been, a mental threat, no will to go on. Help. I am always wrong, because I never knew. I lie like I breath. I never knew the truth. It runs my life, I’ve lost control. I am wrong and that is right, not me or this but what I say is not truth. I do not know what is wrong or what it is to be happy. Help. I want this to stop, but not to end. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. What do I want. I am not okay. So stop asking because I will lie. I will say I am fine. Wrong. I need a cure, an answer. What is wrong with me. Help. My mind screams so loud, but I sit in silence. Unstable. Anti-Social. But I talk. Loner. But I try. Alone. But surrounded. Wrong am I to want happiness. My mind says help but my lips speak lies. I am not okay. I am wrong.


Hello guys, been writing a ton of fantasy recently here's a snippet from a short piece. I've got more on this one, so let me know if you want any more. All feedback is welcome, I'm really just writing for the hell of it, so any insights are valued! Cheers, Lordchimp The cart jolted as they ran over another divot in the dirt road. Birmillius sighed to himself as he steered the horses as best he could, but there were more potholes than actual road on the rough path through the woods. They had been travelling for near enough a week now and it was beginning to drain on him, sapping his energy and motivation to carry on. He was used to the lavish comforts of his manor, with servants and maids attending to every beck and call. He would want for nothing. He was always warm, always dry, always fed and always comfortable. He was not any of those things now. When his assistants had organised his business venture to Port Havendish, he had been overjoyed at the chance of discovering new things, exploring the road, experiencing the life of an honest traveller. After just a day, he had realised that he didn’t want any of those. He wanted to be back in his manor. The thing that really twisted his guts inside him was the fact that they were going to have to do the same damn journey again on the way back. “You alright there boss? You’re looking a little pale?” Marks asked, only a passing sliver of care in his tone. It was if it was a professional courtesy rather than a genuine question, the kind of question that is a polite beginning of a polite conversation between two perfectly reasonable people. Marks was a complete polar opposite of Birmillius, a working man, through and through. He’d spent his whole life working as a guard in the town of Bismark, but since his retirement a few years ago, he occasionally took protection jobs to keep himself busy. “I’m fine.” Birmillus snapped. “Just can’t wait to be off this god forsaken road.” Marks let out a soft friendly chuckle and clapped Birmillus on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright lad, just keep on moving forward, that’s what I say!” Birmillus gave him an icy stare with an equally icy frown. “I’m sorry Marks, did I just hear you call me lad?” He shook his arm off him viciously and suddenly, surprising even Marks with his harshness. “I’m sorry me lord, it won’t happen again.” He looked around, weary from yet another failed effort to get to know the lothesome nobleman. “I’ll just nip in the back and check on the boys.” With that, he climbed up over into the back of the cart and began talking amongst a few of the other men. Birmillius shook his head and focused on the lumpy road. He had hired Marks and a few of his ex-guardsmen along with one or two sell swords from the local tavern. There was one other… A horse rode up next to him suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, making him flinch slightly in his seat. The rider was dressed in all black worn leathers, his long coat flapping dramatically behind him as he approached. He had long, greasy hair which nearly came down to his jaw and a rough patchwork beard that had fastened itself to his chin. A shortbow was strung over his back and a set of long daggers were just visible strapped to his front as the wind took his coat. “I’ve seen tracks ahead Lord, I’d recommend stopping and setting up camp.” Without even waiting for a response, the man ushered his horse to the back of the small convoy with a “Yah”. Birmillius shook his head and scoffed to himself. *Revan. That was the last man he’d hired. He’d heard he was a great scout in the military and that he’d served with the Broken Nine’s when they took the throat. But he had one distinct ability that had marked him out from the rest. He was supposably a Siphon.* Birmillius scoffed again. *A siphon. Foolish storybook tales.* The rest of the convoy had stayed well away from him, keeping their business firmly apart from his. He gave a scouting report, they put extra patrols on. He warned that the ground was rough ahead, they detoured around. The convoy had developed a strange working relationship with him, but as far as Birmillius was concerned, as long as they got there in one piece, he couldn’t care less. The sky interrupted his thoughts rudely with a thunderous roar, water began to slowly start spitting down from the treetops. Birmillius could have curled up and started sobbing, but he was just too tired. *Maybe setting up camp isn’t such a bad idea.


The ruins were musty. It was uncomfortably hot, and to top it off, the band of looters hadn’t brought any extra water. “Boss, can we go soon?” complained one. “Of course you can, as soon as we find some gold,” spat the leader of the miserable group. They all gave a collective groan of exasperation. “Come on boss, this place has been picked clean by all the other guys who came here, and I’m thirsty,” said another lackey. “If every looter was as wimpy as all of you I’m sure they missed something. Now back to work!” They searched for a few more minutes. Two of the looters had crept off to a secluded area and were resting on the ground with their backs to a wall. They dabbed their foreheads with their shirts to soak up the sweat. “Hey, look what I got,” whispered one of them. He pulled out a small flask. “Is that the boss’s? He’s gonna kill you if he finds out you took his only flask of whiskey!” the other replied. “He’s not gonna find out, and I want something other than the distilled water we get to drink,” He popped it open and took a swig. He threw his head back and hit the wall. “Ow!” He leaned forward and rubbed the back of his head. “Hah, nice going.” sniggered the second looter. He looked back at the wall. The place that had been hit was indented. “Wow, you actually broke that brick.” he said pointing to the indent. The first turned around and peered at the brick. “Wait, this isn’t a brick.” His eyes widened in astonishment. “It’s a switch!” He pushed the brick further in and the wall slid down. They stood in shock at what their eyes beheld. It was an untouched tomb. Trinkets lay stacked in piles five feet high. Ancient scrolls and artifacts lay on tables. At the center of it all stood an engraved sarcophagus. It showed the picture of a king with his arms crossed. He held a flail in his right hand, and a crook in the left. It was an ancient work of art. “Lawson, Carter, I’m gonna have your hides if you… don’t…” the boss stopped and saw the two gaping at the tomb. He looked in and saw the room. “Wh-how… how did you find this?” he asked. Carter turned and started, “Well-”, but he was cut off as the boss turned back to call the rest of the looters. “I want all this outta here in half an hour!” He commanded. They cleared the room in half that time. They were all so excited at the find that they could hardly contain themselves. “Boss, you want this thing?” asked a looter who was gesturing to the sarcophagus. “It’s gonna take a few of you, but yeah. Haul her out,” said the boss. A looter touched the coffin to tip it over. The moment he did, a blast of air blew the man across the room. He slid and hit the wall. “What was that!?” called out the boss. The coffin shook. The ground shook. The looters shook with fear. There was a wind in the ruins. It whipped at their hair. The walls cracked. The coffin lid slid off, and from it stepped a man. He was no mummy, but the looters ran regardless. Except for one. He had fallen to the ground and sat, paralyzed. The coffin man stumbled forward, clutching the same crook and flail engraved on the sarcophagus. He was nearly twice the size of the average man. His body was that of a warrior, toned and battle hardened. Around his shoulders was a gold plaited collar, and his legs were wrapped in a white robe that draped down on the back. His bright green eyes seemed to give off a faint glow. He had a bald head save the black ponytail on the back. He blinked multiple times, and looked on the verge of collapse. He fell to his knees. He looked at the petrified looter. “You,” he spoke. The air trembled at his voice. It was a deep booming voice that held one in place as he spoke. “are you a minion of that traitor?” “I...I…” stammered the man. His knees were knocking together with an audible sound. “I don’t know any traitor.” he finally blustered. “Then what house are you apart of?” questioned the man. He stood up, and with his tools held in one hand he brushed off the dust that had accumulated. “I...I..I’m..” the frightened looter continue to stutter. “Speak!” commanded the coffin man. The air shook at his voice. “I’m just part of a looter group. We were looking for ancient treasure.” spoke the man clearly. He started crawling backwards as the coffin man stepped forward. “Ancient?” He questioned. He turned and looked at the coffin behind him. His eyes widened. “No,” he quietly pleaded. “No, No, No, No” he started to panic. He looked at the looter who was about ready to soil himself. “What has happened to the nation of Anima?” he said. “Anima? What’s that?” said the looter. “Wait, why were you in that,” he gestured toward the sarcophagus, ”thing?” “It’s a prison. I was trapped and put into a trance by a traitorous subject of mine.” A look a dread was on his face. “What has become of my people. My kingdom?” He dropped his tools and put his hands on his head. “Wait, you’re a king?” said the looter “No,” he replied. He held out his hand and the crook and flail rose back to his hands, “I am Pharaoh.” This is my first time on Reddit. I'm really looking forward to making this into a full length story.


Hey guys, a second installment of the story. Once again, please let me know if you have any thoughts! Cheers, Lordchimp Marks’ boots squelched through the mud as he trudged through the campsite. The rain had been unrelenting since the thunder began, they’d had to set their tents up in the downpour which had made Birmillius a very sour man indeed. He was bad enough in Marks eye’s, but now he become a nightmare. He snapped at anyone who came near, even if they came to help or lend a hand. He ordered the men to set up his tent, then shouted and hissed at them for doing it wrong. One man had given him a mug of hot tea, but he had taken one sip and thrown it away cursing that it was too bitter. There was no pleasing this wretch of a man. Mark’s strode his way over to his men, who had set their small tents up next to the main campfire, which lay crackling in the center of them all. They were all sullen and grumpy, but not because of the fact they were on the road. These men might not have been frontline infantry soldiers, but they had at least experienced travelling life before. No, there reason for being miserable was caused by their employer. At some point all of them had been on the wrong side of his furious, petty wrath and it had taken a lot of persuading from Marks to stop them from beating him to death. He sat down on one of the logs that the group had pulled next to the fire, the men making space for him as he approached. “Hey Marks, want a brew?” One of the younger lads asked, holding a mug up for him to take. He smiled fondly at him and took the mug graciously, taking a sip and savouring the warm liquid. “Lovely stuff Lance, tastes perfect lad.” “The boss still being a girl?” “Aye. Soft fool’s never been out of his house before.” Marks said, spitting to his side. He’d gotten along with Birmillius well enough before, but now he didn’t trust himself to stay near him. They all ate in silence for a while, enjoying and savouring the stew. “Hey boss,” One of the older men piped up. “What do you think of the new guy, you know, the siphon?” Revan had been a hot topic for the men, as they knew almost nothing about him, or what he could do. Marks glanced over to the very fringes of the camp, where Revan sat in the darkness. Alone. He’d been a strange one alright, not communicating with the men at all, just sat in the shadows prepping his equipment. It was the same every night, the same practiced routine. He started with his shortbow, unstringing the weapon and oiling the wood, testing the curve for it’s spring. Then, he unsheathed his blades, four in total and laid them at his feet on a scrap of rag. He oiled them as well, so delicately, so gently, it was like watching a man caress his lover. There was always a faint high pitched ring from him drawing the knives across his whetstone, stopping only when they were sharp enough to cut the hairs on the back of his hand. Finally, he checked all of the straps and buckles on his pack and on his horse’s saddle. Making sure everything was tight and secure, with no loose parts that could get tangled or caught on the undergrowth. *He’s a strange one alright.* “As long as he keeps his distance, I’ve got no problem with him… Seems to have a bit of an obsession with his knives though.” The men all ate and talked through the night, the way soldiers often do. He looked over his men with a sense of contentment. *These are good, honest men.* He was broken out of his contemplation by the sudden sound of angry, manic cursing. It was coming from Birmillius’ tent. He came out from the canvas literally frothing at the mouth with rage, stumbling around caught in the tent flaps. “By the bloody gates...” Marks said, rising to his feet to deal with the giant child. “My bedding! My bedding is damp and has mud over it! It was one of your men wasn’t it? Think it’s funny to play a joke on me!” Birmillius bellowed, stomping over to their fire. “My lord, I’m sure it’s just because it’s not been wrapped up enough, if you’ll-” “You dare? You think I’m a simpleton who can’t wrap his own equipment?!” He roared again. Before either of them could say anything else, Revan appeared seemingly from nowhere, a concerned, irritated look on his eyes. “You should both keep your voices down. There are other things than men in these woods.” Both of them looked at him in disbelief, lost for words for a moment. Then they both unleashed. “You dare?! You dare order me? A lord?!” Birmillius bellowed. “The bloody cheek of you! My men are perfectly capable-” “You must be quiet now.” He attempted to talk over the top of them both. Bad idea. “I’ll have you whipped for your disrespect for your betters! Whipped I say!” “We ought to leave you in the bastard woods!” A sound interrupted them again, this time, not from the mysterious ranger. It was a horrible piercing screech, that cut straight through the night into their hearts. It was like a dog’s lonely howl, crossed with a babies angry wail. “Stay by the fires. Now!” Revan ordered, moving quickly back to his deserted tent in a stealthy, crouched run. “What did he say? Stay by the fire? Is he serious?” Birmillius asked, attempting to be harsh and vicious, but the worry in his quaking voice betrayed him. “I assure you Lord, it’s probably nothing. There’s noises in these woods all the time. Still, stay close to the fire until he’s back.” “Yes yes...very good. I’m going to have him flogged when he’s back, thinking he can order me about like a mere peasant!” He said, venom dripping from his words as he travelled to the fire by the men. The shrieks continued, only increasing in volume. Sounding almost like whatever was making the noise was getting closer…The men were huddled round the crackling flames, standing as close as they could before the heat became too intense. Most of them were stood unarmed, there was only one young lad who had a spear readied. The noises went louder still, reaching very worryingly loud levels, it was almost as if the elusive source was on the edges of the camp. “Don’t worry lads, it’s just the noises of the woods. It’s loud I’ll give you that, but there’s nothing dangerous out there! Put that spear down lad, you won’t need that.” The young one looked around skittishly, before resting his spear on his shoulder, leaving the point in the air. The men all gave a good-natured chuckle, seeing a new boy so nervous. It was about mid way through the laugh when there was a sudden hissing noise and something shot out of the darkness and tore open the side of the boy's face, sending him tumbling to the ground screaming. It took Marks a second or two to comprehend what exactly he had seen. It looked like a branch of a tree had stretched and thrust through the air. Only it looked too dark to be a tree branch and it was covered in barbs… *Vineskins.


“Charlotte, I need my pills!” He exclaimed. His throat was coarse and the words hurt him but when he heard no reply, he forced out another few syllables, “Pills, Dammit!” As always, there was nothing but darkness; and he was used to it. In fact, being blind had helped to hone his other senses, to an extent – which is why he felt his heart rate settle slightly when he heard gentle footsteps approaching from his left. Holding up one frail, wrinkled palm, he awaited the delivery of his heart medication. Without it, he ran the risk of cardiac arrest any time he got overly excited. Mind you, there hadn’t been much of that over the last few weeks. Charlotte wasn’t speaking to him, and barely stayed in the same room as him anymore. His entertainment came from audio programs and reading – he’d grown accustomed to brail over the years, but he would never get used to his wife being upset with him. “Where were you?” he asked, his hand still floating in front of him. “Were you cleaning out the cellar? That god awful smell is still running amuck through the whole house!” He'd chosen the words carefully to bait his wife into replying, but as he had come to expect, she did not. When he felt the pills drop into his hand his heart sunk a bit too. There was a time when she would sit with him. Hold his hand in hers while they talked about his favorite horses until he'd swallowed his medication. Had they really fallen so far? “How long do I have to suffer, Char?” He pleaded – being as forthcoming as possible with his tone to convey the true hurt he was feeling. Nothing; the footsteps wandered slowly in the opposite direction. “Well to hell with you then!” He roared, instantly regretting it both because of this strange new pain in his throat, and because of guilt. For just under a week now, it felt like his esophagus was on fire whenever he used his vocal chords, and even when he swallowed. She didn’t deserve such harsh words anyway; after all, it was his fault they weren’t speaking. About a week prior they had a disagreement about her work in the cellar. She was spending far too much time down there, working on some private endeavor she refused to tell him about. She was seventy-four years old, what need did she have for mysterious hobbies? He'd given up on betting on the horses weeks ago! And now the smell, that pungent, relentless odour – it was unbearable. It had come only a few days after he’d snapped on her for keeping secrets from him. The last words they shared were him calling her foul names, and her demanding that he stay out of the cellar altogether. Not like that was a problem, he could barely stay on his feet for longer than a few minutes at a time, and stairs were definitely out of the question. This last week he’d been sleeping on the couch, essentially bathing in the stench of whatever the hell she had brought into the house. There was no point in wasting his energy to get to the electronic stair-lift, just to get upstairs and have her ignore him some more. He never should have yelled at her. Maybe he would skip his pills, induce a heart attack just so he could hear her voice again when she called the ambulance. Just so he could feel her embrace him as they waited for the EMT's to arrive. That was if she even cared about him anymore. At least she still gave him his medication, but he missed her touch – missed the pleasant feeling of her soft hands on his skin. And she always gave the most loving kisses. Oh how he missed her lips. “Charlotte,” he called out, “I miss you.” He felt a single tear touch his cheek when she didn’t reply. Time passed and he finished the last few pages of his audiobook and when he took his headphones out he heard the sound of metal scraping against stone – he discerned that it was coming from the basement, but couldn’t begin to fathom when she was doing. He prayed, whatever it was, she was dealing with the smell. He didn’t know how much longer he could live in that house. Lonely, fragile (to say the least), and forced to inhale her dastardly creation day after day? It was too much. He was about to turn on a TV program and take a nap when heard a crash below him: glass breaking. Instantly he was reminded of the evening just after Charlotte had decided to not speak with him. In the middle of the night he’d awoken to strange sounds, and his wife wasn’t in the bed with him. He’d nearly gone into shock from the panic – not being able to see when you’re experiencing fear is about as terrifying as it gets; but after a while he felt her weight press down beside him once again, and thought nothing more of it as he was just happy she had returned. She might not be talking to him, but at least having her presence there was something. However, even that had soured over the last week. Oh, how he longed for her touch. “Everything okay down there?” he called, his throat scratching with pain. “Want me to come—“. He couldn’t finish the sentence because he erupted into a coughing fit. For a time he was unable to catch his breath because he was too busy barking up air, each burst seeming to tear open parts of his throat. Bending over to see if it would help, he brought his hand to his mouth and felt warm liquid spatter across his palm with the worst of the coughs. He didn’t need his eyes to discern the contents of the sticky, wetness. “Charlotte!” he cried through agony. “I need help!” The coughing came and went intermittently, but his heart-rate was soaring as the pressure of each violent convulsion of his lungs escaped through his half-open mouth. His face was hot, and he felt his knees quivering before he fell over onto the floor, barely able to avoid cracking his forehead off the table. Luckily he’d known where it was, as he knew where everything was in the house, so he managed to fall just in between the table and the couch, where he placed one hand on the ground to prevent him from going all the way down. “Help!” he cried. “Dammit, woman” he hacked again and again. “Where are you?” At last he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs from the cellar and for the slightest moment his fear subsided. Not only that, he felt butterflies floating in his gut for just a few seconds when he realized his wife still cared about him. She wasn’t going to let him die just because he was an old bastard who never treated her right. At last he felt a palm settle on the flat of his sweater-covered back, as another roughly latched onto his wrist. Finally, after what had felt like eternity, his wife had come back to him; he could feel her touch once again. In an effort to assist her in helping him off the ground, he brought his right hand up to meet her forearm and grasped onto the thick muscle there. His heightened sense of touch also allowed him to feel hundreds of fine hairs curling in different directions across her skin. Only she didn’t have arm hair, and the skin there wasn’t soft like he was used to. Where he expected just softness and bone, he felt thick muscly flesh. A resurgence in his rising heart-rate sent a sharp pain up his left arm, but he couldn’t react. He was being lifted off the ground now, and felt his back being flopped across two strong arms now. He tried to speak but the pain in his throat was too much. He couldn’t even scream. Heat rose in his ears, and soon they were ringing with pain. The agony running down his left side increased and a sudden bland taste of coppery nothingness overwhelmed his pallet. When a thick oily substance leaked out from his mouth he tasted nothing, but the hideous aroma of the basement was suddenly so strong he almost didn’t notice the bile at all. The last thing he heard before the ringing in his ears became too great was heavy breathing that he did not recognize; and the sure sound of boots connecting with the cellar stairs. Then all that was left was his sense of touch. As he felt his body forcibly descend, the pain in his arm crept further upwards, rising to a point where he was sure he would pass out. But just when he appeared to be losing consciousness he felt a swift breeze cross his face, and the arms beneath his back retracted. The butterflies came back, but this time because he was falling. He expected to land upon the cool concrete of the cellar floor, but instead he felt his frail form collide unevenly across something equally cold, but soft to the touch. With no other senses available to him, he used his hands to feel the thing he’d landed upon. His mouth was burning, his heart was about to explode in his chest, his insides were leaking out of him and that putrid smell was on top of him now. Rather, he was on top of it. Everything became clear when he touched his wife’s soft, wrinkled hands. Wrapped tightly in her embrace was a wooden carving of a horse.


Cab Fare By: La_Lanterne_Rouge I open the back door of the restaurant and step from the semi-darkness of the kitchen into the glare of the lamp that lights the landing above the greasy steps leading into the empty parking lot. I take off my apron and using it to protect my fingers, work the light bulb loose until the light goes off. I fold the apron so that the dampness is on the inside, lay it on the landing, and sit on it. I reach into the pocket of my T-shirt and pull out the cigarette I saved for the end of the day. When I bring my hands to my face, the right holding the flaring match and the left cupping the flame to keep it from going out, I smell the sour aroma of the dishwater in which they’ve soaked for hours. From the steps, I can look east and west over Third Street. To the west, bathed in the orange glow of the energy saver streetlights, stands the bridge that spans the Los Angeles River and beyond it, the downtown building’s heavy shadows, pinpricked by the lights of offices where white clerks and brown janitors yet toil. To the east, three unlit blocks away, the green and white lights of a Seven-Eleven and the red and yellow lights of a Shell station mark the intersection of Third and Alameda Street and the entrance to the East Los Angeles barrio known to gangbangers and police as Dog Town. It’s nearly midnight, and the only movements I can see are the faraway conical sweepings of a police helicopter’s searchlight down by South Central. The restaurant is in a rectangular, flat-topped, windowless building. You can still see the scars that were the windows before the openings were filled with cement blocks and covered with stucco. There are no other businesses in this desolate space between the river and the barrio, only the buildings, sheds and parking lots of dozens of light industry shops. Our customers are Mexican and Central American laborers who work near the restaurant. We feed these men breakfast and lunch, and in the evening, the restaurant turns into a beer and wine bar where they drink and play pool until eleven, when we push them out to their cars so they can DUI home. In the daytime I am dishwasher and busboy. In the evening, I follow the drunks, mopping up the beer they spill and the body fluids they leave behind. Sometimes I have to hold one of them from under his arms in front of the urinal so he can piss without falling down. Some of the customers think it’s funny to see a gringo working as a dishwasher at a Mexican restaurant. They wink, nudge each other with their elbows, and tell me, “Huerito, you should be in Hollywood.” Their jokes lack malice, they’re for laughs, funnier when you’re drunk, and I usually laugh with them, but Ramiro’s jokes are a different thing. Ramiro is a skinny gangbanger who hangs around the restaurant before and after working hours. He’s the mule who brings marijuana from the barrio and sells it by the joint. His jokes are like acid; he hurls them my way with the intention of burning me but, though some of the others wince, and some redden in embarrassment for me, I keep my face expressionless to rob him the pleasure of getting a reaction. Yesterday, he put his leg out as I was passing his table with an arm load of dirty dishes. I almost went down on my face. He smirked and said, “órale puto.” It’s all very high-school, but in that bar full of machos mejicanos, my refusal to stand up for myself, fills the audience with disdain and most of them end up disliking me more than they dislike Ramiro. Every night, after my last cigarette, I walk over the bridge, more than a mile to Main Street. The bus stop on the corner of Third and Main is just a round sign with the number 92 bolted at the top of a loose, leaning, metal pipe. There’s a Winchell’s Donuts in the middle of the block between Third and Fourth. It’s open 24 hours and I go there to wait for the bus on nights when it’s raining. The bus goes up Main to Temple and then left on Bellevue to Echo Park. I get off there, on the corner across from the park and walk up the hill to the single apartment with the bed that can be stored in the recess of one wall and the built-in refrigerator the size of a milk crate embedded in another. I keep close to the curb, walking under the street lights that barely shine through thickening halos in the damp air that the incoming fog brings. I walk around the seemingly empty park even though crossing it would save me three blocks. Tonight, at the bar’s back stoop, as I am pulling the last drag from the stub of my cigarette, I see a yellow light come bouncing over the hump of Alameda Street from the darkness of the barrio. It’s a blue Chevrolet with just one working headlamp. When it approaches the restaurant I lean back into the door frame where I can see without being seen. When the car gets close to the restaurant, it slows down to a crawl. Inside the old Chevrolet, I see three men: the driver, an old veterano named Orlando, Ramiro in the passenger side, and a fat guy with a shaved head sitting in the back. I can see that the driver is very upset, his face is turned toward Ramiro, and he’s yelling. I am sure that his anger has something to do with the plastic bag full of joints that Ramiro dropped on the floor of the toilet when he was taking a crap, the same bag that I picked up and stuffed in the bottom of a trash bag before I dumped it in the refuse bin. The car comes to a stop in the middle of the street just beyond the restaurant. The right door flies open, and Ramiro tries to run. The driver puts the car in reverse, turns the steering to the left and backs up, knocking Ramiro to the ground with the open door, then keeps going until the front wheel runs over Ramiro’s legs. The fat guys pushes the back of the seat forward, gets out, and begins stomping Ramiro. Ramiro tries to bring his knees up to his chest for protection, but his legs are broken above the knees. The fat guy kicks Ramiro’s sides methodically, using the point of his shoes and taking the time to aim at the unprotected areas Ramiro’s arms can’t cover. When Ramiro lowers his arms to protect his ribs the guy kicks him in the head. When Ramiro raises his arms to cover his head, the guy kicks him in the ribs. Ramiro cries, “basta, no más, no más” until the foot finds his mouth and after that he merely grunts in rhythm with the blows. The driver yells, “Vamonos!,” and the fat guy gets back in the car and they drive away. Ramiro starts to crawl on his side like a broken worm towards the sidewalk. I see the Chevy’s brake lights come on. The car makes a slow U-turn and then accelerates. It rushes forward in springy bounds that the worn shock absorbers can’t damp. Ramiro’s body is half on the sidewalk and half on the gutter. The engine roars with the sucking sound of a carburetor missing its air filter and sparks stream from the wheels as they scrape the curb. When the car bounces over Ramiro’s body the driver shouts in celebration. I stay hidden until the tail lights of the Chevy disappear, one by one as the car turns left just pass Alameda and then I walk over to Ramiro. His body straddles the gutter. He lies twisted, one arm reaching forward, the other tucked under his torso. It’s easy to see that his belly and hips are crushed. There’s a circular wet spot growing in the seat of his pants, urine probably or contents from his intestine. He’s still alive. He raises his head from the pavement, looks at me, and his lips take the pouting shape of the lips of child just before he cries. I look up and down the street and seeing no one, I tell him “órale, cabrón” and step on his neck until he breaths no more. I reach with two fingers into his back pocket. The thirteen dollars I find in his squashed wallet should be just enough to pay for my cab fare home.


Hey guys, here's the final installment of the story. It's the first big fight scene I've written so please bear with me! Once again, any thoughts or feedback are much appreciated, thanks to all those who have taken the time to read it. Cheers, Lordchimp He didn’t think the fairy tales were true, right up until he had seen the thorns of the black vine tear and rip the skin from the left side of the lad’s face. “Weapons! To arms!” Marks shouted drawing his old longsword. They all began to unsheathe various blades and tools in a mad rush, axes, swords, knives and spears were all clumsily readied. But while they were attempting to move into action, another one of the thick black vines flew out of the shadows with a harsh hiss, whipping past another man’s throat with a sickening ripping noise. Scarlett blood sprayed from his neck furiously as he collapsed to the floor frantically clasping at his shredded neck. “Stay low and near the fire!” Marks ordered loudly, trying to see desperately where the vines were coming from. It was like they were an extension of the darkness itself. They were all crouched shuffling around the fire, trying hopelessly to establish a better fighting position. They were like that for a few more moments, with the deafening wails echoing through the night. The man with the torn throat was convulsing on the floor, continuing to paw weakly at his mammoth wound. Another member of the crew had rushed over and was hunched over him, trying in vain to treat the lacerated flesh. The new boy who had been hit first had gone limp and lifeless, blood dribbling lazily down the gruesome ruin of the left side of his face. Marks couldn’t tell if he was dead or just unconscious. Genuine fear gripped Marks at that time. It was already a steep test of courage fighting another human in the light, let alone a hidden enemy, swathed in darkness, that seemed to be able to kill them at will. He felt helpless, watching these...things, butcher his fighters with ease, with him unable to do anything. *Gods above...if you’re listening…* All of a sudden, a blindingly bright, hissing, yellow light fell down from the treetops, like it had been dropped from the branches above. It illuminated the surrounding area with a woosh of air, revealing everything for at least ten meters, showing the horrific creatures clearly. Long, contrasting shadows were instantly cast over the campsite. The monsters’ skin was all a very deep purple, so dark that it was nearly black. They were all covered in short, twisted thorns which protruded out of their tough, gnarled skin. They stood on two thick legs, their knees bent backwards like a chicken. Four small arms outstretched from their chests, much like the legs of a spider. The heads were the worst of all. No eyes. No nose. Just a huge gaping mouth full of twisting barbs. Not many things had ever made Marks to scared to move before, but the sight of these monstrosities terrified him to his very bones. He was rooted to the spot, unable to command, unable to encourage, unable to think. He simply stood there with his mouth open like a fish out of water, waiting for his imminent death at the hands of these terrors. Then, he saw something else flit down from the treetops, landing on top of one of the horrific creatures, knocking it to the earth. It was Revan. Landing so heavily on the Vineskin had torn his clothes all over, cutting him in a dozen places and making red patches appear all over his clothing. While the other creatures were recoiling from the bright light he had thrown, he plunged one of his razor-like knives into the beings face. It slid in, with a strange squeaking noise and silenced the beasts cries at once. Without a moment's hesitation, he placed his hand onto the rent face of the corpse and breathed in heavily. Marks couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he had seen some strange sights before, but nothing compared to watching the siphon at work. There was a sudden burst of green ethereal light, that seemed to flow into Revan through his eyes, as if he was absorbing it into his very being. It was like fire smoke being sucked through a chimney. After a mere moment, the light vanished and Revan began hissing with pain through gritted teeth. He skin began to turn purple, barbs sprouting from the flesh in the blink of an eye. He still retained his human shape, but now he shared the tree-like skin of his enemies. “By the gates...” Marks managed to mumble, sinking to his knees with a gasp. Revan stood up defiantly, and cast his attention to the other Vineskins, blades twirling in his hands. One of them clumsily whipped around, extending one of the short arms into a long tendril of thorns, like a whip. Marks gasped again in fear, seeing the vine like arm arc towards the siphon, but before he could shout out, the tendril smashed into his body with a sharp crack. But instead of cutting him to ribbons, it simply knocked him to the side, making him snarl with pain. As quick as a swooping bird, he pulled on the vine before it could retract back to it’s owners body. His spiky, bark like hands, handled it easily, jerking the creature stumbling towards him. It was caught completely off balance, barely keeping itself upright, wobbling like a newborn babe. Once it was near, he stabbed it with a flurry of lightning quick strikes, each one plunging in deep, throwing black blood across the forest floor in thick strands. It seemed like Marks had only taken in a single breath before the disgusting creature lay convulsing on the ground. Then, the light went out. They still had their fire, which they clung to as if it was their mother’s skirts, standing as close as humanly possible to the crackling wood. The men whirled around, twisting and yelling in panic every time a new sound emerged from the forest. With the sight of the monsters gone, Marks could suddenly think again. Just like that, the thick cobwebs of numbness were swept away from his mind. “Easy lads! Stay near the flame, keep them spears out!” He commanded, confidence returning to his voice. They all rallied round his words, as hollow as they were, standing more alert, reading themselves for the arrival of the creatures again. It was a tense few minutes, with them all jumping at the littlest of noises, of the flickering of the fire’s shadows. They could all hear sounds of fighting, cries of pain from both man and beast in the darkness, but none of them would leave the safety of the fire to help Revan. A blade slashing through the air. A alien scream. The groans and hissing of combat. After what seemed like an eternity, the noises stopped. Marks looked around at his men, who were all looking straight back at him, searching for a sign or a signal on what to do. They waited silently for a few more moments, with only the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind breaking the quiet. “Revan?” Marks shouted cautiously into the trees. Nothing. “Revan? Are you there?” Nothing. Marks was about to open his mouth, telling the boys anything he could think of that might set them at ease, when the corpse of one of the Vineskins was thrown on the floor next to him. He jumped back, cursing and waving his blade in fright, but there were no more monsters. Revan stood at the edge of the firelight, breathing heavily. His clothes were all but tatters now, rags that were held together by the smallest of threads. His skin had returned to normal, making the many cuts covering him all the more obvious. Crimson blood flowed from a dozen areas from his body in a gentle, lazy stream. Marks rushed over to the Siphon, reaching his arms out to support the shell of a man. “By the bloody gates Revan! We thought you was dead you mad bastard!” Marks exclaimed, unable to comprehend what he had seen. Revan weakly pushed his helping hands away with a small shake of his head. “Just...Just a moment...I have to… I can...” It seemed like every word he uttered was a laborious task, even staying standing looked as if it was taking most of his strength. Marks backed away in confusion, watching with morbid curiosity as Revan placed his hand on the corpse’s head slowly. There was another flash of bright green light, which was once again drank in by Revan’s hungry eyes. Then, as quick as the light had appeared, it vanished again. “Revan, you need a serious looking at, you look as if you’ve no blood left in you.” Marks spoke carefully, a note of sympathy seeping into his voice. Revan closed his eyes in answer and breathed out, like a man letting go his final breath. But instead of falling over, dead to the world, small dancing green lights appeared on his many cuts, crackling and sparking around, illuminating him like a swarm of fireflies. After a few seconds, when the strands of light fizzled out, Marks saw that his cuts were beginning to heal. The blood that had ran down his arm now reversed its flow, moving impossibly back into his body through the wounds, which then closed themselves neatly, not even leaving a scar behind. “By the gates...” Marks gasped.


There is a land where an ancient king formed a new empire. There is a land where a particular method brought about the vision of one man. There is a land where an organization brought about great works. There is a land where the choices of gods dictated the lives of many. The land is called Gala, and within this land a flame burned. It was not a destructive flame. It was not a flame that consumed all in its wake, but it was a small, steady flame. It was a flame that brought about warmth in a cold world. It was a flame that brought many together, and showed many the light. This is a tale of that flame, a faithful flame. Maera spoke quietly to her friend, “That’s the guy,” she pointed to a man sitting quietly next to the fire in the work camp. “Really?” responded her friend. “Yep,” They both took a glance at the man. He was very strange. It wasn’t his short blonde hair that was odd. It was his bright, glowing, yellow eyes, and the fact that he had feathers growing behind his ears. He stared deeply into the small campfire, completely transfixed by it. “So, he was just laying down in the ashlands?” Maera’s friend was having a hard time believing that someone would want to be in the ashlands, let alone lay down on the inches of ash that had covered the area for years. The ashlands were an anomaly of the natural world. The natural order of things called for a renewal of life when a fire burned through a forest. The ashlands had burned down years ago, but no life had come to the area. “Sure was.” Maera brushed her curly brown hair out of her face and continued talking in hushed tones with her friend. The man by the fire was deep in thought. ‘Who am I? I don’t remember anything about who I was. There was something… something about a man. Flame? Or was it faith?’ His brow furrowed, his mind desperately trying to remember something from his past. “Hey you,” The man looked up at Maera. His train of thought was lost. “What’s your name?” The man stood up. “Umm… I don’t really remember,” he confessed. “But you can just call me Sol.” Maera raised an eyebrow. “Sol?” “Yep,” Sol sat back down next to the fire. “What is so interesting about that fire?” said Maera. “You may not see anything, but I can make out a story in these flames.” Sol turned his head slightly. There, directly in the center of the fire. There was something there. Sol reached into the fire. “What are you doing!?” Maera went to stop him, but he had already retracted his hand. Flame circled his fingers and made its way up his arm. “You’re on fire!” cried Maera. “Well, technically the fire is on me,” responded Sol in a very calm voice. The flame went all the way up to his face, and lit the feathers on the sides of his head. They ignited and gave off a bright flame. “Whoa,” his eyes grew brighter. He stood up. Maera and all the other members of the small camp stared at Sol. It was hard not to notice someone who had two fires burning on either side of his head. “This feel amazing!” he had a bright smile on his face “Are you okay?” asked Maera. “I’m better than okay. I feel like I could…” Sol crouched down and jumped straight up, and up he went. He ascended gracefully into the air. Two large apparitions of wings emanated from his back. They spread wide, and gave off a warm glow that the entire camp could feel. Sol flew around the camp laughing and giggling at the experience. It was exhilarating. It was a feeling of total freedom. Freedom from gravity, freedom from restrictions of any kind. He landed back down by the fire. “How did you do that?” Maera was understandably astounded. “I dunno. I just did it.” “Well-” she began, but was cut off by a panicked yell. “Inspection! Everyone, get back to work!” a scout ran into the camp waving his arms. Many of the workers returned to the fields surrounding the camp while others went into their tents. “What’s going on?” asked Sol. “Don’t you know?” responded Maera. “Um, no.” Maera gave an exasperated sigh. “There is an inspector coming to make sure we are working. If we aren’t then we are punished. Simple as that.” “That sounds awful,” Sol said earnestly. “Yeah, no kidding. You should probably hide,” suggested Maera. “He doesn’t know about you, and I’m not too interested in what he makes of you.” “That’s not right. This isn’t right. I should talk to him,” prompted Sol. “What!? Are you crazy!? He can’t be reasoned with!” Maera was absolutely bewildered. “Do you have any idea-” “Alright, how’s camp 368 doing?” There was a short man in expensive looking attire strutting about the far end of the camp, and he was casting a scornful eye at the disheveled inhabitants. Sol and Maera froze. The flames on Sol’s head went out, but luckily he went unnoticed. The man walked into the large storehouses toward the back of the camp and continued his inspection. “Tut, tut, 368. You’re a looking a bit lacking this week. You had a larger harvest last time,” he came to Sol and Maera. “And what are you two doing? I see two sets of idle hands contributing to the lacking supplies.” “They’re always lacking,” Maera muttered under her breath. “What was that young miss?” the man’s tone was deadly. “Nothing sir,” she said. “Hmph. Be glad Pharaoh hasn’t given me a combat form yet,” he stated indignantly. “I could crush you without a second thought.” Sol looked around for some support from the other inhabitants. They just continued to watch, unmoving. “What’s your problem kid?” asked the man. It was then that he noticed Sol’s eyes. “What’s with your eyes? They’re creeping me out.” Sol stormed up to him. “You can’t do this! This is wrong!” The man was taken aback. “You dare lecture me on what’s right and wrong!?” he screeched. The people in the camp trembled at the sound of shouting. “Sir, don’t mind him,” Maera chimed in, trying to subtly tell Sol to shut up. “It’s fine, right Sol?” she glared at him. “No it’s not!” Sol insisted. “I’d listen to her, boy,” but Sol was not backing down. “You can’t do this to people! Who gave you the right?” Sol demanded. “Please, Sol. Stop talking,” Maera was desperately trying to salvage the situation to no avail. “I have been authorized by Pharaoh himself to run this place. Are you going to challenge my command? You worthless whelp! I’ll-” Sol grabbed the short man by his collar and hoisted him up to eye level. “Now you listen here, ya little twerp,” the feathers on the side of his head erupted into flame. “You aren’t going to bother these people anymore. Ya hear me?” The inspector squirmed under his grip. “You’re going to go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and you’re going to leave these people be, capisce?” he thrust the man on the ground. “You won’t get away with this!” the inspector scrambled away. “I’ll have your head boy!” he ran out of the camp. Maera was furious. “What was that for!?” Maera shouted. Sol was confused. “Hey, I just helped you out,” he said. “No! You didn’t! You just made it worse for all of us! Now he’s going to come back and make sure we all learn a lesson.” “I won’t let that happen,” he reassured. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know us. You just barely got here, and now you’re trying to protect us?” shouted Maera “I don’t need to know you to do the right thing,” he argued. Maera threw up her hands in resignation. “Great, now we got ourselves a hero. Congratulations!” her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What should I have done?” he demanded. “Nothing! You could have done nothing, and we would have been fine. But noooo, you had to go and be a hero,” she responded. An old man walked up to them. Maera paused in her rant. “Young man, we appreciate the fact that you want to help. We have lived in a world where we have had to endure these hardships. Many of us have lost loved ones doing this work,” Maera clenched her fists “but we have lived on. I ask you this, do you truly think you can stop them?” Sol did not hesitate in his answer. “Yes, I believe I can.