Time is a fragile concept. One should know that it is easily broken, given enough external pressure. The perception of time that humans have is one that is inherently flawed, given that time loops are inevitable. The Faes love to trick us into thinking that they don’t exist, only to give us a true taste of the magnitude the closed loops they can produce. The Fae that has trapped me in one, for example, loops the same second over and over, while keeping me moving forwards. As much as I’d like to say that it’s annoying, I can’t. Ever since I got into my time loop, I have skyrocketed in my creativity and productivity, given the removed sense of urgency. The Fae originally put me in this loop to teach me a lesson and force me to understand why my time on Earth is important, but, in turn, has made me realize that I much prefer the disconnected reality that I have been imprisoned in. Like a hostage growing attached to the room they are trapped in. That simile only really works in context if you don’t think about it, since I’m not trapped physically, only temporally. The Faes seem to be everywhere in this world, we just normally can’t perceive them. They really like to mess with us, probably because we are the most arrogant and least timely intelligent creatures, which I can’t argue with. The only issue in their plans to teach us a lesson is that most everyone that I know and probably that you know would probably benefit from the lack of fearing the clock ticking down. They only target the particularly problematic humans, the ones who weigh the rest of society down. I mean hey, I can’t really complain. I got this free ticket to a never ending vacation with basically free reign over my own actions, no strings attached. Well, besides the occasional times where the Fae imprisoning me, which I believe is named Psi, drops in for the scheduled lecture. I say scheduled, but time doesn’t really matter in this context. Another good part about this is that I can choose if I want to go to sleep or not. It’s not like a switch or anything, but I have a lot more control over it than I could really say for my normal self. For example, I can stay up for days on end, or at least days of time in the context of the normal day night cycle. It’s constantly 7:12 P.M., so there’s not really much cue to when it would normally be night or day. Despite that, I have still been able to keep track of the days, for the most part. Even though all of my devices that I would normally use for timekeeping are perpetually at 7:12, that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t work anymore. Sure, the timekeeping I do is probably more akin to just saying that this is the next day and moving on, but from random inferences and when I’ve craved food, I can somewhat questionably say that it’s been about a month and a half, or maybe a bit more? There’s not too much reliability to my claim of the time. Oh, would you look at that. Psi is here. Perfect timing, or what I think is perfect timing. I can’t really be certain. I sure do wonder what she came all the way here for. “I swear, it’s like this whole imprisonment thing is going completely over your head!” What a shocker. She’s lecturing me. I guess it couldn’t hurt to try to defend myself for once. “Well, to be fair, you took a human that was already confirmed to have no friends, family, no real interests, and the textbook definition of a NEET. Hell, I even like reading manga. How much more do I have to say to let you know that this is just heaven for me?” Well, it seems that did the trick. She’s utterly speechless now. I don’t think she knew I could even talk, from the amount of not talking I have been doing. To be fair, I have just been silently taking her punishment for the past however long, and haven’t really questioned it. Hearing people getting abducted by Faes was always something that I halfheartedly hoped would happen to me, for the reasons stated above. “W-Wow… I’m surprised I didn’t realize sooner, you really are pathetic. I don’t know if I should be letting you go out of pity, or the opposite at this point. What have you even been doing here all this time? I’ve barely seen you do anything besides just sit at that desk all day! You haven’t even talked to me once! You are the only person I’ve ever met that has just taken the punishment so upfront and nonchalantly, what gives?!” Wow, I never knew that Faes have a semblance of remorse. She asks, and she shall receive. “How about you use your eyes and look dumbass. I’ve been reading my huge backlog of books that I wanted to read, but got sidetracked before reading. I also started writing a bit, but that’s more of a side project that doesn’t concern you.” She seems a bit dumbfounded, unfitting of a Fae. I thought Faes could understand and communicate with humans perfectly. I guess I was wrong. I continue, “The reason why I never decided to talk to you in the first place was partially because I was afraid of talking back to you, and partially because I just accepted this to be my new life.” Her face conveyed that of wonder, confusion, and concern, all at the same time. It was like her face was a game show wheel being spun around, slowing into a more manageable expression. She finally spoke up, “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said that you wanted this to happen? Humans understand that this is happening to them? We thought that the methods we use are untraceable unless a temporal anomaly radar gets implemented into the arsenal of science.” “Fair point. There’s absolutely no scientific or public proof beyond that of a conspiracy. I don’t really believe in any of those wacky theories, but I was always just thinking that I would like to be taken away from my current life, and taken to a world with no one else. That’s the third reason I never talked to you, because I wanted this time loop to be me and me alone.” The Fae looked like she was going to say something, but pulled a distraught look out before stopping herself. I can’t blame her, she just learned how pathetic and lowly I really am, so she probably will end up releasing me from this loop soon enough. That’s kind of the reason that I never wanted to speak up to Psi, because then she would know that this is the best my life has been. She would learn of my awful life, and conclude that the best course of punishment would be putting me back into my normal, awful life. I guess I should ask her something too. “So, what’s your next move? If my intuition is correct, you’ll put me back in normal time, and consider it the ultimate punishment.” Psi looked around the room, changing expressions constantly. “Well? Am I right? Can I collect my prize at the door? Or would that be too nice of a gesture?” Psi finally broke the seal of her lips. “I don’t know what to say, OK?! I am meant to serve as one of the Faes, the protectors of society among all races and species. I want to keep your society free of the types of people that don’t contribute. That said, I’ve never been disheartened of my goal by one of my prisoners. If I’m being honest, I kind of want to do some irrational things. Hold a moment, I need to talk to my supervisors.” Before I could even get a response out, Psi rushed away, looking like she was on the brink of tears. Was that my fault? I could ponder it, but I feel like there would be no point. After Psi comes back in a bit, I’ll probably be forced back into that awful society that she “protects” or whatever. A few perceived days go by, and Psi is nowhere to be seen, sort of unusual. Normally she is back every other day, but she hasn’t showed up for at least two meetings now. I kind of am starting to feel guilt now. I hope she didn’t get fired or killed or whatever Faes do with bad Faes, all because she wanted to do whatever those “irrational things” were. Eh, pondering is fun and all, but overall kinda boring. I guess I’ll just keep reading to pass the time, and maybe take one of my weekly naps. In the middle of my nap, Psi came to me and woke me up. I almost thought it was a dream or something, because of the absurdity of a Fae waking me up. She looked a bit serious waking me up, so I got up pretty quickly. After I got up, she immediately started speaking. “Well, I took it up with the higher Faes, and they decided that I have clearance to do what I believe would help society the most.” Weird way of starting a conversation, but I guess that’s fine, with the way we ended the last meeting. “So? I thought your way of punishing me was gonna be just putting me back, is it not?” “It certainly is on the table, but I feel like you’ve drawn the short end of the stick all of your life, so I feel like a decision for you is in order.” “OK, I guess? You really aren’t explaining yourself too well, but I guess I can follow.” “You don’t need to understand much. Just choose your outcome. That’s all there is to this situation.” She explained. “You can either choose to go back to the normal time flow, or be my prisoner forever.. If you go back to the normal time flow, you will never see me again, and your life will be reverted to the way it was before you ever came into this time loop.” “So the bad option, got it.” “But, if you would choose to be my prisoner, you would never be able to leave again, even if you decide to think otherwise later on.” Sounds like a pretty cushy deal to me. I don’t need any layer of uncertainty getting in the way when deciding the outcome of my life. “Yeah OK I choose to be your prisoner, because anything is better than going back to my old life. Even listening to the whining of a little brat for the rest of my life.” “I’ll ignore that last bit, and ask you once again: Do you choose to live here forever, without any chance of going back?” “Without a doubt, because there’s at least one thing that I can see here that I can’t get anywhere else.” “And that would be?” “A friend.


Nora entered the spacious pub on a corner of Katonah Avenue at midday on Monday, an hour before the bar opened. A guy about her age, mid-twenties, with a button down shirt and neatly combed hair was waiting for her at a booth next to the bar. Seeing Nora, he climbed out of the seat and shook her hand. “Nora?” “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you. Joe, right?” “Yep.” Joe gestured to the booth and Nora sat in it. She was holding a folder with her resume and some references from other bars she worked at. Joe examined the resume and references. “So, you have a lot of pub experience it looks like. I see you worked at the Crown & Jockey, Harry Smith’s, Begun’s.” “I did,” Nora replied brightly. “I’ve worked at bars and pubs ever since my first year of college.” Nora had heard that it was notoriously difficult to get hired at this pub, which was the liveliest in a neighborhood full of lively pubs in a tiny quarter of the Bronx, nestled next to the cemetery that gives the neighborhood its name, Woodlawn. And she wanted the extra money, which was, as rumor had it, excellent. “Pretty typical setup here,” Joe began. “So all that should be easy. What we really need is the right personality. We have a lot of loyal patrons, a lot of events, a lot of private parties. We need someone fun. Someone who can remember the regulars’ names. Sound like you can do that?” Nora tucked her hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I always get to know the regulars and the local VIPs.” “That’s perfect,” Joe replied. “We can also get pretty busy. In your experience, what does a typical night look like for you?” Nora pointed to a few of the bars on her resume. “These are the ones where I worked four hours of Friday and Saturday night alone at the bar. I can handle a big crowd. When I was waitressing, I was often doing three four-tops, a six and a large party.” Joe’s eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot. How did you pull that off?” “Magic.” Nora smiled. Joe laughed. “Okay. Let me go talk to the owner, see if she has time to meet with you.” “Great!” Nora stole a look at her phone and tucked it back in her purse. She looked around the bar; polished mahogany and green-backed booths. There was a stone hearth in a back corner and, over her shoulder, the entrance to a larger dining room. “Nora?” Joe peeped his head out of the dining room. “The owner will see you.” “Nora followed him through the dining room, back into a party room, back further into a tucked-away cocktail bar, down a short staircase, and into a small stone cellar. “This pub is huge. Is this a wine cellar?” Joe looked around. “Yeah, might have started that way. We use it for storage now.” He led her out of the stone room and into a well-appointed office. An arresting woman sat behind a desk. Her hair was an enormous halo of red curls, streaked with white. She was wearing a hunter green dress and her large, round eyes were two different colors; one blue, one honey brown. She stood and offered a thin, white hand. “Siobhán Brennan. They tell me I run this place.” She had an Irish accent. Nora shook her hand. “Nora Meredith, thanks for seeing me.” Siobhán looked at the door. “I’ll send her up in a minute, Joe.” He slipped out. “Joe’s one of the managers,” Siobhán said. “Also my son.” Nora smiled. “A family enterprise. That’s great.” Siobhán settled back into her chair and looked at Nora over the tips of her fingers. Nora thought she saw tiny strings of dancing light moving among the strands of Siobhán’s hair. “Another thing we need here at the pub, Nora, is discretion. Do you understand?” “Yes, of course.” In Nora’s experience, most bars were doing a thing or two that wasn’t entirely above board. Siobhán retrieved a crystal goblet from the sideboard behind her and filled it with wine from a decanter. She swirled the wine around the glass three times and ran her hand over the top of the glass. The liquid inside churned into a thick, glowing green, and then, before Nora could even register what had happened, returned to red wine. Siobhán lifted the wine to her mouth, smiled and said, “It’s good to have you on board Nora.” Nora spent a few, sleepless nights trying to rationalize what she saw in Siobhán’s office, which was miles away from what she thought Siobhán meant when asking for ‘discretion.' But, eventually, the pace of work at the pub pushed it out of her head. In addition to her day job, she worked Friday and Saturday nights at the pub, adding party shifts on Sundays and, not infrequently, weeknight shifts. She was too exhausted to think about much of anything. And besides, she loved the pub. The money was incredible. The staff worked together seamlessly. Pints and bottles slid down the bar top. A second cocktail appeared almost instantly with the flip of the mixologist’s arm. She laughed and gossiped with the patrons, and laughed and gossiped with her coworkers. The entire place seemed bathed in twinkling lights, like every night was a blend of the best parts of Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day. In fact, it was two days before St. Patrick’s Day that Nora called out of her day job to help set the pub up for the weekend’s festivities, when a man came in, his face obscured by a thick, wiry beard and a flat cap. Frigid air followed him into the bar. “Siobhán. Now.” “Excuse me, sir?” Nora asked, setting down the string of plastic shamrock lights she was unboxing behind the bar. She had trouble understanding his heavy Irish accent. “I. need. Sio-bhán. Right now.” “She’s not here right now, can I take a message?” The man slammed one fist so hard on the bar the glasses in the overhead rack rattled, and with his other pulled Nora toward him. Nora yelped, but before she could say anything, Siobhán emerged from the kitchens. “Hands off, Dáithí.” Dáithí stomped toward Siobhán menacingly, but she held up a hand. “Now, Dáithí. You’ll be wanting to stop right there.” Dáithí halted instantly, but continued to grimace. “You tricked me, Siobhán. Make it right.” “Nora here doesn’t need to know all the world’s business, Dáithí. Come to my office.” Nora, whose heart was pounding furiously, watched as the pair disappeared behind the dining room. She knew it wasn’t wise, surely there must be cameras all over, still she followed behind them through the dining room, then the party room, then the cocktail garden, and down the short staircase into the room of stone arches. Loudly from Siobhán’s closed office, Nora heard, “Damn you, Siobhán. This was a trick, it was. And a rotten one.” Siobhán’s icy voice responded, “Greedy, greedy, Dáithí. You thought you could cheat the system; thought you could cheat me. Don’t you think I noticed the deliveries were padded? And I was going to let it go, I was; find a new butcher and move on. But then you came in asking for my special help so you can go cheating even more. You got what you got. Don’t be crying about it.” “You’re a demonic woman, Siobhán, and I’ll tell everyone what you are!” Nora heard feet thundering down the steps and she retreated beneath a shadowy arch. It was Joe. He stormed into the office. “Everything ok in here, Mom?” “Show your man Dáithí the door, Joe. He’s finished.” Dáithí sized Joe up. “I know my way out.” Nora pressed her back to the wall, tripping on something sticking out of the floor. She caught herself before she made a noise. “He going to be a problem?” Joe asked. “Not for long. Check on Nora, though. He scared her pretty good.” “I didn’t see her up there.” Siobhán nodded. “She probably went to go clear her head. Have a talk with her when she’s back, yeah?” Joe and Siobhán ascended the stairs out of the basement. Nora, panting from adrenaline, slinked to the ground. She felt around her feet, trying to determine what she tripped on. It was a wooden trap door, slightly open. She crouched down to examine it, and through the opening could see an illuminated space beneath. Nora paused a moment to listen for anyone who might be coming back downstairs. Satisfied that she’d be left alone, she prised the door open, revealing a ladder down to a tunnel whose walls were lit with hanging light bulbs. This is a mistake, Nora thought, but she climbed down the ladder anyway. “Good god,” Nora whispered when she saw that the light bulbs were actually free-floating flames, dangling at even intervals along the walls of the tunnel. She continued on, terrified that she’d be caught, that she’d get trapped, and yet unable to turn around. At one point, she heard the roar of cars, trucks and buses above her and worked out that, given the position of the pub and how long she’d been walking, she was under 233rd street. This must lead to the cemetery. Nora continued along the tunnel as the stone path turned to dirt and the walls narrowed. She was ready to turn back when she reached another ladder. She climbed part of the way up toward a cold light at the top. Nora heard a chant of echoing voices. She paused on the rung trying to make out what the voices were saying, but she couldn’t understand. Curiosity pulled her a up a few rungs more, until she could see the bottom halves of three people gathered around a table. Based on all the marble, Nora realized this must be the interior of one of the cemetery’s grand mausoleums. Something on the table was hissing and bubbling. The voices grew louder, crescendoing until a small bang emitted from the cauldron. The commotion was followed by a sweet mewling. Two of the women sat on the ground playing with a tiny, russet kitten. Nora could just make out that one was Lisa, Siobhán’s daughter. She also worked at the bar. The other woman Nora recognized as Reina, who owned a bodega on Webster Avenue. “See, Dáithí,” Lisa said to the kitten. “Things are easier when you’re a nice boy.” Nora gasped. The women in the mausoleum froze. Reina came over to the opening to inspect, her long braids falling just over Nora’s face. Nora tried to climb back down the ladder as fast as she could, but her foot landed on Siobhán, who was on her way up. “Back up you go, Nora.” Nora, sweating and shivering, forced herself up the ladder and into the mausoleum. The three woman stood in front of the table, arms crossed. Nora did not recognize the third woman, who was white-haired and of indeterminate age. The kitten nestled itself on to Reina’s shoulder and closed its eyes. Siobhán gracefully emerged from the opening in the floor and guided Nora by the elbow over to a chair. Nora sat, looking up at the women. Siobhán picked up the cat from Reina’s shoulder. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it Nora?” Eyes wide, Nora squeaked, “Please don’t kill him.” Siobhán laughed. “Dáithí? Oh, he’ll turn up right as rain in a few days having learned a good lesson. Won’t you, Dáithí?” The kitten rubbed its face hungrily along Siobhán’s hand. Tears brimmed in Nora’s eyes. “What are you?” The women laughed. Siobhán said, “Of course you know, Nora. You’ve known all along. I’m not just a publican. Reina isn’t just a purveyor of delicious Jamaican food. Mary isn’t just a lady in the Altar Rosary Society. We all have other gifts, so to speak. Sometimes, people seek those gifts. We help them when we can. But, they’re not always happy with the help they get. Like with our friend, Dáithí: he was cheating me, and other customers. Then had the gall to ask for a spell to grow his ‘business.’ Well, I gave him one; earned him a trip to the hospital. Furious, weren’t you Dáithí?” Siobhán stopped to a moment to allow the kitten to amble up her chest. “You’re a good girl, Nora. You won’t tell, will you?” “No one would believe me,” Nora whispered. “That’s true,” laughed Reina. Mary limped over to the door of the mausoleum and opened it. “Go on. Time to go.” Afraid to break eye contact with them, Nora walked backwards toward the door and stumbled down the marble steps. She broke into a run; pumping her legs as fast as they could take her until she had to stop, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. She leaned over a headstone to nurse a stitch in her side. She glanced down at the name on the headstone and jumped back, yelling when she saw it read ‘DOLAN, Dáithí.’ She read the dates etched into the stone four times just to be sure it wasn’t the same Dáithí from the pub. Her first impression of the man was bad, but she didn’t want him dead. Nora told herself not to go back to the pub; go home, take a shower, and find a job somewhere normal. And she did go home and take a shower, but then she dried her hair and got ready for work and headed back to the pub, ineluctably drawn there, unable to stay away. “Nora!” Joe greeted her at the door, concern on his face. “Everything ok? My mom told me Dáithí got aggressive.” Siobhán and Lisa stood in the corner of the pub, watching her. Nora made eye contact with them and looked backed to Joe. “Yep, just clearing my head. Thanks for checking.” The rest of the weekend whirred past. The bar was near-capacity all day on Friday and Saturday, and was mostly full on Sunday. Nora worked thirteen hour shifts each day, but never felt tired. It was like she was moving to a inborn choreography: step this way to avoid a waiter with a tray of food; keep this tab open and this one closed, even though the patrons never specified; bring this table a plate of nachos after their third round. When she had time to recognize it, she understood that so much of how the place operated must be part of Siobhán’s ‘gift,’. Everything always worked. Drinks just materialized. Taps never ran out or tasted off. Even on their busiest and most packed nights, no one ever fought, no one ever got too drunk. They hired a bouncer who slept in a booth next to the entrance; he had nothing to do. She’d worked in a dozen or so bars and restaurants and never experienced anything like it. The following Tuesday, Nora went to the pub to get her tips cashed out from the weekend. Joe told her to head down to Siobhán’s office to retrieve them, so she followed the familiar path down and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. “Come in!” Siobhán was seated behind her desk, Lisa, Reina and Mary behind her. Nora stopped in the doorway, unsure if she should continue. “You’re ok, girl. Get in.” Mary commanded. Nora came in, less nervous than the last time she was in their company. Siobhán handed over an envelope with the tips. “It’s $2,500. A very good haul.” Lisa said. Nora opened her mouth, but was too shocked to speak. One St. Patrick’s day she made $700 working the bar. Nothing close to this. “Please sit.” Siobhán gestured to the chair across from her desk. Nora obeyed. “What if I told you, Nora, that these extra gifts we have, we can share them with other people?” “You mean like doing spells or something?” Reina grinned. “We mean showing you how to do them.” She extended her arm, her brown fist closed. “Go on. Look inside.” Nora looked at all of them, and then gently peeled back Reina’s fingers. In her palm was a tiny, golden morsel. She understood that these women could just as easily be killing her with this, or turning her into a cat, but still she took the morsel and ate it. Something electric coursed through her veins. Once she was used to the feeling, she stood up. Things around her seemed more possible than they had before, like the world around her was something she could control. “I feel…” Nora searched for the word. “I don’t know how to describe it.” Siobhán held an empty glass bowl in front of Nora. Remembering her first encounter with Siobhán, Nora put her hand over it and it filled with water. She inhaled sharply. “Did you see that?” Nora looked to the other women. Lisa smirked. “We did.” “What you feel,” Siobhán said, gently guiding Nora out of the office and toward the secret passageway to the mausoleum, “is power.” In time, Nora found that there were many more people in Woodlawn with the gift. They met in the cemetery, at the full moon, to discuss the goings-on of the neighborhood, to set limits on the use of power, and to decided how to handle threats. Nora soon learned to recognize when someone else had the gift, wondering how she ever missed the signs of it before. Joe left the pub for law school, and Siobhán promoted Nora to manager. She quit her day job. One morning at dawn, she headed to the pub to accept an early shipment and she walked passed Dáithí, who was opening the grates on ‘Dave’s Irish Butcher and Supply.’ They locked eyes and, after hesitating, Dáithí tipped his hat. Nora smiled. That’s a good kitty. (This was submitted for Reedsy contest #190: Set your story in New York, where someone’s been waiting for your character.


“A half a pound and you can see it,” Brooks said as he dug into his flavorless bowl of hardtack and soup. The new private glared at Brooks “half a pound? Asking for a bit much ain’t you?” Samson, who was standing next to the private nudged the young man “just give him the money, when’s the next time you’ll see something like this?” To this Brooks nodded “he’s right.. make it 2 pounds” the new private offered a sighed and dug into the pockets of his coat and procured 2 pounds “2 pounds and I get to feel it.” Brooks lifted his eyes from his bowl and stared at him blankly for a moment “why do you want to feel it?” The new private merely shrugged, “if it’s worth 2 pounds I minus well get something a little more out of it right?” Brooks then stared at Samson who offered a shrug “fine.” Brooks finally said. “2 pounds and you can touch it”. He then set down his bowl and took off his cap so the pair of men could observe what remained of his scalp. The wounds have now long since healed. But it was clearly observable to the pair of men that Brooks’ scalp had been sliced clean off his head and had to be manually sewn back on his head. Which made it bald and his skin discolored all around. After a moment the private shook his head “actually I’m good”. Brooks then nodded and put his cap on and took up his bowl and continued to eat “yep. A Nakoda man took it when I was working in the fields not too far from the homestead when I was about ten. I didn’t see him coming until he came up behind me from a bush and blunted my head in with a sort of cudgel.“ at this point Brooks then paused for a moment “I suppose I must have been quite a prize as, when I awoke I found my scalp had been taken”. The private then nodded “oh my God.. that’s quite a story. I’m surprised you survived the whole affair”. Brooks then nodded “yep.. Nakodas are a savage people. But if there’s one thing they value amongst themselves it’s that taking a man’s pride is better than his life, my family wasn’t so lucky of course. I wished that Nakoda bastard took my life instead of theirs”. The new private then frowned and put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out three pounds and set it on the barrel next to Brooks “here.. for your trouble friend sorry for asking again”. Brooks then nodded and spoke “thanks kid” the private then walked past Samson and walked off down the Trench line. Samson then glared at Brooks “You should have said something when he gave you the extra pound you know”. Brooks nonethess shrugged as he finished his meal. “If he wants to feel sorry for me and my nonexistent family then he can. But what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Besides whether a Nakoda man took my scalp off or a sewing machine in Blackwater it doesn’t matter as long as they pay to see it”.


After eighteen long years, I stepped foot on the grasses of the forest of my hometown. As I walked through the dense forest, the sound of rustling leaves and the chirping of little birds surrounded me. I was overwhelmed with the odd feeling of nostalgia. After some time, I reached a glade. This place is filled with both the best and the worst memories of my childhood. When I was young, I would come here with my little sister, Aria. It was like our secret place, where no one could hurt us. We would wander around, carve stick figures on the trees, and lie down on the grass and stare at the navy-blue sky. Living with an alcoholic father was not easy. But this place was our haven. Spending a few hours there, under the twinkling stars, surrounded by the trees, reminded me that the world was not as inhumane as my house portrayed it to be. Aria loved exploring. When she was young, she would run after the bees and insects flying in our garden. She also had this weird obsession with shiny objects. Thinking about how she would stare at mum’s ring with her dumbfounded eyes and how her lips would take the shape of a circle in adoration of the white stone always makes me chuckle. I found teardrops rolling down my cheeks as I walked up to a tall tree and found a drawing carved out on its bark. I was twelve when I had carved out the stick figures of my sister and me holding hands. The worst event of my life played again and again in my mind. We were right here. I remembered how happy I was in the calm before the storm. The day was March 13, 1997. I was just thirteen, and Aria was seven. I distinctly remember sitting reclined on a tree. Aria was lying on the grass next to me. A cool breeze blew through my hair as I stared at the twinkling stars and the glimmering full moon. That is when I saw five orange lights moving high above the sky. They were moving together in a V-shaped formation with one in the middle and two on either side. It looked like they were all a part of one massive aircraft, which moved very slowly without making any sound. “Hey Aria, look!” I said and turned towards my sister. But she was not there. I looked forward and saw her far ahead, running towards the lights in the sky. I shouted, “Wait!” But she didn’t stop. I sprung up and ran as fast as I could through the forest, dodging the trees in my way. A flash of bright light pierced through the darkness. It was there for just a few seconds. My brotherly instincts told me to run faster and faster. My heart was racing as a feeling of dread filled my mind. I looked everywhere, between shrubs, behind trees and rocks. I looked up into the sky to search for the orange lights. They were gone. Aria was gone too. Aria was the only reason I smiled, the only person whom I considered family. For the next four years, I was all alone in battle, fending for myself, fighting with my father and picking up empty bottles from our living room floor. By the time I was seventeen, I had had enough. So, I packed my bags and ran away to the town nearby. “I let her run away. Where did she go? What were those strange orange lights?” These thoughts haunted me every second of my life, constantly reminding me how bad a brother I was. I always thought I would never return. But then my father’s death forced me to come back here. I sat against the same tree I did so many years ago and replayed the same moment thousands of times in my mind, trying to change the situation so that Aria would still be sitting next to me. While I was deep in my thoughts, I saw a flash of light in the sky. Then, I heard an animal walking behind me. I turned around and saw a figure. It was not an animal. A human silhouette grew bigger and bigger as it walked towards me. I was amazed to see the girl standing in front of me. She was thin and withered, her lips were gray, and her skin was pale white. She had cut marks on her arms and right cheek. Her hair was shaved off. But I recognized those sweet brown eyes and that small button nose immediately. That was my sister. She was staring at me. She had recognized me. A small smile formed on her face. I was overwhelmed by happiness, confusion, excitement and relief. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t find the right words to express the emotions that had taken over me. She came closer. I ran towards her with my arms extended out and hugged her tightly. We stood there for a long time, oceans of tears flowing down our eyes. During that time, I didn’t want to know what had happened. My sister was snuggling in my arms, and she was safe. That is all that mattered.


It was a rainy Wednesday morning when Bobbin Bonnet traded his Fiat for a MINI Cooper Sport. It was a nice model; metallic blue with a panoramic roof. Once he had managed to pry the door open, he also discovered it had air-conditioning, an excellent sound system, and colored interior lighting set to blue -- to match the paint. Excited about his upgrade, Bobbin had gotten into his new car and reversed it out of the driveway. He turned right, to take the quick route to the highway and it was then his trouble began. Try as he may, his foot refused to press down on the gas pedal. "Come on, Bonnet," he scolded himself, making sure to add a stern look in the rearview mirror. "Not this again. Just press down on the gas pedal and get out of here." Bobbin's foot did not move. He tried forcing it into action by pressing down on his knees with both hands. And, when that didn't work, he stomped his foot with the other one. That jolted the car forward a bit, but he doubted that driving on the highway in little jolts would do him much good, although it would probably give the cops a good laugh. Frustrated, he slammed both his hands down on the steering wheel as hard as he could, and promptly hit the car horn. The loud honk that followed startled him so much, that he almost shot out of his seat and through the glass panels of the panoramic roof. "Great", he said to himself. "Now you're a sitting duck in a stolen car in broad daylight *and* you've drawn attention to yourself. Good job Bonnet." He punctuated those last words with short taps on the horn. Might as well, he figured -- he was already screwed. Come to think of it, his occupation was probably one better carried out at night. At the last short honk, his head snapped to the side. He heard a door squeak and squeal -- it was quite the dramatic sound for a door to make -- and an old couple stepped out of their home. Stay calm, he thought. They're probably just going out to do groceries. When the old lady settled her glare on him, however, Bobbin shuddered visibly. She looked quite menacing for someone her age. Her hair was cut in a short, spiky style and she wore faded jeans and a black t-shirt. It probably wasn't so much the look in itself, but more the way it punctuated her 'I will fuck you up' stare that made him shudder. Her husband wasn't any better. He was the skinhead-looking type, with a shiny, bald head and a leather jacket. Somehow, he had forgotten to wrinkle as he aged and thus, looked somewhat like a retired baby. Which would've been funny, if it hadn't been for the dangerous twinkle in his beady eyes. "Come on, Bonnet," Bobbin grunted as he strained with the effort of moving his foot, which remained unmoving and stubborn. The swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he would not be able to make this trade; it wasn't a fair one. He would have to throw in at least a flat-screen TV and a gaming system to make up for the discrepancy in value and -- seeing as the pensioners were moving towards him -- he truly didn't have the time to arrange for that. A sharp knock on the passenger seat window interrupted Bobbin's train of thought. "Excuse me," said the spike-haired menace -- she was even more terrifying up close. "What are you doing with my neighbor's car?" Behind her, he could see the woman's husband get in his car. *Think Bonnet, think! The cops are going to have a field day if they catch you again.* Bobbin put on his best smile and rolled down the window. "Morning ma'am," he said cheerfully. "I'm Bobbin from the garage. You know the one, Bobbin's Bonnets..." he had to stop to swallow as the searing skeptical glare that came his way took the moisture straight out of his mouth. The fact that her husband was backing out of their driveway to block Bobbin's new car, didn't help either. "Erm, as I was saying. Bobbin's Bonnets. Your neighbor asked us to pick up her car for servicing, there's a problem with the gas pedal." In a moment of brilliance, Bobbin thought to demonstrate the issue. He stomped on his foot with his other one and jolted forward. "See, it's going to be a long ride to the garage. Would've gotten the tow truck but it's out of commission due to an intern-related mishap." The woman turned to the side, addressing her husband as he got out of his car, his task to block Bobbin now complete. "Says he's from the garage," she started as she walked out of earshot to explain the situation to the man. He could see her punctuate her story with fierce hand movements which made her look like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. The husband nodded as he rubbed his chin. He asked a few questions to his wife and then -- having decided his course of action -- approached Bobbin with a resoluteness to his step that said he was a man on a mission. "You're never going to get to the garage like this," the man remarked, his low voice a rumble. "You can use our car to tow this one to your shop and once you're there do some maintenance on ours as well. The tires need replacing so it seems like a win-win." Bobbin's mouth hung ajar as he tried to process what the man had just offered him. He looked at the car that was blocking his -- a decent SEAT Leon, red, no panoramic roof but no damage either -- and nodded thoughtfully. "Are you sure, sir?" he asked, trying to hide his excitement. The husband nodded and tossed Bobbin a set of car keys through the open window. "She's a good neighbor," he replied. "Wouldn't want her to be inconvenienced because you couldn't get her car to the garage. There's a tow rope in the back." Bobbin got out of the MINI Cooper and got to work. He grabbed the tow rope from the back of the SEAT and knelt in front of his previous new car. As he sunk to his knees to start tying the vehicles together he made sure to make a show of inspecting both cars to make it look like he knew what he was doing. He really didn't. He flexed his muscles as he pulled on the loose knots, pretending to test how strong they were and if they would hold when towing. He knew they wouldn't, they were looser than a drunkard's tongue. The husband and his wife watched him work with interest, but they didn't comment. When he was done, he walked over to his old Fiat and grabbed the keys from the dashboard where he'd left them. He handed them over to the old couple. "Loaner car," he said. "You folks are going to have to share it with your neighbor, but she said on the phone that she wasn't planning on going anywhere for a few days." They both nodded and thanked him and the husband walked with him over to his car to hold the door open for him. "She's a bit finicky on the transmission but she'll get over it once she's warmed up," he said before slamming the door shut. Bobbin looked around. This car also had air-conditioning, but the sound system was a standard edition and there were no fancy lights either. This would be a fair enough trade. Just a bit better than his previous car, but not too much. Satisfied, and the swirling feeling in his stomach gone, he turned the key in the ignition and fastened his seat belt. Then, he gave a friendly wave to the old couple -- they had been quite helpful, after all -- and pressed down on the gas. The car came free with a quick snap and he sped away, ignoring the screams and the frantic motions of the people in his rearview mirror. This had been a good deal, he thought. He was Bobbin Bonnet; a trader, not a thief. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* This story was inspired by a conversation on the WP discord server. We wondered what would happen if Robin Hood had been a fae who had to compulsively trade instead of steal but didn't know it. I wrote a silly story to explore the idea and Bobbin Bonnet was born.


An immortal wandered across the barren desert. He had been walking for centuries, searching for something he could not name. His body was twisted and scarred by time, his clothes were tattered and faded, and his eyes were dull and empty. In the ocean of sand, his crooked figure floated across the surface. On top of a lonely sand hill, he saw a clock. It was a large and ornate clock, with golden hands and numbers, and a face that smiled and frowned. It was out of place in this desolate land, like a relic from another world. The clock was ticking in an erratic rhythm, slow, then fast, then slow again as if it was trying to catch up with itself. The golden hands also follow their own clockwork metronome, sometimes pausing to admire the sky or chat with the hazy wind, then resuming their duty with guilty haste. The forgetful clock noticed the immortal man approaching and greeted him cheerfully. “Hello there, stranger! You look like you’ve been around for a while. What brings you here?” The immortal man stopped in front of the clock and stared at it blankly. “I don’t know.” he said. The forgetful clock smiled sympathetically. “That’s alright. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m supposed to keep track of time, but I keep forgetting." The immortal man did not respond. The clock laughed awkwardly. "You’re immortal, aren’t you? Then, of course, the time has no meaning for you. Oh, but you look tired. Tell me, when was the last time you slept?” “I don’t sleep. Sleeping is preparing for death, and death is meaningless to me.” The clock nodded. “I see... Well, you must have some wonderful memories then. Tell me, when was the last time you saw your face? I can't see mine, it's almost covered by sand!” The immortal man shook his head. “I don’t look at my face. I can't find it. I only see strangers in the mirror. A man, a woman, a child. They change every time I look.” “How strange! How do you know who you are then? What makes you you?” The immortal man shook his head. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what makes me me.” The clock frowned with concern. 'Oh dear, that is distressing to hear,' it fretted. 'But let me see...' Its gears whirred as it rifled through its scattered memories. "I feel I know you, somehow...yes, I see it now, I- " The clock's face attempted a smile but froze partway, its expression caught between emotions, like an owl arrested mid-turn. "Hmm... I will tell you this, I know who you will become. But I can't exactly say who you used to be. And for who you are right now, it's up to you to decide, Theseus, because, regretfully, I will soon forget you again. The immortal man looked at the clock in confusion. But the clock already stopped its ticking. The golden hands create an illusion of a wry smile as the object becomes inanimate once more.


December 21st, 1918 Adelaide, I cannot live alone with the knowledge of what has happened to Levi. It has been forty-six days and no other man has uttered a word, not even an indication that Levi existed. I’m almost certain you are aware of the war's end. Conflict between us and the Germans has been long gone yet the feeling of hopelessness and terror looms over the select few of us. We landed in France in late October. As we arrived in Le Mans the morale between men who had been stationed there quickly transferred to us. Levi though never changed. He spent every moment he could trying to raise our spirits. A few of the men resented him for not being as miserable as them. I found it charming. The trenches are more unbearable than imaginable. Levi’s attempts at humor became quiet sobs in the night. None of us could have anticipated the conditions in which our French friends had been fighting in. I often saw Levi staring into the walls of the trench with such intense focus. I was somewhat jealous of him if I’m being truthful; he seemed as if he was ignoring the war altogether in those moments. Within the days leading up to the war's end, Levi spiraled down to a deep despondency more and more with each mortar shell. Men who had been in the trench for months looked on as Levi fell victim within a few weeks. His sobs late in the night became rarer. He simply did not sleep. He came to my side the night before, smiling. At first, I had hoped that we might be able to get the Levi we once knew back to his former self. Levi put his hand on my face and began to whisper to me. He kept repeating to me that he had “finally heard” and that I needed to listen. Confused and still dazed from my sleep I told him to tell me in the morning. He wept to me while still smiling. “I’m going home, Beau.” These were the last words I spoke to Levi. On the morning of November 5th, we began to charge forward. I wish to not remember the sight of men being ripped apart by German artillery. We blindly ran forward ducking as if we knew when to dodge. It was useless looking back at it. Levi, myself, and the few men we had become acquaintances with over the weeks took cover in a large crater caving in on itself. As we lay there looking up at the sky as mortars passed over, Levi began to hum. The noise of our peers dying around us rang out louder than any sound I’d heard, but Levi, he just kept humming. He was cheerful and full of life. Eyes closed, he sat up and began to rise, putting himself in direct line of fire. Yet he slowly walked forward still humming his tune. It was a deep foreboding melody he repeated. The song pierced through gunfire and chaos and sunk deep into us like we had known this melody for our whole lives. With each step Levi took toward the top of the crater, his song rang out ever so slightly louder. Cutting below Levi’s hum was a deep rumbling like that of war drums. Could it be the tanks distorted from fear? Could it have been the beat of my own heart pounding in my head? I truly don’t know. I don’t want to know. Levi’s hum was now drowned out by that of a soft choir of trumpets playing the same melody he had been repeating as if a legion of angels were announcing the end times. I can only describe the horror that occupied no man’s land as inhuman. Deep in the fog of the German line faint movement was taking place above the ground. As Levi got closer to the edge of the crater, almost as if to join it, the figure made its appearance known. I do not know where the figure stopped and the sky began. Its arms outstretched displayed what could have been miles of darkness hanging from its limbs. My soul was filled with dread on a scale I’d never imagined. I can only assume the other men felt the same as they looked, stunned, in pure horror. A gunshot fired a meter away from me aimed not at someone else. As Levi crested the edge of the crater the trumpets roared, consuming our senses; a triumphant score for an incomprehensible abomination. He reached his hand out yearningly towards the sky. In only a moment, there was silence. The trumpets had subsided, the drums had ceased, and the roar of the battle around us had stood still. In the instant that the deafening noises came to a halt, Levi was gone. There was no fanfare, no goodbyes, nothing. He was gone; as if he was cut out of existence itself. I stared at the spot he had previously stood for an eternity. The sound of gunfire returned and I was dragged from the crater. I do not know what to make of this happening. The men who witnessed this have been silent as of writing this, as have I. Returning to camp to find solace has proved ineffective. Upon seeing the doctor I’ve been given the diagnosis of shell shock, but I know that to be wrong. I write this letter to you in hopes Levi’s memory will still subsist as any trace of him here has since gone missing. This will be my last correspondence.


In all of his years as a soldier Sergeant Myrnov had seen many dead bodies in his time. But never one such as the one he had the displeasure of staring at now. Before him his company commander, Captain Solinkov was absolutely sobbing next to a dead hooker on the bed while his XO, Lieutenant Artyom was beside him staring in disbelief. He had no idea what he was walking into, but sadly he was now here. After a moment Captain Solinkov rubbed his eyes “This isn’t how I wanted things to end, this isn’t how I wanted things to end at all”. As he spoke Lieutenant Artyom was already shutting the curtains and spoke to comfort his commander “no Sir we know you didn’t mean to its alright.. did anyone see you come in here?” Captain Solinkov just shook his head, unable to focus “no, no I don’t think so” he then stood up and began to pace the floor when Sergeant Myrnov spoke “I think we should inform the police, with your rank and connections Sir I’m sure everything would be fin-“ However Lieutenant Artyom cut him off before he could finish “That won’t be nesscary Sergeant, do me a favor and look down the hallway to make sure if anyone is there”. Sergeant Myrnov then sighed and creaked open the door to see the inside of an empty cheap hotel before discreetly closing the door and replying “the hallway is empty Sir”. Lieutenant Artyom then spoke as if he was the one wearing the double bars “now Sir we will take care of this whole thing for you.. But we’d better get our story straight. She died of a heart attack and there was nothing more that could be done, do you understand Sir?” Captain Solinkov nodded and began adjusting his uniform as he took a deep breath “Alright, she died of a heart attack and there was nothing more that could have been done.” Lieutenant Artyom then nodded “good.. now you go ahead Sir and get another room and we will sort this out.” The captain then nodded and took one last glance at the hooker before putting on his cap “it’s a damn shame, she was very nice you know. We spent the whole evening talking about my ex wife and our kids over some drinks.” Sergeant Myrnov then asked “What was her name Sir?” However Lieutenant Artyom answered for him “that doesn’t matter Sergeant” he said reminding him of his rank. The very dreadful reply reminded Captain Solinkov of their situation and he extended his hand to Lieutenant Artyom “you’re a good friend Pavel. Per usual I won’t forget this”. Lieutenant Artyom then said the same to the good captain. And with that Captain Solinkov gave a slight nod to Segerant Myrnov wishing him the same before he left. Lieutenant Artyom then got to work immediately, as if he had done this a hundred times before and rolled the frail woman’s body into a spare bedsheet from the closet and Sergeant Myrnov helped him carry her down the hallway and towards a cemetery when Lieutenant Artyom whispered “no, the river” They then went towards the local river and took every back alley they could to avoid crowds of drunken soldiers and annoyed townsfolk until they came to the river and Lieutenant Artyom was preparing to throw her in when Sergeant Myrnov stopped him. “Sir aren’t we going to say a few words for her?” Lieutenant Artyom answered him with a stare and they then quietly threw the poor girl into the river and began walking off back towards the hotel with an awkward silence coming over them. After walking a few blocks Sergeant Myrnov finally asked the question he had been thinking about for the past hour. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking.. how have you remained your composure this entire time?” Lieutenant Artyom walked some time before he finally answered. “Because this isn’t the first time he’s done this”.


Ralph found a singularity growing in his backyard. It’s a hell of a thing to see, though you’re never really quite sure what you’re looking at. It started as sort of a purple flower, he says, that just grew up out of the ground one day in the middle of his pumpkin patch. His prize-winning pumpkin patch, he always reminds us, as if that’s a crucial aspect of the story. It started as a flower, and he considered pulling it out of the ground, like the weed it was, but following a strange compulsion connected to an odd dream he could barely remember having, he let the flower grow. Within a few days the centre of the flower had shed its petals and the stem, and risen up free from the ground. The rest of the flower just fell off and faded away during the night, and then at around noon the next day the centre began to spin until it seemed to become a small shimmering vessel of unexplainable energy, all about the size of a hen’s egg. Obviously it has something to do with the chemical runoff coming out of the particle fusion generators up the way. Ever since they installed those massive towers with their queer arrays of blinking lights, we’d been discovering a lot more strangely similar types of transgression against the fundamental laws of science. Nobody knows quite what the singularity is, but I’m told that’s the nature of a singularity, not being able to conceive of it past the point of, there it is. If you’re lucky, maybe you can point to it, like when you’re standing in Ralph’s back yard. Stand close enough, and you can hear the thing humming, just ever so faintly. Sometimes you suspect it might be a song. A song you might remember, from far away, and long ago, when you were a different person. Maybe a parent hummed it to you, back before you were born. Maybe you knew this song, before you even had a body and mind. There’s not much to be done with, or about, the singularity. Ralph says it probably lowered the resale value of his home, but Ralph’s always complaining about something. Still, there’s no arguing that the thing did mess up his pumpkin patch, prize-winning or otherwise. And it did something to that little Jenkins girl. Of course we don’t know what. But it did something to her. She was warned not to play with it, but you know how some kids are. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Like she was compelled. A bit like Ralph was when he let it grow. This little girl. She was near-about ten years old. Snuck into Ralph’s backyard in the middle of the night, and got to messing with the singularity. Nobody quite knows what she was doing with it, but the next day there were a whole bunch of weird figures that’d been written in the dirt, all over Ralph’s backyard. Like somebody was figuring out maths or something. The girl never admitted to making them herself, and if it was the singularity that did it, it’s the only time that’s been known to happen. But the Jenkins, they say their little girl’s been different, ever since that day. For one thing, her voice dropped about six octaves they say, and I must admit, though I’d never encountered the child before, she does have an awfully deep voice for such a whimsical-looking little kid. And then there were the stories. The little girl, the parents said, keeps telling these stories, ever since she spent the night with the singularity. Stories about another world, one that existed long before this universe had been birthed out of nothingness. Stories about people who existed before existence, and their dreams and nightmares. Like angels, or monsters, creeping the dark, the endless dark, before there were stars or space for them to spread throughout. Ralph says the little girl, and her weird voice, and her weird stories, have nothing to do with him and the floating void of nothingness and light and sound that seems to be spinning about in his backyard. I think he’s just worried her parents might try to sue him, and equally, he’s worried that people might start to worship the thing. That happened out at the Morrison place, when that strange icon fell from the stars, and a bunch of weirdos came in from out of town and moved onto the Morrison’s land so as to be closer to the thing. I saw the icon once and it didn’t impress me much, but eventually one day it disappeared and then all the followers freaked out and tore the Morrison’s place down to its foundations. So, it’s understandable that Ralph doesn’t want anything to do with a scene like that. He’s barely paid his place off, and of course now he’s on worker’s compensation, ever since he burnt off one of his testicles with a welding torch. He sure can’t afford to get himself into any more trouble. Still, the singularity is something of a marvel to look at. Due to his fears of cults and quacks, Ralph won’t even let any scientists inspect the thing, which I think is a real pity, since it’d be neat to know more about it. Maybe it could be useful for something, in some way. Like as a source of energy or something. Ultimately, I guess the thing will just have to stay a singularity. A mystery. Just one more thing in this damn town that makes you say, huh, I wonder what that thing there is.


Roe had been quite busy today. They had finals to study and homework to do, so getting distracted wasn't a risk worth taking. Their focus was entirely on the textbook that lay in front of them, all about arthropods and their role in the ecosystem. *Winged centipedes and spiders help pollinate our flowers, a role once considered to be the job of small insects before their evolution…* A sudden and loud CRASH noise quickly dragged Roe out of their studies. They turned immediately, their antennae standing straight up, to see… one of the most interesting sights that their eyes had ever witnessed. Maggot, their roommate, had quite literally burst through the door. A gaping hole had been made in the middle of it and one of its hinges had completely snapped. How it was still standing was a complete and total mystery to Roe. Maggot lay in front of the destroyed door. The housefly didn't seem *too* injured and was still conscious, but that wasn't really saying much. She was in a bit of a weird pose, with her arms and a single leg twisted behind her back. Roe shut their textbook and shoved it to the side before fluttering over to their roomie. "Hey, Maggot," they greeted. "Hey, Roe," she replied back. “... That hurt.” "No shit it hurt, you literally broke through our damn door. How did you even do that?” “Uh… running start. I didn’t mean to break it, I just meant to scare you. It’s April Fools’ Day, after all.” “And you just hurt yourself instead.” “I mean, a little, yeah. I'm good though, ain’t no need to worry about it, dude." "Sucks to be you, then, because you're not going to just sit there." Roe made a huff and fluttered their wings as they literally scooped Maggot right up into their arms and began carrying them away bridal-style. “Hey, wait! Where are we going?!” she abruptly squeaked out. “Prison.” “No wait wait wait WAIT-” \ “Well, is she gonna be okay?” Roe asked. The pigmy sand cricket doctor nodded. “Yes, she’s gonna be just fine, so long as she doesn’t somehow manage to put herself through another door.” They turned to Maggot, and lightly teased, “I still don’t know how you did that, by the way. Wood is typically very tough.” “I’m very strong!” Maggot chirped back, flexing all four of her arms and fluttering her wings. “I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s putting myself through an inch-and-a-half door!” Roe huffed at the sight. “Well, you better not do it again, or else I’m going to tell the doctor to cut your lower set of arms off.” “WHAT?! Like uh, uh… Like Dr. Dahlia, Papuaepilachna guttatopustulata?” “No. Wrong historical figure. The one missing two arms is Monarch Midnight, Monomorium pharaonis. Our first ruler. You know… the person who killed the Conditores.” “Oh… whoops. I’m not good at this history thing.” “That’s fine. You’re lucky that I am.” With that, they passed some money over to the doctor. “Thank you, we’ll be taking our leave now, doctor.” “No problem!” the doctor chirped back as the two stood up, “Have a lovely day!” The two insects left the office and began to fly back to their house. Roe focused on the city around them, full of light-colored wood buildings and insects of all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t as big as their home, but they didn’t mind. The only thing that brought them back to reality was Maggot asking, “So… how much trouble am I in?” “None, if you pay for the replacement,” Roe replied with a flick of their antennae. “But if you don’t, you’re in a lot of it." “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. The concert a couple of weeks ago went well enough.” “Good. Don’t break the damn door again.


Late August 2023 Hello, I'm Nancy Boltz. My husband of 40 years Eric Boltz died in Musicland Nebraska medical center from cancer. He was 64 years old. The funeral was held at the Musicland Lutheran Church where both of us were life long members. Three children (two girls and one boy) and 10 grandchildren we had. The will had been read and everyone had basically gone back to their own lives. Although my kids and grandchildren lived in Nebraska, they didn't live in Musicland. All but 2 lived in Omaha. The other two lived in Lincoln. Enough of that, let me get to the point of my story. Eric had left a diary that he wrote during the period of 1981-1982. This was the period where we had broken up and had dated others. It started over some stupid argument that I don't remember. Eric probably would remember but he didn't mention the argument in the diaries. We broke up two weeks after he graduated from college in June of 1981. Eric worked in Lincoln that summer and I stayed in Musicland (which is about 30 miles from Lincoln) at a Music Camp for kids. While in Lincoln, Eric met a woman named Heidi Holden. She had broken up with Mark Month who was a football player for the Cornhuskers. Over the course of the summer, they fell in love with each other but in September Heidi went back to Mark. She continued to see Eric on the side. Thankfully for Eric, Mark never found out. In April of 1982, Heidi Holden was found deceased at the Lincoln State Park after being struck by a car. The person who did it was never arrested or charged.  April 9, 1982 - Late afternoon "I hid in the bushes and heard and heard the terrible argument. There was nothing that I could do as I saw Mark clip Heidi with his car and then drive off. I quickly ran to the pay phone and called for emergency. I told them who did this to Heidi. I then ran over to Heidi who was drifting in and out of consciousness. Before she died, she told me that she wasn't pregnant. I knew that she had died. I wept for about a minute. I then heard the sirens of the police and ambulance and decided I better get the heck out of there." April 12, 1982 - Funeral of Heidi Holden The funeral was held at the St. Peters Catholic Church in Lincoln. I didn't dare go to the funeral. I watched for a distance. I was careful that I wasn't seen or observed. I knew that police would probably would be looking for the second mystery man. Apparently Heidi was also involved with a man named Jim. I decided that I was going to get even and make the life of Mark Month miserable. And this I did. May 13, 1982 The night before the man named Jim and Mark Month got into a fight at a local bar in Lincoln. I had been watching both men and noticed during the fight that a gun Mark had fell out of his jacket. No one noticed as I took the gun. Mark was arrested and Jim went to the emergency room for treatment. I found out when Mark was released which was a couple of hours later. I went over to Jim apartment and vandalized his car and then shot out the window. I threw the gun away and then fled. Jim of course blamed Mark. Jim filled charges against Mark but it went nowhere. This really angered me. He ended up suing Mark and lost in court. So much for getting back at Mark Month. For the next several months Eric plotted revenge against mark who got arrested for things Eric did, mostly vandalism of vehicles. He found out when Mark and his girlfriends or ex-partners were fighting or had broken up. One ex-partner he actually called weeping and saying that he didn't want to harm her brother but Mark had ordered him to do so. Wasn't long where Mark couldn't get a girlfriend as no woman wanted to be near him. Eric made sure of it. Also Eric would make calls to places where Mark was saying "Why do you allow the murderer in your bar? " August, 1982 I finally got my revenge. I keyed Mark Month's vehicle and with a knife flatten all of his tires. I also spray painted murderer, murderer by his car. I then set the car on fire. Everyone was in the bar drunk and high on drugs. No one noticed as I left. Shortly after I left, rival football players came into the bar and they were blamed. Police were called before it got totally out of hand. Mark got arrested for assaulting a rival player. Again the charges went nowhere. Mark ended up with the Seattle Seahawks which was too far away for Eric to continue his revenge. I still can't believe that Eric sent a letter to the team. I have a copy of the letter dated September 1982. Dear NFL Team: Mark Month is a murderer and killer. He murdered Heidi Holden by hitting her with his car. She didn't die from being clipped by his car but died after heading her head on the pavement. I was there when she died and I called police. Every woman he has ever been involved with he has used, abused and he gets away with it. I still am grieving over her death. Heidi cheated on him because he accused her of doing so, so she did. Heidi deserved better, something that I would have given her. Too bad she met Mark. As for Jim, I found out that he was just a friend. She never cheated with him which I'm most grateful. Signed the second man and forever mystery man which will remain so. Shortly after Eric wrote this letter, our relationship was rekindled. We got married in June of 1983. Six months before Eric died, I was sitting in Bed with him. He was in remission and we were watching the New Unsolved Mystery Program. One of the segments was about Mystery Man who had made Mark Month's life miserable for over a year. Then it stopped. Eric made some comments about it but now when I think about it, it sounded like he knew a lot about the vandalism and letter writer. Eric told me that I could do whatever I wanted. If I reported it to the police, he wouldn't be angry with me. Well, I decided that to protect my kids, grandkids and my family, I didn't turn him into the police. I still was in shock days later that he had done these things. This was a man whom I rarely seen lose his temper much less get angry at someone. We rarely if ever argued. I thought I knew him totally but apparently not. I never believed that you could live with a person for decades and not totally know them. Well, that's true. I can't damage my family's reputation, so I will burn the diaries and the letter.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** In honor of National Wildlife week, your story must include an animal from an . *(Please be kind to them in your stories!)* This week’s challenge is to include the theme of ‘adventure’ in your story. The interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth an additional 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/pathetic_optimist You can view the previous week’s rankings ! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at poetry with during the third week of every month on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A young woman stood alone in an illusion; a hologram of vast blue space with clouds swirling in the distance. She was standing before the projector of this calming scape, having come to the floating cube to be interviewed. “What is your name?” the bluish-grey box asked, an array of smaller holographic cubes around it. It was a Cephalon, a digitized life form. Creatures of light and memory. The small blue boxes floated in a pattern that the woman could not clearly identify. They projected a sense of thoughtfulness as if pondering the small human’s existence. “Manmi,” the young woman answered, looking straight ahead. Her stance changed from akimbo to a more regal bearing as she introduced herself; her arms crossing behind her back and her legs coming together. She had been led here by a friend and intended to answer the Cephalon’s questions as precisely and honestly as was humanly possible. “Manmi…what?” the Cephalon asked, her voice mechanical and curious. Manmi could hear a warm tone through the artificial voice, echoes of the person Cephalon Suda once was. The young woman in red and orange wanted to answer the question, but there were gaps in her memory. Information that had yet to recover. Whatever had happened to her while she was in captivity still prevented her from recalling all of her past. Her history. Her identity. “Unknown, ma’am,” Manmi answered. Normally, Manmi would have felt extreme discomfort when failing to fulfill an objective. Be it a military order or answering a simple question, Manmi had always suffered a negative physiological reaction when she felt as though she were not living up to someone’s expectations. Fortunately for her, it was easy to keep her nerve when speaking with most Cephalons. There was something about their lack of humanity and highly analytical voices, absent of judgment, that kept her at ease. There were no eyes peering at her. No pressure. No presence. “This is fascinating information,” Cephalon Suda’s holograms pulsed excitedly, “Please tell me what you remember. Start from the beginning.” “The beginning…my childhood?” Manmi asked, wanting clearer instructions before engaging further. “No,” the Cephalon said, her tone more crisp and matter of fact, “I have ample data on the Zariman Ten Zero already categorized and indexed. We will revisit your information on that subject at a later time. What do you remember from waking up after the Old War? This will be new information for me.” “Waking up…” Manmi repeated, organizing her thoughts before nodding, “I remember…smoke. Bright flashes of light. The sound of energy weapons discharging. I was restrained…” she winced and shook her head, “No, *encased*. I was encased in a container of some sort.” “A cryopod, perhaps?” Suda offered, “Cryopods have been detected in greater numbers lately.” “Yes!” Manmi said, her eyes widening. Memories began to resurface as thoughts connected around that word, “I was put in-” “I know why you were placed in cryostasis, Tenno,” Suda said, silencing Manmi, “What happened when you were awoken?” “Apologies,” Manmi bowed her head slowly, “I was awoken by an alarm. The cryopod’s power was failing. Through the glass I could see a battle; energy projectiles and beams cutting through the air less than a meter above the glass. The power was reconnected and stasis resumed. When I woke up next, I was on a table…” Dark green eyes slowly opened under a bright white light. Pupils contracted as the mind behind them struggled against the fatigue. Her mind and body wanted her eyes to close, but curiosity and a sense of danger kept Manmi alert. She tested her muscles by slowly turning her head towards one side and then another. The sluggish response did not bode well if she found herself under attack, but the brain fog was starting to clear up. The room was slightly obscured by the holographic visor of her Zariman suit. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. She focused her eyes on the heads-up display to activate its functions but they were in the midst of rebooting. With a blink, she deactivated the visor so that she could better observe her position. Still having the suit on at all gave her a sense of security. That was a much-needed feeling since her surroundings, now that she was seeing clearly, were *far* from comforting. It appeared to be a medical facility of some sort; bright lights, reflective metal panels on the walls, and a faint scent of chemical cleaners and ozone. She tried to sit up but did not move. Her arms were similarly paralyzed, though with some slow flexing of her hands she determined that she was not *actually* paralyzed but instead restrained. Unable to move her head to see the extent of her restraints, she focused on her breathing and tried to move each extremity one by one as much as she could. There was motion just outside her field of view, and as she tried to move the source of that motion came closer. Several automatons had ceased whatever functions they were previously performing and came closer. Manmi guessed that they were ready to restrain her if she escaped based on observing them *not* moving to remove her restraints. One of the machines floated overhead, moving to block out the light that was shining directly into her face. It was a disc of some sort that projected a hologram down toward her. A man’s face with more eyeliner than should have been legal and what appeared to be a painted-on mustache. Manmi was not entirely sure what she was looking at or who this man was, but the way he smiled made her very uncomfortable. “Praise the Void!” the hologram said, its enthusiasm overwhelming, “The Tenno lives! I was worried the doctors would have to force their way through that *remarkable* suit of yours to make sure you were all in one piece! Dreadful about the forced decryostasis you had to go through but don’t worry! I had my best and brightest work on you.” “Decryo…what?” Manmi asked, her words slurred slightly as the muscles in her jaw that had not been used for an unknown amount of years struggled to keep pace with her overstimulated mind. The lights, the sounds, the man…it was all so much. Too much. “By the Void, it was a *nasty* business. Your cryopod was found by one of my crewmen during a routine patrol of one of my favorite shipping lanes. He logged your cryopod but in doing so caught the attention of a Grineer freighter, who started to snoop around for you. I’ll spare you the details, but one thing led to another and, before ya know it there was a firefight at Tesera Outpost! It was rather splendid, really, but you *did* cost us quite a lot of assets. But don’t worry, I’m certain you’ll be able to more than makeup for the investment we made by saving your life! OH! On that note, don’t-” Manmi had stopped listening to the rambling face as she planned for her escape. If she could not break free of the table restraints herself, she would break the entire table with Vauban. Closing her eyes, Manmi focused on her connection to her Warframe, on the Transference Procedure, and the Somatic Link. But as soon as she did she felt a sharp, *excruciating* pain shoot into her neck. It burned its way down her spine as fast as lightning and every nerve ending in her body exploded in agony the likes of which the warrior had never experienced. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Manmi shrieked as her body convulsed and her vision blanked out. The pain lasted for barely a second, but that second lingered well beyond what it should have. She lay still for a long moment before she realized that she stopped breathing and gasped for air. The first thing Manmi saw when her sight returned was the overly painted face shaking from side to side, making a *tsk tsk tsk* sound. “So impatient! I tried to warn you, Tenno. Please refrain from attempting to contact your Warframe again. It probably doesn’t even exist anymore,” the man shrugged, “Besides, you are now an official Investment of the Corpus. We can’t have you vanishing out of here, so we affixed a little accessory to you. Any attempt to harness the Void in any unwholesome manner will have certain repercussions. You just experienced one of them and I will waive my consultation fee to advise you that it would be in everyone’s best interests, yours especially, to not try to find any of the others. But let’s not dwell on that! Instead, we should rejoice in your awakening! Now we can take you someplace more comfortable for your recovery.” The hologram moved away and Manmi felt the tension on her limbs release. She lifted her right arm and saw a metal cuff still around it and before she could even think about moving any other part of her body, her arm was pulled to the side and the thin metal band clanged against a metal gloved hand. Someone in a technical jumpsuit ‘helped’ Manmi off of the table by magnetically attracting the cuffs on her wrists into each of its hands. An identically clad person - *were* they people?- did the same with her ankles and Manmi was carried between them. “Crewmen! Take our Investment to cell seven-two-two-six,” the hologram man said before the projection blinked off. The two bulky jumpsuits carried Manmi out of the room and out into a shiny metallic hallway. They moved with slow, precise steps, making Manmi think that if they *were* people at any point, they were more machine now. She looked around as best she could while they carried her, trying to mentally note directions, branching corridors, and any features of the facility that she could use to figure out her position. There was little to see in the narrow halls but she did pick up on a general grid-like pattern with the layout. The two crewmen carried her into a small room, the magnetic fields releasing her arms and legs. They dropped her onto a bed and marched out, the door sealing shut with a *clunk* and *hiss*. The room was small, stark, and rather barren. The bed was just barely long and wide enough for her to lay on, and the only other feature in the room was a holoprojector in the center of the ceiling. The rest of the room was otherwise featureless. Manmi curled up and pushed herself into a sitting position on the bed, crossing her legs as she took several slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A lot of events had transpired in a short amount of time and her head, while no longer fogged or sluggish, was still confused. Alarms were going off within her but she could not immediately identify the danger. She was a captive, that much was certain. But what was ‘Corpus’? Why was she in ‘cryosleep’? She needed to think. It appeared she would have plenty of time to do that. “Hello there!” a chipper voice sounded from the walls around her. Manmi jumped to her feet in alarmed reflex but immediately regretted it as she fell to the floor almost at once. “Oooo…you should probably not do that for a little bit. Your body is still waking up! We can do some light exercises from the floor if you’re more comfortable down there though.” the female voice said brightly. “Who are you?” Manmi asked as she worked to crawl back into the bed. “Amita!” The voice answered. The holoprojector activated and a red glow appeared around the four corners of the ceiling. A pinkish collection of geometric lines formed under the projector, forming into a small red pyramid that twisted and folded in upon itself with tesseracts at each of its vertices. “Your personal security Cephalon! Well, I say ‘personal’ but I’m actually in charge of all of the prisoners in the 7,000 block! But right now you’re the only prisoner in the 7,000 block, so let’s just say that I’m your personal Cephalon for now!” “Prisoner?” Manmi said, trying to connect the dots. She knew she was a prisoner, but she did not know why, for what, or to whom, “That guy said I was an ‘Investment’.” “Hahaha! Yes, that’s Nef for you. He’s a little eccentric. But I assure you that you are most definitely a prisoner. And it's my job to make sure you stay sane and fit while in confinement. So! If I say ‘pretty please’ will you extend your legs out in front of you and try to touch your toes? Pretty please?” At the moment, Manmi did not want to do any stretches or exercises. She had experience with Cephalons before and knew that there was something off about Amita. She was far too personable, far too attached to the conversation. But if she was like other Cephalons, Manmi knew that she was not going to benefit from trying to refuse. With a million questions in her head, Manmi proceeded to follow Amita’s instructions and stretched out her legs to begin toe touches.


Two painted horses draw a wagon. Its wheels crush the dry rocks beneath, leaving dust in their wake. Behind, a western sun nearly touches the cliff tops. A rough looking man holds the reins, greased and tired from near a week in the Arizona heat. Though the man was always ugly, he'd seen better days. He leaned back and exhaled, while his hand searched blindly for the waterskin that dangled from the strap on his neck. He slowed the horses to a stop by a nearby overhang and took a sip. Close to the last. He balled his fist and hammered on the side of the coach, behind where he sat. "Water's low! Gotta find a stream or somethin'!", he hollered back. As he slid his sore legs off the wagon, the doors on both sides creaked open against the sand and wind. A large pair of boots stepped out and hit the ground with force, followed by a much smaller pair from around the other side. The first, with rust-dulled spurs. The second, with the letter "D" sewn, with love, into the leather. A gift from family, back home. "Shit, Bill. You know it ain't rained in three goddamn weeks! Ain't a stream round here hadn't done dried up by now!", said the large boots to the driver. "Think I don't know that, goddamnit?! Think I like runnin' all day with no sleep, ass bleedin' from this goddamned chase you got us on?!" "Now you KNOW I ain't had no choice but to shoot 'im, Bill…" "Why? 'Cause turned out sherry liked his pecker better 'n yours?!" "She was gon' runoff wi' me! ..get a new start somewhere different...I dunno, maybe even have a boy 'r two, if we was lucky 'nuff...I just don't under-" "She's a fuckin' 'HORE, JIM! ..Hell you THINK was gon' happen? They sell ya snake oil, then suck it right back outta ya. Honest to God, I never thought my own brother was this goddamned dull in the head. I ought-" "Daddy", interrupts a weaker voice from out of the man's peripheral. "I seen some m-mule deer bout a mile or so back. They gots to get their water from round here somewheres.", the young boy suggested, hoping to quell his father's rage as much as quench his own thirst. The man wrestled his eyes off his brother, calming slightly. He turned to his son. "Whereabouts, Daniel?", he questioned in a low voice so as to not frighten the boy. "Uhm...about a mile back, when we passed alongside those cliffs, I saw a group of them heading down into the valley below….might be a water hole, maybe…" The man's eyes closed for a moment in thought, and he exhaled once more. "Jim, you stay with Daniel. I'll take one of the horses back and see what I can find." The brother coughed dryly, choking on the air as he opened his mouth to respond. "Look now, Bill, I know we're all thirsty and tired.. but you know, same as I do, these is Apache lands. I think maybe we oughta just wait till the next-" "Next what?! Waterin' hole? Said it yourself, 'ain't rained in three goddamn weeks'...and YOU know, same as ME, we won't make it two more days 'less we find some quick. Now I need you to stay here, sit tight, and try not to fuck anything else up. Can you manage that?" The fugitive brother looked at the ground in defeat. The man's eyes squinted against the setting sun, half hidden by the horizon. He dragged his tongue against his bottom lip, chapped and cracked and bloody. He quickly stuffed a rucksack and unhitched his horse. "Shouldn't be long. Keep here under this 'hang, and stay outta sight." He dug his heels into the beast's sides, froth spat from its mouth, and he faded west behind the dust. Jim pulled a palm across his head, flattening the greased black mess of hair, and took a pained look at his nephew. His tongue cotton, and gut empty. 'What'd I get them into', he thought. A six-shooter rested comfortably in a belt around his waist. Five bullets in the chamber. The man pulled back on the reins, slowing to a stop at the fork that led down into a valley between a few hundred yards of towering red clay. Dusk faded quickly into night. With it, the shrieks of hawks were replaced by the yelps of coyotes, and the chittering of too many legs. He pulled items from his bag; a stick of wood, a can of bacon grease, a torn cloth, and a worn matchbox with the words "Mabel's House of Pleasure" written on the front. He fashioned a torch and struck it to life. In the flickers on the dirt, he saw hoof prints leading lower down the path and spurred the horse gently forward. As he descended, his torch lit the earthen wall beside him. The beast hugged it close, fearful of the unknowable...avoiding the deadly drop that waited, patiently, just two yards to the other side. As he trotted lower and lower, the sounds of night dampened in kind. Soon, only the slow clack of hooves was audible. Just ahead, the path leveled out, somewhat, and he felt a slight moisture in the air. He turned trot to stride and, quickly, the gentle murmur of trickling water approached. A miracle from God. A pool no wider than ten feet, collected at the base of this forsaken rock, from a stream flowing from higher up the hillside. He leapt off the saddle and dunked his head in the cool water. Life itself flowed back into his bones, and he re-emerged as a new man. Born again. Remembering where he was, he regained focus and rushed to fill the waterskins from his sack while the mare drank her fill. As he corked the last of the skins by the pool, a slight wind blew, and a tickle brushed his leg. As if rehearsed in his sleep, a bowie knife appeared in his hand and speared the culprit as he swung around. Impaled into the sand was a thin piece of leather scrap with a broken hawk's feather embedded. His face grew stern, and he started to mount up. As he grabbed hold of the reins, a shot pierced the silence. Then again. Then three more times, together. He clenched his teeth hard, sheathed his knife, and bloodied the horses sides with his heels. With pain in her eyes, she barreled back up the cliff path, no longer concerned with the unknown. About a quarter-mile out, he saw the glow of flames coming from the overhang. He drew his pistol and gripped it with white knuckles, the heat kissing his skin as he pulled closer toward hell. Through squinted eyes, he sees his brother lying a few yards out from the burning wagon. He does not move. His revolver rests half buried in the sand, inches from his fingers, shining like the morning star amongst the blood and fire. He sees no one else. No law. No Daniel. He dismounts and hurries toward Jim. "Maybe he's still alive. Maybe he can say what happened, and where's Daniel.", he hoped. He falls to his knees and sees a bald man. No greasy black hair. Just a mess of bone and blood where there used to be a scalp. Rage becomes the man. A few salty tears are shed. They fall and mix with the blood, still warm, from the knife-wound in his brother's throat. His palms red and knuckles pale, the man stands and turns to the east. Heading away are three sets of tracks. Two of them, large; one of them, small. He ties the mare to a rock away from the heat of the flames, and puts out his torch. He slings his rucksack over his back, takes a sip from his waterskin, and follows the trail. The wagon lights the night behind him. Jim's boots point skyward, rusted spurs half-buried. No bullets left. The weak light of the moon allows him to stalk his enemy. The mild winds do not wash away their steps. The stench of red man is not erased by the sulfur of gunfire, or the blood that wets the earth. God will have them, after he is done. The path leads him back and around, like a horseshoe, near the opposite cliff side of the valley he'd only left an hour or so before. He creeps through the cover of sparse weeds. The cold of desert night is unheeded by the red blood filling his every thought. Roasting meat. The smell wafts by him, sickly savory. It incenses him. His brother lies scalpless and unburied. His son taken. Yet, his enemy roasts meat. He moves further ahead toward the source of the odor, coming upon a rock formation leading to a depression in the cliff side. As he skulked closer he came to the depression and saw a cave was hidden there, behind the entrance, that led deeper into the cliff. He slid off his boots, and gently placed them to the side. He must be silent. Faint light escaped from behind a curve along the cave path, the smell more invasive as he crouched closer to the turn. He arms himself, blade and Colt, and peeks one eye around the corner. A circular room. Moonbeams intersect rising smoke as it escapes through a split in the rock overhead. Two Apaches rifle through pants-pockets. Adjacent, on the floor, two small boots. The letter "D", sewn with love. On the spit behind them, meat roasts. The man turns away and vomits. With his bile is expelled his hope, his fear, and what Christian beliefs he still held. He regains himself and peeks the corner again. The two demons continue to search the belongings of the dead, hissing between each other in some foul speak. At the hip of the closest hung a pale leather scrap, with greased black hair. Ghostly, he stepped closer. His bare feet made little sound, and the red man did not see his pistol's shadow as it aligned with the back of his head. The red man did not see. Hammer strikes powder, face becomes it. A mostly-headless Apache slumps to the cave floor, his memories are written on the wall. The second devil turns quickly, with a guttural cry, and knocks the gun toward his ruined meal. The man and monster clash grips, tripping to the stone. He feels a rib break and wrestles for his hand's freedom, undaunted. He wants to sink his knife and end him. He wants it more than life. As they struggle, their bodies roll toward the fire. He lunges his arm into the flames. Red and white, the skin peels and melts away from both hands. The cannibal relinquishes his hold of the knife to escape, but the man does not let him. He stares into the empty soul of the demon, as the flesh falls away from them both. Seconds pass like winters, and the Apache now screams in pain. He fights like a trapped dog to free himself, only succeeding when the skin that bonded him finally sheds. He falls back, wailing like a bled sheep as he scrambles up against the cold rock. He looks up to see the white man. His red eyes, open so wide. As if they had never shut before. The man rose from the ground and advanced toward his broken enemy; a boy, no more than sixteen. He lies in a puddle of his own making. His heart pumps blood with urgency, as if life depends on it. The man takes a few slow paces, his feet sliced and skinned. The boy takes a few short breaths. The victor crouches, his eyes level with the Apache's. A few seconds pass and his head slowly bows, as if praying for forgiveness. He lifts his gaze. His eyes have no tears. His face has no remorse. The eight inch blade goes six deep. Starting in the soft spot under the chin, and stopping in the sinuses. The man holds the blade as the boy shakes involuntarily, his grip melded with the hilt. He holds it until the shaking stops. Then, he holds it a while longer. He stares into the soulless eyes until he can hold no more. Behind him, the fire has smoldered. Outside, hawks can be heard. Sun rays bounce and form in his son's ash. The smell of burnt meat. The man rises to his feet, limps toward the embers, and retrieves his Colt. He limps back and rests against the rock. Knife, wet, in one hand. Gun, warm, in the other. He tilts his head back and pushes the barrel under his jaw. He draws a long breath, and exhales. "Fuck." He slumps over onto the faceless red man next to him; his skull half gone, scattered around the cave like jacks. In his lap, a small pair of boots, embroidered with love. ...He had always been an ugly man, but he had seen better days.