As long as I shall live, till the day that my beard is long and grey and my eyes have grown dim with time, I will never forget the day that the thunder stopped. It had been five months since we had dug the trenches and hunkered down to defend ourselves against the Germans. We didn’t expect to have to hunker down for such a defense, as when we came from across the English Channel to deal with the Central Powers we had been told that the war would be a quick one. All that we had to do was show Germany that we would not take their attacks against France lying down, kick them back into their borders, and everything would be over. We would be home in front of the fire regaling others with tales of our heroism my Christmas morning. But no. As the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned into months, we found ourselves being stuck in the trenches as we waited for the war to end. Then the storm began, and the thunder would echo across no-mans land. The storm took many forms across each day, varying in how hard it would hit us in the trenches. Some days the storm would be just the ever present thunder of cannon fire from both our and the German’s artillery. Some days the storm would be the blinding flashes of lightning from German and British rifles along with the cracks of thunder and the screams of men. But the worst days, the days that everyone feared, the days that you wish you could go home and hide in the covers to wait out the storm were the days where the thunder came from the stomping of men’s boots in the mud. It didn’t matter if it was the boots of the Germans or our own boots, it all meant the same thing. It meant that someone was trying to bring an end to the war by taking the opposing trenches through a tactical charge and a storm of violence, only to inevitably fail. It was those days that you would hear the endless fire of machine guns cutting down charging soldiers, the loud terrifying cracks of sniper rifles trying to pick off anyone of importance, the screams of both Germans and Englishmen as they would tear each other down all for the sake of a few dozen or so yards. Then, when the attackers retreated to lick their wounds and you would think the storm would stop, a commander would always demand a counter attack. After all, they were weakened and we beat them back, surely we can take the trench this time. Only it never worked. The thunder would reign across no-mans land as the storm took countless lives from both us and the krauts, only to result in no change. We would still be in our trenches, and the Germans still in theirs. We would sleep, knowing that tomorrow the storm would begin again. This is simply how life was in the trenches. Sometimes you would have a brief moment of respite. Sometime you would get to go back to France for some well deserved R&R to try and get back what little sanity you had left. Some men would get lucky and take a bullet in the arm or leg and be sent to an aid station. If they were really lucky, they would then be sent home with all four limbs. There were many who were less lucky who went home with an empty sleeve, or left one of their boots behind with the army. But at least they went home. I can still remember the faces of many people who took a bullet and were sent home in a box. If they could find their remains at all. And yet despite all this, despite the screams of pain and cries of death and pleads to God that this bloody war would end, it refused. The storm would never stop, never tire, never rest until one of the trenches was empty of living souls. Even in the harshest of climates would it continue. You would hear the thunder of cannons try to out shine the thunder in the sky, with the lightning of God himself occasionally illuminating no-man’s land so you could see the endless muddy fields filled with barbed wire and rotting bodies. When it grew cold, you had to be careful of patches of ice in the trenches. I heard one too many tales of men not keeping an eye on where they were walking only to slip and impale themselves on their own bayonets. And so the storm pressed on. Day or night, rain or shine, holiday or not, it did not matter. The storm pressed on, trying with all it’s might to kill all the men who found themselves deployed into hell itself. The endless war made the days start to meld into one another. I recall once asking what day it was, thinking that October was only around the corner only to learn it was November 12th. And in what felt like a single blink of an eye, I was later informed by one of my fellow soldier that Christmas was right around the corner. Christmas. A day a reverence, a day that should have been spent with family and friends was now to be spent in the mud and snow filled trenches with a gun in hand and the sound of thunder ever present. We should have been without any hope and miserable that we would be spending this most holy of holidays fighting a war that no one wanted to fight. And yet… as we sat there in the trench on Christmas eve, we could hear something from across no-man’s land. It was faint, almost too faint to make out what exactly was being sung. But after a moment or two of listening close, as the thunder of cannons came to a rest, we could hear the faint sounds of singing coming from the German side. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nact… Alles schlaft… einsam wacht…” I did not and still cannot understand German, aside from a couple of phrases that have managed to stick in my head. Yet the melody was one we all knew, one that had been playing in our heads for the past week. The krauts were singing Silent Night. “’Round yon virgin Mother and Child… Holy infant so tender and mild.” I couldn’t help it, nor could many of the men with me. As we heard our sworn enemies sing the carol, we began to join in. Men who had spent the last several months getting bombarded with shells and bullets in a storm of violence that never ended were now just… singing. Sitting in trenches in the cold and mud just… singing carols with the enemy. “Sleep in himmlischar Ruuuuuuuuuuh! Schlaf in heavenly peace…” After a few verses of this, I could feel sleep overtake me, with the last thing I remember being the sounds of holy carols echoing across the storm scarred landscape. The next morning I awoke to the feeling of snowflakes on my nose. It had begun snowing overnight, with a light powder having already built up across the bottom of the trenches. When I was a lad, waking up to a white Christmas would have been a joyous occasion. I could look forward to opening my presents alongside my brother and sister before taking our sled out and racing the family dog down the hills behind our house. Now, however, I knew the snow would only make the storm colder and harsher. I knew that, in time, I would be running through slush and muck trying to stop the German advance. After a moment or two though, I realized something. Every day previously I would be awakened to the sound of the thunder, with each sides artillery trying to catch the enemy by surprise. Many a fresh face recruit had been lost to a rouge shell from the Germans if they didn’t find a good spot to sleep in the night before. Yet this day… I woke up to snow and silence. No thunderous bootsteps, no echoing artillery, no cracks of rifles and screams of dying men. Just… silence. Silence and lightly falling snow. It was… peaceful. Quiet. Tranquil. Almost enough to make you forget about the impeding storm. “ENEMY APPROACHING!” I heard someone shout, and instinctively I shot to my feet and aimed my rifle down no-man’s land. I knew it couldn’t last, the peace and tranquility. The storm had to return, as it always did. I looked down the sights of my rifle to see a lone man who had emerged from the trenches. But… strangely enough he was not charging at is with bloodthirst and hate in his eyes. No… instead he looked scared, like a stray dog approaching a man for scraps of food. He wore no helmet, carried no rifle, he didn’t even have a knife or grenade on his person. What was approaching us was not a soldier. It was a man who was scared and wanting something from us. “HOLD YOUR FIRE MEN!” Our commander shouted, an order we all obeyed. We all looked to each other, as if one of us had the answer. Who was this German? Why was he approaching us? Was this a trick? A secret ploy? Or was this… because it was Christmas? There was a corporal in my unit, a young fellow named George McClellan. The lad was one of the youngest in our unit, and had clearly lied about his age in order to come earn glory in war. In terms of a soldier, he wasn’t a very good one. He wasn’t a great shot, nor could he run that fast or throw a grenade with any sort of skill, but the lad was good company and quick to cheer you up. He had a sort of enthusiasm that was infectious, and always quick with a joke even in the direst of circumstances. To this day I still send his family a small portion of my paycheck whenever I can. It’s the least I could do to try and help them after George was unable to fit his gas mask on properly a few days before he was supposed to be sent home. If George couldn’t be sent home, then at least I could send a bit of money to the grieving family. I remember watching as George looked up from his rifle’s sights, set his weapon down to lean against the trench and, even though the rest of us were asking if he knew what he was doing, George slowly emerged from the trenches and tossed his helmet down to the bottom of the trench. We watched with rapt attention as George slowly walked towards the German, both of their hands held high in the air before slowly they both lowered their arms and began to shake one another’s hands. It was that handshake that managed to break us all out of our stupors, both German and English. All of us slowly began to lower our weapons, climb out of the trenches, and cross the death field known as no-mans land to go great our brothers on this most holy of days. Christmas had come, and the storm had stopped. God bless us all. I too had joined my country men in making my way across the field to speak to our fellow men. I met a young man who seemed to be around my age. We were both young men, the ideal for the army, and both men who would be lucky to see the rest of our lives if the war continued. I shook his hand, and introduced myself to him. He told me his name was Hans Müller, and after a few minutes of talking we became the closest of chaps. We shared tales of our families back home, of our mothers and fathers who we missed so desperately. I showed him a small picture of my family, noting that he reminded me a lot of my little sister with his blonde hair and green eyes. He laughed, and told me I reminded him of his father who had come to fight in the war as well. His father was stationed at another unit on the eastern front, and he hoped that both he and his father would go home to Chemnitz. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend from back in Chemnitz, a lovely woman by the name of Anna. They had met shortly after starting high school together and had been near inseparable ever since then. He told me that every week he tries to write her a letter, and every week he almost cries in joy upon getting a letter back from her. I told him not of my girlfriend, as I did not have one at that time, but of a lovely nurse at our aid station who I always was sure to say hello to every chance I could get. I told him of her pretty smile, and her beautiful black hair, and the way her nose would crinkle every time I told her a joke and managed to make her laugh. Hans was quick to offer some good nature teasing about my little crush and told me that when the war was over that I should bring my nurse and myself to come meet him and Anna, that we would have the most lovely of holiday together. We had not noticed, but as we continued to talk we had begun to walk across no-mans land. We probably would have kept walking and talking for hours had it not been for Hans noticing something before breaking down into tears. I asked him what was wrong, and he pointed at a body that hung from some barbed wire. He told me through his tears that the lad was a friend of his who had gone missing a few days ago. My guess was that he had been trying to run back to the trenches, only to be shot down when he got stuck in the wire. I tried to apologize for what happened, to console my new friend, but the words he said to me were powerful enough to silence me. “Do not apologize, mein Freund. Even if you fired the shot, you were not the one that chose to send us both here, to put us against one another. I blame those who sent us here, and pray to God that someday soon they shall resolve their differences and send us home.” We did not speak for a while after that. Instead I returned to my trench, grabbed a shovel, and slowly helped my enemy dig a grave for the man that my fellow soldiers had killed. Over time both Germans and Englishmen came by, adding their dead to Hans’ friend as they helped dig a grave. At some point someone, I don’t know who, brought over a large wooden cross. We etched into it the date, December 25, 1914, and scratched in the initials off all those we knew would not make it home. We all stood there, German and English hand in hand, and said a prayer for those we would now miss. When we returned to the rest of the men, they had started to organize a football match between both sides. In desperate need for some joy after the grief we just shared, Hans and I were quick to join in. I remember the sounds of laughter, the cheers of men as we had the greatest fun any of us would ever remember. We laughed and sang and teased in good fun while playing, all of us brothers and friends. I don’t remember who won, but I am pretty sure that English skill won the day in our favor (and if Hans says any different, he is just trying to make himself look better after accidentally passing the ball to me). At some point one of the Germans had returned from his side of the war with a few spirits in hand, and we quickly sent one of our own boys to grab a bottle or two of the French wine that we had gotten not too long ago. We all knew the day would be best ended with drinks, in a toast to the happy day we shared and a hope for many more of them to come. We did not think about what tomorrow would bring. Instead, we poured each other a drink, sang carols in drunken English and German, and shared stories of Christmases past. I remember George running over, sporting a new haircut and a slightly slurred speech going on about how “one of the machine gunners from the German side used to be a barber. He’s offering haircuts to anyone who wants one, and all it costs is a fun story from home.” We laughed and asked him to share his story with us while we drank. He told us the story about the time he tried to get a cat out of a tree for a girl he liked, only for his suspenders to get caught on a loose branch causing him to be stuck in the tree too. This set us all into an uproar, and poor George was the subject of endless teasing for the weeks to come. He took it all in good stride though, and never seemed to hold any hate towards our joking manners. God, I miss the lad. As the eve creeped along, and Christmas came to an end, we all softly sang carols and prayed for a better future. We all knew that tomorrow the thunder would begin again. Tomorrow these men would be our enemies once again. Tomorrow our sights would point at the men we called brothers and we would be forced to kill our friends in the name of Queen and Country. But we chose to forget that. We chose to ignore those dark thoughts, for as the most holy of days continued we knew that we were not Germans or Englishmen. We were not Allied Forces or Soldiers of the Central Powers. No, instead we were friends. We were brothers. We were family. Tomorrow the thunder would start again. Tomorrow the terror would begin once more. But as I went to sleep that night after saying goodbye to my dear friend Hans, a new hope filled my dreams. A hope that one day the thunder would forever stop, and the storm would never start again.


It started with an advert in a newsagent window; an off-white A4 piece of paper, hanging forlornly by a single strip of tape in one corner, the other three dry and useless. It caught my eye as I stood debating whether I could afford the extra 30 pence for a loaf of bread that wouldn’t taste like cardboard. The paper was crinkled through weeks of exposure to condensation. Flowery cursive bled down the page. It asked for a reliable and trustworthy candidate to take a friendly Alsatian on short walks around the neighbourhood, twice daily. The job paid barely anything but that was better than nothing. I was a recent graduate unable to find work. Entry level positions demanding 5 years’ experience were a bridge that I could not cross. I lived in a “studio” apartment, rent in arrears, that was in reality little more than a single room with a bed that folds up to create extra space for dining and socialising. I hadn’t folded it up for some time. Something about the advert called to me. Perhaps it was the ink that bled as though crying black tears in woe of having never been read. Perhaps it was the question of the cost of bread and where I sit on the scale of inedible to luxury and realising at once that even inedible is too rich for me. I peeled the tape that affixed the advert to the window, took it home, and dialled the number. His name was Mr Adams. He was 85-years-old, he said, and the dog Charlie, who had belonged to his late wife, was now too large and energetic for him to handle. We spoke for a while, about my credentials, about my life. He seemed friendly enough, and when he offered me the job on the spot I did not hesitate to accept. Mr Adams lived alone, dog excluded, in a small bungalow at the end of a quiet lane in a dull and lifeless suburb of Manchester. It was two bus rides away, which I had grumbled at, deliberately and vocally, upon our first meet. Mr Adams offered to compensate me for my bus fare, which I gladly accepted. He was a nice man, short and round in the face, hair grey like old snow. He smelled of mould. Charlie was as described: large and energetic. We took walks around the neighbourhood and to a nearby park. Mr Adams didn’t seem too close to him, but yet could not bare to give him up. A month into the job I saw Mr Adams for the last time. He gave me a spare key, and left a credit card in a dish on the coffee table. It was mine to use, he had said, and would be topped up each week with my wages. I was free to help myself to the various kitchen victuals, but I must replace what I consume. It was then that I should have walked away. I wish I’d walked away. In the days and weeks that followed, Mr Adams left me notes of increasing peculiarity. Little oddities, requests and favours written in an unfamiliar hand. The carefree handwriting of the advert was in stark contrast to the crooked and deliberate lettering on these notes, as though Mr Adams had written them under duress. The lines were thicker, harder. They requested little things at first. To buy extra dog food. To clean the house every Monday and Friday. I was promised additional pay for this latter job, which I accepted. It was clear that Mr Adams no longer lived at the address, and so there was little cleaning to be done. It were as though he only visited every now and then to leave me these notes. I was soon left a note telling me to never go down into the cellar. Truth told, I never knew the house had a cellar at all until that note. I found the cellar door beneath the rug in the living room. It was bolted shut. It was also about this time that Mr Adams asked me to change my time walking Charlie. I should go much earlier in the morning, and then again much later at night, while the sun was set and there were fewer people around. I thought this odd, if a little cruel on Charlie, but I obliged all the while. The house began to smell horribly of sulphur. A new note asked me to clean the house with increasing regularity but no matter how much bleach I used the scent always seemed to linger. It was around this time that Mr Adams requested that I spend the night, just once or twice a week. He told me in this note to keep the curtains drawn, to never answer the door, and to go to bed promptly at 10pm. I did as instructed, feeling a little uneasy about the arrangement but glad to be staying somewhere a little more spacious. Charlie soon started acting out. He would refuse to go for walks, and would growl angrily when I went near him. He scratched incessantly at the rug in the living room. A short while after Charlie was gone. Mr Adams explained in a note that I wouldn’t need to walk him any longer, but he would keep paying me if I followed his instructions. I spent longer and longer in the house then. I was dizzy with the stench of bleach and sulphur. My daily cleaning was unable to rid the house of the foul odour that seemed to cling to the walls like a shadow. I then began hearing voices. At first it was just at night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep. Unable to sleep. It was a soft whimpering. I went downstairs, the first time, and with each step it became louder and louder. It sounded like Mr Adams. It sounded like he was in the house and crying. At the foot of the stairs I turned into the living room and saw the shape of a man hunched over in the chair by the window. His head was in his hands and his shoulders were trembling. I flicked on the light and the shape disappeared. I didn’t sleep much after that night. But yet I didn’t go home. Instead I waited at Mr Adams’ house. I kept the curtains closed and the door locked and never did I see him but the notes kept appearing. It were as though he was living in the house with me, unseen. The whimpering at night became louder and soon trickled into day. I began to hear words, asking for help and pleading for forgiveness. I was drunk on the smell and the never-ending voices. And then I began to hear scratching from beneath the living room floor. I pulled back the rug and pressed my head against the cellar door. I could hear movement. Feet shuffling about beneath me. It was Mr Adams. All this time he was living in the cellar. It was bolted shut but he must have had a way. I dragged as much furniture as I could and covered the cellar door, locking him in. That night I heard the crying again. I walked downstairs as before and as before I saw the shape in the chair by the window. I shouted to him, to Mr Adams, to stop toying with me. The shape lifted its head from its hands and I saw that it was not Mr Adams. It was a younger man. I flicked on the light and this time the figure did not disappear but remained in the chair looking right at me. Eyes wet, tears running down anguished face, the figure in the chair was me. I bolted from the house as quick as I could, screaming, screaming at the top of my voice for help. It was then that I was taken in by a neighbour, to whom I told my story. He went to the house to check, and a little while later he returned with the police. I was taken away. They interviewed me then, about the body of Mr Adams that they had found in his cellar, along with his dog Charlie. They asked me why I did it. They presented me with evidence, of CCTV footage of me using Mr Adams’ credit card to buy food and drink. My solicitor instructed me to answer all questions with “No comment.” No comment. No comment. No comment. No comment. But I have been in this cell for nearly 18 hours and I can still hear the voices. I told him that I cannot keep silent and so he instructed me to write a letter. This letter. And so this is my confession. I do not know why I did what I did. I do not know how. Please, please just make the voices stop.


The year is 1872. Outside of the arid desert town of Thunders Peak, Foursquaria, a tall, lithe figure staggers drunkenly through the empty dunes with no real sense of direction. He is a wanderer, the Eternal Wayfarer who in a past life was known as Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States. After dying in one of the most infamous assassinations in American history, he found himself being given a second chance as his true ascended self: the king of the Norse pantheon of gods, Odin. Unfortunately, the cost of a fresh start was beginning to circle around him like the vultures that had been following since he found his was into the hot sandy climate. “She called me a demon, a cruel hoax by the devil himself. She ran from me in that moment, my very heart expelled. Who am I now? A mystery of the ages A man left living aimlessly ageless like a figure lost to the pages of a storybook…” Although his speech was slurred, he still effortlessly and so eloquently flowed through the pain-filled poems that clouded his mind. “The light of my life snatched by the cold hook of the cruelest crook; Fate. The chance I took to keep the state of a love that couldn’t bare to gaze–” A steely cold “clik” followed by a cold metal ring pressed into the base of his skull broke his stream of consciousness and caused the weary godling to stop in his tracks. “You’d better reach fer th’ sky if’n ya don’t wanna be meetin’ yer maker today, ya roostered saddle bum! Who are ya and why’re ya trespassin’ in Thirteen Pistols’ territory?” The thick, wet smack of a wet glob of tobacco-flavored spit splattering into the hot sand punctuated the interrogation quite succinctly. The gruff voice barking at him didn’t phase the inebriated ex-president in the slightest, but the overwhelming mixed stench of the spit and the unwashed man behind him made him cringe just a little. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to his new enhanced senses, but he did know he wasn’t about to start taking guff from any coward who attacks a man from behind. “Son, I’ve stared into the eyes of Death herself. Lost it all and even traveled to the gates of Hel,” In an instant, Odin’s left eye flared with a fiery passion and his knuckles went white with how hard he was clenching his fists. He made a lightspeed about face, turning to face his assailant faster than the naked eye could track as a visible aura of red pure rage engulfed his frame. What he didn’t expect to see staring back at him were the barrels of 26 pistols, all aimed directly for his head except for a pair that were aimed at his legs. “He’s not going to ask again. Who are you and what are you doing wandering through our territory?” A tall, darker-skinned woman strolled closer to Odin so she could start circling him, scoping him out to assess his threat level. “I… Know not how to answer that query. A president or a god most weary?” Odin wasn’t lying, he had been walking for a few weeks with no rest, making his way from the east coast deep into the western half of the country he one led looking and smelling like a walking distillery rather than a president or a god. With the merciless sun beating down on him and the last bit of his considerable godly power dwindling towards its bare minimum, he collapsed onto the blazing red desert sands.. “Ah hell, I guess the sun beat ‘im down. Either that or–” “Or he got so scared he fainted!” “Either way, doesn’t matter. Doc, get him into a tent to cool off and rest up. Oh, and don’t forget to run his pockets for anything dangerous or interestin’ to report. Everyone else, let’s get back to preppin’ for the supply run.” In his unconscious state, Odin’s mind drifted to approximately seven years ago in a courtroom somewhere beyond the realm of the physical and severed from time itself. Rubbing the back of his head and still very disoriented from the effects of taking a bullet to the dome, he tries to cope with his newfound godhood and the scene before him. “You all may be seated in the presence of the honorable Judge Kal-Mondu. Mister… Lincoln. Ah, I see you have quite an impressive little resume here. Even pre-transcendence, you’ve staked quite a mighty claim to fame for yourself! They informed you of why you’re in this specific courtroom today, correct?” The powerful, booming voice wasn’t echoing through the nearly empty golden courtroom. Instead it was beaming directly into the minds of the present parties from a sight unlike anything he had seen in his 56 years under the name of Abraham Lincoln. Pacing around a large floating circular platform where the judges bench would normally be was a miniature version of a fully grown moose wearing a powdered wig and a black judge’s robe draped across the first half of its body. Other than the fact that he stood only about one-third of a meter tall with antlers radiating a faintly glowing, crackling golden energy that almost seemed to be faintly singing a song unlike anything Earth was capable of producing, the moose seemed completely like an ordinary moose. There’s an awkwardly lengthy silence as Abe, normally a gifted orator finds himself at a loss for words. It didn’t happen often, but all he could seem to do was stare blankly at the tiny moose that was telepathically administering the proceedings in this most odd courtroom. “Mister Lincoln? Did Death and your appointed Purgattorney inform you of the responsibility you’re about to undertake? You’ve been recognized as worthy of reclaiming your godly title as Odin, the All-father of the Norse pantheon of gods.” Ta’thes, the sharp-dressed being appointed to represent Abe elbowed him in the ribs with just enough force to break him out of his stupor. “I’m sorry, your… Honor. Yes, however I’m still not certain on many of the details,” he said as he rubbed his sore ribs, “So apparently I was Odin, ruler of the gods… In a past life? And I’ve lived a couple of lives since then? And how did Odin die? I’m not very caught up on my mythologies of the ancient peoples of my world.” “It has always been you, Mister Lincoln. There was an… Incident to say the least, which is almost more than I’m at liberty to say by decree of the Cosmic Elders but you have lived approximately lived through 16 lifetimes after your death as Odin including your current Lincoln persona.” Sixteen times he had been brought back from the grave, but as an entirely different person? Or had he always been his current self just with a different name? He had to know, and a courtroom of the damned seemed like the best place to get his answers. “I’m sorry, sixteen times? Is there, perhaps, a way I could… See into my past selves? I honestly just need to see it for myself, your honor. Not that I doubt you’re telling me the truth, but…” “That’s actually part of the process for reclaiming your divinity, Mister Lincoln. All we need is the documents which give your consent. Ta’thes?” “Of course, your honor! And might I say, that wig is really bringing out the shine in your antlers!” Ta’thes teleported up to the bench with the documents Abe had hastily signed with a quick glance over of the details. The judge skimmed through the pages without lifting a finger, nodding and muttering contentedly. “Good, everything seems to be in order! I am however going to need you to sign this additional clause that just states that if anything… Unsavory should happen, you will forfeit your godly power and resign yourself to the fate that would normally be assigned to Abraham Lincoln,” Kal-Mondu’s antlers glowed bright with golden energy as he presented one last document in front of Abe out of thin air. “To be fair, that’s not a bad fate in the slightest. I’m pretty sure you’d go to-“ A loud static crackling cut off the judge’s telepathic statement, which jarred Abe, but brought a smile to Ta’thes’ face. “I-I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you, it cut out with a… Well I don’t know what that was, frankly.” “Ah, I forgot about the Feedback. It’s been a loooong time since we’ve done one of these proceedings. Don’t worry about it, young mortal,” Kal-Mondu had a little chuckle as Abe tried to read the page in front of him, but was clearly struggling. “You’ll also find that the specifics of what can cost you your holy essence are also blurred out. It’s entirely for your safety and the safety of the known universe.” “Trust me, you’d have to royally screw up on a massive scale to get knocked back down to mortal status. Have a little faith, I wouldn’t have you sign anything detrimental to your soul. I’m your personal Purgattorney, after all. I’ll be here to help you out on your journey, think of me as more of a… Spiritual advisor!” Ta’thes whispered into Abe’s ear before offering his hand to shake. Abe had always fancied himself a good judge of character and the look of supreme confidence and the bright, warm energy he felt from Ta’thes as he extended his hand sealed the deal for Abe. He was ready to get started. “Let us proceed!” The handshake was as strong as the stroke of the flaming feathered pen Abe used to sign his name as boldly as John Hancock on the final document standing between him and all the information he never knew he needed until now. “Great, everything’s in order! Now, Mister Lincoln… Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths. This is going to be an intense experience.” Within seconds, Abe felt his very soul being tugged backwards, through the chair he was sitting in, down through the floor, and through the void of space. He was accelerating faster and faster, but the ride was so smooth, he barely felt like he was moving at all. At first, all was silent, but then he awoke to the sounds of his younger brothers Vili and Ve fighting the roaring, snarling father of the Frost giants, Ymir in the endless void of space. As soon as he joins in the battle, he’s flung forward, finding himself and his brothers finishing up the creation of the mortal world with the giant’s remains and creating the first humans. It’s a proud moment for Odin… Or was it Abe? In his infinite pursuit for knowledge for all, he went through the agonizing process of stabbing himself with his spear and hanging himself from Yggdrasil, the World Tree for nine days to gain the deep knowledge of runes, magic, and other secrets of the universe. Abe had never felt too stubborn to ask for help before, but as he clung in the balance between life and death, he refused all attempts to aid him. He had to prove his worth and do it himself. Once it was over, he could feel the wisdom coursing through his very being, but it was never enough. To this end, he gave his eye to the ancient entity Mimir to drink of the very same well that had shown him the meaning and form of the runes. Many may have thought him reckless, but nobody could ever say Odin wasn’t one of the wisest beings in all of creation. Then he found himself sitting in a throne as he proudly looked over a land of gold and untold beauty that was both foreign and oddly comforting. It was Asgard, home of the gods. His home. He saw the births of all five of his sons: Thor, Baldr, Hodr, Vidar and Vali. His friends and family in this heavenly city were his true pride and joy. Their adventures, their trials, their failures. But suddenly, a most unpleasant thought crept into his mostly joyous revisiting of his past. Thor had just received his trusty hammer, Mjolnir and was giving it a few test throws. Frigg, his wife, smiled down at Odin, trying to comfort him as his least favored immortal handed him a golden spear of the finest craftsmanship know to man or god alike. It was Loki who was doling out the gifts, no doubt trying to win over the favor of the gods once more after some horrible prank gone wrong. The very thought of Loki brought forth a searing, blinding, all-encompassing rage that Abe had never felt before. Odin, on the other hand, was all too familiar with it. “What have you done this time, Loki?” Odin asked as he inspected the perfect spear inscribed with the name “Gungnir” in runes. Odin could feel it’s power just by holding it. He had deciphered that it would never miss its intended target and that it could pierce the very heavens if that was his wish. The trickster was obviously trying to cover up for something seriously wicked this time. “Ah, well… It’s nothing too terrible, most beneficent All-Father… I may have tried to create life in the same way that you create. A humble homage to your most skilled use of magic, really.” “What. Did. You. DO???” Abe could feel something strange in the air. Something was seriously wrong. Before Loki could answer for himself, the entire front wall of the throne room was blown apart with enough force for all but the strongest of the beings in attendance to be blown back. Standing before the royal court were three massive beings. Odin knew these uninvited guests very well. The first was a wolf with a bloodlust in its eyes unmatched by anything he’d ever seen before on any of the thousands of battlefields he’d been on or overseen. The second was a serpent longer than the naked eye could measure with fangs that dripped an acidic venom that could eat through the very foundation of Asgard. And lastly was a goddess of immense beauty… Partially at least. Half of her face was bloated and blue, almost like a corpse found at sea. Although she seemed almost bored with this little invasion, she was still nonetheless, a threat. “You fool,” Odin spat in Loki’s direction before starting to bark orders to the other gods as only a true leader could, “Thor, Baldr, Heimdall! Take care of the wolf. Bind him if you must and keep away from his maw! Tyr, help me get rid of the serpent! Frigg, Idun, make sure nobody gets touched by that goddess. Don’t touch her yourself, she’ll be the death of us all if she gets past you two!” Everyone jumped into action almost immediately. Thor launched his hammer into the wolf, called Fenrir, with enough force to knock him back out of the royal hall. As he and the other gods ran past, trying to avoid the snapping fangs of the serpent, called Jormungandr, Odin was already in the action. He had teleported to the end of the monstrous reptile so that he could stab his spear through the tip of its tail with a piercing strike charged with all of the paralyzing magic he could summon. The snake started flailing and writhing wildly enough to cause powerful earthquakes, making it hard for Tyr to get a clear shot at its head with his sword. Just as he was about to connect, however, Fenrir came out of nowhere. Though he had golden ropes around him, they hadn’t had a chance to tie him properly before he leapt over them to bite Tyr’s sword-wielding hand clean from his wrist. “NOOOO!!!” Odin screamed as he used every ounce of his godly might to cast the serpent down to Midgard. His mind raced as fast as his instant movement back to his fallen friend. He had seen this before and tried to do everything in his power to stop it, but the universe has a way of getting what it wants. With Tyr’s hand gone, Hel, the quiet goddess broke her silence as Odin approached, “You know what this means, All-Father. Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone. If you don’t want everyone here to die an early death, I suggest you give me what I am owed.” She had both arms raised, and in her hands she held the wrists of both Idun and Frigg. She was slowly draining their life energies from them. Odin knew she was the goddess of death, she would eventually be the end of all of them. “Take your dominion, foul witch. Just leave my family and I to grieve and recover.” Odin waved a hand and opened a portal to a plane of existence he had access to, but rarely ever visited: The realm of the dead. As she stepped inside, Hel let out a wicked, hollow cackle that chilled Odin to his very core. Thor had finally secured the savage beast with a mess of the finest Dwarven forged chains. Fenrir was locked up in the deepest, darkest cave they could find, hidden far away from the other realms to hopefully never bother the gods again. Odin knew that was a hope that he couldn’t hold out for. He had seen Ragnarok and the gears had already been put into motion. All of a sudden, he was back in the courtroom of Kal-Mondu, hyperventilating from the strenuous nature of living thorough a multiple thousands of years in a matter of seconds. And he hadn’t even finished the story as far as he could tell. “Wow, you never get used to how fast the physical changes take place when you gods start getting your memories back. The rest will start slowly spilling into your memory as you keep cultivating your divine energy with meditation and practicing using your gifts and skills. There are only a few rules that have to be followed. No starting a religion based around yourself. No killing mortals without reason. There are certain exceptions, of course, but Ta’thes will be in charge of making sure you know before you do anything that could get you in trouble,” Abe was still trying to get his bearings when a portal opened up in front of him that he instinctively knew would take him back to Earth. He could “see” information about everything in front of him with his newfound godly sight and senses. It was almost too much for him, but he eventually found himself breathing rhythmically, albeit against his will at first. “It’s going to be okay, Odin. Just remember to breathe and it’ll all work itself out. Now if you would be so kind, please step through this portal. You’ll find yourself back on Earth seven years after your death, in the year 1872. It sounds arbitrary, but there’s a reason to it. Oh, and don’t forget your personal effects!” In a flash of golden light, Abe was now holding a bag containing a golden-hued wooden rod of about (12 inches) which he knew to be Gungnir in its dormant state, a flask full of the Mead of Poetry, an eyepatch, a rune-covered pipe made of pure silver, and a bag full of a set of runestones he had obtained from the Norns themselves that could help him predict the future with unwavering certainty. “And remember, if you have any questions about anything at all, call out to Ta’thes and he’ll assist you with anything he’s LEGALLY allowed to. Now get going, you’ve got a new life to live!” With that final note, he was pushed by an invisible force into back into the world he had been dead to just a few short hours, rather years, ago. Odin bolted upright, panting and sweating profusely in an itchy cot. The temperature had decreased dramatically from when he was last awake, and upon taking stock of his surroundings, he found himself being watched from a desk by a man in a white ten-gallon hat with a red Caduceus embossed on the front of it. “Ahh, yer up! I was beginning to think you might’ve died on us. Not a pulse to be found as far as I could see. But your breathing was there, so I just figgered you needed to sleep it off. The boss is expecting you, so just make your way out towards the campfire out on your left.” “Much thanks, doctor. I assume he awaits with my effects?” “Indeed he does. He’s taken quite the interest in you. Don’t keep him waiting, now. I’d escort you, but I’ve got to finish pennin’ this here letter to my dear ol’ maw.” “Odin got a strange flash of an image as the man spoke of his mother. She was sick, on her deathbed and reading his letters brought a genuine smile to her face right as she passed on.” “You alright there, pardner? You look like ye just saw a ghost er somethin’.” “What is your name, good sir?” “Well everyone calls me Doc Thurgood, but why does that–“ “Jeremiah Thurgood, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your mother is in a rough condition. She hasn’t much time left, but your letters are one of her only sources of joy. I know not where you hail from, but… You should go back to see her at once. Post your notice of arrival and head out with the utmost haste.” All of the color had faded from the doctor’s face at hearing this. He’d known his mother was constantly fighting for her health, it was part of the reason he had set out for California in the first place all those months ago, but to hear from this lanky stranger they’d picked up in the desert heat that she was about to pass… He didn’t know what to make of it. The dead serious look painting Odin’s face told him he wasn’t joking, and he felt trusting of him almost instinctually. “T-thank ya stranger, I will make the arrangements right away.” Without another word, Odin nodded and headed out of the tent into the chilly desert night. A sharp wind cut him to his bones, causing a shiver in his godly form that he couldn’t recall ever feeling in his past life, even in combat atop the snowy peaks of Jotunheim. He clearly wasn’t at full strength, and getting those apples would be the only way he’d ever truly feel like himself. He had no troubles finding his way to the campfire where he saw a dozen silhouettes eating and relaxing in the light of the roaring fire. He could see the genuine camaraderie between this group of wildly different characters, and a tear rolled down his cheek as the memories of those cheerful banquets in Asgard’s golden halls began to flood back to him. “You’re lookin’ more than a little famished, son of Borr. Perhaps I could interest you in a bite?” a familiar voice caused the blood pumping through Odin’s veins to run as cold as the nights in Jotunheim. “Loki. You shall not escape my wrath this time!” Odin turned expecting to see his oldest foe and as such, had readied himself to attack, pivoting with every intention to smite with all of his remaining godly might. However, the statuesque woman from earlier chomping into a golden apple brought his swing to a screeching halt. “You can go ahead and kill me, but there are 12 highly skilled marksmen that would follow you to the ends of the Earth, and you are quickly losing steam. I can help. I can lead you to the apples and you can continue living your immortal, righteous little life. But I have demands, ‘All-Father’.” Odin’s brow furrowed as he took a long pause to contemplate if he was falling for another trick. His eye darted back and forth, trying to find the truth in Loki’s unwavering stare. His search turned up neither truth nor deception, which worried him far more than he was expecting. “Better alive and betrayed than dead for good, I guess.


This story was inspired by the Advenged Sevenfold some by the same name. I hope you enjoy it! \*\*\* She was brought forward, struggling, her hands bound behind her back. The guards threw her to the ground. She landed heavily on her shoulder, whimpering from the pain. Silence fell over the throne room. She lifted her head to meet the gaze of the one that sat over her. He wore no crown, his clothes were simple, but he had a presence. It weighed heavily on her. His hand lifted, flicking a few fingers and the guards gripped her arms and lifted her back into a kneeling position. “She’s bleeding.” The king murmured. “Yes, my king.” The guard to her left dropped quickly to one knee. “She fought us off when we tried to bring her from her cell. One of-” There was only a slight whisper of fabric, but the guard fell silent. She jerked herself to the side, pulling her arm from his hold. He reached out to take her arm again, scowling at her darkly under his helmet. “Enough. Leave her.” The king muttered. “Leave.” “S-Sir?” The king stood in one smooth motion, staring down at them. “I will not repeat myself.” The doors closed and she rose shakily to her feet. The king had not moved from where he stood. She sneered at him. In return he gave her an amused look. “I’m surprised you feel safe enough to be left alone with me.” She spat. “I am not afraid of you. You’re only a woman.” He descended the stairs and took her chin in his hand. “A weak and half-beaten woman. You won’t harm me.” She pulled her chin from his hold with a glare. “I will kill you. You’re corrupt and cruel.” He chuckled, the sound prickling at her anger. “Turn around.” Her heart began pounding in her chest. Her fingers curled into fists. She turned, waiting for the pain she was sure was coming. She could feel the king’s hands on her arms, near her bonds. Then they came loose and her arms were free. Skipping away, she turned to face him. He stood with a dagger in his hand. Casually, he slipped it back into his belt and lowered himself back into his throne. His eyes never left her as she crept across the room, trying the handle of the door. It was locked. “What do you want from me?” She asked. “I want you to kneel.” The king smiled, laying his hands on the arm rests. “I will never kneel to you!” “That’s a shame.” His eyes trailed up and down her body. “It would be disappointing to see such a beautiful woman die.” The king lifted his hand. From his fingers swung a gold chain, a locket hanging from it. Her hand pressed to her neck, pained to see something so precious in his hands. “If you kneel, I’ll return this to you.” “Never.” “Such a shame.” The king waved his hand. “I’ll be sure to give your body a proper funeral after you pass. Wouldn’t want that beauty of yours rotting away too quickly.” She snarled, throwing herself forward at him. And his smile was the last thing she saw.


: *In an alternate future, it is now February 2024 and Wesley "Wes" Carter-Wright, 41, a black Canadian-American of Central African descent who is a hotelier and property developer and one of the first black people to be publicly worth more than ten billion US dollars, is preparing to launch the first capsule of his first modular orbital hotel - that is, until a surprising event occurs.* The makeup artist smiled at Wes and completed the finishing touches to his face and neck. "Okay, Mr Carter-Wright, we're ready for you now," a tall and thin Indian woman - who was nearly as tall as Wes, standing at nearly 1.87 meters tall - waved over to him. She motioned to the seat in front of the curved table in the middle of the studio. The lights were on and four automated cameras were lined up around it. Charles Craven, the famous host of *Craven At Nine*, beamed grandly at Wes, his white teeth and golden skin exuding confidence and magnanimity. "Good to have you here, son!" He exclaimed as Wes sat down next to him. "On in five, sir!" A robot announcement echoed overhead and its echoes bounced around the studio. Craven gave a thumbs-up - to no-one in particular, given that most of the studio's workers were robots or everything else was automated and controlled by *Minerva*, the smart AI system NBC and Fox used in their studios now. Wes cleared his throat. "Um...Charles, you remember that I requested no questions about my grandparents, yes." Craven nodded, still beaming widely and gave another thumbs-up - this time to the automated camera furthest to his left. Green lights flashed and the live television interview began. "Okay, viewers, I'm joined here by Wisconsinite Wesley Carter-Wright who is probably one of the richest Americans today - and certainly the richest Wisconsinite, I can tell you that for sure!" *Automated laughter.* Wes smiled and Charles began to ask benign questions. As the time passed, the questions became more sensitive, but Wes was sure Craven would not forget his request. So, Wes responded amicably and talked about how he left his well-paid IB role at Dreyfus Arnaud aged 25 and teamed up with three friends from college to start up a small property development firm. "It was difficult at first, but we managed to get a large loan through a relative of one of the partners and we fixed up the property ourselves and sold it at a profit." "Wow!" Craven grinned. "And this was in Nevada, right?" Wes nodded. "Yes, first one was just outside Henderson. Large mansion, with a small pool. Sold for six million." "And it was obviously onwards and upwards from there?" Automated applause rang out across the studio and one of the automated cameras moved in to zoom into Wes' face. So, the live television interview was completed without a hitch and Wes thanked Craven. Wes had been advised by his PR team to take part in *Craven At Nine*, so he'd reluctantly accepted the invite, especially with Forbes now listing him on their website as one of America's richest men. Later that day, Wes had flown over to Salt Lake City and was now sat in the penthouse office of his space hotel company, based just outside Logan, about eighty miles north of Salt Lake City. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the furthest end of his office and took in the breathtaking views of Mount Logan. He had just been having a meeting with Rufus Turner and Mike Jefferson, the co-executives of *Wyke Interplanetary*, the rocket company which would be shooting the first capsule of Wes' modular space hotel into orbit. The launch - over in New Mexico - was scheduled for next week Sunday - weather permitting - and Wes couldn't be more excited. The global media had been talking about it for the last week and interest generated was huge. As long as everything went according to plan, by December 2024 *Pentagon Space* - the space arm of his hotel chain, *Pentagon Hotels* - would have its first modular space hotel up and running in orbit over Earth and it would be the first functional, safe and sanctioned hotel in orbit over Earth to date. A notification beeped behind him. He waved his hand and his HoloTable lit up and became opaque. "Go ahead." The smooth female AI voice replied immediately. "Mr Carter-Wright, you have mail marked as urgent, signed with the seal of The Global Environmental Authority; an automated video accompanies it." Wes frowned. It was strange to be receiving contact from them at this time. The planning application had since gone through long ago. "Open," he said. A silver robot head emerged from below his HoloTable and the diamond emblem of the GEA flashed briefly. "*Good afternoon, Mr Carter-Wright. This is an automated messsage sent from the Office of Planning of the Global-*" Wes waved his hand and fast-forwarded the automated robot message. "*Pursuant to Clause 5.9, subsection 3 of the Earth Environmental Code of Conduct of Space, planning permission for Ark One of Pentagon Space...has been revoked.*" Wes stared at the automated robot in shock. "What? I-" "*The accompanying formal document has been forwarded to you over HoloMail. Do you have any questions? Please note that my responses are limited only to the contents of the letter.*" Wes blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. "Uh...yes, I- What are the contents of Clause 5.9, subsection 3?" The holographic image flickered for a second and then the automated robot responded automatically. "*If any party directly connected to an application for planning permission - even if the application has already been accepted and successful - is found to be in breach of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Agreement and the Global Code of Conduct on Global Financing at any time prior to the submission of an application or during the period where an application is being reviewed, planning permission shall be revoked immediately.*" Wes stared in shock and horror. "Who...which party is in breach?!" Wes didn't understand. *Pentagon Space* was still a space startup. It did not use any nuclear material yet nor did it have any plans too. None of this made any sense. The robot was silent for second. "*Mike Jefferson, Chief Execute of Wyke Interplanetary.*" Wes frowned, even more shocked and confused. "Why?! What did he do?! Is it something to do with *Wyke Interplanetary*?!" "*Mr Carter-Wright, my responses are limited only to the information at hand.*" "How is Mike Jefferson in breach?" The robot answered immediately. "*Confirmed intelligence shows that Wyke Interplanetary secretly bought nuclear material from a blacklisted corporation during the period Pentagon Space's planning application was being reviewed. Wyke Interplanetary did not notify the relevant authorities of this purchase.*" Wes shook his head in shock. "*Whilst you may appeal this decision at any time, please note that due to the nature of everything in Clause 5.9, an appeal requesting for permission to be reinstated will be denied if the linked party responsible for the revocation of permission in the first place is still listed on the application.*" The accompanying document flashed up on his HoloTable and he waved the automated robot away. Wes stared at the document and could not believe his eyes. It was in-depth and went into detail. It outlined what was responsible for the revocation of permission and the blacklisted corporation *Wyke Interplanetary* had bought nuclear material from. The executives at *Wyke Interplanetary* would also be receiving notifications now as well. He'd have to have a long and heated conference with them. Wes slammed his fists down on the physical table near his HoloTable in anger. There'd be no launch next week; there'd be no Pentagon Space hotel for the foreseeable future. He'd now be locked into a battle with *Wyke* and be tangled in wranglings over payments and blame; he'd also have to find a new company to launch his modules into orbit or consider the Chinese backup he'd put on the back burner early last year and then he'd have to submit a new planning application all over again. "Dammit," he hissed. *Pentagon Space* would no longer be the first working hotel in orbit over Earth, for Hawthorne Orbital was poised to launch their own hotel into orbit in June later this year. Wes shook his head. His dream had been dashed in a heartbeat.


My father used to read us the bible every night when we were kids. He’d pull a weathered wooden chair up beside our beds, turn on the side lamp and crack the old King James. The pages were thin and fragile between his fingers; a stark contrast to his meaty farm hands, and every time he turned a page the whole book would disappear behind his wide palms. He never read in any sort of order, but he always seemed to know what it was he wanted to read. If we ever protested or asked for a different story he would scoff at us and say, *the devil doesn’t take any days off. Neither can we lest we succumb to his temptations*. One day in late October, a kid in my class, the preacher’s son, had to be excused and a police officer waiting at the door escorted him out to his car and off they drove. The class erupted in hushed chatter until our Head Sister slammed a ruler on her desk and we went back to learning our times tables. When I got home that night, my mother’s eyes were red and wet and her hair had fallen from her bun. My father looked the same as he usually did but he stood closer to my mother than usual and held her head against his body when they thought we weren’t looking. We had pancakes for dinner. That night my Father pulled up his old chair and flicked through the pages, thumbing one chapter, then another, his eyes scanning back and forth. Eventually he stopped, his finger resting firmly on the page and looked up at us. *You’re going to hear a lot of stories at school over the next few days and I want you to know something. The Devil doesn’t care who you are. Or what you do. Or where you come from. We are all but of the flesh. And some men, no matter how hard they try, were just born to be evil. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t mean this* – he pressed upon the bible when he said this – *isn’t real.* The next day a kid who lived next door to the preacher’s son told me the preacher had killed his wife and the family dog while we were at school. He’d carved them up with a sharpened crucifix and suspended them from a wall with nails, their limbs separated like pieces to a horrifying puzzle. They found him sitting in front of them repeating a scripture he’d drawn with his own blood on the floor boards. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God. Looking back, something about sparing his son seemed even more cruel than killing him. Having to live with that pain.  I don’t tell you this story to scare you, or even to call into question the thought of God. The truth is I believe in him. I tell you this story as a cry for help. As I sit here on this bench, writing this down, the man I’ve been following the last few days crosses my vision in the middle distance. His brimmed hat is tucked low over his face, but I can feel his glow and it calls to me. By the time you’re reading this, he will be my fourth. The handle of the blade I have tucked against my breast pocket burns my chest and the words my father said to me all those years ago bounce around my mind. *Some men, no matter how hard they try, were just born to be evil.* I wonder if he knew the thoughts I had back then. The thoughts I’m having now. The man’s about half a block away from me now so I must stand and give slow chase. To whoever finds this and reads it, please know I am trying. My father was always right. I just hope he was wrong this one, single, time. I’m so tired of fighting.


Nov. 3, 2021  I came up with a band name today. "Ready, Aim, Tired". I was thinking about how meaningless my job is and how exhausted I am all the time because of it. I mean well, truly, but I am constantly feeling like I'm running on empty. Always filling my tank, just in time, with scrounged dollar bills carelessly put through the wash. It's not good money, but cash is cash.  I often think about how precarious my predicament is. How I've been one paycheck away from abject poverty for my entire adult life. So I come to work and earn my measly $1700 per month. That'll do. It has to though, because I'm severely burnt out.  I don't have the energy to go back to school, job hunt, update my resume. Hell, I don't even have the energy to work 5 days per week. Now I'm working 4. My choice, thankfully. I feel like I'm stuck in a cycle of never ending, repeating, days. Except the seasons change, my body starts aching, my hairline recedes, and I realize that there's a surprising amount of grey in it. I guess I really have been working here for 8 years.  I've decided to call it silver hair, because mines shiny and only a little bit depressing. I just realized that "Shiny and only a little bit depressing" perfectly describes my guitar tone, my playing too frankly. Maybe that's the name of the debut album.  "Ready, Aim, Tired - Shiny and only a little bit depressing" Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I like it.  I'm writing because I've been told it's good for you, and I could use some good in my life right now.  My estranged father has been getting his neighbors to call me. I'm not sure why he doesn't just pick up the phone and call me himself. I'd probably be so shocked that I'd forget not to answer. He's sick, but not nearly as sick as he wants me to believe. His doctor told me it's "Munchausen syndrome". He's faking the rest for anything it'll earn him.  He want's me to go out to \[place\] and spend time with him in my childhood home. Like it would somehow make him feel better, or validate his existence. It would be bad for me, and I would hate it there anyway. It stinks like piss and shit...because he did literally use the floor as a washroom for a couple months before his operation. He smokes like a 23 year old drunken socialite with a coke habit and he doesn't have screens in the windows, so there's always insects inside.  What used to be my bedroom has had the carpet torn out and is filled floor-to-ceiling with the discarded boxes and packaging of at least five years of impulse purchases. It's as if he still hasn't learned that no amount of spending on himself will make him feel happy or fulfilled.  He neglects his poor cat and micro-waves frozen dinners while chain smoking in the ruined house that my ruined family used to live in.  I wanted to spew all of that at my dad's old neighbor Rick when he called me up 2 weeks ago, but instead I said; "Sure thing, I'll drive out to see him on Tuesday". Rick means well too, like me. But I never went out to see my dad.  He bought me a guitar. Way back in July. I was spending time with him at least once per week for the first time since before my brother died. He wanted to buy me a nice gift for all of the birthdays and Christmas' we missed because he was too busy being an asshole for me to love him. I declined his offer a couple times, but he insisted. Once, getting angry when I said all I wanted as a gift was to hangout in the backyard with him and a couple beers. I instinctually did what I always used to do when he was angry. Comply, or else.  So, I did some research and picked out a brand new electric guitar from Ibanez. They had just released them. I fell in love with the colors, the wood, the shape, and the features. I thought it was the perfect guitar for me. I even allowed myself to fully feel the excitement and anticipation. Later when I showed my musician friends what I ordered they each said "That guitar is so you!" excitedly...or some variation of that anyway.  That was 4 months ago. My ADHD brain has decided that guitar playing doesn't make us happy anymore. Which is a shame because it showed up at my place today and cost me $300 in duties, taxes, and fees. Welp, I guess I only have $1400 this month for expenses.  I'm writing this on a pile of post-it notes at work and I just thought to myself. Wouldn't it be funny if I go home, open the package, admire it, and play it, only to have disgust, resentment, and shame wash over me like a melancholy tidal wave of regret.  I'll try not to hate it. I'll go home after my shift, open the box and not hate it for what it represents, but appreciate it for what it is. An instrument that's so me. Who knows, it might kick start a manic ADHD guitar binge that'll give me joy for a couple weeks. But for now I'm just going to take it as it comes.  That might be on the debut album. Track #3, "Melancholy Tidal Wave"  Nice.


The Wendigo You and a group of four of your friends are huddled around a tiny campfire, the bitter cold cutting through you like a knife. You can see your breath every time you exhale, and the cold air hurts your lungs each time you draw in a breath. Watching the fire dance, you can’t help but remember the park ranger’s last words to you. Telling you that not to go up the mountain today, a storm was rolling in, but that if you did to be back before night fall or you’ll be stuck up there until spring. You laughed it off and headed up the mountain, but thanks to the “expert navigator’s” directions you and your group get off the beaten path and quickly become lost. Night fall came just as quickly as the snow did and everyone deciding to wait out the storm. Your group picks out a spot and start building a fire, hoping that help will come quickly. You realize the meager rations your brought for a weekend hiking trip will only last you until the end of the week if you are careful. The snow flurries in, the wind ripping through your coat. You spend the time huddled together and try to keep the fire going. You shiver through your first night as the waiting turns from hours to days, then to a week. You check your bag and realize that your rations have been exhausted. You and your friends try hunting for food, but you catch nothing. You’re not exactly the hunting type, after all, you’re from the suburbs. The most “hunting’ you’ve done is sneak killing Zombies on Xbox. Besides, your small pocketknives and hatchet can’t take out big game and you don’t know how to set traps for small game. Your body is screaming for nutrients. Your group hasn’t eaten in days, maybe weeks? You’re not sure, the days have been blending together. The bitter cold continues to cut through you, you haven’t felt warm in weeks. Your clothes have begun to hang off your emaciated frame allowing the wind to wrap around your skin. Then suddenly, one of your friends stumbles and falls to the ground, you quickly rush over to see what’s the matter. You shake him, check his pulse, and try CPR but to no avail. Your friend has succumbed to hunger and the elements. You suggest that we give him a proper burial, but one in your party has a different idea. A taboo and macabre idea. An idea so dark that it takes you a moment to realize what he’s suggested. That you eat him. You put up a fight, people don’t eat people… what would we tell the authorities? …. His family? But the growling of your stomach says otherwise. You protest again, but one of your friends has already gone off to find firewood. You watch as another begins undressing him and using a hatchet to cleave off his limbs. You’re handed a cup of thick, red liquid. Steam flows upward as the hot blood contacts the cold air. The fire roars and your dead friend’s leg is now roasting. The smell is something familiar, like sizzling pork. The next thing you know you’re looking down at a steaming piece of cooked meat. You stare at the hunk of meat, disgusted at the thought of eating it. You went to school with him, his kids are friends with yours… before you can think about what you’re doing, your body takes control, and you feel your teeth have sunk into flesh. The warmth of the meat radiates throughout your body. Your stomach screams for more, you take a drink of the blood. So warm, slightly metallic, but satisfying. You devour your meal and go back for more until the four of you have picked the bones clean. Each one of you takes an article of clothing and settles in for the night, resting assured that you know have the strength to wait for help. That night, you toss and turn. Visions of your friend dances in your mind, something is chasing him. You see the warmth of his breath rapidly inhaling and exhaling as a large pale figure gives chase behind him. The pale figure pounces on his back and rips into him. Crimson blood flows on the porcelain white snow. You run toward the figure, trying to help your friend. The pale figure turns its head slowly toward you and lets out a blood curdling scream. You freeze in place as it turns its body and runs toward you. It pounces on you; you try to fight it off! It pins your head to the ground and right before it goes in for the kill, it looks you in the eyes. The face is familiar, a face you’ve seen many times…. Because it’s your face. The shock wakes you in a cold sweat and you sit up from a dead sleep. The warm morning light hitting your cold body, the realization of what you have done settles on you. The four of you create a story in which your friend walked off to get help and you haven’t seen him since. You look at your hands, they are pale and gaunt. They look a pasty pale white, almost waxy looking. *Is this from the cold? Did they look like this before?* You ask yourself, but your brain is in a fog. The only thought in your mind is hunger. Your stomach growling and gnawing, feeling every pang wash over you. You need to eat. The growling of your stomach permeates your mind, the only thing on your mind. You want more, more food, more… flesh? You look around your camp, looking at your friends intently. Your head pounding and stomach screaming for more. You stare at them like a predator stares down its prey. Focused, determined, hungry. After what feels like an eternity, you spring into action. You grab a hatchet, lifting it over your head and dropping it into the skull of your nearest friend. Blood spurts around you and the sound wet bone snapping echoes in the air. You remove the axe and plunge a pale hand deep into the cavity pulling out bits of brain. Your cold hand steaming in the bitter frozen air. Devouring what’s in your hand you reach for a second helping, the feeling as it slides down your throat throws you into ecstasy. Blood flowing over your cheeks and down your neck. You laugh and reach for more. The other two scramble to their feet and begin to run, you quickly twist your neck in their direction. Their muscles are far too tired to attempt and escape. You twist your body in an ungodly position, you hear bones cracking as your body begins to contort. As the pair are running, one falls to the ground. You run after, pouncing on their back and snapping their neck. Your look around for your last friend and find them running through the forest. You look up and let out a blood curdling scream. You bound after him, running more like a dog than a person. You knock him to the ground, he rolls over on to his back waving his arms to try and protect himself. You place a hand on his head. Your fingernails now long and black, pinning him to the ground. Your other hand pins down an arm, you lunge toward his exposed neck, ripping out a chunk of throat. You gulp it down, that feeling of ecstasy returning. You begin dragging him back to the makeshift camp site. Months pass and the snow begins to melt, spring has finally arrived. Ripping a chunk of meat from a deer carcass, your head snaps from side to side. You hear the familiar sounds of human voices. You slink out of your cave and take refuge in a large bush just off the hiking path. A couple have made their way up the mountain and stumbled upon your campsite. One of them notices something moving in the bushes. A woman nudges her husband, “Look honey, a deer! I think it’s a buck!” As she points at the antlers. The woman brings her phone up to take a picture on her phone. She’s about to take the picture when she notices a pair of red eyes pear back at her. The husband grabs her shoulder to try and pull her back, but it’s too late. You lunge at them, your deerskin cloak flapping in the wind. You knock the man to the ground, pinning his arms and legs. Your stomach growling and your head pounding, blood boiling. You rip a chuck out of his chest, the blood flowing out and mixing with the dirt on the ground. The wife tries to run but you grab her by the hair and smash her face into a nearby tree. You collect your bounty, a trail of blood follows you as you take your bounty back to your dark, musty cave.


Neil fired the rifle. He hated killing things, but wanted to protect his son from the act. He limped towards the dead rabbit, wincing with every step he took on his bad leg. From the long grass behind him, Henry stood up. Henry was twelve-years-old. Tall and lanky, his body was a far cry from what it would have been had he grown up with the abundance of food that was available before The Fall. A storm arrived as they ate. They huddled together under a tree. Neil put the rifle down in the wet grass and reminded himself why they were out there. The house. Julia’s journals. He closed his eyes. Somehow, he drifted off. When he opened his eyes, the world was a pre-dawn grey. And Henry was gone. Panicked, Neil searched the area. This world was too dangerous for Henry to be out on his own. He wouldn’t know how to protect himself. Anything could happen. “Henry!” Neil called. “Dad?” Henry’s voice called back. Neil took off towards it, moving as fast as his lame leg would allow him. He found Henry at the edge of the tree line. “What are you doing?” “I had to pee and I guess I wandered too far. Look!” Henry pointed to the highway down the hill in front of them. It was clogged with dead and rusted cars. Beyond it, rows of houses sprawled into suburbia. The neighbourhood was almost exactly as Neil remembered it, except that the streets and sidewalks were cracked and covered with shrubbery. He stopped in front of their old house, where they had intended to raise their family. This was supposed to be where Henry grew up. “This is it?” Henry asked as he approached the front door. He was just a baby when they left. Neil winced as he followed Henry. Inside, the house was ransacked. Neil stopped just in front of the staircase. A picture lay broken at his feet. He picked it up.Julia smiled back at him. She was holding baby Henry. “Is that her?” Neil turned around to see Henry looking at him. “Yeah.” Henry walked over and took the picture from his Dad. “Can I keep it?” Before Neil could answer, loud yelling outside echoed through the empty neighbourhood. “Upstairs,” Neil whispered. “Hurry!” At the top of the stairs, Neil darted into the master bedroom. He ripped old items off the closet shelves and found the shoebox tucked against the wall. He took it out and opened it. All of Julia’s journals were there. They detailed every aspect of her life, including their marriage and their early days with Henry. Julia died so early into The Fall that Henry never knew her. It was the one thing Neil wanted to give him. Now he could. Suddenly, the voices from outside were much closer. Downstairs, the front door was kicked in. Neil froze and listened to the muffled voices. The first one swore that he saw the people come into the house. The other replied that they’d better search the place. As they moved around downstairs, Neil very quietly crawled down the front hall. His leg dragged along behind him, a nasty reminder that he couldn’t run away. He found Henry in the nursery. The voices were at the bottom of the stairs now and making their way up. Neil went into the nursery with Henry and waited just to the side of the open doorway. He held the rifle up. The footsteps made their way down the hall towards them and stopped just outside of the door. Neil held his breath, praying the man would just go away. But nobody just goes away. Not in this world. Everyone in the house was startled when the bird hit the window, but Neil was the first to act. He jumped out and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. It was jammed. Before Neil could try again, the man swiped the rifle out of his hands. It landed in the centre of the room. Neil blocked his son from the man in front of him. “We don’t want any trouble,” Neil said. “Please.” The man grabbed Neil by the back of the neck and dragged him to the hallway. “Hey Jack!” he shouted. “I got him! He’s got a little kid with--” The gunshot was deafening. The man’s grip around Neil’s neck loosened as he fell to the ground. Henry stood in the open doorway of the nursery, still pointing the rifle at the now dead man. Jack ran out of the master bedroom at the sound of the gunshot. He made for Henry, but Neil stood in front of him. He easily shoved Neil out of the way. Henry pulled the trigger again, but again it didn’t fire. The man charged towards Henry, but Henry pushed the nozzle of the gun into the man’s belly. Then, he ran forward with all of his strength. They both stumbled backwards, towards the stairs, and went over the top step. “No!” Neil pulled himself onto his hands and knees and dragged himself to the top of the stairs. Two motionless bodies lay at the bottom. “Henry!” The little body at the bottom of the stairs rolled over. Henry smiled at his father. As they packed their bags to get back onto the road, Neil gave the journals to Henry. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “But you know, I don’t need a bunch of books to tell me that Mom loved me. I know she did. And I know you do too.” Neil smiled. This kid was wise beyond his age. Then again, he had to be to survive in this world. Neil knew then that Henry would be a survivor. He winced as Henry helped him to his feet. Henry put his father’s arm around his neck and supported some of his weight. “Ready?” Henry asked. His father hung off of one arm, the rifle off of the other. Henry led them forward into the Apocalypse.


Who is this man? You are asking yourself. What did he do? You wonder to yourself. This man has a name but for now he will just be referred to as Man. Well it all started about a month ago in Istanbul. I had been tracking the man for some time. He is a character of habits. Drank an espresso every morning from the corner cafe. Walked to his office down the road. Fed the pigeons during lunch. Day after day the man practiced his most zen routine. Disciplined I thought he was. Then the man suddenly disappeared. No espresso. No walk. No pigeons. Not a soul in Istanbul noticed. I was confused. I had been watching the man for weeks. Closely watching. How did he get away? Where did he go? I mean what the hell. I am the best there is. I found Madoff. I found the affluenza kid. Hell I even found Frank Morris (I mean he was just floating there but I found him). Did he get picked up by a spice trader? Ate a bad kabob? I mean the fuck Man. Days I sat and went through my notes. Scrubbed through my security tapings. Played back all of the audio recordings. This man was expectably dull. Nothing. Just him drinking is fucking espressos. He whistled a lot. I mean I found Bison Dele for Christ sake. I started to think. More than usual. What details did I miss? Also, why in the hell did this job fall to me? I mean I found Natalie Hollaway. For the fourth day in a row I scrubbed through all my tape and audio recordings. There has to be something. Espresso after espresso I drank. The rewind and fast forward were grounded down to nubs. WHERE THE FUCK IS HE? I was at the end of my ropes so I finally reached out the local contact. Fucking embarrassing. Laughed at me the entire damn time. Self-righteous saffron smelling dickless prick. I mean I found Phillip Taylor Kramer, that’s legend shit. The local contact was no help. I finally decided to walk a day in this man’s shoes. I bought an espresso at the corner cafe. Walked to his dumb ass office. Fed those rough ass looking, good feather wana be pigeons. I give up. I don’t know anymore. WHERE. THE. FUCK. ARE. YOU. Then I saw it… It had been staring at the entire time. A blind spot in my monitoring. A side entrance to the train station. I ran in. “SHOW ME THE FUCKING TAPES NOW YOU ASSHOLE!” I screamed at poor Ibo who worked the security desk. AND THERE HE WAS. This profoundly boring, neutral, dull, dim, witless, five dollar ass man had hopped onto a train to Glasgow. to be continued… British Airways non-stop to Glasgow. Now since we have some time on our hands, let me explain to you who this man is. I don’t know. I really don’t. It was a simple surveillance gig, thought it be over in like a week tops. BUT NOPE it went ooon. Much longer than these tend to go. Whatever, not complaining, I got to live in Istanbul all expenses paid for a month. Sweet gig for the most part. What I knew then which I still know now is who hired me. Mr. Howard. Now Mr. Howard is an interesting man. Interesting in the sense that you never meet the same Mr. Howard twice. What I mean by that is Mr. Howard is literally a stranger always. I don’t know if he uses androids or is a shapeshifter but every time he is different. We all rotate the jobs from MH. This one was on my rotation. MH says gather some intel, you gather some intel. Easy and pays well. Usually the jobs involve some criminal activity, some bad behavior, really just getting some dirt; but this one was nothing. MH doesn’t mess around with nothing. I figured there had to be something to him. So I flew into Istanbul, set up shop. Got a couple cameras with long range lenses, patched into the local security camera feed, and got the bugs placed. Easy. I had a week of prep before I started which basically meant early days. I would walk down to the bakery and buy this amazing olive bread loaf in the morning and hit up nearest sojox shop for lunch. Fucking great. Then it started. Day 1 easy. Day 2 easy. Day 3 easy. Day 8 ***yawn***. Day 12 Please do something. Day 22 change the fucking channel already; Jesus it’s been the same American infomercial dubbed in Turkish for four hours. No one should be setting and forgetting meat! Day 27 ah fuck where’d he go... Now the other issue we need to discuss is why he would go to Glasgow of all places. Nothing from the description of the job or the description of the mild mannered man would lead you to suspect Glasgow as an option. Sure run off to Budapest, Paris, St. Petersburg, but Glasgow? Weather forecast is rain and wind for the forcible future. Combine that with men in kilts and golf balls being lobbed through the air at all times and you got yourself a bad day. Let’s go back to MH. When he first approached the home office to set up his overall deal he specified that each job was part of a much larger job. Every piece must go right for the whole to work. Fuck up one part and you fuck up the entire contract. That was two years ago. Must be a really grand plan. Hopefully the man going to Glasgow is part of the plan.