I lay dying in bed in the nursing home. I hate this place. I don’t want to be here. I won’t stay long. Everyone knows this. I made my wishes known my whole life. I’m here because I fell at home when getting up during the night to pee. I missed the toilet and went over backward into the tub. My husband tried to lift me out, but he’s old, too, (three years more than my eighty), so he called the emergency squad, and even though I said no, they brought me to the hospital and then moved me here for therapy to get me back on my feet. But that isn’t going to happen. I don’t open my eyes in the two days I’m here. I’m too tired to bother. I refuse to eat or drink. The staff despairs of my uncooperativeness. They tell my family that if I don’t eat or drink, they will put me on IV fluids. My veins no longer have room for needles. My flesh is marked with bruises. My husband sits next to me all day watching “The Andy Griffith” show. I hear the TV. I know the episodes by heart from listening to him watch them in the other room at our house.

I am silent. Words no longer leave my mouth. Me, the great talker, never at a loss for words. Never afraid to voice an opinion. Always ready with a comment. Not shy about saying what I want. I hear muffled sounds. Voices that I know well. Other voices I don’t know. Those voices irritate me, and so I focus on them. “She’s not trying. She should be up and walking around by now, but we can’t even get her to eat.” The voice of a stranger. Shut up, I scream in my head. It sounds so loud to me, but the people in the room don’t react. “You go home,” says the girl I gave birth to. “It’s still light out. Go home, rest, eat. You can come back tomorrow. I’ll stay.” My husband, her father, kisses my crepe paper cheek. He sits with me all day until she gets here. She’s here, now, so he feels it’s safe to go. He lets her help him with his coat. I don’t see this. My eyes won’t open. My lids feel like anvils or the heavy lead drapes you wear when getting an x-ray at the dentist. But I know because she instructs him what to do. He needs the structure; he’s so lost. We’ve been together for sixty years, so long he no longer knows what to do without me. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says.

I feel them both looking at me, expecting me to respond.

“Yes, back in the morning,” she says for me. She interprets my internal dialogue the way she used to explain what I meant when I got angry and said hurtful things in my desire to hide my fears. She always knew how afraid I was, and I hated her for it. And she knew this, too. The noises from the nurses and night visitors stop. The draft dies. The light dims. She closes the door to the room. We are alone. I smell coffee—my mouth waters. I love coffee. I’m not thirsty, but I want the taste of the coffee. A motor whirs. The back of my bed rises, and I sit up. She arranges the blankets around me. She tucks a cloth under my chin. She knows I hate a mess, and even though no one will see me but her, she makes sure there will be no stained linen to change.

“It’s coffee time,” she says and laughs. “You always drink coffee in the evening, and it never keeps you awake.” A straw slips between my lips.

“Doesn’t it smell good?”

I feel a slight breeze, and roasted coffee, sugar, and cream waft into my nose. I salivate. I suck on the straw and draw the bittersweet smoothness into my mouth. The flavor washes over me, and I am thirsty and ravenous. I keep at it until I exhaust my need for my favorite drink. “Good job,” she says as I sink into my pillows. “We won’t let them stick you anymore. You’ll show them.” I sigh. A cup presses against my lips. A dribble of water enters my mouth before I compress my lips and turn away.

“I don’t blame you,” she says. “That’s nasty stuff.” Cold, wet paints my mouth. Ice cubes. I lick at them, my tongue darts out, and she holds one still as I suckle at it. I no longer feel parched as laundry on the line. I taught her how to hang clothes, but she never had time for it. Books occupy her attention. I told her once that only lazy people read. My aunt read instead of doing dishes. My daughter understands that obsession. Dirty dishes in the sink when visitors show up didn’t embarrass them. I said so many hurtful things to my girl over the years. Words meant to teach her, but instead only inflicted wounds, and now I can’t say what I really meant to say. Cold, creamy, sweet vanilla. Ice cream. A spoon tip nudges my mouth open, and I slurp it. I make mewling sounds, like a baby suckling at her mother’s teat. I didn’t breastfeed her. It was too messy and vulnerable, exposed.

I shiver.

She wipes my face with a damp cloth. Her caress is gentle and soothing. Her fingers smooth back my hair. The motor whirs, my head lowers, pillows fluff, and adjust. She covers my arms. My feet warm. I think about the patchwork quilt she made me one year for Christmas with the red cardinal on the top. I can’t remember telling her I loved it. She gave me diamond earrings once, and I never wore them. I wore that blanket every night while sitting in my lounge chair, watching “Jeopardy.” “I’ve covered you with your quilt,” she says. “The bright colors look so much better than the starched white of the hospital bedding.” A chair scratches on the floor. She uncovers my right hand. She cradles it in both of hers, her fingers wrapping around my fingers, stroking my thumb. It feels like a hug like my soul is a baby bird nestled in her palm. Where did this girl, who I never hugged, learn how to do this? She used to reach out, and I gave her the dead-fish-face. She gives me what I never gave her - the comfort of a mother to a helpless babe. I made her hide it so well that it now shocks me that she still finds it within her to try one last time to let me know she needed me; she wanted me. And I am still unable to give her what she needs. I remember all of the times that I didn’t hold her hands. I marvel that she finds it within herself to give to me, and I know she never gave up on us. “You’re a good daughter.” I force the words out loud before it’s too late.


Ah, hello there an’ welcome, ‘tis yerself?

Are ye well settled there? I sincerely hope this story finds ye well. And if yer not well, then I hope it finds ye nonetheless.

It’s all about a poor man Timothy Finnegan, or Tim as we all knew him.

Now Tim was born a gentleman, never a nicer man could ye meet. A gentleman surely, but as poor a blighter as ever ye seen.

His father was a cooper. They don’t have many coopers these days, which is a shame. For those who don’t know, a cooper is a man who makes wooden barrels. They don’t have many wooden barrels these days either, which is a shame. His mother was a saint. Livin’ and true, she was a saint, God be good to her. They lived over by Walkin Street, ye know it? Just off the old Callan Road? No? Never matter.

Anyways as poor Tim grew, sure, didn’t he grow into a problem. Ye see, Tim was fond of a drink. He’d have a tipple for breakfast, a gargle for lunch, and a feed of pints for supper. It was both the making of him and the ruin of him. An’ of all the drink that the Good Lord gave us it was whiskey that Tim had a taste for.

Now, that’s whiskey with an ‘e’.

Irish whiskey.

Not that bleedin’ scotch whisky, the divil knows why they spell it like that. Feckin’ eejits.

Well Tim had a love for the whiskey, or

uisce

bheatha  as he would have called it being a native Irish speaker. That’s

uisce

bheatha . Pronounced

ish-ka va-ha . Say it quickly and ye’ll be up to speed.

Ye see

uisce  means water. And

bheatha  means life. So whiskey is literally the water of life! So there’s a few words of Irish for ye, or as we say here

cupla

focal as gaeilge .

Anyways, I’m getting lost in me-self here, where was I? Ah yes.

Tim loved drinkin’.

It was the drink that got him sacked from his first job as a hod-carrier. For those that don’t know a hod-carrier is a man that carries hods.

An’ ye may rightly wonder how a man could be sacked for carrying hods but ye see our Tim would work manys a day half cut; the boss men don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. T’find Tim all ye had t’do was followed the trail of bricks he’d dropped along the way. An’ more often than not the trail led to the pub.

Tim never had a trade t’call his own but he could turn his hand at almost anything. An’ so he spent his life working as an odd job man, picking up work here an’ there, never staying on the books too long and spending every last penny on another drop a drink, God love him.

One day ye might see him slapping paint onto the side of a house and the next he could be putting bricks together to build a garden wall next door. He’d be down digging in a hole in the mornings, and scurrying up a ladder by tea.

Always with a smile, always with a drink. Well, it was on a fine Thursday, I remember it like it was yesterday, that he put his hand upon the ladder that was t’be his downfall. Ha, and down fall he went. And sure the Divil himself must have pushed him, for he landed on his head, square on his head. B’God, the crack of it could be heard three streets over! We all knew what that meant.

Poor Tim wouldn’t b’found with a paintbrush in his hand, he wouldn’t b’found with brick and mortar, he wouldn’t b’found up a ladder. There was only one place he’d b’found now, and that was in a six foot hole.

Well the doctor was called. He arrived out in this fancy motorcar, took one look at the poor man and pronounced him dead. A wile fancy car for such a simple job, for every dog in the street knew that poor Tim was dead.

Ah well, the boys threw him onto the back of a cart and the horse pulled him home. Thanks be to Our Lord above he had no family t’speak of. His mammy and daddy had long gone to their eternal rest by then.

He was cleaned up and wrapped in a sheet and laid out in the house, as was the tradition at the time. An’ t’be fair, it still is today, though ye don’t see it as much these days, which is a shame.

Once the word had spread about Tim the crowds flocked. As I was telling ye, Tim was a gentleman. And people being good people wanted t’pay their respects.

Ye see, the typical tradition in Ireland is t’have the body laid out in the home house for three days so that people can pay their respects, tell stories, have a few laughs, maybe a few drinks, and t’say their final goodbyes. People flock to the house day and night at all hours, it’s just the way we do things. Sure me-self called out on the third night for t’do me bit. Now I did mention there was drink.

As poor Tim lay dead the bed there was a bucket of whiskey by his feet and a barrel of porter by his head, for any man or woman who wanted t’whet their sorrows. As I was saying, I was there me-self on the third night for if I hadn’t been I wouldn’t be telling you this story because I damn well wouldn’t have believed it. Anyways, the hour was late, maybe 11 or so, and there were a few of us gathered around the bedside blethering and talking as you do. Biddy O’Brien began sobbing and said to no one in particular, “sure you’d never have seen a finer looking corpse.“

Well Maggie O’Connor who was a widow herself didn’t agree with this at all, for she thought that her husband had been a finer looking corpse.

Now, Maggie wouldn’t be the brightest tool to b’fair. The brightest tool? That doesn’t sound right. Hardly matters. She’s not a bright tool. Then again, neither is Biddy. In fact between the two of them there’s a few coins short of a shilling.

Well they were nattering away between themselves when all of a sudden Maggie O’Connor took a swing at Biddy and caught her full square on the jaw!

Biddy, not t’be out done, swung back and knocked Maggie flat on her back.

And poor Tim laying dead in the bed! Would ye believe it!? Well the husbands tried t’intervene, and somehow in the midst of it they ended up brawling themselves. And before we knew it the whole room was at it!

There were punches flying, women crying and in the middle of it all poor Tim beyond dying.

The row escalated as all rows do; there were cups of tae smashed, walking sticks were unsheathed an’ clashed like sabres, the tae-pot was battered around some poor fellas head, it was all out civil war!

In the run of things some ignorant sod took the bucket of whiskey and fired it at poor Mickey Maloney who, thanks be t’God, chanced t’see it coming at the last moment an’ ducked.

The bucket carried on its way and smashed into the wall over the bed sending a shower of whiskey over poor Tim. That hushed the room.

And b’God didn’t we see his tongue tickle the drops on his dried lips. Not once, not twice but three times.

Let me tell ye, nothing stops war quite like a man rising from the dead. His eyes staggered open, much in the way that poor Tim would have staggered down the street, an’ before us all sure didn’t he sit up in the bed with his bleary eyes looking ‘round us all. “Thundering Jaysus d’ye think I’m dead?” says he.

“Ye are,” says us.

“I don’t feel dead,” says he and he threw his legs round the side of the bed and asked for a bite to eat. Like yer little girl said to Our Good Lord! An’ out of the bed he rose, gave a quare stretch and tottered out of the room.

We all followed him, sure what else would ye do but follow a dead man risen. And where did he head to but straight to the pub an’ ordered another glass of whiskey, that uisce bheatha, the water of life.


My Excellent Good Friends By Andy Heidel Preface This edition of My Excellent Good Friends is based upon the one and only performance of Hamlet: 1990 . Author, unknown. Original cast, also unknown. While the original folio was lost, a lone audio recording from the wings was saved and painstakingly transcribed. However, the recording ends abruptly after the riots began during Act III. SC III. This is the only known representation of what occurred that fateful night in the late spring of 2007 at the South Boston Community College Theatre for the Blind. The recording, along with a half burned playbill that also served as a $10 coupon to the Orange Julius Ceaser at Faneuil Hall, are all that remain. All attempts to gain more information from the police, or the community college, regarding the incidents on the night of the performance, the author, or performers, have been denied. Regarding the title In act II scene II

Hamlet greets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and refers to them as “My excellent good friends.” However, it could be construed that calling someone “excellent good” is a double positive which cancels out the compliment. From the first encounter, Hamlet is remarking that his friends are duplicitous. [ Dramatis Personae. King, club owner. Hamlet, nephew to the owner. Polonius, investor in the club. Rosencrantz, fanboy. Guildenstern, barfly. Gertrude, co-owner of the club, mother to Hamlet. Ophelia, daughter to Polonius. Players Scene: El Señor Night Club. ] [ On stage, heard but unseen, is Hamlet. ] Ham.

[ on stage. ] To be, or not to be… [Rhythmic drums and fife play] [ Backstage, in the wings, are Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Gertrude and Ophelia. ] Ros. Why did he think this soliloquy needed to be a rap battle? Guil. This version of Hamlet is set in the 90’s. Oph. In a South Boston club.

Gert. And rap battles were really popular then. Ros. Makes sense, I guess. But the rap battle is against himself. Guil. He is, and he is not, two sides of the same coin. Ros. If this play were set in Canada, that coin would be a Loonie. Guil. Well played, if only we were at a casino. Ham.

[ on stage. ]

Perchance to dream. Gert. He’s brilliant! Guil. You’re just saying that because you’re sleeping with him. Ham.

[ on stage. ] There’s the rub! Guil. Sounds like an edible complex if you ask me. Ros. Don’t you mean Oedipal complex? Guil. Yes, that’s it, Oedipal!

Gertrude is his mother, after all. Gert. I only play his mother on stage. Ham. [ on stage ] The undiscovered country. Ros. OMG that was the WORST Star Trek movie. Guil. You’re thinking of The Final Frontier . Ros. Oh, yeah. The one with the space-god monster and Spock’s half-brother. Guil. The Undiscovered Country featured Christopher Plummer as a Klingon who liked to recite Shakespeare. Ros. Oh, he’s the one that said: “You haven’t experienced Shakespeare until you have read him in the original Klingon. Guil. That’s the one. It’s like everyone wants to name a movie after a famous line from a Shakespeare play. Ros. Infinite Jest. Guil. All the World’s a Stage. Ros. Exit, Pursued by a Bear. Guil. Once More into the Breach. Ros. North by Northwest. Ros. Band of Brothers. Guil. Brave New World. Ros. The Fault in Our Stars. Guil. In Cold Blood. Ros. The Sound and the Fury. Guil. This Mortal Coil. Ros. Wyrd Sisters. Guil. By the Pricking of my Thumbs. Ros. Something Wicked this Way Comes. Gert. Are you two mad? Ros. Funny farm mad? Guil. Or angry mad? Gert. You can’t recite Macbeth backstage in a theatre. Ros. Actually, you’re not supposed to say his name. Guil. Who’s name? Ros. Macbeth, evidently it’s bad luck or something. Gert. You two are idiots. Oph. Will you three shut up about your Macbeth method of madness? I’m waiting for my cue. Ham.

[ on stage. ]

Soft you now! Oph. I’m on. 	 								[ Exeunt Ophelia. ] Ros. Did you see LOTR? Gert. What? Guil. The Lord of the Rings. Ros. Remember when Gollum and Smeagol argued about The Precious? Gert . He had a conundrum whether to follow his true self or give into the dark power of the ring. Guil. He should have won an award! Ros. We’ll, that’s the Hamlet problem. Guil. Not winning an award or trying to kill hobbits? Ros. Forget LOTR! Back to Hamlet.

He’s indecisive, but he’s also mad. Guil. Is The Precious his mother, Ophelia, the throne, or avenging his dead father? Ros. It’s all four. Ham. [ on stage. ] Get thee to a nunnery! Gert. His voice really projects when he’s mad. Guil. Funny farm mad, or angry mad? Gert & Ros. Both. [ Enter King and Polonius. ] King. Where are we? Guil. We’re in the wings. Pol. In the play, my boy. Where are we in the play? Guil. Hamlet just told Ophelia to get to the convent. Ros. Nunnery.

Pol. What’s the difference? Ros. One has three syllables and rhymes with thee. Guil. The other is more accurate but doesn’t fit the metre. King. The first or second mention of the nunnery? Gert. The third. Pol. Just enough time for a snort. [ Pololious pulls a flask from his coat, drinks, hands to the King ] King. Or two. Oph. [ on stage. ] Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me… [ Exeunt King and Polonius ] King. [ On stage ] Love! Ros. King always forgets that love is a question, not an exclamation. Guil. There are times when you shout it from the rooftops. Then it’s an exclamation! Ros. You are one to talk. Guil. Why is that? Ros. You never question, my love. Guil. I may not ask many questions, but I do not question your love. Ros. Players? Guil. Player, I’m no player. Ros. The players are on stage. We’re almost on. What’s funny is Hamlet is playing the players to incite the king. Guil. Incite or recite? Ros. Both it seems based upon his machiavellian machinations. Guil. Those are some big machinations. Ros. Mmmmm. Big Mac. Now I’m hungry. Ham. [ On stage ] Come some music. Ros. That’s our cue. [ Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. ]


From the Vatican Archives: File M5:1-5 Posted from The Convent of Las Hermanitas de los Mansos, Sanitorium - Manta, Ecuador From Christian Drewitt November 17, 2010 Dearest Lyra, Where to start? It’s been a year or more since I last wrote, my love, and I hope that this letter will explain everything. I’ve included everything into a file, they gave me everything, everything.

Now, it is clear to me that the things that have transpired have happened for a purpose by God, Himself. The good sisters of this convent where I have awoken have been kind enough to provide me with pen and paper so that I may relay to you this horrid tale. When I am returned to you, I will seal it away forever I hope. Should something  arise, however, all the information related to this event can be located within these pages and you, Lyra, will bear the responsibility with which I have been cursed.

As you know, for 27 years, I did not speak. I never bothered to learn sign language. The cure to my mutism, however, came in the form of extreme shock, deep in some remote pocket of a hot and damp South American jungle where my eyes were forced to look upon unnamable things so monstrous that I at once knew they were not of God’s good creation.

I am not an archeologist as you were led to believe, although I work with ancient artifacts. My position at my company is to hunt and retrieve daemonic objects from the farthest reaches of the earth. There were six members of our party including myself. I am the last one alive and sane.

Lyra, how I long to be in your arms once again. I miss you, the scent of your perfume, your laugh. Soon, we will be reunited and everything will be alright. Everything will be okay, everything will be okay. I can hear the key in my door—the nurses are returning with lunch. I will end the letter here and write you another to properly explain.

My love forever and ever, Christian November 19, 2010 Dear Lyra, My love, I am posting this letter too close to the last one, so you very likely have not even received the first news. I wanted to be sure that you knew I was alive and well first before delving into an explanation. I didn’t get a chance to make you understand, to detail the events. Of course, you will be confused when you read the first letter. I understand. It must read as the rantings of a madman, but I assure you I am very sound of mind. You know that I have always borne a strong constitution. Everything will be okay. It always is. But I should tell you what happened. You see, someone opened the box once on land--the artifact from the ship that is. When we reached the jungle, we were to meet a young man, Javier. He was to be our guide for the final resting place of the [REDACTED]. That’s when it all went wrong. A group of men had been following for days. They were not natives, they spoke many different languages and some even wore military uniforms. Strange people, so strange. They would chant nonsense and worship at the foot of the [REDACTED]. All at once, they set upon us and killed Javier. Poor Alec Carter was gravely injured. We escaped but Victor allowed his eyes to fall open the cursed thing and it made him strange and poisoned his mind. Not even the natives will look upon it. Dr. Phillips navigated us through the jungle. He is a sick man. The doctor died shortly after.

Don’t you see? It all went terribly wrong. It was meant to be a simple journey. The artifact would guide us to its home and it was going to be destroyed.

It happened like this: Victor did not destroy the [REDACTED]. Instead, he fixed it. Then, the floors shook, creatures emerged. It’s hazy here. I remember Carter shouting for me to grab the [REDACTED] and run. There were flashes of gunfire, a great and fearsome voice booming in the cave, commanding all to look at [REDACTED].

Everything changed then, Lyra. I was in a cave, but something incredible happened. I was in the cave but then, in an instant, I wasn't. My vision cut to a white beach. There was a Tsunami-like wave that cast a shadow. It moved in slow motion. When I looked to my right, I could see the remains of an ancient desert city. There were sounds in my ears and scents filled my head. Incense and spices and the rings of bells. To my left, beneath the great wave, there was a woman dressed in black. A long black veil covered her face except for her kohl-lined eyes. Her fingers were motioning, sparks of red flame flickered along the tips and slither between the digits and knuckles. Death is a woman, Lyra. I have seen her now. She is beautiful and inviting. I was tempted to be with her, to end everything as it was and be free of the brine-riddled cave. But then before I could decide, I returned to the jungle and there were cool fingers over my eyes and a woman’s voice in my ear. “Don’t look.” There was screaming, more gunfire.

My sight changed again. It sharpened. Once more, I had all my faculties and I can recall grabbing the box and shutting it. Mark Kim, he was with me. We escaped.

But Lyra, there are people at my door again. Those men always come and keep interrupting . I will never manage to fully tell you my story. Greedy, they are. Over and over, they want to discuss what I have seen. I will write another letter as soon as I am able.

Love, Christian January 3, 2011 Lyra, Why have you not returned my letters? It has been two months. Perhaps, I should be patient. I know that we are very far apart and the post will take a while to reach you in England. Things are not well, unfortunately. I believed I would improve with time but it seems that my nerves only continue to fray as my memory returns to me. Each piece only chips away at my own sanity.

Lyra, I want to go home. Fevered visions have dominated my senses for what feels like days. Visions of cyclopean cities constructed in what appeared to be dark, wet caverns deep beneath the sea. Strange beasts swim before my eyes in that ancient grotto. I can fully recall now how I ran and slipped against the algae covered stairs in an attempt to climb out of the pit, while my fingers clawed against the stone. There was no escape. Each corner I turned, every tunnel and staircase only revealed more of the strange civilization. I felt my sanity slip further, though it might have been a blessing in those moments. Do you understand now? I saw it! It’s massive body breaking water over its back and leaving the seabed exposed. Its face was a mass of tentacles that twisted and wove in endless motion beneath red, glowing eyes. I could not describe its size, for the thing dwarfed any structure that you have likely seen. Oh, dear God! I shake and weep now as I recall that eldritch scene. Surely, it could not be a mere beast but a god of old. Yes. A god of old coming to exact vengeance on mankind for allowing ourselves to forget it. If God was merciful He would strike us all down rather than allowing us to continue to exist alongside these creatures. I remember wandering through the jungle. My mind switched back and forth. When I was not lost in the ancient city, I was lost in the Amazon trailed by my final living but mad companion. I stumbled along the river, faintly aware of the weakness my body felt. The only reprieve during these torturous hours was the periodic appearance of that woman from my dream—if it was a dream. In the moments I felt my nerves become undone, she would materialize just out of reach. Death’s lips would brush the shell of my ear, fingers against my back, all gentle direction onward through the trees or upward through the labyrinth. I ran until I could no longer. From there, I found myself dragging myself along the forest floor  I lay face down in the mud only inches from the river, but could not raise my head nor make any movement toward it. It was then she appeared. She knelt by my head and dripped cool, fresh water into my open mouth with gold ringed fingers. I cannot recall her exact appearance, only the tender shape of her dark eyes. With every move, the jewelry that hung from her ears chimed against the delicate chains that were twisted into the woman’s dark hair.

She came to the end of her bucket of water, letting the liquid drip against my lips for the final time. She pressed her mouth against mine and whispered a single word, “Speak.” In an instant, she was gone and my memory of the next period in the wilderness as well.

And that is it. I awoke in a hospital in the coastal city of Manta, Ecuador; miles away from our initial destination. Apparently, my body had been discovered by a group of fishermen on the river. I had been babbling when I was found. With me was the box that I clutched to my chest like a jealous child. I had begged anyone who had handled me not to open it. To the fishermen’s and doctors’ credit, they honored my wishes and the same bag was found beneath my cot. Back! Those wretched men have returned. They will take away my letters again but I don't know if they will post it. Love of my life, Lyra, please . I need some assurance that you have read my letters. It will keep me going for a little while longer.

Love, Christian March 22, 2011 My love, I have received your letters, but I feel something is terribly wrong. They have all come at once, wrapped together, all opened and resealed. You said in the most recent posting that you were taking the next flight out to Manta and will be in Ecuador within the next 72 hours. It has been a week since and I am so afraid, Lyra. I want to go home. They will not let me leave the room. They have cut out much of my words, of that I am certain. You will have only read the sections of my writings that paint you a picture of a man who has lost his mind. I am sane, Lyra. To this fact, I cling desperately for it is the last thing I have in my possession. They have taken the box from me. They will not let me see my companion and I can no longer hear him cry. Please, come to see me.

Love, Christian April 2, 2011 Dear Lyra, They tell me I am ill. Over and over, they have told me. With all these memories in my mind of the grotto, of the eldritch beast and all his caves, of the woman sent by Death--if not death herself. I want them gone. Perhaps, in order to rid myself of such things, it would be best to accept that they are ravings of a madman. I came to understand that maybe you have not visited because of my poor standing. One day, when I am returned to health, I will pack up and step out onto the street, the cobblestone street across the church. I see it every morning outside my window, the sight impeded by bars. I am tired of this small, white room.

I would write more, but there is not much to write. The hours creep by as slowly as they did on the ship. There are days that my dreams blend into the present and I can see you standing on the street corner, waiting for me. Like right now. It is so clear, but I must remind myself that it is not so.

There is a woman there, though. Of this, I am certain. I can see her clearly on the street corner staring at me. Veiled in black, kohl darkened eyes that I can see even from here in my room. Her earrings are tinkling against the rings on her fingers as she tangles them around and around. She has found me again. The sound, it grows close and I can smell the sea. Salt fills the air and she is at my window.


Bet on the Blade Oh, my Wren, I hate that woman. Sheriff, she called herself upon riding into town a few months ago. Not really named herself so much as announced. “I’m Sheriff this here town!” she’d yelled, climbing from her mount in the dirt of the crossroads. Her horse looked the strongest looking animal I ever seen. Dust drifted from its coat when it shook, but when it was done shaking, that beast planted its feet as if daring the world move it. Gotta say, if I had to bet, I’d bet on the horse. She was a different story. I saw it in how she moved. She wore her dust and grit and dirt. Every grain, every stain, every scar, they were proudly hers. The long leather coat she wore did little to hide her gear given how fast she flicked both sides out to clear her pistols. That gear was top-notch, magnificent. If I found her in a dark alley, I’d move to another town and set up as a gentleman. I saw her eyes look around, side to side, window to window. She’d held her reins in her left hand and kept her horse, looking as unpleasant and raunchy as her, to the side. I met those eyes when they passed the window I stood behind. I didn’t tremble, didn’t look away. I met those eyes. I’m not one to shy from a gunfighter and sure as shit not from some woman says she’s Sheriff. Maybe she saw something dangerous in me. Maybe she saw the immediate hate. I think she saw something that scared her, at least a little. Her gaze passed on to the next building, the next windows. “The hell you are,” the Sheriff at the time, Cold Webber, hollered after kicking the jail’s door open from inside. “I’m Sheriff since three year ago.” I remember it sharp as daybreak. Cold walked into the road, eyes on the woman the whole time. Yeah, his coat was tucked back round his shooter. Yeah, six deputies followed him and lined up on the porch, but he didn’t make sudden moves. He was steady. There was something on his face I never seen on him. Most men, I’d call it fear. A pants-pissing fear to shake your bowels. But on Cold, it was just mean. Mean and evil as a man could get. We had our clashes over the years, him and me. Three years and he cost me enough dollars to annoy, but not enough to raise the ruckus of killing him. I always figured someone would draw faster and pop him. Gut shot would be best. Solid one with no chance of surviving. That’s a slow, agonizing death. Maybe not as bad as being staked out for fire ants, but close. Good enough for Cold. “You here to challenge?” Cold said, hands steady at his side. He’d shot three men the day he became Sheriff. Those three came to town and caused all kind of fuss. Blasting pistols in the air, whooping and hollering. Their horses were rearing and hopping about, excited or scared half to death. People panicked and ran all round. A couple bounced off hopping about horses and one got stomped right in her chest. The riders didn’t seem worried about her dying, just kept bouncing their horses around for a bit till the road cleared then climbed down. Sheriff came out from the jail alone, the two deputies stayed inside. He turned to face them, him against three men. Before he did anything, they shot him. All three of them put holes in the Sheriff and he went down, flat on the ground and dead. They laughed as they holstered their pistols. Cold stepped from the bar. Cold isn’t that big a man. He seemed a lot bigger when he paced onto that road. His strides were sure and heavy. His eyes were fixed on the men, and they were watching him close. He stopped in the middle of the road, turned towards the men, and nodded a single nod. Then, all at once, Cold killed them. Blam! Blam! Blam! Three men dead on the ground, him standing there with a tiny puff of smoke coming from his pistol. I had eyes on him the whole time and never saw him draw. He stood in the middle of the road, other side than he faced her from, and there was something like a blur. That’s all I saw. Wished I’d had bets on it from the day it happened. Truth to tell, I’d’ve bet on him against her when she stood in the road. All could see she’d been through a lot, a tough one, willing to face down anything. Her leather coat was spotted with wear, dotted with tears, shot through twice from the holes, maybe three times. Oh, she was lean, with fierce eyes. Like she’d been living on snake and cactus for months. It was a cut lean, a sharp lean, and it was colder than Cold Webber. “I said,” she answered, “I’m the Sheriff this here town. You either a deputy, or you dead. Draw —" Cold’s hand flashed for the pistol on his hip at the word ‘draw’. Fastest man I ever seen with the jump on little missy? She was done for, no chance she’d survive. He’d empty his pistol into her before she knew she was in a gunfight. Blam. Blam. The shots were quieter than any I’d heard. Lots of talk on which pistol is best for a gunslinger. Some talk on which is best for a homesteader. But none of them make a little blam blam. When a shooter’s gun shoots, the blam is noticeable. It is heard. Nobody more than a block away noticed those two. I saw what those two shots did. First one took Sheriff Cold square in the middle his forehead. That head snapped back and Cold looked at the sky. Second one hit him dead centre on his chest, and he fell backwards. Two of the most perfect shots I’ve seen in forty-six years on this Earth. I wasn’t stunned like some of those around me. I’ve seen crazier shit than that. Soon as that second shot hit, I’m looking to her. Fast as my eyes can move. Like, instantaneous. She had her other pistol out and both pointed at the line of deputies before Cold’s body hit the ground. Couple of them flinch, arms uncrossing suddenly and eyes wide. Couple more moved faster and got a hand on a pistol. Last two, they held real still. They stiffened up some, but they didn’t move. Her pistols were aimed at the two with a hand on a gun even as their fingers closed round the grips. Neither got one near the trigger. “Be sure.” Coolest voice I ever heard. Like nobody been so cool like this gal. She isn’t throwing blame round, isn’t saying they’re wrong for where their standing or even for thinking to draw on her. Just letting them know they better be confident in what they did next. They both quickly decided loyalty to a dead man was useless and raised hands from pistols. She holstered her guns, looked to dead Cold, then took up her reins and led the horse around back of the jail. Since then, all good for citizens. Deputies do their job and uphold the law. Peace is kept. Less crime. That Sheriff caused unholy hell in my work. She’s been breaking up everything I got going on. Almost like she saw my plans when our eyes met. Got my eye on a horse worth a fortune in the city, two of my guys got shot up and dead trying to pinch it. One piece of work after another, she’s there and ruining it. Used to have eleven guys working for me. Out of guys now. Last three came on tonight’s action. All dead now. Whole crew, three tough men, gone and dead and vanished. Sure, there’s bodies out there. Somewhere. But who gives a toss? Just me. Out in the streets. Skulking in shadows, drifting with the breeze, a patch of darkness in the darkness. I’m here, I’m there, I’m everywhere. I’m right behind you. Like back in the day in the big city. Never lost a single shift, twist, earring, gambler, who’s a naughty girl, or even a flip. Not since I joined up with the wrong crowd. Not since I became a killer. Expensive, it was, but oh, did I learn. Twenty-six contracts I took and twenty-six people I killed. More than a hundred, what with guards and witnesses and those who got in the way. Just part of the job. They don’t count. Last one I done, they said was dangerous. Paid better than well. Killing always pays well, but this one was a ton of bills. Always a waste to kill a beautiful woman, particularly one with a body like she had, but a deal is a deal, a contract is a contract. I snuck into her bedroom while she ate supper, her bodyguard watching. Quick look round and I found an easy hiding spot behind a hunting tapestry too large for the wall. Maid didn’t see me when she turned the bed down. Bodyguard didn’t see me when he checked the room. Victim didn’t see me when she changed into her nightclothes or when she stepped toward the bed. She didn’t see me slip from cover and creep up behind her. She saw nothing. But she felt my hand close over her mouth and she felt my knife sink into her back. I angled the thrust to puncture a lung so she couldn’t cry out. Rather than pulling the double-edged blade free to stab again, I wrenched the hilt from side to side. Each movement cut and tore and ripped her apart. She was still standing when she died, back still arched around the pain. It was a quick death, quicker than I prefer. Easy breezy to lay her on the bed without making noise. She was rich as shit, so I pocketed some things worth more than the contract. Clean the knife, tuck it away, open the window, vanish into the night. Next day, get paid, sell the stuff I stole, vanish from the city and make my way here. Almost retirement. Could retire, I wanted to, but there’s enough people in town so a little stealing here and there doesn’t get anybody too worked up. I had a crew working for me. Now, I’m alone. Alone and hunting. My knife is blackened to avoid reflection of light. Top or toe, right or left, it’s the night. It’s the only metal on me. Metal shines bright. Metal clinks against bricks, tinkles against other metal or, if you’re a numbskull and fall down, clunks against the rock you’re sure to land on because you’re a numbskull. Metal is to be avoided unless blackened. Then blackened again. Then held tight like your beating heart will be ripped from your chest if you drop it. Ahhh. There she is, strolling along the street with her arms swinging lazy at her sides, hands relaxed, not ready to draw. Nobody would know she killed three men tonight, she’s so calm, almost serene. Like she knows what’s coming, feels me waiting, senses tonight is her end. Soon, she will die. She’s six feet from the buildings on this side of the road. Six little feet. I’ll do that in seconds, padded shoes muffling my steps when I move behind her. I won’t cover her mouth. Her, I want to hear the short-lived scream before her lung collapses. I want to hear that desperate last gasp when she struggles to get air into a deflated lung. I want to watch her collapse to the ground, eyes wide, confused. Then, I want to watch her die. She’s approaching my hiding place. I look into her eyes, searching for anything to show she knows I’m here. There’s nothing. She looks up and down the road, glancing at windows and doors. Her gaze passes over the shadows concealing me and moves on without a pause. Three more steps. It’s time. I’m a ghost. I’m a breeze. I’m a shadow. I’m silent in slinking from darkness and into the faint moonlight. Five quick steps and she’s right there, that leather coat swaying from her shoulders. Not a chance it’s tough enough to protect her from my blade. Just five steps. Five silent steps. The perfection of the thrust thrummed in my hand at first movement. The angle, the speed of the knife, the tiny twist to the left to ease the full length between her ribs. All ideal, nothing could be better. Real killers live for this moment, dream of the almost overwhelming beauty. My foot came down soundlessly on the fifth step, the last one. The tip of the black blade inches from her back. A second until it struck. She spun faster than I could follow, faster than thought. Her left arm crashed into my wrist, snapping bone and sending the knife spinning away. Her right hand grabbed me by the throat in a grip tight enough to make my eyes bulge and my breath stop. It scared the crap out of me. She heaved me up as she turned then slammed me to the ground on her other side like I been dropped three storeys. It was dirt, but hard packed dirt. Wagons and horses on it for years. I landed flat on my back and my head cracked against that dirt like it was solid stone. There was a moment, an instant, lasting years. Everything was everywhere, and I was everywhere with it. I was so small I was invisible and so huge I filled the sky and could reach beyond the sun. My consciousness swelled. My mind expanded. I became, somehow, more. Then reality returned and pain hit me like a speeding train. It started in my throat from her vice-like grip. A crushing, grinding pain that let me know I was hurt bad. Then it spread, intense and powerful, until it covered my entire body. Every nerve screamed at the same time. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even scream. But I could see. From a knee beside me, she held my throat. Her face was right in front of mine, close enough to kiss, and she stared through my eyes. Not at my eyes or around my eyes or into my eyes. She looked through them, into me. She saw the darkest parts of my being, the foulness I kept hidden even from myself. We stayed like that for, maybe, two seconds. Then she pushed to her feet. It seemed a week, but I got one breath into me, a long, chest-heaving, air-sucking breath which only made me realize how badly I needed to keep breathing. “Found you,” she said, removing her gloves and slowly drawing a small pistol from a pocket. “Looking for years. Must’a killed near a thousand men in searchin’. Now, I gotcha. Yer him.” Each breath was an agony. The air scraped my half-crushed throat as it passed. My ribs ached, my back spasmed. I pissed myself. “I know,” she continued, ignoring my contortions and tortured expression. “Just work. Killin’ people’n all. Nothin’ personal. I don’t wanna ‘preciate you none, but I’m glad she went fast.” What? Who? Only made two quick kills. Fat man and the woman … in the bedroom. “Gonna kill ya now.” She extended a hand to show me the little gun. I couldn’t focus on it. “This here, I got made special. Three shots. Them shots ain’t big, but they’s heavy. Lotta that ‘mentum. They get deep. Good thing yer on the ground. Drop on it’s like a bitch.” She stepped over right beside me and looked down at me. Her eyes … “I know yer a mean and terrible man. You done evil, ain’t ‘fraid of nuthin.” She leaned in closer. “I’m a hell of a lot meaner.”

“Throat, painful but ain’t fatal.” She waggled the gun. “Three heavy rounds in the gut, you die slow and horrible.” A miniscule click sounded when she cocked the hammer. “Yer sufferin’, that ain’t fer her. Like I said, glad she ain’t go through nothin’ like yer gonna.” She pointed the gun at my belly. I tried to reach for her hand, but my arms merely trembled. I tried to kick at her, my legs jerked. “What yer gonna feel fer a long time, that’s fer me. Because I want to. Cuz you took her from me.” She pulled the trigger and fire exploded in my stomach. Metal shredded flesh and the organs beneath. I tried to scream, it sounded like a choke. “That’s three, all at once.” Her voice was conversational, like we were discussing the weather. She gave no smile. Just watched me. “Enjoy yer suffering.” She turned and walked away. Probably five, six hours until people hit the streets, and me without a weapon to kill myself with.


Adrian Freak. Monster. Demon. That's what I was. I mean, who could blame them? Nobody wanted a super freak like me in their family. "You're a disgrace to us!" The slap was as loud as a clap and it stung my face. It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below my eye was a small cut where the ring had caught me. I staggered backward, clutching my face, eyes watering. "You have brought nothing more than shame in this household." I looked at the corner through my blurred vision only to see my mother crying as she holds my little sister in her arms, my sister weeps as she holds onto my mother tightly looking away from me. "Look at me you little piece of shit!" My father whipped me with a belt and I fell onto my knees in agony, my little sister's sobs became louder with every strike of the belt hitting against my skin, "Stand up!" I choked up as I stared at the man who I no longer recognize as my father, "You're hurting me." "I said stand up!" He bellowed. With all the strength left within me, I stood up. In the far corner of my eye, I could see my mother caressing my sister trying to calm her down, "I don't know what's wrong with me!" he whipped me again. "You, Adrian!" he barked, and slapped me again, "You've ruined this family!" My breathing was short, and my mind was in a whirlpool of emotions, with every whip, and with every word I could feel something boiling within me. "I wish you were never born!" It's like something sparked within me and in a flash, everything blacked out. My vision was fuzzy the moment I woke up, my head was throbbing and my ears were ringing. I tried looking around only to smell fire. I blinked my eyes repeatedly and when they finally regained their focus, I was met with an egregious sight. Before me, laid my father whose face was completely burnt. Horror filled my insides as I turned my gaze to my mother and sister. My heart broke as I saw in my sister's hand, the pendant that I have gifted her on her birthday, I collapsed to the floor, tears staining my face. They were right, I am a monster .

*** I walked around town, with my head hanged low. People were scurrying about trying to get out of the rain, I continued to walk in silence whilst being drenched in the rain. As I was passing by the town's bar I heard the news reporter on TV. "Good evening. My name is Natalia Waters reporting for tonight's News." I stopped in my tracks and slowly wandered my gaze to the TV, "This is just in, a fire explosion has broken out in the Suburb part of the city, unfortunately, the family who lived there didn't survive." Images of the place I once considered my home appeared on the screen. "The cause of the explosion is yet to be explored." I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear anymore and walked away. Tears threatened to escape my eyes but I held them back as I made my way to the bar's alleyway. "I'm a monster," I whispered to myself as I looked down at my palms, "I don't deserve to live." Tears stung my eyes, as I punched the wall, "What is wrong with me?!" I chanted as I punch the wall multiple times, that bruises started to form on my knuckles. I slumped down, my forehead against the wet, rocky wall, and cried. The more I wail, the harder the rains were, the night was cold and I was famished. Everything I have loved became everything I lost. What's the point of living when I have nothing else to live for? "I should kill myself," I sneered, "Maybe then, the pain will be gone." I looked around the old alleyway and something glistened near the dumpster, it was a shard of broken glass. It felt like my body was in a trance as I picked up the shard of glass. My thumb traced the edge of the sharp glass, the demons in my head were whispering to me "There's no point in living anymore, after all, you are a murderer..."

"You're worthless." "You're a freak." "No one would accept you." "Just die already!" With shaky hands, I positioned the glass close to my heart. I closed my eyes and just before I pierce the glass through my heart a shadow from the dark spoke. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." My eyes flew open to the sound of the voice, I scanned the area only to find a dark figure standing there with a black umbrella above her head, "Who are you?" my voice came out raspy due to the lack of water intake. "I'm Ruby Hopkins," The shadow figure emerged from the darkness only to reveal a female whose hair was as black as the night sky and eyes as clear as the seas, she wore a gray business casual suit and she had a kind smile plastered on her face. "Trust me," She began to speak, "Nothing good comes out when you end your life." I snickered as I pointed the shard to her, "What do you know?" I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, "You don't know anything about me or my life!" Her eyes saddened seeing me in the state I am, "I know you're hurting." She ambled her way towards me, "I may not know what you've been through but you should know that suicide is not an option." "Don't come any closer," I warned her, she had a questioning look on her face. Her eyes started to roam around my body, examining the bruises that my deceased father gave me. "But you're hurt." "It doesn't matter!" I tighten my grip on the shard that I feel it slicing through my flesh, "I'm a monster." The dim light in the alleyway began to flicker as the rain became heavier, "I deserve to die anyway." "You're no monster," I looked up through my long lashes as she proceeded to come closer to me. "Believe me, I am." She continued to walk, her heels splashing against the pavement, "I can kill you, you know." She stopped, "You wouldn't." I snorted as I look down at my palms then back to her, "How are you so sure?" "Because you're scared." She held my gaze, "You're scared and alone, and you want to end your life because you feel like no one understands you." I lowered my gaze to the shard, I could see that there was already a mark formed on my palm. It hurts, but not as much as the emotions that I'm feeling. "It doesn't have to end like this, I can help you." She crouched in front of me, and she held my hands, "You just have to trust me." I met her gaze, they say the eyes are the window to your soul, you can see everything. But for some odd reason, as I gazed into her eyes it's like she saw the goodness in me and that I could trust her. I loosened my grip on the shard and she tossed it aside making the whole alley echo. She smiled at me warmly, "Don't worry, you're safe with me now." She hovered the umbrella over our heads, and that's when I started bawling all of my emotions. She hugged me gently as I held onto her for dear life, she caressed my head as I continued to cry all the emotions that I bottled up earlier. She was so patient with me and her gestures were warm, I've never experienced this kind of feeling before, not even with my family. My family never treated me with this much kindness as this woman has. A small smile crept on my lips, this woman was not like the others. *** "What is this place?" We entered a place that I've never seen before, it was enormous and bright. People in gray suits were working here and there and children around my age were running around the place laughing. "It's a place for kids like you." She smiled as she continued to walk down the hallway, with me padding behind her, "It's a place where kids can understand themselves better." I raised an eyebrow, "What do you mean-" Just then something zoomed passed by us making me lose my balance, "What was that?" I asked in astonishment as I regained my balance. Ruby chuckled, "Come see for yourself," I excitedly trailed after her. The more we walked down the hall, the more I was amazed by what I saw. In some groups, there were people teaching children how to transfigurate material things into plants, some were talking to animals, some had telekinesis, and some were even flying! "Wow..." "So which one are you?" I turned my head towards Ruby as she peered down to me, "Which category do you fall in?" I stared at my palms, "Pyrokinesis." "Fire, huh," I looked at her only to see a smile on her face. "I think I know just the person who can help you." She leads me to one of the vacant glass rooms across the facility, she softly knocks on the door twice, and soon after a figure revealed itself. It was a young man who had ash gray hair and amber eyes, he glanced my way and sent me a goofy grin and he returned his gaze to Ruby, "Newcomer?" she nodded, "Well, come in, come in," he ushered us inside. In the middle of the room sat a black table, "So, what's your name and what type of firepower do you have?" "I'm Adrian," I timidly said, " and I have pyrokinesis." The man looked at Ruby as she stepped aside, I eyed the two of them. He smirked at me and suddenly he was on fire and he disappeared. My eyes widened as I searched around the room, "Pretty cool, isn't it?" I whipped around only to find him leaning against the wall with arms folded, "You're like me?" I asked, bewildered. "In a way, but not entirely." I tilted my head, and he chuckled seeing my inquisitive state, "I have Pyroportation," he explained, "I can teleport and move through fire." I looked at him in amazement and turned back to Ruby who had her hands shoved deep in her pockets, "Do you have firepowers too?" "Oh, honey no," She tittered, "I don't have powers," she said, "I'm just a social worker here helping kids to understand themselves better." I nodded my head in silence, "So, what do you say kiddo?" I returned my attention to the guy, "Are you ready to become a superhero?" I averted my gaze, "I'm no superhero." The room fell silent, memories of my deceased family flashed through my mind, I thought I was about to lose control when I felt a hand on top of my head. "You can be your own superhero," I gaze up to Ruby and she grins while ruffling my hair, "Maybe you can't change the world, but you can change someone's life." I furrowed my eyebrows and she crouched down to my level and faces me, "We all have the capacity to be a superhero." She begins, "In order to become one, you have to find your unique power or ability and exploit it for the greater good. The cape and the mask are optional accessories," she chortles, "But a kind heart is essential." "You really think so?" She grabs my hands, "I know so," She ruffled my hair one more time and stood up, "Alright Chris, you can take care of him from here." "Alright, let's get to work, kiddo." "Aren't you coming along?" I asked Ruby, as Chris takes my hand, she stood there as she wears a sad smile. "I can't, I have some work to do," hearing that made me sad, "But I'll see you around after I'm done." She waved at me and exited the room. "Where is she going?" I angled my head to Chris, he smiled and gaze at Ruby's retreating form. "She's got some saving to do." I followed his gaze as I watched Ruby's figure disappear, I recalled the events from earlier and smile appeared on my face. If it wasn't for her I'd probably be dead by now. "Are you okay, kiddo?" He peered down at me, I looked back at him and nodded. "I just hope I'll get to see her soon." "You will," He spoke, "After all, she is your superhero." I smiled at that thought. Now, I realized what she meant by saving someone's life. My smile grew wider as I recalled what she said, indeed, she is my superhero. An original story by Atraeu Kirsten Corpus


A refreshing splash of cool water on my face, same time everyday, part of my early morning routine. Dabbing the towel to my face I looked in the mirror, is that a new wrinkle, or just a crease from the pillow? I leaned in for closer inspection, just a pillow crease. Not that another wrinkle would bother me, I am glad to have gotten to this age, against all odds, I survived. Funny how the reflection of my face in the mirror seems to change, I know over time I have aged, yet sometimes I still see all the younger versions of me looking back. The longer I stare, memories of all those years flood in. Good times, fun times, exhilarating times and occasionally the sad times.  I often replay these events over and over, wondering, if it were possible to go back in time, knowing what I know now, would I do anything differently? If I did change anything, would it change anything about who I am today? I am glad it isn’t an option because I really like who I am today, I hold dear all the memories good and bad, all of them combined made me who I am. All those experiences taught me about life, people, and true value of living a happy and fulfilling life. Learning this took a lot of trial and error, emotional growth is just as much a part of life as aging is. I remember when I first realized that timing is everything and not everything negative that happens, has a negative outcome, like the time I got in my car to go to the bank, and it wouldn’t start. I was so mad, thinking ‘oh come on, not now I can’t afford car repairs. After 20 minutes of fiddling with the engine, it started and I went to the bank, as I pulled in the parking lot, I saw police cars every where. I found out that it had been robbed 15 minutes earlier. Wow, I thought, if my car had started the first time, I might have walked in on the robbery, I might have startled the bank robbers and got shot. This reality put me on a path of looking at situations and events differently. I started to view life from the bright side, almost like a mystery to solve, what ever was happening to me, I had to search for the why? What was I learning this time, were negative situations just annoying moments that were actually protecting me from horrible things? Sometimes I discovered yes, sometimes I never found out, but I continued viewing life as an adventure and mystery to solve, rather than negative.  It made life less disappointing, like the time we put an offer in on a house we really wanted, but didn’t get, three months later we drove past it and it had burnt to the ground.  Or the time my husband didn’t get the job he applied for and then two days later was offered his dream job, a job he didn’t even know was available at the time, they called him.                                                                                One time I had forgotten to trust in timing, and of all days for my husband to be late getting home from work. (this was in the days before cell phones) I was in tears because our refrigerator broke, we couldn’t afford another one, anyways he entered the house to find me crying, I shouted where were you? He replied that he had stopped in at a friend’s house to see his new kitchen renovations. This upset me even more, here we were, no fridge and his friend was getting a new kitchen. I continued to cry and asked how big the kitchen was, to make him almost 2 hours late, he laughed and said, “well it took a while to load his old fridge in the truck. As it turned out, not only was his old fridge only 3 years old, but it was also my dream fridge, black, 2 door, freezer on the left, fridge on the right. He had replaced all the appliances with stainless steel versions.                                   Over the years we have experienced hundreds of situations like this and for the most part, trusted in the timing instead of being frustrated. Time is a strange concept; it has many sayings that prove this. Time is money, time after time, time of your life, time waits for no one, time flies when you are having fun, time is the most valuable thing a man can spend, time is the wisest counselor of all, time is an illusion. There are dozens more but there is ones that stand out strongly for me are in reference to birth- IT’s TIME! and death, ‘It’s not my time.’ ‘gone before his/her time.’ I think these effect me so deeply because I have been surrounded by a multitude of births, as a labour coach and by deaths of many family members, as well as cheating death 3 times myself.                     Over the years I have seen the passing of both of my in-laws, both of my parents, my sister, and my youngest son. I noticed that when people speak of older ones passing, they say “it was their time” but for the young they say “gone before their time”. In my situation, each time the doctors said I was going to die, and I didn’t, people would say “I guess it wasn’t your time.” I always found these references to be odd, almost as if everyone had the exact amount of allotted time on the planet and didn’t stick to the plan. I see the reflection of the sun rise in the mirror now, another day has begun for me, I guess what I am trying to point out really is, that the time is now!   Life isn’t short, it’s the longest thing you will ever do. Nobody knows how much time they have, but no matter how much time that is, make it time well spent. Learn about your life, the good times, the bad times and the weird times. You can not always control what happens in your life, but you control your attitude about it. So go ahead, enjoy your time on earth, do all the things you want to do, don’t be concerned about the destination, it’s all about the journey. Don’t be concerned about what others think, as long as you are not harming anyone, just do what makes you happy. The only one who can see the whole reflection in the mirror, is You.


“...What about the pilot? Were we able to figure out if they were DOA?” Sai’urn sighs heavily, one of the office chairs creaking slightly as he sits down. “First officer Shaii’kvi died on impact due to engine failure in the pod. An engineering failure in the pod’s design. We suspect she was seeking refuge on station RELLE, before it was taken down a decade ago, sir.” Wait. Mom? “Shit.” Oni hisses under his breath. His heart begins to compete with the officer’s voices, hammering away inside its cage, drowning out the world around him. Slowly, he moves away from the door, his feet pulling the 140lb numb husk of a body and brain down the hallway.

When he finally comes back to reality, he’s sitting on a bench where all four wings on the deck converge. His leg looks almost as if it’s trying to blast off of his body, bouncing in place like it is. What the fuck was that? When- when did mom crash? How soon after that was it that they actually told us that she died? A day? A week? A month? Three months? She went offline sometimes for safety on her assignments, she was offline for three weeks before that last contact… Was her pod already crash-landing when she called? What was the last thing she said to me? Shit… “Oni? What are you doing out here?” Sai’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “O-Oh, hi- hello, sir…” I raise my hand for a salute but Sai’s cuts me off, dismissing the act of respect. “Not necessary right now, Onii’kvi. I was actually coming to find you.” Shit, why? Onii’kvi clears his throat anxiously. “Is there… someplace we can talk? Somewhere officers won’t come looking on the station, prefferably?” But… their hiding spots! Where would they ditch classes or responsibilities if an officer knew where to find them? “You can… blindfold me if it makes you feel any better about it,” he offers gently, the action striking Oni in surprise. “You’d… really let me blindfold you and guide you… to somewhere on the station that no officers know about..?” Oni cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows pinched together. Sai’urn shrugs lightly, as if the mere thought of that wasn’t alarming in the slightest. “We have things to discuss, and I need somewhere without authority, and cameras. I’m aware the…lower ranks often have places like this, and I am willing to do anything at this point.” Fuck, this is serious .

“Okay… okay, just… you can’t tell anybody. Cross your hearts, hope to die… they’ll kill me without mercy if they knew you were there, alright?” Oni sighs, waiting until Sai’urn offers a firm nod in understanding, and then they’re off. I hope I don’t fucking regret this.

The silent, anxiety-fueled walk appears endless, navigating distant corridors and scanning the halls for any high-ranking officials or low-ranking pilots that might be curious why the pair are travelling together. Deep breaths, Onii’kvi. Deep breaths. It’s fine, nobody uses this room anymore anyway. Finally, as they approach the asymmetrical double-doors, Onii’kvi pulls out a counterfeit keycard, swipes it along the pad outside the door, and they open.

“So… this is where the pilots go to escape us, huh? Is that why the corridors feel desolate in the middle of the night?” Sai’urn teases as they step inside and the doors are locked again. “Not exactly, we have a lot of different spots, but I think the corridors feeling empty is more of you and I being the only ones awake that late ever, and the station being as big as it is,” Oni shrugs. He gestures around the room to various seating options and the stash bins in the corner with drinks and packaged items.

Sai’urn whistles impressively, then takes a seat in front of the circular window peering into the vast emptiness of space; only a handful of planets visible from the porthole window. “Nobody will find us here, or use their card on the door, you’re sure?” He seems… anxious. It’s not exactly a common sight for the Captain to come off like this…

Oni shakes his head and sits down across from Sai in the window seat. “Nobody is coming in. The card is a counterfeit, for an access level that doesn’t exist. There’s only a handful of these circulating the younger ranks, for the rooms. Plus, the security’s been tampered with, it’ll only react to our cards, not yours or the Sergeant’s.” As he explains, Sai’s eyes widen slightly and he scoffs in amusement.

“I see the younger ranks are much more capable and have more… diverse abilities than you let on, hm?” He probes and Oni shrugs with a small, proud smile. But… nothing good can last. Sai’urn’s smile drops and he adjusts his position on the seat. It almost mirrors Oni’s, his legs crossed in front of him, hands resting on his ankles toying with the branded patch on his combat boots.

Oni tugs his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them and his cheek nuzzled into his knee. He glances outside the window, counting as many stars and planets as he possibly can, a calming technique his mother had taught him almost… two and a half decades ago now. Jeez.

“Oni… What we found earlier…” Sai’urn begins and Oni’s heart drops. Even though he knew, even though he had been listening, had put it all together right there outside the door; despite all of that he still truly believed just a little that he had been wrong–he’d hoped he was wrong. “...I’m sorry, I should have been up front with you, but the pod that we found was one of the GCD’s, from a long time ago.” Sai inhales softly. Onii’kvi barely glances over to let Sai know that he heard him when he notices—Sai’s hands are shaking. He’s trying to hold onto his ankles to keep them from moving but he’s… shaking. “Sai…?” “I should have told you right then but I needed to know for sure because… ‘cause…” Sai’urn shakes his head and slowly a hand comes up to wipe at his eyes. “It’s your mom, Oni. Shai-Shaii’kvi, she was… she was in the pod. Her station’s insignia was on the side of the pod-” -flashes of his mom’s jacket with that same design on the patch on her shoulder flash in Oni’s head and it all feels too real - “-we had the body examined, ran DNA samples, and yours is the only one that popped up in our system, besides hers. You’re almost an identical match, Oni, there’s… there’s nobody else that it could be. I’m sorry…” Oni’s grip tightens on his shins, curling the fabric of his pants together in his hands. “She… you said she died from engine failure, right? That’s why her pod crashed?” Sai’urn pauses, studying Onii’kvi. Finally it seems to click in his head that they’d had an eavesdropper outside the door.

The Captain reaches out to offer Oni some comfort, squeezing his shoulder. “She was… the body was hard to dissect, to figure out what had happened, but…” he sighs, “I took scans of the pod, the interiors too, while I made you wait at yours. Shaii’kvi had… carved into the inside of the pod what had been happening. She made sure that whoever found her, knew the engine failure she experienced, and when I sent the scans to a few engineers, they confirmed it. There had been tampering with her fuel gauge and the internal fans.” “Someone limited her air supply, and starved her fuel tank to boot.” Oni finishes what Sai clearly didn’t want to admit. “Her pod was clearly marked GCD… and We never heard anything about this, my dad or I, we… they just told us she was MIA, not that she’d died… do you think they knew?” Sai’urn sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, wiping his eyes. “I think… even if someone in the GDC knew what happened to her, they wouldn’t tell you. As fucked-up as it is, it’s the way some parts of it operate, especially if she’d been on something classified when it happened. Do you remember if she said anything to you about what she was doing?” Oni shakes his head, “she never mentioned things like that to me because I was so little when she had been enlisted… and then when she died. I overheard her and my dad talking once before she went on an assignment about something… Zen or Zine… Zi-Zion?”

Sai’urn’s body freezes, caught in the headlights of the word that fell from Oni’s mouth. “Sai…? What’s wrong? Does- Does that mean something?” Sai’urn swallows nervously, exhales, and places his hands out in front of him. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what you heard, Onii’kvi? Absolutely sure?” “Wh-” Oni frowns, “yes, I’m sure. I- I remember, it was a city where I grew up, it was something about Zion, I thought we were taking a trip for my medical treatment at first but-” “Oni… what your mother was talking about… is a government project. It was in Kak’ev’s solar system, right next to Ac’ai.”

“Where we found her.” “Exactly. The project is extremely classified, as in—only Lieutenant Nal’eid can access those documents and they’re blacked out even for him. This is way higher than we possibly know, your mother– whatever she was doing, it could put your life in danger if they find out you heard them talk, and it can put me in a serious amount of danger, probably already has.” He pauses then mutters softly, “it probably already has put a target on my back, honestly.” Onii’kvi shakes his head and huffs, pushing his sleeves up his arms. “So, what are we supposed to do? I need- I deserve to know what happened to her, she was my mom , Captain.” “I understand, Oni. Believe me, I do, if something happened to mine—if I had a chance to find out what happened to my other mom… I’d do anything to find out. But we need to be careful with it, alright?” He sighs, reaching out to offer Oni a hug, wanting to give him any form of comfort he might want.

“I think…” he sighs, leaning into Sai’s embrace. “I think I know how we can get access to those files. I just need to go see Ti-” “Shh-shh… wait a second.” Sai’urn whispers and wordlessly stands from the seat, crowding closer to the door and pressing his ear against it. “I think someone’s listening-”


It’s still dark out when the call comes in. Some dog walker got a surprise on their morning jaunt, their prized terrier sniffing out a body laying a few feet off the street. The sun’s just peeking its rays out by the time Officer Blake gets out of the car, feeling a little tender from his 4:30 start and no coffee to comfort him. Muddy leaves practically carpet the sides of the road, colouring everything in muted browns. There’s a fine sheen of frost on the ground already, like winter decided autumn wasn’t dying fast enough for it. It's only just gone November, some people still have their pumpkins out, but Blake can already feel it’s going to be a long winter. His limbs ache at the thought and he lets out a huff, clouds spilling from his mouth. The flashing lights of the cop cars have already drawn some onlookers, more dog walkers, joggers and the like. Damn morning people . Blake eyes the still closed deli across the way, craving something to sink his teeth into, preferably something hot. He gets to work, making the crowd back up as he and his fellow officers set up a barricade around the scene. The bright yellow police tape goes up, a garish warning not to get too close. It doesn’t stop comments from the peanut gallery. “What’s going on?” a disgruntled jogger asks, “Has there been an accident?” “Dunno,” responds a rather rotund gentlemen with a chihuahua tucked under his pudgy arm, “Some cow got drunk and froze, probably.” The chihuahua gives a snarl when Blake passes. They’re not wrong. One of his favourite bars is just round the corner from here, so that drunk theory looks likely. If there’s one thing you learn on the job, it’s that it’s never too early in the season for frozen drunks. Blake hasn’t spared a glance at it yet, but he does now. They’re still waiting on forensics and their plastic blue jump suits, so all that’s visible of the body are its limbs sticking out from under a pile of leaves. Smooth and so pale they’re practically blue, Blake guesses it was a woman from the ripped, sheer stockings and high heels. Long brown hair lies plastered down to its skull, completely obscuring even the tiny part of its head you can see. Some people like to think it's like looking at someone sleeping. Peaceful. Innocuous. Nah, someone sleeping still has life in them. Movement, breath and a fullness no dead thing can get back. His fiancée Gilly snores a little, twists her lip and moans when she gets too cold, snuggling in closer to him. When people actually see what’s left of their loved one, it's just a husk, meat for the coroner to stick his knives into. Something foreign, unrecognisable to the living. That corpse isn’t human anymore. It’s gone the same way as the fallen leaves, dull and dead. “Need a pick me up?” Blake almost jumps. On his left is Detective Jack Weiss, black bags under his own eyes. He holds out a Starbucks cup. “Thanks,” Blake accepts the cup gratefully. Weiss is a good sort, got promoted before Blake, but still invites him over to watch a game. He even brings coffee. Black, two sugars. Blake takes a gulp of the scalding liquid, the warmth traveling down his throat in delicious ways. “Forensics still not here?” the detective asks. “Late as usual.” Weiss snorts derisively, peering with contemplation at the corpse. “You boys find any ID?” Blake shakes his head, ignoring the slight burst of irritation at the term. The forensics team chooses that moment to appear. Weiss goes off to say something to them briefly and a few minutes later they’re both finishing off their coffees while they wait for the things to get checked over. “You and Gill still coming round tonight?” Weiss asks, sipping his latte, “Mary’s keen for a catch up.” Blake winces a little, heat rising to his cheeks. “Not sure,” he admits, “Gilly and I had a fight yesterday, she’s at her mom’s again for a bit. Figured I’d let things cool down.” “Wedding stuff again?” Weiss asks knowingly. “Something like that,” Blake agrees. It had actually been about her engagement ring. She almost lost it and was angry he hadn’t taken it to get resized yet. The whole thing was stupid and had blown up bigger than it should have. But in truth, Blake might enjoy their fights a little too much. The way her chestnut hair gets that red sheen in the right light and her cheeks flush up in anger. She never looks more alive than when she’s angry, a firebrand hotter than the sun. In those moments, Gilly just shines. He’ll be in the doghouse for a couple of days, but the make up will be worth it. Maybe he’ll call her tonight, get the whole process started. Weiss grins at him, shaking his head. “Pair of hooligans, you two,” he comments fondly. Blake laughs along and then Weiss is finally getting called to take a look at the body. He watches his friend go before turning to check the barriers again. He’s close enough to see what the boys in their blue jumpsuits and masks are up to and doesn’t like to be caught staring. As he turns, his boot hits something. A spark of metal catches his eye just at the same time as his step sends it flying across the icy ground. It disappears in the blink of an eye, hiding under some rotting leaves. It's probably just a coin, but Blake steps forward and bends down next to the pile of leaves, one hand still holding the remains of his coffee. With the other he carefully starts clearing them away, trying to see what he kicked. Nothing yet. He picks up some of the damp leaves, ignoring the mud transferring over to his hand. He picks up a particularly mangled, brown leaf by its stem and… Bingo! Surprise, surprise. The metal thing turns out to be a ring. Silver, with a small diamond in its centre. Funny, it looks a lot like the one he bought Gilly. He picks it up carefully and holds it to his eye to examine. There’s an inscription inside and he squints to read. Gilly and Jamie forever. Blake’s heart stops. Gilly and Jamie forever. The words clang in his head like church bells. Loud. So loud he thinks he might not be able to think about anything ever again. The world spins, the morning suddenly becoming far too bright. Blake wants to drop the ring and yet grips it all the more tightly in his trembling fingers. The ring he was supposed to get resized ages ago. The ring that caused that stupid fight. His eyes snap to the corpse. It- She- It- She- The forensic team turns her over, clearing away the leaves and getting ready to transfer her to the morgue for further investigation. The coroner will do the autopsy to determine cause of- No, she can’t have an autopsy! Her mom wouldn’t like that! Hell, he won’t have it! Nobody’s touching her. They brush the hair out of her face and Blake starts walking towards her like he’s in a trance. The usually vibrant, chestnut locks hang damp and listless around her gaunt face, small strands clinging to her sallow skin here and there. Her make up is smudged and she’s dirty. God, she would have hated that. Gilly’s always so careful with her looks. Something flashes. White light pops into his vision, stinging his eyes. They’re taking pictures of her like that, all covered in mud and filth. He wants to smash those cameras, but his limbs just aren’t moving right. Weiss has recognised her too and now he’s looking at Blake. Blake though, doesn’t care. He only has eyes for Gilly. The world has flipped again. Gilly’s eyes are open. Her lips are painted blue and there’s a bruise around her neck, purple and red from where someone had their hands wrapped around it, squeezing until they’d wrung it all from her. That’s Gilly, but she’s not snoring. That’s Gilly but her lips don’t twist. That’s Gilly, but she looks colder than ice, the fire sucked out from her very being. That’s Gilly and- Someone killed her. Blake forgets how to breathe. Someone catches his arm, pulling him away from her. Blake almost growls. No, that’s Gilly! They start loading her into an ambulance and no! No ! She can’t go there! She doesn’t belong there! “Jamie!” it’s Weiss gripping his arm, “Look at me!” “That’s Gillian!” Blake says stupidly, “They’re taking Gilly!” “Jamie!” Weiss grips him hard, pulling him back to reality, “She’s dead!” It's so cold. The frost creeps over Blake and his vision goes dull. “ She’s dead ?” he repeats dejectedly. Weiss is looking sympathetic and weary. Blake wants to punch him. ”I’m sorry,” and Blake thinks a guy like Weiss means it, but he’s also got a job to do. ”She was murdered , Jack,” he states like it wasn’t obvious before, “Her neck…” He can’t say it. He can’t picture it. The transformation of his bubbly fiancée to victim chokes him. He thinks somethings been wrung out of him too. ”I saw,” Weiss sighs, “You know what comes next, right ?” Blake nods, slumping. He clutches the ring tightly in his fist and feels the little diamond dig into his skin. Weiss wants to ask some questions. Blake is a suspect . It doesn’t matter, he thinks as he looks down at the decaying leaves by his feet. A world without Gilly is a dead world anyway.


This is made by the help of Karthika Veeturi, so make sure you go follow her! I was helping my mom make lasagna for dinner when my dad walked in. My mom went into the living room to greet him and told me to continue. "How was your day?" she asked my dad. "It was okay. Just really tiring. " he answered. "Okay…well go upstairs and freshen up," she replied, "Dinner will ready in a minute." My dad went upstairs to freshen up and my mom came back into the kitchen and smiled at me. My mom has been acting really weird lately. She has been making my favorite food, smiling at me every single minute. Something is suspicious. She is not acting like herself. "Can you go set up the table, sweetie?" my mom requested. "Yeah sure." I replied. After setting up the plates and the food, my dad came back down stairs and we started eating. "The lasagna tastes good." my dad said. I nodded at him. "Soo…um…Zayn…I have to tell you something," my mom stated, " You know how I have been going for some interviews lately? Well, I got in for one of the companies." "Oh really? That's nice!" I said, smiling at her. "Yes, but I'm going to have to be there for 9 hours every weekday, which means I won't be at home most of the time. You will have to be home alone once you come back from school." she added. Now I know why she has been acting so weird. She knows I wouldn't be very happy with this. I am not the kind of person who can easily mingle with anyone and my only "friend" has been my mom, but now her going to work means that won't be possible either. "Um…okay…" I replied, not knowing what else to say. "Okay! I am glad you are okay with this!" she said, happily. I wasn't okay, but I had no other way to tell her and I knew she was excited, so I didn't want to ruin her mood. My dad just smiled at me. ---------------Two days later---------------- `I woke up feeling energized for the day, which is weird because I usually wake up feeling cranky. Then I looked at the clock and realized why I feel so energized. I SLEPT FOR AN EXTRA HOUR WITHOUT KNOWING! "MOM!! Why didn't you wake me up?? I'm late!!!" I yelled. There was no reply. I was confused and it took a while for me to remember that she went to her job that started today. I got and started getting ready for school. It was weird not having my mom tell me to wake up, move faster, and have her tell to have a great day at school. --------------After School ----------------------- When I came back home, I freshened up and started watching TV. Normally, my mom wouldn't let me watch TV until I finished all of my homework, but she wasn't there this time. After a few hours, my mom came home and she looked at me watching TV. I thought she would ask me if I did all my homework, but she just walked past me and started walking upstairs. I figured if she wasn't going to tell me to do it, I don't have to do it. At dinner time, I thought at least my mom would ask me then about my homework, but that didn't happen either, so I just slept without doing the homework. The next day… when I went to school… the teacher called me over to her desk. I could sense that it was about my missing homework. I made up a lie and told her I didn't have any time to do it. The teacher warned me to complete it next time and that I would get a B for not completing it. Great! Because of my mom's job… I have a bad grade! I know that I should have done it myself even I she didn't tell me to, but I was still angry at her job! I thought she would spend time with me after her job… but she didn't… she didn't even say a word to me. I was sad that my one and only friend in the world has no time for me anymore. At home, I watched TV for a while, thinking that I could do my homework after some time. When my mom came home, she glared at me. "Your teacher called me at work to tell me that you didn't do your homework yesterday." she told me. "Oh yeah sorry about that." I apologized. "What happened? You always do your work." she questioned me. "Well…you weren't there to tell me to do it." I answered. "I can't be there for you all the time to tell you to do your work," she explained, "You have to learn to be responsible by yourself." "Well, it takes time to get used to this. You don't even have time for me anymore" I argued. "So, you think this is my fault??" she asked. "No, it's just…I wish that you had more time for me." I replied. "Look…Zayn…this is just how it's going to be from now on and I will always try to make time for you, but you also have to start learning how to do some things on your own." she said. "Okay." I sighed. "Now, go do your homework." she told me. As I went into my room to start the homework, I could hear my mom and dad whispering about if it was a good idea to continue doing this job. I felt guilty inside knowing that my mom was so excited for this job and I just ruined it for her. She was right, though. I have to start being responsible on my own because this is just how my life is going to be from now on. As much as I wish things could go back to the way they were before, I have to start getting used to this. This is my life now.


Mr. Pepper and his wife Sonya as well as their two sons Brandon, who is twelve years old and Anthony who is fourteen years old. The family has two guests, 13 year old twin cousins named Mark and Luke. Mrs. Pepper is getting supper prepared for everyone, her husband is writing a business presentation on his computer, the two cousins are playing computer baseball against each other as Anthony is finishing the third page of his English report as Brandon is working on his science project that needs the power of electricity. All of a sudden, all the power goes out and Anthony screams as he just lost his whole English assignment, Mr. Pepper's business preparation is erased, all the lights go out in the whole house and the two cousins yell at each other- who has won the computer baseball game. Anthony yells at Brandon, what did you do to cause the power to go out!! Everyone gathers in the living room after each group finds a flashlight. The sun is shining brightly, with no clouds, so lightening is not the reason for the power outage. Anthony says Brandon must have done something wrong with his science project. Their father says "Not likely". The parents talk to each other, was the power bill paid? Sonya says: " Yes, four days ago, here's the payment". Mr. Pepper talks to his neighbors. Everyone's power has gone out. One of the neighbors has an adult son who is a city police officer. The non emergency call to the police department, Mr. Pepper and his neighbor learn there was an automobile accident and during the accident someone knocked over a utility pole and power is out in the entire city. The cousins say aloud: " Looks like pizza tonight". Anthony and Brandon tell their cousins: " Not likely as landlines don't work when their is no power. Mr. Pepper has an idea, he tells the boys Brandon and Anthony to get paper plates from the pantry as well as plastic utensils. The two boys quickly help their mother get everything back into the refrigerator. Chef Boyardee is served on the picnic table in the backyard. When supper is eaten and the garbage is thrown out, everyone enjoys a kickball game in the backyard- 3 versus 3. The game is played for an hour. The power has not been restored so Mr. Pepper tells his sons Brandon and Anthony to set up the dome tent in the back yard. The boys also check, there are enough sleeping bags for everyone for the night. The sun is now setting on a September evening, so everyone sits in a campfire circle, however no fire is needed as the evening is hot. Mr. Pepper tells his two sons, with two cousins listening, the two reasons he asks his sons to look over each other's English essays is it helps with editing and each son has proof of having written their assignment, just in case a classmate writes something similar. Anthony states he has learned to save documents on the computer after every page finished. After a couple campfire games played outside in the backyard, a messenger comes to the circle and tells everyone, the power should be restored in about two hours, if not call the power company. Brandon and Anthony do a skit learned in Boy Scouts. Anthony pretends to be sitting at a campfire and Brandon pretends to be running from the forest yelling there is a bear coming. Anthony gets his two shoes on and then after a couple of steps, he stops and ties his shoelaces. Brandon yells: " What are you doing, there is a bear running this way and you stopped to tie your shoelaces". Anthony replied: I don't need to worry about out running the bear, I just need to outrun you". Everyone is laughing. Mr. Pepper tells everyone how he got a couple Scouts in his troop in trouble at Summer camp as the skit told to the Scouts called the Raisin Bread skit is considered dirty. Mr. Pepper disagreed as his Scoutmaster taught his troop the skit. In a period of a year, Mr. Pepper asks 100 males about the skit between the ages of eleven to seventy, fifty percent said it was dirty, fifty percent said it was " Not dirty". This led Mr. Pepper to go his oldest aunt, the one female to break the tie. He tells her where the skit came from and it was a lesson about not judging a book by its cover. Here's the skit: An English King had a cook who passed away. To avoid 400 applicants, the king stated an applicant must bring a sample piece of bread made and cooked. The first person brought white bread. King replies: " I hate white bread, it reminds me of a snowboarding accident, no job". The second applicant states: " I have rye bread". King replies: " I hate rye bread, it reminds me when my older brother was seriously bitten by a snake, no job. Third applicant tells the King: " I have raisin bread". King looks at it, smells it and even tastes it and he tells the third applicant he is the new cook. Twenty four hours later, the new cook tells the king he has rye bread. The king complains: " Being last you know I hate rye bread". Cook replies: " Sorry sir, but my rabbit died last night." The aunt stated that the skit was disgusting, however not dirty so the tie was broken. The cousins Luke and Mark are laughing and telling everyone they haven't had so much fun. They even tell Brandon and Anthony that they will be joining a Scout troop when they return home.  During the evening in the backyard, a lunar eclipse occurred.  Mark took the picture on his phone and e-mailed it to his cousin Brandon who received an "A" on the assignment. Anthony wrote about the fun with family due to a power outage.  The parents showed love and companionship through the ordeal.  Everyone was having so much fun, that no one realized the power had returned to the house until they woke up the next morning and heard noise from the house.


“So,” Mor began, “I had work to do but no one from Summer Court would be able to meet with me over the weekend. I asked Cassian if he wanted to come to Adriata and spend a few days in the sun. Warm his wings for a few days, that kind of thing. And it was a terrible mistake!” Nesta lifted her eyebrows. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this story, but Cassian saw these two females and decided he was male enough that he could pull off getting both of them.” Nesta laughed now, of course Cassian had decided he was fae enough for two females at the same time. “He invited them to go to dinner with us, at this gorgeous little bistro near the water, not there any more, of course. Who knows why they said yes, but they did. Cassian was trying so hard, he ordered all these delicious seafood delicacies with dripping butter and garlic. And so much wine. Everytime we finished a bottle, he would order a new one. So, we are all drunk sitting on the patio looking out at the water and these two tall males storm the place.” “Why?” Nesta prodded, entertained by Mor's story. “One of the females had just been discovered by her mate. And her family was thrilled, so excited, because I guess this male who said he was her mate came from this really good family. So she promised her parents she would accept the bond and that she was going to go and find this male, but ran off with her friend instead. I don't even know, maybe she was going to find him eventually, but she'd decided she wanted to like, live it up first before accepting the bond with this complete stranger.” “I can't blame her,” Nesta laughed a little. “And the mate showed up at her parent's hoping to get to know her better but she wasn't there, her parents were all she went to find you, we thought she was with you, and everyone starts freaking out because no one knows where she is. So, everyone calmed down enough to have the mate track her with the bond. And, like, everyone's bond is a little different, I guess, I don’t know, I’m not bonded, but the mate can pick up on her being drunk and with a male. Who is not him clearly. The family lost it because their daughter is, quote, ruining her bond and the male himself fell into this crazy, jealous, overprotective rage males can get at the beginning. So by the time they find us, they are worked up.” “And?” “Oh, Mother. The mate and the dad are both yelling. The dad's yelling at this female and he’s yelling at Cassian, and the mate is yelling at Cassian and he keeps asking the female if she's rejecting the bond to be with Cassian. She starts crying and she's yelling at her dad and this mate. Her friend kept giving me this look like she wanted me to somehow get her out of there. Cassian's drunk so instead of keeping his stupid mouth shut he starts yelling back at the dad and mate.” Mor shook her head and laughed, “None of this should be funny, but the other patrons are just throwing money on their tables and taking off. Not even asking for their checks, just trying to get out before they get caught in the middle of these four fools all yelling. The bistro owners are trying to calm everyone down but its not working. Cassian is up now and he starts walking towards these two like he's going to fight them, and I'm still sitting at the table with these females, both crying now. The mate goes full rage and picks up a table, just up over his head, and flings it at Cassian.” “Cassian has never told me this.” “Not his finest day! So, anyways, Cassian sees this table flying thru the air and drunkenly assumes its going to hit the three of us behind him so he blasted out his siphons. Like the time you saw during the battle, how he can just make this giant red bubble of safety shield. Except he was drunk. So not only does this giant red bubble protect us from the table, which I still say was not going to hit us, but he like went into overprotect mode. He sent out a wave of energy outside the bubble too, to attack. Thankfully the owners ended up in our bubble and the top floors of the building were day offices so they were all empty because his power just shattered everything above us.” Mor continued, “I think he was just trying to destroy the table cause his energy all went up and over, but instead, it just decimated this whole building that bistro was in. Gods above must have been watching out for faes that day sending his drunk Cassian wrath upwards, because as soon as Cassian lowered the shield we were in this terrible broken brick crater, but everyone was ok. Even the dad and the mate somehow but, like, all that was left of the building was this giant cloud of dust and just mounds of broken building all around us.” Mor just kept quietly laughing, “It was so awful, all this broken building dust falling down like snow. But those two mates were finally holding hands, just checking each other over next to her dad and the other female was creeping backwards away from us towards them. The owners started yelling then and Cassian just looked around at this tiny, terrible crater he created and said he thought that maybe I should winnow us back home right then. You could hear all these fae outside the rubble yelling trying to make sure everyone was ok and I thought he just might be right, that maybe staying any longer was a very bad idea. So I took his hand to winnow us out and I looked him dead in the eye and I told him, ‘I am never going out with you again'".