Her phone buzzed beside her on the cot. Dash’s ears perked up at the sound. Just let us know if you need anything, the green bubble on the screen read. Shea gingerly went to her window, peering out into the darkness. Snow was falling mutely around her one-room cabin. Her faithful German Shepherd immediately came to her side, pressing his wet nose against the glass. A deep rumble building in his chest. “It’s okay Dash,” She put her hand on his head to calm her dog, still staring out into the night. Silence. Dash gave a reluctant boof and retreated from the window, curling up on the mat in front of the crackling fireplace. Shea watched the firelight dance off his black fur for a moment, his eyelids drooping - the epitome of cozy - then went to her kitchenette to make some tea. She turned the knob on her propane stove click click click click and lit the burner with a wooden match chkk chkk chffffff The flames licked the bottom of the cast iron kettle, and soon enough the pot whistled in distress. A mournful howl escaped from Dash in harmony with the teapot. Shea chuckled and removed the kettle from the stove, but Dash continued to howl. As she poured the hot water into her prepared mug on the counter, she urged Dash to quiet: “Hush Dash, that’s enough boy,” she chastised over her shoulder. Just then, his nose poked her thigh, and she looked down into his big, brown eyes. The howling continued. It wasn’t Dash. She set down the kettle and hurried to the window again, dog at her heels. Low, fateful sounds filled the air around the small cabin in the woods, transuding their way through the cracks and crevices, invading the room and bodies within. Dash’s hackles raised in challenge, but small whimpers betrayed him. Shea quickly turned down the lanterns and smothered the fire as best she could. It did not take long for the room to cool - she could see her breath in front of her as she hunkered onto her cot, the springs squeaking in protest, reaching for her phone once again. Her heart sank. No service. Dash huddled beside her, giving her warmth, his eyes trained on the door. Abruptly, the howling stopped. “Okay boy, we gotta go.” Shea haphazardly bundled up, yanking on her boots and winter gear, and grabbing the axe that was leaning against the wood piled in the corner. She stuffed her phone deep into her coat pocket, raised the wooden latch, and opened the front door. The cold cut into the skin of her face; Shea buckled as Dash bounded in front of her and raced into the night. “No Dash!” But his sleek, black body disappeared into the trees. The snow was deep and unforgiving. She trudged forward to the tree line, hoping to hear or see her dog. She knew she had to get to town, but she wasn’t leaving without Dash. “You stupid dog, you’ll be the death of me.” She muttered under her breath, eyes straining through the forest. She looked longingly back towards the lights of the community in the distance, sighed in defeat and entered the trees. She could just barely make out his trail zig-zagging between the pines. She waded along through the snow, following her dog’s frenzied route. Her breath came fast, and soon she was sweating beneath her layers despite the 30 below temperature. She paused briefly leaning the axe against the nearest trunk, removing her hat and unzipping her coat half-way. The strands of her long, dark hair quickly froze to her cheeks and lips. And then a howl. Ooooooooooooo…. Ominous, desperate … and near. Wolves were common in these parts, this she knew. An Elder once told her that a human only sees a wolf when the wolf wants to be seen. This memory settled in her chest as she replaced her hat and moved forward. Wolves were taken as a given around here, but rarely did they bother with the people. Sometimes the odd dog would go missing when a wolf became particularly brave and hungry, but other than that, they all seemed to live in respectful harmony among one another. No, Shea wasn’t afraid of wolves. Wolves would not make her leave the warmth of her cabin at 2am on a long winter night with just an axe in ha- “Fuck!” She whipped around. She had left her axe against the tree when she had stopped. The trail was easier going back since she had already broken it. She glanced at each trunk as she retraced her steps, knowing she hadn’t travelled very far from her weapon. But she couldn’t locate her axe. She was sure she placed it against a tree… perhaps it fell over and was buried in the snow. She began kicking the snow around each tree trunk, frantically trying to uncover it. She halted as the hair on her neck raised. Ooooooooooooooooooooo….. She felt the sound reverberate through her bones. Every cell of her body winced and retracted from the world. Then Shea heard it from behind: running at full speed towards her through the heavy snow. She whipped around just in time for the beast to hit her solidly in the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. “DASH!” She screamed in relief as the dog licked her face, panting and whining frantically. “Come on, you idiot. Let’s go, let’s go!” She grabbed him by the scruff and launched him in the right direction. Dash plodded on ahead, nose to the ground. Shea followed swiftly. skritch skritch A noise from her left. Dash, a few yards ahead now, stopped and looked back at Shea, ears pricked. He whined, hesitant. Shea stepped slowly towards her dog, keeping her eyes down, her breath caught in her lungs. skritch skritch Dash’s lips curled back, his teeth illuminated in the darkness. A low, steady growl erupted from him. Every muscle of his canine body was rigid as he stared into the trees. thud thud skritch thud thud skritch Someone, or something, heavy was moving over the snow very close to where Shea and her dog stood. Shea kept moving forward slowly, trying not to make a sound, gesturing to Dash to keep going. But her dog would not break focus from the trees beyond her. His growl grew deeper. thud thud skritch She finally reached where Dash was rooted, gently nudging him with her mitted hand on his neck, but he would not budge. Only stared and growled. thud thud skritch She moved past him, desperately scanning the forest ahead for her cabin. She took a few more steps... and the growling stopped. Shea slowly turned to look, but her dog was gone. Only white snow where he had stood moments earlier. Silence. Shea bolted. Bolted between the pines, all direction abandoned. Her legs and lungs burned, her heart screamed in her chest. Branches tore through her hair, ripped the skin on her face, and the scent of blood filled her nostrils. Her boot met something solid beneath the snow, tripping her. The earth raced up to meet her, and she struggled to push herself back up as her hands and arms were swallowed by the snow. Her fingertips brushed something hard beneath the snow as she fought: the axe. She had tripped over her fucking axe! Grasping the butt and using it as a crutch, Shea launched herself back on her feet. Clutching her weapon with both hands in front of her chest, she marched forward, but something to her right caught her eye. A dark shape in the snow about twenty feet from her. It was Dash. “Oh my god, Dash! Come here boy, come on!” Shea rushed to her dog in relief. But Dash wasn’t moving… he was curled up, much like he had been in front of the fire a lifetime ago. “Dash?” Shea set down her axe and moved around to his head. His big, brown eyes stared up at her, catching the light from the moon. She reached down to pet his head...and it rolled to the side, detached from the rest of him. Both hands flew up to cover her mouth as Shea choked on her scream. There was no blood. She knew this handywork. She also knew trap when she saw one...or was in one. thud thud skritch Shea brought her hands shakily to her sides, breathed a goodbye to her comrade, and turned to meet her caller. It squatted on furry haunches not ten feet from her, frostbitten knees pulled up to its chest. It’s desiccated skin pulled tightly over its bones, its ash complexion the color of death. Sinewy muscles rippled over its shoulders and gangly arms, hanging from them two monstrous, yet undeniably human, hands. Before her eyes reached its face, she could smell him: like sulphur and rotting meat. Her eyes travelled to its head, where its silver eyes were pushed deep into the sockets, over a sunken and deteriorated nose. Whatever lips remained were tattered and spoiled, spread loosely over rows of sharp, decaying teeth. Even in his hunched state, the Wendigo was easily seven feet tall. Shea could feel her flesh crawling, knowing he could smell it. He stared at her, enormous hands on his knees, head tilted, unmoving. Unbreathing. Its mouth slowly turned up at the corners...a smile? A few kilometers away, an Elder sat on his porch at the edge of the community, alerted by screams singing over the treetops. *** A few of the locals would find her clothes hours later, in the safety of the early morning light, her phone still in the pocket of her coat. Their shoulders sagged with solemn relief. The cabin would be marked as For Sale once again, for a very low price, knowing feeding time will be upon them soon enough.


Agony glazed his eyes as he stumbled over. His new wound was ugly, a gash through the stomach still fresh, clearly exacerbating one barely much older. “... Jeez.” Already she held bandages and morphine, the smile on her lips fading quickly at his plight. The fall into her arms was unexpected, but she responded easily, clinging back onto him as his arms draped weakly on her shoulders. “That looks... bad...” The white linen was draped over quickly, tightened and secured as blood soon coated them crimson. Morphine loosened the fire that consumed his eyes, and they shut somewhat as he rested his head into her side. “Y... Yeah,” He finally choked out. “I didn’t... expect that one.” The wound seemed to hold as she let go, though she knew it wouldn’t for long. “I... don’t think I’ve seen you this bad since...” “Since a long time ago. Yeah. But we were different people then.” He plucked at her sleeve, the pain dwindling gratefully. “How’re you holding up?” She frowned. Bandages set aside she took his hand, setting it for pressure on the wound. “You’ve got more things to worry about than that.” “Yeah. But... You know I want it that way.” The softness, the vulnerability in his face convinced her. She helped him sit up, letting him gaze at her own injuries. “They’re healing fine. Still... Still bleeding though.” He tested the yellowed fabric carefully, noticing her flinch. “Still hurts?” “I can’t deny that,” She shrugged with heavy shoulders. “Morphine works well on it, thankfully.” He glanced over the rest of her body. Scars and cuts pockmarked the damaged skin, burns thankfully healing with good progress. His cheeks rose as he observed one, the distinctive mark reduced to memory. “Stop that. You must rest.” “I am.” She sighed at the response, offering him another vial of painkillers. They shared this one, and she let him lean against her body. The silence was musical. The comfort of companionship worked its magic, consciousness drifting as the agonies faded, even temporarily. His voice trembled slightly even in secure softness. “This might be the last one, you know.” “Don’t say that.” Her response was flat, a spark of emotion bubbling even with her own voice pacified. He shifted on her shoulder. “You know the truth. The last two were already bad enough. This one may seal my fate.” There was no response. The silence turned heavy till he spoke again. “S—sorry.” “Don’t be. You know what I’d say already.” He did. His hand grasped at hers, warm palm resting on her fingers. She gave him a squeeze as she stared into the moon’s glow. Moonlight lit the sea as they rested, feeling the soft comfort of each other’s backs. ——————————————————————— She awakened to a cold touch, blinking tiredly in the morning sun. She rose slightly, staring still into the distance in denial. She let herself take a moment to mourn, slipping his body off hers to lay on the warm sand. She gazed at his face, finally at peace, a smile formed even at rest. Lifting his body in her arms she barely struggled. The bandages and morphine she set on his stomach as she looked for green grounds. She glanced at the newly-gaping hole in her chest, and ignored it as she walked away with him.


The fluorescent lights paired with the stale recycled air grated my senses, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The room was too white, too sterile. “My brother was a good man.” I stared into the large mirror, refusing to meet to the unmoving gaze of the woman in front of me. “It’s hard to believe it happened. Yet here I am, so it must be real.” *David.* As boys, my brother and I would often fight. David was always jealous of me. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for us to be compared, and I’d be lying if I said Mom and Dad didn’t favor me over my brother. David was prone to violence and theft, even going as far as stealing my blue hat and impersonating me. Like I said, David was a jealous boy. *Why did you do it?* It’s true my brother had issues, but nobody saw it coming. Were our parents at fault? No. Admittedly our parents weren’t the best, but I don’t think that’s it. David must have always been like that. We just couldn’t see it. *It’s all your fault.* I should have been a better brother. Like the time I left him out in the back and he didn’t find his way back until almost midnight. Or that time I let Mom and Dad name him for losing our dog, when I was the one who left the door open. If I had, maybe things would have gone differently. Would they have still been alive? Why even ask; I know they would. I wish I could change things, but it’s too late now. *Why couldn’t it have been me?* I still remember that night. It was Thanksgiving. My brother and I came home for the holidays. Despite being far too old, mother forced us to wear those horrid matching sweaters. Maybe it’s a twin thing? *It should have been me.* My parents retired to bed early and I was upstairs when it happened. I was immersed in a book so I didn’t see or hear it, but I’ve seen the police report. Between the two of them, mother and father were stabbed thirty-seven times. I never saw it coming. David was never able to beat him, that’s why I’m alive. I’m the only one now, I’m number one. This is what it must feel like to be a winner. *David*. I’m number one. Brother, I wish you could see me now, but your sacrifice is why I’m where I am now. I’m finally a winner. I’m better than you. See how they all look at me. There’s your proof. “David, it’s time now.” The woman stepped forward and the faces behind the mirror watched. I turned and met her gaze. “I’ve won, I’ve finally won.” She only nodded her head as I felt a prick on my arm. As the icy cold raced through my veins, my muscles sagged and my eyes closed. I dreamt of white. *I’ve won.


(WP) Kill ‘Em With Kindness People were saying that it was something like a miracle, that we’d been blessed beyond measure, when the crime rates started to drop. Religious people thought had they’d achieved The Rapture, or reached enlightenment. Our tiny town was special now, and not just for the many tasty varieties of pie. But then, it began to spread, a sickness that killed dark impulses and tore up violence by its roots in humanity. People prone to rage and violence were suddenly docile, and at first, no one could figure out why it was happening. I’d felt bad for scientists before now, but now they were overwhelmed and funding for their research was scarce. Prison wardens and nurses reported record lows as they observed their newly kind and gentle wards. It was like something out of a dream, until we realized the fallout that came from such a virus spreading throughout the global population. World peace began to spread, but as a result, it left the people affected with the inability to bear children. We should’ve known that something so drastic came with a hell of a sting at the end of it. There were some people that thought lifelong infertility was but a small price to pay for the world peace we’d all spent years working toward, but others were angry, bitter. I didn’t know how I felt about it, myself: I’d decided long ago that I didn’t want children, because the world had seemed like such an ugly place when I was growing up. But this: Some said that we’d achieved the utopia our ancestors had dreamed of eons ago. But what was the point, if the human race could no longer reproduce? I sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s, waiting for my test results. There was almost no testing that existed now that didn’t require a waiting period. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it listlessly, reading articles that were years out of date. The only noise I could hear over the ringing in my ears was the insistent, incessant *tick, tick, tick* of the clock. An eternity passed before the nurse came out, calling my last name. “Reynolds?” She called; there was no need, really; there was no one there but me. But I stood up, the magazine falling out of my lap. Before I could pick it up, she was walking down the hall, and I hurried to keep up. She led me to a small room with flowery, vintage wallpaper, and had me sit down on a bed while she took my vitals. “Dr. La Mer will be in to talk about your results in a moment.” She said, giving me a small, sympathetic smile before walking out of the room, closing the door behind her. After another short wait, the doctor in question entered the room. He was tall and thin, with long, bony hands and a gentle smile. His eyes, bright hazel, twinkled; he looked entirely too happy. “I have good news for you, Miss Reynolds.” He said, beaming at me. “Your results are negative, so you’re free and clear to have a child, if that’s what you wish.” My stomach dropped at his words. Was I a bad person for wishing that the results had been positive? Some people would kill for the chance to have a healthy child, and here I was, disappointed over it.


It is the dead of winter. Every visible thing is dismally bleak and cold. One can hear the bitter air whisper up the quiet, pallid beach, and circle around the welcoming cabin. The vacation spot is remote, and settled at the base of two soft white mountains. The cabin has been in *his* family for generations. I walk up to it and am greeted warmly by them. There are seven members total. Charlie, *his* older brother, Karen and Joel, *his* younger sister and brother-in-law, Rowen, Karen’s son, and of course Sarah and Kent, *his* parents. We all know each other well; I had spent time with them on more than one occasion, to say the least. I can’t keep my eyes off of *him*. I watch as *he* jokes with Charlie, *his* warm breath crystallizing in the stark cold winter air. *His* blue eyes flash, and dance around as *he* sheds a boisterous laugh. My love for *him* wells up inside of me, and I struggle to keep myself from attacking *him* with kisses. *His* muddied blonde hair is perfectly cut, and combed back, subtly emphasizing *his* natural wave. For the first time, I notice *his* growing beard. To my surprise, I like it. “A beard?” I say, running my fingertips through it. “Yes,” *he* says, “But I’m going to shave it off.” My hands stop fidgeting. “What? No, please don’t shave it off. I like it,” smiling, “Please keep it.” “No,” *he* says sweetly, “I’m shaving it off.” I huff and flash a look of unwilling compromise. Sarah mentions that she is too cold for her own good, so we decide to go inside. The cabin is huge. It has enough bedrooms for everyone, plus a large kitchen, sitting room (with a fireplace), four bathrooms, and a heated pool. *He* shows me to my room, I thank *him*, and close myself inside. I mosey over to the bed I’ve longed to cuddle with for a year, and start unpacking. Charlie bursts in. “Rach, we’re going for a walk in about fifteen minutes. You in?” “Sure Charlie,” I say, smiling, “I’ll be out in about five.” He nods happily, and leaves. I get some clothes out, and slip them on. Next, I dig for my hot pink makeup bag. *That is still the ugliest color ever*, I think. I take out my mascara; I never wear more than that, it’s too dark otherwise. Plus, *he* likes it light and natural. I tend to comply. Standing in the bathroom, applying the black gooeyness, *he* comes in and taps me on the shoulder. When I turn around, I see *his* shaven face with almost a nervous look on it. I smile at *him*, pat his smooth cheeks and tell *him* it’s ok, I’ll live. We share a look of love, and then are interrupted by *his* sister. “Hey Rach?” “Yes, Karen.” “Do you think you could take care of Rowen on our walk? It’s just that I haven’t spent much time with the big brother here,” pointing at *him*, “lately, so I’d like to have some time alone, if you know what I mean.” She smiles. “Where is Joel going to be?” I say with confusion, and almost desperation to keep *him* beside me. “He, Dad, and Charlie have already left. Their going fishing.” “What about Mom?” “Sleeping.” I can tell she’s starting to get frustrated. “Alright. I guess I can occupy his attention for a while.” I flash her a smirk and turn back to my mascara. I can hear her let out a little hot air and then leave the room. “Babe, you know Rowen loves you. It’s not that big of a deal.” “I never said it was.” It is silent for a while. “I love you,” *he* says as *he* lightly kisses my head. I grab *his* hand. “It’s fine, really. Spend time with your sister. I have months to spend time with you later. It’s ok.” *He* grins and walks out. I sigh and finish what I started. \* \* \* \* \* I’m outside, waiting for the others. *He* comes out wearing a red and black plaid shirt, dark jeans, and woodsman boots. *He* shuffles towards me and almost knocks me over with a bear hug. *His* large, stocky body engulfs my petite one. *His* cologne is thrust into my face, and its spicy sweetness burns my nostrils. *He* pulls himself away and looks into my eyes, *his* straight white teeth gleaming underneath *his* pursed lips. *He* mouths the words *I Love You*, and then kisses my nose. “Rowen, are you ready to go?” we hear Karen yell from inside the house. Within seconds, she and my little buddy are walking out of the door, snow coats on and secured. Karen was always anal about Rowen being warm. “Ya’ll ready?” she asks. “More than ever!” *He* answers excitedly. *He* turns toward me, smiles, and walks on. “Row, come here!” I call. His sweet little face lights up, and he runs towards me as fast as he can. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on Auntie Rachel! We’re goin’ on a walk! ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE BEACH!” “Yes we are Rowen! You are such a smart boy.” I smile. He grins childishly at me. The four of us walk along the base of the mountain on large smooth stones laid by *his* ancestors. Rowen and I make a game of it, while *he* and Karen walk together in the distance. My attention is on Rowen, however, I cannot help but get distracted with *him*—watching how *he* moves—listening to *his* sweet voice—yearning to be with *him*. We reach the fork in the road where one either chooses to stay along the mountain’s base, or move to the beach. We take the beach, and before long we are walking on the ice cold sand. Little Row dashes here and there picking up shards of the ocean’s treasures. He runs back and forth from me and Karen, showing off his fabulous shells. We walk for about ten minutes, when all of a sudden Rowen screams with joy and starts running. After a few seconds, we realize what the commotion is about—Joel, Charlie, and Dad are seen just a few yards away. With Rowen long gone, I move a little quicker and catch up *him* and Karen. I wrap my arm through *his* and I can immediately feel *his* warmth seep into my body. Now we make our way to the edge of the earth where it’s met by the cold ocean water and melts away. \* \* \* \* \* I wake up, the whole left side of my face frozen. The sun is barely above the horizon any more, and stars are starting to peak through the blanketed sky. I smell a smoky spiciness, and hear soft murmurs all around. I open my eyes and see orange dancing flames throwing up great gusts of smoke. Aching just a bit, I lift myself up off of my “pillow”. “Well good evening Sleeping Beauty,” *he* says. I look up at *him* sleepily, and *he* laughs. “You look so ridiculous when you’re sleepy.” “Thanks babe. You make a girl feel so special.” “Sorry.” *He* smirks. I then stretch and make my way to the fire. I defrost my icy skin while Charlie and Dad start unpacking the s’mores ingredients. We all gather around the fire, with Rowen in my lap, and start roasting our marshmallows. *He* never leaves my side. *He* knows how I feel when I’m left, alone. When we’re done, *he* gets up, grabs my hand, and pulls me up. “Let’s go for a stroll,” *he* whispers. I nod yes, and we walk away. Holding hands, we mosey our way down the stretch of the beach. “I want to thank you for being such a good sport,” *he* says. “With Rowen? No, it was fine. I was just trying not to be selfish. I tend to be possessive of you,” I say. *He* squeezes my hand and continues to walk. “I want you to know that I believe you’re the one for me,” *he* says. I stop and turn towards *him*. “Really?” “Really,” *he* turns toward me. “And babe, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So—” “I will.” *He* looked surprised. “You don’t even have to ask. I’ve known since the first time I met you that you were the one for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you too.” *He* gasps happily. Within seconds *his* Paul Bunyan like arms are wrapped around me tight. *He* pulls himself back and then covers me with kisses. When the enthusiasm of the moment passes away, we connect hands tightly, and make our way back to his family.


**** The clock ticks. It will keep ticking. For exactly One Year. Unus Annus. Twelve months. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Each day, a task must be completed. Well, not just normal tasks. Tasks that incur suffering and pain. Tasks that punish and torture. Consume that which is made with the tools used to exercise grotesque erotic urges. Build and destroy utilising only horribly deformed limbs. Go blind to see death. Go deaf to hear death. Go numb to feel death. These are but some of the cruel tasks that await. For there are three hundred and sixty five of these tasks. All different, all unique, all with the intent to make you wish you were doing anything else. But you will have to live through it for One Year. Unus Annus. They are not unlike the labours that Greek heroes had to go through for their abundant sins. But instead of twelve over twelve years, such as those of Heracles. It is three hundred and sixty five over three hundred and sixty five days. The hardship and stress of the Labours all compressed into One Year. Unus Annus. But what great sins are you atoning for? Living a wrong life, which brought suffering upon many and desecrating the sacredness of family, like Heracles did? Or living a life that was not wrong enough, not taking risks, missing out on an opportunity which was only presented to you for a year? And for having missed that opportunity, you must now be punished for another. Perhaps, you have not committed great sins, and instead you are a martyr, suffering for what you believe to be a greater cause, suffering for the sake of others. A selfless act of sacrifice, which is amplified by the fact that it lasts One Year. Unus Annus. Regardless of why you must live through this, there is only one thing that you can ask of those that witness your suffering. Ask them that they don’t follow in your footsteps. Ask them to never attempt to re-enact this atrocity. Ask them to watch and learn from you. For you know what horrors this year holds. Horrors that develop and fester in new forms every single day, finding new ways to abuse you physically and mentally until you are exhausted in every way possible. It is only to hope the fatigue sets in near the end of this One Year. Unus Annus. So, are you prepared for this journey? Are you prepared to drag yourself through a year of pain? The answer is likely no, but it is too late. The mechanism has already been set in motion. Oh, and if you thought slacking was a possibility, that you could perhaps find ways to postpone this terror, it is not recommended. Clear goals have been set. If you achieve these goals in time? Good for you, the suffering will be made infinitesimally more bearable. But if you do not achieve them in time? It will only incur more suffering. So just put up with it until the end. What does the end bring you might wonder? Release. Freedom. All that encompassed this year of suffering will cease to exist, as if it never happened. The only evidence of your suffering is your own trauma. Will you persevere and reduce this ordeal to nothing but a faint memory? Or will you succumb under the overwhelming prospect of three hundred and sixty five cruel tasks? There is no need to answer this now, just remember Memento Mori. Unus Annus.


(WP) Burning Love The night after her fiancé broke off their engagement, Serena couldn’t help wondering where it had all gone wrong. They’d been happy, hadn’t they? At least she had thought they were. But she and Leon had been together since high school, and now, she was single. She should’ve known that he was letting her down gently: he’d even insisted on ordering wine and dessert. Serena hadn’t even realized he was breaking up with her until she’d spotted tears running down his cheeks, and he kept apologizing, over and over. That was Leon, polite and courteous even to the end. “I’m sorry, Serena. I just think that we’ve grown apart. I can’t even remember what my life was like before you. You understand, don’t you? I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” And what could she have said in reply? *No, I don’t understand, this is a mistake, please reconsider?* She’d just nodded numbly, accepting his hug outside of the eatery while her heart lay in pieces. “I love you, Serena,” He’d murmured, kissing her cheek. She’d taken off her ring, and tried to give it to him. But he’d refused, smiling sadly. “Why don’t you keep it? To remember me.” He’d walked away, and for a little bit, she just watched him retreat. Serena didn’t remember much after that; she called her best friend, Abby, and the other girl took her to a bonfire on the edge of town. Now, she stood in front of the flames, staring into them, the engagement ring cradled in her hands. In the firelight, the trio of pink diamonds tucked into the band glittered. Abby was drinking with some of their friends; Serena had requested that she be left alone for a while. “I’m sorry, Leon, that I wasn’t enough,” She whispered to the flames, holding the ring above the roaring inferno. “But I will love you forever, and I will never forget you.” She listened closely, hearing only the crackle of the fire. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but that was exactly what she received. \*\* *I have seen your heart, and I accept.* \*\* Serena could’ve sworn that she heard a deep, dry voice answer her from within the fire. Was she going crazy, a result of her heartbreak? She turned to it again, only to find that a man was standing within them, with bronzed skin and tattoos all over, in a language she couldn’t read. If she squinted, she could almost see them moving. “Don’t be sad, little human,” The man crooned, his violet eyes gleaming in the light. He held a hand out to her. “Your sadness summoned me to this realm. I’ve come to ease your heartache.” Serena stared at him, openly gawking. Was she losing her mind? “Who are you?” Serena whispered, and the man smiled, showing off two gorgeous, adorable dimples. “My name is Kaiden. What’s yours?” “I’m Serena,” She whispered, feeling her cheeks heat for an entirely different reason than the fire in front of her. “You’re so beautiful,” Kaiden whispered, paying no notice to the flames lapping and licking at his skin.


Burning Love: Chapter 2 Serena could not believe her luck. She’d lost a fiancé, and somehow, she’d summoned a man, whose skin could easily withstand scorching fire. If she were still a little girl, she would’ve thought that she was inside a fairy tale, come true. Kaiden stepped out of the fire, brushing ash off of his skin, and when he did, the flames seemed to die, turning from a roaring inferno to dim embers. Serena noticed, her skin flushing with heat, that he wore only a pair of plain black trousers, and the taut, tight planes of his chest were exposed. Despite the cool of the autumn night, he didn’t seem to notice. Serena looked around for Abby, not sure how she was going to explain the sudden appearance of a half-naked stranger to her best friend. Abby was clustered nearby with their friends, a red plastic cup in hand. By the looks of her flushed cheeks, she was at least tipsy. Serena had no idea how to get her attention, but she gave Kaiden a look. “Stay here, please. I need to go get my friend.” In reply, he smiled. “I’m not going anywhere, Serena.” He reassured her. Serena crept over to Abby and their friends, grabbing Abby’s forearm. “Abby, I… I don’t feel very well.” She lied quickly, widening her eyes so that Abby could understand the urgency of the situation. “Could you come with me, please?” Abby frowned, concerned, but she turned to the rest. “I’m going to check and see if Serena is okay. I’ll be back soon, guys.” Serena dragged her closer to Kaiden, frowning. She put her hand on Abby’s shoulders. “Before I tell you what’s actually going on, you have to promise that you’ll believe me, no matter how crazy it might sound.” Abby frowned at her friend, squinting. “How much have you had to drink, Serena? I know you’re sad over Leon, but you’re scaring me.” “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, Abs! Just listen!” Slowly, haltingly, Serena explained everything down to the last detail, no matter how small. Abby stared at her, her jaw hanging open. “Okay, so where is this magical mystery man?” Abby asked, looking around, and Serena couldn’t resist smiling, in spite of herself. Leave it to her friend to take that news without even blinking. “Come on,” Serena said, taking Abby’s hand and leading her to Kaiden, who was waiting patiently for her return. “Serena, you’re back! Is this the friend you told me about?” Kaiden asked, flashing Abby a friendly grin, eyes twinkling. “My name is Abby. What’s yours?” Abby replied, raising her brows at Serena, as if in agreement. “I’m Kaiden.” “How’d you end up here, Kaiden?” Abby asked, and Serena flushed, looking at her feet shyly. She felt exposed and vulnerable, even in front of Abby. “Well, it’s simple. Serena’s heartache summoned me to this plane. So, I answered it.” “But what *are* you, Kaiden? No offense.” “I am a fire elemental with the ability to shapeshift into a dragon.” Kaiden shrugged, smiling, a flush coming to his cheeks at their scrutiny. This time, Serena and Abby both gasped, as one.


It’s Thanksgiving. You arrive at your distant relatives’ house after a long, hard semester, give and receive hugs, and all that jazz. But something’s nagging at the back of your mind. You can’t quite recall what, but you remember that you get the exact same feeling every single year at this exact time. It’s probably just the fact that you haven’t seen your family in forever, so you shrug it off. The family gathers in a big circle, holds hands, and prays, thanking their preferred god for the meal they’re about to consume. All seems to go as you remember it going every year, but something still feels wrong. You go up to the kitchen table to construct your plate exactly how you like it, no deviations from the norm whatsoever. Then, you see it. Just off to the right of the Turkey, surrounded by platters of stuffing and homemade cranberry relish, there sits a glass bowl. Inside that glass bowl, there’s a thick, sinister white substance with yellow and orange chunks. You finally see why you’ve been feeling uneasy. You are staring directly at it. The Ambrosia. You immediately pretend to ignore it, picking up the things you like instead. As you make your way to table assigned to your generation, you hear a voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You turn around to see your mother, who has somehow materialized behind you within milliseconds. Wasn’t she talking with her brother about his latest misadventures? How did she get here? You play coy and show her your already completely full plate— Turkey, ham, Hawaiian Roll, green beans, olives, black beans and corn, all around a beautifully crafted mashed potato volcano. There should be nothing wrong with this. All the food groups are present, so what could her issue be? You get a sad feeling as you see her arm sweep in an almost planned-out manner, gesturing to the bowl of that vile, chunky white substance. “What about the Ambrosia?” she asks, feigning polite curiosity in order to hide her clear disapproval. Dammit, you think to yourself, Almost escaped. “But my plate’s already full,” you try to argue. “Aunt Sharon worked long and hard to make this!” she cuts back in, feigning insult. She’s trying to guilt trip you. You don’t stand a chance. There is no avoiding it. You start running through your options… Feign sickness? Not worth skipping dessert. Run outside and hitchhike home? But your cousins are all discussing that movie you have an interesting theory on. Tell your Mom the truth? But Aunt Sharon’s right within hearing range. Just say No Thanks? Hmmm “No Thanks,” You stammer, “not right now.” Phew. Crisis averted. You sit down at your generation’s table and gladly join in your cousins’ debate about that awesome new movie, pouring yourself a fancy champaign glass of sparkling cider. After a while of cheery conversation and feasting, you almost forget what you’ve been avoiding. Almost. Then you feel it. A looming presence standing directly behind you. You turn. “I imagine you guys are doing well,” your mother feigns a smile at you, holding a heaping mini plate of Ambrosia, “But there’s something you haven’t finished.” Oh no. Now’s your chance to run, but social obligations are chaining you to your seat. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. You sigh a little and take the plate, turning back to the table. You can still feel your mother’s eyes drilling into the back of your head, expectantly. Your cousins fall silent, eyeing the mini plate of muck, then you, and then your mother. Unsure what to do, your cousins give you looks of pity. Even Aunt Sharon’s daughter, Jenna, is very clearly mortified for your sake. Under duress, you sift your spoon through the gelatinous mass. Chunks of preserved pineapple and tangerine reveal themselves in the unholy mixture of marshmallow fluff and sour cream. Their stench is overpowering— sickly sweet as a siren song. I’ve had this before, you psych yourself up, I can choke down one bite and then throw the rest out. You take just a big enough spoonful of the Ambrosia to impress your mother and your Aunt, and slowly and deliberately bring it up to your mouth. Then you quickly swallow it just to get it over with. Immediately, you are overpowered with a surge of heaves as your stomach tries to defend itself from that cold, creamy, cloying concoction, but you manage to keep it down with a final gulp. In all of your years of trying Aunt Sharon’s Ambrosia, you have never experienced anything besides violent revulsion. Now, however, it seems that you are not only experiencing the revulsion that you are accustomed to, but also a sense of detachment. You are no longer yourself. You can still see yourself move and hear yourself speak, but you are no longer in control of your actions. Your view is largely blocked by a mysterious sigil painted in white and orange. You watch yourself rejoin the conversation, but find that your words seem to make less and less sense as the minutes pass. Soon you rise from your seat, speaking in an inhuman tongue. The white and orange sigils burn brighter and brighter in your eyes. As far as you can tell, no one else attending the gathering is acting like this is normal. In fact, they seem horrified. You take the carving knife and plunge it into your nearest relative’s—Cousin Jenna’s— chest, carving the sigil that your eyes are now nearly blinded by. Instead of blood, though, Ambrosia pours out. She starts speaking in sync with you. You proceed to do the same to everyone else who is too paralyzed with horrified intrigue to run away. More people join the speaking in tongues, and more people start stabbing each other with whatever they can. What have you done? What is happening? You frantically fight to regain control of yourself, and somehow, you eventually manage to do so. Knowing that you have little time left, you scream. “I’m sorry for everything,” you cry out, plunging the carving knife into your own chest, this time carving a cross. The sigils fade from your vision. As you slump backwards and your vision fades, your Aunt Sharon approaches you with a look of cold pity. “How pitiful,” she clicks her tongue, her irises flickering between white-orange and their usual dark brown, “You may have won this time, but I will return next Thanksgiving. You have only delayed me, child…” You know nothing else.


Just looking for critique on anything really . The story is by no means finished but I'm finding getting feedback rather difficult. Anything would be gratefull be it structure, naration, bloody grammar ..... anything would be welcome.   **Augur** We all have that little voice inside our heads. That running commentary, a play by play of what could be and what could have been. The constant drone that just keeps playing scene after scene, never ending, keeping you awake till the small hours of the morning. Getting up for work the next day after only 3 hours of sleep, feeling exhausted but that little bastard voice just starts right up again. Playing out how shit your day is going to be. How you are so tired you have no idea how you will manage to even get through this day never mind this week, this month, this year, this life…. The incessant replay of that time you were flirting with the girl you’ve been crushing on. Her joking, you laughing, then her silence. The look of shock and utter disgust on her face, some strange green slime totally covering her face and hair. You wondering where the hell this vile shit came from, only then to realise it was you. You laughed so hard trying to impress her, you blew your whole fucking nose worth of snot all over her. You now never leave the house without at least two packs of travel tissues. Forever blowing your nose, people have started calling you Rudolph behind your back. How about the upcoming work appraisal, imagining and reimagining every moment in your head. Telling your boss exactly how much you are undervalued. How you are such an important member of the team, and you are not receiving both the recognition, and the compensation of somebody so vital to the operation. Imagining every possible scenario in your head, creating every argument and counter argument. Seeing exactly how this scene will play out, your boss finally overcome by your reason, admits defeat and agrees to all your terms. You are victorious, supreme, and master of your destiny. While in reality you agree to more work and less pay, furthering your degradation. But every now and then that little voice inside your head gets it right, fills you with hope. That maybe this time things will change, things will be different. You might start living the life you always knew you were meant to live. That maybe you can make a difference, maybe you can *be* the difference. It was at the age of thirteen, lying in bed getting ready to go to sleep when my first vision of what was to come happened. The scene that kept replaying in my head was about my baby brother. He had just started walking, you know what they are like at that age; stumbling around like a drunk who’s been trying their hardest to forget the miserable existence that is the cycle of their waking lives, while they slowly kill themselves with booze. Up steady on their feet one minute, the next thing they are face planting the pavement. Except the pavement for my baby brother was a Boerboel, our guard dog. It stood 72cm high at its shoulders, 92Kgs of pure muscle with a bite force of 800psi it was an absolute monster of a dog. In slow motion time and again watching my baby brother falling face first into this beast of nature, hitting it square in the head. The dog, startling awake, lashing out in defence, biting my baby brother in the head. Red velvet streaks flying across the air, wails of excruciating pain come from what is left of my brother’s head and face. This felt so real, this was going to happen. Running to my mother in floods of tears telling her what my mind’s eye had conjured up, she soothed and hugged me, reassuring me that it was just a nightmare. “Everything is all ok. Look, there is your baby brother right there”. He was stumbling around the living room coffee table, and then in a flash it happened. The exact same scene played out, cut for cut just like it did in my head. It wasn’t the dog’s fault to be fair, it was trained to kill, that was its job, to protect the household. He was just frightened and did what comes naturally to all animals’ instinct of self-protection. That didn’t stop my father taking it out back and shooting it. My brother never fully recovered from the attack. His head permanently looking like a dented in ping pong ball. Brain damaged, paralysed down the right side of his body and missing his left eye. Later on that year a few days before Christmas it was visions of my younger cousin. Her cheeks started becoming mottled red with the capillaries turning a purplish-blue. Her nose transforming into a two tone Blueberry Vanilla ice lolly. Lips turning a blue black as the cyanosis took hold. Tears started to stream out of her bulging eyes. Mouth gagging open and closed but no sound came out. Her hands frantically tearing at her throat. Her father rushing to her side. Grabbing and leaning her over his leg. Pounding her on the back so hard I swore I could hear the vertebrae in her back cracking with every hit. Every year the family spent Christmas day at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s brother and sister would bring their families along, which added up to nine kids running around. It didn’t take long for an opportunity for me to try and warn my younger cousin of her impending doom. Needless to say she ran off crying to her mother screaming that she was going to die. It was during the fallout when it happened. She always had liked the taste of metallic things. Forever sucking on old coins, metal buttons, badges... This time it was a beer twist off cap. The doctor says the serrated edge embedded itself between the back of her throat and the epiglottis. The only way to save her would have been a tracheotomy. None of the family were medically trained and it took the paramedics twenty minutes to get there, so in reality there was no chance of saving her.


Got bored, wrote a thingy Alliterating Absurdity It’s dark here... I can see only about a few meters. Every direction is just pathed stone, uneven but easy to walk on. I’m unsure if I’m outside or inside, I see no stars or moon but I feel small gusts of wind randomly. I remember, easily actually, clearly walking into the nearby park to clear my head. My hood up and head downtrodden I never new how long I had been wandering, if long at all. ... It’s not cold anymore but not exactly comfortable enough to shed the light jacket that protects me from the anything in the dark. ... Walking in one direction with no point of reference is confusing, horrifying, ... simple? I knew the second I saw no sides to the path bleeding away into grass and found no stars, at least silently standing by as sentinels, that there was no possible way I was still wandering the small greenway. Hysteria, ... what I expected, ... never set in while wandering around in the paved murk. Just an amalgamation of feelings dominated by a confused curiosity. We all get to a point where we feel the prank can’t really go on any longer, but no suspicious person casually strolled by and pointed out the cameraman or the ... comfortable audience revealed behind some large fake wall, just the sounds of normal foot falls on smooth stones dominated the dark. I knew fear would escalate when the mind tricks started preying on the empty sensory input abundant in the area around me. I think I switch directions, I wander to my left from the path I perceived I was walking. Noises and shapes dancing and peaking from the perceived sphere of light my eyes can see, real or misplaced imagination, ... does it matter? It’s all unknown, the prank and the lost scenarios now discarded for a growing sense of insanity. My watch says it’s only been fifteen minutes in this place, it feels like more but I think the watch is a little more concrete then just human time keeping. I’m not insane and if I am ... then I hope someone finds me before I leave. The watch. I can hear the tick, a hand-me-down from my father, not a present or gift but just a watch, use or don’t he gave me his watch and replaced it with one exactly the same. Why not give me that one? Too late, don’t care. .... tick .... That click wasn’t from my watch, my shoes maybe? I stop, peer around and what the hell else did I expect to see, just dark and stones. I do the stereotypical drop to the floor and inspect it like some answer to the insane minds enigma. I find a fetal position after internally laughing at imitating insanity. The sound of sharp speedy steps stops my self solace. A person ... just outside of my periphery ponders poking into my stone polka dotted palace of self pity. I wait, wanting and wishing for the wisp to whisk me away from this wobbly world. The tick tock clock clicks and I’m back in the park. Street lamps bathe a nearby bench. And I go home to sleep swathed in my soft smooth shelter. English is my first language but I’m just shit at grammar and general English mojo / spelling. Came from my head but could be influenced by well known stories I forgot I read.


Gene-splicing and editing technology had virtually eliminated all human disease by 2089. Death was now a treatable disease. Misery was a memory. The vast majority of inhabitants of Earth enjoyed perfect health and lifespans well into the hundreds. Death was now voluntary and many, rather than dying, chose to venture out into the stars and seed the universe with Man. So plentiful had the food supply become that the food grown, cultivated, and harvested by *Farminators* could feed the entire globe, and was also being exported to offworld colonies to feed the legions who dwelled among the cosmos. Like the industrial revolution before it, the “Genetic revolution” transformed life. Birth rates and conception were carefully regulated to ensure that supply met demand. Infections were largely unknown. War was eradicated. Life was, in a word, perfect. Finally. Gone was the era of diabetes, cancer, and organ failure, replaced by long days of art and leisure and long nights of partying and debauchery. Addiction, illness, and trauma could be easily treated with the technology that had begun it all: **CRISPR**. CRISPR was short for *clusters of regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats* – a type of genetic material that made it possible to snip out erroneous and lethal bits of DNA and replace it with healthy, superior code. Animals, plants, even bacteria could now be revised and improved, all with the ease of editing a page of text. Everyone’s DNA bore the fingerprints of CRISPR’s touch – tucked among the base pairs of purines and pyrimidines was proprietary material with instructions, copyrights, and legal warnings. A utopian, eukaryotic EULA that everyone had signed and yet no one could read. It rapidly became the one thing that nations and governments could agree upon. A worldwide project for the betterment of humanity, the survival of the species and the spread of humans to the vast, cold reaches of the universe. There had always been opposition, although minuscule. Those known as “DNAturals” formed an aggressive movement to return humanity to what they considered the normal way of life and the natural order. Their numbers dwindled after the *Genetic Revolution Act* was voted into law in 2074 and mandatory CRISPR therapy became the rule of the land. Still, pockets were rumored to exist: Norwalk, Svalbard, Reykjavik – deeply embedded believers that operated clandestinely. There was talk of DNAturals hacking CRISPR wetware and implanting malicious code that would stop – some even said reverse – the headlong rush toward *homo superior*. As I say – rumor. Unvalidated. Until now. I’m a DNAtural, one of the few. I’m also a genetic engineer. I’ve worked secretly within the CRISPR project for years and edited millions - perhaps billions – of people. I am not alone in this effort; DNAturals are a small group, but we are composed of the last of the free-thinkers, perhaps the last bastion of people who see the truth in this supposed utopia. My meetings with the DNAtural leadership were handled entirely through messages written in DNA and RNA and left at dead drops. A cup of coffee at a café in Brussels contained the code to outline our next meeting. A used napkin tossed in a wastebin in Shanghai held the manifesto to be released to the world when the world was released from genetic tyranny. Coded and then decoded, plans within plans. We alone knew the truth: these superior beings were no longer humans. The utopia was a sham. I was able to bury my *own* proprietary code deep within the trademarks and NDAs that CRISPR wove into nearly everyone on the planet. So common was acceptance of CRISPR that my work was never questioned, my allegiance assumed. And so, I wrote. I wrote a living symphony of guanine, adenosine, cytosine, and thymine. With those four words, I could compose instructions to bring about the change that DNAturals sought; a return to evolution. Today will be judgment day. A reestablishment of sanity – after a brief period of insanity, of course. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Today will be the day the DNA encoded to nearly everyone on Earth by CRISPR begins the revolution. I stand in the middle of Times Square and watch as the fruits of my years of labor blossom and ripen. I watch as an iridescent, milky liquid – pure DNA – begins to ooze from the skin of everyone I see. They look like melting candles, dripping with pearlescent lines of code. And I know it is happening simultaneously all over the globe; Tiananmen Square running with pools of shimmering liquid, the canals of Venice streaming, teeming with coded lines of life. And in the cold depths of space. The evolution revolution has begun.


DRAFT, looking for feedback on character development and plot. Thanks! "Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 km/h zone. Between the two bumper stickers on my 2016 midnight black Toyota Sienna, there was a Canada flag and a glossy 5.11 Tactical sticker. The latter, I suspect, was subconsciously telling her I was one of them: on her side, a *good guy*. I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my passenger seat. "Medical and survival stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a cautious civilian," I said, "There's no reception up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rear-view as I thanked her with a plastered smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanour, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that quells any anxiety or worry. One where I can look a cop in the eyes and somehow transmit the message, “I’m safe, I’m harmless, I’m on your side.” I laugh to myself while knowing I talked my way out of it again. I keep a cool exterior. On the inside, though, I'm a nervous wreck. But I *am* a good guy - I got passing grades in university, where I majored in psych, I pay my taxes, and I make the greatest effort to always tell the truth. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drove the next 48 km in silence. One after another, the officer’s questions flashed through my memory as I scrutinized my answers for any grain of truth. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. It was true: through this town and the next ten to come. There’s no time to stop and linger when you’re about to leave a fresh trail of blood. I signalled and put my van back in drive. I pressed the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. “Where are you heading? Where are you coming from?" To both questions, I had given the same answer: “Vancouver.” It was mostly true. I’m doing a big circle route up Highway 99 and then back down through Highway 1, driving about ten hours with no real destination or plan. Just a return to where I started, with a little detour along the way. “Why are you doing that?” “Because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom.” Partially true. Gas is $1.75 per litre tonight, costing me nearly $130 to fill up my tank – that's not so cheap monetarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. “And why are you doing this at four o’clock in the morning?” “I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads.” That was true. “Who do you know up here?” She had asked. ”Nobody. Just passing through." Another truth: I don’t have a single friend in the world. I’m going to give myself a solid 100% for truth. I can rest easy tonight knowing I haven’t lied. “We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she had smiled sincerely. The scenario continued to replay. That was a close one. I can see her face in my mind’s eye so vividly it’s almost like she’s still here. I put a hard rock playlist on to drown out the flashbacks, blaring. The music does its job and soon I am pacified, soothed by the riffs and melodic, passionate singing. The flashbacks seem shorter and further apart. Why do I have two distinctive bumper stickers on my otherwise generic van, one might wonder. It’s an identifiable mark, and no one in my profession drives a snowflake ride. We all want to blend in. “He was so nice and normal, I never would have expected it!” is what the neighbours all end up saying. Mine is a test of reverse psychology. I don’t want to fit the stereotype profile. It’s like the unmarked cop cars who always try to blend in: you can spot them from a mile away. They are clean, modern cruisers in one of three makes with no markings, no trailer or roof rack, no Learner's decal, no business logo, no "baby on board" and sometimes they even have front police fenders. They don’t try hard enough to pass for an individual going about their daily life. That’s what I aspire to fit because truly nobody is a statistic. If I look too generic, I’ll stand out. So I try to pass instead for an upstanding, moral patriotic citizen. And in the back of my mind I’m constantly trying to convince myself it’s genuine. *Maybe she is still around though*, I cautioned myself. A simple reminder to drive according to the rules. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit; I don't care. Two could play at my game. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again. As the flashbacks fade, I’m left with a little more brain space to think about other things. Like my fears around getting caught. I’ve been at this hobby for two years now and the paranoia is starting to take a toll: looking over my shoulder when I exit the van. Listening to the news reports on the radio and wondering just how much they know, or when somebody will tip them off. Dash cams exist these days; it’s not like it was back when old man Willie was haunting the area. I’m not the only one to drive the streets. Overhearing the talk in small town cafes and bars. The anxiety floods me and at once mixes with the excitement and thrill of the hunt. I’m a wreck. My nerves are shot. I just want to claw out of my skin and become someone else. Someone with less ghosts, less haunted. I have too much internal tension to really enjoy what I do nowadays, but once you get started it can be hard to stop. I'm passing through Pemberton and it takes all of five minutes to slip beyond the village. Just beyond that are several rural residences, becoming fewer and further between. A road sign to my right warns, "Check your fuel. Next service 96 km." I have three quarters left in the tank. Check. Something else to my right: a figure. A thumb, beckoning. "Hey! Hey you!" I could sense the man’s desperation building as I drew nearer. "Stop! Pick me up!" Now waving. There shouldn't be anyone here on the outskirts of Pemberton. It's not a comfortable walking distance from town and there's nothing but trees and highway. Just then I saw the officer’s smile flash through my memory. “That’s fine, drive safe!” She had said. I shuddered recalling her oblivious sincerity and how easily I had talked my way around everything. I hate telling white lies because I’m a good person and no good person ever lies. My brain hurts. I pressed the gas hard and accelerated around the man, past him. I don't care for company. My thoughts keep me warm. I know this highway well and my favourite stretch occurs between here and the next village, Lillooet. There is no cell service. The roads twist and turn like rapids. No cars are to be seen for ages. I picked up speed and relaxed into my grey, reupholstered seat. Liberation. Even the most inhumane among us need to come up for fresh air every once in a while. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight blue to a pale, almost pastel blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to the north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. Why hadn’t I picked up that hitchhiker? I pondered. I had the perfect opportunity to strike and the savage blood thirst to match it. This wouldn’t be my first trip around the rodeo either: after two years I was not lacking in the experience department. I change my route every time but the method stays the same. Quick and easy, slice and dump, early morning in rural isolation. This had been a nice landscape too because the cliffs abound. Nobody would have noticed for days. Time and distance pass, as they tend to when one is lost in labile emotions and racing thought. The music is keeping pace and the winding road is having a soporific effect on me. I welcome it: anything to lull me to sleep. And I need sleep. Sleep is important because it helps one process the events of the previous day. Sleep is elusive because the past two years have been eventful. When the mind twists and turns vengeful plots like the mountain road, rest doesn't come easy. When a war between guilt and integrity burns inside you, your strained eyes stay wide open. And I *am* a good person, deep inside. We all are, according to Maslow and Skinner who founded the humanistic approach to psychology. I believe in that theory because if I couldn’t see my own redeeming silver linings I’d get even less sleep than the 45 minutes I usually do. If I wasn’t basically good, I wouldn’t be stricken by flashbacks of all the lies I’ve told. Maybe it was the fresh air that hit my senses at the right time. Maybe it was the image of her face burned into my retinas: the way she met my gaze and smiled. Soft. “We’re looking for sober drivers with valid licenses,” she had said. I hadn’t been smiled at in too many moons to remember. Human. Good. I stopped precisely three minutes before Lillooet town limits. I grabbed my molle style military backpack and ran like a madman for the nearest cliff, hurling it over the edge, overhand. It dropped like a rock into the waters below. The duct tape and assorted hunting knives plunging along with the first aid and survival gear, which I forgot to take out in my haste. Sudden lucidity after hours of wakefulness: this is the time when plans are abandoned. In the crisp air of the mountains, this is the place my where my clarity comes through. For the first time since owning my burner phone, I took a picture of something besides my latest prey. I took a simple picture of the sign at the Lillooet town limits: “Guaranteed Rugged,” it reads. I took a picture for my own records to say “I was here, just passing through.” And for tonight – just for tonight – it was true.


I've had this feeling for a while now. Like something is plainly wrong. No there’s no monster chasing after me, no stalker. It’s as something in my world is straight up missing. I wake up and see my room. All my stuff is there, but it’s accompanied by a strange void. You can’t see or hear it, but I can definitely sense it. There’s no better way to explain it than a pure lack of existence. At first it was a couple of seconds at the time, similar to spacing out. Like daydreaming without the dream part. I thought it was normal, I mean everyone gets lost in their thoughts sometimes, but then it began to happen more and more often. Maybe I should explain it a bit better. Although the void itself is always there these lost moments (as I started to call them) are what I would describe as getting sucked in it. I can feel everything, but I’m not really in control of myself. I don’t act crazy, of course, it just feels like someone else is pulling the strings. As if I’m a guest in my own life. As I said the first couple of times it was very short, maybe a minute at most. Lately it’s been a lot longer, a few hours and on rare occasions days. That’s when I became scared. I had no idea when the lost moment is going to hit or where I’ll be when it happens. I missed family dinners, meetings with friends, holiday celebrations, important business meetings and so on. But worst of all is the fact that I missed my son’s fourth birthday. That devastated me. His other mommy recently left us and it really took a toll on him. He’s only four, but sometimes it feels like a lot more than that. He cried so much during that time, so the birthday was a light at the end of the tunnel. I missed her too, of course, but I did my best to smile through it and organize a good birthday party. The day finally came, and just as guests started to gather, I felt the void slowly coming over me. I’m not even going to try to describe the helplessness I felt at that moment. I was gone for the whole day. No one noticed a thing. I doubt I would have done anything different if I was in control, but I can’t help than feel guilty. I wasn’t there for my son when he needed me the most. Since then it’s been happening every day. I don’t know how much I can take anymore. More and more of my life is passing by me and I can’t do anything about it. I didn’t try telling anyone, they’d think I went crazy after losing her. I tried to keep this as short as possible but if someone knows anything about my condition please help. I don’t want to be a viewer in my own life. Please.


Paul Greenberg was the nicest man that lived in Bushwick. No, honestly, he was. The type to possess that supernatural ability to stem the tide of personal disasters before the waves of misery could crash. Whether it took the form of a kind word, late-night phone call, or a surprise present, he lit the path of life with kindness for not only his friends but each soul that stopped long enough for Paul to flash a grin and share a laugh. That's why it was so confusing when you faced his bright, kind, sympathetic face when he printed out your parking ticket. The anger inside you would burn into your guts as it struggled to release itself. Instinctively, your mouth would clamp shut or stutter as some essential subconscious part of you understood there was no malice coming from the man before you. Even worse, you could see in his warm, amber eyes a generous love for each person. You'd accept the ticket with a resigned confusion. A shock that comes from meeting real-life angels. So his energy swept through the boroughs as he continued to hand out tickets, smiles, and small prayers for harmony. Some took it upon themselves to try and muster an angry response or stern word for Paul, but it fell away like autumn leaves as his eyes crinkled with understanding. Life had yet to conjure a wave of anger too fierce for Paul to quell. The day those sweet, amber eyes didn't accompany a ticket, the people revolted. Four different meter maids found themselves at the mercy of enraged motorists as a frenzy swept through the boroughs. The absence of Paul's light created monsters of mere mortals. They stalked the street in a vain attempt to locate their blue vested saint. The last light of goodness to flicker and die in the city that never sleeps. A frenzied chant of "Where's Paul" echoed through the boroughs as the citizens seek their unlikely savior. The status of Paul Greenberg still unknown; the city fell to the riots within two weeks. But his legacy burns through the streets. Soon, every act of kindness met the battle cry of "You're not Paul!" even that quickly reduced to a screech that spoke only of hate. Hate that's born out of loss. The world could only watch as chaos consumed the crown jewel of the United States. Eventually, even the Pope stepped in as he decreed Paul, a saint for his love. Only the crowds wanted more. Being a saint made Paul equal to other saints, and their Paul had no equal. He rose to a God, and with it brought the destruction of the church. The horde tolerated no false idols. No Jesus. not even God was safe from their fires.  "Let there be light; let there be Paul. Without his guidance, we shall fall. We shall fall. We. Shall. Fall."  And so they fell. Upon the land, the people, and the backbone of collective knowledge. Humanity was undone- by the Sinners of Paul.


“This is absurd!” cried Emma. “I agree, you should’ve been put down by now,” said the replacement. The replacement had shown up unexpectedly, a sharp knock at the door, then they were sitting in Emma’s living room, drinking coffee and watching each other. The room itself was neither especially modern nor particularly Spartan; it consisted of fading blue paint, a worn-out sofa, and a bookcase full of old books. The replacement, in contrast to the room, looked fresh and original and exactly how Emma had looked some 20 years ago when she had painted the walls, bought the sofa, and read the then new books. “There must be a mistake, they always send out notice beforehand, my friend Tully was given two weeks before he was replaced. I’ll go and talk to the supervisor in the morning,” said Emma. “I’m afraid not. Since the people who would handle the practicalities of your transition haven’t visited you yet, I’ll do it now and save then them the time later,” said the replacement. “No! I have to go in. I wasn’t given any notice,” said Emma. “I’m sorry that you weren’t notified but in accordance with the protocol, protocol that you signed up for remember, when you aren’t able to continue with your work you are replaced, by me a clone of you,” said the replacement, then trying to take a more friendly tone, “But hey, I didn’t think that you’d be alive and here now so this is a surprise for me too.” “This isn’t fair!” said Emma, standing up and pacing around the room. “Come on, I think you’re getting quite hung up on this notice thing. Really, when I type this up for my report whoever reads it is sure to die of boredom, let’s move on to more interesting things,” said the replacement. “Oh whatever then,” said Emma, opening the box where she had hidden her cigarettes and selecting an unopened pack, fumbling with the wrapping as she sat back down. “What’s that you’ve got there?” asked the replacement, jumping up and quickly walking over to where Emma was sitting. “A packet of cigarettes. Want one?” said Emma, looking up at the replacement. “Cigarettes and all tobacco products are illegal! How did you get those?” the replacement said snatching the pack from Emma and sitting back down. “Hey! Give those back you bastard!” yelled Emma. “No. I’ll hand them in to the supervisor tomorrow when I bring your corpse back,” said the replacement. “Fuck you then,” said Emma curling up into a ball. A minute passed where neither Emma nor the replacement said anything. A moth was flickering against a window pane and the replacement was looking at it. “I can still remember it. It was 13 years ago but I can still remember it,” said Emma softly, still quite ball like on the couch. “Remember what?” said the replacement, in a bored tone still staring at the moth. “I know that you don’t care about me but I have something to say. People have regrets, I don’t have that many, I haven’t really lived that much but I do have some. I suppose that it’s a cliché to be talking about it now but I don’t care I want to,” said Emma. “Go on then,” said the replacement, still bored watching as the moth gave up, and stopped struggling against the window pane. “When I was finishing University I had a friend, Kayla, and I was in love with her, just a bit. Strangely enough she felt the same way about me too,” said Emma. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” said the replacement, interrupting her and leaning forward, “Because that sort of thing is looked down on now by most experienced people. I know it was a matter of course for you degenerates back then, but still.” “Shut the fuck up and let me finish!” said Emma, then after a pause she continued this time uninterrupted, “I don’t recall how it happened but she found out that I had feelings for her, maybe one of her friends figured it out, it’s not important. She got me to come and meet her at one of the University parks, it was nice. After talking a while we both confessed that we liked each other, rest assured it was very angst-ridden and teenagery. Then I, fuckwit I am, said no to going out with her when she asked me to dinner, as there was only a few weeks left on my degree after witch I’d be transferred here… I didn’t even try to kiss her.” “That, well that’s something,” said the replacement nodding several times then making a face, “I’ll be sure to tell the supervisor and get that trait removed, it wouldn’t do for me to be acting like that.” “Your loss.” said Emma, “What time is it anyway? I could go for something to eat.” “No, no more of this! I’ve had quite enough of this charade I’ve tried humouring it but I’m not going to play about any longer,” said the replacement. “Now? Prisoners get a last meal, don’t I deserve one?” Emma said jumping to her feet and looking around the room. “No. I condemn you to death by drowning,” the replacement said also standing up, “There must be a kitchen sink here, take me to it! Unless, maybe you’d prefer to go out in a bath tub, more time to contemplate your *friend*?” “Uh… I mean if we’re being pragmatic the kitchen sink would probably be quicker, at least I wouldn’t have to spend as much time listening to you,” said Emma. “Lead the way then.” Emma led the way into the kitchen on shaking legs followed by the replacement, the kitchen was a small yellowish room that stunk of week old garbage and stale Chinese food. Emma watched as the replacement put the plug in the sink and turned the tap on. “Last words?” asked the replacement. “I can’t think of anything to say right now… I don’t know try to enjoy yourself in the future maybe?” said Emma faintly staring at the ever increasing progress of the water as it filled up the sink. “I suppose that there are worse last words,” the replacement muttered, turning the taps off and gesturing for Emma to get into position. Emma lowered her head into the water with the hands of the replacement firmly pressing down on the back of her neck. After a few minutes wait the replacement pulled the body out of the sink and sat it down on the floor. “That whore, I got water on me,” said the replacement, wiping her sleeve on a dish cloth and lighting a cigarette.


The tip of the syringe plummets into my skin, a sharp pinch clenching where the needle hits, I bring my thumb down on the plunger, forcing the chemicals into my body. Suddenly all the pain goes away, and my body is reduced to numbness, I feel outside of myself, a simple spirit being whisked away by the soft breeze flowing through my open window. It's beautiful. Uplifting, I don't know how I could live without it. Some may call this an addiction. Sure, I've lost friends to this, but they just don't understand how great it makes me feel. The chemicals spinning inside my bloodstream, lifting me out of all the pain from this world. They don't understand... Three years ago, depression and suicide was the world's biggest problem-And seller-Outnumbering all causes of death by a mile. years ago, when the average rate of suicide was a mere one every forty seconds, it climbed to one every twenty worldwide. Using this knowledge, corporate companies specialising in drugs skyrocketed as the demand of stronger antidepressants were increasing by the millions, so the companies decided to take a more illegal route, and started creating drugs that were less about reversing depression and more about distracting the users of the substance from it briefly. But each time you lost your high, you hit an extremely bad low, causing you to give into the drug another time, therefore creating addiction, and boosting the sales by the millions. The drug is called uplift, and is a hallucinogen, it takes you 'out of your body', and into a world of your own making, of course it was against the law though, so in a knee-jerk reaction, the UN condoned it as an illegal substance, and production of the drug was ceased. However, it found a way and is now the most used drug in all of history, there have been countless side effects listed, and still countless to be found. This is why my body is lying in a dry bathtub, my clothes soaked in sweat, and my sprit drifting off into another world. One of the effects that uplift has is to make you hallucinate an entirely different world than that of yours. It blurs the lines between imagination and fiction, creating the person of your dreams per se, or taking you to a place of your own creation. Right now, as I gaze upon my passed out body, I feel the hairs on my neck stand up, I glance behind me to see an open field of corn, crows squawk in the distance, circling a lone scarecrow, its tattered coat rising in the soft breeze. I slowly walk up to the scarecrow, stealing a quick glance behind me, only to see my bathroom replaced with an infinite abyss of corn fields. I've had many experiences with this drug, probably more than I should have, but this is unlike anything I've ever had, it feels so real. I cautiously walk up to the scarecrow, the sockets in its face stare into my very being, making me shiver. beside the mess of straw and rags is a small coffee table with a knife on top. its blade beckons me, mocks me, its shiny surface tempting me. my hand reaches for the hilt of the knife, it's hilt, cold under my skin. It's so real. I weigh the knife in my hand and look at it longingly, suddenly the blade takes control of my hand, and slowly edges itself until the tip of the knife lightly stops at the torso of the scarecrow. The urge becomes too great for me to handle. I bring the knife back beside my face. I know this isn't real, but something feels so wrong. Before I could give it a second thought, my eye catches that of the scarecrow's, it speaks to me, do it. I drive the knife into it's torso, suddenly a sharp pain shoots through my side, my hands try to grasp the pain, but they do not move, the scarecrow speaks to me again. More. I twist the knife inside its stomach, retrieving a feeling of twisting pain deep inside my own stomach in return. It hurts so bad. But I can't stop. I need more. I slide the knife out of the ragged beast, and am rewarded with a sight of blood gleaming from the silver blade. A grin spreads across my face. Again and again and again I drive the knife into it's stomach, ignoring the constant pain erupting all throughout mine, specks of blood fly all around me, I catch some in my mouth, the metallic taste fuelling my bloodlust evermore. I hurl the knife into its stomach again, and am rewarded with yet another stab of pain, I let out a cry as I finally fall to my knees. I continue smiling through the pain. The voice echoes through my mind again. Finish it. I look up to the scarecrow's chest, and feel the pulsing of its heart as if it's my own. "Yes" I say, a sudden wave of twisted joy washing through my entire being. I rise the knife to its chest and let out a final scream, plummeting it into the soft skin of the scarecrow's rags. Suddenly the world goes blank. The last thing I see is my limp body on the kitchen floor, soaked in blood with my hands clamped around the knife implanted in my chest, the grin still printed on my face.


It was dark, pitch black. Where am I? Where was I last? I died. Am I still dead? A light so dim, yet so blindingly bright to me appeared in a vertical line. The line grew wider and wider, all until the stone slab above my coffin was completely removed. I removed it, I lifted it, without even willing it. And my body continued to move until it was outside of the crypt. It was night, but there was a full moon. And a little girl in front of me. She clutched a black book to her chest as if it were the last thing she had left in this world. I've heard stories of this, I imagined the possibility, but I never thought it would happen to me. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She choked the words out. "Please, save my papa!" I looked around. That seemed to be permitted. In the distance, there was a raging fire. It engulfed a village. My body willed itself to move in that direction. It started as a walk, and then it became a full on sprint. My armor and sword were still on me. They clanged as I ran. It felt somewhat nostalgic, charging into battle. But this time was different. There was no fear, no excitement. I would not die. I was already dead. In the village center, a man was tied to a pillar, below him was a pile of branches and twigs. Surrounding the man was a retinue of five knights dressed in identical white tabards with the symbol of the order, a dragon. These bastards again. One of them was about to set the man on fire when another saw me. "What have we here?" he declared. The others turned around, to me. "I knew it! I bloody knew it! A necromancer!" He wasn't wrong. But this is going too far, to kill so many for the one. I tried to speak but I could not. My body moved itself, closer to the man on the pillar. "Step back, foul abomination!" They blocked my path and aimed their swords at me. I'm going to enjoy this. I stepped forward once more. They then spread out and surrounded me. A common but effective tactic. The first to swing was the crier. It was a long drawn out motion. It was easy to intercept and swat away. His sword flew out of his hand and onto the ground behind him. As he stood dumbfounded, with his arm still held up from his initial attempt to attack, I charged forward and slamming the flat end of my blade into his chest. He flew backwards and fell to the ground. Fighting with swords and armor was tricky business. Swords were slashing weapons, likely only to bounce or break off of the steel plates of armor. What I need is a mace. Four left. I was constantly darting my head left and right, watching for who would make the next move. One shouted to their fallen comrade, "Oi, get up, Ornstein!" Ornstein was writhing on the ground with an arm held up against his chest. "Damn it!" There was a tinge of fear and frustration in his voice, as if he was unable to accept what had just transpired, as if he never could have imagined it in his wildest dreams. It was a restless, defiant shout. He charged at me in a fury with his sword held back, ready to swing. But before he could, I stepped forward and slashed at his held up wrist. "Aughhhh!" He dropped his sword, knelt down, and clutched his wrist with his good hand. It was by no means possible to cut his hand off through the armor, but he wouldn't be able to use it for at least a week. Seeing their dwindling numbers, the rest lost all control and attacked. Their motions were stiff and their stances were nonexistent. These men were either new recruits or wildly inept. The battle was tedious. No one was going to die because of the protection our armor offered. It was just a beating. I would simply keep on hitting them with the flat end of my blade. And on the rare occasion when they would hit me, I wouldn't feel it at all. I mean, I could feel that something hit me, but no pain registered. The last one still conscious begged, "I give, I give! Please, don't kill me!" I knocked him out. I had no intention of killing them once I realized how little fight they actually had in them. But what happens if I leave them alive? What are the chances they come after the girl? Would they know her father had a daughter? They were able to find the father somehow. Can I take the chance? Systematically, I removed the helmets of each knight and slit their throats. Someone stood in the corner of my vision. I turned my head. It was the girl. How long has she been there? She looked at all the dead men, horror mixed with panic in her eyes. Then at the man tied to the pillar, her father, with eyes of relief, of joy. Intent on releasing him, her father, she threw her book aside, rushed past the dead, and started undoing his ropes. Once free, he began to fall. He could not stand. His daughter dutifully rushed underneath to catch him. But before she could attempt to bear the weight, my body rushed over and caught him . I could not tell if that action was voluntary or not. He lay resting, his back against the very bonfire that was meant to kill him. He still breathed, but was unconscious. There were bruises and cuts all over his body. Blood streaked down him from head to toe. "Papa, wake up!" she implored while clutching his hand with both of hers. I wanted to tell her that he needs his rest, that she should leave him be, but I could not. His eyes opened slowly. His voice was coarse and quiet. "Maggie, is that you?" The space between the words were long, as if it took all his might to utter a single syllable. She tightened her grip, inched closer to his face, and said excitedly, "Yes, it's me, Papa!" He looked at me. "My god, you've done it. Where I always failed." He looked back at her. "You need to run, get out of here. They'll come for you." She said with pure intention and nothing else, "What about you?" "My sweet girl, I cannot come with you. My journey ends here. Travel east from here, in the direction of the graveyard, follow that road until you meet an inn. There should still be some money in the hut. If it's still on fire send in your friend. If it's done burning then still send him in, it could collapse at any second. If there's no money there then search those knights. I know death is scary. I know that. But it's not the end." He took one last, long breath. "I'll always be with you." And like that, he lost all of his strength, his hand slipping from his daughter's grasp, his neck falling to his side, and his eyes, closed. I couldn't see her eyes, as I stood beside her, vigil. But her head did not move. I don't think she could process what just happened. "Wake up, Papa! Wake up! Please, please wake up!" She gripped onto his shirt with both her hands, buried her head in his chest, and began to cry and wail, endlessly. "No, please, please, please. Don't leave..." I could do nothing but watch. It was hours before she would leave that spot. In the end, she returned to her home. It was burned to a crisp, the walls and ceiling did collapse. I doubt there was anything left. She had me search anyway, though. I found a jar filled with mostly copper coins, and some silver. When we returned to the town center, she just stood there, motionless, as if she was unsure of what to do next. Perhaps she wanted to bury her father, give him a proper rest, but she also wanted to respect and heed his last words. Perhaps she was debating whether she should pilfer from those knights of the order. On one end it was sacrilegious to steal from the dead, but on the other, they practically killed her father. She turned her head to me, tilted it upward until her eyes reached mine, and said, "loot them." I had no qualms with it. It was only natural to use whatever you could, as weapons and shields were liable to bend and break during the heat of battle. And Some men would always compare and gloat over who had obtained the greatest treasure afterward. Ah, those were the days. We couldn't carry any of their weapons or armor, so all that happened was the money jar got a little, no, a lot fuller. And then we did as her father instructed, we traveled on the east road. She continued to clutch the black book against her chest. And I held the jar. As we passed my crypt, she stopped. Then she entered it and left with a helmet in her hand. She raised it up, at me. I took and equipped it. It would be best if people didn't know I was what I was. After a while of walking, she started to slow down. I wanted to tell her I could carry her, but I could not. After another hour or so of walking, she collapsed. She was still breathing. Must have just been tired. It must have been a long night for her. I knelt down, scooped her up, cradled her in my arms, and continued to walk. That seemed to be permitted. She still held that book against her chest. It was the last thing she had left in this world.


# (FINISHED) # # How can I help you? I am lost. I can't tell if I'm in a desert, or a forest, or even an urban environment. # Do you know how you got there? No. I woke up blind and with strange sounds and smells around me. # What kind of sounds and smells? Loud sounds, yet quiet at the same time. Ugly smells, yet ones that I could grow to like. # What else can you sense? I think I feel hard ground beneath me, the kind of hard that gives way over time and can become soft. # Are you sitting or standing? I am sitting on the hard ground. I trust it will become more comfortable. # Is there anything else you can touch? I think there are large objects around me, warm to the touch yet harder than the ground beneath me. I think I shall stand, see if the large objects are bigger than I. # What did you find? They are not as large as I thought; half the height of a man. They are very warm. They are all around me. # How is the air? I can breathe fairly well, the air is cool but the ugly smells already seeming less ugly make the air seem warm. It is thick, the air. I can feel it. # Have you sorted out the sounds? They are growing louder yet quieter as I stand. They are like no sounds I have ever heard. High-pitched, with a low undertone that makes it seem the whole sound is meant to be low. Nothing alive could make such a sound, I am certain. # Can you move? I am able to move. # Could you move in a forward direction? I am trying to get past the large objects that surround me on all sides. I am trying to step over them, and they seem to be much wider than they are tall. # Are they flat on top? They are mostly round on top, but flat enough that I can walk across. # Can you make your way over them? I am attempting to cross on the tops. The warmth is heating me and the smell and sounds seem to be coming from the objects. It is difficult to walk across without seeing my path. # Is the object continuous? As of yet, it is, like a platform. I find I can appreciate the smell more now. It is easier to breathe. # Does this worry you? Not in the least. My fears are fading with the cool air made warmer with each step I take. # Is the smell toxic? I’m not dead, am I? # Does it seem like a drug? If drugs make the air around you a mixture of temperatures that clash without mixing, a symphony of contradictory noises, and a plethora of smell that is unpleasant yet you long to smell it. If this is a drug, I am most likely far from home. # Can you tell anything else about your surroundings? Not at the moment. I am still blind. How I’m not sure. I cannot reach my arms to my head. # Are your arms broken? No, just held to my sides as if by magnets. # Do you have any other impairments? My neck aches and I cannot feel my ears, but that is all. # Is there any pain? No, and I can hear fine. Other than my neck, I am growing quite comfortable. # Are you still moving? No, I have sat down for a rest. The objects are warm and no longer hard. I shall sleep for a while and perhaps wake in safety once more. # NO! DO NOT FALL ASLEEP! Why not? Don’t you wish you could rest those weary eyes? It’s warm and soft here. I’d like to stay. Who needs vision when you can have this symphony, this aroma…? # STAY AWAKE! You were supposed to help me. They told me you would help. Let me sleep. It’s all I need now. That’s how you can help me. # Who told you we would help you? They did. Voices. Before I woke up. I had this device in my hand and your number on the screen. I was told you would help. Now let me sleep. # Ask them where you are. Ask whom? # The voices. Whomever. They only answer in dreams. Let me sleep, and I’ll tell you. # Use caution. Sweet dreams. # Are you there? # Are you still there? # Hello?  I am here. # What happened? I know not what you speak of. # Why didn’t you answer right away? I am governed no longer by time; cease your complaints. # What are you talking about? Something marvelous has occurred, and I am free. # Did you fall asleep? For one thousand years, then I was woken and all hindrances were gone. # Do you have your sight back? I need not mere sight from physical eyes, no, but I know now where I am. # So you don’t need my help anymore? No, but I have enjoyed conversing with you. Would you like to know where I am? # Where are you? I am deep in the quantum realm and the Quantum governors gave me a deep quantum communicator to get in touch with you. They said you would help me, at first. I no longer need your help, of course, since I am now one with quantum energy and am far superior to anyone, anywhere, and anything I have ever been or done. # Really? No! I’m in my backyard! Psyche! Now you can hang up, helpline. You guys need more practice. Bye now. \~LINE DISCONECTS\~ What dumbos. You can get anyone to believe anything nowadays. ☻║-▌¢Ñ¿┘⌂æ¿┬ën↓$↓♫2û┴b∟Ω£δ╖≈≈¬↑ What was that? It sounded like...now that I think about it, a high-pitched sound that has a low undertone that makes it seem like the whole sound is supposed to be low-pitched… **HELLO, CHILD**. Who is that? **EVERYTHING IS NOW ABOUT TO COME TRUE**. What? What “everything”? **YOU WILL SEE**. **BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY, CHILD**. **WE DO NOT TAKE THINGS LIGHTLY IN QUANTUM SPACE**. What? No, it was all a joke...I didn’t mean anything by it! **NOTHING IS A JOKE IF ONLY ONE PERSON FINDS IT FUNNY**. **COME**. No! Aaah! Help! Someone! \~STATIC\~ ...Where am I? What is this? Why aren’t my eyes working? Hang on, maybe my phone works… # Hello, this is West End Helpline #46. How can I help you? Am I ever glad to hear your voice.


Log #1 It's been a week since the bombs fell and knocked out all life around. Well, almost all life. Me and a few others survived the initial blast. There was a prediction there was going to be an all out war. The U.S. had to get in a tight predicament with Russia. Honestly, I was expecting it. But with North Korea, not Russia. I think everyone was expecting it. I wish I could've done something more to keep my family safe. I wish I knew what was going on up there. I wish I could see the sun. Oh yeah, I should probably tell you what's going on. In short, the U.S. got Into an all out war with Russia due to tension with resources. And, a few nukes were dropped from and onto both sides. Unfortunately for me, I was in one of the few places that suffered. How am I alive? Well, everyone knew something was going to happen. And I happened to have an in with someone with a bunker. One of my childhood friends was in a good place in life. He had a stable grasp in a financial way. A few months ago I messaged him about what was happening with the countries and the tension between them. He said he had a place that was safe. He said in worst case scenario, I was welcome. The first bomb dropped about a week ago. Ever heard on Los Angeles? Now it was just a place of death and destruction. The only normal thing that came out of it was the wildfire. Then the U.S. threw two back. Then Russia threw more. Then the U.S. threw even more. It was now that I decided to message my friend. Hey there, would you mind if I came and camped out for awhile? I asked No, not at all. You know where to find me. Feel free to bring some canned goods. He responded. I grabbed as many things of canned fruits, vegetables, and a mini pie too. I grabbed a sleeping bag, my laptop, phone, and their chargers too. As I was leaving, I realized I almost forgot my ferret. I just got him the other day, don't blame me. The reason all of this was so urgent was because I live so close to a few big towns in Ohio. I was speeding down the highway not an hour later, and that was when I got a feeling. A feeling I've never gotten before. I've felt unsafe before. But this was weird. I felt… Death It was a feeling I've never felt like before. Maybe the universe was warning me. I pulled on an exit not a mile away from my destination. I pulled into his driveway. I felt it before I saw it. Everything shook. Then I saw it. The brightest light I've ever seen was in front of me. I got out when I reached his house, and immediately knocked on his door. He came from the other side of the house and asked me if I had anything of value in the car with me. I ran and opened my trunk. The first thing I grabbed was my ferret and his food. Then I stacked up on canned goods. He did too and ran out into a field. I followed and he stopped. I stopped. He opened the latch and told me to drop everything and get in. I dropped everything but my ferret. into the hatch and started down the ladder. He followed. I reached the bottom and saw him start down the ladder. I remembered something. I'm such an idiot. When he made it down I started up. He yelled at me and I said I'd be one minute. I ran to my car and grabbed the generator I had. When I looked back I saw another one. A second ball of light. I ran back as fast as I could. I opened the door and dropped the generator onto a mattress my friend had laid there. I took one last look at the apocalypse scenario around me when I closed the hatch and started down. I hoped I would see the sun again soon.