Vera didn't think it was real at first. She almost expected someone to come out with a camera and yell, “Surprise!” But no one did; they never would. It was something she had to remind herself of regularly. No one would care enough to help her if she couldn't help herself first. Not that she met many people in this hellscape. Not any that were alive, at least. But that seemed to be the luck for those that actually followed the guidelines.

Vera had backed out of class when she started coughing. Of course, she wasn’t actually sick, she just wanted to avoid being around potential harbingers of this new mysterious disease. And while her grades slipped a bit, she was accommodated for the lack of face-to-face accessibility. She became very thankful for all those persistent enough to not be put off by her shitty personality—those who she called her best friends. Those that were probably dead or hunting around in the street right now. Those who had no regard for their safety, who didn’t follow the rules, choosing to instead pass it off. They weren’t the only ones, though. Everyone kept passing it off as a temporary disease. They just said it was another version of anemia that was uncommon enough as it was. Masks and gloves were discarded in the first two weeks of the quarantine that their government had established. But they hadn’t even started wearing those crucial little things—something to overlook in a drug store—when it mattered. At the very beginning, several countries had already taken notice, establishing their own quarantines, and new rules and regulations. People living in other countries who weren’t quite so aware of this development were the first to close themselves off from the public. Those were the ones that stayed up to date with world news. America took a bit longer. Vera had just returned to her dorm when the official release came out—the mystery disease with no name and no known origin had reached a deadly level, spreading rapidly across the world. Some people joked that this was Mother Nature’s way of eradicating the true disease of Earth—human beings. If that were true, though, this disease wouldn’t have begun as it did. People would have died immediately, for one. Maybe if people actually listened for once instead of arguing, then this whole pandemic wouldn’t have reached the proportion that it did. Maybe Vera wouldn’t have to fight for her life just to get some damn pads.

She had to shake herself out of her thoughts. It wasn’t helping to worry about the things that could have been, and she had to move. Peeking around the corner of the magazine rack confirmed the worst of Vera’s suspicions. She was surrounded and would probably be forced to fight her way out if she couldn’t wait for them to just walk away. Those things always seemed to know when someone was near, though, because every time she tried to wait them out, they just stood there and waited for her instead. There had to be some amount of intelligence in that dead brain of theirs. Of course, Vera could just have horrible luck, but she didn’t like to consider that as an option so she dismissed it just as soon as it popped up. However, unlike those last occasions, Vera came prepared for this one. She had slathered sewage and mud all over her arms and clothes. While it wasn’t the best smelling, it seemed to distract from her original scent, and that would make all the difference. It wasn’t an original idea, though. She had seen someone else do it to get through a particularly nasty crowd the other day. They seemed to move through like it was nothing, though they also weren’t in the heart of it. God, what if they saw her and realized she wasn’t infected? Did she have enough time to shoot herself before she got eaten alive? Save the last one for yourself; wait, no. That was pirates. Pirates had a pretty good blueprint for the end of the world, though, didn’t they? Saving the last bullet was a pretty good idea, though the situation was in a different context. Save it for yourself when you get marooned on some island in the middle of nowhere. What happens when you’re the captain AND crew? Could you maroon yourself? The shuffling behind her told her that she couldn’t afford that train of thought. She had to move now. There was one biter ahead of her near the door, but it didn't seem to notice her just yet—she would know it did when it started sniffing the air. She couldn’t let it catch wind of her. If it didn’t move, though, she would have to do what she really wanted to avoid. Killing them wasn’t an issue. Vera was mainly worried about how close she would have to get in order to do it. If any fluids got in the tiniest of cuts, she’d risk a chance of infection. It wouldn’t be easy, but her knowledge of anatomy would finally come in handy—past Vera would be on the floor cackling at that. There were a few weak spots in the adult skull, spots that she could use to kill them before they even noticed her coming. If it stayed facing away from her, she might be able to get that lucky spot in the back of its head. She prayed to whatever god that was listening as she stalked forward, looking more like a hunchback than any kind of stealthy. It wasn’t the easiest position to walk in, especially when you had to carry forty pounds directly on your back, but it did eliminate a lot more sound. Sound that she couldn’t afford to let out. One shelf after another, achingly slow moments of quick glancing around corners, before, eventually, Vera found herself huddled against a cash register.

God. When did her heart start beating so fast? Her feet were numb. The biter was still facing the door—her only way out. After stealing a look around the rest of the front end of the store, she could come to the safe conclusion that, after she got this one down, she could safely sprint back to her camp without anything following her. If they did, they would have to eat her dust instead. A low shuddering breath snapped Vera out of her daydream, and at first, she thought the biter at the front had noticed her, but it was the one from earlier. It was rounding the corner where she sat just moments before. Damn. Vera had to assume that when she heard the shuffling from behind her, it had already caught her scent.

 There was no time to think, she had to get out of there. Bracing her unprotected side with her bag, Vera readied her little knife, sucked in a breath, and drove it into the back of its neck. It went down easily enough, gurgling a bit but eventually going limp. Careful to hold up the new deadweight, Vera laid it down as quickly as she possibly could without drawing more attention to herself. Now the path was clear. Except the hand gripping her arm told her otherwise. Vera whipped her head around, swinging the knife in a wide arc around her. But instead of a biter—it was a kid. He leaned back just in time to only get clipped on the shoulder by the blade. The biter from before was laying just behind him, dead, she assumed. He raised a hand to his lips to keep her from speaking, not that she planned to. She almost felt insulted that he thought she would, but they didn't have time to mess around. He helped her, now she owed him. Not the best situation to be in, especially now. He was probably going to demand some of the stuff she scavenged from this place. The stuff she really couldn't afford to lose. If she wanted to stay alive, though, she’d have to. Maybe she could get the jump on him first? No, that’d be stupid . They didn't have a lot of time to do anything though. It wasn’t smart to stick around the dead ones. Vera noticed that when one went down, others came to snack on it. It’s like they were vultures, taking what they could get from other predators’ kills. Not that Vera, or anyone for that matter, wanted to eat those things. More power to them, at least when this was all fixed, the cleanup would be easy. The body nodded toward the door and reached out to grab her, flinching back when Vera jerked the knife away. She still had her hatchet secured in her bag but if she couldn’t keep her knife out, he might get the upper hand.

Vera pointed at him, making a quick walking figure with her index and middle finger, and motioned to the door. He seemed to understand well enough, though he hesitated, feet glued to the floor. She couldn’t chance them getting caught, though, and finally said screw it, grabbed his jacket sleeve, and tugged him up with her.

Looks were definitely deceiving, though, because this kid could move fast . Despite moving over broken glass, no sound came from beneath those chunky shoes. Vera had stumbled a bit to keep from accidentally stepping on it, but she kept her knife aimed his way as the two snuck out of the parking lot. He could slip away from her as soon as she blinked, and she didn't want to risk that. She needed to keep the high ground in this. “You got a place?” His voice was weird, kind of nasally, and high pitched. “You should keep your voice down,” Vera’s own was hoarse with disuse, but she couldn't find it in herself to feel ashamed. The most talking she did was to herself in her sleep. “We’re on the roof, we’ll be fine.” “You don’t know that for sure.” “I haven’t seen them learn to climb yet.” “ Yet ,” Vera spit. “Yet, indeed,” the boy grinned back at her, not even fazed at the knife aimed his way. “But I think we can assume safety up here for now.” He stopped and held out his hand for her to shake. Vera didn't move to accept it so he dropped it by his side. “I’m Adam, I go to the vocational college for funeral service near the airport, you?” “Er,” she paused, knife wavering a bit in her grasp. What was she supposed to say? Also, he apparently was much older than he looked, Vera almost felt bad for calling him a boy. “The main campus in Houston?” “Oh yeah?” that grin of his never seemed to falter. “What for?” “Arts,” she shoved the knife back in her bag. “Look what’s your goal here?” “To get to know you!” “Why?” “It’s kind of lonely out here, ya know,” he glanced around them, waving his hands at their surroundings as he turned. “There’s no one friendly out here for miles and you’re the first person I meant willing to talk to me for this long.” “That’s because no one trusts one another,” Vera said. “You can’t just assume everyone wants to be with someone.” “Well, I want to be with someone, ever consider that?” Vera swallowed thickly, letting out a dry cough when she realized out parched she actually was. She needed to get something to drink soon. “We’re complete strangers, but you killed the biter back there behind me, so I have to repay you. It’s common courtesy. What do you want?” “Your name, and your company if you’ll have me.” The response was instant and it drove Vera for a loop. What was the guy's goal? She scowled and heaved a sigh from her nose. It was nice to have someone to watch her back, and it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra pair of hands. Especially capable hands, if the silent kill back in the store was any indicator. Vera shook her head, “Fine, it’s Vera, but get in my way and I drop you.” “That’s fine by me,” he hopped to attention when she continued toward the next building, rolling back on her heels to get ready to jump. “So, where are we headed?”


FOR THE WANT OF A NAIL The Ancient Mariner said ‘Water water everywhere and all the boards did shrink, water water everywhere nor any a drop to drink. How can that be? I hear you ask, well the reason is not what you think. The tap came off in the kitchen the one over the washing up sink  Stupid, stupid me!! I had nothing to do with killing an albatross yet here I am spending valuable time making up a poem about an absolute disaster in my own home. It was the thought of the boards shrinking that did it. Polished wood floors and water are not a recommended combination.  I have a flood Noah would not overcome spreading throughout every room. My spending time making up a poem makes what Nero did look blameless by comparison, although I suppose he could have found a use for the water. Christ only knows what Emily will say. We have only seen rain once in over seven or eight months, our tanks are borderline empty, yet I have a swimming pool in our kitchen. In my defense I will admit I am not a plumber. I do my best. I really thought I had refixed the tap securely. After all it was her idea to put the new washers in wasn’t it? The bloody tap wasn’t even dripping.  What was she thinking? “We are in drought,” she says, as if I didn’t know! ”If you replace all the washers now we won’t have any taps dripping and wasting water over summer.” Right! The last time I saw this much water in one place I was on The Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls. Where am I now? Outback Australia miles from the nearest plumber, knee deep in water in the only indoor swimming pool ever put in anyone’s kitchen. The tyranny of distance is only one enemy I have to do battle with out here on a daily basis. 20,000 acres of now barren country on Leech Creek off the Mulligan Road has fallen victim to a drought for the last seven years. Emily runs a close second. Have you noticed the cost of having water trucked in lately? Oh yes Emily will no doubt remind me, she will know down to the last cent. Perhaps I should bring a few head of cattle into the kitchen. At least they will get a drink. I’m not sure if the cat got out before Armageddon struck. That would just top it off wouldn’t it? A drowned cat, a drowned Emily’s favourite cat. She will kill me. At least the water has stopped rising, something positive at last. Oh shit, that probably means the effing tank is empty. She will definitely kill me. Amazing isn’t it? If we were having a flood caused by rain and the water was coming in from outside not only would we get our insurance payout but probably get disaster relief as well. I’m pretty sure flooding from the inside is not actually covered. In fact I don’t recall it being offered as an optional extra. Bloody insurance companies. None of this is helping. What have I got to deal with? One flooded kitchen with the water spreading rapidly through to other rooms, one detached tap somewhere under water after causing said flood, two empty water tanks and one possibly drowned cat. The last is not actually confirmed, so there is still hope. I can add to those items one wife whose sense of humour will surely be lacking, particularly if the cat is confirmed as collateral damage. Can cats swim? I know dogs can. Where is that bloody dog? I haven’t seen him since this disaster started. Could I blame it all on him? It certainly hasn’t rained cats and dogs out this way in my lifetime. Did it ever really rain cats and dogs? Probably not, although I do remember reading it rained fish somewhere a couple of years ago, Texas I think it was. None of which helps my current situation. Emily is away for another two days. That is two days in which I have to have this cleaned up. Not a hope in hell. Should I leave home? Probably my best option, certainly the safest if I value the rest of my life having the normal male accoutrements still attached. What did I just kick? Jesus, that’s where the tap went, it’s the bloody tap. Wait a minute, there is no sign of the O ring. It is missing. That was Emily’s job. “I’ll grease the new O ring and replace the old one on each tap.” I clearly remember her saying she would do it. She must have missed this one. It wasn’t the washer that caused the tap to come off after all. How good is that? Emily you are in deep shit. Happy days, I’m going to enjoy this. I think this is what is known as Karma Where is my bloody phone? I’m going to call her and tell her what she caused. No, oh no no no, definitely a bad move. That will give her time to make up an excuse. I’ll wait until she gets home. Hold on! I have to put the tap back on or the water will continue gushing when I get the tank refilled. If I do that Emily will not believe me when I tell her the O ring was missing. The water is going down, still no sign of the cat though. Think! How do I get the water back on and still have the tap as proof it wasn’t the washer that caused the problem? Is that thunder? It must be ages, well at least years, since I last heard that sound. Out here that normally means there will be a storm, nothing has been predicted though. Chance would be a fine thing. The Weather Bureau gets the predictions right about 80% of the time. I hope today is in the other 20%. The ground is as dry as a chip, except the bit around the house today of course. The dam is almost empty thanks to the ongoing drought. Five years now. No, it is at least seven if truth be told. Gee it has gone dark early hasn’t it? There might be a storm after all. Those clouds look decidedly ominous. What’s that noise on the roof? Bloody hell, that’s hail isn’t it? God it is loud, I cannot hear myself think. That is rain, really heavy rain. I would go outside and dance in the rain if I could open the door, there is something blocking it. Could it be the cat? Or the dog even. No, I’m sure it is the water. It needs to go down more. Ah there’s my phone, what is that message flashing?  FLOOD WARNING, PREPARE TO EVACUATE IF IN THE AREA BOUNDED BY LEACH CREEK AND MULLIGAN ROAD. CREEK RISING RAPIDLY. FURTHER HEAVY FALLS PREDICTED OVERNIGHT. If only I can find the cat and the dog!!! And of course the Insurance Policy. I do love Insurance companies.


So, I'm twenty-two and haven't shared a smooch, been on a date, or even held hands with anyone? Well, I'm the one and only Maisie May Jones. I have been too busy slaying at life! Or maybe I was waiting for the perfect moment to sweep someone off their feet (or for them to sweep me off mine). I'm a Texan from Corpus Christi - the land of beautiful beaches and overgrown cowtowns. Who needs a date when you can chill at the beach with a margarita and the sun on your face?

As a five-year-old, I fell in love with the art world and dreamed of becoming a famous artist someday. I spent years drawing, honing my skills, and expressing my imagination in sculptures. I set my sights on a master's program in France, known for its prestigious art schools and renowned artists. I spent months preparing my portfolio, pouring my heart and soul into my piece, hoping to catch the judges' attention and secure a coveted spot in the program.

One of my favorite local hangouts is the Cowboy Coffee Company. I enjoy sipping an espresso and chatting with my best friend, Sarah-Jane.  "Well, I'm feeling a bit down these days. I still haven't had my first kiss. Is it weird that I'm a late bloomer? " I asked Sarah-Jane, shrugging. Sarah-Jane replied, "Don't worry about it, Maisie. There's no timeline for these things. You'll find the right person at the right time."  "I hope so. I've been focusing so much on my art that I haven't put myself out there in the dating world." Sarah-Jane smiled, "Who wouldn't be smitten by someone who can sculpt like a master? If you were a character in a romantic movie, you would be the quirky, innocent protagonist that everyone is rooting for to find love. So, no, it's not weird at all! Keep being charming, and your moment will come soon enough." "Thanks, Sarah-Jane. You always know how to cheer me up. I'll keep chasing after my dreams; maybe love will come knocking on my door (or studio) sooner than I think!" "That's the spirit! You got this, girl," She said. Two months later, the letter finally arrived, and my heart pounded as I tore open the envelope with the results. I was jumping up and down at the news that I was accepted into the program for a year. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I had to take. Reality check: there was one problem—I didn't have the funds to make it happen. Determined, I spent the entire summer at a local diner, flipping burgers and bussing tables. I worked long hours and saved every penny. My perseverance paid off, and I'm headed to Paris. I plan to get my first kiss in the city of love and light. I decided to jump into the social media pool with a splash. Ah, the woes of online dating - the struggle to find the perfect photos that capture your true self. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Let's dive in, shall we?

First up, we have the classic headshot. Make sure your smile and eyes are the focus. Bonus points if you can make it look like you're not an awkward turtle in front of the camera. Practice some cheesy jokes or funny faces beforehand.

Next, we have the full-body shot. Show off that body type and style, but please, for the love of all that is good and holy, make sure it's clear and well-lit. No one wants to play a game of "Guess who's in the dark."

Now, onto the fun stuff—hobbies and interests. This is your chance to show off your adventurous side, your love for hiking, or your obsession with Bob Ross paintings. Whatever it may be, capture it in a photo that screams, "This is me."

Last but not least, we have the photo of our furry friend. Because who doesn't love an animal? It's a surefire way to make you look approachable and friendly. Plus, it's a great conversation starter. Ensure your pet is excellent in the spotlight—we don't want any diva cats or camera-shy dogs stealing the show.

After much thought and scrolling, I finally picked four images that best depict Maisie May Jones's Tinder story. The first image is a close headshot that shows Sarah-Jane and me laughing over an espresso. The second image portrays me in my element, seated and sculpting at my art table, with my hair tied up in a messy ponytail. The third image showcases my figure in a purple bikini, lounging on the beach with a cold beer. Finally, the fourth image features me riding my horse, Ziggy, in the fields at my grandmother's ranch, dressed in boots, blue jeans, and a Western shirt. So there you have it, my dear friends —a guide to choosing the perfect photos for your Tinder profile. Happy swiping! I stepped into my Parisian flat, drawn to the big windows allowing sunlight to stream in. Giselle Beauchamp, my roommate for the semester, walked in; I blanched when I saw how stunning she was. Her brunette hair was tied in a sleek bun, and her gorgeous dark eyes sparkled as she greeted me with a warm smile. She held an art palette in one hand, and the other dragged a heavy suitcase. I learned that Giselle was an incredibly talented painter who had won an art competition in New York. Her work was so impressive that it earned her a spot on the exchange student roster.  "Hi, I'm Giselle," she said, flashing a warm smile. "You must be my new roommate." "Yeah, I'm Maisie," I replied, slightly intimidated by her beauty. "It's nice to meet you." Giselle and I quickly hit it off. We spent the first few days exploring the city together, and I couldn't help but open up to her about my personal life. "I've never been kissed," I confessed one night while we were out for dinner. "What? Really?" Giselle exclaimed, surprised. "Well, we'll have to change that in the city of light!" I laughed nervously. "I don't know if that's possible. I always feel like people overlook me." "Don't be silly," Giselle said, shaking her head. "You just haven't met the right person yet. And Paris is the perfect place to do it. Look at us; we're both here in an exchange program. Anything can happen." I smiled, feeling a bit more hopeful. "I guess you're right. Maybe I can rewrite my story here." "That's the spirit," Giselle said, clinking her wine glass against mine. "And who knows, maybe I can play matchmaker and set you up with a cute French guy." I laughed, feeling grateful to have such a supportive roommate. "I would love that, but I don't know how to flirt!" "Don't worry about it," Giselle said. "I'll teach you everything you need to know. By the time we leave Paris, you'll be a pro." Our flat was located in an artsy part of the city, just off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The building was old and full of character, with creaky wooden floors and details that hinted at its rich history. It was the perfect place for two young artists to call home for the semester. My social media post today reads: Hey everyone! I made a bold decision to share something personal with you all. I am twenty-two and have never been kissed. But I am ready to change that fact! I have picked a date and a location - April 21st, 2024, at the Rodin Museum in Paris. I will be waiting in front of the sculpture of 'The Thinker' one hour before closing, wearing a pink rose in my hair. It would be amazing to have someone share this special moment with me. Hope to see you there! Strolling alone down the streets of Paris, I'm very self-conscious about my height. I tower over most people, making me feel like I don't fit in. I slump over to make myself appear smaller, but it never works. My thick, wavy red hair glides down my back, contrasting sharply against my extremely fair skin. My eyes, a striking blue, stand out even more against my pale complexion. Despite my insecurities, I can't help but feel a twinge of pride for my smile. It's my best feature. I usually wear clothes that blend in with the crowd, but today is different. I'm sporting a stylish new dress I bought for spring with a floral water lily theme. The blue, green, and purple print resembles a Monet painting, hopefully attracting my first kiss. After all, Monet was a good friend of Rodin, and I plan on meeting a beau willing to kiss me in front of The Thinker. Rodin the Sculpture Garden is a beautiful outdoor space. It features a stunning collection of artwork created by the renowned French artist Auguste Rodin, including some of his most famous works, The Thinker, The Gates of Hell, and The Burghers of Calais. The garden is designed to showcase the sculptures in a natural setting, with manicured paths, lush vegetation, and tranquil spaces. The sun was setting low in the sky, and the line to get inside was long, but I made it with ten minutes to spare. As I approached the statue, my heart picked up its pace. The Museum was busy with art lovers milling around the gardens and in the gallery. I did a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn on the spot in front of the statue, hoping to meet the man who wanted to kiss me. Was I too bold and brash in my post? Would no one come?

As I stood there waiting, the statue of the Thinker came to life and spoke to me in a deep, rumbling voice. "What brings you to the Museum today, my dear?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I was stunned by what I saw but managed to stammer out a response. "I-I'm here to see the new exhibit on modern art," I said, feeling a bit self-conscious under the scrutiny of the statue's gaze. The Thinker nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. It's quite interesting, isn't it?" he said. "But I must say, I find the classics much more fascinating. The works of Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and Botticelli are timeless." I couldn't help but smile at the Thinker's opinions on art. "I agree," I said. "There's something about the old masters that can't be replicated." I had more in common with a century-old statue than any real-life guy. The Thinker chuckled. "Indeed," he said. "But don't let me keep you. You don't want to miss the man you came for?" I was thinking of giving up hope, and I turned to leave; the Thinker's voice stopped me in my tracks. "But before you go, my dear, might I make a suggestion?" I turned back to face the statue, curious. "Of course," I said. "Why don't you take a moment to enjoy the beauty of this place?" the Thinker said, gesturing to the Museum's grand hall. Perhaps you'll find something even more captivating than the art." I raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure what the statue meant. "What do you mean?" I asked. The Thinker leaned forward slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "A young man is waiting for you just outside the museum," he said. "He's been waiting for quite some time. If I were you, I'd go kiss him." I felt my face flush with embarrassment at the statue's words and a sense of excitement. "How did you know about that?" I asked. The Thinker merely smiled enigmatically. "I know many things," he said. "But you should hurry. He looks like he's about to leave." With that, the statue fell silent again, leaving me to wonder at the strange encounter I'd just had. But I couldn't resist the urge to go outside and see if the Thinker's words were valid. And sure enough, a young man was waiting for me, looking nervous and hopeful. As I approached him, he smiled and held out his hand. "Hey, I'm Axel Dupont," he said. "I've been waiting for you." Axel is a couple of inches taller than me and ruggedly handsome with solid features. He has soulful brown eyes that draw me to him and a head full of messy brown hair that gives him a certain charm. I took his hand and smiled back, feeling a sense of adventure and possibility. "I'm Maisie," I said. "And I think we have a date with destiny." He grinned and replied, "Definitely. Siri, play Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer."

Siri complied, and the sweet melody filled the air. Axel pulled me close, and we danced under the milky twilight. He twirled me around and swung me in circles, and I felt like I was flying. As we danced, I imagined what it would be like to soar through the sky. "Do you ever wish we could fly?" I asked Axel. He chuckled. "I fly all the time; I'm a pilot. I'll take up one day soon on a sightseeing flight over Paris." Just then, he spun me around one more time and dipped me low, arching my back. My rose hair clip fell out and landed on the grass nearby. We both laughed as he helped me back up. "Looks like my friend Giselle's hairdressing skills couldn't quite withstand our dance moves," I joked. Our eyes locked, and my insides burned with heat. I giggled and leaned in for a long overdue kiss. It was time for me to experience the sweet embrace of another's lips. Axel's mouth was hot, sweet, and sexy all at once, just as I imagined it would be.

The Burghers of Callais looked at The Thinker in disbelief. "What are you talking about, mate? We don't care about redheads or Monet dresses. We're here to contemplate the meaning of life," said one of the Burghers. The Thinker chuckled. "Oh, lighten up! Life's not all about thinking. Sometimes, you have to take action. And let me tell you, that young man outside was taking too long to make his move. So, I took matters into my own hands and sent the redhead to meet him." The Burghers looked at each other and shook their heads. "You're crazy, mate," said another Burgher. "But did they kiss?" asked one of the Burghers, intrigued. The Thinker grinned. "Of course they did! I have a knack for matchmaking. And wow, that kiss was worth it. They both looked like they were on cloud nine." The Burghers laughed and went back to contemplating. "Well, we'll leave the matchmaking to you, mate. We have more important things to think about," said the first Burgher. The Thinker shrugged. "Suit yourselves. But you know who to call if you ever need help with your love life."


Thread of Destiny            I have always hated elevators. It goes without saying really that being suspended in a metal box in an open shaft gave me a distinct feeling of vertigo whenever I was inclined by social pressure to ride in the death traps. I hated the feeling of that little jerk right at the beginning when the cab first started to move and then the counting beeps that signified just how fast the floors were passing by. I hated the little bounce whenever someone got on or off. I hated the way the doors closed and gave that little warning to stand clear. And I hated the stuffy paneling and the little rubber dots on the floor. All an all I just hated elevators. It was a cloudless and sunny Wednesday afternoon, one of those days that made me long for just a blanket and a book in the park, but I had a job interview. The place had been on the 12 th floor of some indistinct high-rise that I actually drove past three times before I figured it were to park. I anxiously smoothed my wrinkled blouse and the smooth fabric of my skirt as I stood in line for the elevator. Twelve floors was just too many to walk up in heels. I clutched my resume close to my chest and tried to appear like I belonged here. I could see that I didn’t. The people swarming past me were too posh and aloof to be my sort of people. I knew this was going to be a waste of my time, but I was here already. I might as well just answer the questions that all the others had posed and then go home to drown my continuing failure in a bowl of instant mac and cheese. Don’t judge me. The door made that annoying chiming noise and I steeled myself to step inside with two other people, both of whom looked like they were applying for the same job I was. The woman was a smartly dressed brunette who looked older than I was with her pressed jacket and briefcase. She took the choice spot in the elevator right beside the buttons and close enough to the door to be the first one out. The man had a kinder face with lines drawn in to the corners of his eyes and hair that was just on this side of untidy. He offered me a small smile as I stepped in behind him and positioned myself against the opposite wall. His fingers were trembling slightly as he drummed them silently across his slightly shabbier briefcase. He looked uncomfortable in his tie and kept rolling his neck from side to side. The woman was not trying to hide her distasteful looks in his direction as the elevator starting up, counting the floors with sickening tones. I had my hand clenched into the fabric of my sweater, my fingers fiddling with the bottom button. I was ready for it to be over when everything starting shaking violently. The brunette started to scream and I was thrown to the ground. The man’s briefcase smacked my across the face and smashed open on the floor. Paper exploded around me and I threw up my arms. It stopped, the lights flickered once and died. “Damn.” The man swore into the blackness. His face was close to mine, his voice almost shouting in my ear. The woman was still screaming, her voice bouncing around in the pitch. “We’re going to die. Oh my god we are going to die!” “Will you shut up!” the man’s voice was harsh as he moved away from me and I managed to scramble backwards and put my back against the wall. The emergency lights flared up casting the scene into a hellish red glow. The man was standing now. There was a gash bleeding freely on his cheek. His eyes were wild. The elevator creaked disconcertingly and the brunette whimpered. Her hair had come loose and hung in lank strips around her face, she had her briefcase clutched tightly to her chest and was rocking back and forth slowly against the far wall. There were tears on her face. I watched the man stride to the emergency telephone and pull it out. He held the receiver to his mouth and spoke into it. “Hello?” I studied his face, blood was dripping onto his collar. He wiped at it absently as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line. “Yes. Three are three of us. We are trapped in the elevator. The power is out.” A pause and he frowned. My head was throbbing where the briefcase had impacted my temple. The elevator groaned again and the brunette whimpered louder, rocking harder. “I understand.” His voice was clipped as he hung up the phone. He set it back in its cradle and turned to look at us. “Well it’s going to be a while. That earthquake was a 5.8, there is a lot of power lines down and a couple of buildings collapsed. Turns out we’re lucky not to be squashed right now.” He slide down the doors. “I’m Garett by the way.” “Morta.” I said holding out my hand. We shook hands. The brunette sniffled, “Kayla.” We sat in silence for a while then. “So were you both here for the job?” I asked. Kayla just jerked her head, but Garett laughed. “Funny isn’t it? I woke up this morning thinking that I’d do this one thing and then go back to playing catch-up on the yardwork my wife keeps nagging me about. In today’s economy when they bite you yank the line taught. They say jump you say how high.” His laugh turned bitter. “Here we are three strangers bound by circumstance to be adversaries, hung in a metal box by a thread. I think there has to be a pun about destiny in there somewhere.” “I don’t believe in destiny.” Kayla tossed her hair. “No? Why not?” I asked. “Well its stupid isn’t it? To think that your life is preordained or whatever. Stuff happens because of action and reaction. People do things because other things happened to them.” I brushed my own hair out of my face as Garett turned thoughtful, “In college I had a professor who swore up and down that the reason people believed or didn’t believe in destiny was because they wanted someone to blame for how very ordinary their lives were. The man who believed in destiny thought surely that if he were designed for greatness then he would be great. The man who considered his own fate thought that surely if he wanted to be great there was nothing stopping him.” I snorted, “They were lazy you mean.” Garett’s eyes sparked and a smile quirked his lips, “Perhaps.” The elevator creaked again and the emergency light winked for just a moment. Kayla was picking at her fake nails compulsively and I shifted my legs to keep them from falling asleep. “Do you really think that we were all meant to be here today?” I asked suddenly. Garett looked up from his fingers. “Did you really think you had a good shot of getting his job?” I flinched as his words stung me. “I…well…” Garett waved me off, “It’s like I said before when they call you, you show up. It really doesn’t matter what the job is as long as it pays well enough and come with health insurance. Can you honestly tell me that you would rather come to an office every day and work for someone who barely remembers your name for the next thirty years until you retire and realize that you wasted the best years of your life making someone else money.” “Why are you so bitter? No one is making you apply for this stuff.” Kayla smarted. Garett sighed, “Really? Let me ask you something, if you said to your landlord that you weren’t going to pay rent because you didn’t have a job, do you think he’d be okay with that.” “No, but…” “It isn’t that there is someone who makes you work for someone else, it’s that you make yourself do it because you know that the consequences of not doing it are harder to bare.” “So where does destiny come in?” I asked sitting up straighter. “Ah destiny. When we think of destiny we think some grand adventure or heroic actions. We think that people with destinies will be great, but I pose to you the question of why? Why should all destiny be grand, wouldn’t it be better served to say that most destinies are quiet and subtle. There are hundreds of workers and only one queen, every society works like that. If we were all great then nothing would actually get done.” “You’re saying that we are destined to be no one?” I picked at a loose thread on my pants and Garett pointed a finger at me. “Got it on the first try.” He ran his hands through his hair and glanced towards the phone again as the elevator creaked more loudly. “Then what’s the point in saying you have a destiny at all?” I argued, “if we are all just meant to be no one.” Garett shrugged, “Who knows maybe you’d turn out to be the queen.” The elevator screeched loudly and slid down a few inches. Kayla started to mutter a prayer under her breath. “Somehow I doubt it.” I murmured. I could see the fear on Garett’s face as he offered me a smile. I just felt numb. The throbbing in my head had stopped and I could hear every heartbeat and every whoosh of breath that came and went into and out of my lungs. “I heard this story once about the three fates.” Garett started, “It was Greek I think. Anyway the story goes that the first fate is the one who gives you life and starts you on your path, the middle one measures the length and the third…” “Cuts the cord.” I finished and we stared into each other’s eyes. I reached into the pocket of my sweater and pulled out a pair of scissors. The cable sang as it snapped. The climb to heaven is long and hard, the fall to hell is swift and easy.


The farmer that picks me up notices immediately that I am a foreigner. Though my long, hooded cloak is nondescript, his careful eye lingers on the fine embroidery of my long-sleeved shirt, the glint of metal beneath it. He says nothing about what he sees or assumes; I see him eyeing the space beneath his legs and surmise that there is a weapon there. Nearly an hour passes without him speaking to me. “Is this your first time traveling through Avern lands, madam?” he asks, not turning around. The cart carries us over a large stone in the road. I brace against the farmer’s boxed goods. “Yes,” I said. “Traveling further than Athant?” he inquires. The mare, a large, bay draft horse, plods on, swishing its tail at flies. The day is just heating up, and the horse will be happy to stop for water soon. I have been hearing the trickling sounds of a stream. “I may be,” I reply shortly. Then, because there is a chance he has the information I need, I go further. “I’m looking for someone. A wizard by the name of Hyto. Have you heard of him?” The farmer turns to look at me, assessing me openly. His eyes fall on the armor breastplate hidden beneath my shirt, and he sighs. He doesn’t know that the armor is secondhand. I had plucked it from a fallen foe. It was intact despite the many times I struck him. Oddly, it fits my form perfectly. “Aye, lady, I do know of him.” I lean forward, keenly interested. The next part of my adventure is about to unfold. “Do you know where I can find him?” The farmer purses his lips, considers what details he should let slip. I have already given him a golden piece for this ride, and I consider giving him a second. But he shrugs to himself and speaks. “I cannot in good faith fail to warn you: the Wizard Hyto claimed residence in the hills to the west of Athant months ago. Since then, it is rumored that he preys on the city’s children, grinding their bones for his spells. You aren’t the first would-be hero passing through here. Would be a shame to die as the others did.” He returns his gaze to his horse’s ears and the road beyond. “Why do you warn me?” I ask. “I’d heard for every hero he slays, he spares a child.” “He spares neither child nor adult,” the farmer replies bitterly, spitting off the left side of the cart. “Would be a pity to die for nothing. Brave you may be, and talented, but no man or woman has killed him yet, nor gotten close.” The road ahead curves to the left around a lake. The sound of a stream gets louder, and I see the source – a bubbling brook that feeds into the otherwise vast and placid lake. The farmer utters a word to the horse, and we pull off to the side and come to a stop beneath the shelter of a tall oak tree near the edge of the lake. I get out and wordlessly help the farmer release his horse from the cart. He walks her to a small pine tree and loosely ties her to the trunk so that she can drink from the stream and graze among the shore grass and undergrowth. Milling around, I discover a small box near the shore. I remove my hand-ax from its leather straps at my side and hack open the wooden frame. Inside, I find apples, cheese, and bread, as well as a rare healing potion. One can never have too many healing potions (the capacity to store them is problematic, though), so I slip the potion into my bag. “Here,” I say, my arms full of goods. “Let’s have lunch while your horse rests.” The farmer nods, and we both sit beneath the oak tree. The farmer doesn’t thank me and we both dig into the food in near-silence. There are so many boxes with food and goods in the countryside, it’s a wonder anyone starves. Birds take flight across the lake, their chirps and squawks the only sound beyond chewing. “These are the days of rumor,” the farmer says, swallowing a piece of bread. “Rumors of wizards and wild magic. Rumors of prophecies being fulfilled in these dire times. How is a person to know truth from rumor?” I say nothing, so he continues. “Rumor has it the great beast Nevive has been seen again after generations. Rumor has it that these are end times – fire and famine and drought afflict every known land. But rumor also has it that there is someone who can fight, who can save us. A man doesn’t know what to believe.” The farmer looks at his hands, strong, calloused hands, and wipes the crumbs on his pant leg. I am about to response to his strange speech when the first arrow hits the trunk above our heads. “We’re under attack!” I scream. We both take cover in the slope of the shore, and the mare whinnies in fear and pulls at her rope as more arrows descend. “In the tree line running along the shore!” the farmer screams. He’s right – and has a spotter’s tact for it. I file this information away for later and draw a bow from my back. It snaps into the right shape and I’ve already loosed two arrows when the farmer runs ahead, toward the tree line. “Come on,” he shouts. “We have to expose their cover or we’ll never be rid of them.” Without confirmation from me, he continues darting, sometimes crawling, up the shoreline. I follow closely until I can see the first of them – brigands, by their mismatched style of clothing. I draw out an arrow, aim, and fire – but the brigand isn’t stopped by the blow. With the arrow in his shoulder, he runs toward us, screaming. The farmer stabs him once, then again, with a large dagger. So that’s what his hidden weapon had been back at the cart. Another brigand comes screaming out after her companion. She doesn’t seem to see him, dead on the ground, and stomps on him. The crossbow in her hand is replaced with a dagger, fierce and jagged, and she engages me. I pull out my ax and swing it toward her. It hits her in the arm, and I swing again, and again, until she has fallen in a pool of blood. The farmer looks at me and nods, his dagger still raised. I am bending down to see if there is anything of interest on the brigands’ bodies when a loud roar and shuffling sound comes from deeper in the copse of trees the brigands had staged their attack from. The farmer and I don’t have to wait long to see the source of the horrific noise – a beast with grey fur and black scales emerges from the forest, its dried-blood-brown eyes wetly taking us in before charging. I keep the ax ready in my right hand, and with my left fumble for a potion. My fingers alight on the right one. I toss the brown glass container at the beast precisely at a moment it shrieks so loudly I think my ears will burst. The farmer cowers, his dagger over his head. For a minute, I worry about the potion – was it strong enough? Will it kill the monstrosity before it can sink its teeth into my soft flesh? But then the beast howls, this time in pain, and begins to bubble. It falls to its knees, if the twisted knobs beneath its scales can be called that, and its breath rattles and slows. It dies quickly. I peer at the creature, not knowing if there is anything salvageable beneath its stinking hide. “You killed a craycaw,” says the farmer breathlessly beside me. He is wheezing every couple of breaths. “Can I sell the teeth? Does the blood have any magical properties?” I query him. “The teeth were once used in spells,” he replies, catching his breath. “But no one has killed a craycaw in generations.” The farmer looks at me with a new respect, then realizes I have caught him staring. He buckles to his knees and lowers his head. In an instant, I gather the craycaw’s teeth and secure them in my bag. It is none the heavier, despite each tooth being as large as my fist. "My lady," he says in a low tone. “I can see you are made of sterner, rarer stuff than I had thought." “You managed yourself well in the heat of the fight,” I reply, pleased at his obeisance. “I assume you have some training? Strange for a farmer, but these are strange times, as you’ve said.” He chuckles as he lifts himself to a standing position. “In my younger years, yes. And although I told you I am a farmer, I lied. I am Earl of these Avern lands, and I make it my business to meet and monitor any strangers or strange things traversing my land. But none are stranger than you – prophecy brought to life.” He is looking at me again, his eyes soft like one who has seen a miracle. “Which prophecy?” I ask, knowing the main one I’m supposed to be the incarnation of – the Widow Goddess, who rights the balance against evil and remakes the five territories. I’ve had that one lobbed at me by nobles and peasants alike since slaying the dragon that was menacing Tyriac. “A family legend,” he says smiling. “Of a shining lady who would save the last true heir to the throne of Athant from Nevive, a craycaw.” He bowed at the waist. “I am the last true heir. I have no children.” He doesn't explain why he is Earl, and not King, and I don't ask. Better to not get sidetracked from my mission. “Lady,” he continues. “I have an heirloom to bestow upon you, now that I can see you were destined to cross my path. Perhaps you are destined, then, to slay the wizard, and begin eliminating the great evils that have crept up from each craw and crevice of the five territories.” He pulls a necklace, a ruby encased in silver hung from a thick silvery chain. “This is the Heart of Bastow,” he proclaims. “It will protect you from fire. You will need it to kill the wizard.” He hands the necklace to me. I put it around my neck, liking the thudding sound it makes when it strikes my armor. I pull out a list and check off “Obtain Heart of Bastow”. It’s the last thing I need to do before accepting the bounty the King of Athant had secretly placed on the wizard’s head. *** A shiver goes through me as we cross into Athant. The sounds of the city are immediate and nearly overwhelming as the Earl pulls into building with a small courtyard. “My sister’s place,” he explains, then turns and enters the front door. Inside, the sounds of drinking and eating prevail over the lonely notes of a harp. The Earl’s sister had called a conference of the area’s top merchants earlier in the day, and they gamble, eat, and drink at her expense now. Much business had been settled earlier, she explains to us as we find a seat at one of the tables. I wander around, listening in on the merchants’ conversations. Finding a leather merchant at the end of our table, I discover he happens to have a steel-reinforced pair of boots for sale that are exactly my size. I purchase them and move on to the next merchant – a woman with a small, button nose, and big purple eyes that mark her as an apothecary of the magical sort. She agrees to sell me a firebolt spell and a potion that will heal wizard’s shock. Remarkable to find both here in the city beneath the wizard’s lair. When I am done buying from the merchants, the fire grows dim. I am shown to my bed, and I sleep deeply and dreamlessly. The Earl’s sister wakes me in the middle of the night. Thunder rumbles, and lightning casts pale strips of light on her face through the window. “I know what you’re here to do,” she says. “The time is now – the wizard is out of his tower and seeking children. Go now to his tower and lie in wait. Attack him when he returns. It’s your only chance.” I had fallen asleep completely clothed and armored, as I always do, so I run immediately from the household. Skirting a square, I notice the source of the lightning – Hyto is using it to attack a house. He stands some seven feet tall, and his face is lit with the fury of the storm. He doesn’t see me as I wind my way through the side of the square and creep up into the foothills. It isn’t long before I find the tower, and in fact a sign announces its name to me: Hyto’s Tower. I sneak into the unlocked front door and climb up two narrow sets of stairs. At the tower’s top, I find Hyto’s laboratory – the remnants of charred bone are scattered on a long table, and potions are secured behind a locked, framed-glass cabinet. I hear Hyto arrive behind me, clamoring for the stolen children to climb the steps, and I prepare my firebolt spell. The children – a boy and a girl – ascend the stairs before he does. They see me and somehow understand what is about to happen – they dash for cover behind a table in the far side of the room. Hyto enters the room next, and the onslaught begins. I throw a firebolt at him, and he returns with wizard’s fire. The necklace protects me from the fire, but not from what comes next: a blast of ice so cold, I feel my bones begin to warp. Stifling a scream, I cast another firebolt at him as I take a healing potion. Momentarily relieved, I hack at him with my ax, but this doesn’t damage him much. He rounds on me casting ice again, and I suffer. I dig in my bag for my last healing potion and drink it – casting fire, and then tossing poison at him. A purple cloud surrounds him. The poison is doing its work, but not fast enough. He casts the ice at me again, and this time, I have no more healing potion. My bones warp, then snap, and he howls in victory, even as the poison eats his skin from his face. My last image is of his ghastly eyes, the lids torn away, and his howling laughter. I am restored at the entrance to Athant. The Earl pulls his horse up to his sister’s house and hops heavily out of the cart. “My sister’s place,” he explains. I will get another chance to slay the wizard Hyto. I am the prophesied Widow Goddess, and I will fulfill my mission, no matter how many deaths it takes me.


This is a true story. I have not done this on an island yet, but the story is true. Trigger Warning: Suicide (not graphic) The moonlight showed the way as I guided the little boat to the beach. I stepped out and was surprised – the water was warm. I guess I expected it to be cold this time of year. I dragged the boat up on the sand and walked in a streak of light along the water’s edge. This is as good a place as any . I dropped down and took a long breath. The salt air felt so different in my Texas lungs. I opened the backpack, fished for my phone and turned it on, instinctively looking at how many bars I had. I’m on an island in the middle of nowhere! I laughed. Even out here, it’s a reflex. The breeze rode the waves to the beach, brushed my cheek, and danced across the palms with a whisper. I heard her name – CONNIE – and I shuddered. Maybe that was the wind. Maybe more. There certainly had been more on other occasions. I took another breath and emptied the rest of the pack – Bluetooth speaker, two silver dollars, a can of diet Coke, a pint of whiskey, and a .22 caliber pistol. I paired the speaker, closed my eyes, and let Chris Cornell rip my heart out with Say Hello to Heaven . The last note faded, giving my soul one final tug. I turned off the phone and speaker to save the batteries. “Don’t be wasteful”, she always told me. I held up the diet Coke. Cheers . God, it was awful! I never understood why she loved it so much. It was probably her favorite thing in life. When I had to identify the body, there were cases of that horrible stuff stacked in the corner. The rest of the soda ended up on the sand. I smiled a little, I actually feel sorry for the sand! I picked up a silver dollar. Its features were worn almost smooth. She gave it to me when I was ten. The date on it was 1966, the year I was born. “It will bring you luck.” I shook my head. The jury is still out on that . The other dollar, a 2001, was in better shape. I turned it over and over in my hands. The year my daughter was born . I tossed it into the water. The year my mother died . She planned it. I took my daughter to visit when she was first born. She waited to meet her granddaughter first, and now I mark the years since it happened by how many birthdays my girl has celebrated. I twisted the cap on the whiskey bottle. It made a loud crack that startled me. So quiet . She never had much quiet. Her demons were always there, but no one really understood it back then. I took a long pull. It burned and made me close my eyes tight. I held on to that small moment of darkness. Just like I did all those times before. Hiding from what was really happening to her . I sniffed the whiskey and shuddered. I took another drink. What a strong smell! That’s what I thought when I first walked into her little apartment. The officer said it had been a few days. The gun was not as heavy as I remember. Even though I was warm on the beach, it felt ice cold in my hand. I held it to my temple, pressing hard. The metal almost bore into my skull. Was this what it felt like? I stood. Is this the year I toss it away? I shook my head, sat back down and began carefully packing up all the items. I thought back to the day I got the backpack – three days after my mother used that pistol. ***** I drove around the city just trying to get away from what was happening and ended up in a neighborhood looking at a house we lived in when I was five years old. I couldn’t recall driving there. Across the street was an abandoned restaurant. Some kind of pancake place I think . I saw a woman huddled in a blanket against the brick wall. I pulled my truck into the old lot and got out. Never stopped to talk to a homeless person in my life . She started a little as I approached, “Ain’t breaking no law!” I backed off and held up my hands. She was so skinny . “This is my stuff! Ain’t yours!” “Hi.” I felt a little dumb. I had no idea what to say to her. “Uh, you OK?” “Fine.” I nodded, “You hungry? Do you need anything?” To this day, I have no idea why I stopped. “Always hungry. You got money?” She held her hand out. I dug in my pocket. “Sure.” I handed her a twenty. She nodded and wrapped herself back up in the blanket. I just stood there. “You need something?” she asked through a tiny opening around her face. “Well,” I dug in my pocket again, “do you know it’s Thanksgiving?” She just stared at me. I looked at the bills in my hand. I had seventy-three dollars. “Here, Happy Thanksgiving.” I placed the bills on the concrete in front of her. "Didn't know you get presents for Thanksgiving." She slowly picked the money up and pointed to an old backpack. “Let me give you a present.” I hesitated and she pointed again, “Go on, you can use it.” I nodded and picked up the backpack. It was dirty with grease and had holes in a few places. One strap was gone. “Thanks,” I told her. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I turned and headed to the truck. When I got inside, I unzipped the pack. I remember I was shaking when I looked . An empty diet Coke can. I opened the window and looked at the woman. “It’s not your fault.” “What?” I got out and walked back to her. “She said it’s not your fault." I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I stammered, “Y-You too.” I never found that woman again, and nobody ever believes me when I tell them! ***** I loaded my backpack in the boat and pushed off. As I headed away, I stared up at the stars. Maybe next year I will do Thanksgiving somewhere up north. Might keep that nasty diet Coke a little colder.


The desert noonday sun is a brutal master. It demands every ounce of energy and returns nothing–no trees, no shade, no life. Here in the Dunes of Duranan it is relentless. It is a far cry from the icy shores of Agária from whence I hail, but such a journey is necessary if the knowledge I seek can be found hither.

For any who should read these words, allow me to expound upon my quest. My name is Émata, scribe of the Dianoa, and student of wisdom. I was raised in the finest learning institutes the northern kingdom of Aglia has to offer, and for thirty-two years I have voraciously studied every book and scroll it contained. However, as I have advanced in age, I see that the Dianoa are not the lovers of wisdom they once were, but instead have fallen prey to their own haughtiness and pride. Their scrolls have many words but contain little.

Three years ago, I departed from the port town of Agária and sailed south to the kingdom of Ûskal. Though they have been ravaged by war for generation upon generation, still a few keen minds can be found there, and I studied with my brothers and sisters in the humble abodes of the Western Woodlands. It was during this time that I discovered a tale which had all but disappeared from the world. Ages before now, when the seven kingdoms of Helorím were one, a great library stood in the center of the king's castle. Books and scrolls were piled on top of one another endlessly. It was rumored that the first king of Aglia, Pagoma, once roamed those halls and read those parchments. Known throughout the ages as the Wise Hand of the King, Pagoma is considered one of the most brilliant minds to ever have existed, and such a collection of parchments would have most certainly forged such a mind. However, since the fall of the High Mountain a thousand years ago, the desert upon which the castle and the surrounding city of Tévos stands has slowly expanded and invaded, burying the castle and its contents. The thought of such great knowledge being lost to the sands of time stirred within me a passion I have not felt in many years, and that passion fuels my quest. Ten days ago, I set out from the kingdom capital of Eftos and sailed to Khadûm, the westernmost city of the desert lands I now traverse. I will write to you at another time of the wonders of Khadûm, known as the Cliffside City, for it was hewn from the sheer escarpment by Earth Movers long ago, and such a magnificent sight requires its own parchment. What I can say is that since the beginning of the Second Age, as the desert has swallowed up the land, these two cities have become even more isolated, and my ears heard whispers of secession in the cliffs. This ever-expanding desert is where I travel now. The Dunes are all but behind me, and I only pray that my water and provisions last until I can reach the once great capital city of Tévos. I arrived at the western wall just as the sun peered over the eastern horizon. My shadow fell far behind me, and I saw the crumbling, white stone melting into the unforgiving desert. The once pristine masonry was cracked and afflicted by a black disease, and the wall, once towering above the sands, is now no more than the height of two men. Though I knew this place not, tales of the might of Tévos and its King have spread far and wide for generation upon generation.

As I entered the city, the dunes gave way to long abandoned buildings of sandstone and clay, their wooden frames eaten away by bitter sandstorms. A cistern, once used by the locals for drawing water, had been filled in by the desert. My sandals crunched against the sandy cobblestone streets as the wind thrust my headdress about. Not a soul could be found there. Around midday I began to see signs of life in the city, and before long I came to the market square. Even this place was empty. I have seen the markets of Eftos where the Money Masters count their coin, and they bustle all hours, day and night. Here in the desert, however, the shops open late and close early. Goods are bartered, often for labor, and the currency is reputation. It is difficult to believe that this city was once the great capital of Ainíos, that long-forgotten kingdom where the peoples of Helorím were one.

It was there in the markets I came across a woman, kind and generous, and quite pregnant, who offered to let me stay at her home while I searched for the lost library. She lived alone with her sister and had never been married. When I asked if I would bring dishonor on her for staying in their house, she said that dishonor already lay on her head, for she had never been known by another. It was obvious that her reputational currency had been used up. She told me of her sojourning from the eastern mountain province where her family had lived for generations here to the land of her ancestors. A strange man had come to visit her there in the bosom of the mountains, telling her to travel west to the kingdom of Bahar, where she would bear a son. When I asked about the man, all she could say was that he had been struck blind but saw more than the keenest of eyes. As for the child, she had kept him a secret as best she could, for there were people who would take him from her if they knew his true heritage. When she told me this, I knew whom it was she carried, for the writings of the Prophets spoke of such a child called the Son of the Earth. This I kept hidden from her, but you, my reader, should know. From there I traveled north through the city to where the citadel of the old castle stood. It was pure, gray stone, strong and everlasting. White stone and marble lay around it as the sands devoured the mason’s handiwork. I came across what was once a courtyard where a large, crumbling throne, hewn from the rock, stood in its center. I climbed and clambered over the fallen stone and shifting sands until I came to an entrance, once barred with a large door of oak, now open to the elements.

Hazy light poured in from the apertures of that narrow hall. A crimson rug stretched along the dust-covered floor and a few iron lanterns hung unlit along the wall. I proceeded further in utter silence until I came upon a great opening. It was a large room of fallen marble and white stone, for its ceiling and walls had collapsed in on themselves. I clambered over them and looked to my left, seeing a massive set of gray, wooden doors the height of ten men. I approached them, wondering if they were real. Such a material was only known to grow in a forest on a far-off island, now untouched by man. Running my hands along the wood grain, I felt an immense power emanate from them. It was true; these doors were made of Ironwood from the Isle of Tasak and had been imbued with a great magic. They are impenetrable; I did not attempt to open them.

As it was, my search for the library proved unfruitful the first and second days. However, on the third I approached the castle from the east instead of the south. When I did so, I saw the tip of a great spire, colored like the walls of the city, her slanted roof and exposed arches protruding from the looming sands. As you may know, the Wise Hand of the King was an avid seafarer and charted the stars. Before the age of the compass, he devised a way to traverse the seas at night when the great lights were hidden. Thus, I concluded, such a man would have spent many nights close to the heavens. I tightened my satchel and head covering, preparing to traverse the dunes which had accumulated above the castle. Once inside, a long, spiraling staircase lead me down into the dark belly of the citadel. As soft light poured in from above, I was elated at what my eyes could see. There, on the threshold of the darkness, were rows upon rows of shelves lined with books, parchments, and scrolls. I had found Pagoma’s Library! For hours I perused the contents with lantern in hand, stashing in my bag scrolls and books that I wished to study further. It was then that I heard a shifting behind me. I turned and saw an old man, dressed in a white robe adorned with gold, and a frosted beard which stretched down to his bosom. His face was pale and thin, but he spoke with authority. “What are you doing in my library?” he asked.

I stuttered for a moment, for my heart was terrified beyond my comprehension. All I could mutter was, “King Pagoma?” The man scowled. “Fool! This library does not belong to Pagoma, for it was I who built it and who filled its halls with wisdom!” I dropped my belongings and fell face down on the floor. “Who are you, King?” I asked tepidly, though I knew his answer before it was uttered. “I am Amo, King of Bahar, King of Ainíos, the Greatest of Ancients,” he thundered. “I drew Helorím from the waters and raised Tur-Gadal to its great heights in the days before man. I am the everlasting Light which resides within all. Now, stand up, Émata, and remove your sandals!” I did as I was told and kept my eyes to the earth, for they did not deserve to gaze upon such glory.

“The time is upon us," he said. "You were called here to carry out my will, thus I beseech you listen and heed what I am about to say.”

His words seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, and inexplicably I began to weep. “Tell me, my King.” “You will depart from this place the same as you entered. Nothing shall leave which was at rest here, and you will go into the city and declare what I am about to tell you. The King of Bahar is dead. Darkness is coming, and from the east the Son shall rise. Say these things just as I have told you, and the end of this age shall begin.” He stretched out his hand to me and caressed my face, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “My son, you have sought true wisdom, which is why I revealed myself to you. Take heart and have faith. Light will soon return to this world.” As he said this, his body turn to luminescent dust, like a million stars floating off into the ether. I left that place, leaving behind the scrolls and parchments just as he requested.

Sand dried to my cheeks as I descended the dunes and returned to the home of the woman. She had gone into labor in my absence, and her sister stood over her as she held her son. I told her what I had seen in the library, and she smiled; it was just as the blind man had said. She would need to travel east soon, for word of the King’s death would spread quickly.

I packed my belongings and prepared to travel to the other kingdoms spreading this news. Before departing I turned to her and asked the child’s name. “Celorím,” she replied. “Servant of the Earth.” I smiled. Truly, this is the child who would bring Light back to Helorím.


Dear future me, Hopefully, you are reading this. The way life is going right now, I'm scared you may have already made your own peace. Today was hard. Not in the sense that anything particularly bad happened, but rather that the weight of life felt heavier. Maybe it is always this heavy, but my awareness was more acute. Either way, the burden I carry which normally only constitutes a minor inconvenience, today threatened to crush me. The simplest task, like getting out of bed, was a mountain that required the full force of my will to climb. Smiling was beyond me. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I would be awake in time to exercise. As for applying myself at work? Out of the question. How could I focus on any of those things when I needed every ounce of my energy to keep from sinking into a pit of existential dread? From the moment I left the safety of my dreams, the haunting began. Regretful memories swarmed me like so many mosquitos on a summer day. Whispers of self-doubt ceaselessly attacked me, meticulously aimed needles that pierced the chinks of insecurity in my suit of ego armor. “You’re a fraud.” “You’re all alone.” “No one loves you.” “You don’t even love yourself.” Why do I have these thoughts? Is this how I really feel? Is my psyche trying to tell me something? When I really look inward, I know the answers. I know important questions are begging to be asked, but I bury them. I know I have certain truths that scream to be heard, but I stifle them. Here, with you, I will share some of these thoughts and questions for the first time. I’m disappointed with my life. How did I end up working a job that means nothing to me? Why am I so uninspired? What am I passionate about? I guess I am writing to you in hopes to answer these questions. Or at least, to pose the questions. Maybe asking the questions will drive me to find the answers. I know I said I was scared you made your peace, but to be honest, days like today make me feel less scared. Instead, scary in its own way, the idea of peace starts to sound welcoming. Like when you come home from a week of camp and your mom is waiting for you with her arms outstretched and ready to engulf you in a loving embrace. No worries or stress or disappointments or regrets. Just love and peace. God, I miss you, mom. I could see you again. I wouldn't have to bear the weight of missing you anymore. I wouldn't have to shoulder the pain of everyone I have lost or suffer the guilt from everyone I have hurt. I could escape my ocean of negative karma. Put an end to the constant waves crashing against me. Escape the torrent of "remember what you did?" or "who could ever love you” or “you are not enough” that is slowly eroding my will to live. No difficult questions to consider, no impending life changes. Peace. Would this really be peace or is that another lie? I know these feelings are opportunistic. I know they lurk in the shadows, patiently building their strength and waiting for a particularly bad day to strike. So even now, as I write this, I am forcing myself to wonder what could be. Will the answers to these questions drive this nagging emptiness away? Does my past or my present define my future? Or can the future be brighter? I must admit, this question stirred emotion deep in my chest. As if the core of my being is answering the question for me. “Yes! it doesn’t have to be this way!” I think the feeling is excitement. No. Excitement is there, but that isn’t all. There’s a light feeling beaming from my heart. I can distinctly feel it and the more I feel it, the more it grows. I feel lighter. I feel physically lighter. Hold on, I need to move. Wow! The tension from my shoulders and neck has melted away and I have more of a bounce in my step. I can breathe. The crushing weight I felt all day has been lifted. But that isn’t all. I don’t just feel physically different. There’s something else that’s harder to explain. Like my attitude has shifted. I think I know how to describe it! I feel brighter. Hopeful. And as I acknowledge it, I feel the excitement spread from my chest down to my toes and up through my head. I thought this was impossible today, but I’m smiling. From ear to ear, I’m smiling. This hope is too much for just me so I will share it here with you. Hopefully, you are reading this. Hopefully, you have already made your own peace. Hopefully, you found your purpose and your passions. Hopefully, you forgave everyone who hurt you. Hopefully, you learned to love yourself. I hope and I pray that you broke free of the cycle of pain. That you were able to escape the web of lies the world spun around you and especially those that you whisper to yourself. Have you found a way to stop carrying the doubts, lies, disappointments, and failures? Please tell me you’ve learned to speak your truth. Writing to you has helped immensely. I’m sorry if this seems like a lot of pressure on you, but don’t worry, you won’t do this alone. Just as you’ve shared my burden, I’ll share yours. I promise not to leave finding all these answers up to you. I promise, despite the pain and the doubts, I will push forward and forge a path for you. I will search for answers to these questions, and I will make whatever changes are necessary for us to find meaning. Even if it’s difficult. So we can have peace. Hopefully, you are reading this, Hopeful me


It was the weekend before Valentine’s Day in 2002.

The country was still in mourning over the events of 9/11.

The new security protocols at the airport were frightening but necessary.

One week before taking a flight to spend the weekend with my husband, I had a vivid dream.

I don’t read too much into dreams, but because of the state of the country and my personal situation of my husband being deployed stateside, I was on high alert.

In the dream, I was at the airport and missed the flight I should have taken.

As I watched my plane take off, I immediately saw the plane crash and burn.

In my dream, I saw parts of the plane burning.

I didn’t see any survivors and I realized in this dream that I could have been on that plane.

I immediately woke up from this dream remembering it vividly and then questioning if I should continue with my flight plans.

When I spoke with my husband the following night (we had to talk late at night because of the time zone difference and it was cheaper to talk at night even on the cellphone during this time).

He told me if I didn’t feel comfortable, don’t get on the plane.

We heard stories about people who missed their flight on 9/11 for some bizarre reason, how some people in New York didn’t go to work in one of the offices in the Twin Towers, or how people took an alternate route to work.  These people showed gratitude in interviews for the small change in their schedule and how this saved their lives.  I was dealing with a major conflict.

Do I get on a flight that can alter (or end) my life so that I can spend time with my husband?

Do I stay and let fear make my decisions?

 Thankful I had a Pastor to pray with me and for me, I attended church the Sunday morning before leaving for my flight.

I went to the altar for prayers after the service.

I didn’t tell my Pastor about my dream, but I told him that I was going to see my husband. I wanted him to agree that I would have a safe flight.

He did and at the end of my prayer, he told me to tell my husband hello and to enjoy my time with him (my husband grew up in this church, so my Pastor has known him since he was 9 years old).

 I made a decision out of faith, not out of fear.

My parents drove me to the airport, and I kissed my only son at that time goodbye and entered the airport.

As I took a deep inhale of fresh air, I cautiously stepped into the airport.

The tension in the airport terminal was palpable.

The security measures enacted to prevent another terrorist strike were a necessary evil.

As I entered through the metal detectors, I shivered at the coldness of this air-conditioned building and the coldness of the security process. After I exited the metal detectors, I was told to take off my shoes.

What?

I didn’t question verbally but just compiled so I would not be detained any longer and miss my flight.

This was a new security protocol implemented to ensure airplane security.

Another hurdle to overcome is what I thought as I quickly took off my shoes without taking the time to untie them.

I scooped them up and placed them on the counter for the TSA Security guard to inspect.

After my shoes passed inspection, I began to put my shoes back on my feet when I was told to head to the right.

What now?

Another security protocol has the computer select random passengers to closer security scrutiny.

I’m taken to the other line in which I have to empty my pockets and have a female security guard use the metal detector wand to go over my clothed body for extra protection.

I watched once again as my carry-on bag had its items searched by the hands of strangers.

I was really rethinking the trip.

However, at this point, I would look suspicious if I decided not to continue. All the hoops I have jumped through to get on the plane would be for nothing if I decided to cancel my trip.

I took another breath, gathered my belongings, and headed for the gate.

With my ticket and identification in hand, I boarded my plane.

 Before the plane took off, everyone on the plane exchanged nervous smiles and curt nods of acknowledgment with each other trying to decide if their fellow passenger could be a threat to this flight.

When the plane took off and we relaxed as the plane ascended to the desired altitude, the tension in the plane began to dissipate.

Despite the conflict of my body demanding sleep and my mind telling me to stay awake, I surrendered to sleep.

Just waking from my nap on the plane, I was able to see the perfect square blocks illuminated by the streetlights against the dark ground below.

As we flew closer to the runway, I could see the mounds of snow created by the snowplows to clear the runways.

I exhaled a sigh of relief.

I was inwardly thanking God for a safe flight.

I was not only thankful l that there weren’t any mechanical problems, but more thankful no one had hijacked this plane for some nefarious plan. Although the cabin of the plane was still dark, I could see the 5 or 6 other passengers' silhouettes as we landed.

As the lights in the cabin of the plane came on, the passengers were waking from their slumber shaking away any tiredness still lingering in their eyes.

We had to be on full alert. What if something happened as soon as the plane door opened?

I was finally able to exhale.

I was stepping off the plane in Chicago to see my husband who was recalled in October 2001.

Unlike the 70-degree weather I left in Raleigh, NC, the frigid tempers of the night kept the mounds of snow piled high on the runways.

As we say in ENC when the weather is really cold, the “hawk” was out, and I pulled my winter coat tighter around my body to keep myself warm.

I gathered my overnight bag and headed to the airport exit.

I looked for the gold Honda Accord as I stared at the busy airport lane.

I spotted the gold Honda pulling up to the side of the walkway to meet me.

 Because of the tight security, we didn’t linger at the curb, but put my suitcase in the backseat and quickly entered the warm, welcoming car.

After exchanging a quick peck on the lips, my husband pulled away from the curb and we were off.

Not knowing if I would be hungry after my plane landed at 9:00pm, my husband had hot chicken soup and a grilled cheese sandwich waiting for me.

The aroma of the soup filled the car as we drove away.

He knew I was not used to Chicago winters.

I was overcome with his thoughtfulness.

As we headed by towards Great Lakes, I had the chance to look at my husband of almost three years.

He looked so mature!

He looked like the young man I married after we graduated from East Carolina University, but somehow different.

I think it was the protector as a soldier role he had gladly fulfilled to our country that made him look mature and distinguished.

The responsibilities of this new life made him take on a semblance of wisdom and maturity.

While riding to the Naval Base, I took a moment to reflect.

I was thankful that my husband had been recalled to an area where I could visit.

I was thankful to God that the flight I had taken was a faith flight and I made the decision to board the plane.  Because of the men and women at airport security, I arrived to my destination safely and spent the weekend with my husband.


Coulrophobia, fear of clowns. Since her childhood, Pau is scared of the clowns. Her parents didn't notice it but she did. Every time she sees a clown in a carnival, she will cry or worst, faint. Everyone found it strange but didn't mind her since she has a weak body. The last time she saw a clown was when she's nine, her best friend had a party and had a clown to entertain the kids but as her eyes landed on that clown, she fainted. Everyone panicked when they saw Pau on the floor. They thought it was some kind of allergies that caused her to faint but they were wrong. Now, it's been seventeen years since the last time she went to a carnival or a birthday party. She tries to avoid such occasions just to be safe. She never told anyone about her coulrophobia even her mother.

"Hi" her cousin greeted her, she smiled "Hey" Sam took a deep breath "Can you come with me this weekend?" Pau looked at her "Where?" she asks "There's a carnival that will be held in our small town this weekend and I want to go with you and Jack" she explains "Oh....." she mumbles, Sam was looking at her, expecting her to say yes. She started to sweat excessively, she wants to say no but, there is something inside of her that wants to go and unconsciously she said "Yes" Sam smiled and happily texted her boyfriend "It's settled then, don't forget. Saturday, six-o-clock, sharp!" and left her dumbfounded.

After she realized what happened, it was too late to get back what she had just said. All through the week, she kept searching for a reason not to go, she even practiced her reasons until the day she feared the most (more than her exams) the Saturday came, she didn't even notice the days were already passing. Pau was too focused on her invalid reasons that she forgot what today is. Her phone rang and she saw Sam's message, she immediately opened it, expecting that Sam would just go with her boyfriend, alone.

Samanta: Hi, Jack and I are just outside of your house. The disappointment was drawn to her face as she read her cousin's text. It's too late now, Sam's is waiting for her. "But what if I'll say that I have diarrhea? or having my menstrual period? Would that be enough reason?" she thought, she's in her room, already dressed and walking back and forth. A knock on the door made her jump, she felt her soul just left her body behind. "Come in," she said as she tries to calm down, the door opened and Sam peeks at the door "Oh, you're done changing clothes..." Sam said as she looks at Pau "Ah yes, shall we?" Sam nodded while Pau's trying to hide her shaking voice. They bid goodbye to Pau's mom and went to the car. Jack smiled as soon as he saw Sam "Are you both ready? I heard some rumors that the carnival is amazing. They had this title called 'Lost in Awe' and I heard that they will have clowns scattered all around to entertain the people....." Sam just shakes her head at his big mouth meanwhile, Pau's heart skipped a beat when she heard the word 'clown. The three of them went inside the car and left for the carnival. The whole ride was quiet... for Pau. Sam and Jack were singing and giggling in front of her. "We're here!" Sam shriek and that made Pau surprised. She looks outside the window and she saw made her lost in awe. The colorful lights are everywhere, the street dancers are entertaining everyone but her eyes were stuck on something, the clowns.

Every kid was hugging those clowns, she felt that her chest is tightening, her vision starts to blur, she almost faint but something---no, not something. She felt that someone had just entered her conscious mind. Everything started to be okay again. The tightening in her chest was gone, her eyes are roaming around as nothing happened, she can breathe like usual. "Let's go," Sam said as she looks at Pau. She immediately went out of the car.

Everyone around her is enjoying the carnival, she feels alone even if she's with Sam and Jack. "Let's have some fun tonight!!" Sam shouted and run towards the entrance, she left her boyfriend and cousin. Jack shakes his head and looks at Pau, who is like a rock, just standing and looking at the clowns. He wanted to speak to her but someone pulled him away from Pau---it was Sam. As he looks back, he can't see Pau anymore. Meanwhile, Pau realizes that she's alone, she tries to find Sam and Jack but failed to see them. There were too many people and the darkness was already the ruler of the place and only the colorful lights showed her where to go. As she went inside, she saw a huge table with so many foods on it, every kind of entertainers were in the Carnival. " Welcome to the Carnival, "Lost in Awe" I hope you will entertain yourself tonight, we're glad that you're here tonight, with us," someone said through the speaker. Pau didn't look pleased with what she had heard. Pau roams her eyes but there's still a sign of Sam and Jack. She starts to feel annoyed and scared, she hugs herself, comforting her mind that it will be alright, that Sam and Jack will find her. Pay took a deep breath and closed her eyes,

"It will be alright"

She mumbles, again and again, and again. Pau kept walking and walking, trying to avoid every clown and street until a stall caught her eyes, it does not have a grand decoration in it like the other stalls she saw. This one was unique and...strange. She felt something is urging her to come inside. She looks around and notices that they are no people coming inside of it, she takes her steps slowly. Little did she know as soon she went inside, she won't be able to step outside again. A dazzling light embraces her as she went in and she felt comforted by it. Everyone in the carnival showed a devilish smile as their eyes went red. THE END.


Lucas and Harper agreed on exactly one thing. Though they didn't know each other, and were currently refusing to speak to each other, and disagreed about everything else, they both agreed Isabella was an idiot. It was showing in their subtle head shakes and the not so well hidden eye rolls. The three of them were handcuffed together at the McCarren Park Greenmarket (a greenmarket is just a farmer's market, in New York, they need to give a special name to everything). It was a three body problem. They could escape if they agreed on which way to run. But that would be difficult, as Harper believed passionately in liberal causes, and Lucas believed in conservative values. They would have found a way to disagree on the direction to run. The other person I mentioned, Isabella? No one knew what she believed in or in which direction she would run. Years from now, Lucas and Harper might end up married if they happen to meet each other. But at this stage in their life, they clung to the idea that their specific political beliefs could get them what they wanted out of life. Lucas and Harper agreed about one other thing. Transcript of Officer Delgado’s bodycam footage Officer D.: Are you young people doing ok? Do you need any water? Harper : Fuck off, you fascist. Lucas: Fuck off, you nazi. Isabella: I’m ok. But I have a facial booked at 1pm. I need to leave before then? Isabella raised the pitch at the end of her sentences, turning every statement into a question. Many beauty influencers on Instagram do that. Harper flung back her hair and looked at Isabella with disgust “Why should you get preferential treatment? You were not working to improve the treatment of the underprivileged people of this city.” “What do you mean?” Harper stared at Isabella, fairly certain she had a Latino background, and became more specific about the underprivileged. “The treatment of African Americans.” “Yo. My best friend Donna is African American.” Isabella didn't like Harper, because Harper had smacked her in the face, accidentally, with a protest sign about ten minutes ago. Harper and Isabella had been arrested because Lucas had notified the police of an assault in progress. Lucas was arrested as well, after Harper told the police what he was up to in the park, counter-protesting. Lucas watched the cat fight with contempt. Being a misogynist at heart (or more deep down, afraid of not being in control if he had a girlfriend he really liked), he might have mocked Harper and Isabella. However, Rule #3 of the '7 Methods to Startup Success in 6 Months' said, outside of high performance automobiles, women direct 90 percent of the world's purchasing power. Those who intended to become billionaires should keep an open mind. He would watch and learn. Harper's gaze shifted to Lucas. “How about you, dickhead? Do you think she should be allowed to leave early?” “She broke the law. I believe lawbreakers should be punished.” “You’re just saying that because she’s latino,” she sneered. “Why were you counter protesting, anyway?” “We need to protect our American Freedoms.” “By stopping a public housing protest?” she said. “And dude. Freedom? You are in handcuffs.” “What about freedom of religion?” “Are you religious?” Lucas stopped talking. In fact, although they identified with opposing political beliefs, they both wanted the same thing. A world different from the one we live in. The world of a lifetime of boring jobs, 3% annual pay raises, tax forms, and regular medical checkups. Let's divert from this story, to pizza. Once you serve young people who believe they have opposing political views good pizza and drinks, they might actually find they really don't have many major differences. So, a couple of years ago, some of their leaders figured out a new way to raise the emotional stakes to something approaching the tenor of the Russia-Ukraine War.

By moving the goalposts of what is considered a human life by a few months, people who previously had agreed about almost everything now shouted at each other about murdering babies. Their leaders rejoiced at the fact that this would guarantee they would never agree about anything else for a very long time to come. “Freedom?” Harper scoffed. “What about the freedom for women to have an abortion?!” Thankfully for this story, Officer Delgado was paying attention and jumped in. “I thought today’s protest was about public housing. Can you two agree to disagree about everything else right now?” His gaze laid heavy on Lucas. Lucas’s body was trembling visibly in anticipation of giving birth to well rehearsed arguments about the evils of abortion. Delgado had seen this before. Whatever Lucas said would not be the last word. The format of these arguments had been put in place a decade before, a theatrical back and forth of well honed rhetoric, that about five minutes later, would end with them both calling each other members of a famous 1940s German political party. Lucas, feeling the obligation of bro-code (even with a policeman who grew up in Queens) stayed silent. They were young and passionate (or stubborn and opinionated) and they both made a list of talking points for later. It isn’t until someone is over 50 that they realize the futility of arguing about social justice, or about American values and the principles of the founding fathers. People of that age knew, if things have been this unfair for themselves up until now their entire life, it's bound to be unfair for someone someplace no matter how many OpEds are written and protest marches are marched. And the values of the Founding Fathers? Back in 1776, people were definitely arguing and disagreeing about everything as much as they do now, probably more, since their clothes were full of fleas, and they drank ale from morning to night to dull the pain of unresolved dental problems. Since there was no one over 50 in this group, the political arguments weren’t going to be resolved today. He might look old, but Officer Delgado was just 34 (a decade of being called to intervene in domestic disputes made him feel like 50). Delgado fidgeted with his bodycam. He wished he could turn it off, especially since they didn’t allow him to play Taylor Swift songs anymore (that stopped the Gen-Z kids from uploading him to YouTube and making him look stupid.) “You know you shouldn’t be protesting public housing policy at a farmer's market?” he asked Harper. “I disagree. And I was protesting for social justice, I don’t know what he was doing.” “Counter-protesting,” Lucas said. “What about me?" Isabella asked. "I was just taking video for my Instagram channel when her sign smacked me in the face.” Isabella flung her water bottle at Harper, missing her and hitting Delgado in the face with high elevation Jamaican spring water. “This job is funking bullshit,” Delgado exclaimed, after wiping his face. “Ha! You swore,” Harper said, laughing. “I said funking.” “You said funking bullshit.” “Fuck you.” Delgado was reaching the end of his tether detaining these three. He had been continually heckled by the young people of Williamsburg as they passed by. He was still waiting for the precinct to decide what to do. Delgado’s objective each day was simple: not getting written up by Sargeant Brown. Having these young people leave now seemed to be a safer path to the desired outcome. Transcript of Officer Delgado’s bodycam footage: Officer D.: “What do you think about the New York Police Department?” Lucas: [Undecipherable] Harper : [Undecipherable] Isabella: [Undecipherable] The transcriber couldn’t make out all the curse words. All three of those detained shouted insults at Delgado all together at the same time.

That was exactly what Delgado wanted.

“The police department has decided to let you go today,” he said. When he pulled out the key to the handcuffs and started unlocking them, they stayed quiet. He told them they were free to go. When they were a few feet away, they started cursing again. Delgado recorded it all. Abusive citizens helped the police look good in any courtroom (in case this came up later because of TikTok or whatever). Harper, Isabella, and Lucas ran off together. Their brief moment of camaraderie was about to be broken when Isabella asked, “Do you want to try huitlacoche quesadillas? There’s a place here.” Harper thought passing up the chance to learn about a Latin American cultural tradition would be insulting to Isabella. Lucas couldn’t find anything un-American about Quesadillas and he was hungry. Isabella paid. At first, they refused to let her pick up the tab, but when Harper heard about Isabella's 200k followers on Instagram, and Lucas about the six figures she was earning from product placements, they changed their mind. At the end of lunch, they both gave her their socials.