Missiles rained from the sky, hundreds at a time, exploding with mighty bangs and clangs before the villagers of Rena could let out a shocked cry. In seconds, houses, shops, dogs, children and more fell to the ground, engulfed in orange -red flickering flames ,all begging for death to soothe their pain. In an hour, the Iralion soldiers had stormed the Castle grounds, finding and beheading the prime-minister that had hid in the bottom bunker, hands pressed against his ears to block out the deafening wails of the people. In a month, the name Sadar was wiped to oblivion—the tyrant province of the Saran empire, buried in ashes and despair—forgotten by its three sister cities.  My mother said it was a good thing. She said it was time the Sadarians were stopped— whatever that meant. You see at the time, I was too young to comprehend the apparent wickedness of my sister city. Barely eleven, with cardboard for breasts, I couldn't understand just what my people had done, but I smiled nonetheless. Proudly, if I must add. We were saving our empire and I watched it with my own amazed eyes. With the help of our drones that followed our soldiers into the attack, I watched the head of the raid burst into the central castle doors, gunning down the palace guards one at a time as he made his way to the king. It was muted but I could hear the grunts as the men fell in their blood and took their last breath.  I remember how silent we all were when my people had found the King's bunker. My mother had ordered the servants to take me to my room but I had been persistent. I hadn't watched this far to not see the ending, because at the time I was watching a movie, not the massacre of a civilization, but a gruesome action packed movie. It was fun. The head of the raid pulled off his mask, the veins on his shaven head visible as he held out his gun. That's when they un-muted it.  "Ikular Saran Borayong" For the love of Saran , he said and that was how I watched our emperor die at the hands of my father. It was a befitting ending to my movie.  My father came back a hero and our remaining two sister clans made him head—the new emperor. No one returned to Sadar, no one spoke about it , asides the survivors of the raid, who were branded on their necks and transported to my city- Iral.  My father said the branding wasn't to torture or isolate our sister but to keep our people safe—trust was something we'd never have with them. A decade wasn't enough to change that. Reduced it ,but didn't change it and we lived like that, with the family members of our victims freely living amongst us, with our culture, our rules, our names and our leadership. 10 years ago I didn't understand it…And I wanted to change that. Hence, my presence at the gates of yooni-market, a sure place to meet any Sadarian. For a reason or two they were never at the central city and it took a great amount of planning, bribery and next level sneaking to escape the castle grounds, but I was finally here. What I would do when I found my target, a complete mystery to me. I adjusted the identity cloaker necklace I borrowed from my father and stepped into the bustling space. My feet strolled the busy market, eyes taking in whatever they caught sight on and hands clasped behind my back. The sky shops hovered over me much like the ones at the capital but their yelling owners contrasted to the calm and collected shop keepers mother and I visited. The street—tiled path, was littered with people in different patterned anshikris and trousers, and some women woret the same, save some that wore the gowns. The street wear resembled the capital also, so did the inch high trees and colorful flowers that decorated every place not occupied with human activities. So far this part of Iral just looked like a busier extended version of the capital and for some reason I liked it.

But then, if only I wasn’t so engulfed in my sightseeing, I would have noticed the men following me and would have been prepared when they swiftly dragged and threw me into a narrow corner. I blinked the pain away as I sprung to my feet. My elbow ached and I examined the small bloodless scratch. “Mother wouldn’t like that,” I grumbled to myself. “That’s a pretty cloaker.” I raised my head to see a stout man, probably tanned yellow from the afternoon sun, with the skin around his crinkled eyes a lighter shade.  “Wonder if you’re the same under it.” I turned to see the brick wall behind me and my eyes moved to my only exit that was blocked  by a huge man looking to the market who’s back faced us. I gulped and lowered my gaze to the stout before me. “I’d really love to give this to you, but I can’t,” I told him. He gave a hoarse snicker as he stepped forward. “I’m not asking, baby girl.” “Well, that’s rude of you. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” His smile dropped. “Give me the damned necklace before I hurt you.” “You’re not very intimidating. Try again,” I said and his eyes widened a fraction. He lunged forward and I dodged . I circled my arms around his buff neck and pulled out my knife. Before he could react, I placed the cool metal against his skin, and bent to his height, till my lips were beside his small ears. “Have you seen a poisoned blade before?” I whispered, turning the tip into his cheek “You’re….you’re a witch.”  “Aren’t you told too old to believe in witches?” “Kiran!” the man shouted, probably signaling for his road-blocker friend and I hissed. With a slash of my knife, I made a small cut by stout's ear and he fell to the floor. “It’s just a small doze. You’d be up in a few minutes,” I told him as he wiggled on the ground and I stood tall, waiting for road-blocker to attack.

“You’re dead ,you bitch,” road blocker growled as he stomped forward. “Trying to sound American, are we?” I giggled to myself while taking cautionary steps back.  Knife in hand, I kept my focus on his towering physique, hoping I had enough venom to knock him out. He looked too heavy to go head on with, but I could always run past him. Then again, I didn’t know what weapons he hid under his baggy shirt and I didn’t intend to find out. I filled my lungs with the necessary air, but before I could let out my award winning scream, road-blocker came to an abrupt stop. My gaze shifted to the reason, and it raised an eyebrow over road-blockers shoulder and I raised mine back. The man was just as tall as road-blocker, but less intimidating, yet he had a hand firmly placed on road-blocker's shoulder as he turned him around.  “What’s happening?” my helper asked and I witnessed road-blockers broad shoulders tense. Just then stout’s poison wore off and he’s worm-wiggling had come to a shameful end. His eyes locked with mine and he shuffled backwards till he got to his feet. Like a fairytale, helper walked to my side and I took a cautionary step back. Without a word he turned from me to the two other men and they broke into another language.  “Ri sor alimar y kator?” helper asked the men and they replied judiciously. It wasn’t Iralian, so I stood there, my heart beating erratically but body standing firm, with my eyes faced with the back of the tall helper as he shielded me from the men. I returned my knife to its place and continued listening. “Y lora dikaro sukar,” he said. There was a certain charm in his voice, I’ll give him that and I found myself staring. “I’ll handle it,” he told the men and he waited till they were both out of sight before turning to me. “Somnida. Alinye irim,ee ?” Sorry, I’m Alinye, you? He said and my heart lightened. He spoke Iralion.  I smiled and shook his stretched hand. “Raylene,” I said truthfully and he raised a brow. “Like the princess?” “Exactly,” I said gesturing to my long cottoned skirt and worn out shirt, with a comical curtsy.  He nodded and walked to the side and took a seat on the bricks on the ground. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked as he leaned to the wall, stretching his long legs before him. “Better you get going before the sun sets.” “It’s just noon," I said and I dusted my skirt. “Barely even evening.” Plus I hadn’t completed my task. If I was going to get locked up in the castle when I returned ,I at least didn’t want risking my freedom to be in vain. “It will be past that before you make it back to the capital.” I furrowed my eyebrows and he chuckled. “You don’t look like someone from here.” I looked down at my clothes and then to him. “No one is dressed that badly,” he explained and my lips dropped to a frown, but he continued, “It seems like you wanted to fit in but knew nothing. Means you’re from the capital…or somewhere around those parts.” My jaws clenched and I suddenly felt self conscious, but my self-pity and embarrassment was distracted by his chuckle. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He shrugged. “Seen worse.” That… did not make me feel any better. “And you?” I asked, walking to take a seat beside him. Guilt rustled in the pit of my stomach, as I pondered on his words and the slight fact I had insulted him some way. “You seem to know a lot about the capital. Do you live there too?” He stretched, flexing his muscled arms behind as he spoke,” Can’t imagine living there. So busy, so detached from what’s actually going on,” he looked to me.” D’you know how much houses cost there?” I didn’t but I shrugged with a faint smile. “So you just can’t afford it?” He laughed heartily and my grin widened. His joy was contagious. He looked down to me, his lips twitching to the side as though he was thinking and the air around us stilled. My task forgotten I slightly tilted my head, and with that moment I took in as much as I could. His dark brown hair— that could pass of for black —curling down his head and covering most of his forehead, and which lead to his stretched but scanty eyebrows. He was a few shades lighter than me, what the Europeans could call olive, but  I preferred wood brown. He reminded me of a tree, strong and tall, yet beautiful in its own uniqueness. He was a sight to behold. I blinked as my cheeks heated, but I don’t think he noticed because he scoffed playfully. “Well,” he said, “in my defense, heard it’s very busy and the buses don’t carry just any one.” I tilted my head.” Are you sure about that?” “Hundred. Them conductors are picky with passengers. You’d have to be some celeb or something.”  “What if I was injured?” He smiled a dimpled smile. ”You can always try your luck,” he said turning to face the brick wall and that's when I saw it. Infused in his skin; an arrow pointed downwards with a thin line circled around it. In other words: the brand of Sadar.


When you are around 13 to 16 years, as a boy, some traditional cultures dress one like a magnet. That was exactly the situation I was in at that age. Some the cultures most guys at the age took part in, my family was not interested in such cultures. But what consumes ones thought, actions and speeches must have mattered to the person, if not, why do it disturb ones sleep?. It was so in my youths days to the extent that I usually walks miles to the village square, go to friends that were inclined to and took joy in discussing exploits like that I had feelings were being censored because of me in their presence. I am talking about masquerade initiation in Igbo land. Years back, it was sign of manhood like moustache and beards were.

If you have not the privileged to have read the “ Bottled leopard” by Chukwuemeka Ike, do so, it would explain and educate more in all you need to know about the tradition and culture of Igbo people from Biafran land in Eastern Nigeria. It requires a little imagination to digest all what he was crying to pass across there for it somehow relate to another aspect and angle from which I am trying to relate my own experiences to you. During festivals like new yam and other similar ones, when there is a kind of mass returns to celebrate the harvest season, people gather in markets and village squares to celebrate the festival after the traditional ruler with his cabinets, and each representative of each village that made up the town would have prayed to the living God and our Ancestors and thanked them for the bounty harvest and request for their protections and progress. Then, it would be the time for people to gather to watch all manners of Masquerades that at times dance to the beaten of the drums that accompanies the events. Gatherings in village square and markets arenas were the only place where women and non- initiated can gather safely to watch Masquerades without molestation. Outside those areas, you stand the risk of receiving many rashes of cane and doing forced donations to the masquerade and his Entourage.

Most towns has their own unique ways of carrying out their own masquerade initiations, activities and ages for initiation differs too. Some towns starts at age of 10 and above, while some, at 17.

The functions of the Masquerade remain almost the same in each town: Keeping orders in certain gathering, Summoning interested parties in a dispute Leading young men to deliver punishments in any serious disputes Putting yellow raffia’s to the economic trees that people tampers with it’s fruits. They practically carry out the works of modern day police. So, all these many functions and activities of the Masquerade were what endeared it to the heart of the many young men in any town. The women and the young truly believed as they were meant to that masquerade were spirit that comes out of the ant hole whenever they are needed and return to the Spirit world after performing their duties. The fact that the Masquerade has a kind of diplomatic immunity that frees it from any damage it might have done and holds the person that summons or following it responsible for the damage will show you has it is seen as representative of the spirits in human world called to perform function that benefits humans.

During my teenage years, I had tried in two occasions to be initiated into the Masquerade world without success. In those two occasions, one naturally thing or another would happen to disrupt the events.

If hefty down pour don’t start without warning as if all the doors in heaven were thrown open and the event would be postponed to another occasions or related festival that warrants the appearance of the Masquerades which is usually months apart and the other initiation were done only in the night for secrecy sake. On another occasion, it was the death of the one well known old man that have contributed positively to the village and the town that occurred minutes to the events that brought it to another halt. In that particular occasion, I was forced to asked the Chief Priest some desperate questions: “ won’t some people go to the family to say sorry and others remain behind to carry on with the initiation?” “It is not done that way my son, even the death of the prominent man like this is an indicator that the Spirits were not in support of this event” “But it have been postponed in two different occasions, won’t be intelligent to see it through this time?” “ That type of intelligence is very dangerous. You don’t question the will of the spirits” “We take risk in coming out this time of the night to event that seen never to hold” “Night might be night to you mortal but the spirits, it is living day light” “Is there no way these intimation ceremony should be moved forward for you know our family house is far from the square” “ Young Man, as old as i am now, I came into this world met this ceremony as it is, I has no plan of tampering with anything involved in it, whether time or items. Our ancestors handed us over both the items and time involved, it is usually 1:30am to 5:00am so shall it continues in my watch” “ So, what are we going to do again with these things we bought ?” “ Only few can go bad, others can stay years, keep them well in about four months, coast might be clear” “Four months is very long time and temptation of not using them are enormous, then I will start wasting resources to buy new ones again” “ Give your parents to keep for you or you can hand them over to my boy to keep." That was how nature kept postponing the initiation till I moved away from my village to pursue other earthly events and somehow lost interest in people and the culture for my nature don’t agree with the whole events anymore.


Seeing the city in daylight was a startling change for Sarah. She was used to experiencing the city mostly at night, with lights shining from thousands of windows above her, and the fog of car exhaust from the street and her breath all mingled together against an ashy black sky. But today being a holiday, she had gotten out of work early, and the sun was just starting to set. Its golden light was diluted to a watercolor glow by grey clouds and grey buildings and grey asphalt. The people she passed as she walked home were vibrant with color, though, with rosy cheeks and bright coats and hats, instead of the silhouetted figures of black and grey she had grown used to sharing the sidewalks with. Not only that, but the holiday spirit seemed to have infected the city; there were smiles on faces and calls of “Happy New Year!” all around her. She felt dazzled, like there was something wonderful happening that she couldn’t participate in. Like Dorothy in Munchkinland when (Ding! Dong!) the witch was dead. When she got home and came in through the front door of the townhouse she shared with two other girls, she heard voices in the kitchen. One she recognized immediately: Cameron, her roommate's boyfriend, whose friendly tone and easy laugh brightened their home several nights a week and weekends, too. The other was her roommate, Jenna. After tucking her coat and bag away in her bedroom--everything in its place--she padded into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her roommate Jenna was perched upon the counter, a bottle of beer in hand, and Cam was leaning next to her, sipping from his own bottle.

As soon as he saw her, his eyes lit up and he greeted her the way he always did, by loudly announcing her name, "Sarah!" And as always, she blushed in response. Averting her gaze, she answered, "Hello.” Just like she always did, Jenna glowered at Sarah. "You're home early," she said. "Yes," was all Sarah could think to reply. Since she was busy filling the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil, she didn't have to look at either one of them. "Got big plans for tonight?" Cam asked, eliciting a derisive snort from his girlfriend. "If you're not busy, you could come with us. We're going to some fancy club." The way he said the last three words made it obvious it wasn’t his first choice. Jenna sneered, "She can't come. She has to stay home and light her candles." At this last dig, Sarah finally managed to level a gaze at her roommate. "Hanukkah is over," was all she said. Cutting through the tension, Cam asked, "Hey. You want a beer? Have a drink with us." Jenna turned to her boyfriend, shaking her head as if Sarah were pathetic. “You know she doesn’t drink.” "That's okay. Not everyone can be a party girl like you." He leaned in to kiss her nose affectionately, and she took the opportunity to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him between her legs, and kiss him long and deep. Sarah busied herself pouring hot water over a tea bag into a mug, her cheeks burning. Cam quickly broke the embrace and sat down at the table, beer bottle between his hands. "Hey, Sarah," he said, "maybe you can settle an argument for us. Right before you came in, Jen and I were debating the effectiveness of New Year's resolutions." Jenna quickly announced her position: "They're pointless. Most people just resolve to lose weight or something stupid, and then they never keep them anyway." Cam nodded slowly. "That’s true. Most people don't keep them. But if done right, if you're setting goals that are actually measurable and attainable, they can be very effective. And, either way, at least it provides an opportunity to examine oneself and how one might improve or grow. So...what's your vote? Yay or nay for resolutions?" "Ummm..." Sarah stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea, thinking for a moment. "Well, I guess you're right that it's a good idea to set goals and try to be a better person. But you don't really need to wait for the New Year to do that." "Ha!" Jenna nudged Cam with her foot in triumph. Cam persisted, "But don't you think the New Year is the perfect time to start fresh? Turn over a new leaf? Making concrete resolutions is a positive way to stay on track." "Yes...but personally I feel like making a resolution is too much like making a vow, and I don't think people should make vows they can't keep. Vows should be sacred and meaningful." "Huh." Cam looked thoughtfully into the distance, used his index finger to push his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. Sarah recognized the gesture as an indication that he was just warming up to a debate. Apparently, Jenna recognized it too, because she jumped down from the counter and grabbed his hand. "This is boring. Let’s go upstairs and get ready." Cam rose to his feet, his lanky frame unfolding fluidly. "Hey, are you sure you don't want to come with us?" he asked, genuine friendliness lighting his eyes. Sarah sipped her tea, and burned her mouth. "Thanks, but I actually do have plans." Later, Sarah was settled in bed with her laptop. She started a video call to her parents; when they answered and she saw them on the screen before her, she couldn't stop the grin from splitting her face.

"Hello, Saree," her father boomed out. For some reason, he never could understand that you don't have to shout to be heard over the computer. "Hi," Sarah laughed. "Sarah," her mother started in, "are you in bed at seven pm? Are you in your pajamas?" Sarah glanced down. She had decided to pamper herself and wear the pink satin sleep set she’d ordered online. She realized the tank top was perhaps too casual for an audience with her parents. "So what if she is?" her father defended her. "What's wrong with being comfortable?" Her mother tsked in disapproval. "You should be out having fun, meeting new people. Isn't that why you moved all the way out there?" “No, Mama, I moved here for school, remember?” “Of course I remember. And how is school going?” Sarah fiddled with the tassel on the pillow beside her. “It’s...okay.” She had moved to this city because of a scholarship she had won at a nearby university. Her parents were so proud. They had hung onto the dream of her becoming a doctor ever since she had opened a pretend hospital for her stuffed animals as a little kid. But now that she had a year and a half of studies under her belt, the whole white coat and stethoscope act seemed all wrong. She just didn’t know how to tell them. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to be a doctor.” Mama’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why not?” Sarah shrugged. “I’m not...good at it.” “You’re plenty smart enough!” “It’s not that...I…” Struggling to find the words, she shook her head. “Never mind, Mama.” Her father smiled benevolently. “Don’t let it get you down, sheifale . We have faith in you.” She smiled weakly. “I know, Tatte .” “Maybe you could find someone there to cheer you up,” her mother suggested. “Aren't there any nice young men at synagogue you can spend time with?" Sarah was reluctant to go down this road. Her mother didn’t seem to know how very little experience she had with the opposite sex. “There are some,” she admitted, “but they don't even notice me." Both parents made noises of disbelief. "Are they blind, or just meshugga ?" Tatte demanded. Her mother shook her finger. "Jewish boys these days are not so smart. Remember our neighbor, Mrs. Kravitz? She had a friend who had to get a matchmaker for her daughter. At the time, I thought it was old-fashioned foolishness, but now I'm beginning to think I should do the same for you." "Mama!" Sarah protested. "It worked!" her mother insisted. "She found a nice Jewish man and has been happily married for several years." "Riva," her father gently chided. Her mother turned to him defensively. "I only want her to be happy! To have a husband, and children, and a happy home. Is that asking too much?" "Saree, we really do want you to be happy," Tatte said. "It hurts us to see you so lonely and sad. That's all your mother means." "I know. But you don't have to worry. I'll be fine. Really!" She managed another smile, but this time it was forced. If they knew she was faking it, they didn’t let on. Her mother launched into a monologue of all the neighborhood and family gossip; Sarah knew she only needed to contribute the occasional “Oh?” or “Mmhmm.” By the time an hour had passed, Sarah was desperate to end the call. “Well, I should go,” she finally said. “Okay. We love you, Sarah,” Tatte said. “ Zei gezunt .” “Love you too. Goodnight.” “Go find a nice young man!” Mama called. Sarah couldn't close the laptop fast enough. She heaved an exasperated sigh, her head thrown back against the pillows. There was a time when she could take all of her problems to her parents, and they would comfort her and help her look for solutions. Now, it seemed like they just didn’t understand her. Tatte thought she was still his little girl, and Mama apparently only thought of her as a broodmare for future grandchildren. No, she would have to figure things out on her own this time. She suddenly remembered what Cam had said about the New Year being the perfect time to try to improve and grow. She pulled a spiral notebook out of her bookbag and opened to a clean page. Just because she was a Jew didn’t mean she couldn’t embrace the spirit of the season. Measurable and attainable goals sounded like exactly what she needed right now. A few hours later, Sarah was almost asleep when she heard the front door swing open and slam against the wall. Then, someone raced up the stairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind them, causing her to jerk up in alarm. A second, heavier pair of feet followed up the stairs more sedately. She quickly crossed to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening and straining to see through the darkness. A man stood at the bathroom door, knocking quietly. "Jenna," he whispered. Sarah opened the door, light from her bedside lamp spilling into the hallway. "Cam?" He spun in surprise. "Oh. Hey, Sarah," he said, keeping his voice low. "Jenna's sick." As she stepped closer, Sarah saw that his thick black hair was mussed and his face creased with worry. "Sick?" she probed. "Like...drunk?" "No," he sighed. "Like maybe she ate something bad. I don't know. All she wanted was to come home." He shrugged. "Now she won't talk to me." This was answered with a retching noise from behind the closed door. "It sounds like she's in no condition to talk," Sarah said. Then she had a thought. "I'll be right back." She hurried into her bedroom and returned with a small basket. She slipped past Cam and knocked on the door. "Jenna," she called, "it's me, Sarah. Can I come in?" There was a groan from within, which Sarah decided to take as a yes. "You stay here," she whispered to Cam. Inside the bathroom, Jenna was sprawled on the floor, her head resting on the toilet seat. Sarah could see that her clothes were a mess. "Oh, dear," Sarah murmured.

Jenna squinted up at her, tears and snot running down her face. "Go away," she ordered, then hiccuped. The hiccup turned into heaves, which after a moment subsided into sobs. There was another knock at the door. "Jenna?" Cam sounded slightly more concerned.

"We're okay," Sarah called. "Don't come in." "I don't want him to see me like this," Jenna cried. "I know," Sarah soothed. While she talked, she ran a washcloth under the faucet. "But he must care about you a lot. He's still here, isn't he? Here." She handed the washcloth to Jenna, who mopped up her face. "Listen. I'll go to your room and get you a change of clothes. I’ll send Cameron home and then you can get into bed." Jenna nodded miserably. "Okay." "And I brought something." Sarah showed her the basket. "This is a little 'sick day' kit my mom made for me when I moved away. It has everything you might need when you’re sick: chicken noodle soup, seltzer, tissues, a heating pad, a thermometer...but here. Have a little sip of ginger ale. That should help settle your tummy." Jenna sniffled. "Your mom must be really nice." Sarah smiled. "She is." After helping Jenna get cleaned up and into some comfy sweatpants, Sarah made sure she was settled in bed with a box of tissues and a wastebasket nearby.

“Does your stomach still feel upset?” she quietly asked her roommate. Jenna still looked sweaty and pale, but more than that, she seemed exhausted, struggling to keep her eyes open. “It’s better,” she weakly answered. “Okay. I’m going to take your temperature, just to make sure, okay?” Jenna nodded, and Sarah pointed the state-of-the-art infrared thermometer at her forehead. “Hm. A low-grade fever,” Sarah said. “You must have picked up a bug somewhere. But the best thing for that right now is rest. I’ll check on you again in a little bit.” Drifting off, Jenna whispered, “You’re going to make a great nurse.” “I--” Sarah looked at Jenna in shock, but the other girl was already asleep. “Thank you.” Downstairs, Sarah was surprised to find Cam sitting at the kitchen table. "You're still here?" she asked. "Yeah. Is Jenna okay?" "She'll be fine." "I didn't know if I should stay with her..." "She just needs to sleep. You can go home. I'm sure she'll call you tomorrow or the next day." Cam stood and awkwardly twisted his hands together. He looked tired under the bald fluorescent light. "Thank you for taking care of her. You were much better than I would have been... Much better than she deserves." He winced at his own words. "I mean, you were so nice to her. And she's never nice to you." "Oh." Sarah bit her bottom lip and looked away, then turned back with a little smile. "I guess you could say it's my New Year's resolution."

He laughed softly, and she admired the way his eyes got lost in the depths of his laugh lines. After the silence settled around them once again, she felt the need to fill it. "You know,” she mused, “during the High Holy Days leading up to Yom Kippur, Jews spend a lot of time reflecting and considering how they should strive to be better people. I guess it's not dissimilar from your New Year's resolutions." He took a step toward her. "You don't have to strive to be a better person, Sarah. You're already pretty amazing." He closed the distance between them and kissed her before she even knew what was happening. His right hand cupped her cheek, and his lips were pillowy but strong against hers. She couldn't remember how to breathe. When he drew away, her fingertips flew up to her lips while she gasped. "Cameron! You're drunk!" He shook his head, a playful smile tilting his lips. "No," he murmured. "It's midnight. Happy New Year." “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “You’re going out with Jenna.” He hung his head sheepishly. “I know. It just felt right. And things with her...don’t.” Sarah shook her head. “If you want to break up with her, fine, but don’t put me in the middle. I’m not going to be that girl.” “It’s not like that. I just…” It was his turn to shake his head. “I’m sorry. I should head home, get some sleep.” She nodded. “Things might look different tomorrow.” He offered her a rueful smile. “Yeah. It’s better in the light of day, right?” “Right.” She smiled gently back. “Happy New Year, Cam.” Sarah returned to her room, intent on finally getting some sleep. But as she walked through the doorway, she spotted the spiral notebook spreadeagled on the floor by her bed. She gathered it up and in the dim light reread what she had written earlier that night. “MY GOALS” she had scrawled across the top of the page. “1. Have my first REAL kiss.” The one that had seemed the most impossible was right at the top. She grinned and grabbed her pen. “That was easier than I thought,” she said as she crossed it off. “2. Make a new friend.” She nibbled the cap of her pen. She was glad that she had built a bridge with Jenna tonight, but she didn’t think they qualified as friends. She wanted someone to talk to, to hang out with, to be herself around. She hoped such a person was out there. She would keep working on that one. The final item on the list was: “3. Drop out of school? Take a year off? Go back home???” This one she still didn’t have an answer for. Yet. But she took her pen and added one more option to the list: “Become a nurse?” As she climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin, she marveled at the possibilities that suddenly unspooled before her. She had started the night feeling trapped and alone and defeated, but now she felt light and hopeful. Excited, even. Cam was right, she thought as she reached to turn out the light, the New Year is the perfect time to start fresh.


The school trip to the local observatory did not begin well. It was the first such trip I, as a newly minted high school science teacher, had ever taken my students on. Now when I was a high school student (my classes hate it when I say stuff like that), school trips had students full of energy and sound. We talked and laughed, but at least we exhibited some enthusiasm on the bus ride to our eventual educational destination. This school trip had a vacuum of silence, almost everyone staring at and playing with their ‘devices’. I wish I had the authority to tell them to leave those bloody things in their lockers, but I didn’t. I hope they don’t continue doing that when they have a chance to look at the images of the now cloudless sky through the big telescope.            The worst was Gary, who had his eyes on his device for most of his time in my classroom, no matter what I said to him about doing that, and his eyes were constantly on it on the bus.            To get my students interested in what they were going to see, I told them about the flying saucer craze in movies of the 1950s and 1960s. Nobody ever saw one for real, but apparently one person saw something in the sky and said that it ‘looked like a saucer.’ Movie makers bought the idea, and so began the craze. I had my dad’s toy flying saucer when I was a boy.            For my class the week before, the school trip, I arranged a showing of the B-est of all B-movies, Plan 9 and Outer Space. Among other campy elements, it featured Bela Lugosy (who had died before most of the movie was filmed, so it wasn’t a speaking part). There was a female character who was beginning her active movie career as ‘Vampiri’, a Swedish wrestler who played someone with no lines but who walked around with a very big body and a very scary face. Plan 9 of the space invaders seemed to consist mainly of bringing the human dead to life (with new flesh on their bodies) to attack and scare humans.            At the end of the movie, the viewers saw the aliens’ flying saucer burst into unnatural looking flames. Going on the Trip            One reason that I wanted to take the class to the observatory was that my old university pal, Frank, worked there. We took pretty much all the same courses, and helped each other with our assignments so that we both received good marks. It was like old times again talking to him about the school trip and how I had shown the students Plan 9 and Outer Space. We both had a good laugh, especially when I told him how, with his help, I planned to use student viewing of that movie on the trip.            When he saw me leading the students towards the room with the telescope in it we winked at each other in a conspiratorial manner.            One aspect of their being able to look deeply and clearly into space that fascinated the students most when they were in the classroom was conjunction events. That was the rather deceptional name for what happened when two objects, satellites or pieces of space debris collided with each other. There were at least 4,500 satellites in 2021, and the number has probably grown considerably since then. And as for space debris, conservative estimates had over 36,500 of them over four inches long in our atmosphere. I knew that some of my students would be looking for conjunction events when their turn came to look through the telescope.            When we walked into the room with the telescope, I was glad that some of the students were eager to see the skies like they never had before. A few rushed forward to be among the first to scan the sky. I had told them of what they might be able to see that would possibly be almost as interesting as conjunction events.            As each one had completed their time on the telescope, I would ask them ‘what did you see’? A couple of them said they had seen what they thought could be a conjunction event, but were disappointed when they did not see any explosions. They did enjoy seeing the other planets ‘in person’ as one of them said, and the stars other than the sun            Gary was the last one to have a sky viewing through the telescope. I practically had to push him all the way to it before he would take his eyes off of his device and look at another device. At first his look was very casual, trying to display to me and to his fellow students his lack of interest. But then he changed. There was a sudden intensity, with his eyes almost literally on the glass surface he was looking through. But that was nothing when compared to what next caught his eyes and his total attention.            When his time was up, we were on a fairly rigid schedule, and I asked him to come with us, he just said a very loud NOOO. When I asked him what he had seen, was still seeing, he replied, “I saw a conjunction event, but what I saw next was a frigging flying saucer, exactly like the one in the movie - identical.            There was silence. Then I laughed, as did my friend Phil, when he came down the ladder that led to the top of the curved ceiling through which the telescope penetrated. He was carrying an object in his hand that he soon revealed was a picture of a Plan 9 and Outer Space flying saucer. As previously planned he had superimposed it on the telescope. It was something generally used for shading what people saw when the sunlight was too bright for them to look through.            Then Gary laughed, and said, “You sure fooled me. Good one sir.” On the bus-ride back to the school, he and I engaged in a long conversation about outer space. He asked me what courses I and my friend Phil took to get involved with the sky (his actual wording) as an adult. And in the next class he never looked at his device once.


There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision.

She had arrived in town yesterday afternoon. She was on her way to a scientific convention, when her car had decided to give up. It was an old red car, gifted to her by her dad. He had used it for years as a detective, and she had kept driving it despite all its rumbling and fits of nerves. It was almost a human being at this point. But she couldn’t stop herself from giving it another chance each time. She was so attached to her little red queen, especially since her father had passed away two years ago. The engine had started to act up a few miles back. Whether it was the gearbox or something else, she couldn't tell. The car had broken down right after passing the town sign. She had tried desperately to restart it a few times, without success. “You better wake up tomorrow” she had muttered, casting a furious glance at the car as she walked past it with her luggage. The country road led her straight to the town center. She saw an old, square building with a flag hanging above the door. The engraving beneath it was almost completely worn away, but she guessed it was the town hall. The church bells rang half past four. “I hope there’s still someone inside,” she thought as she walked towards the entrance.

A person greeted her behind a counter. The place was rather dark but the air was fresh, a relief during these hot summer days. “Coming to stay at the Ambrasio Hotel ?” the person asked. Sophie was startled, she didn’t expect such a straightforward question. “Maybe, I don’t know yet,” she replied, “My car broke down near the town sign. I wasn’t planning on stopping here. Is there a mechanic that can look into it today?” “Oh, I see! I see!” the odd fellow kept repeating. “We have the best car mechanic in the country here!” proclaimed the short man, with all the hubris of a small-towner cut off from the rest of the world. “His name is Ygor. His garage is on the street adjacent to the church, you can’t miss it.” The man picked up the phone and placed a call immediately. She thanked him and left, rolling her suitcase behind her. She soon reached the garage, a ruined warehouse contiguous to a tiny home-shelter. Noise came out of the warehouse, so she decided to walk straight in, her rolling luggage growling louder and louder. It must have been what tipped him off, as a stocky man in blue overalls was already coming towards her. “How do you do?” he asked with a smile, his mustache all excited at the sight of her. “Well… Hi,” she baffled, “My car broke down near the town sign, and I have to…” “My, my, don’t worry, ma’am,” he interrupted her. “I’ll fix it for you in no time!” His confidence, however, did not reassure Sophie. “That’s very kind. I have to be on my way tomorrow, do you think…” “Tomorrow uh ?” he interrupted her again, “Well I’ll see what I can do, but first I have to inspect it. Now which sign did you leave your car at?” “The one towards the town hall, I suppose,” said Sophie. After noticing a few crease marks appear on the man’s forehead, she added where she was coming from. “Ah! The one near the old tree! It’s almost time for me to close, but since you have to leave tomorrow, I’ll start working on it tonight after closing. You can come tomorrow morning first thing, but I…” he kept saying when suddenly someone yelled. “Hey boss! Mr Ambroise is here to pick up his car!” It was one of the mechanics, holding the door of the contiguous home opened. This meant her mechanic was the garage owner. “Excuse me” said the owner, while walking towards the door. Sophie decided to follow shortly after.

“... Yes… Yes… Everything in order”, she caught the owner saying, followed by “On the house.” Mr. Ambroise was a rather tall man, looking quite well for his age. As she walked in, an awkward silence followed. His eyes were fixed on her, and no words were spoken, as if time had frozen. “Huh… Her car broke,” said the owner to put an end to the silence, “I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.” “Do you know where to sleep tonight?” he asked, without even introducing himself nor asking for Sophie’s name. She couldn’t help but notice the straightforwardness of the people in this small town. “I… hum, the nice fellow at the town hall told me there was a good Hotel here. Ambrasio, I think. I guess I will go there for the night…” “Ah, the Ambrasio,” exclaimed the tall man. “It’s a fine place, but I hear they don’t have any more rooms available,” he continued, “they’re doing some renovations this summer.” “I see,” said Sophie. She felt a little fear growing inside her. Her stomach pinched her belly. “I will still want to go to see, just in case.” “Ma’am there’s really no point in wasting your time,” interjected the mechanic, “Mr Ambroise is the owner of the Hotel Ambrasio.”

“I can host you for the night,” said the rich man, “It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it would be my pleasure.” While Sophie agreed, she felt as if she had just sold her soul. *** Mr Ambroise’s car was very old, yet very luxurious. The kind of cars you usually see in the movies. For a moment, she felt like an actress.

The sun was now painting the sky in warm orange and the clouds in lavender blue. Soon the houses were behind them, and the car was speeding amongst the fields. They slowed down and turned right, on a road leading to a disproportionate mansion. “This is my family house, the Ambroise estate,” he said, in a calm voice. It was only when they parked in front that she realized how gigantic the building was, with its columns and ten-feet windows. A man came dressed in a suit and took her luggage. He did not look surprised to see her. “Which room?” he simply asked, as if out of habit.

“The one,” Mr Ambroise strangely replied. “She’s here only for one night, I want her to have the best possible stay.”

“Very well,” acquiesced the man, “dinner is ready and will be served at seven in the second dining room,” he continued, and off he went, pulling her luggage behind him. Sophie was curious about his family history and the place. When asked, he was very evasive. He explained that his family had lost a great deal during the wars and that there was once a vineyard on the estate that he used to enjoy in his youth. He was the last heir. After dinner, he proposed to accompany her to her room. “I don’t want to tire you more than I have already,” gracefully declined Sophie.

“Alright, up the stairs, go to your right. When you reach the end of the corridor, it will be the door to your left. Joseph will wake you up before breakfast tomorrow, after which I can drive you to the garage to check on your car.” *** The bedroom was splendid and almost circular. She went straight to the bathroom and took a shower. Everything was clean and layed out for her. Wrapped in two towels, she reached for her luggage. She bent to unlock it, but the towel wrapped around her hair fell on the floor. While picking it up, she noticed a paper under the bed. She took it. It was a plane ticket, supposed to depart last month, for a person named Felicia Pearsons. “A previous guest,” she thought, while a creepy feeling grew inside her. She thought of calling Joseph to inform him, but refrained from doing so. Instead she locked the door and kept the key in the lock, just in case. That didn’t make her sleep better that night. Sophie was already dressed when Joseph knocked on the door the next morning. At breakfast, she decided best not to mention the plane ticket. Perhaps this Felicia was a close relative. It wasn’t her business after all. As promised, Mr Ambroise drove her to the garage just before the opening. The air was still fresh at that time of the day, and the birds chirping from every corner. The owner greeted them with a wide smile. “Ah you’re back! I know what the problem is ma’am. It’s your engine. You see, two injectors have stopped working. That’s why your car dances the Cossack when you try to turn it on.” He told her he didn’t have the spare parts for this model, but had already ordered them last night. “It can be ready early tomorrow if I get the parts before closing tonight, but not today”. “Could you inform me if you haven’t? I can still reach on time if I leave tomorrow morning, but otherwise I won’t be able to attend the convention.” “Will do,” he replied, this time staring at Mr Ambroise, expecting him to add something. “I could drive you there,” started the rich man, “Unfortunately I have matters to attend to at the Hotel, matters that cannot be delayed,” he added, his piercing gaze pointed at the mechanic. “I understand. I guess I’ll have a tour of the surroundings to pass time. Anyplace you would recommend?” “You should start with the Mabrosie Café, it’s on the main street,” replied the garage owner. Sophie had forgotten that these places usually have a ‘main street’ that concentrates all the life and businesses. She thanked them and agreed to come back to the garage at closing time, after which Mr Ambroise would drive her back for what she hoped would be her last night here. Despite the summer vacation, many residents were going about their daily life. A few kids were playing with the pigeons near the fountain. People were giving her the look, the kind of look that makes you uneasy. “They must know I am a stranger,” she thought. When the aroma of fresh coffee reached her nostrils, she knew she had reached her destination.

*** A few men were seated on the terrace, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes while reading the newspaper. She sat at one of the tables far from them. Not that she didn’t want to mingle, but Sophie didn’t smoke, and she couldn’t stand the smell of it. A bald man resembling a bear clad in a white apron came to her. “Hello Miss! First time I see you ‘round, ya?” It was more a remark than a question, “What can I serve you?” “Good morning,” she replied, forcing a smile, “a cappuccino would be great.”

“Sure! Do you want the newspaper with it? It’s only one extra.” Sophie nodded and thanked him. He was already on his way. The drink came crowned with a cloud of milk, filtering the vapors of coffee from underneath it. She took a sip and started reading the newspaper. Suddenly, her heart stopped. She didn’t catch it immediately, but here it was. The name on the plane ticket she had found, Felicia Pearsons. She had gone missing for a month. Then, the most horrendous thought crossed her mind. It couldn’t be. Mr Ambroise had been so nice to her. Or had he? Had he been nice to Felicia too? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She didn’t want to believe it. Maybe she could ask him? Something had stopped her from calling Joseph last night, maybe her instinct was right? Her dad had always told her to trust her guts. She felt the terrace giving up under her feet, her chair steadily floating as in zero gravity. “Poor girl, what a shame what happened to her,” she heard someone say over her shoulder. It was the waiter, but he didn’t seem very upset about it.

“Oh that, yes, tragic. I hope they find her,” she replied. “We’ll see, we’ll see,” concluded the man while walking back inside, with a confidence that sent a chill down her spine. She left as casually as possible, trying not to raise any suspicions. She felt like an animal in a zoo, a million eyes on her, analyzing her, mocking her, or perhaps preying on her? Something was not right, the article never mentioned what had happened to the girl.

There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision. She started to walk faster, having made up her mind. Sometime after, she found what she had been looking for. She had grown too suspicious of the locals to ask her way around. The police station was near the corner. She checked her purse, and found the plane ticket she had kept. The most valuable evidence. Her feet shakily brought her closer to the station, as if her body and mind were not aligned on this. She was about twenty feet away when she noticed something strange. It was Mr Ambroise’s car parked on the street opposite the police station. Wasn’t he supposed to be at the Hotel? At that moment, she saw a police officer get out of the car. He approached the driver’s window, nodded in agreement, and then crossed the street back to the station, carrying an envelope. She turned and waited for the car to pass. It was Mr Ambroise, smiling from ear to ear.

Was she getting paranoid? Did the police know about the missing girl? Best not to risk it, she thought. As a detective, her dad had made connections within the police over the years. She knew exactly whom to contact. She retraced her steps and walked towards the fountain, where she had seen a phone booth. She felt as though everyone was watching, and briefly feared someone might leap out and try to stop her. The kids were still annoying the pigeons. Ignoring them, she entered the phone booth. In her wallet was a card with important phone numbers. She pulled it out and began dialing when, suddenly, she heard a knock on the door. It was… it was just a kid, making a funny face. She almost had a heart attack. She smiled as gently as she could, and returned to her phone call.

“Lieutenant Raymond speaking, who is this?” said a man in a hoarse voice. “This is Sophie, Sophie Mayfair, you knew my dad, Rob Mayfair,” she replied in a stressed, hurried voice. He must have sensed her panic as he immediately asked “Are you ok? What’s going on Sophie?” She explained the entire situation to him, including the locals' attitudes and her gut feeling that something was off. “I knew your dad, and I knew his guts. If you have half of what he had, my guess is that you are onto something,” he went on, “I’m contacting the police of the nearby town right away. Where exactly are you now Sophie?” “Sophie?...” She was not listening anymore. A tall man was standing in front of the door, but he wasn’t waiting for a call. It was Mr Ambroise. “Already bored of this place?” he asked, with the same piercing gaze she had seen him throw at the mechanic.

“I.. hum, no… I just wanted to inform the people at the convention… that I might be arriving a little late,” she answered. Her mind was carbureting faster than her car’s engine. He may as well have seen the gears spinning behind her eyes, as he immediately took her by the arm and pulled her out of the booth. The kids saw the powerful rich man drag Sophie. Their young minds blocked all memories of the scene afterwards, as they returned to their pigeons. The men at the Café did not even look. They kept reading their newspapers, expecting another snippet to appear in next week’s column. Not a word was spoken in the silence that followed, after Mr Ambroise’s car had departed. *** The police arrived around noon. They localized the phone booth and found the plane ticket on the floor. It must have been dropped in Sophie’s struggle, or perhaps she did it on purpose. An investigation was opened. The investigation would later reveal that the Ambroise family owned most of the small town. The Hotel had undergone multiple renovations over the years. The police found many bodies buried in it, including Felicia Pearsons. This had been going on for decades.

Turns out the whole town was complicit, even the police. The garage owner had already started dismantling Sophie’s car for parts. The town hall employee had placed a call to the garage and to Mr Ambroise the minute she had stepped out of the building, and Mr Ambroise’s car never needed any fixing in the end. *** Sophie never made it to her convention. Upon arriving at the estate, she was taken to the now-empty wine cellar and locked in before Mr. Ambroise’s return that night. As the sun cast its last rays of light, she heard a key turn in the rusty lock. Expecting her captor to barge in, she took refuge in the darkest corner she could find. Instead, she was greeted by Joseph, a half-smile on his tired face. He told her she had done what he was never brave enough to do. He had left the plane ticket on the floor, hoping she would find it while evading the scrutiny of the evil man who inspected the room each time. She left him with a kiss, before running in the direction he had pointed. Sophie ran like never before, tears streaming down her cheeks. There weren’t two ways to go about it. At this moment, there was only one way to go about it, and one way to run to.


The Edge always gave Rick the heebie-jeebies. He deactivated the till setting on his new Spyder Deluxe, silencing the low thrumming noise of jagged claws that had been working the ground below, then killed the engine. The machine’s legs stretched and the body lifted, raising Rick’s vantage and giving the impression that the Edge was creeping inward, encroaching on his land like weeds to wheat. In a few minutes, his neighbor’s property, now only a slow-moving speck hardly visible against the spackled backdrop of deep space, would swing close enough for Rick to count the steps on John and Linda Barker’s front porch. Twice a year, the Barkers’ off-kilter orbit brought their residence within spitting distance, though he’d be hard pressed to get anything, let alone spit, through the thick airtight dome encircling his home. The dome’s interior displays served as the window to outside, producing an image so clear and realistic that Rick, after setting the image to Blue Sky Over Landscape, very nearly suffered a concussion bumping into it. Today, he’d set the image to Real-time Patchthrough so he could watch the passing of the Barkers with his own two eyes. Five years prior, Rick, having grown tired of reading through the immense amount of mail he’d often receive–mail which certainly outnumbered the distant stars, and, to Rick, were of a similar significance–did not read the notice that detailed the addition of a new orbiting body, and was surprised when a blip on his radar, one he’d never seen before, traced an uncomfortably close trajectory. But all worry vanished when old John Barker flickered the lightswitch in his two-story classic, flashing a message of neighborly peace and good humor. The next pass, Rick waved from the seat of his ancient Cruber like a madman, and the rest was history. Nowadays, it wouldn’t feel like June without a wave from old John. The speck that was John’s farm grew into a fleck. After a moment, Rick could make out tiny patches of color from John’s exterior display. A few minutes later, there was their lawn, a fresh and rich green patch, and then the white siding and red roof of their house, and then the gaps of green in the spaces of their white picket fence. That’s where he’d always see John, both hands on a picket, at least until he spotted Rick, and then he’d lift an arm and wave a wave a lover would be jealous of. But John wasn’t there. Rick squinted at the fenceline surrounding the house, at the beautifully kept lawn, at the porch with two rocking chairs, at the windows, glowing with the light of a loving home. There, in one of the top windows, something obscured the warmth. A dark shape moved across in a flash as if a leak in the roof had allowed the emptiness of space to pour past the window and flood the top floor. But that wasn’t true. If there had been a breach, the dome would have made it clear. Rick had seen more than one breached dome in his time, and the brilliant lights reminded him of fireworks, only he could see them across a hundred thousand miles. Maybe more. Rick removed a terminal from his pocket, navigated to the display controls, then connected to the nearest panel. It meant he’d have to approach the Edge. Heebie-jeebies be damned, he’d been looking forward to showing old John his new Spyder. The section of display Rick had connected to broke from the pattern of its neighbors and magnified the view of John’s farm. Just as before, John was nowhere to be seen. He magnified further, zooming toward the window in which he’d seen movement. Another flash of black. This time, Rick could tell it was a person, though he’d assumed that from the start. This person, however, moved far too quickly. John and Linda were old, and this shadow moved with the quickness of youth. No, Rick was awfully sure, the person moving about John and Linda’s house was neither John nor Linda. In the five years they’d been waving to each other, Rick and John had only spoken a few times, and it had mostly been pleasantries. Rick would tell his wife that he’d be out by the Edge to see his old buddy, and Rose would roll her eyes, tell him to just give the man a call, for goodness sakes. Rick flipped his terminal to Communication and dialed John’s home phone. It rang a total of three times before John and Linda’s voices spoke in tandem, “We’re the barkers! Bark at the tone!” Rick pocketed the terminal and took in a deep, deep breath. The Barkers never mentioned any family, any friends, any common visitors. Drop-ins were as unlikely as a thunderstorm, save for the religious types that came calling now and again. There was only one thing to do: the neighborly thing. And he had to do it fast. Rick let out the breath all at once as he pulled the terminal back out of his pocket. He dialed Rose. “Howdy, sweetheart,” he said as he always would. “I’m headin’ out for a bit. Got a fritzy screen.” Rose sighed. “Be safe, Rick. Dinner’s in thirty.” Rick hung up and removed his suit from the barn, put it on, then keyed his intentions. The airlock door hissed as it opened, and Rick entered the tiny room. He ran the final suit diagnostic before initializing depressurization. There was another hiss, then silence took over. The opposite door opened and suddenly he was staring at the expanse of space as if it were the gullet of one of those space eldritches, or whatever they called them. He pushed out over the Edge. Floating came easy, mostly because Rick’s suit did all the work. He barely felt the vent chambers open on his back, the compressed gasses bursting out, the sudden increase in speed. The only indication that he was moving faster was his shrinking home and the slowing approach of John’s. His suit, unable to trust the dexterity of a human being, gripped a bar on the outside of John’s airlock and pulled him close. The airlock door opened on its own and Rick’s suit pulled them inside. After another series of hisses, Rick was standing on grass. He removed his suit and set it next to the airlock door. The air was fresh, clean; indistinguishable from his own, aside from the scent of rain-washed grass which, Rick knew, could be achieved via terminal command. For some reason, Rose had never been keen on the fragrance, instead insisting on Ocean Spray or Wooded Retreat. Rick unlatched the picket gate and made his way up the porch steps–three, as he’d always counted–passed the antique rockers with their floral cushions colored vibrantly as if they’d just been purchased, and approached the door. He pressed the doorbell and could hear the two-tone ding dong that had been popularized long, long ago, yet somehow persisted. Old John was old school. There was a shuffle inside. The deadbolt clicked and the knob turned. It was Linda. “Oh, hey, Rick. We didn’t see you come up.” Rick decided they must not have been near a terminal. Rose would sometimes set hers aside, too. To ‘escape’ she’d say. “Howdy, Linda. John home?” “Uh,” Linda said. “He’s inside, but he’s really busy.” “Oh,” Rick said. “Everything okay? I could’ve sworn I saw somethin’ movin’ around. I didn’t mean to interrupt your entertainin’.” “Nope!” Linda said, suddenly bright. “Just me and John. It was nice to see you. Give my love to the misses.” “You got it, ma’am.” Rick moved across the porch, past the two rockers, down the steps, one two three, and back to his suit. He put it on and sat in the grass, arms on his knees, chin on his arms, looking out at the sky. Sparkling stars widened into starbursts. Rick’s suit warned him of an irregular discharge within its helmet, then played a soothing, hopeful melody as he waited for the drone to carry him home.


In physics, the no-cloning theorem states that it is impossible to create an independent and identical copy of an arbitrary unknown quantum state, a statement which has profound implications in the field of quantum computing among others. no-cloning theorem It was as if the Elephant God himself whispered eldritch secrets that physically guided him by the hand. On the brink of scientific defiance at a cosmic scale, Enkephalins stood, challenging the physical rules of the world, daring to outsmart the unseen Creator of the universe. His eyes fixated on the severed human heads. They were to be the central protagonists of his groundbreaking experiment. Stage 0 - Purpose. Each head, individually aware, was ensnared in a collective, surreal simulation. This fabricated reality had been their only ever experience, and the disruption of their slumber now would not be so pleasant. The heads were arrayed in a compact procession, all nestled within one malevolent structure akin to a spine-like roller coaster. Godspeed Persephones… Each labored breath he took was laden with a heady mix between trepidation and anticipation. Enkephalins whispered prayers for their survival, knowing well the harrowing journey ahead. Stage 1 - Asymptotic Light The experiment launched the head holding contraption, unleashed an energy so immense it swirled with the very threshold of light speed. The heads, now caught in this vortex, spun in a mesmerizing display, their paths twisting into high-speed orbits. I’ve sent my heads spinning. Stay alive, please stay alive. All for the sake of a scientific endeavor: Enkephalins reveled in a silent symphony of his particles , each head contributing a note to a lurid melody. Stage 2 - Asymptotic Zero As this meat ballet achieved its unnatural symmetry, Enkephalins commanded the temperature to plunge into an unfathomable cold, heralding the onset of a chilling phase. The orbiting heads, now prisoners of this icy ballet, spiraled towards the abyss of absolute zero. Stage 3 - Asymptotic Death. In Enkephalins' theoretical research, the soul was axiomatically defined as the ultimate protector of the human brain. However, he theorized that under extreme conditions of cold and velocity, the soul might be duped into believing it had skipped a beat in time. The objective was to extract as much information as possible from consciousness without disturbing the directional trajectory of their soul . Against all odds, the heads lingered in a twilight state, seemingly ignored by God. Despite his mastery, a gnawing fear lingered – a single error, the smallest miscalculation, could shatter this delicate balance, collapsing his grand vision into ruin. Stage 4 - Observation The final and most critically volatile phase had arrived: Observation. This observation, however, was to unfold within a cloned system. Upon the activation of the Replicator, thick metal walls rose dramatically, encasing the entire vertebrae-like structure of heads in an opaque, impenetrable enclosure. This monolithic, orthogonal cube sharply contrasted with the elegant, asymmetrical geometries that Enkephalins so deeply revered in his culture. It’s lover time. Flip, Flip. Carefully, Enkephalins adjusted the settings to maintain chirality. A mirrored head was incapable of metabolizing normal human feed, however it also risked catastrophic failure of the brain’s subconscious chemical muscle memory. After one final thorough inspection, he activated the replicator, plunging the system into an all-consuming darkness. This was a critical step for any standard antimatter replicator: halting all external photons and suspending any form of preemptive "observation" until the replication process was completely finished. Persephones. Stay alive, please. That’s why yous are beautiful. Enkephalins offered a final prayer to Ele’fines, and… it seemed that his call was answered. In the replicated chamber, the scene unfolded. Genderless, with eyes closed, the bald heads, still cocooned in a shimmering silver fluid, were gently ushered and rolled into a vertical cylindrical container, delicately maneuvered by “Strings.” These strands, a victim to Moore's Law, numbered in the millions, each only microns thick. Evolved precisely for the hunt, they navigated the intricacies of the human brain, effortlessly piercing through flesh. In contrast to the uniquely crafted replicator and head accelerator of Enkephalins’ experiment, the common Human head computer chips were mass-produced. Each chip incorporated such a Cylinder, the industry standard for observing the memory of the heads. Working in unison, the Strings supported the heads, maintaining their stability as they floated in midair. Another tubed translucent limb, served both as a means of nourishment and for treating cancers. This scene was a routine spectacle for those versed in the science of Human head computing. Mercy. I’ve beaten Mercy. The Strings shifted from silver to red, signaling the shift to observation mode and the consequent awakening of the heads. As the process began, each head was greeted with a searing sensation, the precursor to their eyes slowly opening in sequence. At first realization, the faces contorted in pain, eyes widening in shock. The remnants of dried saliva between the lips, reluctantly parted, giving way to a piercing, hellish screech. The once serene surface tension of the perfectly sliced neck plane, a calm red liquid, violently erupted, gushing out bright crimson blood. Still suspended in a state of buoyant equilibrium, the panic caused each head to rotate slowly, a frictionless spin that forced it to confront the Cylinders holding other heads met the same grim fate. Simultaneously, much to his satisfaction, Enkephalins' observation screen flickered with life, data streaming in, perfectly reflecting the narrative embedded within the simulation seed. Mercy, oh Mercy!!! I’ve beaten Mercy! Mercy was the colloquial term for the ultimate rule in human-head computing—the uncertainty principle. It stated that any observation of a human mind invariably removes it from the simulation. One could allow a human in a dream narrative to unfold uninterrupted. Or choose to observe their memory state just once, but this act disrupts the flow, collapsing the entire system. When the heads awake screaming, they’ve lost all their utility, descending into predictable patterns of despair, yearning for an end, even when placed back in a subsequent simulation. This rule permits a one and only brief, second-long snapshot: capturing their current aspirations, the weight of their recent decisions, and their immediate thoughts about their simulated world. Enkephalins and his peers loathed this limitation. The rule of “Mercy” had curtailed what could have been a surefire method for scientists to unravel the mysteries of consciousness and its evolution from scratch… But now, had Enkephalins truly done it? It appeared that his ingenious device might just be the ultimate loophole. His gaze flitted between the original copy, still slumbering peacefully in the replicator, and the one that was observed. He wasn't delusional; he had actually accomplished the unthinkable. In a hushed tone, acknowledging the divine guidance, Enkephalins whispered thanks to his God. Ele’fines, Ele’fines, we are one yet many. Ele’fines, please let Persephones live forever! As he stood there, the full weight of his achievement began to settle upon him. His mind raced with the implications of what he had just accomplished. The philosophical depth, the practical ramifications in medicine, communications, morality, politics, computability, and artificial intelligence – it was overwhelming. He had defied a rule that many, including esteemed scientists, believed to be a divine moral edict. With the computational power he was on the brink of harnessing, he could very well become the final father of reaching Singularity. The message had gone out; it was only a matter of time until the whole world would know. A long road has been, Ele’fines, science and finally Ele’fines. Than’kus Mothers – naming me by Ele’fines. And Than’kus Kal’nematos for your plentifulness. Modern human head computing was often credited to Kal’nematos, who at the time of his discovery was a well-known entrepreneur and art sadist. Kal'nematos devised a competition over time, evolving three distinct criteria. The first challenge was to determine how long a human could be maintained in a sleep state. The second criterion focused on condensing the humans’ bodily energy. The third and final challenge was about developing the fastest algorithm for playing "Strings'' — a game akin to chess for higher species. Strings involved the strategic slicing of an N-dimensional space with N-1 dimensional hyperplanes, carefully avoiding the creation of an X-faceted polytope in N dimensions. In this age of innovation, many major developments unfolded in unison: The simulations, or "dreams," provided to humans were initially of a hedonistic nature that they themselves understood, such as living the life of a famous pop star. Yet, as the sophistication of cryptographically precise translation capabilities grew, the nature of these simulations transformed. They took on roles of significant gravity and complexity. They found themselves at the helm of defending alien invasions, unraveling unifying theories in science, crafting solutions for famous math problems, or establishing new world religions. These deep and intricate scenarios tested the limits of the human brain, compelling it to expand beyond its usual capacities. Confronting extreme guilt and humility, individuals were driven to new heights of cognitive performance, significantly enhancing the quantity of computational data they could process and generate. Removal of limbs from humans was relatively straightforward, but the risks increased with procedures closer to the brain. The "Spinal Flail" archetype was prevalent early on, but competitors like Trichophytons took it further, fracturing the spine into increasingly finer strands to condense biological resources. The head, skull, eyes, and ears were more resistant to change, leading to a tradition of shaping the species to reflect their perceived facial likeness. Any brain kept alive in full isolation would begin to lose its inherent computational abilities tied to Ego. Devoid of Ego, a brain's output turns cognitively entropic, producing patterns too chaotic to be decipherable and have consistency. Trichophytons pioneered spinal signal splitting, progressively dividing the spine until they could transmit highly dense data with relational rules. This practice evolved, with companies advancing the technique until the spine took on the appearance of tiny metallic hairs, scaling up from kilostrands to megastrands, and eventually to gigastrands, counting in the millions. The most riveting breakthrough came from Kal’nematos himself, who succeeded in connecting multiple conscious heads within a single, unified simulation. As an experienced pet owner, Kal’nematos made a seminal discovery: 137 was the magic number of humans needed to achieve harmony. Exceeding this count gave way to unity breaking down and tribalism, while fewer than such sparked a subtle yearning for the red pill truth. Leveraging his newfound understanding, Kal’nematos created and commercialized a unique chip. Infused with his mastery of Euclidean geometry, sharpened by the strategic nuances of the "Strings'' game, this chip achieved a marvel. It allowed each of the 137 heads to perceive themselves as being at the center, regardless of their actual position, thanks to meticulously arranged mirrors. At first glance, the significance of the chip's arrangement might be confusing. Yet, this design led to an extraordinary and mystical result: the simulations involving the Ego of the 137 heads were harmoniously aligned and deeply interconnected. Through meticulous manipulation of the "Strings" — encompassing both their spatial geometry and the fine silver fibers — each head was able to interact within the same simulated world while maintaining their individual consciousness. With the integration of so many minds into a shared system, a statistical truth about actual activity within the simulation finally emerged. While a single mind might be subject to manipulation, the collective input of many provides a dependable and precise understanding of the underlying simulation dynamics and the resulting data. This innovation, however, came with another peculiar limitation. The so-called "rules of Mercy" were even more extensive than anticipated: the act of observing a single head would inadvertently lead to the awakening of the entire group. The once-ridiculed idea of using the human brain as a foundation for computing transformed into a tangible reality with the emergence of theoretical papers promising exceptionally efficient runtime from Ego alignment. The potential for Human minds to outperform classical computers was no longer a distant fantasy. “Human supremacy” arose far more rapidly than anyone had anticipated. Human computing infiltrated every echelon of society. Governments employed it for a plethora of purposes, ranging from moral judgment and cold warfare strategies to administering justice in courts. In the corporate world, it found applications in targeting advertising campaigns, forecasting stock market trends, and even relationship matching. Yet, despite its widespread integration, Human computing did not lead to absolute domination. This restraint was not due to society's virtue but rather the physical present principle—Mercy, coupled with the no-cloning theorem. While many in the public perceived this limitation as a divine or moral intervention, the academically inclined were already aware of the potential risks if Mercy was defeated. Theoretical papers showed that without Mercy, Human computing algorithms were capable of breaking through every security measure, and paving the way for an AI with near-ultimate abilities. Ele'fines represents the religious belief that human computing should have dominated the world. It hinges on the possibility of observing both the mental state and the simulation simultaneously. Defeating the no-cloning theorem, which prohibits the cloning of an independent and identical copy of a human head for observations; a non-disturbing measurement scheme that is both simple and perfect cannot exist. Interestingly, antimatter cloning devices capable of replicating food and even animals such as lions already exist. While a lion could stay sleeping, cloned humans invariably wake up, defying all efforts to maintain their simulated state. Scientifically unsolved, it was believed that Human cloning hits an insurmountable wall, marked by some inexplicable intelligence threshold.

The creation of human heads is an extensive and careful process, requiring 2-3 years for each head to fully develop. In theory, these heads have the potential for indefinite longevity, but cognitive “half-life”was only around 27 years of simulation time, beginning from the ages of 30 to 35. Given years, humans frequently shift their beliefs, often choosing paths of comfort over those of truthful data. In this context, a single memory state is merely a speck in the vast, untapped expanse of the simulation's data. Scientists were stuck evaluating a function at a single point when they dreamed of computing its entire integral. By boosting each head's observational frequency from a single instance to even just once a year, the overall algorithmic speed doesn't merely increase by a factor; it dramatically skyrockets. In computational complexity theory, it provably enables every NP-complete problem to be solved in polynomial time, with an error rate that is practically nonexistent. Indeed, Enkephalins had changed the game, slowing brain activity to an almost null state, a point where synapses couldn't trigger awareness, allowing the matter to be cloned while preserving the simulation trajectory. This approach wasn't just cloning the brain; it involved replicating the entire system, including an accelerator and superconductor, to circumvent the Creator's rules of the soul. Thanks to the Enkephalins-cloning method, it was now possible for a head to survive and produce calculations indefinitely, preluding a transformative era in science. The implications were enormous – the internet would be redefined, the field of computation would undergo a significant evolution, and philosophy in its entirety would change irrevocably. Eventually, the finale of the Godlike AI would come. Ele'fines the Singularity was now set on an unstoppable path. And now, the world has already ended. Kal'nematos was expected to arrive shortly to witness the spectacle, and Enkephalins, ever prepared, required no reminder. He had already set up a simulation, a grand narrative depicting the journey of a human scientist whose discovery poetically mirrored his own. With the cloning process running on a continuous loop, the stage was set. Rich in cruel irony, this was precisely the kind of humour Kal'nematos would find amusing. You Persephone lack the prime numbers. I will make you prophet but not Prophets. Earlier, Enkephalins had deliberately chosen a specific baby's head for the epic journey, its geometry much too symmetrical for his liking, yet adequately attractive to serve as humanity's shepherd. This head, with its impeccably oval shape, boasted a broad forehead and a strong jawline, striking a perfect balance. His eyes were deep-set and vividly blue, radiating a hungry egotistic drive. As the narrative unfolded, Percy was to witness the gradual loss of his friends and family, steering him towards a God who not only existed but also shared a consciousness akin to humans. His character was designed to be misunderstood. Percy dared to unify the entirety of existence, even hoping to break one of the universe's laws. His cruel act of cloning a photon system knowingly set the stage for information time travel, eventually leading to the distortion of his world. Enkephalins, masterfully fast-forwarding the simulation, fine-tuned the flow of time to capture the buildup to his paramount Eureka. Securely positioned in the head accelerator, the replicator's interface went dark. Enkephalins adjusted his screen to encompass the rest of the observation process, tailoring it precisely for Percy's awakening. Every twelve minutes, the replicator punctuated the darkness with a sudden flash of light, signaling the completion of its copy. A double of Percy's head would roll into a Cylinder, where its eyes, wide with shock, would scream until the blood vessels of the brain succumbed to its own internal pressure. In stark contrast, the screen displayed his emotions in the simulation—a joyous euphoria—the exhilarating sense of power found in his discovery. Like clockwork, bleeding human heads, one after another, tumbled into a cereal of blood, bobbing with ovoids of skull-shaped tissue. Enkephalins saw no reason to shut this machine off. After all, the wealthy Kal'nematos would develop more advanced versions of this system for commercial sale. Both of them would undoubtedly love the idea of letting the original operate indefinitely as a historic piece of art. Periodically, the garbage collector would cleanse the swamp of flesh, a grim site where countless other heads, identical in appearance, must meet the same gruesome fate.


Emmet was thirteen when he had a brush with death. Ever since then, the wind felt colder against his dark skin, like there was frost in his bones. At times, he put on his leather jacket and laid under the star filled sky, wondering why he wasn't the same person as before. Was there nothing he could do to purge the frozen blood beneath his skin? Tonight, the stars sparkled more brightly than they had before. He laid on a hill in the lush grass under the dark blue sky. His home was a fair ways from the city, and you could only see the light from the moon and stars. The dark tree line wrapped around him and his red brick house. He tucked his arm under his head and stared into the night, with his thoughts wandering back to that night he nearly drowned as a kid. He didn’t feel sorry for himself or dwell on it simply because it was the only traumatic incident he experienced. Instead, he contemplated why it triggered a constant buzz in his bones. He contemplated why he felt distanced from everything at this point, as if he was never completely one with life again. The world was always gray. The world seemed to rain or snow or feel

many moons away when everybody else

saw a bright sun. confused because he never felt sad, he just felt like he was looking for something unconsciously.

He brooded over what that could be but was never able to find the answer. Emmet wasn’t depressed or sad but he felt like there was music in the distance he couldn’t pin-point or a word on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t remember. There was something humming in his bones and in the back of his mind that was never satisfied, even though Emmet was completely satisfied with his life. If anything, life and breath seemed sweeter after nearly dying. At that thought, a smile crept over Emmet’s mouth. The quiet moments created serenity within him. The quiet moments reminded him how grateful he was to have such a peaceful home and family.

“Mom said dinner’s ready,” his aunt called. “Coming,” Emmet said, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath. After Emmet and his mother and brother moved away from their house in the middle of the city, he realized why his family

valued their house on the hill, surrounded by trees and moonlight.

*** Emmet removed his brown jacket, placing it on the coat-rack. With his uncle stoking the fire and the oven running, it was almost too hot inside. But the scent of oven roasted chicken and potatoes distracted him. The warmth and aromatic herbs beckoned him to the table where everybody else was already sitting or placing tableware.

His mother, Rosalie, just set down the chicken and sat with her hands clasped. He quickly sat and closed his eyes as she said a small prayer. All he could think about was ‘that’s where grandma used to sit and say the prayer for meal.’ Family and tradition was important to his mother, and while Emmet appreciated his mother’s dedication, it made him sad to see his grandmother’s

place at the table replaced. That’s when the hole in his heart opened up again. But, with each passing day, it closed up a little faster and he could think up his grandmother’s face in his thoughts without excusing himself.

“Do the

constellations look pretty, Emmet?” Aunt Kiera asked, dishing up potatoes for her daughter.

“I guess,” he said half-heartedly. “I don’t imagine the stars connecting like that; i just like the way the sky looks at night as a whole. Honestly., i was just distracting myself from that fact i forgot to practice violin today.” “You are getting lazy about that,” his grandfather grunted. Emmet shook his head. Should've known better. Grandpa was a devoted musician back in the day. The living room had nearly become a show room for his record collection, many of which, he had collected with his grandmother when they were young.

Somehow, the world had since changed with the absence of one person. Though everyone at the dinner table conversed with each other like nothing was difference, they were also cautious. Deviating away from anything that could relate to her life. Emmet felt the complete opposite. He wanted to talk about his grandmother and remember who she was. He looked up to her kind, thoughtful character and emulated her almost more than his own mom.

Emmet shoved his food in quickly in an attempt to escape from the smiling, melancholy faces. He missed his grandmother, but he didn’t want that to discourage his ability to remember and talk about her. So, once he finished and explained (lied)

about a late music lesson, he grabbed his coat and left.

Outside, Emmet began to shiver while walking on the wide road away from his new home. He blew into his hands and could see his breath like white smoke. Then, he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to forget that the frosty air was seeping deep into his body, reaching his already chilled bones. He thought about the frost reaching his heart and if someone’s heart could really freeze over. He wanted to believe that and wanted it to happen when he experienced grief for the first time. Truly, his life had been a serene, flowing river until he nearly drowned in raging rapids and saw death only a month later. But Emmet soon felt okay with the sadness. Because he knew that grief would pass over him in time. Emmet would be okay, he believed, because he felt his heart was working right if he felt sad.

“Don’t be sad because they died, be happy because they lived,” his mother told him. From that moment on, his perspective changed. And he allowed himself to grieve, but he also allowed himself to be grateful for her time. But at her funeral, he could still feel her spirit with him. As if she was singing to him from heaven. It sounded like the wind blowing through the trees as he walked down the road. A forest on either side of him, and the path lit by the bluish

hue of the moon.

*** Swiftly, Emmet climbed over the tall cemetery fence and walked to his grandmother’s gravestone. Under a big oaktree, her name was inscribed on the concrete grave: Lydia Roslyn Posh. “I’m still trying my hardest, just like you told me,” he murmured to himself. His mother once said, “we will all be folklore in the end.” But his grandmother was more than that, she was someone that made him feel proud of himself. He once thought she was mocking him because she said, “I will not love you because you are smart, I do not love you because you are handsome. Honestly, you are average in most means. But because you have a golden heart, you are someone I've always needed. There is nothing more painful than not having someone in your life that loves you unconditionally.” Then, he clutched the golden locket around his neck. It had a picture of his mother and grandmother inside. Nothing could change his mind that there was anyone who could make a bigger impact on him. Because those words were just a few of the phrases that kept his head up.

*** On his way back to the cemetery gate, he noticed something white under a large tree. It was fabric fluttering in the wind. But that's when he noticed a body curled up in the fabric.

His heart stammered. There was nothing more eerie than stumbling across a still body. Let alone a still body in a cemetery at night. But he couldn't pull himself away; what if they were alive and needed help?

He walked slowly, the leaves crunching beneath his feat, and the humming in his bones growing. The body was drained of color; nearly translucent in a white dress. The chill inside him deepened; it began singing throughout his whole body. His legs felt weak as water and his hands shook. Her body was completely still, with the wind moving her pale hair. He hoped she was still alive, yet he couldn't touch her without getting fingerprints on the body. But her bony arms and legs said otherwise. The blue tones of her nails and toes made him wonder if she froze to death. That's when he noticed a red line on her neck. He bent over to get a closer look, his cold breath grazing her cheek, and noticed a bloody gash across her neck.

Was she killed? Then a sound escaped her lips and he fell back, crawling away from her. A healthy tone spread over her whole body and he could see her rib cage moving, drawing in air. His body trembled and his head spun. But he watched as she pushed herself up. He stared, stuttering to find words, and breathing heavier than before. The gaping wound around her neck sewed itself together and her blue lips turned pink. She gasped for air, clutching her heart. Then, set her red eyes on him.

He scrambled to his feet, looking the gaunt girl over. "You were dead!"

"You think I don't know that!" She chided.

He pointed at her arm. From wrist to elbow, her bones showed clean. No blood or loose skin. "What happened!" He gaped. She narrowed her eyes and grabbed his arm, pulling him over with unexpected strength. Her nails dug into his skin.

"You're a necromancer!" She proclaimed. His heart leapt. He pulled away from her, rubbing the skin where she grabbed him. "What...I...You..."

"Behind your ear," she said, tapping that exact place on herself. "There’s the mark of a necromancer. A raven skull." Emmet rubbed the place behind his ear, noticing that the chill had left his body. It was replaced by an eager glow of warmth. "And what's that," he said, pointing at the cat skull tattoo on her arm.

She placed her hand over it. "Nothing." "Nah, you gotta tell me what that means. Because all of this makes no sense!" "Of course it does. And something tells me you aren't that full of questions anyway," she said. Truly, she was right. He didn't feel overwhelmed, though he tried drumming up questions. Within himself, he felt alarmed but aware of the situation. Which, worried him more. "I am not a necromancer," he scowled. "Sure." The girl began to storm away, and Emmet immediately hurried after her. "You can't walk away after all that," he said. "We have no business together. You don't believe me and who am I to force you. So, go your own way." "Wait," he said, "you were dead right?" "No, I was sleeping. Of course I was dead. Dead and left to rot in a cemetery," she argued. "Someone didn't even have the heart to put me under six feet." "I'm sorry about that," Emmet sighed. She turned on the spot, sticking a finger in his face. "What are you sorry for, huh?" "No, I just meant "sorry" with sympathy," he said, and she trailed away. "Where are you going?" He asked, wondering what a dead girl could want. And wondering what would happen if she ran into anyone that knew she had died. "Well, doing what any smart undead person would do, go hunting." His stomach dropped. "And...what does that mean?" "I am not truly alive, and the only way I can remain undead is to feast on life's blood. But it's wrong to do so, obviously," she explained. "So, I'll eat animal blood. Human blood is needed, but I can't bring myself to do that." Emmet felt squeamish. Suddenly, his head was filled with dreadful thoughts about bringing this girl to life. But how did he do it? What had he done and what does this mean? Who is she and how can she survive?

"My mom's a nurse and is working in a blood donation center. I can get in and steal some for you," he said it without recognizing his voice. Why are you getting yourself into this Emmet , he thought. Leave it alone, he thought. But of course, she turned around and looked relieved. "Oh! Thank you!" *** After sneaking in just before closing hours, he snagged a few bags of blood and gave it to the dead girl behind the center. He turned away after watching her drink it like water. After she finished, he looked at her blood stained lips. One drop of blood trickled down her chin.

“Are you any better,” he said, watching as more color filled her face. The dark circles under her eyes lessened a bit, and where her skin was almost translucent, a peachy hue covered her veins.

“Much better.” she said and held out her hand. “Thank you. Thank

you for believing me

and faking a blood donation to steal blood for me.” He took her hand and said, “i’m Emmet by the way.” “Christina Parks,” and she shook his hand. “I’m

afraid this won’t be the last time i need blood, but it will be the last time you get it for me. You don’t need to

feel like you must help me.” Emmet took another bag of blood from his jacket and handed it to her. “Here, this is for next time.” She gasped. “No

really. It will only

make me want it more.” she pushed his hand away. “I need to get used to animal blood for now. Besides, don’t you think the patients need it more than i do? I mean, they are alive.” “How do you know all of this. I mean, the needing blood and everything?” he asked. But Christina looked down, her platinum bangs covering her eyes. “That’s a long story…” she saw he was about to speak and cut him off, “I’m allowed to keep some things to myself.” “Well, we should probably go. We’ll get in trouble if they find us back here,” Emmet said. They left the shadows behind the center and started towards the city. Emmet checked his watch and saw that all of this had happened within an hour. His family didn’t expect him back for another hour, so

he could help her to a hotel or wherever she used to live. “Do you know where you’re going from here,” he asked. “Like, are you going back home?” “I lived with my roommate...but I can’t go back there.” she said. At that, she remained silent for a while. “How do you plan to...live or...function,” he stammered, trying not to offend her. “Like any other human. But without cooking my meat,” she smirked. “Blood doesn’t taste coppery anymore. It tastes sweet and irresistible. Like the best dessert you’ve ever tasted. It envelopes your senses. Blood is miraculous after death.” “Interesting,” was the only word he could spit out. He rubbed his wrists, right where his veins were, hoping she didn’t want anymore blood for now. “And it smells good too,” she said, like a child opening presents on Christmas for the first time. She spoke with amazement and wonderment. “Blood smells like delectable cherries or chocolate cake or chocolate covered berries. Or perhaps, it smells like that because that’s what i loved most when i was alive.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Does your family know about your death? Can you go back to live with them?” “I know they must be looking for me. It was a few days ago, but the cold weather served my body well at least. What killed my roomate killed me. Seeing as you’re the first person to find me, I can probably see them again and...but I can’t

explain what happened.” Emmet opened his mouth to speak but kept quiet. Some things you don’t have to share. And this was a sensitive and traumatic matter. He didn’t want to press her bruises.

*** They both stopped, dead in their tracks. Christina touched a finger to her lips and Emmet didn’t need to be told twice to be quiet. From amidst the dark tree line, a figure emerged. Emmet could smell its grotesque odor from there. Decaying flesh. He saw it emerge, disfigured and purified, limping from the woods with a rattling breath.

“Come on,” he said, tugging on Christina’s arm. But she didn’t budge. With brute strength, she didn’t even waver.

“No,” she said, “it's for me.” The decayed figure and Christina bolted towards each other. She swung her legs around the creature’s neck and threw it down. Emmet watched, stunned as she bit the creature’s

head clean off. She grimaced, wiping her face, trying to rid herself of the taste. Still, Emmet was unable to say a word. His

legs felt weak again and his heart hammered like a drum in his chest. “What was that,” he cried in a forced whisper.

Christina swallowed, realizing she couldn't keep her secrets anymore. "That was a gift sent here for me. The underworld wants me back."