"I've Got a Plan." Olivia said to herself and then turned to look out the window from her seat on the train.

On the train, she had many childhood memories of trying to make the first pitch of a Pinnacle City Wolves baseball game in Den stadium. The thrill of trying to get there was the most memorable part. It was good she didn't take her car through the highway and tolls because she wanted to enjoy traveling on one to get a warm feeling of nostalgia. This nostalgia brought a smile to her face but had nothing to do with her plan.

She took trains to New York City. She brought tickets to musicals and then stayed at a hotel with a spa. She would dream of being with her ex-girlfriend Mercedes as they celebrate their accomplishments.

In those dreams, Mercedes would make fun of how Olivia would wear her Wrestling championship title and nothing else in the spa.

Olivia's Latina ex, in her dreams, was basking in the afterglow of becoming a triple crown winner in her rookie year and Most Valuable Player in the World Series.

The sex was intense, and somehow, they got in the scissors position. They screamed in orgasms so loud, but because it was in a dream, no one heard them. It was just a dream.

Her ex-girlfriend is on Olivia's favorite baseball team and will be in the stadium where she spent her childhood watching games.

Olivia went on social media and told everyone on her social media about the broken heart she had from the breakup.

She wanted to hurt Mercedes.

On the video social media post, Olivia admitted to having a one-night stand with Mercedes's teammate, Solomon King, but it was a lie.

She's gay, and he's involved but didn't mind playing along.

Mercedes broke it off because of Olivia's blood Bond she made with her high school best friend Lexis.

A Blood Bond is sacred because there's a connection to Lexis's emotions and thoughts. Her ghost hangs around until Olivia dies, so they go to the afterlife together.

Mercedes was tired of feeling like she was in a polygamous relationship.

The baseball community is angry at Olivia. They blame her for the reported conflict between Solomon and Mercedes during spring training. One week ago, the Baseball team owner and wrestling promotion CEO, Princess Victoria Godspeed, stepped in to speak to Olivia and Lillith in her office. Lillith wore top designer clothes because she expected to get the news about going over Olivia at the wrestling event, "Honor Thy Ring."

"Do you want her to go over after what she's done to your team?" Lillith said, and Olivia responded to that insult with a middle finger.

"You're still losing the match!" Victoria raises her voice and growl to made it clear to Lillith that the young Werewolf decision is final.

" I need you to get out of town for a while and lay low. I want the Wolves to be the center of attention. You will have your time at Honor Thy Ring when you win the title. Social media blackout. Do you understand Livvie?" Victoria calmly asks

 "I'm not going to sell!" Lillith yells

 "That would breach your contract, and Wolves take that personally. We're brutal about it" Victoria's threatening tone made Lillith mad that she won't be getting her way and more terrified.  "I'll leave tonight by train." Olivia told them.

"I've got a Plan." Olivia said to herself as she got off the train. She went to the parking garage to get her car and was happy it was in one piece. The outfit she changed to on the train shows skin between her shorts and Boots. Above Olivia's waist was a custom jersey with her ex-named. She hopes to run into her at a Graveyard.

She brought an expensive bouquet and went to the cemetery.

"This could go so wrong." Olivia said

"Yep." a voice comes from the passenger seat, and Lexis is there.

"I love those boots." Lexis said

"You could enter my body later and feel how warm they are from the inside." Olivia said.

"Cool. Are we waiting for Mercedes to visit her mom?" Lexis asks, and Olivia's silence spoke volumes.  	"Do you think she's over you "fucking a man?" Lexis asks.

"I was upset, and Solomon went along with the lie." Olivia told her.

"This could be a mess, but I'm here for you." Lexis said.

"You have no choice but thank you." Olivia said.

The blonde got out of the car with the flowers and began to walk the path into the graveyard. It's not too long before the blonde gets to the headstone of Maria Valenuza, Mercedes's mother.

She grew up with the family, but nothing romantic started in high school. Mercedes was in the minor league making superhuman catches, stealing bases, and driving in runs.

Olivia was the most popular babyface in the wrestling promotion. She stood in front of the grave and put down the flowers.

"Hey, Madam V. How are you? I hope it's wonderful wherever you are." Olivia put down the flowers on the grave.

"Have you been keeping up with everything? I screw up. Your daughter broke up with me, and I made it worse by overreacting. I miss Mercedes in my life, and I wish you could be there to see her opening day." Olivia knew that Mercedre's mother had kill herself.

"I almost killed myself in the spa, and If it wasn't for the dream I had. It was so vivid Mercedres and me celebrating our accomplishments. Life is worth living. Thank you for assistance that Lexis got from you." she confessed and didn't hear Mercedres standing behind her.

"I'm going to beat your older daughter, and spoiler alert, I'm going to hit her hard. After the hell she put Mecedes through growing up and constantly being toxic. She's leaving that ring bloodied." Olivia told Mercedes's mother.

"I don't think mom will care about the stiff shots." Mercedes said to her ex-girlfriend. Mercedes walked up to her, and they would face to face. Despite the awkwardness of this moment, they couldn't help to share comfort as they wrapped their arms around each other.

Mercedes inhales the perfume that Olivia is wearing.

"Are you sniffing me?" Olivia asks. Mercedes misses her so much but can't come off as too eager. She's pissed at the friction her ex has created. "I love the perfume." The Latina was honest in her answer but sad that she wasn't familiar with the scent. She's used to know what Olivia would spray around her neck.

"The new Rose fragrance from uncaged." Olivia said.

"That makes sense. Uncaged works with no-kill shelters to get cats and dogs adopted." Mercedes said.

"It's my favorite now." Olivia said.

"Not the jasmine." Mercedes was wandering. "It was dethroned for obvious reasons." Olivia said those words to show Mercedes how she was trying to move on. The Ballplayer would be convinced if she hadn't heard about her ex almost committing suicide.

"You could smell me again." Olivia jokes. The plan was working.


There it was. The edge. I could smell the fresh salty misty air and if I inhaled through my mouth I let myself believe I could taste it too. I should jump and get it over with while I still have the nerve. Into the deep pool of water below me, that was Lake Rhine. The area we're in is mostly secluded and hidden, you would only know it if you were told what you were looking at...or if you accidentally found it like I did. There's almost always a mist rainbow over the water making the water itself look multi-colored. Today the weather is perfect to jump. The sky is blue and the water is cool. I came here today with my boyfriend, Lukas. He watches me carefully wondering if I will chicken out again, but at the same time, he is extremely supportive. While I work up the nerve to jump I debate which parts will be the scariest to endure. The moment before you hit the water is the worst part and yet the best. I'm a smooth diver I guess, the lead swimmer on my team at school. I've never done anything like this, though. Never would have before if Lukas hadn't opened up my mind to adventures. It's the anticipation of the cold, fresh water compared to the breezy and warm summer air that I think I will like. Lukas looks at me reassuringly and takes my hand. It's the first time I've taken him to my favorite spot in all of my hometown, Rhine and he doesn't even seem fazed by the height of the cliff we're going to jump off of. It's the first time I've been able to actually jump too. Because of him. Everything I am today is because he makes me so much better of a person. I smile back at him and count down. Three. Two. One. I smile and we jump in unison. He screams on the way down with excitement and complete joy. I scream in terror. As soon as we jumped I thought of everything that could go wrong. Nothing did go wrong though, at all. Going down and feeling the wind grasp at my hair and roll across my skin felt like I was swimming through air. The feeling faded too soon, and before I knew it we were at the water. Neither of us held our breath when we hit the water with a huge splash, still holding hands. So we end up surfacing and choking up water looking like quite the pair. When we finally stop coughing and look at each other...he splashes me with water. This starts a flurry of flashing hands and diving underwater to escape the water being pushed at us. Eventually, we stop playing and just look at each other. We burst out laughing. He stops laughing a few seconds after I did but the beautiful smile he has that bares his top row of teeth and hides the bottom row doesn't fade in the slightest and it makes my heart flutter uncontrollably. He kisses me on the forehead lightly and I blush. We twine our hands together, his practically enveloping mine. "Again?" We spend the rest of the afternoon jumping twice more, each time more magical than the last one. I wonder if it is time for me to finally tell him I love him. It's been six months since we started dating and I feel more for him than I have anyone else in my entire life. He awakened a part of me that wants to see the world and do new things. An adventurous part of me. We set up the blanket and food and watch the sunset as we eat. Well, he watches the sunset and I look at him nervously debating what the best way to tell him how I feel is. I look at his blonde hair and my gaze works its way down, brown eyebrows, green eyes, roman nose, and then to his lips wondering if they'll say the words back when I confess to him those three big words. "Lukas," I start, but he looks at me with a strange look on his face that I instantly like. This expression of seriousness, anxiety, and affection. My voice fails me when he looks at me and beats me to the words I was going to say. "I love you, and I don't care if it's too soon to say it. I really, really love you and you mean the world to me," he says. My heart sputters and practically dies at those words. I remember to kickstart it when I take too long to respond and he looks down feeling embarrassed. I reach over and cup his chin with my palm. "And you're my universe, I love you too," I say back to him. His gaze floods with meaning and I love it. I want to freeze this moment and look into that expression forever. Unfortunately, I can't, so I settle on snuggling up close to him, and then we both look to the sky. All of the sudden a shooting star passes and we both snap our eyes shut and make a wish. I wish for infinity with you. I think to myself. He opens his eyes and I realize I must have said the words out loud. I look away and pretend I didn't say anything until he looks at me. "That was my wish, too," he says. 10 years later, here we are sitting with our beautiful daughter Rhine. She's turning three today, and next month is our five-year anniversary. To this day Lukas still gives me the same look when I walk into a room, and I still have to kickstart my heart when he does. Infinity we said, and infinity we are getting. I will never regret taking the leap of faith with him at the Rhine Lake, and I thank the universe for that shooting star every night when Lukas kisses me goodnight.


Charlie Wordsborough woke up to a buzzing sound that cut through his Venetian blinds. Stretching his fists in the air, he looked through the window pane only for his eyes to land on the neighbors’ kids throwing big lumps of snow at their dad’s car. It was the irritating alarm the car ever made.            “Not again,” he mumbled. Jumping from the luxury of his sapphire velvet bed sheets, Christmas was all the way up the air, right from Ms. Jenny’s dazzling Christmas tree on her shade across the road to the wheezing snowflakes that rested on the edges of his beard as he spied from his window shaft. Still gazing at the snow, the lonely man groomed his beard. I think I can use this holiday to earn some extra cash, what are holidays without Beth . Charlie put his hand to a pencil portrait and in slow short paces of breath, he regretted. As he picked up the smiling picture of Elizabeth Langston, his reflection from the glass frame talked back to him.  “ You shouldn’t have left her alone.” Today was marking twelve months when Beth, her little niece and the remnant of her family disappeared in the backyard that late summer evening. As a man in his donkey years, he sipped on his cup of coffee after a few timely twenty minutes of cleaning up and straight he headed for the front door. The morning blizzard with lots of love had wielded a quarter tone of snow in front of his door that it would take half an hour for a thin tall and skinny man like him to remove the snow worth double his weight. He stared at his watch in haste and turning the eyes back to his coffee mug, he placed it on the padded burst of his fireplace. Sliding the mahogany drawer just adjacent to the royal blue couch, Charlie flung out five olden keys dusty and heavy that must have seen several fortnights in the dark terror beneath the lowly wood. He in a hurry folded them beneath his hands heading for the back door. Intact for twelve months, he approached at a faster pace as his blood raced faster pouring the memories of the teenage Beth back into the thinking cap.It was the door she slide through and never returned ever again. “The guilt would soon cease to come, just forget all about the night.” the words of his therapist ran down his spine as he drove out to work but still he shivered as his hands sweated for the horrors of a missing niece had just been brought to life. For the first time, he heard the echo of his footsteps clutching on the white tiles as he raced his silk trousers across the hall. “You are welcome.” the bio-metric machine sang as his index finger struck its pad and with a glitter of the red light that flushed, Charlie found himself smiling instantly as he fixed his glove back to his sleek fingers.            “I must admit you look stunning today.” said Charlie to the elegant lady occupying the reception desk.            “Stop it Charlie," Mable giggled beneath her charming smile. “Any big news today,” he inquired.            “Tom just signed a memo of employees who would want to earn some extra dime, she punched a bunch of papers. “They will meet him at 6:00 pm in the second board room.” she swirled around in her chair. “This is fantastic,” Charlie marched to the Christmas tree that shone and tickled all the brilliant luxury out of his mind. “What plans do you have for the holiday,” he asked advancing back to her desk. “The good thing is that am not spending it with my family, she paused. “You know restraining orders.” “Come on, stop messing with me.” he leaned forward, arms resting on the glass edges of the table amid the busy morning of employees arriving and the disturbing noise of the bio-metric. “ You are welcome.” He paused looking into her big blue eyes that opened like a rose in the winter frost. “So what's your bottom line.” she asked shying away from the charming look he had to offer.            “We will see about that, first I have some work to document nice day Darling.” He moved majestically whipping off the snowflakes at his scarf nearly hearing them drop on the floor that held the hollow corridor in place.  Flinging the door behind his basement office, he rested his briefcase on the marble table, no doubt the pharmaceutical company was worth working for and his career as a pharmaceutical researcher was evident on the cash he always checked out. As he opened his laptop, his eyes caught a wonder through the glass walls; it was for the fifth time that his curiosity and suspicion grew for the ‘Level 4 Clearance’ staff in this facility. “This must be a hell worth of a project.” he thought, regarding all four of his seniors, men of grey hair except for Tom Harding whom a week before had celebrated his thirty fifth birthday. They all swiped their clearance cards across the laser detector on the wall and one by one moved into a room whose contents remained anonymous to all employees forgiving the old rich men who frequented the research facility on a quarterly basis for God knows what other motive apart from spilling the research facility with grant money. Everyone at the workplace had his face glued at the computer, if not, they were exchanging ideas in board rooms and almost all the fellows in the laboratory were having their grips tight at test tubes, looking for new drug molecules to put on market. As he moved his eyes to the Culturing center, all his colleagues even Sam, the renowned laissez faire was already having his eyes down the microscope lenses giving a meaning to the microbiology sector. Charlie decided to take his time, cross checking study by study to compile a valid report of the new drug he was working on that could put an end to depression after their groundbreaking discovery. As the clock ticked smoothly, Charlie had spent twelve hours of proper documentation which tempted him to reach for some ice and his favorite Irish whiskey bottle from which he poured the red flaming liquid down the walls of his champagne glass. With one shot, he flung the glass as Ice cubes crushed on each other sending an awakening to the soul and mind. His eyes were flickered by the aluminum wall clock, then slowly he focused at the ticking time piece, 7:30 pm it was. Charlie quickly grasped his briefcase and headed for the reception using the only stairs that accessed this underground facility. Quick he tried to open the door, with more energy he pushed his body against it as the door pushed back yet it didn't yet it didn’t even move an inch. Startled by the fear of being left alone on the cold winter blizzard howling, Charlie headed for the coffee machine in his office to warm up the night as he looked for his phone to beneath the layers of his attire. As his legs carried him off, his eyes distracted him off to a blue patch of paper lying on the floor just a few feet from the secret room as he had named it. “Well well well,” he muttered as his curious persona bent down and picked up the most prized piece each employee admired to own. The Level 4 Clearance card. On a closer look it read, 'Tom Blackgold CEO SUPERCEUTICALS'. Amid all the cold and weird quietness that filled the station, he moved to the secret room as he had named it. Not a thought of confidentiality struck his mind, but a thirst for knowledge led Charlie to stop and swipe the card at the laser reader. The door slowly opened tempting him to slide his thin muscles into the new world where his eyes were greeted by a clear map stuck on the back of the door as he swung it closed. His eyes met the part labeled cryogenic chambers; his eyes struck with terror and doubt, Charlie moved beholding the recent state of the art equipment that his eyes had never seen. The latest transmission electron microscopes, the latest ultra centrifuges, and not forgetting the good looking friability testers his hands felt as he moved along the Disneyland of the company. " If this is a hub of technological laboratory equipment, why keep it in a top security hideout," his mind continued to do the math’s. His smile reflected from the marble floor as the map guided his steps far away from the entrance beholding all manner of tidy technological wonders until he reached a steel case seven feet tall and four feet wide with a spinning wheel twice the size of his hands.  He didn't bother himself of what was inside and with no thought he turned the frigid wheel to the right as the six inches of body thick opened to a humor of cold air. He stepped into another room full of cryogenic chambers that his eyes couldn’t number but behold in amazement. Confident in quest he went further and closer to one of the cryogenic chamber, clearing the mist off the glass chamber. Through the glass stared back the same very eyes that he sure was they belonged to a human being freezing to death. The air around him grew colder and denser, dropping the map and shuttering its binders on the floor, he flung back, screaming as a seal pup startled by a polar bear and in slow breaths he whimpered in the cold room full of lights beaming a flavor of demonic illusions to the poor soul. With his muscles shaking and his teeth drumming, Charlie moved into another chamber and when he rubbed the mist off the glass, a young face of little girl looked back; this time with a smile aligned with stiff cheeks and flaked teeth. He cleared his sight advancing back to the chamber as his stomach drowned into dyspepsia, she smiled more clearly from the chamber and the entire face pattern revealed a lost loved one whose smile he cherished and knew well enough, Beth. Elizabeth Langston. His eyes opened wider as his breath became sequential that his heart pounded as if the Vikings were drumming in the twilight moon. Down to the middle of the cryogenic chamber was a note stacked and in blue words, Times New Roman font it read. Elizabeth Langston Adenochrome P25A. His hands then reached into the chest pocket of his jacket and out went a phone. Struggling to remain on his feet; he wiped with his glove the tears that his eyes were shedding on his phone screen. Charlie glanced his camera, taking video and pictures of each of the four chambers he managed to film before he threw up on one of the microscopes. As the cold shook the terror out of him, he headed for the main door, with a handful of evidence to the unlicensed wizardry going on under his nose for God knows how many years. Forty three of innocent children and some former employees had found haven in the bliss of ice unwillingly. He burst out in a loud tone of cursing as he face called Tom the man he looked up to in his work career for integrity and success. “I know everything about the room," Charlie held Tom’s clearance card to his phone camera as his jawbone dropped wide open struggling with replies. “Oops, welcome to the club.” he muttered.


A suitable starting point to my story might lie in an explanation as to how 'keeping up the pace' and metaphorically running a race, took shape for me. Nearly twenty years ago while in my twenties, I successfully kept ahead; I was fit (in all senses of the word), popular, reached degree status, claimed total financial independence and the world sat, as I'd wanted it to, invitingly at my feet. I was content with my place. Although, after some years of grandeur, an irritating thought whizzed about in my mind, like a trapped fly: worrying that time would, one day, no longer be my friend - it would soon turn its back on me and behave as if it had never known me. It would accuse me of taking it too much for granted, not paying enough attention to its ticking hands. By the dawn of my early thirties, everyone my age had hooked up. Married with a baby or at the very least married. They 'belonged' and more noticeable to me, they had children. Did this mean I had begun to slip back in my metaphorical running crowd ( which consisted of all those females in my age bracket)? In my own mind, if there existed a hint of self doubt to any question of mine, the answer always had to be yes. So, yes, I had inadvertently given in to a more complacent pace and was falling behind. The consequence of this acknowledgement (I am certain) summoned Roman. He stood almost 6ft ( in shoes) which I'd decided I would overlook. Slightly thin on top too, for a twenty - eight year old, but for the sake of showing time courtesy, I chose to pretend it wouldn't matter. Unluckily, Roman had no house of his own, was renting a box -room and his car was so knackered that the shine had lifted from its paintwork. It reminded me of a pair of old, scuffed shoes I still kept from my childhood. Truthfully , I was quietly embarrassed to be seen in it. And, despite my friends' negative opinions about my new lover and his lack of suitable status, I carried on regardless.  So when he admitted his debt along with a side - serving of understandable explanations, I still decided to keep the news a secret, despite my personal forgiveness for his past mistakes . Please also consider that no matter what, this man had to be my solution as time was about to turn. 'You won't ever need to worry about being alone, Shannon,' Roman pledged, stroking my ponytail softly. 'I want you and we can have an amazing future.' I took another sip from my glass of cheap, sour wine. I looked into his dark green eyes and enjoyed their glint. ' How do you know that? We've only had three dates.' 'Yeah and I want more. I always want more with you.' 'Promise it's not just sex. Promise me. Just don't make promises you won't keep,' I sighed heavily, aching for certainty. Roman leaned towards the low table we sat next to and set his almost empty beer glass close to my wine. Returning his convincing gaze, he gently moved my chin towards him and pressed his mouth earnestly against mine. A glorious electric sizzle whipped through my thighs. ' I promise. Look - I have an idea! Finish your wine... ' I'd never known a man who offered me so many guarantees so soon . It thrilled me, leaving me half - believing he was indeed, 'The One,' forgetting that I'd stopped striving for that idiotic ideal a long time ago. His idea was for us to head immediately to the tattoo shop to have identical tattoos needled into our lower backs. After all, it was the most concrete assurance he could offer with immediate effect. Yet again, I kept this out of sight from all others, for fear of being ridiculed or accused of recklessness. Within weeks, we were already engaged and Roman had moved in; I was basking in the warmth of his consistent presence. I felt proud of my progress- I had begun to set a good, solid pace once again and the runners ahead of me didn't appear quite so far out of reach. 'It's too quick!' my grandmother ranted. 'Act in haste and repent at leisure,' she kept repeating. 'I know what I'm doing. I love him and I won't lose him!' I insisted, unhappy that she hated him with immediate effect. 'You've only met him twice. How can you know?' She had but months left to live as she'd developed terminal lung cancer, which had recently spread to her poor brain. 'Well I don't bloody trust him. He 's after the money Shannon- why can't you see that? He knows what will happen once I die!' She continued with tears in her eyes. 'It's not like that. Anyway I need him now more than ever... I'm pregnant.' The defeated , frail, little lady fell back into her sofa chair and sat, aghast, for what to me, felt like hours rather than minutes. She hardly ever cried, but this time as her tears fell, I had to tell myself it was the tumour invading her brain and her personality with it. It was only weeks old. The foetus. I hadn't planned on telling her about the baby, as Roman and I had agreed to keep the news to ourselves until three months was up. But I wanted her to know; I wanted her to be happy for me. If only just a little happy. It wasn't to be. She died too soon- during an unusually warm September, clasping hold of her thorough disappointment in me and I am sure this went along with her tiny body into the earth - I had failed in my lifelong ambition to make her happy and proud. Yet, I ignored the new ball of pain now setting hard in my heart, because I knew that with just a few more short sprints, I'd be level with the front - runners. House prices began dropping after her burial though; as if I'd suddenly been cursed by her. Her home was my inheritance dwindling away; thousands gone in weeks. Eventually, we decided to take the plunge and buy Seven Oak Dene. A perfect solution it seemed. It also paved the way for me to pay off Roman's debt, which would in turn help us to pay the monthly mortgage. His suggestion made absolute sense. So by November that year, I had indeed miraculously boosted ahead to first place: doting fiancé, baby, house, career. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Roman and I were also fortunate to have had the most perfect time during my pregnancy: I even began enthusiastically transforming gran's old home into a new home for the three of us. To add to this, we couldn't wait for the arrival of our first bouncing baby. But I ought to have known better than to have forced nature's hand... Following thirty crushing hours of labour, Tristan was brought into our world eventually, through an emergency C - Section. At once, Roman seemed to fit the mould of responsible, proud dad. And at the start, I seemed to be perfect for the responsible role of dutiful, wholly fulfilled mother. When I say ‘the start’ I refer to the first few weeks.. Until the day I collapsed in our kitchen, holding a boiling kettle in one hand - of all things, and one of gran’s delicate China cups in the other. Six months of sleepless torture for the both of us since the birth, might have taken its toll on me at last, but I knew it was more than simple exhaustion. Something wasn't right; it seemed as though nothing was completely real anymore since the labour: like looking at everything through frosted glass. All my senses had become muted and in truth, I felt very little. Except for one overriding emotion - fear. The doctors predicted Multiple Sclerosis as lesions were found on the MRI of my brain. I had weakness in one side and suddenly, terrifyingly I couldn't sleep. Upon drifting off, an electrical current, a flash that I could actually see behind my eyelids, would spark like a lightning bolt, jolting me almost straight off the bed. To my private horror, after two gruelling weeks in hospital,it turned out not to be MS and my bloods revealed very little. I was a mystery and mysteries had to be dismissed - they would cost the health service way too much time and money. I was a problem they couldn't solve, taking up the space of a valuable hospital bed for someone who was fixable. Back at home I could do very little; fatigue floored me like a train hurtling towards me at full speed. Family were hauled in by Roman and were provided a rota to help him care for woeful Tristan. So I lay there in our bedroom, day after lonely day upstairs; my ears burning from the helpful relatives' naïve opinions floating up the staircase like phantoms coming to haunt and taunt me. 'She's just tired,' Amanda proposed. 'It's a difficult thing to adjust to after all.' 'Yeah but Roman's finding it bloody hard too and he's not got the luxury of lying up there in bed,' Roman's father would say. 'Well let's just see. Give it time,' his wife sang, laughing it all off, underscoring the whole situation as temporary . The guilt I experienced sliced through me over and over, because I couldn't do what was needed for both Roman and Tristan. Humiliation also hung about my sick - room like a stench I couldn't rid. Panic threw my rational thoughts into a blender, as I often expected to die. My headaches and weakness worsened to a point where my body shook with any effort: even teetering to the toilet and back became hard. My position in the run had been turned on its head by nature herself . Keeping up ( to be shoulder to shoulder with the fittest) would no more be the goal. That was going to be impossible, I conceded. Oh no. Instead, it had turned into a deadly, uphill run to keep pace with even the slowest runner of the group. So, with this firmly in mind, I removed the covers from my heavy, unsteady body and pulled on my gown. I headed gingerly downstairs, holding on tightly to the banister as I descended to be with tearful Tristan who wailed ceaselessly, as if he were crying for me. ' ‘Oh my god, you're finally up!' Roman cried, with a look of uncensored scorn ruining his kind face, as he noticed me wander through the lounge doorway. 'Yes I am,' I smiled as I awkwardly knelt in front of him and howling Tristan and began tidying the sea of scattered toys. 'All better now then!' he remarked above the din, in a spiteful tone that squeezed my sad heart. 'Yes, all better now,' I affirmed, watching my hands shake as I placed the last of the toys in the box. In this desperate scenario, sensing Roman already resented me, I begrudgingly recalled my grandmother's warning, 'Act in haste and repent at leisure.' Just a short while ago she had sat down in the vacant chair which now loomed in front of me, wagging her finger with those remonstrations that had seemed so very ridiculous. And when Roman revealed a few months later that he was leaving me for someone else, her warnings resounded so loudly in my painful brain, and I did not know how I would continue this nauseating , nightmarish marathon with no one there to help me keep up. She would have helped, yet she was gone. So would my mother, but she had gone too. Long ago. But I knew if I stopped, I would be out of the race altogether and worse still, Tristan would too and his dear little life had hardly begun. So I chose to look ahead, holding Tristan tightly despite his heaviness, and kept going. I just kept going. Fourteen years later, I am still looking ahead. I still have Tristan to protect and guide and love; therefore I am still taking part , albeit lagging somewhere towards the middle or back of the crowd. The floor beneath me is still something cruel like sand. Or mud at times. My fear of dying has all but gone, but my heart stopping fear of failure and falling behind remains. I continue to run from the ground that now collapses behind me as my disease devours me little by little; it remains a mystery. Never mind: I just keep going. There is no choice. No option to stop. Or I will be swallowed whole. Written by Eleanor Winstanley


Doing My Best - Ramblings From A Conflicted Mind “Did anyone ever tell you, you have a hyperactive sense of responsibility?” - Probably not an exact qoute, but one of my favorites from the Jesse Stone movies. It struck me.

I don’t want to be a mind reader. In fact, I try very hard not to be, but -

It’s all my fault. This is all my fault. Everything is all my fault. At least, that’s how I felt about everything and anything that ever happened. It’s not like anyone ran around, pointing fingers and saying, ”It’s all your fault!” I just knew.

I shouldn’t have been such a good girl. I shouldn’t have always been so quiet. I shouldn’t have told the truth. I shouldn’t have wanted things. I never should have listened. I never really did want to be a mountain climber, anyway. I never did like baked beans, or chicken on the grill cooked with gasoline … That’s why everything is my fault. Not because I didn’t like baked beans, but because I believed everything you told me. It’s always been my fault. Everything will always be my fault - I’ve grown comfortably in that role - and now I always have an opinion to go along with my self-flogging. The audacity is usually unwelcome, but I want to discuss more than the rain. Why do you take it so personally? This wise woman constantly reassures the naive’ little girl that it wasn’t her fault; that she did the right thing, but those feelings of responsibility remain forever crushing. A hug and words of wisdom are never quite enough anymore. It’s too late for that. The soul is soothed only for a moment by me. In my childhood logic, the only reason I could imagine no one ever hugged me, that little girl, and told me it wasn’t my fault is because it was my fault. It was all my fault. It still is. It’s my fault that the family fell apart. It’s my fault that my parents grieve parents. And I grieve Grandparents who never really existed. It’s my fault the dog died. It’s my fault I’ve been exiled - I carry too many opinions. And truths. Apparently, I talk too much. I’m too much of a lot. So go ahead, pile it on - the blame with which you don’t want to burden yourself. I’ll take it. I’ve learned how to carry it well. Silently, with no tears, because I’m tough. Don’t worry, you’ll never see my bruises or scars anymore. It is not my intent to see you uncomfortable. I’ll keep my opinions and truths with me, away from you. I will never blame you.

It’s my fault my dreams remain distant; my nightmares chronic. It’s my fault I think too much. It’s my fault Hallmark movies make me cry. Why do Hallmark movies make me cry? Maybe because was born under the Birth Sign Aquarius and the stars were aligned for craving the ideal. My attempts to burst your delusional bubble of safety were, of course, unwelcome. I refuse to live there, though, because history has proven it’s not safe for me. I guess that’s my fault for making you feel insecure. I didn’t mean to do that.

Don’t worry. These words are as close as you’ll get to unraveling this mysterious mind. And it’s your choice to read them. Or not. It’s always been your choice. It’s my fault you didn’t love me deeply as I started to grow from “silent, smiley good girl” into “independent, mature woman.” My opinions and truths made(make) me unlovable to those who are only comfortable within silent smiles. Twisted words, tone and inaction told me so. Patterns tell me so now. Because of my silence, more were hurt, that was my fault. Because of my declaration, many were hurt. That was my fault, too. The results were unpredictable and unexpected. I should have known better. In the aftermath, I have developed self-reliance. That’s also my fault. I know it’s not your fault - you only coped, still cope - the best way you knew how. It’s my fault for not drowning in your damage, no matter how many times your silent waves tried to crash me into the surf. (Maybe that’s why I’m apprehensive of the water.) It’s my fault I can’t swim. I know you tried to make me learn one summer for a week, but it was cold. The thought of splashing in the water was not inviting. I still hate splashing water. And butterflies. Although, I love butterflies, I can’t stand it when they touch me.

I do love animals, though. Animals are much more reliable than people. And honest. I limited myself with the belief that I wasn’t smart enough, or wealthy enough. That’s my fault.

It’s my fault for coping the way I do, with expression through words, with beverage, with opinions and truths, with the need to do what’s right - according to me, not you. Doing what’s right it not often easy. Or convenient. It’s my fault you no longer see my smile. You also won’t see my tears. It’s my fault you don’t find me funny anymore (I’m still funny) …  Or maybe some of that is your fault. Or no one’s fault. Maybe it was the bloodletting. I know this rambling sounds confused. I’m sure it’s obscure to readers. This is just my way of trying to make sense of the thoughts in my head vs the actions of my world. This chaotic mind is my fault, too. Sometimes, I lose my way. That’s my fault. I have always found my way back. That’s my fault, too. No one is helping me. I fall down on my own. I rise on my own. I often wonder what would happen if I could just do what I’m told. You know - let it go, hide it, forget about it, never speak of it, let it all carry on down the line. Would I then be blameless? Don’t worry - you can sleep well in the knowledge it’s all my fault.


                              SEASONS of CHANGE   I visited my grandparents on an autumn day. My grandparents had a neighbor and friend by the name of Elsie Whitaker. From the time I met her, she always made me feel that what I thought and did was important. One weekend I spent on my grandparents farm she stopped by to see if they would like some golden delicious apples she was going to pick a bushel for herself. I offered to help pick apples to bring back for them. I was twelve years old and this was my first time picking apples so I tried to listen intently to Miss Elsie's instructions. “Now, no picking any apples still on the tree". and “Only pick up apples from off the ground “. Other directions were not to choose to pick apples that had begun to rot, or too badly bruised. Miss Elsie told me as we loaded our two bushels of golden delicious apples that we would bring them in at my grandparents to wash them, cut out any dark spots, and ready the apples for baking and putting away for future use in the freezer.   Being an only child, I enjoyed spending time with my first cousins and grandparents. Chores appointed to us were not taxing or strenuous. Chores were more interesting tasks, science projects, or simply learning experiences. One chore was to gather eggs while we left one egg in the nest for the hen to set on. I would watch amazed as my grandmother would put her hand underneath the hen to retrieve the eggs. My method of gathering eggs was to wait until the hen left to scratch out the chicken feed from the barnyard. If you have a rooster in your barnyard, and you let the hens set on the eggs then in the appointed time you will have fluffy chicks. If you only keep hens in your hen house then you will have a steady supply of eggs for breakfast and cooking meals.    Another chore was helping my grandfather to break beans from their garden. My grandmother would hand us a basket of beans and we held one pan on our laps and a paring knife in our hands. The other larger community pan we dropped our green beans into. This was only when we had pulled the strings off the beans, used the knife to gently remove the brown spots on the beans, then break the beans. We finished our task by washing the green beans in the larger pan. We cleaned up by throwing away the strings from of the beans. The beans string began at the top going to the bottom. Sometimes we removed the outside covering shelling out the tiny pods. Hence, the name of one type of bean called shelly bean. Once finished with this chore, my grandmother would take over canning the beans in the canner or pressure cooker. This canning method would provide food through the long winter months ahead.   Watering plants in the garden or flowers around the walkway was a pleasant chore. The garden consisted of tall corn, beans growing attached to wooden poles, potatoes, tomatoes, green and hot peppers, cabbage, carrots, lettuce and onions. It was a good experience to just go out to the garden to select what you would like during the growing season. Flowers of my grandmother’s choosing were marigolds, petunias, and hanging baskets of geraniums. There were also beautiful red and yellow rose bushes. There were special occasions when we would pick flowers to place in a vase. Sharing your heart with your grandmother is a beautiful treasure. I told her I would rather have flowers growing outside than cut left to wither and die too soon. Many years later, I would have a husband that would plant rose bushes in my yard, filling the air with a sweet fragrance.

   Whenever my Uncle Dan brought cattle from one field to another me, along with my cousins would walk behind the cows urging them to the adjoining pasture field. We spoke to them and guided them with a tobacco stick. The cows would hurry on as we startled them with our constant presence during the move. I once watched from a distance from the barn as my uncle and a veterinarian tried to aid a cow in giving birth to her calf. It was bloody, and excruciating for the cow as she delivered her 140 lbs. calf for they took scales and weighed the young animal. For my naïve eyes there was a wonder in the new life I saw come into the world. My grandmother was gifted with a brown and white milk cow and she showed me how to milk a cow and then let me try. Firmly yet gently, I squeezed the tears and in a few moments that seemed to last forever, milk came forth making a zinging sound into the bucket. The cow turned her head and looked at me, knowing my young inexperienced hands were different from the gentle though calloused hand of my grandmother. My grandfather and uncle kept beef cattle: herefords, red with white faces and legs and tails and angus: stocky, and solid black in color.    Stories told me by my grandfather of his boyhood days. His interests were fishing, hunting, working a farm yield its potential and as an adult politics. He was a deacon in the Presbyterian church, and when in poor health, fellow members would bring food in times of family sickness. Other times a visit included tapes for a cassette player so that he might listen to messages. He always was interested in what I was thinking. We had long talks about current happenings. He told me I was at home in his home, a two story white farmhouse. He asked me to say grace and ask a blessing on this family. In part, it went like this; “God Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and us to Your service". Amen. He showed respect to a young girl that was shy and unsure of herself.

   Tender-hearted, loving and kind my grandmother taught me patience and understanding with people or animals. She patiently changed dressings on the heel of my grandfather’s right foot. The doctor told her she had prolonged the use of that leg, which eventually had to be amputated. In earlier years, my grandparents allowed my Uncle Dan and Aunt Jane a place to live while they were building a new house. When my parents divorced after I graduated high school, my Dad the black sheep in the family drank all night, winding up passed out in the front yard by the pine tree. She was barely 5 feet tall and persistent. She tried to lift her son up onto a wooden chair and get him into the house before everyone in the community knew what happened. My other uncle, Uncle Tom was loudly opinionated and argued with my grandfather about his belief system. Bitter words spewed from my uncle’s mouth about politics and religion. My grandfather then, totally blind and his right leg amputated, motioned for me to draw closer and whispered to me, “ You know what I have always believed, know that I still do".    My grandmother taught Sunday school, which was her only social outlet. Elsie Whitaker purchased a Toni perm and would style her hair on occasion which was a highlight in her life. At times my mother or her two other daughter in laws would offer to take her grocery shopping. She seemed to like this, we could never be absolutely sure. She never liked to be away from her husband for very long. From a grocery trip she would sneak in candies or chocolate and hid this. It was her only selfish act I was ever aware of. Her favorite time was on Sundays dinner meal, she prepared everything and our mothers did the dishes after a long talk around the table.    In the world, I felt safe and at peace. She would tuck me into bed even up to the time I was expecting my first child, kissing me on the forehead. Covered by quilts, she had made with her own two hands I would sleep sound until daylight. Through the night I would hear the clock chiming on the hour if sleep did not come. Many years later, I held her hand in mine as her frail, fragile body drew close to a time of permanent rest. Her soul would be free. What a difference a day makes. One person can uplift and inspire our lives with simple kindness.


Sheesh, I have literally posted three stories in one day! How crazy is that! For all who are still here, I give you, the next of Rune's adventures! Shoutout to Antman (Katelyn) for being so awesome and sticking by to read this series! ____________ Rune fell onto his backside, in shock. His face was blank, his breath tiny plumes. Goosebumps were raised on his bare arms. After only a few seconds, he trembled with cold. Tiny white flakes drifted from the sky. Rune’s ears twitched as they collected the white flakes. He didn’t move. Only breathed, his mind completely empty. He had no thoughts. Slowly, he sunk onto his back, cold seeping through his thin shirt. His deep purple eyes closed and his breath rushed out. Only one word now loomed through his mind. Why? Rune seemed to collapse further, as if he could collapse while already being down so low. Far up and far away, Artemis and Colden watched Rune as he gave up. In their minds, two words. Get up. Get up . They were rooting for him. They needed him to come to his senses, to fight. To see a reason to rise. Rune lay still among the tall, frozen grass. He thought of everyone who was out to get him, to have him locked up or killed. Admiral Gallas wanted him mind controlled, unaware of his own body, acting out someone else’s will. Artemis wanted him to overthrow his own people, thinking only for humans. All other humans hated him. Sarsh hated him now, too. What was the point in fighting, in living, if there was no one to love, and no one to love him ? But then, Rune remembered something else. His siblings. Tycho’s wide smile and loving character, Sharn’s quiet and thoughtful nature, Amarillius’s motherly, caring heart. They loved him, yet he had given them no love. They stayed with him, though he was never there for them. And if he gave up, they would have no one to love them back. Rune rose, a light dusting of snow falling off his chilled body. Far away, Artemis and Colden breathed a sigh of relief. “Do we go get him?” Colden asked. Artemis shook his head. “He is not ready. Just wait.” “How will we know when to get him? There is no way for him to talk to us.” “We will know, I assure you. If he is as smart as he seems, he will know what to do.” Rune stood among the falling flakes, trembling with cold. Quickly, he morphed into a vayne. The creature’s fur would keep him warm until he found a solution. He bounded through the tall grass, a blue streak among brown and white. He raced toward the woods as an idea formed in his mind. As he ran, he morphed back to himself and came to a stop at the base of a tree. It was small, but would serve his purpose. Rune’s arm transformed into the blade and seconds later, the ringing of metal on wood echoed through the silence. The sarsh sweated freely as he worked; it chilled him to the bone and the shivering caused him to slip. Beside the gunshot wound, there was now a neat slice down his leg where he had accidentally cut himself while chopping a tree, hot silver blood welled from it, soaking his pant leg. His body felt frozen and stiff, but he kept moving. One hour later, Rune was trembling so violently, his whole body ached. His skin was soaked with frozen sweat, his clothing dirty. But in front of him, a massive pile of freshly cut wood was stacked in a pyramid. The wood was rich with oil and would burn well. Exhausted and almost falling over, Rune held his cybernetic arm to the wood, the single blue flame licked against it. In seconds, it caught and spread, burning bright and hot. Rune’s shivering lessened as the warmth blasted upwards and outwards, the air wavering with it. The sun disappeared below the trees, as the fire burned on, Rune kept moving, adding more wood and hoping Artemis would see somehow and come back. Colden had said they were watching, so they had to see the massive fire. They didn’t, or if they did, they didn’t come. But something else did.


The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle. Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge. Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood. “They must be stopped,” King Quentin says. Julian Hammersmith, the King’s chancellor, smiles confidently, his pointy features giving him a wily appearance. “My best men are at the gate. They will cut them down like barley.” The silver knights march up to the gate. Eight of the King’s guards descend upon them, but they are cut to ribbons in a matter of seconds. The sliver knights march through the locked gate. Sitting on his throne, the diminutive fifteen-year-old king squeezes his jeweled scepter, hoping he won’t have to use it to protect himself. “Like barley, eh, counselor?” “They walked right through the gate as if they were invisible, leaving nothing but the torn bodies of the guards, and a trail of bloody footprints. They are obviously enchanted, or some sort of devils.” “Or ghosts,” King Quentin says. Quentin Kaloric has been King of Zaragoza for five tumultuous years, having ascended to the throne following the death of his beloved father, King Justin. Many of his countrymen felt Quentin was too young, too inexperienced, and too skittish to rule. They supported his uncle, Prince Thomas Blessing, as the rightful ruler. Quentin and his supporters acted quickly, executing his detractors as rebels, and imprisoning Blessing’s family. Quentin went on to sanction several unpopular wars against Tortosa and the much larger province of Kirwan, which have served to isolate Zaragoza and crippled its economy. A former soldier who attained his position through guile and the untimely deaths of his rivals, forty-six-year-old Julian Hammersmith has been at King Quentin’s side serving as his advisor for the duration of his reign, guiding him, some say, by the nose. The loud clamor of the silver knights marching down the hallway draws closer. The dozen guards summoned by Chancellor Hammersmith to protect the king timidly draw their swords. The knights march into the throne room, marring the stone floor with bloody footprints. Standing side by side, they draw their swords, pointing them at King Quentin. “They are acting the way they did the last time they appeared,” King Quentin notes. “Let us hope it stays that way.” They watch as the knights’ bodies begin to fade away and disappear. “They are our men, yet they threaten us,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “I wonder what they want?” “Me,” King Quentin sniffles, struggling to hold back his tears. Magnus, Zaragoza’s most revered sorcerer, bows to the king. “The past five years have been kind to you, Magnus,” King Quentin says. “You look exactly the same. Not even a grey hair and you still carry the same air of mystery in your indigo eyes. Perhaps it is the freedom of not having a wife or children that brightens your appearance.” “My wife and daughter were killed by your soldiers. That did not serve to improve my health.” Chancellor Hammersmith leans over the sorcerer like a vulture circling its prey, his eyes lifeless and uncaring. “Yes, you look incredibly well for a man of what, a hundred and fifty? Have you forgotten we spared your life? A few more comments like that and you will not see a hundred and fifty-one.” “We have all lost loved ones in the struggle between myself and my uncle for the throne,” King Quentin says. “But that time is past us.” “As I told your emissary, your majesty, I have ceased practicing my former profession.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s sharp features knot together as if he’s tasted something sour. “You willingly served the six kings who sat on the throne prior to King Quentin.” “Which I hope has earned me the right to have a long rest, and to refuse your request.” “I understand that you agreed to leave court because you believed my uncle was the rightful ruler….” “Who was proven to be a traitor to Zaragoza,” Chancellor Hammersmith says, intervening. “He wanted to form an alliance with our enemies, the Valencians. When his treachery was revealed, he fled, joining them.” “And now we are at war with Valencia,” Magnus replies. “And we are losing. Our soldiers on the front are dying from hunger and disease, while others have thrown down their weapons and deserted.” A pop-eyed King Quentin looks to Chancellor Hammersmith for an explanation. “Is what he says true?” “Of course not, your majesty. Our troops are massing for a decisive offensive as we speak. But you were not summoned to spread political lies, sorcerer. Your task is to rid the castle of spirits.” “Your messenger said there are at least ten of them.” The king anxiously leans forward on his throne, his oversized crown slipping over his eyes. “Yes, four knights, two noblemen, and a woman with a baby.” “You fear a woman and a baby?” Magnus asks. “It is obvious they mean your king great harm,” Chancellor Hammersmith retorts. “Have they appeared before?” “Every night for the past two weeks. Their forms seem to linger a bit longer each time they appear.” “I will rid you or your apparitions for twelve hundred gold pieces.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s pasty face reddens. “That is robbery!” “You can always try to exorcise them yourself, Chancellor.” “I am losing sleep as well as my sanity,” King Quentin whimpers. “I cannot stand it another night. We will meet your price.” “I will need an assistant. Someone who is familiar with herbs, perhaps a cook or a scullery maid.” Chancellor Hammersmith is about to argue when King Quentin raises his hand, saying, “Fine. But you must begin immediately.” Chancellor Hammersmith smiles maliciously. “And if you fail, sorcerer, I will use your severed head to scare the spirits away.” Magnus and Opal, his assistant, lean over the castle’s turret, watching the troop of silver knights approach the castle. The raven-haired, eighteen-year-old maid’s violet eyes widen. “Why do they leave bloody tracks behind themselves?” “Perhaps it is a sign of guilt; not necessarily their own. We need to go to the throne room in order to put their souls to rest. Did you mix the herbs together as instructed?” “Yes,” she says, showing him a pouch. “Good. Our lives depend on the strength of our magic.” A horrified King Quentin slumps in his seat as the silver knights enter the throne room leaving behind them a gory, blood-stained trail. Raising their swords, they point them at King Quentin. The king’s trumpeters fidget nearby, inching away from the throne. “I ultionem habebo,” says the first knight. Magnus translates: “He speaks in an ancient tongue used by the Badajoz, who inhabit the farthest realms of the kingdom.” “What did he say?” King Quentin asks. “I will have my vengeance.” Turning to his assistant, he says, “Now, Opal.” “Are you certain they will not hurt me?” “I have cast a spell on them. They cannot see you.” Opening the pouch, Opal draws a line in front of the knights in white powder. “What is that?” King Quentin asks. “The powder will provide a barrier to keep you safe. The apparitions cannot move beyond that line.” Tuning to the King’s trumpeters, Magnus instructs them to begin playing a funeral march. Magnus and Opal salute the knights. Magnus says, “You fought for your king and your country. You sacrificed yourselves so that others could remain free. Your service is at an end. We will remember and celebrate your courageousness for all time.” Chancellor Hammersmith, his expression riddled with doubt, remains still. “This will not work if you do not follow my instructions,” Magnus says. Groaning, Chancellor Hammersmith salutes the knights. Sheathing their swords, the knights return the salute. “…I can’t…,” King Quentin says, his body shaking. “You must, or they will continue to haunt your castle.” Chancellor Hammersmith hands King Quentin a sword. King Quentin’s knees knock together as he walks toward the knights. The knights drop to a knee. Raising his sword, King Quentin says, “You men are heroes of our realm. Every citizen of Zaragoza owes you a debt of gratitude for the ultimate sacrifice you made to protect us. I dub thee The Duke of Virtue, The Duke of Wisdom, The Duke of Courage, and the Duke of Fortitude.” King Quentin backs away as the four knights rise. Saluting, the knights disappear. Shivering as he stands in the courtyard, King Quentin pulls his massive robe around his boyish body. “Can you feel their presence?” he asks. “All I feel is the chill of a fall night,” Chancellor Hammersmith snipes. Opal tightens her grip around the pouch as the figures of two men begin to coalesce. The two noblemen are well-dressed, wearing colorful jackets with hose, leggings, and breeches. They hold their heads in the crooks of their arms. The bearded men cackle at King Quentin. “Fop,” says the first one. “Fool,” says the second. The second nobleman throws his head at the petrified king, who reacts by catching it. Looking down at the laughing head, King Quentin faints. King Quentin falls backward, flopping onto the dusty ground. Chancellor Hammersmith grabs the head as its launched in the air. He angrily tosses it back at the decapitated nobleman, who deftly catches it. “Now, Opal,” Magnus says. Opal stares at the headless men, frozen. “Now, Opal!” Opening the pouch, Opal grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in the direction of the noblemen. The heads stop cackling and their expressions turn somber. “You have given something that cannot be measured by silver or gold – your lives,” Magnus says. “ You sacrificed yourselves so that others could be free. Your wisdom and selflessness will not be forgotten.” Placing their heads back on their torsos, the noblemen fade away. Chancellor Hammersmith leads the group through the dank, torch-lit hallways heading to the tower. King Quentin lags behind, whimpering. “Only the most nefarious enemies of the king are housed in the tower,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. The chancellor’s determined gait slows when the sound of a crying baby permeates the air. Offended, Opal says sharply, “You have imprisoned a baby in the tower? How cruel!” “Hush, girl!” Chancellor Hammersmith replies. “Presently, we are not holding any children prisoner.” They pass by a locked cell door with a black cross nailed to its center. Magnus and Opal glance at the cross, recognizing its symbolism. The crying becomes louder as they approach the cell. Chancellor Hammersmith unlocks the door. He and King Quentin hesitate to go inside the cell. Magnus enters, bowing to the apparition in front of him. Opal clings to his cloak, peeking out from behind his shoulder. A well-dressed woman, her amber hair arranged in elaborate ringlets, sits in a simple wooden chair, cradling a baby girl. “The child is blue,” Opal whispers. “She is as dead as m’lady,” Magnus replies. The woman looks up at them, tears welling in her gentle eyes. “…Help him… Help my daughter…” Magnus raises his hand, making the sign of the cross. “You are the mother of all that is innocent, pure, and righteous. You sacrificed yourself for love. Rest now, m’lady, knowing all will be made right.” The woman and the baby slowly dissolve. “Well, we made short work of them, did we not, Magnus,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “We?” Opal counters. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith enter the room looking around for other spirits, as Magnus and Opal back toward the door. “They are gone! I am free!” King Quentin exults. Magnus closes the door. Locking it, he tosses the key aside. Chancellor Hammersmith presses his crimson features against the door’s small, barred window. “Open this door, now! Your treachery will cost both of you your heads!” “Just as it cost Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine theirs?” Magnus asks. “What are you talking about, Magnus?” Opal asks. “The two noblemen, Alsace, and St. Lorraine were ardent supporters of Prince Thomas Blessing. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith took their lands and their money, then had them executed in the palace courtyard. They told the public Prince Blessing had fled to help the Valencians. Then they imprisoned his wife Madelyn, and baby daughter, Katelyn, in the tower. King Quentin was too cowardly to kill his uncle’s wife and daughter, but Chancellor Hammersmith had no such qualms. He wanted to solidify his hold on the throne. He had Madelyn poisoned, and then drowned Katelyn.” “…Water…That is why the child appeared blue to us.” “Yes.” “And the knights?” Opal asks. “Four devoted commanders from Badajoz who supported Prince Thomas’ efforts to negotiate peace with the Valencians. When the King and Chancellor Hammersmith learned of their plans, he promised them they would become Dukes if they could bring peace. Then they sent them and a hundred men into Valencian territory thinking they were there for peace talks. They were slaughtered by a thousand waiting soldiers.” Sitting in the chair, King Quentin rocks back and forth crying, “I didn’t want to do it… I didn’t want to do it…” “This treasonous act will be your last!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts. “When the guards make their rounds, we will be freed, and I will have the pleasure of seeing your heads roll off the chopping block!” “The guards are with us. They believe Thomas Blessing is the true sovereign,” Magnus replies. “Give me the pouch, Opal.” Opal hands him the pouch. Reaching inside of it, Magnus grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in Chancellor Hammersmith’s face. Chancellor Hammersmith backs away, sneezing. “The guillotine is too quick a death for you, sorcerer! I will starve you, then before you are about to die, I will have you tied to two horses and torn apart!” “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Opal asks apprehensively. “Do you believe Prince Thomas is the true king and not that simpering boy?” “Yes.” “King Quentin is the true king!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts between sneezes. “Tell them, boy, you are the true king!” “…I didn’t want to do it… Hammersmith made me do it.” “Coward! I will stand by what I have done. I did it for his majesty, the King, and for Zaragoza.” “Then we feel the same,” Magnus says, backing away from the door. “Where are you going! Let us out!” Magnus turns to face Chancellor Hammersmith. “Thank you for sparing my life You gave me the opportunity to put it to good use.” Chancellor Hammersmith turns to admonish the blubbering king. “If you had the slightest hint of a backbone, we could have sat on the throne for decades to come!” Chancellor Hammersmith’s anger fades as the surrounding shadows turn into figures. Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine appear with their heads firmly on their shoulders and daggers in their hands. The four knights materialize, their gleaming, sharp swords drawn. Opal grimaces when she hears King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith’s screams, but she doesn’t look back, grabbing Magnus’ hand. “May I ask you a question, Magnus? Why did you pick me? Anyone in the kitchen could have assisted you.” “A man can trust his daughter.” The two of them walk to the door with the black cross. Magnus pulls the cross off the door, turning it to dust in his hand. “You conjured up those spirits to frighten King Quentin, then pretended to make them disappear.” “Yes. The powder you mixed together is useless, although it would make a superb chocolate cake.” “So, this was all to avenge the rightful king,” Opal says. Magnus unlocks the door, opening it. Thomas Blessing rises from the corner of his cell. “No, it was done to free him.”


“I’m honoured that you agreed to have me for dinner, darling.” “You mean take pity on a lonely old jerk? You and mommy dearest raised me better than to leave the sad and pathetic out in the cold.” “In cold blood, dear. We also raised you to own your action- well, she’d say that if she and your brothers weren’t six feet under.” Nicholas Baudelaire looked into the young woman’s eyes across the table, seeing only the indifference in her eyes. Not an ounce of remorse, of guilt. Empty? No. Pride. The warmth wafting from the freshly prepared meal between them had no effect on the chilling breeze that manifested between the father and daughter. Her eyes were green. Green. The colour of nature, serenity, generosity – well, unless you’re a Baudelaire - then it means nothing other than greed, envy, ambition, wealth. Of course, Nicholas knew that. He had that exact same glint in his own eyes. Odd how a single name could have its own meaning, but that’s what words are, right? A mess until given meaning. “I learnt from the best.” The brunette said, her lips curling into a smirk as her hands rested on the table before her. “But no, father, I’m not here to make amends – surely you know that I’d know better than to have the leader of the rival group in my own home proximities just to say sorry for a little… slip of the knife.” Nicholas’s mouth opened, only a name slipping past his lips before his hostess held up a hand to hush him, shocking him into a silence he would never usually forgo to anyone – a woman no less. “You have no heir.” Blunt. Straight to the point. “And without one, the empire you’ve risked everything to build will fall into shambles. You’re not getting any younger, you know? What would your enemies think when you finally join your beloved boys in the fiery domain below?” Her sly eyes gazed over the white intertwined with her guest’s slicked back dirty blond hair; your textbook look for a morally grey businessman who may or may not be the majordomo of the local mafia. There was silence. The tension in the air made it hard to breathe. Nicholas suffocated, but he couldn’t tell whether it was the stupid tie he had put on just to make a good impression to a face that had been erased from his life… or perhaps it was the face itself that made his throat clench – wanting to choose death over the peaceful façade they were putting up. Yet, his own smile made an appearance, leaning back into his seat. He would- no. He could not show any weakness in the presence of such a foe. Who else could build up a rival faction to his in half a decade if not his flesh and blood? “Is this your way of asking to join back the family, my dear? Because, I must say, not your best negotiation at work, seeing as you’ve gotten your lazy cows to take out the very people you grew up with.” The young boss’s smirk faltered when she listened to her father’s words, a twitch in her eye giving away the resentment she felt. “I never understood why mother stayed with you. She should have joined me.” “Would you have spared her then?” “A magician never reveals her secrets.” “Kayla-” “Kai.” “You’re still using that stupid street name of yours?” Nicholas looked at her, revolted. His daughter merely looked away, picking up the butter knife to prepare her bread though Nicholas knew she would much rather stick it in his face as how she had to her own brother. “I gave you a perfectly good name, fit for any little girl, and you replace it with a man’s name but spend like no tomorrow on those unbridled dresses you so carelessly flaunt around. Explain to me the logic, dear, because I see none.” “Unbridled.” Kai scoffed, taking a bite of her bread, “What am I? A horse? Come now, we both know riding isn’t my top priority, but if you must know, Kayla is reserved. Kayla is the inner circle. Kayla is friendly. Kai, on the other hand, is business… and this, father, is business.” Nicholas clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes at the creature of a child he had raised. His head shaking, his eyes just savoured the room. Luxurious. The waist coating of the room made it look bigger than it actually was, an illusion to trap all those who enter to think they have freedom when in reality, they were about to be trapped in a corner. He would not give his daughter the satisfaction of that reality. He didn’t bother turning back to her when he heard her familiar laugh echo through the room, “Shocked, father, that I have business? Well, if you had given me a shot instead of pushing me aside because ‘little girls can’t play with the big boys’, you would know… Ironically, it’s your precious boys who felt the shot, though.” Her laugh mocked the dead. It made Nicholas sick in the stomach to hear her amusement. He failed to hear the hollowness of her laughter, the sickness she too felt. Kayla Aurav Baudelaire was not a heartless monster. She was not one to kill for sport; that was exactly what she wanted to avoid when she stepped away from the family. She did not want to be like her brothers, her mother, her father. She wanted to be different. Not ruled by the ingrown patriarchy of her family’s legacy, not bound by the ‘traditions’ her predecessors had set to deal with… complications. But she could not deny the lives she had taken. Most recently, 4 members of the Baudelaires. The matriarch Oriana and her beloved princes; Harry, Ethari, Kaede, Jack. “I didn’t want to do it, you know.” Kai put down the bread, her finger tracing the rim of her glass, “They made me. They pushed me. And…” She stopped. She frowned. She remembered the night. She had come in peace- a meeting her eldest brother Harry had arranged away from their father, knowing full well about the mess that would happen if he was there. Word on the street was that the two biggest factions were to merge, and Kai was intrigued. She was a fool. She was weak. She, shamefully enough, was lured by the idea of her biological family. Unlucky for them, though, she is not stupid. You know how girls say they’re not mad when really, they are? Well, Kai may or may not have put that to practice when she said she came unarmed… and alone. She watched their every move, letting one wrong move slide. Then another. Then another. And then, impatience truly does end great plans. And lives. Kai snapped out of it; she could not show any weakness in the presence of such a foe, not now. Not when she is so close to obtaining the power she had been denied purely because she’s a girl. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs as she picked up her glass. “Tell me, father, how much would you want your little empire for? Name a price, any price, and I’ll assure you I’ll take care of your little world. It’s what Jackie would have wanted… or maybe Kaede, the only Kae in your life- I mean, my apologies, ‘was’ in your life.” Bam! Nicholas slammed his hand on the table, making the door of the room swing wide open as two of Kai’s members rushed in, weapons drawn while a petite male rushed in – a male that earned a somewhat confused look from the brunette holding the champagne glass. She looked at her women, holding her free hand up to dismiss them without even using words while the young man walked over to Nicholas, alert as ever. His small stature stood to attention beside Nicholas’s chair, ready for anything. He was shorter than someone his age would usually be. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties – the age of deception, some would say since one’s twenties is what they look forward to when younger and will miss when they are older – but when in the moment. Hell. Yet, had he disguised his face with a mask, Kai probably would have assumed he was younger just from his voice. The male leaned near the mob master, asking if he was alright – his voice wasn’t high-pitched like a girl’s, but it sounded like he had yet to go through puberty. Nicholas nodded, slipping off his coat and passing it to the brunette male with blonde highlights – telling him to ‘be a dear and hang this up, Apollo’. Apollo, as Nicholas called him, complied without question before returning to his side like a loyal dog. He stood there in silence, eyes locked on Kai’s like a hunting hound. Though having a certain puppy dog softness to the rest of his face, his eyes were sharp, just about as sharp as his eyelashes – a pretty boy. “How shocking? You got a K-pop idol to join you.” Kai sneered, “You going to entertain me with a little dancey-dance, boy.” Apollo stayed calm – so well trained, pleasing his boss who smirked at his daughter, “You shouldn’t be talking like that… to the heir of your rival empire. Bom Apuro or, as he goes by in business, Apollo Robbins.” “What?” Kai nearly dropped her red wine, almost staining the white table sheet masking the mahogany they ate on. “You can’t just name some random Jeon Jungkook reject – he’s a runt!” “But he has been by my side for years, far more than you have, Kayla.” The brunette grimaced, her teeth sinking into her inside lip so hard she herself was surprised she didn’t draw blood. She listened to her father go on about how Apollo’s entry into the empire started with a show of loyalty, unlike Kai, who walked away from family. He saved Ethari from being ambushed, unlike Kai, who instead stole her brothers’ lives. He made hard decisions for the greater good of the empire, unlike Kai, who was doing whatever she could to take the Baudelaire legacy. “And he’s a guy.” Tersely Kai added, “Unlike me.” The brunette’s eyes drifted to the young male, looking him up and down. Her expression amused her father – it was screaming out with questions about how a soft outsider boy beat her to her own blood father’s will for the empire. “Sir,” Apollo suddenly spoke again, turning to the aging male, “The rumour on the streets, however, believe that our two factions are to merge. If I may, sir, perhaps your daughter would be more… compelled to work for us if she knew what was at stake.” “At stake?” The young male nodded, “The word is that the other factions are planning to band together – to stop two powers from coming together. Thus, ma’am, the longer you wait to submit to your father, the one with an actual empire and resources to stand against a united opposition, best case scenario only one of the two Baudelaire led names will survive… and I know which branch I’d place my bets on.” There was silence. Shock setting in, it seemed, slowly. “Oh, did you not know?” Nicholas asked, mocking. “That’s surprising. Aren’t you always the first to intel, or so you boast to be? Seems like Apollo does beat you as the best candidate for my replacement.” “I am your daughter!” “You have not been my daughter since you walked out on our family just because I told you you could not take the positions your brothers earned!” “That’s because you never gave me a chance, and when I did, you shot my boyfriend!” “He was a spy!” “He saved my life because you deadass aimed for my head instead! Admit it, you wanted to kill me! Then you lied and said I tried to kill you! You turned everyone agains-” “You turned everyone against yourself!” Nicholas swung his arm, sweeping the table, dropping the food to the floor. The man was on his feet, his breathing heavy, “You left. You chose to leave. Then you made this stupid girl scout of a club to take your whole family down.” Kai was silent as she heard the door open again, her girls coming in to see the chaos before instantly cleaning up from a silent glance from their boss. “You’re not my family. They are. I gathered girls whom society turned their backs on and trained them to be forces to be reckoned with – forces fools like you would underestimate and overlook until it’s too late.” “I don’t want your empire.” She said, picking up her fork and knife to cut into her steak that was surprisingly still warm, “But I don’t want this rivalry to continue. I have better things to do than try to kill my own father.” Nicholas stared at his daughter, who began at her food before sitting down. Just as he did, another young lady walked into the room to bring him a fresh glass of wine and steak, still warm, newly cooked. He looked at it suspiciously as his server provided him with a fork and knife. “I didn’t poison the bloody cow,” Kai said, not even looking up from her plate. Still, Nicholas was stoic, just glaring at the cut of meat. “For the love of God,” Kai exasperated, putting down her fork and knife, “Boy wonder, taste the God-forsaken steak to show the old man it’s safe.” Apollo looked surprised to even be addressed by the very much frustrated young woman, just looking at her before warily glancing at the steak – making the girl groan in annoyance. “Go on, show your devoted loyalty to my father. Maybe he’ll give you a treat and belly rubs if you’re a good boy.” The mocking kept going in the background as Apollo turned to face Nicholas, who hesitated… then nodded. The young male picked up the fork and knife and sliced the tender meat, enjoying the warmth that projected from the meal. Taking a bite, he savoured the flavour of the food, the gentle feeling that overtook him from the insides like a loving hug.

“It’s good, sir,” Apollo said with a small smile, covering his mouth as he spoke with a lady-like etiquette that made Kai scoff from the other side of the table as she resumed her own meal. Some of Kai’s girls were still in the room, ready to attend to any of their needs. Yet, after having put his proclaimed heir at risk, that seemed to have convinced the man enough… except. “Apollo, get my coat. My silverware’s in there.” The man said. The young male headed over to the coat rack in the corner of the room, taking the coat that had been untouched since he himself had hung it up. Nicholas put on his outerwear before taking out a velvet case – inside, his own silverware. “You still carry your own fork and spoon,” Kai asked, her tone laced with annoyance as she took another bite of her food, just watching her father’s every move. Her eyes turned to her food, almost as though she couldn’t bear to look at him. The room filled with silence for a moment, just the breathing of the inhabitants and the clinking of the plates when they were met with the knife. Then. Struggling. Choking. Begging. Thud. Kai looked up, her eyes blank as she looked across the table. The man once considered her closest rival was face-first into the very piece of meat he so very much feared. “Hm… Waiter, there seems to be a body in that meal.” “Come now, is that how you talk to your favourite K-boy? I mean, sure, half a decade is a little long, but you always know where my loyalties lie, Kayla.” “Still can’t believe you went with that name… Apollo Robbins, deception specialist. Spoiler much?” The newcomer walked over to the ex-mafia boss, his hand squishing the older man’s face to look at him – checking for any signs of life. “Pity... Seems like boss forgot to make sure his precious personal set wasn’t laced.” “Poison?” “Better.” Apollo mused, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Peanuts.” A sweet laugh escaped Kayla’s lips, setting down her own utensil to motion to the seat across her, “Care to join me, old friend?” Apollo scrunched his nose with a playful pout, “The seat seems to be taken though… Oh, wait.” With a single raise of the leg, the once feared Nicholas was drop kicked to the ground. The young mafia member pulled a shocked face, as though surprised the seat opened up before giving a playful bow to the hostess, “It would be my pleasure to dine with you, Madam Baudelaire- must be great to have your surname back… at least, once I give it back to you.” Apollo reached into his pocket and pulled out a recording device, and with a single touch of a button, Nicholas’ voice filled the room, naming Apollo heir of his empire. “Unless, you know, I decide to keep it for myself.” Kayla rolled her eyes, holding up her glass of wine to the Korean across from her. “To you, my best partner in crime.” Her guest picked up Nicholas’ untouched wine glass, holding it up with a smirk as his other hand ran through his hair… or at least, her wig. Beautiful black hair fell to her shoulders with a single pull, highlighting her femininity that was so well concealed before – perks of her own naturally sharp visuals. “I’ll drink to that.”


I poured my husband a cup of coffee, the milk still steaming on the stove.

I’d grated fresh cinnamon and sprinkled brown sugar in the pot.

A special drink for a gloomy day.

The clouds hung low, touching the mountain a bit higher up.

The road was iced over, no matter how much salt we poured.

There was salt on the windows too, and lined along all the doorways.

Many people who visited the area later said they left it superstitious; the mountains could be an eerie place.

I sipped some of the black coffee, and it was so hot it almost singed my tongue.

That’s the only way to drink it here, so hot it almost burns.

We decided to live in the inn year round because we used to love the snow.

I still love it sometimes.

I may need layers and layers of clothes, my hands may never get warm, but it really is beautiful.

Even holding the burning mug, the backs of my hands are icy.

He beckoned me softly from the lobby where he sat by the tall, frosted windows. “One minute, love,”

I stirred the milk and put a drop of extract in. I hadn’t bought the artificial stuff in years.

Only pure vanilla gives it that special touch. The milk covered the coffee like a blanket of snow on the hard, black earth.

We sat by the window, sipping it and tapping away at our laptops, until the sun moved above our heads. We got a lot of traffic that time of year.

Adventurous types, looking for a thrill on the ski slopes nearby or a weekend hiking the area.

Some of them scared us.

They brought rock climbing gear and hunting bows and said they’d reach the top of our mountain if it killed them.

They didn’t come back for days, their rooms unattended.

Of course, most of them knew their limits and came back fine.

Some were unlucky.

Some pushed themselves too hard.

Having to call the police was terrifying, but there were good people working the area. The search team found every lost customer we sent them after, all alive.

Except for one, who I wish I could forget.

He was a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of an old western film.

Covered in grime and bearded to his belly.

His eyes were sunken and the deepest black I’d ever seen on a real person.

He arrived off the ski lodge bus with only a bag; he left to climb with nothing but whatever was in the pockets of his cargo jacket. The day he arrived, I’d been making our morning coffee.

He asked for a cup the moment he stepped through the doors, bringing in a flurry of snow with him.

I poured him one and he downed it like a madman.

I almost thought I saw the steam coming out with his breath while he told me his name and asked for a room.

He’d be staying two weeks, hiking the mountain for most of it.

He wore only one coat; the shirt under it seemed thin.

I voiced my concern, but he only shook his head, “The cold doesn’t scare me.

There’s nothing to be scared of at all on this mountain.”

I thought of the salt that lined my bedroom window and shook my head, “If you respect it, it’ll treat you well.

But fear and respect go hand in hand sometimes,”

I refilled his cup as I spoke, “Many people have died up there.”

He pulled his coffee to himself, almost huddled around it.

His eyes met mine, “Have you ever met one?” I shook my head, “Luckily, no one I know.

You hear all about it in the papers though.

Avalanches, people getting lost and sheltering in caves.” “No, no,” He leaned closer, “Have you ever met one coming back down?”

I shook my head again, not knowing what to make of what he’d said.

My mind had gone to a cold night when we’d first moved in.

The blue sky had dimmed with dusk, and the moon was bright behind misty clouds.

Snow covered the sparsely forested land outside the window.

My husband was asleep when I saw it.

He sipped at his coffee while I marked his name in the registry.

“Ernest Drewitt”

My husband got along well with him.

He seemed to be preparing for the journey over the next couple of days, but I never saw him go out to buy supplies.

The beat up canvas bag seemed to hold all his worldly possessions.

He’d sit with us by the fire in the evenings and tell us everywhere he’d been.

We had a flat screen TV and a console set up there, and we’d spent many hours in front of it when business was slow.

Ernest despised it.

They fought over playing a few games, but I could tell he’d never be interested.

He wouldn’t even pick up the controller.

We went out and bought a VR headset.

We’d been wanting to get one for ages.

When Ernest came down for his morning coffee and saw me waving the controllers at invisible enemies, he doubled over laughing.

Said that it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

It stopped being funny when we tried to get him to put it on.

Ernest went outside while he fumed; I rubbed his shoulders and told him to remember the man’s age.

I was sure new technology would be daunting for someone so old.

The headset sat on the ottoman, its blue light blinking away. I was worried about the day he’d head up the hill.

Maybe he’d be smart enough not to spend the night out there.

We got a lot of day-hikers that would take advantage of every night they paid for.

He seemed set on taking his chances, though.

I’d offered him a thicker coat, warmer gloves, and even, once, a new pair of shoes especially bought for him.

He refused them all.

During the day, while we helped customers coming and going in the lobby, he sat outside.

He seemed to be meditating, or maybe just watching the scenery. I didn’t sleep well that night.

It was colder than it’d been all winter.

I kept waking up, clicking away on my phone, and staring out the window.

Thinking, again, of that strange night.

I called what I’d seen a fairy, a ghost, an apparition of some kind.

I stared hard, through a volley of snow, at the tree about ten yards away, a black hand clawing at the sky.

She had been behind it, at first.

A strange blue glow.

I had pressed my nose into the glass, squinted until I could see my eyelashes, trying to make out what it was.

Then she stepped into the open.

She was there, and not there.

A shadow made of light and static.

It was almost like old TV static, moving through her veins.

She moved in clips and jumps, floating just above the ground.

When she moved too fast, it seemed like the sky behind her morphed to fit her shape that was no longer there.

She had been moving towards the house, and she fell to the ground in a series of snapshots.

I thought I could almost hear her wailing while she threw her arms against the ground.

Suddenly her head was too big, too small, completely flat.

It stabilized and I realized a scream was caught in my throat.

I later described it as grotesque.

She looked at the window.

She looked at me, and I looked at her. Her eyes didn’t look right.

Apparently calmed, she stood up less haltingly and floated back towards the trees.

I felt I could move again and immediately shook the bundle of blankets behind me awake.

He thought I’d had a nightmare at first, but I’d just sent a message to someone a minute before.

I’d been awake.

Eventually, he decided to believe me.

I stood up abruptly, not wanting to think about it any more.

I dumped more salt on the windowsill and turned to the door. In the kitchen, the ice clinked in my cup.

Someone tripped over something in the lobby and cursed quietly.

I stepped out behind the bar and clicked its soft lights on.

“Ernest?”

He tipped his hat.

His pack was slung over one shoulder.

“I’m heading out, little lady.” “No you are not.

Look at that storm, are you insane?”

I set down my cup and stepped towards him, “Have you been drinking?” He shook his head and slipped on his boots.

I looked around wildly for my phone, ready to call the rangers if I couldn’t stop him.

“Oh, the rangers will come looking, I’m sure.

It’s my time though.”

I screamed for my husband, not wanting to leave a clearly unstable man alone.

“Don’t you dare go out in weather like this.”

That was all I could say, “It’s dangerous!” “Dangerous!

Didn’t I tell you, there’s nothing to be scared of here.

There’s nothing on this mountain.

The cold, the snow, the wind, it’s all nothing.”

I ran to the stairwell and screamed for my husband to wake up again.

An annoyed-looking customer peered over the railing on the second story.

“Call the rangers, a man’s about to walk off into the storm!”

The customer stood up straighter and rushed off to their room.

“What’s that?”

My husband finally stumbled down the stairs. “It’s Ernest,” I turned to him, but there was only snow gathering in the open doorway.

I sprinted outside in nothing but my house slippers, screaming his name.

This was the type of weather you died in. He was halfway to the tree.

He turned when he heard us running towards him.

We pleaded with him, and my husband shook his shoulder,

“Listen to reason now, man.”

He shook his head.

Ernest grabbed my hand.

His fingers were like ice,

“You’re a nice young couple.

You, though, I know you’ve seen them.

The fragments of a person, all left to rot.

It scared you, didn’t it?” “I don’t understand.

I saw something, maybe, once.”

He leaned close, “They’ve got static in their eyes.”

He whispered.

I’d always tried to forget her eyes. I nodded. He squeezed my hand, “Haven’t you two noticed?

Aren’t your hands always cold?”

He released me and adjusted his bag. My husband was pacing by then, “Of course!

We’re in the mountains!” “Well, usually, a person’s hands would warm up if you sat them in front of the fire.”

With that, he turned and walked off into the trees.

We tried to restrain him, he grabbed at his arms and I pulled his backpack.

All his traveling must’ve made him strong, or maybe it was his will.

He wrangled himself out of our grip and calmly kept walking.

We kept track of him as far as we could see, but we weren’t even wearing shoes.

We held hands on the way back to the open lobby door.

The rangers took less than fifteen minutes to arrive and less than five to start searching.

You could even still see the footprints, for a while. The search lasted a week, but halfway through he was presumed dead.

We hadn’t taken his ID, and we couldn’t find anyone with his name matching his description.

No grieving relatives came forward.

His last words hung over my head.

I held my husband’s hand every time it was free.

It was always cold. On slow days, I took to sitting outside the lobby like he had.

On the concrete bench under the window.

I watched the tree.

My husband would shuffle me back inside after less than five minutes.

One day, he started to sit beside me, his hand on top of mine. “Tell me about what you saw by the tree again.”

I did.  Spring brought a little green back to the mountain.

Our hands were still cold.

“Did they feel any different when we lived in town?

How many years has it been?” “I couldn’t remember something like that.” The unnamable worries faded over time, but we’d still spend a few minutes in the evenings on the bench.

The inn made good money, and the years passed comfortably.

One night, he decided to make us some hot chocolate.

A special treat for a gloomy night.

He wanted to make it for us. I stayed outside watching the stars blip in and out of view in the clear sky.

I didn’t notice the shadow walking towards me till I saw a strange light and looked down.

It made no sound on the snow.

It curled and lagged in the same way the woman had, but this time I wasn’t filled with revulsion.

Ernest tipped his hat.

I didn’t have time to call for my husband.

He reached out for a handshake, arm wavering.

I took his hand without thinking.

A blue spark arched between us in a brilliant flash and everything went black.

I don’t know how much time passed. I woke up somewhere dark.

There was only a soft blue glow coming from under the door.

I could vaguely make out my husband’s features beside me, reclined in a plush chair.

Like the ones in a movie theater.

Wires hung from him like puppet strings, the two biggest ones trailing from his forehead.

I tried to sit up to reach for him, but I was caught in the same mess.

Blankets were curled around us.

Only our hands stuck out on the arm rests.

I freed my arm and tugged at the suction cups on my forehead.

The right one released painfully, but the wire suddenly lit up red.

There were immediate sounds of movement outside.

A gruff voice called,  “Door five!”

Before I could try to pry more off, the door creaked open almost tentatively.

A young man slipped into the room, “Hello, miss.

I know this all must be very confusing right now, but don’t worry.

I’m here to explain.”

He had the air of dealing with a feral kitten.

I tugged the other suction cup off.

The red light grew brighter.

He took a step back and put his hands up peacefully. “That’s fine, those can come off now if you’d like.

If you want help with the rest, just let us know.”

I pulled one off my arm.

“Alright, my name is Justin Lawrence, I work at this company.

We’re basically an arcade.” I laughed.

He laughed along nervously, “I know, I know, this is all very strange.

I’m sure it’ll come back to you quickly, but you signed up for this!

We call it the ultimate VR experience, Second Life.”

I glanced around the room; there was only one exit.

I pulled off three more wires in one go.

They fell to the floor loudly and I pushed the blanket off with them. “Oh, be careful, that’s sensitive technology.

Take it slow.”

I tore away from the chair, across the room, and to my husband’s side.

“Hey!”

His demeanor changed entirely, “Do not remove those wires.

We don’t know what’ll happen if you do.

Please,” He took half a step towards me, “Let’s go into the other room, the lab guys will explain more.

It could be dangerous.” I white-knuckled the wires attached to his forehead apprehensively. “He could die, miss.”

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, and tears burned at the corners of my eyes.

I released the wires and slumped against the chair.

My fingers ran over the familiar curve of his cheek.

His breath came evenly.

He looked so peaceful. “Alright,” I slid to the floor by his side, sticking my face in my knees.

No memories came flooding back except of my life with him at the inn.

“I’m not leaving him.

Bring whoever wants to talk to me here.”

I rubbed my eyes and realized my hands were still cold. I didn’t understand most of what they said, but memories floated to the surface while they talked.

It started as a video game company.

Drewitt Studios.

They wanted to create the most hyper-realistic virtual reality on the market.

We thought we were lucky to get into beta-testing, but the machines were flawed.

Out of the thousand-plus applicants, twenty were chosen.

None left the arcade once they were plugged in.

The stimulus was too real.

Well, all except temperature.

They had to simulate that in the real world.

The two they tried to remove by force died of heart attacks.

Those that died while in the program left something no one could explain.

Glitches left to wander the worlds made just for them.

It was theorized that a glitch might shock the victims out of the program.

Their spheres were combined in hopes they’d meet, but the world generation was too extensive.

The head of the company plugged himself in without notifying anyone, to test his employees’ theory.

Some said he just wanted to experience the project before it got scrapped forever; some said he was overcome with guilt.

He knew that the longer someone was in the game, the less they would remember of their real life.

He searched the world while the victims' faces were still in his memories.

His sacrifice woke me up, but my husband will sleep until they can direct a glitch his way.

They’re working around the clock to create an artificial glitch with the same effect. It’s been a week since I woke up.

I live on site, free of charge.

I’m sure I’ll be paid handsomely my whole life.

I don’t want their money.

I want them to plug me back in, with him.

I pour a cup from the office coffee maker.

I put a drop of vanilla on my spoon and stir it in.

I don’t know if its imitation or not.

They taste the same, anyway.