The rain showered on the sidewalk ahead of Ethan. The streetlights were fizzling out and re-lighting every couple seconds or so. The sky had just started clearing up after almost two days of continuous storming. Ethan pulled up his hood and continued walking. “*What have I done*?” Ethan thought to himself. “*How could I be so stupid?*” A couple of days ago he was driving home, in his Toyota SUV after a late night party, across the bumpy Texas countryside. The night was young, and Ethan had never felt so relaxed when suddenly his car hit something. He reversed and in the fuzzy haze of his headlights, saw an elderly woman on the ground, with a much younger woman kneeling over her. “HELP!!!” she screamed loudly. Ethan knew her screaming would attract the attention of nearby townspeople. Without thinking further, he stepped out of the car and knocked the woman out with his bare fists. *“Problem one solved,”* he thought. He then grabbed the unconscious grandma by her armpits and dragged her over to the trunk of his SUV. Ethan picked her up and dumped her into the trunk. He then did the same to the younger woman. He had just killed an old woman. I would know, after all, I am the Devil’s Servant. The situation had turned dire. This was truly a calamity. The authorities would be after him soon. There was only one place he knew of that could possibly help. Ethan slammed the trunk and opened the passenger door. He then opened the glove compartment. It was empty except for an old ID, an old screwdriver that had started to rust, a large coin, and a heapload of crumpled up papers. Ethan took everything but the papers and shut the door. He then used the screwdriver to unscrew both the front and the back license plates. Ethan opened the hood of the car and placed the license plates face down against the engine. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He then opened the fuel tank cover. Ethan sighed. He took one puff of the cigarette, reluctantly tossed it into the fuel tank and ran. BOOM! There was a huge explosion and fire leaped into the sky. It had most certainly caught the attention of the townsfolk. I was impressed. Even I had not committed such iniquity in my time of life. Ethan realized he had to get to Dallas County and fast. Thunder clapped and Ethan was pulled out of his memories. It had been three days since the catastrophic events. He was almost where he needed to be. He took the coin out of his pocket and inspected it. It was definitely larger than an ordinary coin. Ethan guessed that it was about two inches wide and two inches long. It was quite light and was made of what looked like solid gold. It had a leviathan cross on one side, and in an arc surrounding the cross was some small writing that Ethan couldn’t read. On the other side of the coin was a three dimensional picture of a skeleton lying down with its ribs cracked and a sinister-looking knife embedded into its skull. I remember my coin as well. It had been used many years ago before I had joined the Army of the Devil. The only difference was that my coin featured a skeleton with that same knife embedded into the right side of its neck. Ethan felt the chills go down his spine and he put the coin away. He was headed to his old workplace, a small room with a couple of computers and tables here and there. He had worked with a small group of people who helped people erase their debts or change their IDs. Ethan himself had allowed about 50 disreputable people to re-establish a new life in a new country, free of debt as an entirely new person. This job had made Ethan a whole lot of money, but he quit when police had learned about these illegal operations. On leaving, Ethan had received the coin from a colleague, and he had warned him, “Whatever you do, do not lose this.” Ethan had assumed it to be a friendship token or maybe something that he would’ve recognized, if they meet again in the future and had kept it for all these years. He was almost where he needed to be. Just a right turn into the alleyway, and he would be there. The sprinkling rain turned into stronger rain, and within a minute it was heavily pouring. Ethan broke into a sprint towards his destination. The back entrance was used as the main entrance back then, but now it was planked shut. Ethan ran towards the front of the building. It was a lot different than when he had last seen it seven years ago. Instead of looking like an abandoned building, it was brightly lit and Ethan thought it looked more like a casino. He was correct. The words “THE DEVIL’S DEN” hung over the entrance in bright red typography. He tried to walk in, but was stopped by the bouncer. “Entrance ticket!” he demanded in a gruff manner. “I-I don’t have an entrance ticket,” replied Ethan. He looked around and saw other people handing bouncers large coins. A coin一 The Devil's Den. The coin had to be the entrance ticket! He took his coin out and showed it to the bouncer. The bouncer inspected the coin, looked at Ethan, looked at the coin again, and finally let him in. Ethan was surprised. He quickly stuffed the coin into his back pocket and stretched out his hands. So much had changed in seven years. After all, seven years isn’t a short period of time. There were elegantly styled crap tables and round tables with people sitting around them playing rounds of Blackjack and Poker. Ethan went up to one of the game supervisors. I recognized that man. T’was a buddy of mine. Or actually more of a fellow worker. Goes by Dan. “By any chance, do you know Jonathan Miller?” asked Ethan The Supervisor turned his head to face Ethan. That’s when Ethan noticed his unusually eerie countenance. There was something inhuman about his face, just like me, just like the rest of the Devil’s Servants. “Who’s asking?” questioned the Supervisor. “Ethan Smith, a former colleague.” “Hmmm.” The supervisor paused for a bit. “I don’t know him personally, but he owns this place.” “You know where I can find him?” asked Ethan. “He should be around back, but you can’t just waltz into his office,” he replied. Dan caught sight of me. He was probably surprised to see me here, but he gave me a wave. I gave him a wave back. Ethan decisively began walking towards the back of the building. “Thanks!” he exclaimed. Dan grunted. Finding John’s room was easy. Ethan came across it within a minute. The door read Jonathan “*The Devil*” Miller. Ethan knocked and entered. I followed suit. The room was quite bare. There was a single desk in the middle of the room with nothing on it except for an inkpot. The walls were a complex shade of red, and the room itself smelled like something was burning. Behind the chair, was a short, middle-aged man with a cigar in his mouth, wearing a white tux and a panama hat. In the furthest corners of the room were two bodyguards, both wearing black suits and sunglasses. I myself had only been in this room once. It was maybe four and a half years ago. The time when I had died. My memory isn’t really the best, as I cannot remember how I had come to pass. My Boss looked up. “Eddie?” asked John inquisitively. “Johnny!” exclaimed Ethan happily “Eddie, it’s been a long time. What have you been up to?” asked John. He then signalled his bodyguards to fetch Ethan a chair. “Same old. Partying all night, drinking at work.” He chuckled. John laughed. “What have you done to this place, Johnny?” The Boss’s laugh faded into a frown. “You don’t like it?” “No no no. It looks way better than before actually,” reassured Ethan. “Hmph,” he said in a dubious manner. “So, what brings you back?” “You still carry out the business that we used to do back then?” asked Ethan hopefully. “Perhaps.” John paused. “You need somethin?” “Well…...ummm yeah. I actually needed a favor,” admitted Ethan quite guiltily. “A favor eh? What kind of favor, Eddie?” “Well, uhhhh a couple days ago, I accidentally ran over a grandma and what looked like her daughter. I got rid of the evidence, but my fears came true and it got into the news. Y’know, I was hoping you could kinda help me clear my name. Just like we used to in the old days,” he said, trying his best to be persuasive. John took off his hat. “Well, you see, it isn’t as easy as it was to get away with this kind of stuff. New laws and people are more likely to squeal nowadays...I can do it. Of course, I can; I’m the Devil, but I’m gonna need something in return,” he said mysteriously. “What, like my soul?” said Ethan jokingly. “Exactly,” said John. Huh, now that I recall, I do remember how I died. I ended up dying with a knife being stabbed into the right side of my neck.


A nice, two-story brick home sits on a lush green lawn in the middle of suburbia. Angela Rollins opens the front door. Black with long braids pulled back into a ponytail, she’s dressed like she’s going to yoga. A duffle bag is slung over her shoulder and a veil of grief covers her pretty face. She holds the door open for her ten-year-old son, Jase. Light-skinned with a backwards baseball cap and an iPad clutched to his chest, Jase’s gray eyes keep to the ground as he walks past her. Angela presses numbers on a keypad and the door lock engages. They walk down a cobblestone path to the driveway where a newer model Audi waits. Jase gets in the front passenger seat. He pushes a button on his iPad and the screensaver shows a picture of him, Angela, and his father, who has curly red hair and fair skin, in front of a Christmas tree. They look happy. The Audi cruises down the highway. Angela drives with earbuds in and Jase plays a game on his iPad. A cellphone mounted on the dashboard lights up and vibrates. Angela taps the screen. “Angela Rollins,” she says, and listens to someone on the other end. “Yes I understand the D.A.’s desire for a speedy trial, but I still have boxes of discovery to go through,” she explains. “I’m playing catch up. Didn’t my office inform you I was on a personal leave?” Angela listens again and furrows her brows. “Thank you. I plan on spending the weekend working on this. I’ll be in touch.” Angela taps her cell phone to end the call and pulls the earbuds out. She turns on the radio to a news report. “Authorities say the body of a woman found naked and missing her right hand is likely the work of a serial killer,” says a reporter in a serious voice. Angela shudders and turns off the radio. She looks down at Jase. “Whatchya playing?” “Roblox." “Your Grandma and Grandpa Rollins are excited for you to spend the weekend with them. They texted me right before we left,” she says in an encouraging voice. Jase’s eyes grow wide. “They know how to text?” Angela nods. “Daddy taught them before he...” she says before stopping. “You can say it, Mom,” says Jase. “I don’t like to,” she softly answers back. Angela looks down at him, her face softens. “This weekend will be good for you, son. All of you. Your grandparents miss your daddy so much, and you’re so much like him.” Jase shrugs. “I guess.” Angela sees an exit sign off the highway that reads: Conroy, Ohio. She points to it. “My own grandparents used to live down that road. I spent time at their house when I was about your age.” Jase turns to her with a desperate look on his face. “Do you think they’re gonna have WiFi?” Angela smiles. “It had secret passageways.” “What did?” Jase replies. “I told you. My pappy and nana’s house,” says Angela. Jase looks incredulous. “Secret passageways?” Angela nods. “One day, nana went to play bingo at church and I stayed back. Pappy was in the garage tinkering on his ol’ truck like he always did, and I was bored as all get out.” She looks at Jase. “No WiFi.” He smiles. She continues on, “So I started doing cartwheels all over the house. My goal was to do twenty cartwheels in a row. I made it to about fifteen when I cartwheeled into the office. But it had a low hanging light, so I turned and was this close to number twenty when BANG! I collided into the back wall of a closet. Except... it wasn’t really a wall." Jase’s face lights up. “A fake wall?” “Mmm-hmm,” says Angela. “It opened to a very small room with steps.” “Where did they go to?” “Up and down to different rooms. Lawd, it’s been thirty years...” Angela says as she thinks hard. “One room had a tunnel that led all the way to the garage. You should’ve seen my pappy’s face when I came up from a door in the floor.” “He didn’t know about it?” Angela shakes her head no and continues on, “So, Pappy and I went back through the dark tunnel. He led the way with a flashlight and at the end of it was a small brick room. Pappy shined the light all over. We saw an old roadmap of the United States with lined routes leading up to Canada and there was a musket hanging on the wall. Pappy handed me the flashlight and took it down to get a closer look. It was all rusty and scratched, but the bayonet was still sharp. There was an inscription that read, U.S. Union Army.” “Whoa!” exclaims Jase. “Pappy said the musket must’ve belonged to a Union soldier from the Civil War. He figured, given the map and that the house was built in the 1850’s, it was part of the Underground Railroad,” says Angela. “I’ve told you about that, right?” “Is that where they hid the slaves that escaped?” “Yes, son.” “And all that happened when you were my age?” “Mmm-hmm." “Wow, Mom. Maybe you were right...” he says with a look of amusement. “Maybe kids did have more fun in the Eighties!” "We sure did," she laughs. The Audi pulls up to a modest rambler. An older white couple in their seventies stand on the front porch and wave enthusiastically. Angela looks at Jase. “I told you they were excited.” He looks at her with big, glassy eyes. She pulls him in for an embrace. “I love you, son.” Angela drives back down the highway. Her face reflects the pain in her heart as she wipes away the start of each new tear. She turns on the radio. “Authorities are hoping a sketch of the suspected serial killer terrorizing women in the Ohio River Valley will lead to his capture. It was made public after a witness says she saw a man in the vicinity where the latest victim was found. He’s described as a black man with a medium build, dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie,” says the reporter in a serious voice. Angela changes the station. The last few chords of a gospel song plays, then the Deejay comes on. “That was, *Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen*, by the queen of gospel herself.” Angela smiles and shakes her head. “Mahalia Jackson,” she coos. The Deejay continues on, “When Miss Jackson had trouble in life, she sang about the goodness of God. Praise, my friends, is a powerful weapon against the enemy.” Another gospel song starts, and Angela cranks up the volume and sings along. She passes a sign off the highway that reads, Conroy, Ohio. One Mile. Angela stops singing. She bites her lip and looks to the right. The exit to Conroy is approaching. She hesitates, then veers to the right, taking the exit. Angela drives down a tree lined street where large restored homes from the mid-to-late 1800’s sit on well-manicured lawns. A sign reads: “Welcome to Conroy. America’s Historic Home-Town.” Angela looks around as she slowly drives down the street, carefully studying each home she passes. She looks intently at a large Victorian with scalloped siding and large shutters. She pulls over and parks. Angela takes another look at the house, then turns the engine off and gets out of the car. She walks to the sidewalk in front of the house and stares at it. Next door, an uppity woman with a blonde coiffure and tennis outfit checks her mailbox. She sees Angela, looks her up and down, and sneers. Angela doesn’t notice. She just stares at the house, reminiscing about her time with Pappy and Nana. Suddenly, a man walks out of the front door carrying a garbage bag. Frank is in his fifties with pasty-white skin and a receding hairline. His checkered sweater vest fits snug against his pooch. Frank whistles as he walks to the adjacent garage with the bag. He presses buttons on a keypad and the garage door raises with a loud rumble. He throws the bag into a garbage can and pushes a button, and the garage door rumbles back down. As Frank turns back toward the house, he sees Angela. “I was just admiring the house!” she shouts to him with a smile. Two little girls on bikes ride down the sidewalk past Angela. They ring their bells and shout in unison, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank smiles and waves back at the girls. “I hope you don’t think I'm a weirdo,” Angela says as Frank approaches. “Not at all,” says Frank, who stands next to her and looks at the house. “I admire it, too. That’s why I bought it!” Angela chuckles. “Truth be told, I spent a lot of time in that house when I was a child." Frank’s face lights up. “Oh? Do tell!” “My grandparents lived here. I haven’t been back since... ‘89 I think,” says Angela. “How long have you lived here?” “About a year,” he answers. Frank looks to the right and left, then leans into Angela. "I got a killer deal on it, too!” he snickers. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?” “Foreclosure,” he says. “It sat vacant for years before it went to auction.” Angela looks sadly at the house. “That’s too bad,” she laments. “But good for you. It’s a big house, do you live here by yourself?” “No, no I’m married. We just celebrated twenty years." “Congratulations.” “Would you like to come inside and take a look around? I’m sure my wife would love to meet you." “Oh, no, that’s quite alright. Thank you, though,” she politely responds. The girls on bikes ride past again. They ring their bells and wave at Frank. Frank smiles and waves back. He turns to Angela and offers his hand. “Well, it was very nice to meet you...? Angela looks down at Frank’s hand. It's deformed, gimpy, the fingers are curled inward. She awkwardly shakes it. “Angela,” she says. Frank notices the uncomfortable moment and raises his other hand. “Lucky for me I’m left-handed!” he says with a jovial grin. Angela embarrassedly smiles. “And you are Mister Frank?” “Or just Frank." She nods. “Well, I have soup on the stove,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Angela.” “Goodbye,” she says. Frank turns, walks back toward the house, and resumes whistling. Angela stares at the house. She wrings her hands and bites her lip. She really wants to get a look inside. She looks over at the girls on their bikes and then back at the house. Angela lifts her hand and calls out, “Frank!” Frank stops in his tracks and smiles like a Cheshire cat.  INSIDE THE HOUSE Angela follows Frank through a doorway that leads into the kitchen. It is immaculate with white cabinets and marble countertops. A large pot boils on the stove and a small table is set for one. “Honey! We have company!” shouts Frank. He turns to Angela. “Is it how you remembered?” “Sort of,” she says as she studies the room. “The cabinets have been painted and there used to be wallpaper, floral I think. And the counters were butcher board.” “Oh, butcher board would have been nice,” he says. Angela walks into the dining room, Frank follows closely behind. A large rectangular table sits under a chandelier adorned with prisms. “Oh yes, I remember that chandelier,” says Angela. She looks behind her and points to a closed mahogany door. “And that was my grandfather's office.” Frank walks to the mahogany door and stands in front of it. “I use it as an office, too. It’s just a tad messy at the moment,” he says as he smiles and extends his hand. “After you.” Angela walks out of the dining room into the living room. She looks around at the classical furniture and built-in mahogany bookshelves. An old Victrola catches her attention and she walks up to it. “It was here when I bought the home,” says Frank. Angela inspects the Victrola. “It has to be the same one,” she murmurs under her breath as she touches the needle. “Nana wore down the vinyl of her Mahalia Jackson record from playing it so much." Frank walks over to the built-in bookshelf, fingers down a stack of record albums and pulls one out. He hands it to Angela. “Was it this?” Angela’s eyes grow wide as she takes the album. The cover has the name Mahalia Jackson in big red letters. Angela pulls out the record and sees an indentation on the vinyl. Her eyes well up with tears. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “Why would my uncle have left all this?” “Your uncle?” Frank asks. “Yes. My grandparents died in a car accident while they lived here. My uncle sold the home and must have included some of their belongings,” Angela says as she stares wistfully at the album. “You keep it,” says Frank. He walks to a stairwell leading up and slides his good hand over a mahogany spindle. “Really excellent craftsmanship throughout the home,” he states. “I can’t tell you how many times I slid down that banister,” Angela says with a chuckle. “Feel free to give it a whirl!” he playfully answers back. Angela shakes her head as she looks around nostalgically. “A house of stairways and secrets isn’t it?” “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Frank asks in a deep voice. Angela, startled by his change in tone, looks at him. For the first time she notices large beads of sweat on his forehead. “Did you say your wife was home?” “Who? Oh, yes. She must be napping,” he says. Angela sees that Frank's hand is gripping the spindle so tightly his fingernails are digging into the wood. She shudders. “Shall we tour the second floor?” he asks. “No, I should really be going. Thank you so much for your hospitality,” says Angela, as she turns and begins to walk back through the living room into the dining room. This time through she notices white bars behind burgundy curtains on the windows. Her gait becomes more brisk. Angela enters the kitchen and narrows in on the single place setting. Her eyes then go to the boiling pot on the stove. A human hand suddenly rises to the top. A look of horror covers her face. “Finally, some color to add to my collection,” says Frank in a gravelly voice. Angela spins around to find Frank inches from her face. His eyes are wild, and he presses a handkerchief over her mouth that muffles her screams. Angela’s attempt to fight back is short-lived as she succumbs to the chloroform. Angela lays on the floor in the middle of the office. There is a closet, desk, chair, and hanging ceiling light. Sunlight streams through gaps in the curtains onto Angela’s face. She comes to and slowly opens her eyes. The realization of where she is hits her and she jumps to her feet. She puts up her hands in a defensive posture and frantically looks around. She runs to the window and rips open the curtains to find bars covering the glass. She pulls on the bars with all her might, but they don’t budge. Angela runs to the mahogany door and sees the knob is missing. She puts her ear against it and listens… In the kitchen, Frank sharpens a large butcher knife on a whetstone. His eyes in a crazed trance as he stares at the metallic dust flying off the blade. Angela, ear pressed against the door, recognizes the sound of a knife being sharpened. Her eyes water, she covers her mouth to stifle her cries. She turns around and sees newspaper clippings about the serial killer scattered about the desk. She picks one up. It shows a sketch of the suspect: black, wide nose, big lips, hoodie. Angela shakes her head in disgust. She sees the Mahalia Jackson album on the desk, picks it up, and hugs it against her chest. She closes her eyes. “Not this way, God. Not this way,” she softly cries out. Suddenly, her eyes open wide and go straight to the low hanging ceiling light. She turns her head to the open closet. Angela steps inside the closet, puts her hands against the back wall and pushes on it. A click, and then it opens with a creak. In the kitchen, Frank stops sharpening the knife and tilts his ear to the left. What was that he heard? Angela closes the fake wall behind her. She unzips her jacket and stuffs the Mahalia Jackson album inside. Angela looks around the tiny room. Wooden slats on a brick wall lead up. A piece of plywood covers a section of slats leading down. Angela bends down to move the plywood but hears the sound of the office door opening on the other side of the fake wall. She quickly starts climbing up the narrow steps. Frank enters the office holding a long butcher knife. He looks at the spot where Angela was lying, then quickly turns on the ceiling light. He looks all around the room, under the desk, and in the closet. He inspects the bars on the window. Frank, panic-stricken and confused, lets out a bone-chilling scream. Angela freezes mid-climb when she hears Frank scream. She looks down, takes a deep breath, then takes another step up. Frank rips up the carpet and examines the baseboards. He checks the windows again. His face becomes distorted with rage and he throws the butcher knife across the room like a dagger. It sticks to the back of the closet, rattling the fake wall. Angela looks down when she hears something hit the wall. She takes one more step then reaches the top. She presses against a large boxed cutout, a click, then it opens. Franks walks to the closet wall and sees it vibrating. He pushes on it and it clicks open. Angela emerges from the cutout into a bedroom with red walls; a hinged bookcase hangs open behind her. Frank takes a step inside the small room. He looks around, eyes bugged out of his head, and chortles a maniacal laugh. Angela looks around the room in horror. Women’s torn and bloody clothes hang from a four-poster bed like a canopy. Five mason jars sit on a dresser, each filled with liquid and a human hand, polish still on some of the fingernails. Angela gags, hunches over and heaves. “Jesus... Jesus...” she pleads. Angela wipes her mouth and looks up. A thought! She unzips her jacket and takes out the Mahalia Jackson album. She looks at the cover. “Praise is a weapon." Angela pulls out the vinyl record and breaks it in two. She holds a jagged piece up like a weapon and slowly walks toward an open doorway. Frank begins to climb up the steps but has trouble grasping the slats with his gimpy hand. He slips down a few steps and shrieks with rage. When he finally gets to the top, he pushes on the cutout. It opens, and Frank sees that it leads to the bedroom. He pokes his head out to look for Angela, but she's nowhere in sight. Angela slowly walks down the hallway. She looks around the corner and sees the staircase with the mahogany spindles. There’s no sign of Frank. Angela begins to descend the stairwell, but each step she takes makes the wood creak loudly. There’s only one way to get to the bottom unheard. She gets on the railing and slides down the banister. She gets off at the bottom and peeks around the corner. She can see the door she came through in kitchen, but first she has to make it past the living and dining rooms. With the jagged vinyl record raised high, she takes a deep breath and makes a run for it. Angela dashes through the living room and into the dining room. She sees the office door open and the carpeting pulled up. She runs into the kitchen to the front door. She turns the knob, but it’s locked in place. She jiggles and pulls on it, but it doesn’t budge. A keypad sits in place of a deadbolt and she frantically presses the buttons. Suddenly she hears footsteps coming up behind her. She turns around and Frank, like a wild beast, comes lunging at her with a knife. Angela whips her arm around and stabs him in the neck with the jagged record. Frank howls and drops to the ground. Angela jumps over him, but he slits the back of her ankle with the knife before she can get away. She shrieks and limps out of the kitchen. Angela swiftly hobbles into the office and goes straight through the open fake wall. She pulls up the plywood that covers the steps leading down. She looks at her bloody ankle, the cut is so wide she can see her Achilles tendon. She takes off her jacket, wraps it around her ankle, and wipes her bloody hands onto her sports bra. She quickly descends into the narrow hollow, her face ravaged with pain. She stops and looks up. “Damn it!” she cries. She forgot to cover the opening. In the kitchen, Frank pulls the jagged record out from his bleeding neck. He wraps a tea towel around the gaping wound and picks up the butcher knife. He looks ahead, his eyes dark and demonic. Angela slides the plywood over the opening. She quickly goes back down the steps, gritting her teeth through the pain. She steps off the last rung onto the floor. It’s dark, so she feels around the brick walls of the hollow for an opening. Frank follows the trail of blood into the closet. He steps through the opening of the fake wall and looks up the steps. Angela finds an opening and enters into another room. A sliver of light carves through the darkness so that it's not pitch black. Her hand bumps into something on the wall. She squints to see it’s the musket and pulls it off. “The tunnel has to be close,” she says in breathy voice. Frank starts to climb up the steps when he notices a bloody handprint on the floorboard beneath. He jumps down, pulls off the plywood, and sees the opening going down. Angela holds the musket under her arm and feels around the brick walls for the opening to the tunnel. “Help me, Pappy. Show me the way," she cries. Her hand brushes over a smooth surface. It’s more plywood. She finds an edge, wedges in the musket and rips it off. Frank descends the steps in the narrow hollow. Angela limps as fast as she can through the tunnel carrying the musket under her arm. Frank, like an animal hunting its prey, sniffs and feels around the walls. “I can smell you, Angela!” he hisses loudly. Angela comes to the end of the tunnel. She feels around and again finds slats nailed to the wall. She climbs up the steps, still holding on to the musket. She can’t hold in her cries of pain anymore and wails loudly. Frank hears her and begins slashing the air with the knife. “I’m coming for you, bitch!” he screams. Angela reaches the top of the steps and uses the musket to push open the hatch. A square piece of the flooring in the garage lifts up and Angela emerges. With every ounce of strength, she hoists her way up through the opening. She rolls onto the garage floor and tries to catch her breath, still clutching the musket. She looks down at her ankle and sees the jacket is saturated in blood. She closes her eyes, then opens them, as if going in and out of consciousness. “Angie!” a man’s voice calls to her. Angela opens her eyes and sees Pappy standing over her. He has a shorn gray afro and wears overalls. “You’re almost free. But you have to get up, Angie. Get up!” Angela mutters, “Pappy…” She looks again but Pappy is gone. She turns to her side and sits up. She looks ahead and sees the garage door. Angela moans in agony as she gets to her feet, picks up the musket, and limps to the garage door. She finds the opener on the wall and frantically pushes the button. The garage door rumbles opens a little, then rumbles back down as she erratically pushes the button. Frank hears the sound of the garage door. “Fuck!” he screams, and runs out. Angela, musket under her arm, sweats profusely as her eyes flutter open and shut. She presses the garage door opener one more time and falls backward. She is close to losing consciousness. The light from the setting sun hits her face as the garage door opens all the way. Her eyes open wide and she limps toward the outside. Suddenly Frank appears in front of her. He raises his knife. Then the sound of ringing bells, the little girls call out, “Hi, Mister Frank!” Frank instinctively cocks his head to side. Angela plunges the bayonet into his stomach. Shocked, Frank's demon eyes stare back at her. “Not today, Satan." Angela thrusts the bayonet deeper into his bowels. Frank falls to the ground, blood oozing from his stomach. Angela limps out from the garage as fast as she can to her car. The neighbor lady opens her front door to let in a little dog. She sees Angela getting in her car with just a sports bra on. The lady rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Angela lays against the steering wheel and lets out a guttural cry. She turns the key still in the ignition. The radio comes on to the gospel station. Mahalia Jackson belts out “His Eye Is On the Sparrow.” Angela’s car speeds down the street of historic homes on well-manicured lawns.


“What are we going to do?” Hansel stared at Desderada with wide eyes as they lay on the straw-stuffed mattress. They lay in silence for some while, then she turned away and had one of her coughing fits. She wasn’t having them as often but could still barely manage to get to the outhouse, stopping many times to catch her breath as waves of dizziness overcame her. He had just badly hurt his ankle, and the doctor had told him on no uncertain terms that there would be permanent damage if he put any weight on it in the next three days. They had animals on their farm that depended on them, and they depended on the animals to provide them with food and a livelihood. They couldn’t go a single morning without working, much less three days, and there was no one who could help them. It was a miracle the doctor had even stopped by to check on Desderada when dawn broke and been able to assess Hansel’s injury. “I’ll have to work,” he said. “There’s just no other option. Maybe I’ll have a limp from now on, but we can’t neglect the animals.” Suddenly, a sullen teenage boy wearing what appeared to the 18th century couple to be pajamas appeared out of nowhere. “Who are you?!” Hansel demanded as he and Desderada sat bolt upright. “How did you get in here?” “I’m your descendant from the year 2245. My dad sent me back in time to make me help you with your farm as punishment for something I did at school. Time travel was invented when I was little, unfortunately.” Hansel recovered quickly from this sudden intrusion. “What the hell did you do?” “Well…I got a firework from my friend and did the equivalent of dropping it down an outhouse hole,” said the teenager, whose dad had made him endure the entire 6 hour government time travel orientation on rural 18th century surroundings. Hansel and Desderada discussed this development, considering the possibilities that the rye bread they’d eaten for dinner had been too old and they were hallucinating, that this had to do with witchcraft, or that they were being deceived in some way. Ultimately, they decided to see if he would feed and water the animals before making any judgement. The teenager, whose name was Chauency and probably deserved it, had stood impatiently by through this conversation, shifting from foot to foot. He was trying to think of ways he could activate the time travel machine’s safety mechanism and go home, knowing his dad would check the log and make him go back if he went home voluntarily. The safety mechanism would only send him to his time if he was in any kind of danger, in which case he’d instantly be sent home, or had some kind of medical problem, in which case he’d be sent to a hospital. He couldn’t get out of his punishment. For the next three days, he worked harder than he ever had in his life. The tools of 18th century farming were entirely alien to him – most food was created in sterile factory laboratories in his time – but he gave it his best try, and the farm scraped by with adequate care that required much more effort than the skilled maintenance his ancestors used. He returned home before dark each evening only to attend to his hygiene, pack food for the next day, and get well earned, much looked forward to sleep. At the end of the third day, Hansel slowly hobbled around the farm with a crutch he’d made for an inspection. Curiosity had been eating he and Desderada alive about how things were coming along, considering that they’d spent five minutes explaining to Chauency how to use a shovel on the first day. He was thoroughly impressed that someone who was so incredibly unskilled had managed to basically accomplish all the tasks necessary to keep the farm going. “I’m impressed.” He told Chauency. “Thank you.” Chauency said, with feeling. He felt good about having worked so hard to take care of the farm for his ailing ancestors… but was determined to never invoke the ire of his dad ever again. He had to go to a new school, where he made nice new friends and never broke any rules. He graduated, but instead of going to college, he pitched an idea for a nonprofit to some interested donors and started a sanctuary for rare farm animals such as goats, chickens, and cows. Schools did field trips to his sanctuary frequently, including the school that expelled him. His dad wished he’d picked a punishment that had involved math, but was proud of him nevertheless.


My name is Selina Chan and I’m a mother of two boys. My oldest boy is Jamal and he’s ten years old. He loves to play basketball and video games with his dad. My oldest boy looks more like his handsome father. My youngest boy, Isaiah, looks more like his mom. He has his mom’s high cheekbones and her small chin. He’s six years old and he loves to collect superhero comic books, especially Spider-Man comics. Yesterday was nice. My husband was at work, and I was at home with the boys making scarecrow decorations out of construction paper. My youngest boy made the best scarecrow. His scarecrow reminded me of the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. We made a mess out of everything, but we were having so much fun. My boys had paint and glue on their fingers and faces. There were pieces of construction paper scattered on the floor. I had paint on my orange sweatshirt and my tie-dye shorts. We had a blast throwing construction paper scraps at each other. I didn’t have to go to work and it was Saturday, so my boys had the day off from school. After we made our scarecrows, we cleaned up the mess. I took my boys into the kitchen and I used a washcloth to clean the paint off their faces and hands. We swept up the shreds of construction paper and we put our scarecrow decorations on the dining room table. We watched our favorite superhero movie, Black Panther. It felt so nice to sit on the sofa and watch a movie with my boys. The wind was blowing softly outside and I could hear the autumn wind rustling the leaves around on my porch. After the movie ended, my oldest boy played his video games and my youngest boy read his new Spider-Man comic book. I was in the kitchen baking chocolate chip cookies and listening to the music playlist on my phone. Everything seemed fine and I was in the kitchen shaking my butt to Snoop Dogg. I was taking the second batch of cookies out of the oven when I heard my youngest boy crying in the living room. I thought he had hurt himself, and that panicked mother mode came over me. I bolted out of the kitchen to see what was wrong. What’s the matter, babe? I could barely get the question out of my mouth. Isaiah had his Spider-Man comic book in my face, showing me the nemesis who killed Spider-Man. My kid loves Spider-Man to the point of obsession. He has every Spider-Man toy, video game, and poster in his room. We’ve watched every Spider-Man movie with the different young actors. Tobey Maguire, Andrew Garfield, and Tom Holland all had my son’s blessing. So when he found out that a villain named Kraven the Hunter killed Spider-Man, he almost lost it. I had to calm him down. He killed Spider-Man! He shouted with tears in his eyes. I held him and he finally calmed down. We were sitting on the sofa and I had him on my lap with my lips buried in his curly hair. My oldest boy kept playing his Need for Speed video game, and he didn’t let his little brother distract him. Seeing tears in my youngest boy’s eyes made me sad. He laid his head on my chest after letting his comic book fall to the floor. While I was wiping the tears off his face, he told me how Spider-Man died. A villain who called himself Kraven the Hunter tricked Spider-Man into believing he was his wife, Mary Jane Watson, by drinking a potion that gave him the ability to shape-shift. Spider-Man went to rescue who he thought was Mary Jane. He heard her screaming and he swung through the window of an abandoned building to see the imposter Mary Jane lying on the floor with her hands and feet chained together. Spidey set the imposter free and when he tried to carry her out of the building, she transformed into Kraven the Hunter. Kraven hurled Spider-Man through a brick wall before stabbing him through the heart with a poison coated dagger made from the tooth of a lion. Whoever wrote this Spider-Man comic book was an asshole. Why would you kill Spider-Man knowing a child would read the comic and find out that their hero dies at the end? What the fu—? Never mind. Anyway, I tried to do something that would make my little angel happy again. I offered him a chocolate chip cookie, but he turned me down. I held him in my lap for a while, and my oldest boy glanced around at us with an amused look on his face. I asked my oldest boy if he wanted a cookie and he shook his head at me. Damn, it seemed like nobody wanted a cookie. Isaiah drifted off to sleep, using my chest as a pillow. When I saw he was asleep, I slowly stood up from the sofa, trying my best not to wake him up. I preferred to see him sleeping, not crying. My oldest boy looked around at me again. He gave me a puzzled look when I bent down to pick up his brother’s comic book. I smiled at him and blew him a kiss. He blew a kiss back at me before returning to his video game. I gave my youngest boy one last look to make sure he was still asleep. Without being noticed, I tiptoed out of the living room, holding Isaiah’s comic book in both of my hands. I grabbed my phone and made my way up the stairs. The stairs creaked beneath my feet, which annoyed me. Years passed before I finally made it to the top of the stairway. We have a long-ass stairway in our home, and I burn a few calories every time I walk up and down the stairs. I walked into the bathroom, gently shutting the door behind me. I laid the comic book down on the bathroom sink while taking a deep breath. Smartphones come in handy when you need to research something. I did an internet search on this Kraven the Hunter guy. He was born in Volgograd, Russia, and his actual name was Sergei Kravinoff. I read that he was a Soviet immigrant, and his father was an aristocrat. He first appeared in The Amazing Spider-Man comic, issue number 15 in August 1964. Legendary Marvel Comics writer, Stan Lee created him and the artist who drew his design was Steve Ditko. He was a frequent Spider-Man villain. Kraven the Hunter was a big game hunter and he would seek to defeat Spider-Man to prove he was the greatest hunter in the world. He didn’t use guns and his weapons of choice were spears, darts, axes, nets, whips, poisons, and gases. He consumed a witch doctor’s herbal potion to enhance his physical power. I know what you’re thinking. Why the hell would I need to know all this information about a comic book villain? You’ll find out in a second. I needed to channel my spiritual gifts, and I needed to insert my spirit into my baby’s Spider-Man comic book. I know that what I just said sounded insane. Gathering information about Kraven the Hunter would help me defeat him. After shutting my eyes, I went into a deep meditative trance while chanting an ancient Chinese language under my breath. I tied my hair back and I removed my earrings. War entered my mind. This Kraven the Hunter guy needed to pay for what he did. He killed Spider-Man and he made my kid cry. It was kick-ass time. Time turned inside out for me. My body went into warp drive. My cells, my fingernails, my skin all regenerated at supersonic speed. I kept my eyes closed until I heard the revving engine of a motorcycle and thunder above my head. When I opened my eyes, I was on a motorcycle and I almost ran into the back of a car. I swerved while punching the throttle. Rainwater was beating down on my motorcycle helmet. Flashes of lightning stretched out across the night sky. I was wearing a black leather catsuit and it hugged my curvy figure. I had two gas-operated, semi-automatic handguns strapped to my waist. I had a Samurai sword strapped to my back. Hearing the motorcycle’s growling turbocharged engine sent a wave of hypnotic euphoria through my body. I was shooting between cars like a bullet. Judging from my surroundings, I could tell that I was on the Brooklyn Bridge. My eyes caught a dark figure swinging from the bridge’s cables above me. I knew that the figure was Spider-Man. This meant that my magic successfully inserted me into the comic book. Never get in an Asian mother’s way. No car could stop me. Every time a car would turn into my path, I’d swerve out of the way while punching the brake. I had to keep up with Spider-Man. He was moving faster than the lightning in the heavens. A streetlight would illuminate his suit. His web would shoot out, attaching itself to every streetlight pole. My motorcycle left the bridge and I didn’t even notice. I felt like Trinity in The Matrix. My motorcycle was my black stallion. I forced my motorcycle to do a 360 degree swerve and my back tire was spinning out of control. After I parked my bike, I removed my helmet, letting the rain wash my face. I shut off my motorcycle’s engine while looking up to see Spider-Man sitting on top of a streetlight. Lightning flashes would illuminate his silhouette every second. I was about to yell out to him, but he saw me. He swung down from the streetlight and he landed on the roof of an abandoned car. He moved with breakneck speed. A loud thud echoed through the air when his feet slammed down on the car’s hood. He landed so hard on the car that he blew out its windows and its tires. It scared me, but I still approached him. He had a slender, muscular definition, but he also had a pre-pubescent appearance. I knew Spider-Man was a teenager in the early comics but I remembered that he had a wife, which meant that he was an adult by now. We slowly approached each other with the rain falling in our faces. The rain caused the black spider logo on his chest to glisten. His suit was a dark sapphire-blue combined with a crimson red. The spider web designs on his mask and suit gave him that distinct edgy appearance that separated him from other superheroes. When I heard this adorable squeaky voice emerge from behind his mask, I almost giggled. He was so polite, but he kept a cautious distance between himself and me. I guess his Spidey sense told him I wasn’t a threat because he stepped closer to me after he asked me who I was. He called me, ma’am. As he got closer to me, I had to look up at the teardrop mirror-like eyes attached to his mask. The silver eyes on his mask reminded me of mirrored wrap-around sunglasses. It was mesmerizing to see the burst of lightning in the night sky reflecting in his silver eyes. He was so tall, and I wanted to see his face because I knew he’d be cute. I already knew about his Peter Parker identity. I almost told him to remove his mask so I could see his cute boyish face, but I kept it professional. When he asked me who I was, I told him my superhero name which was Kill Girl. It was a crappy name, but it was the best I could do. The situation got funny when I told him that Kraven the Hunter was going to kill him. I explained everything to him, including my son crying over his death. I even told him he was in a comic book. Seems like superheroes don’t know they’re a character in a comic book until you tell them. As I was talking to Spidey we both heard screaming coming from the building we were standing in front of. I told Spider-Man again that it was Kraven the Hunter pretending to be his wife, and that it was a trap. I told him I wanted to be his sidekick and that I would help him defeat Kraven the Hunter. I said to him in these exact words, I’m sorry sweetheart, but Kraven’s gonna kill your ass if you try to fight him without my help. He listened to me and before I knew it he had his arm around my waist, whisking me up into the air using his web-slinging ability. I’m afraid of heights. I had my arms wrapped around him and I was screaming at him, telling him that if he dropped me, I was gonna kill him. In seconds, he swung me into the building through a broken window and we both landed hard on our feet. Knowing what would happen, I wasted no time pulling out my guns and aiming them at the Mary Jane imposter that was lying on the floor. Spider-Man stood behind me and we watched as the fake ass Mary Jane slowly rose to her feet before transforming into Kraven. I finally got to see Kraven the Hunter up close and personal. He had barbaric muscles in his arms and tattoos decorated his dirty skin. He had on a vest that looked like a sleeveless tiger fur coat. He wore a choker that had bony spikes attached to it. His height overshadowed me and I could see a beastly rage in his eyes. A thick bushy mustache concealed part of his lips, and his ex-convict facial features looked sort of handsome to me in a caveman way. When he spoke to me, his voice sounded like thunder and it vibrated the surrounding air. He never asked who I was and he assumed I was Catwoman because of my black leather suit. What an idiot. I knew he’d be misogynistic. He looked like the womanizing type. It offended me when he said that I reminded him of a hot stripper he saw at a gentlemen’s club a few weeks ago. He called me his little Asian flower, which sounded racist. And he loved my long platinum blonde pigtails, which reminded him of Harley Quinn. He wanted to see my eyes, but my black mask was covering the top half of my face. He told me not to hide my beauty behind a mask. He also kept staring at my cleavage, saying that my boobs would make a lot of men salivate. He said a few other things to me that I can’t say out loud. While he was talking dirty to me, he reached into his vest to pull out something and that’s when I pulled the trigger. One bullet clipped his shoulder, but it didn’t phase him. He tried to throw a poison dart at me, but Spider-Man shot a string of web in his face. He cussed at Spider-Man while trying to get the sticky web out of his eyes. I tried to shoot him again, but both of my guns jammed. That pissed me off. Out of my rage, I threw my guns down and I ran toward him, jumping up in the air and kicking him in his chest. His big lumbering physique went tumbling backward. He tried to throw a few punches at me, but he kept missing. A fist would swing past my face, missing my nose by an inch. I didn’t want those heavy hands to hit my face, because I knew they’d do some damage. I had fun kicking him in his stomach and kicking him in his back. He’d throw a punch at me and I’d punish him with a few sidekicks to his face. Even Spider-Man punched him around a few times. Mr. Kraven the Hunter didn’t have a chance. He made my kid cry and I killed his ass within a few seconds. I did a handstand while kicking him in his face. I kicked him as hard as I could, knocking his ass through a plate-glass window. The last thing I heard was his screams exiting the building and becoming more distant. When I peered through the shattered window, I saw what happens when you fall from a five-story building. You go splat on a concrete sidewalk. Spider-Man peeked over my shoulder, and I heard him gasp when he looked down to see a bloody pancake that used to be Mr. Kraven. I thanked Spidey for his heroic service. We hugged each other and I told him how much my son idolized him. I reached up to touch his mask and I wanted to see his face, but a child’s voice and a loud knock in my head sucked me out of the comic book like a vacuum cleaner. Just like that, I was standing in the bathroom in my sweatshirt and shorts again. My youngest boy was banging on the bathroom door asking for his comic book. I opened the door to see a cute, curly-haired pint-sized man in a Spider-Man T-shirt and shorts looking up at me. His pitiful doll-like eyes still had tears in them. His little pink lips were upside down. Without hesitation, I handed my son his comic book while smirking at him. I folded my arms and giggled when my little angel flipped to the end of his comic book to see a beautiful, mysterious female superhero in a black costume rescuing Spider-Man. His mouth dropped open when he saw how Kill Girl annihilated Kraven the Hunter by throwing him out of a five-story window. I watched as a smile slowly bloomed across my little boy’s lips. I saw those dimples again and his eyes lit up. My youngest boy was happy…. But something told me that I had some explaining to do.


It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon. I rummage through the selection of tea that we keep on the windowsill over the kitchen counter, stacked on top of one another, with no label facing the same direction and no one brand alike. Boxes, jars, and tubes all jangled on top of one another. The choices were unique in their own ways: there was chamomile, one of her favorites but perhaps too pedestrian; an orange and cranberry blend I had picked up at a used bookstore; lavender and vanilla crème that was more luxuriant than pleasant but she might be in that mood this evening; apple spice of which she had tried one bag and declared it gross; traditional English breakfast, but that was too caffeinated for an evening tea; and lastly there was peppermint, but the weather was turning chilly outside, so that may not fit the temperament of the evening. This is surely hell. I don’t want to rush to judgement about the tea selection. The kettle will take a long time to get to temperature and the tea situation is finicky enough as is and deserves some thought. One false move here and the entire evening could be ruined, she could feel unloved, unseen, and misunderstood by the man who is supposed to love, see, and understand her. I stand over the sink and glance at each tea individually and simulate her response to each cup. This was always my favorite time of the evening, the time just before she came home. In the small gap that existed between the realization that she would be home soon and her arrival I felt light, effervescent even. I felt the way that I imagine dogs do when they hear the car door shut in the driveway but before they have seen the human walk through the door. There is this moment of tension, a brilliant anticipation like a childhood Christmas, where you realize that bliss is just a few moments away. Of course, when the bliss comes it may not have all the shimmer and gaiety that you imagined, but I’m not so sure that matters but so much. If the anticipation and buildup beforehand gives you that glee that makes the moment ahead seem perfect and then you have the memory of it that lingers and fits nicely into a pocket that you can make nostalgic the moment it’s over, does that brief moment where it’s out of focus matter nearly as much as what’s around it? But she’ll be back soon, all the same. I can already just see her car kicking a cloud of dirt up behind her as she drives down the long gravel road. I’ll have my forehead pressed against the window by my chair in the living room, my breath will be fogging up the glass, the oils from my skin will be leaving their greasy traces on the pane itself. I’ll trick myself, I always do. I’ll see a neighbor and begin to get excited, but will have to come back to earth when I realize it’s not her. Or, I’ll convince myself that the rustling of the trees on the winding driveway is actually me seeing her car move down the road. I’ll convince myself of it for a few moments, but I know, deep down, that I’m lying to myself. This tea situation, though, is pestering me. I want the tea to be perfect. I think I’ve timed the kettle just right so that just as she comes around the bend in the road and I can first see her car that its whistle will sing out. If I’m too early with the timing of the kettle then it becomes a balancing act of keeping the water at the appropriate temperature and if I’m too late then either she has to wait longer when she gets in or I’m going to be serving lukewarm tea to her. Naturally, the question arises as to why not just start the kettle earlier since the tea has to steep and this is all about her getting tea, but it’s not just that. It’s about setting the atmosphere and she loves to steep. She bobs the bag up and down with a finger dipping in and out of the hot water and she barely registers a twinge. Her mind begins to unpack itself in those moments, the mental decompression process occurs and by the time the tea has steeped, and her finger has perhaps taken on a slightly pinkish hue, her mental stretching is complete and she is ready to embrace the evening. But what choice of tea I make matters. This is surely hell. Flipping through the tea selection a few more times I finally make a choice: chamomile. She loves chamomile and perhaps it will be just the thing to lull her off after a day at the office. I open the box and pull out the perfect bag. I hold it to my nose and breathe in and the spices and leaves smell absolutely amazing. I just know that she’ll love it I feel the twinges of excitement knotting in my stomach. They rise and fall, die and are reborn, over and over again. Just as I think that I may have gotten adjusted to the excitement a brand new wave strikes me all over again and I flutter off of my toes, gliding around with hope that tonight will be perfect. I’ve cleaned the kitchen and folded the laundry; I’ve picked up her favorite ice cream, which I will surprise her with after she’s finished her tea; and I’ve even given the dog a bath and put an adorable new collar on her. She’s our pride and joy, a stray that picked us above anyone else. She just arrived one day and planted her flag in our hearts. We love to take turns holding her, letting her lick our faces, rubbing her behind the ears and watching her eyes roll back as she squints from how nice the petting feels. I can’t hear her now so she must be sleeping. She’ll be snuggled up on the sofa, in a perfect little circle or perhaps she’ll be stretched out with a paw gently covering her eyes. The dog will be almost as excited as I will be when she gets home. The dog will jump from the couch and run around the house and maybe even jump on her. With the tea, that might not be a good idea. Maybe I should get the dog up now so she isn’t but so excited, get the dog primed to see her since it will only be another minute or two at most. “Baby!” I say, my voice bright and happy. I know that I’m supposed to hear the jangle of the new collar and the tapping of her nails on the floor, but I don’t. “Baby, come here, girl!” I say, louder this time. Still, nothing comes in response to me. “Baby!” I say, a little bass in my voice and whistle. The whistle carries on and on, my lips quivering. I know she won’t come. Surely this is hell. The kettle whistles, high and loud over everything, screaming into my ears and filling the kitchen with noise, but I can’t move to stop it, to take it off the burner, because it’s coming back now, why the moment is so powerful, why it feels so good. This is hell. I can’t breathe. I want to vomit up the air that I’m choking on and my eyes and lungs burn so painfully that I wish I could just die. The waves of pain are powerful, they overwhelm me and almost buckle me to the floor. The realization is the true pain. One moment, one flash in time that is the most utterly painful, that is surely what hell makes us suffer. And that is where I am. My wife will ever come home to me and my dog will never answer because neither are there and that is the hell in which I find myself. Forever on the precipice of a happy moment, perhaps the happiest moment of my life, only to have it ripped away from me with this realization. She is not there, though she once was. She came home and I had her chamomile tea ready. She thanked me, kissed me on the cheek, and spilled just a little tea on herself when the dog jumped up to give her a kiss. We talked and petted the dog and loved the new collar. When I showed her the ice cream she cried just a little and said I was wonderful for thinking of her and that she was a very lucky woman. This was the happiest I had ever been. Eternal pain is easy because you can resign yourself at a certain point. If you know you’re going to lose a battle or die at a certain time, there is a dignity, and almost a kind of victory, in surrender. The torture lies in hope. The faintest glimmer of a chance being shown and then snatched away. This is my torture. I relive the knowledge that everything is lost and that I am alone and that it has been many eternities since I have seen my love and it will be infinitely more before I may rest. I feel the fresh cut of loss every day and then the realization of my time spent here sets in, and the further realization that I will feel this way again and again. I have relived her loss countless times with nothing to do to even dull the pain. The kettle has been singing out but it begins to dwindle. Maybe I’ve been standing in awe of everything for so long that the water’s burned down. I reach out and turn off the burner. “I miss you,” I say to no one, running my hands along the outside of the hot aluminum. It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon.


Megan placed her cup of coffee on the table as it shook slightly. Lately, she had been trying to act as old as she felt. This included a new love for coffee and tea of the sorts, as well as an old brownish-red lipstick she found in the drawer of her teacher’s desk. She didn’t know how to properly apply it, but it was the process and routine that stuck out to her most. She enjoyed sitting in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully taking in every aspect of her face, gently tugging at the corners of her mouth and eyes, mimicking what she watched her mother do before she dropped her off at school every morning. Speaking of her mother, it was almost time to leave and she could hear the loud thumping of her steps in the room above. It was obvious her mother was finally emerging from her room, and it was even more obvious that her mother had found something to be angry about. You see, when Megan’s mother was angry, her steps sounded different. She walked with a purpose, and the purpose was to make sure you could hear her coming. Last week, the incident was an Instagram page she had somehow found. Megan didn’t follow it, and she made sure to block it when it followed her. It was a silly gossip account someone in her grade must have made for the middle school. Something like “Liberty Middle Gossip Girl”. Megan didn’t even watch Gossip Girl. In the early morning, she woke to the sound of her mother’s steps. Louder than usual, practically assaulting the ground she walked on. Megan opened her eyes slowly from her bed, waiting for the moment her mother would burst in. And that she did. She started accusing her of creating the account. Asking her why she would stoop down to that level, why she would try to create drama like this. Asking her how she could be stupid enough to create such a vapid Instagram page. How she failed in parenting a good child. (Megan would argue that her mother would prefer to say “create” the perfect child.) All Megan could do was refute. Explain how she didn’t make the page. Explain how she didn’t care enough about the kids she went to school with to create a whole blog to gossip about them. Convince her that she was the daughter she was proud of. The daughter that she did love and the daughter that was above her classmates. Try to tell her that she was reading the book she assigned her instead, or that she had liked the music she told her to research. She knew this would ease her mother, having her know she was doing as she was told. And all with tears welling in her eyes, but she couldn’t let her see her cry. That would make it worse. She finally calmed down and left. Albeit she slammed the door but at least she left. Megan sat on the edge of her bed as she watched her leave. She sat there for a while, letting her face get wet from crying and her hair snotty from neglecting to properly blow her nose. She pinched her bedsheets as she waited. She pinched the fat of her arms and she picked the dry skin around her nails. Megan finally wiped the tears from her eyes but they were falling a little faster than they were before. She could now get ready for school, she could wear the lipstick she took from her favorite teacher. Hopefully, they would match. Her mother waited for her in the car and the ride was silent except for one exchange. “I’m not a terrible mother.” “I know.” This morning, Megan was anxious to know what she did this time. She made sure to hide her journals the night before and clear the search history on her phone and she began to shake thinking about all the possibilities. Her mother came into the kitchen gripping an old pair of Megan’s jeans. “I need to make sure you still fit in these.” Megan knew what would happen if she didn’t.


As Serial Saturday here on /r/shortstories gets to the halfway point, we are starting to see the first of participants winding down their stories. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on /r/writingprompts Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/Ragnulfr (or, as we know him on the discord server: Wingbeat, or just Wing), who from early on captured our hearts with his story of a young goblin with a gift, and the friends he makes along the way in learning how to use that gift. With twenty five installments all in all it’s a beautiful, cozy story that left us all thinking that these kinds of stories are what we need more in the world. Here’s the *Purespark* synopsis as written by Wing: >*A young goblin boy, scorned by his own kind and hated by the rest of the world, finds his only solace in magic, believing he can change the fate of his race by proving himself. But fate is not often so simple, and cares not for idealism. After purchasing a magic tome with money he had saved up, he fervently pursues a way to prove that goblins are capable of great good, as well. What awaits him at the end of this path - and how will his past shape the future for all of goblinkin?* In this journey we’ve taken with Wing we have enjoyed his readings in the Serial Saturday campfire and also just getting to know him more. In the writing world it can be hard to find good online writing groups that not only provide critique but also really get in tune with each other’s styles. With members like Wing we'd be hardpressed to find a better crop of such quality writers and community members. Wing wrote a beautiful forward about his experience with us that I think is worth a read and I’ll quote here. >*Hello! Thank you so much for reading Purespark! This story means a lot to me - and I'm so grateful for the opportunity to be able to write and share my writing with all of you - both up to this point and perhaps to the future! I'm so grateful for all of your support - and none of this would have been possible without you all. Through the happiest of times and darkest of moments, you all have made me feel welcomed and appreciated. I'm grateful for the opportunity to be able to at least repay and give back but a small portion of everything that you have given to me. And as I go forward, I hope that I will be able to share the oppressive support that you all have given me with others - provided they're okay with constant support!* > >*I mean it when I say this community has changed my life. I've learned to be kinder. More compassionate. I've learned to be more patient with myself, as well as learned how to help others to the best of my ability.* > >*But most of all, I've learned that there is no better feeling than helping another. Through times of happiness and times of sorrow, I've found that just a simple helping hand can go a long ways to bring someone out of their reverie. Just a simple "Hey, are you alright?" can make someone's day. Just a simple "We're all here for you - we're all beside you" can change someone's perspective forever - and for the better.* > >*I've felt these things for a while, but I've truly learned what they mean by being a part of this community.* > >*Purespark started as a simple Theme Thursday post way out of my comfort zone. I remember thinking to myself, "Why don't we try to take this theme and try to fit it into our strengths and ideas?" As I put pen to paper, and words onto the page, I had the thought in my head of a young goblin boy trying to prove himself and help as many people as he could, despite any difficulties that may have been placed in his path.* > >*But after seeing how much people loved it, and after seeing all of the support that everyone gave me, I decided to continue it. Week after week. I initially had started it as a way to improve my writing - a comfortable place to test my skills and experiment with different writing styles.* > >*But as I continued writing, I realized just how much this story had become to me. It had become more than just a simple writing exercise. These characters and these stories became real to me - and had become something that now is very dear and close to my heart.* > >*Purespark became more than just a simple story - it found itself encapsulating all of the emotions and feelings of everything that I had come to love in this community. A message of hope and kindness, which can outshine even the darkest of moments - this is but one of the messages and morals I hope this story can impart. But more importantly, it has become a story in which I can truly say I'm proud of. Not because of my own merit - but because of the support of everyone else to push me to do my best. Their oppressive support gave me the courage to continue to write and put my best foot forward each week - and words can't express just how much it meant to me to have so many people eagerly expecting and awaiting the new installation each week. It means more than I can say - even more than I can express. You all have helped me so much - helped me to improve not only as a writer, but as a person. I feel I've become more confident in who I am, and I have tried my best to be the best support for others as I can be in return.* > >*So to you, the reader - no matter who you are, or where you are from. Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for reading Purespark.* > >*I say this every week after Campfire, but I really, truly want you to know this one fact -* > >*You're amazing. You're all amazing.* > >*Thank you so much for everything - and thank you so much for reading Purespark!* > >*Wingbeat* With *Purespark* at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on /r/shortstories. Let the bragging begin! Wingbeat’s personal sub is and I highly recommend checking out his author notes and other stories written for /r/writingprompts. The *Purespark* story in its entirety is compiled as a collection there, Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fourteen - Chapter Fifteen - Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen - Chapter Nineteen - Chapter Twenty - Chapter Twenty-One - Chapter Twenty-Two - Chapter Twenty-Three - Chapter Twenty-Four - Chapter Twenty-Five - Congrats on finishing your serial, Wing, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. Enjoy your travels while embarking on new experiences in your personal life. <3 from the team at /r/ShortStories, /r/WritingPrompts, and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


Leah coos at the child in her arms. Earthy brown eyes stare back as Lilith laughs at her mother. When Leah yawns, the child responds in kind. She opens her mouth wide before continuing to giggle at some secret joke. Despite the days growing longer, the evening breeze is still cold. It’s a wonder Lilith hasn’t been sick yet. Leah hums a lullaby. Three months was too early to tell though. Infants were delicate, and she wouldn’t be the first in the village to lose their child by winter. Hearing snores, Leah looks down. She smiles. When she pulls the blanket over Lilith, the infant reaches out and grabs her mother's finger. Hand in hand, the two fall asleep. The moon shines high in the night, but all is quiet. Not even the buzz of cicadas can be heard. Through the window, light spills onto the ground. It shimmers once, then twice. The air condenses into an unfamiliar form. "Hush now," comes the gentle whisper. The stranger steps toward the cot with a blanket wrapped bundle. "If tales of old are true, then this is the only way." The figure pauses and looks down; they can't bear to let go. "I’ll leave you in their care." They place their own child on the bed. Lilith stirs. Seeing the other child, the stranger sighs. They bring their finger to Lilith's forehead, causing the child to frown. A whispered incantation fills the room. After bringing their finger back down to their own child's forehead, the incantation finishes. The children could be twins. "And in exchange, I promise to care for this one." The stranger picks up Lilith. As if knowing what would happen, Lilith rolls over and opens her eyes. She gives a surprised cry when she comes face to face with someone clearly not her mother. Lilith hiccups, then cries harder. "Hush now." The stranger moves toward the window. Leah mumbles something incoherent and reaches out to pat her child. When her hand meets with only sheets, she jolts awake. Sitting up, Leah is greeted with a flash of moonlight. She blinks a couple times before shaking her head. Her eyes must be playing tricks. Lilith is sleeping just as soundly as before. Only, she'd managed to roll to the edge. Leah sighs and carefully picks her child up. As she tucks Lilith in again, the child mumbles and opens their eyes. Under the moonlight, Leah swore she saw a flash of blue. She blinks and Lilith's eyes return to normal. Patting her child to sleep, Leah starts to nod off. Lilith blinks one last time before turning her head to the side and closing her eyes. This time Leah sees it clearly. Blue. Lilith's eyes were partly blue. But Lilith's eyes have always been brown. Surely three months was a little late for her eyes to start changing color? Leah bites her lip. Either way, change would be gradual. No longer tired, she paces in front of her bed. The blue eyes, the shimmering moonlight, the cries. She hadn't imagined any of it. Pausing her steps, Leah recalls a legend passed down from mother to child. Strange beings were said to live in the forest by the village. She turns to Lilith. "Changeling?" \* Night melted to day, and day to weeks. In a blink, winter arrived. Lilith, or the child posing as her, had grown. Leah meant to keep it a secret. Of course, her husband had a right to know. But when she broke the news, he pursed his lips and drew his brows together. That was his way of coping. Leah, however, had a chestful of thoughts. Naturally, she told a couple close friends. Those close friends told close friends and soon enough, the entire town knew. It was to be expected. After all, with a close-knit community like theirs, secrets could hardly be kept. Of course, she hadn't expected the other women to take the news calmly. But this new child was still just that - a child. Bring misfortune her foot. What could a child - human or not - do? The poor thing could hardly stop crying that first month. What were their hearts made of? Leah sighs. Standing in the kitchen, she keeps one eye on the oven and another on Lilith. The child crawls around the blanket, entertaining herself with small clay dolls. Unlike other children Leah knew, Lilith liked to hit the dolls against each other, laughing when they clacked and broke. Leah thinks of the last few months. Lilith indeed grew well. Her straw like hair became healthy brown locks that gathered at her cheeks. Her complexion too, was much better than before. She practically glowed. It almost makes Leah smile. Lilith walks over. Though she held the wall for support, this was still far earlier than other children in the village. Strange, the other women said. “Dinner.” The child’s clear pronunciation never ceased to amaze Leah. Unnatural - even Leah would admit. Seeing the bread, Lilith turns her pleading eyes to Leah. The woman blinks. Lilith had just eaten. Leah starts to speak, but her husband's arrival interrupts her. Frowning, he glances at Lilith. Leah's heart twists. He says nothing, but Leah hears it all. Winter came harshly this year, following an equally dry summer. Their food would barely be enough to see the new year, yet Lilith happily ate away. "Rats got into the grain." Leah's eyes snap up. Humans weren't the only ones going hungry. Her eyes drift towards Lilith. "Bad luck. It's been a bad year." He shrugs and drops the topic. But his eyes constantly flicker between his wife and Lilith. Leah shakes her head. "It's only bad luck." After dinner, her husband hands her a letter. She looks at the envelope. It’s her sister-in-law’s handwriting. Leah frowns. They only lived a couple towns away. And they visited no more than a week ago. She bites her lip. The letter is only a few sentences long. Leah looks up. Her husband stares back. His impassive expression makes her wonder if he'd known. Or perhaps he wrote this - him and the other villagers that wanted Lilith gone. She shakes her head; they would never. Unwittingly, she looks down at Lilith. The girl looks back, laughing. She’s managed to make different tones from the broken pieces of doll. Seeing the butchered doll that blissfully ignorant smile, Leah feels an inexplicable anger. But it isn't the child’s fault. It's simply bad luck. Everyone knew that after famine came disease. Everyone knew. It’s a coincidence, Leah tells herself. "Let's rest." Strangely enough, her husband is the voice of reason. Leah nods dumbly. Tonight though, she finds the toddler’s pre-bed antics infuriating rather than precocious. \* "Why don't you go back to your mother now? You're healthier now." The child briefly looks up before turning back to her broken dolls. Squatting next to her, Leah feels somewhat ridiculous. Here she was, addressing an infant as if they could understand. But maybe she did understand. After all, the villagers said that Fae were "wise beyond their years." She sighs. "Leah?" A knock comes. Leah walks over and invites Hazel in. "I'm sorry about your brother." Leah simply forces a smile and pulls up a chair for her. But Hazel shakes her head. "No, I only dropped by to see how you were doing." She eyes the infant warily. "My husband's waiting." Hazel turns to leave, but trips before making it to the door. Leah rushes to help her up. "No worries, I'm just clumsy." She all but runs out the door. The child looks up and laughs, as if she finds others' misfortune funny. It’s now or never, Leah tells herself. Rumor had it that sickly Fae children needed human milk. Now that this child was healthy, wasn’t it time for her to return? Besides, what of Lilith? If this one could bring so much misfortune to their small town, how would her own child fare, living amongst the Fae? It would be better for everyone if the children were swapped back. She glances at the child and silently hopes the townsfolk knew what they were talking about. Without a word, Leah turns to heat the water. The leaves Morana gave her are still fresh. Thank goodness. Wondering where Morana even found the plant, Leah drops the foxglove into the water. It’s just a bath, she reasoned. As long as the child didn't drink any, there’s no harm done. Though, Leah wonders if the child would be harmed either way. They were creatures of the forest after all. Leah briefly dipped her hand into the water. Warm. She took it off the fire and brought it over to the child. Curious, the child crawled over and looked into the tub. "It's a bath." She answers the question in the child’s eyes. "Don't worry." Leah didn't know if she was comforting herself or the child. Taking a deep breath, Leah tries to still her trembling hands. The child giggled at first. She found the leaves in the tub amusing, splashing the water and watching the leaves drift. But soon enough, the child was crying. She tries to push the leaves away, shrinking towards the side of the tub where Leah was. She grabbed at Leah's arm. The child looks up, only to find pale determination written across the older woman’s face. Desperate, she tries to climb over herself. When she fails, her wails grow louder. "Shh." Leah frowns. "You have to stay. This way you mother will come find you." But would a mother who left their child with strangers even come back? The child is inconsolable. Splashing, crying, and standing up - she tries everything to leave the water. "Stop it!" Leah's voice comes out sharper than she intends. She blinks rapidly. Outside, the wind picks up. Scattering clouds partly reveal the sun. Peculiarly, light seems to concentrate on the dirt floor. It shimmers once, then explodes in a cloud of glittering dust. Both Leah and the child stare in awe. Standing before them is a tall, elegant figure. Set in golden brown skin, the stormy grey eyes seem to stare through Leah. It was as if the earth had taken human form. "So be it, human." The Fae doesn’t arrive empty-handed. A toddler sits in their arms, looking with wonder at this strange earthy home. Lilith. Leah stands up with a shout of joy, completely forgetting the child in the tub. The Fae shakes their head. Setting Lilith down, they move to take their own child. And then they were gone. The clouds drift back, shading the townspeople again. But Leah notices none of this. She fusses over Lilith. Was her child treated well? Did she ever go hungry? Was she ever cold? Leah hugs the girl tightly. Her child was home at last. \* The townspeople didn’t accept this news as readily as the earlier rumor. Lilith still had her strange gait. She also took to watching the wandering minstrels from the window, sometimes even clapping along. The people couldn't help but wonder if Leah lied. Originally, wasn’t she the one that wanted to keep the child? However, after seeing Lilith themselves, they had to admit she was different. Her hair was now a deep brown and her eyes were larger and softer. They held none of the previous child’s cunning. Most importantly, this Lilith hadn't spoken a word since Leah said she'd returned. With the melting of the snow, the whispers gradually died down and the matter was all but forgotten. But Leah couldn’t forget. It sat in her heart, stifling each breath. She watches Lilith playing with the broken dolls. Much like the other child, Lilith liked to hit the piece of clay against each other, smiling when she made different tones. As if feeling her mother's eyes on her, Lilith stands up and plods into the kitchen. Though Lilith didn't speak, Leah still felt the child strange. Every action carried purpose. Lilith never wandered curiously, never took interest in new toys, never startled at strangers. Arriving at Leah's side, Lilith tugs on her mother's apron. "Dinner?" Leah takes a step back. "What did you say?" Her eyes widen, before dropping into a frown. Impossible. The word echoes in her mind throughout the evening. Lilith's sharp voice and clear enunciation terrify Leah. Under the harsh moonlight, Leah unsteadily pats the girl to sleep. When Leah moves to lie down, Lilith sleepily blinks and mumbles. Blue. Leah swears she sees a flash of blue. She sits up. It can’t be. With a heart full of doubt and eyes full of hate, Leah stares at the child. "Changeling.


The little boy is sitting on the floor playing with his board books. He is about two years old. Young enough to flick through the pages of his books upside down and not be concerned. He has curly auburn hair, big brown eyes and a bright happy smile. As he turns each page he points at things and gibbers to himself, talking about what he sees in his own little language. He looks up from his books and towards his mother. Giving her a big smile and saying “book. Book” happy with himself for knowing the word. His eyes are bright as he makes himself laugh, hoping his mother will share the laugh with him. His mother is watching him and feeling nothing. Her face reads as if she could be looking at him, or at the decorative cushion on the lounge behind him. When he looks up towards her and smiles she starts to feel something towards him. His laughter extracts a trickle of the jealousy and resentment from the well in her chest and puts it to the front of her mind. Her dead face slowly moves into a frown. She walks over and picks up his books and takes them away. Putting them on a high shelf. “Boooks! Books!” he cries out, reaching his hands up and grabbing at nothing. His face scrunches up and he starts to wail. She looks down at his crying face and does nothing. He crawls over and tries to climb up the leg of her pants while crying. She shakes her leg so he cant get purchase and leaves him alone crying on the floor. Her frown fades away and she feels better again. He takes a minute to crawl across the room back to her feet, letting out his little whine of upset as he goes. He sits and looks up at her, rubbing his balled fists on his cheek to get the tears off his face. She picks him up and holds him against her. She says in soft motherly tone “You’re so needy, mummy will make it better though.” The jealousy and resentment trickling back into the well for now as she absorbs the unconditional love from the child. The keys jingle in the door and the lock is undone as the boy’s father comes in through the front door. He sees the mother holding the baby and smiles “That’s nice to see you two together like that” he says. “Ughh, he’s been so needy. Just at me all day. I’m exhausted I need to take a break, I’m going for a walk” she says as she passes the boy off to his father. “Back in an hour” she says as she slams the door behind her. The boys father looks at his son and smiles at him “Hey mate, lets try to be nicer to her okay.” He says in a soft voice. “She puts a lot of love into you while I’m away mate. One day you’ll grow up and realise how lucky you are”.


I thought of you when the subway was too slow. As we were moving I think the tunnel must’ve been too small for the train because the sides scraped up against the walls and made the whole thing screech and sputter out. It was all very cat like. There was a man sitting on one of the seats up against the door at the rear of the car. He was sleeping the entire ride until we slowed down and then instantly perked up. He started shouting about how he was in a rush. How the governor was too damn busy suckling on the teets of the 1% who didn’t ride the subway to actually give a care about the city. About him, the man. About all of us. The train slowed down and he woke up as if he’d been awake the whole time, perched right in front of the car doors waiting to leap out onto the platform when the time came. I thought about that time some number of months ago on the subway. We were riding it together. It was dead cold outside, the kind that really nips at your pores, but on the train you were sweating. You were complaining about how you couldn’t get your coat off because the car was too packed. We were huddled right next to each other, holding onto the same pole, a tiny lady with a pink beanie pressed up against your chest and a lumbering man’s armpit hovering inches from my nose. We shared headphones, like all subway couples do, listening to a song that I wouldn’t be able to listen to again when you left. I should’ve known then that it would be unbearable to hear later. You can hear the grief in between the notes. When the train slowed down, you looked down at me, I up at you, and you winced like it was your fault. I didn’t mind though. I was up against you, ear to shoulder. For you the whole thing was too hot but for me it was perfectly warm. I thought of you again, in almost the same moment, when the subway completely stopped. It screeched and scraped and did what all metal boxes do when they rub up against something. But then the wailing stopped. It all stopped. The lights went out. The air conditioning turned off. It was nothing but humid darkness. Have you ever noticed what happens to sound when the lights suddenly turn off? It’s like everyone comes to the same conclusion: when the lights go out, the world goes out. Everyone’s breath catches, just for a moment. The yelling man stopped yelling, like he had been unplugged. It must have something to do with biology. One of our feeble senses is removed and everything else is kicked into 12th gear. I know I’m not making any truly profound statements. You always reminded me of that- how my thoughts only sound interesting because of the way they’re organized. But you were never very profound, either. One year ago we were again on the subway. It was the 4/5. I told you we should probably hop on the A train but you said that if we took the 4/5 we were more likely to get a newer train, one with air conditioning. You said that since the 4/5 runs through the upper east side the trains would naturally be nicer. More hospitable. The one that we got on was old, ancient even, and it wasn’t air conditioned. The air wasn’t thick, it was heavy. It was pressurized. We skitted by each station, making perfect time, and then suddenly, two stops away from where we were going, we came to a halt. In the middle of the tunnel. The P.A cracked on and told us we were experiencing heavy traffic, but we should be moving again shortly. Traffic? you said. Traffic? On the subway? I will never understand how they could possibly use *traffic* as an excuse for subway delays. Does that make any sense to you at all? Crazy, how they think they can fool us. And then you laughed. I laughed with you, closed my eyes and chuckled with my forehead on your shoulder. I didn’t find what you said very funny or interesting at all. But that’s just it. I loved you so I bought into it anyway. I loved you. And all you had for me was advice. And good music that isn’t good anymore. And complaints about everything and anything related to a subway. I hated when you complained about the subway. Because, I love the subway. It’s moving now.


Living just down the road from my grandparents never felt more important than in that moment I sipped tea with my grandmother, Bubby, while she told me of her missing laptop. “There wasn’t much on the thing be honest, your grandfather thought it would change our lives and could barely turn the damn thing on.” My grandpa, Bopo, scooted himself out of his La-Z-Boy recliner, somehow in immaculate condition after years of heavy use, and made for the recently knocked upon door with a grunt of disapproval. “Well regardless,” I said restraining a chuckle while trying to convey the gravity of the situation, “someone was in here while you were away. Imagine what could have happened if you were home. You’re getting a security system, and a dog and that’s that.” “Oh now don’t you ‘that’s that me,’ son, you don’t know the first thing about it. If I was a better, I’d put my money on that being those sweet boys from uSurance with a brand new laptop for us an’ we don’t even need it!” “Bubby no ones going to be bringing you a new laptop, we haven’t even reported it missing yet. Are you feeling okay?” “If you are questioning my mental health you better be prepared for a world of hurt. They take good care of us at uSurance, Robert, you trust me. It was a hefty payment back then, one THOUSAND dollars, but they promised coverage for EACH and EVERY thing, and they kept their promise.” My heart sank. A thousand dollars? How could they fall for that? I’d let them down, big time. “Bubby please tell me the money didn’t actually go through? You know that’s a scam, how could anyone afford to cover everything?!” “Settle your tone son, just look over at your grandpa’s recliner and tell me it’s a scam. Lever onnit broke one day and not even an hour later, no phone call or nothing, and uSurance brought a brand new chair no questions asked.” The chair was in mint condition, but Bopo must have been taking care of it. He always taught me to maintain my belongings, clean them, replace their parts so they worked properly. Surely Bubby’s mental state was slipping fast if she couldn’t even remember that. Why hadn’t I been told of this? She seemed so normal besides this uSurance nonsense, maybe Bopo hadn’t even noticed. “Bubby when’s the last time you’ve seen your doctor...” I started, trailing off as Bopo waddled into the room with a laptop under his arm. “I told you not bother Robert, uSurance came as quick as they could, not even a problem now.” Truthfully he probably couldn’t have maintained that recliner for as nonchalantly as he tried to say this, both carrying the laptop and walking from the foyer had left him out of breath. Bubby didn’t seem to notice the concern grow on my face as she continued, “Well Robert told us to let him know if anything happens, and I thought it might be nice to see him more often. Where are you going now, Robert?” I’d gotten up from the kitchen table and rushed now to and out the front door. I managed to glimpse a white van make a left turn onto the main road, a plain block letter logo printed on the side. uSurance. I stood shocked on their porch for a time, knowing no answers they could give me would make this make sense. * * * Several months had passed and I had learned one thing above all else, uSurance covers each and every thing. Watches, sheets, televisions, thermometers, fish tanks, even the FISH. I’d learned something else too, they are very hard to follow. For driving around in an oversized work van, their drivers could flow through traffic like they were in control of it... And I was starting to believe they were. They had one flaw though; they always took the same route to and from their warehouse and my grandparents. Following that graceful van seemed impossible, but when I found out that pattern I could wait at the last known corner, gain extra ground by spying the corner they come onto that street from, and picking up the chase from there on their way back. Another problem presented itself with my grandparents refusal to help in my plans, by willfully destroying their property. uSurance response times are too quick to destroy something myself and make it to the last known location in time. So I had to develop time released traps based on my grandparents habits to destroy their things for me. One particular spring loaded trap left Bubby with a broken finger, and unacceptably late for her tea, when the launched kitchen drawer shocked her vintage kettle out of her hands but also jammed perfectly perpendicular into her finger. Sorry Bubby, I love you. Today it’s all been worth it though. Today I watch as three foreign looking men pull into a laughably small and unmarked warehouse esque building. I refrain from calling it a “warehouse” as it looked only large enough to contain a manufacturing facility for a single graphic tee kiosk. This only confirmed I had the right place. All the wasted questions on my grandparents, postal service employees, police. All the sleepless nights wondering who my grandparents could have stumbled upon. It all built up toiling from my heart, from the singular knowledge that this is not right, something is not right. All that feeling surged beneath the skin of my outstretched hand as I reached for warehouse door. My whole body pulsed with adrenaline as the knob turned, unlocked. My vision shook and sweat started to glisten across my forehead as the door creaked open. I wanted to scream as an unsuspecting lobby started to reveal itself, but nothing came out. I stepped inside. * * * I was nothing, and I was everything. My grandparents, everything I had broken and had been replaced, their home, my home, my wife, my children they were all gone, and at the same time in the exact same place they had always been. Here in the electrical pulses of the worlds cpu. My entire universe just a simulation to test the success rate of integrating an non-pseudoreality jeopardizing automatic material replacement program to increase dream state organic specimens happiness optimization. The data currently being compressed into a spreadsheet will determine the worth of this exercise... and of my life. How I wish I could see the result. Curious.