The ground was white. It had snowed heavily that morning and the weather was still cold, preventing the snow from melting. She walked through it. Her boots almost ran up to her knees and the snow was high as her calves. On a normal day she’d have Walked through this easily. It wasn’t her first time or the second or the third. It was her way back from school and she’s been through it a hundred times. Today, however, it was heavier. The backpack on her shoulder, the air and every step she took seemed to pull her deeper into the snow. *Am I dreaming now? She thought. Do I even deserve to live? Should I really go home?*  She could make out the house in the distance. It wasn’t what you’d call big, but It was what she’d call perfect. It was a wooden house, a cute door which always had a weird ornament hanging on it - it was something her mom makes while she had nothing else to do - with cottage windows that looked out the front and circular windows on the top where the attic should be. She was now close enough to see the chimney blew smoke. *No. I’m not hungry. She thought again. I haven’t eaten since last night yet I’m not hungry at all.* As she got closer to the house, she walked slower. *Or did it feel slow? Was time slowing down? Do I dare step into the house like this?*  She reached the front door and eyed the ornament. It was shaped like a bird, but it wasn’t a bird. It looked like the moment a bird takes flight but instead wings were shards like broken pieces of glass. The ornament was silver. The broken edges faded to black. She saw the positive side and thought it meant freedom but her mother had a different superstition. *Weird. I’ve grown so used to this by now, but why does it make me feel like it’s meant for me. I don’t think it means freedom anymore.. it’s the illusion of being free. But we are just as broken as everything else. Why am I so negative? Is this it for me? Am I over? Am I done?*  Knock. Knock. She never rang the doorbell. She always preferred the sound of knuckles against wood. “Hey, my baby girl” said her mom as she opened the door. She was in her late thirties. She was strikingly pretty with her angular jawlines, eyebrows that were so perfect you’d think she’d thread them every day. Her lips were rose without the lipstick and as fine and slender as her fingers. Her eyes, as grey as the winter storm itself. Everyone said that she is a copy of her mother. She even agreed. *But beauty is a curse. I know that now.*  “Come on sweetie, I made lunch and take off that thick jacket” *Do I have to?* She eyed the room. Same as always. Fire burning in the fireplace, the couches on either side and The soft fur carpet at the center. *Cozy. But not today.* “Come sit down. Look what I made for you” She shifted her eyes to the dinner table. It could accommodate 6 people, the spot where most of her happy memories took place. But today, it felt cold and unwelcoming. Spaghetti with hot sauce and meatballs. *My absolute favorite.* “I’m not hungry, mom.” Shouldn’t have said that. Her mom’s face fell. *It is my favorite dish. Why does it look so unappetizing? I’m sorry mom. I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to be sad. I don’t want you to worry. I’m just so so sorry.* “But... Baby... I made it just the way you love it... For you” *I don’t deserve your love, mom. Please. Just hate me. Please. Just don’t care. Please. Forgive me.* “I know” she said “but.. umm.. I had a heavy lunch from school.. and I .. I can’t digest more.” *Lies. Does it show on my face?* “Are you okay, sweetie?” “Yes, mom, just really tired. I need rest” “Oh.. sure baby.. you go get some sleep. I’ll save this for dinner” *I don’t think I’ll make it for dinner.* “Thanks ,mom” She made her way past the hallway, brooding about what happened that day. Her eyes were filled with tears. She looked back, her mom was in the kitchen, out of sight. She made her way to the stairs. Her room was on the next floor. “MOM!” She called out. “Yes, darling?” *I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never did.* “I love you, mom” “Oh baby.” Her mom answered, still out of sight. “ I love you too!” She felt so heavy as she climbed the stairs. *Would it break now? Under this pressure? Would that finally be it?* Her room was the first one on the left. She opened it and threw her bag down. It was covered in mud and snow. *Thank God mom didn’t notice.* She looked up and saw that the snow had started to fall. She slowly closed the door. Bolted it shut. She must’ve stood there, in that position for 10 minutes straight. As the first streak of tear rolled out on to her cheek, she grabbed the pillow on her bed and collapsed into the floor and cried her lungs out.  *Broken.* She knew what it felt like to be broken. To be stripped of peace. *I’m sorryyyyyy. She cried into the pillow. Forgive me mom. Forgive me dad. I would never hurt any of you. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t help myself. I can't. I just can’t.*  She got up after what must’ve been an hour. Her legs were sore. Her eyes bloodshot. She walked to her cupboard like a zombie. Dead but alive.she stood in front of the mirror and opened the drawer and peered inside. What she searched for was still there. She never knew she’d have another use for this object. Slowly, she took off her shirt. As she saw her reflection, fresh tears streamed on to her cheeks. Bruises.. purple and almost black.. they weren’t there this morning. Bruises so large and strong.. on her back, around to her stomach up to her chest. She looked at the skirt she wore. *Was i asking for it?* She dropped her skirt and cried again. It hurt so bad. The bruises around her thighs were least of her concern as she eyed the dried up blood that had streamed down her underwear to the inner thighs. She grabbed the rope from the drawer. And walked to the center of the room. She looked up and then out of the window into the snow. “I’m so sorry, mom.


(WP) Death’s Last Dance One minute, the room is full of laughing, talking people, and my partner and I are dancing through the crowd, parting the huge ocean of people. It’s almost overwhelming, all of my senses firing. I can smell his cologne, and he smiles down at me. “You look lovely tonight, Lyra,” He purrs into my ear, and I shiver, holding onto him tighter as we float through the crowd. “I cannot wait to make our announcement. Everyone will be so excited!” Then, within the next moment, everything is gone. The music cuts off abruptly, and the room is empty. The floor is pure, white marble, and my dress, a confection of blue silk, is suddenly red, as wine or as blood. The darkness is so complete I can see almost nothing, but from above, two spotlights appear. The white light shines down on me, blinding me after the darkness. On the other side of the room, a shrouded figure stands under the other spotlight, silent, watching me. And when its glowing eyes find mine, I know what’s happening. “It’s my time, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is.” The voice is impossible to identify, heavy and full of so many timbres that I can’t figure out whether it’s male or female, young or old. “May I finish my dance? Please? If this is the last time that I am to have on Earth, I just… I want to say goodbye. Please.” Perhaps it is selfish, asking Death for one last dance, but I can’t help it. For once in my life, everything was starting to go right. But I’ve known this was coming, I knew it wasn’t last. Why, then, does it hurt so terribly? I guess even for the most prepared soul, no one is ever really ready to die. My new companion watches me, hands folded across the handle of a long, wicked scythe. The blade gleams brightly under the spotlight, a purple so dark it looks almost black. There is a pregnant pause, and for a moment, I fear that my request will be denied. “Know that I don’t grant requests like this often,” It says, so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear it, “but as you have done so well in preparing for my arrival, you may.” \*\* Just as suddenly as everything stopped, it all starts again. I’m still in Patrick’s arms, held tightly against his body as we waltz. All the noise filters back in, and I wince, resisting the urge to cover my ears. Patrick’s lips are moving, but everything else is so loud I can’t hear him. “I need to tell you something!” I say in his ear, and he pulls back, staring at me, eyebrows knitted in concern. “What is it, darling? You look so frightened.” “I have to go, Patrick. I have to leave. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” I lean forward and kiss his lips, briefly, trying to memorize the taste of him: wine and salt and something uniquely his. When I pull away, it all disappears again, and the figure appears in front of me, holding out a hand to guide me home. And I take it.


You named me Ella and that was a beautiful word to be called. With hand-carved arms and a manufactured head, I was made for little girls like you. But you aren't a little girl anymore and that's why I no longer see you. I strived to grow, to develop, to age as you did; but what can I do when you have matured beyond the need for childish goods? It is upsetting how years can change a person, especially someone like you. I remember swinging in your arms the first day we met and feeling your heartbeat more times than I could count. When you held me tight during those awful, thunderous nights, I could pretend that it was my heart beating, too. And the safety of those warm blankets and hugs that saw us through to the morning without those horrible nightmares of yours. I know how much they frightened you, and if I could smile, you would have seen how I loved to be your miniature guardian. I often wonder if you recall those nights. If it pleases you at all to travel back in time and relive those memories as I do every day. Being a grown-up must be very tough - you don't seem to have any time to play anymore. In fact, it's been nearly three years since you last opened this bag. I miss seeing you. You don't even stop to wipe the dust off me anymore, and it's starting to build. Was it something that I did to upset you? I can't think of what it could be. I'm a terrific listener and your secrets were always safe with me. If I ever hurt you, I am truly sorry. But I believe it is you that has hurt me, and I don't get an apology. Which is okay, but I could really use you right now; to share the little bit of Sophie time that only I got to experience - moments that I still hold dear to my hollow chest, and cherish. Pig seems to be doing well; he doesn't appear to mind the silence - you know what he's like, though. Always was one to stay in the corner while the others had fun. I think he was more obsessed with counting his coins than play time. However, Sheep isn't holding as strong. She and Dino were arguing the other day about ripping open this thin, black plastic and coming to see you personally; but I reminded them that we shouldn't. Although we could if we wanted to - you didn't make this abyss very secure, you know. And some of us aren't so patient. Fourteen years old you were when we last spoke. The events of that day still project themselves onto the nothing that I have to see with each awakening. Though, truth be told, we never really went to sleep when you did - I can't close my eyes. And neither can Pig, nor Sheep or Dino. But our painted eyes eventually became accustomed to the void that envelops our entire existence, and, in my more sane-less nights, I see you there in front of me - dancing. Dancing and skipping and singing! Oh, how exceptional you were at singing for such a young age! Karaoke night was a favourite of mine, and Dino's, too! Sheep could never quite get that stutter under control. It's a shame that you stopped using your voice like that. I may be in the attic but I would know when my Sophie was singing! You made all of us so proud. I've heard that you aren't doing too well in school anymore. What happened? Last I saw you, a future of being a teacher was sparkling in your eye! Or was it an actress? Or a model? You were going to be so many things! We all believed in you! Pig would have tippled on his plump side with all the coins you'd present to him. And Sheep, Dino and I would have enjoyed just watching the world by your side. It is strange that you seemed to lose interest in a lot of subjects around the same time - not just with me. What is it with growing up that you all crave so much? Why can't you remain the same as we do? It doesn't look like a whole lot of fun to be a teenager, something you repeatedly whispered to me that you couldn't wait to be. But how fun it would be for you to join us in this bag. Even just for one day. Maybe forever. I don't have much for us to do in terms of games, but we all enjoy a good chat in the middle of the night. Mainly about you. Maybe you've heard us. I'm not sure if your eyes would adjust to being in this darkness - ours haven't. But your vision will be better, I think. It could be even better again if you always kept them open like we do. Just thinking about you being in here with us is making me giddy! Butterflies, Sophie! They are called butterflies! I remember you telling me this and thinking it was so silly. But that's what they are, I suppose - and I don't get them when I think of anyone else. I don't really feel much at all when I'm not thinking of you. I was asked the other day from a particularly sad Sheep, "Ella, what will we do if one day she really does come back? How do we act or what do we say? I feel like I want to cry just thinking about it." And I answered her honestly, "I don't know." After the first few months, I never had a positive thought about my future with you again. So, it was a little bit out of the blue when she brought up a scenario to me of which I hadn't considered in years. She is always the optimist, though. And I usually partake in her unrealistic hopes because it doesn't cost a thing to be kind - *Sophie -* and making her happy makes me happy in turn. But something about that question churned in my lumber and stuck to my empty head; and for once, I snapped. "I never thought it would be me that had to say goodbye, Sheep! She is older now and has no use for things such as us. I wanted to wait here for her, right where she left us, in case she ever got scared and wanted to return, even for just a little play time when she needed it most in her stressful adult life. But I am not expecting much from her anymore. I know Sophie is older, but so am I. The problem is, she can move on - but I cannot" Sheep turned back to her side of the black and began to cry. I shouldn't have been so blunt with her, but it is really because of you that this is happening. I felt Dino raise a tiny arm and place it over Sheep's now ragged and filthy wool, consoling her as he has done on so many occasions. And to my left, I touched a familiar object of something long and sharp. I don't know what they are called, but I know what they are used for. And a devious thought now washed over me - a thought that had plagued me for some time now. I turned to face Dino and Sheep, my pencil straight lips now able to curve, and said with a joyous affliction, "You know what? You were right. Let's pay her a visit.


A misty, golden field of wheat, a periwinkle sky dotted with fluffy wisps of cotton. A light breeze ruffles the heads of wheat like an older brother ruffles the hair of a younger brother. Dotting this field of gold are random sparks of ruby and lilac. Rarer still are the shoots of emerald, blades and stems of support, defending the delicate petals as the mist comes to leave a chaste kiss. The sun, while it either rises or sets, as it is impossible to tell with no other landmarks visible, bathes the valley with iridescent beams of gentle beauty. There is some harshness here, as the brilliant beams cut through both mist and clouds. While surrounded by beauty and tranquility, there is an unshakable sense of dread. The stark contrast between the growing emotion, an unbridaled, rampaging beast seated in your gut, and the seemingly false sense of peace that permeates and drips off the surrounding landscape brings with it nausea. Suddenly the very earth is tilting and careening into an unforeseen oblivion, the anxiety a solid rock in your very fiber, your essence of self. All is very unwell, yourself overwrought with boiling, churning fear that rips up your insides as with hot knives. There is no peace for you here. Though you have not seen your tormentor, you know that he is here, torturing you even whilst in slumber. There is a fading glimmer of hope, perhaps tonight, you will wake before He shows himself. That you will not once again be forced to gaze on his likeness and drink the bitter cup of despair. The pain is unbearable, the dire anticipation of the evil that is certain to come draining away any semblance of vitality you once possessed. He is coming, with each step closer the life that once filled this humble place diminishes. The peace shattered, pierced in a manner that rivales the very sun. Even the light, once so warm, so inviting, has shriveled into a gray fog that clogs your nostrils, robbing you of your breath. Desperation, a clawing, frantic essence that possesses your very soul, seating itself, unbidden, into your heart. He is coming. Oh, for the sweet release of consciousness, the safety that rides the wings of the dawn. The precious relief of reality. There will be no salvation, He is close. There is no salvation to be found here, no deliverance from your fate. Your heart, as strongly as it had been beating before, seems to halt altogether. No matter how hard you try, your next breath will not come, as though your lungs have become concrete, filled in with gravel and dust, unable to function. Sweat, in large, acidic droplets, tear across your face. They sting your eyes, which are just now welling with tears that steal your vision. Suddenly, your muscles seize, frozen in an indescribable, primal fear. A horrible stench seeps into your very bones, corrupting you to the core. There is no escape from this fell torment, no relief to be found. Every night, for years, you have faced this demon alone. Each encounter brings with it the sinking realization that you are truly powerless, no comfort, no drug, no therapy can mount a defense against this monstrosity. He is here. There is no point in fighting it, resistance never yields any positive result. You learned long ago that any attempt to circumvent Him only delays the inevitable. There is no peace for you, no safety, no refuge to cower behind. The smell is so much worse now, rotting, infected flesh, bloated and green. Hot garbage is a pleasant perfume, a beautiful memory of days long past in comparison. The sounds, the godawful sounds. Like tossed bones in a wet, blood soaked leather bag, all sloshing around desperate to escape, free to bleach in the sun. Like when you step into a deep pit of thick mud, and try to lift your foot, only to lose your shoe to the suction, except you never leave that marsh. When He speaks, it is like gargling razors. A weak, lilting speech that makes your ears bleed, and eardrums burst, though even that does not cure your unease, and you hear him in your head. He is trying to take over, to control you as a mindless slave, bending and breaking you into his will. Shaping, molding your brain like putty with his words, which you cannot understand and are convinced are not any language heard in any mortal realm. He is upon you. His tendril-like fingers pierce your dwindling sanity, and he roughly spins you around to face him, holding you fast to his unflinching, unyielding gaze. There is silence now, but even that does not grant you solace. “I love you, Daddy.” This, this is what breaks you. You wake, tears streaming rivers into your cheeks, staining your pillow, as they have every night for the past thirty years. Not the terror, the insanity, the false sense of hope that all is right and everything is going to be okay. No, the endgame to your dread, the antithesis to your existence, is your dead son, who visits you in your sleep every night. He drowned, while you were at home with him. You’d taken a rare half day off of work, and went to create the best play day ever. Ice cream, water parks, go karts, and a movie while you put in the homemade pizzas to bake. You’d worked so much overtime lately, you must’ve dozed off. David, a rambunctious six year old with a love for all things water, had gotten a pool from you for his birthday, swimming lessons started the next day. He was a good kid, he usually listened, you’d filled up the pool for some last moments of fun after dinner, before the last sparkling rays of sun dwindled into nothing. You found him, facedown in the pool, an hour later, the pizzas burnt and smoke alarm blaring. It was so loud, it always made your ears hurt. You’d only just fallen asleep, the horror of what you saw never really kicked in until the funeral, when they laid that cold, unloving wooden box in the earth. There is no solace, no salvation to be found. Nothing can save you, nothing can grant you the relief that you’ve yearned for. Grief is a funny thing. They say that time heals all wounds, but you know that to be a lie. You know the real truth. Time is a merciless teacher, that shows people the secret of falsehood. The fake smiles at work, the sympathetic glances of coworkers, the oh poor so and so’s. The lonely nights, the empty days. The gloom that not even the dawn can shatter. It never gets better, but when you break down every night, you become an expert of building yourself back up, though it’s never quite right. You are cursed to long for peace, that will never come, not completely. Eventually, you change, and long for the release of a permanent unconsciousness, as the hope rekindles the flame in your heart, that one day, you will finally meet again.


One of 100 2 minute Myths I'm in the process of writing here  The men from Branch were high-waisted and took naturally to line dancing. They got their unique physiques from traversing bogs, looking for berries their wives turned into sweet jams that slept in their bones while they fished. And one of their own, Nefarious Power, had spent five years on the professional line dancing circuit up along before the pull of the tides got too strong and he retired. Drawn there by the gentle gravity of his own fate, he’d originally gone to look for work, but was soon recruited by one of the teams and quickly became an all-star. When he retired, Nef was so sick of dry land, the first thing he did was spend a year circumnavigating the globe in an all electric sailboat called *The Some Shocking Good.* After that he built a house with a garage big enough to hold, ski-doos, ATVs and all the other toys a bayman dreams of after he drinks too much Lambs and Coke. But they quickly lost their appeal and soon sat unused, like some people’s common sense, as deep within his heart Nef still longed for line dancing. So, on a beige Tuesday morning in June, he marched himself down to the post office and stuck a note on the bulletin board asking if there were any men in town interested in starting a recreational line dancing league. Within three hours he had enough names to call the school and reserve the gym every Saturday from four to eight. The talent was immediate, especially notable was a young 19 year old named Jobadiah Nash, who could dance any position in the line with ease and a smile that whispered, I’ll see you later if I’m still alive. When Forthright Johnson, the CEO of the largest line dancing talent agency in Texas saw a shaky online video of the teams competing, it was so moving he called everyone he’d ever done wrong and begged forgiveness. Then he sent his private jet up to the island and it returned, laden with 14 fishermen who would compete as a two row, line dancing team in a semi-pro league out of Houston. Because of the advantage their high waists gave them in performing both kicks and pirouettes, they soon became the toast of Texas. Lavished with prize money, adoration and cowboy boots, the men quickly took to drinking and carousing in the local bars until the wee hours, before they staggered back to their hotel and dreamed that they were home. Young Jobadiah Nash, who cursed the air blue when he found out the drinking age was 21 in Houston, was the most unhappy, and even the drinks snuck up to his room did little to dull the distance he felt in his heart. But, even hungover and homesick, the fishermen could out-dance the best of the locals with ease, and soon resentment began to simmer on the surface of the days when they performed. After they showed up to one competition, reeking of rum and nostalgia, but still won handily, the editors at the Houston Chronicle had had enough. The very next issue displayed a front page picture of the team drinking at Shoeshine Charley’s Big Top Lounge, with a headline that screamed, *High-Waisted or High and Wasted?* Nef Power was crushed, as he knew it was his fault the men had wandered so far from the homemade bread and jam they craved in their sleep, so he went to see Forthright Johnson to discuss an exit plan. Forthright immediately offered to double their wages, as he couldn’t imagine letting the team, who moved like their feet fed on the floor, just waltz away, but to no avail. Nef explained that the men were thirsty for the ocean and that that thirst could not be quenched with all the bourbon and beer in Texas. Then Forthright threatened legal action, but Nef would not relent even though he, like everyone, knew how vicious the line dancing gangs in Texas prisons were. After seven hours of heated arguments and coy maneuvering, Forthright reached into a desk drawer where he kept his happy endings and suggested a contract for one show the third Tuesday of each month. Nef, after bouncing it off the others, agreed and the men were soon home again, stuffing themselves on sweet jams and salt breezes. As per the contract, once a month Forthright Johnson sent his private jet up to the island and the 14 line dancing fishermen would head back to Houston. And there, in an always sold out Astrodome in front of 66,000 adoring fans, the bright lights of Texas would shine down on those high-waisted men from Branch.


“Stage to Black”. John pressed down on the sliding knob to dim the lights on Act II. He brought the house lights up for intermission and watched the audience rise from their seats, their conversation growing louder as they moved toward the back of the theater. Ten minutes until lights up. Ten minutes. He slipped a blue latex glove onto his left hand and made his way through the heavy red curtains that separated make-believe from real. An unlit American Spirit hung from his mouth as he passed by dressing rooms filled with costume changes and actors reciting lines into mirrors. The euphoria of performance. All of it for a Thursday night audience buying discount tickets and overpriced wine served in plastic cups. Giggles followed him as he pushed against the backstage exit, lighting up and exhaling into summer. Five years doing stage tech at the Almost Corner Theater. A summer job that had quickly evolved into a way of life. Black shirts and Levis, alcohol and shows, tattoos and shows, parties and shows, after-parties and more shows. Lots of shows. More cigarettes too, but he’d been cutting down. Liza made him promise. She thought he was done, but he was still smoking a pack a week. Better than two. His car was filled with breath mints, cologne testers, and latex gloves. Those goddamned latex gloves. They stopped the smell sticking to his hands but fuck. The looks he got, especially on the drive home, a guy with tattoos wearing a latex glove, smoking on the highway. All of this behind her back and for no good reason at all. Liza knew he was still smoking. Five minutes. He took a hit, savoring the moment, letting it all out, unsurprised as the door opened behind him. Enter Sharla. “What’s up John? Bum me a cig?” He gave her a hard look, pressing the yellow pack into her palm. Ten shows down, and she hadn’t yet brought her own pack, or for that matter offered him a smoke. “Lighter?” She giggled, an instant of orange lighting up against her dyed black hair. Ten cigarettes and not one coming back to him in return. Not even a lighter he could pocket. Three minutes. He caught her staring at his tattoos, geometric shapes, from the shirt sleeve down into the latex glove. She looked back up at him. “Ernest just tried to kiss me back there. I turned away and he wasn’t too happy about that. He pushed me against the wall, but I still didn’t kiss him.” John frowned, exhaling, watching her inhale and twirl her cigarette in elegant circles. Two minutes. “Hey Sharla, how come you never bring your own cigarettes out here huh? Why you always bumming them from me?” She smiled. “How come you always wear that blue glove when you smoke?” He flicked his cigarette. “C’mon, let’s get back inside.” Her smile turning to laughter as he pushed the glove into his jeans. “It’s your girlfriend, isn’t it? She doesn’t like you stinking of smoke, that it?” He pushed by her to find the backstage door locked in front of him. She began to pull at his shirt. Her hands turning him around. Her face moving close to his before she spoke. “I don’t want to kiss Ernest.” One minute. He banged on the door behind them. “Fuck. We’re locked out, we’ve got to go through the front.” They ran around the block, John holding Sharla’s hand as they entered the theater. The audience already seated, waiting for the lights to come up, watching John and Sharla run down the aisle. Watching as Margaret, their diminutive director, jumped up and down, waving the script in her hand. Her hair bunched up in a nervous bun over thick-rimmed eyeglasses. She looked like a school teacher and her angry whisper echoed into the theater. “What the hell John?! Sharla! Places! Now!” Sharla pulled at his jeans, slowing them down before she slipped out of his hand. He took his seat at the switchboard and watched her scurry through the tense curtains. Act III. He turned the spotlights on, bringing the stage back to life. Suddenly smiling. Smiling because he tasted like smoke. Smiling because the girl who bummed all of his cigarettes just walked on stage with a blue latex glove on her hand.


I look out the window of the truck that was bumping along the dirt road, the bulletproof glass covered with pearly drops of rain. They danced down the glass, maneuvering and merging with other drops. Despite everything, I grin, laughing as they trickle down and I trace them with my finger. As I feel the wind from the baton rushing against my ear, I stop smiling and suck in a sharp breath, the baton crashing against my skull. My face turns into a grimace, allowing them to gag me and tie me up again. Warm blood trickles down my face, wanting to be like the drops of rainwater on the window. But rainwater isn’t red and sticky and thick, and rainwater isn’t what’s dripping on my white uniform right now. I keep wondering. Why am I here? This is a prison, strong as that of Alcatraz, in which I am being held captive. I feel something else on my cheek, mingling with the blood, salty and flowing. Tears, I guess. I hear a mutter from one of the armed guards accompanying me, something like sissy. I’m not sure though. My breathing is shallow, my eyes watering and my forehead gushing blood. One guard hits me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, then I don’t remember the rest of the ride, seeing as it is spent unconscious in a potato sack. When I wake up, I go to rub my head before remembering the biting pain of the zip ties around my wrists and ankles. I squirm, trying to maneuver my wrists out of the binds. My hands grasp blindly for anything, *anything* that I can cut myself free with. I fiddle with a round knob on the floor, it feels like a doorknob. I scoot forward a bit, pulling upward on the handle as soon as the guards look away. I begin to fall until I’m able to find a handhold on the rock wall. I feel a sharp pain as one of the rocks scrapes on my arm, then I get an idea. I scrape my zip-tied wrists over the sharp stone, over and over again, until I feel it loosen and fall off. I grasp the wall, trying to feel for cracks in it, though not succeeding. I continue to fall, my arms scratching against the wall, bleeding. I hit the ground with a thud and a few cracks. I yelp out in pain, my teeth grinding with the impact. My eyes water. My dirt caked cheeks quickly turn to mud covered, tears slipping and sliding and making patterns through it. I pull out the messy bun the guards had called ‘prison protocol’ before they had started to laugh hysterically at the alliteration they had created, and I use the elastic to hold my hair in a braid. Despite everything, I won’t let them stop me from getting out of here. From seeing the family that I don’t remember, the one they erased from my mind, just as they had my name. They were calling me Kid or Girl, but not by a name. Then I remember. I remember it all in a burst of light that illuminates not just the tunnel, but also the black hole of my mind. I am Roselia, I don’t have a family. I crawl out of the tunnel. *I’m not that person anymore,* I decide. I’m not going to be Roselia. From now on, I’m Delilah Clarence. My sister's and her ex-boyfriend’s name. But no one needs to know that, and no one ever will. Because no one knows them. The same thing here, though. No one ever will. I mean, that’s why I was there. I killed them.


6:34 pm. Charlie was just pulling up to his drive after a hard day at work for Charlie was working as a sound technician for a new upcoming film set in Leeds. He drove a silver Vauxhaull Astra, he had bought it off his older brother two years prior. Charlie was a 29-year-old with a light stubble on the underside of his chin making him look a lot younger however he was a strong man, physically fit which was being shown by his blue shirt nearly ripping off his chest when stretching after stepping out of his car. He was around 6 foot 2 inches tall and didn’t seem to have much money being evident by his shoes being dirty and old and having a small house which used to belong to his grandmother after she passed away by taking her own life in said house. Charlie and his grandmother were always very close and when she died when Charlie was 20, he was obviously very distraught. As Charlie opened his house door, he was suddenly attacked by a small ball of fluff. This was his pet dog Layla who ran up to him and jumped up in excitement and even let out a small wee. Charlie returned this love back to Layla by petting her forehead and giving her a large belly rub. They then decided to sit in front of the television and have a rest after a stressful day. 8:16 pm. Charlie jolted up from out of his sofa. He had fallen asleep whilst watching tv and Layla had managed to find her way into the treat jar and ended up and smashing it, waking him up. As Charlie was walking towards the kitchen area where the smash took place, he went into his cupboard and grabbed the old broom that his grandmother used to use herself. He swept all the broken glass into a corner and went to look for his dustpan and brush. Whilst he was looking, he found a packet of cigarettes that he had bought the previous day that was unopened. He placed them in his pocket and continued to search. Charlie eventually found it in the bathroom under the sink and returned to the kitchen. He then spent a few minutes collecting all the shards of glass into the dustpan and placed them all in the bin except for one sharp shard which he placed on the kitchen counter top. 8:43 pm. By this time Charlie was starting to get hungry and went to the kitchen to try and locate anything edible. And he did except for it was only edible to Layla. “fucks sake” Charlie muttered under his breath for he spent his last small amount of money on the cigarettes in his pocket and wouldn’t be getting paid until two days’ time. He gave Layla her food and went back to the living room and lit up one of his cigarettes. Puff, puff, puff. One down. He lit another. Puff, puff, puff. Another one down. Charlie went to the corner of the room where on a little table, there was a picture of a little girl. This little girl was in fact Charlie’s young daughter Emily who would have just turned 5. Charlie didn’t see much of Emily for him and his partner Charlotte split up shortly after she was born, and Charlotte took full custody of Emily and only allowing Charlie to see her once every 2 months. However, as Charlie lit up his third cigarette a tear fell from the corner of his right eye. Puff, puff, puff. 9:07 pm. Charlie got up from the sofa once more after a while of thinking to go to the toilet, for he had just finished his last bottle of beer that he had in his fridge. On returning to the living room, Charlie noticed that he couldn’t find Layla inside. He called all over the house, however Charlie wasn’t very worried for this was rather common for Layla to go into the back garden at this time of day. So, Charlie opened his back door and called out for Layla, and again, and again, and again… Charlie was starting to get worried for she normally came bolting back to the house after the first call. He was panicking now, thinking something had happened. But then he heard a faint bark that was undeniably that of Layla, but it was round the front of his house. He went around to the front drive through a gate that joined the drive to the back garden. There Layla was and Charlie felt very relieved to see her. However, something wasn’t quite right; she didn’t come running up to Charlie like she usually did, in fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She only let out a faint yelp and Charlie came running. She was lying motionless in the centre of the road and when Charlie lent down to see her, he saw blood. Lots of blood. Layla had been hit by a car and Charlie was too late, she died in his arms as he carried her towards the house limp and lifeless… 10:28 pm. The burial was done. Layla was buried in the back garden next to her favourite spot, right next to the daisies. Charlie went back into his house and finished wiping away the tears for Layla was the closest thing he had to family and his relationship with his parents was poor and he hadn’t spoken to them for at least 2 years when they had a falling out about Charlies career and problems with drug addiction which he had since overcome. He went to his office which was next to his room and only contained a desk, chair and pen and paper. Charlie decided he would write 5 letters to 5 people. His Mum, his Dad, his brother, Charlotte his ex-partner and one to Emily for when she turned 18. In each of the letters he ended them with “I love you, and I’m sorry. Charlie”. He labelled each letter to who he wanted them to go to and left them on his bedside table. 11:08 pm. Charlie decided that he needed a bath. He started to run the water and let it run. As the water was running, Charlie went to the kitchen to get a glass of water before his bath when he noticed the sharp shard of glass, he had left on the kitchen side. He picked it up and returned to the bathroom. The water was steaming, just how he liked his bath, and just like he had liked them from since he was a young boy. He climbed into the bath and placed the shard of glass by the taps that let the water out. Charlie lay there for a short while, soaking in the warm water. But then he sat upright. He grasped the shard of glass and placed it against his wrist. Tears streaming down his face, Charlie cut across his skin. The water turned red, and he made another slit, and another and another. A few minutes had passed and there was no evidence that the water was once water for Charlie was lying in a pool of blood. But Charlie lay still and motionless.


High in the hills Oedipus limped on alone. It had been some days now since he had seen another soul. The late afternoon sun beat down upon his neck as he dragged his limp foot along this dusty trail, his only company the birds above. He had started out before the Sun had risen and was witness to its journey across the blue sky. Yet he hadn’t paused, nor would he, until he arrived at Thebes. He had heard that there great trouble brewed. But trouble was what he desired. Turning his back on his family, he realised the only glory he would obtain in this world would be of his own making. Cresting the hill, he leant on his staff. A clear view of Thebes and the surrounding plain lay below. This was where he would make his name, that much he knew. He began his descent. The tall walls of the city rose up and dominated the sun drenched plain, like the silhouette of some man-made mountain range against the bright open sky. Marching towards them he prayed to the gods, to give him the strength to win glory. Vague rumours had informed him of the trouble of Thebes, but it wasn’t clear what exactly the trouble was. He believed in the heroics of Man and had taken it upon himself to shed some light on the problem. He would do what was necessary, or die trying. The gods of high Olympus would surely bless one as bold as he, one who had taken charge so as to avoid his fate as told at Delphi. The last fingers of the Sun pointed out over the horizon. He drew close to those famous walls as the faint stars first twinkled in the darkening sky. No greeting or hail met him from the gates, just a gentle breeze rolling over the plain. It kicked up dust, watering his eyes to the shadowy archway ahead. He paused. He had the sensation of being watched. “I would make myself known. I am Oedipus and I am come to the aid of Thebes.” In front, something moved as smoke in the shadows. Squinting he gazed into the abyss. “Would you now, brave Oedipus? What aid would that be?” Emerging from the gloom with feline grace there appeared to him the most beautiful face. Her skin so smooth the structure so angular, like life breathed into a marble statue of a goddess. Oedipus stood straighter. “I would know who I speak to first.” “A question before that I reveal, and if you fail, you can join those, who lie by my tail.” His eyes were only now becoming accustomed to the dark. He noticed what looked like little piles of earth behind the speaker, on the edge of the shadow cast by the gatehouse. “Ask if you must, I’d rather we didn’t come to blows, it would be a crime against the gods to strike such a pretty face.” A grin appeared, revealing the sharp teeth of a lion. "Which creature has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?" His heart pounded, fire flamed in his veins. Cascading like a waterfall, images of his life until now fell in front of his mind’s eye. A second passed. "Man—who crawls on all fours as a baby, then walks on two feet as an adult, and then uses a walking stick in old age" “Very good, very good brave Oedipus! So quick on your feet?” She glanced down. “The Sphinx I am, I guard this gate, answer my riddle, and Thebes I’ll vacate.” Closer she came. Creeping as a cat, her wings outstretched. Eye to dreamy eye they gazed. She paused in front of him. Her breath reeked of death. “Speak then.” "There are two sisters: one gives birth to the other and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Who are the two sisters?" A moments silence. The breeze blew. Unsure, he looked to the sky. The stars were now on full display. The zodiac shone brightly. “Day and night.” The Sphinx beamed at Oedipus. Fluidly she lifted her paw and rammed it into her drooling maw. He watched as with swift violence she devoured herself, until all that remained was a vicious pool of gore. It reflected back the sky above. He walked towards the gate, passing the remains of the Sphinx’s victims. He beat the gate as a victory drum. It echoed off into the night. Silence. He beat the gate again. “I am Oedipus and I have saved Thebes!” In the distance he heard a door close. Another moment of silence passed. He heard bolts clanging behind the gate and the slow creak of it being opened. In that yawning gap, the light of a torched flickered casting the distorted shadow of a hand on the wall. Oedipus thanked the gods. He had glory.


I have built a throne of shame, the foundation started in my childhood. A strong foundation at that. Many have tried to break the foundation, but it doesn’t show a single scratch. I sit on it the throne, and wear a thorny crown of self disgust and hatred. It hurts me, but I won’t let anyone else wear my crown. It’s my responsibility, my legacy. It was passed to me by my father. Its all I have of him. The thorns adorned to the crown dig into my temples. Blood drains from my head as I wear the thorny crown, covering my eyes in red. Its all I see anymore. Red is anger, it is hate, it is doubt. The blood is my own life force draining away from me to betray me by clouding my eyes from the reality that I can’t seem to view on a daily basis. It covers my eyes and enters my mouth leaving me unable to speak. I can’t ask for help because my own blood prevents me. My own blood covers my vocal chords. When I try to speak, it is garbled nonsense. I speak, but no one can make it out. No one can see that I am in danger by my own blood. My life force drains from me freely from the holes the thorns dig into. On the outside, the blood moves down my face, dripping onto my body. Eventually my shoulders are covered. The blood has been spreading for years. The viscosity of the blood is so thick, I am no longer able to move. The weight of the blood on my shoulders causes my slouch in my throne. Sitting there, blood draining to my chest and belly. My belly once full and gleeful is now becoming flat. Blood drains from my body, once full of life, swollen with pride, now withering and wrinkled like a raisin. At one point of time, I would have been happy to be that thin. Now, I just see it as sorrow. Once I enjoyed eating, but now iron is all I taste. Now it is without joy. My belly flattens as the joy leaves my life. My legs, once quick and light have become heavy with disgust. I drag red iron anvils with an unsteady gait, eventually too tired to move. Each step heavier than the last. My legs are so heavy now, that I am stuck in this throne. Stuck with this crown of regret and shame. I ask for help. Nothing comes out. I reach for help, my arms are too heavy to lift. I look for help, but all I see is red. I try to run, but I can’t move my legs. I am stuck here now. By the end, my body is without blood. Drained. I’m covered with the very thing that used to keep me alive. The very thing that killed me. Trapped on my throne, wearing my crown with pride, I die. Alone, Misunderstood, Rigid and Red.


Eeeeerk. I woke up groggily to the sound of my door opening. A familiar figure stood at the edge of my bed.  “Hello John.” my father’s trembling voice spoke softly.  Terrified, I hid my head under a pillow. I couldn’t look at him, I had hoped to never see him again. I hoped to graduate, change my name, and leave this town forever. \*\*\* I still vividly remember the day, 4 years ago, that the police showed up to search our house. I remember being locked in my room, peeking out the window to look at what I thought were soldiers, despite my mother telling me not to. I remember the barking of the dogs in the back yard, and my mother’s screams after they dug the first body out. Finally, I remember them taking my father away in a police car, the last glimpse of him I’ve had. You see, the police say my father killed 7 children, 7 that they found anyway.  I was twelve then. Ever since that day I have lived in what I can only describe as a dystopia. No one trusts me. I have no friends. You’d think I was wearing a costume the way the other students look at me. I feel completely isolated and alone. Who can blame everyone? When they see me, they are reminded of their friend, son, or cousin who they all believe were killed by my father. That kind of anguish and frustration is hard to express rationally. I would look funny at me, too. I live in a community in pain, and everyone relates me to the source.  My mother hasn’t been the same since, which isn’t really surprising. She spends most of her time drinking and watching reruns of old TV shows from her childhood. I think she wants to forget she grew up, forget she got married, and even forget me. I remember calling her two years ago on the phone.  “Hi mom, I forgot my lunch on the counter, do you think you can drop it off at school on your way to work?”  There was a long pause, but I could faintly hear her sniffling, as if she was crying over the phone.  “Mom, are you okay, it sounds like you are crying.”  “You sound like… You sound like your father.” She said, barely able to say the words as she cried, her anguish apparent in every syllable.  She never speaks to me anymore. It hurts her too much. I can’t imagine the pain in her eyes if I had told her father escaped, but she was already passed out drunk when the news broke. \*\*\* “Take the pillow off, John, I want to see my son” he trembled. I could tell he was crying.  I couldn’t even muster words to say to him, so I just shook my head. I could feel a force push into the pillow and rip it from my face. Immediately, my eyes met his. He looked so different than I remembered him, there was so much pain in his eyes. My heart immediately fell to my stomach; I felt broken looking at him. When I looked at my poor mother eyes, glossed over with a haze of booze, I can blame it on my father. The tearful eyes of my classmates, mourning the loss of those kids before every football game, I can blame on my father. But my father’s sad blue eyes were all my fault. I hadn’t felt that before. He knew I killed those kids.  “I sacrificed everything to save you, John.” He cried, pressing his tear-dampened lips to my forehead “but I love you.”  I struggled to get a word to come out, but I finally sobbed ‘It didn’t work.” \*\*\* They caught my father as he left my house, and he went back to jail. But now, every drink my mother downs, and every pregame prayer, I feel that same pain. If I was in a dystopia, I’m now in pure hell.


Date: y99, October 10th “Humanity has twenty-four left hours to leave planet Earth. If you are not within a fifty mile radius of one of the drop ships, our best suggestion is to take shelter in a bunker. We will have no more worldwide broadcasts after this message.” I knew you heard it; your parents heard it too. I shouldn’t have been so naïve to think you wouldn’t be gone. Regardless, I came looking for you anyways. You weren’t at your house. I drove there, kicked down the door since you always left it locked, and only found the remains of someone running away. Wait! There’s Chico! Your parents made you leave him? You loved your little Mexican Chihuahua! Also, I put any food you left into my car. I hope you didn’t mind. I checked my car clock. 12:00pm. Only twelve more hours were left. I have to drive quickly. 23:55. I sped toward the beach and jumped out of my car. I had Chico in my hands. I could see you in the boat, waiting for me. Your eyes were puffed up from crying so badly. I was too late. Your boat started moving. I don’t know if you could hear me scream how I loved you, but even I could feel the heat of the solar flares on my back. The sky was bright yellow behind me. However, the only reason I’m writing this, is because I got pushed under water. Date: y100, January 2nd My Love, it’s been three months, and I am alive, and not the only one. I don’t have much time to tell you anything. The rest of humanity survived, though. But I know y’all aren’t coming back. You’re out in space, and God knows where in space, but I’m sure it’s far far away from where I am. Regardless, I am coming for you, and when I find you, I’ll get down on one knee. I promise. When I was woken up, there were bodies all on the beach. They had been charcoaled by the flares. I don’t know what happened to me. The water must have boiled, but here I am. Your dog is okay too. I don’t know what happened. Maybe our guardian angel is watching over us. Haha, even when the world has ended I’m still cracking jokes. I’ll keep you updated. Date: y100, Nov 24th I don’t know how much longer, but I saw the ship in a telescope. Are you still orbiting? Maybe you can see me? No, I doubt it. I can’t help but hope you stopped the pilot from driving away. But, I also know those spaceships can only make it so far. Maybe to the next solar system, maybe one after that. But maybe you haven’t given up so soon. If so, then I won’t give up either. Date: y101, Jan 1st Happy new year, my angel. I made it to the rocket! I know you’re probably worried because I’ve been writing less and less, but don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about you. As I’ve been walking, I’ve noticed something strange. The solar flare burns don’t look like what I expected. They’re not as charred as, well, a five thousand degree star would scorch the earth. Maybe I’m crazy, but to only save 600,000 people? The sun wasn’t supposed to supernova for another eight million years. Why was it so sudden? Date: y101, May 13th As if fate was telling me it was meant to be, my twenty second birthday is tomorrow. Chico and I are ready to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t written more, but I hope you find this journal. I planned on building a rocket to escape this hell, but I have news. It wasn’t sun flares. I don’t know what the hell happened, but I’m at the NASA HQ. Baby, it’s like nothing ever happened. There’s green everywhere, and in some places, where there were bodies on the ground, they were moved. I’m beginning to suspect my theory was correct. Something is trying to control the population. But to 600,000? They want to control us, I can just feel it. I’m leaving Chico here on Earth. He’s locked up in a Kroger, with as much food that he could dream of. I also left his favorite toy with him too. I’ll miss him, but we can come back for him. I know you’ll be happy. Regardless, I’m marrying you once this rocket lifts off and I find your ship. I’m thankful I got my rocket engineering degree at such a young age, or else this trip would have been in vain. If this is the last entry you see…well, you know the rest. Just remember me, as I always remembered you.


Sir Johnathan rushed through his chambers door slamming it behind him. Blood rushing down his arm he slams a shelf down across the door. You can hear loud footsteps slamming on the ground, Johnathan continues to fortify the door with another shelf as the steps pass by the door. He throws his helmet to the ground and grabs a bandage from his medical cabinet. As he is treating his would he hears the voice of his wise adviser George "Johnathan what is going on? Is the castle under attack". Johnathan still in great pain from his wound replies "The beast has returned, I wasn't able to escape safely this time. It was too fast and viscous". "Perhaps we should wait, the guards should be here any second to banish the beast again" George says while Johnathan is sitting with his back against the shelves. Screams can be heard from inside the castle walls. The beast shakes the floor with every step it takes. Johnathan begins to stand up "I'm not sure how much time we can wait. The others are not safe right now and they are no match for the beast". A loud slam is heard followed by an ear piercing shriek. Johnathan puts his ear to the door but can only hear sobbing. Then he hears it again, the beast grunting as he walks down the hallway. The steps get louder as he approaches the door. Johnathan can hear the beasts deep breaths right outside his door. He backs up towards George and grabs his helmet once again. BOOM, the door shakes as the beast grunts louder. BOOM, books fly off of the shelf onto the floor. Johnathan knows this will not hold. He puts his helmet on and prepares his sword. BOOM one shelf falls smashing to the floor. Dust falls from the roof as the beast continues his assault. BOOM, you can hear the door cracking as the beast becomes more angry. A loud scream echoes within the castle, the beast jolts away from Johnathan's chambers down the hallway. Johnathan hugs George and thanks him for being the best adviser a knight could ask for. He pushes the shelves out of the way of the door. The broken door creaks open to a dark hallway. In the distance he can hear the beast roar as it continues its rampage. Johnathan makes his way down the hallway with his sword at the ready. The beast is getting louder and louder as he nears the castle staircase. A loud slam can be heard on the castles gate. The guards must have arrived. Johnathan rushes to the stairs trying to see his way through the dark castle. The walls are torn open, the doors to other chambers all shattered. As he nears the stairs he can see a path of blood down the stairs. As he descends the stairs it is pure silence. He reaches the bottom of the stairs to see the Queen sitting crying. He asks if the beast is gone. The queen wraps her arm around Johnathan and says " Don't worry Johnny he is gone". As Johnathan looks out the gate he can see flashing red and blue lights. The Queen wipes tears off of Johnathan's face and says "This time the he wont be coming back". Johnathan sits on the steps and he can see the beast. Sitting in the back of the guards wagon he finally feels the castle is safe again. The guards drive off and Alexandra says to Johnathan "Go grab a pillow and your bear we're going to be staying the night with my sister." The brave knight walks to his room to pack his bag. He picks up George and carries him down the stairs. As he walks through the rubble and broken house his mother grabs his hand and walks him to the door to freedom as the beast has finally been slayed inside his own castle.


Visiting my grandparents each summer was a tradition I hold dearly. I and my dad would go to a quiet town in the countryside. Surrounded by forest and mountain and with an abundance of wildlife. But this summer I had had college break in autumn and so I decided to visit my grandparent alone, thinking it would be a wonderful experience. For the most part, we would go in my father's vehicle but since I was distant from everyone else, I needed to take the transport. The transport drops me on the stop. It was 20 to 30-minute walk. Along the pathway the breeze was new, the side was loaded up with dead leaves. However, as I drew near to the town, the air got damper and an irregular smell began coming. I was certain that this was the smell of rotting flesh. I had experienced it before while on a hunting trip with my father. Then my eye caught something on the ground in front of me. Something surrounded by files and the cause of the smell or so I thought. Looking closely at it, I could make out the hide and the paw. It was a bear's hand. How could it get right here and what could have slashed a bear's hand off? It couldn't be a hunter or any animal. I turned to look were the paw came from. there was a blood trail going inside the wood. I snapped an image of the paw and pursue the trail. Hardly any means in and simply behind the tree when I face it. The decaying smell hit me hard in the face and the rest of the bear. The bear's body was mutilated to the point that at first look you couldn't perceive that it was a bear. Its body was gravely beaten, scratched and torn, with what appeared as exposed hands. I ran out of there as fast as I could because I was not going to wait and see what did that to a bear, but before leaving I took its picture for reference. Soon I reached the town and it was not how I remembered it. As if it was taken by the great depression. The streets were mostly deserted, just a few people going about. While heading towards my grandparent's house I passed the place most familiar to me. It was a playground, I had many good memories. My grandparents lived at a farm surrounded by forest. Gladly they were as I remembered. **..........................** After I got settled in, we had dinner. While eating, I asked my grandfather about the condition of the town. My grandfather told me that something showed up a few months back and that something has been killing wildlife, they even hired a hunter to kill it but... then they disappeared without a trace. I tried to keep my composure, forcing myself to keep quiet about the bear that I saw. At last, my grandfather told about the rotting smell coming from the mountain, which was close to our town. The night while laying on my bed, I contemplated this. What would be a good idea for me to do? I realized that it will be perilous to discover what killed that bear... yet, at the back of my head, I was going to explode with excitement. The curiosity took over my head and in the end, I deiced to have an adventure. **..........................** Tomorrow I waited until my grandparents went to work. Then I went to the garage for my bicycle. While heading out I caught my grandmother's eye, I told her that I was going for a ride around the town. It took me some time but I reached the forest path. As I came close to the foot of the mountain, the smell started to change. The similar rotting smell flooded in my nostrils. Riding around I spotted a cave. I parked my cycle at the end of the clime. I carefully made my way up the Stoney Hill. With each progression, the smell became more grounded and soon I achieved the mouth of the cave. What saw made my stomach turn. There was an enormous heap of the creature remains in the middle, flies swarming the heap. As I drew near, holding my nose. I investigated the heap and discovered human stays in the blended. That made me hop and I felled back on the ground. I endeavored to hold my self together. my eyes went around the room and saw a heap of arbitrary things dissipated toward the edge of the cave. There was a chasing rifle, blade, few bits of material and a pile of animals part. in the pile, an unusual pendant caught my eye. I grabbed the pendant. The pendant itself extremely old, I could tell that by its blurring shading. Suddenly the sound of a pair of clanking hoofs came, coming closer to the cave. I reacted quickly putting the pendant inside my pocket, grabbing one of the hunting refile and ran behind the rotting pile. Soon the thing making that sound entered the cave. I held my breath, trying my best not revel I was here. The thing ceased as though it detected my essence. It began sniffing, coming nearer to the heap. There was no chance it could tell I was a direct result of the decaying smell I pondered internally. it approached the heap in the corner. It came close to the pile in the corner. Throwing things aside, trying to find something. I tried sneaking way around the other side of the pile of rotting carcasses. Just as I reached the corner of the pile. the creature was busy looking for something. I took that chance and popped head from the edge of the pile, to take a look at the creature. but just then the worst possible thing happened... my phone ranged. Quickly grabbing the creature's attention. That is when I had a good look at the thing that killed that bear. I would describe the creature or the monster as a collage of animal parts, stitched on a human being and standing at what seemed close to 7 feet. it had horse's legs replacing its, elephant's skin on his back, his arms replaced by gorilla's arms with the addition of overgrown claws and head of a loin head stitched around his head. The body itself was early strong. The animal immediately pivoted and jumped towards me. I had some involvement with rifles, I indiscriminately went for it and pulled the trigger as my life relied upon it. The projectile arrived on its shoulder, making the animal miss. Just hitting my cap off. That thing thundered in torment. I didn't squander whenever I tossed the weapon on him and kept running as quick I could. Running down the slope, I rapidly jumped on my bike. Paddling as quick as feasible for me. I didn't have an inkling if the animal was running behind me, however, I didn't have room schedule-wise to think back and check whether it was returning or not. **..........................** I arrived at the farm, dropped my bicycle outside and ran in. I was breathing heavily and tried to claim myself. I went to my room and laid on my bed, trying to organize thoughts. what the fuck did I just saw? After a few minutes, I reached for the pendant in my pocket. I opened it up, it had an old picture of a family, so my assumption was correct it was really old. But the creature showed up a few months back, how can he have something that old. I took out my laptop from my back and did some search about this town. And it turns out that there was a serious issue with kidnapping in this town. Not the local citizen but any outsiders. They would disappear sometime after they have arrived. But all the records of missing families vanished and what was left was the last account of a missing family, known as Steffler family. Mr. John Steffler and his wife Mrs. Emmy Steffler and his young son Jason Steffler. All of them disappeared and their house was burned to ground by fire, cause unknown. While I was reading, suddenly the door opened, startling me. It was my grandfather. He was calling me earlier trying to invite me to breakfast. I told him that I was coming, I put away my laptop and went down stare. Both of my grandparents were at the table, my grandfather was reading the morning newspaper, while my grandmother was eating her toast and in front of me was the bowel of cereal. We were in the kitchen and room next to it was the living room. Living room's window was right ahead of the table. Why is this all important, because I... right then and there understood that my cap was absent. It was in that cave and if that thing was an animal-like, it could utilize my cap with my sweat on it, to follow me down. Possibly I was over reasoning it... in any case, simply at that point, the animal came smashing through the window. My grandparents jumped up, getting Shocked, horrified and confused. The creature ramped into the table, knocking it over my grandmother, while I tripped and fell down. The creature made his way towards me, ignoring my grandfather. I could still see the bullet wound I gave it. Out of the blue, my grandfather grabbed the wooden seat and pummeled it on the animals back. Just to irritated it considerably more. The animal swung its arm, tossing away the chair without any effort and slashing him across the face. Blood went over the divider and floor and he tumbled to the ground. As my grandmother was thumped out with a table on her and my grandfather's face was torn open, probably being dead, the sentiment of regret kicked in. Now the creature turned its intention towards me. As they say "curiosity killed the cat" and for me, I was going to be killed by this monster, when suddenly a loud, screeching noise came out of nowhere. I tried my hardest to block the sound with hand, but it did not help. I couldn't even think or see straight. The creature, on the other hand, ran out as fast as possible. The sound stopped, bringing me to the point of going unconscious. Then it stopped, I tried to hold my self together. Trying to get up, but just then a hand grabbed me and pulled me up. I turned around and saw a man in a white coat. He taller than me, suggesting he was in his thirty's. he had dull black hair, with white strokes and black glasses. He sat me down on the side. I asked him about who he was and why he was here. He explained himself. He was a local scientist, researching the field. During that, he found the creature and started observing it. Next thing he asked me for help to catch that thing. Another thing that suggested that I should accept his offer as I could not stay here anymore. If local authorities were to be called, what will I say to them? And without any other option, I took the helping hand. He called the police of an attack at the local farm. while I was heading out, I was leaving my grandparents on the floor knocked, regretting all that I have done in name of adventure. But now there was no turning back for me. **..........................** The men had a van parked outside. He asked me to take my bicycle with me as well. As we left the house behind, I saw a police car heading towards there. I rest easy knowing at least my grandmother might survive, maybe. He dropped me at the playground and gave a sound control module. The thing that has been making the god awful sound. A black box with a speaker on its back, in front it had a screen displaying multiple sounds that it can produce and a wheel to select the sound. He explained to me how to use it, at 53 KHz the creature would come towards the sound and at 36,000 kHz to would be painful for the creature and would run away and the last choice was 50,000 kHz at which the creature would become paralyzed because of too much pain. But as the frequency would higher I would be painful for me as well, so he also gave me special headphone which would be able to block the sound of higher than 20,000 KHz. Second, I was to bring the creature to the junction of the highway, close to which was his lab at. After I was set, I had to wait until the sundown. Until then I sat down on the swing and tried to think, so much as happened. My encounter with a real monster and now with this scientist. Something was not right, but I still decided to play along. Soon the sun it was time to act. At 53 KHz the creature would come toward me, the same frequency that would attract a dog... so it was an animal like. I attached the device at the bicycle phone holder and wore my headphone, and turned to the 53 KHz and got on my bicycle... there was complete silence When those initial couple of thumps of hoofs stepped on the strong ground hit my ears. I pummeled my foot at the paddle. It didn't take the animal much long to come behind. It's roar loudly. it was fast and I mean really fast. I knew that it won't be long until he catches me. But... this... was... fucking awesome, it felt like a part of a movie, the back of my head was going to explode with excitement. My legs, on the other hand, became lighter. fast, fast, fast, I need to go faster. and I did, I went quicker than the animal on the bike. before I came to a turn, yet I couldn't turn it as I was going excessively quick. I street over the grass and stone as an afterthought. I attempted my best to shield my self from falling over. The animal, then again, had no issue. I came at a straight street and a correct turn on the end. With that turn, I arrived at the intersection. I turned my bicycle and drifted across the junction. Coming to stop there and faced the creature who running at me. At the start of the highway, the headlights of the van switched on and the van came down at full speed. While I turned the wheel up to 50,000 KHz. The creature dropped on the spot, it screamed in pain. But just then something happens, in split second between the van hitting the creature. I heard, unmistakably "STOP" from the creature's mouth. It was hard to understand it, between all grunting. The van slammed into the creature knocking it out completely. I stopped the machine. He got out. I noticed that he was wearing earplugs, he took them out. And told me to help to put it in the back. We loaded the creature in the back and left my bicycle there. **..........................** It took a few minutes for us to arrive at his house, which was a mile away from the town and at a deserted place. He pulled down the screen shade, rivaling a red button. He pressed it and the front platform of the garage door lifted up by hydraulic arms. He drove the van inside. There was a straight hallway. In the end, was a wide room. He parked his van in the side of the room. We got off. In the middle was a double door. He went inside and brought out a stretcher. I helped him with putting the creature on the stretcher. He asks me to push it inside the room, while he opened it for me. The room was dark as the lights were off. I pushed the creature in the corner and he opened the light. As soon as he opened to light, all my assumption about him become correct. The room had many shelves containing large Jar of different animal parts, stored formalin. There was one more door on the side and a big table with computer and multiples file folders. It also had step up of an operating room, with its equipment in the center. At this point, the feeling of regret was not new for me. Then all of a sudden, I felt and sharped pain in my side. I quickly turned around, to see a wicked smile on his face. I stumble back on the ground. I pulled the scalpel, out of my back. Holding the pain in, I looked at him wanting an explanation. First, he congratulated me, for surviving against the "CHIMERA", which was the name he gave to the experiments that he created. Then he introduced himself, his name is Dr. Emmett Hyde. He was the one who released CHIMERA into the wild, for research purposes. Me encountering it was just a mere coincidence. He lifted his coat up, reviling a gun holster with a revolver. He pulled it out. At those final moments, I had the sound device in my back pocket pants. I turned the dial to 53 KHz and asked him about the Steffler family that disappeared many years back. That brought a smile to face. He told that this facility did not belong to him and when he came here, he had a need for test subjects. Using the town citizen was too problematic, so he went for the random tourist that came here and the Steffler family just happen to be one of them. the parents did not survive the mutation but their child was the lucky one. I smiled and said, "Well I knew that much". He asked what difference does that make. I reached for the pendant. I looked at him for last time and said: "not for me but for him". and the timing couldn't be more perfect. The Chimera eyes opened and he jumped out of the bed. The doctor turned his gun towards Jimmy. He looked at Dr. Emmett and roared, as he jumped on him. Dr. Emmett shot Jimmy in the chest. Before Jimmy bites his neck, he shot another shot in its chest. but in the end, Chimera tore his neck apart by using his mouth. After which he got up, just for him lean against the wall and slowly go down. It was over, I got up from there. Grabbed the gun from the body of the doctor. I walked over to Jimmy. He was still alive bearly. he looked at me with its messed up face, I quickly aimed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger. the back of his head exploded. I threw the pendant on him. I did felt sorry but he had to go. Then my eyes went over to the door on the side of the room. I went inside to find something interesting. There were six more Cylinders, with similar creatures. labeled by there respected numbers and a name that was on each of the Cylinders, "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**". At the side of each tube were two buttons, red and green. The green was labeled "REALIZES" and red was labeled "DISINTEGRATE". I knew what I had to do it. After taking some pictures of the whole scenario, I pressed the red button on each Cylinders containing those Chimeras. A brown liquid shot out which quickly decomposed the creatures into a black mess. Next, I booted up the computer. There wasn't anything important to be noted, as there were only data logs and research data. One particular file, named "**ABYSS FOUNDATION: CHIMERA PROJECT**" piqued my interest. The file explained that Dr. Emmett Hyde was hired by "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**" for mutation and development of human subjects. He was supposed to find a way to make mutants, for reasons only known to "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**". And What was the "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**", they were the real brains controlling everything from the shadows. That would also explain the records of missing families disappearing. I download the file on my phone. But then it hit me, I couldn't let the hard drive survive. I ripped out the hard drive for the computer. Before leaving I threw the hard disk in the van and shot the fuel tank, causing it to explode. After barely surviving the fire and making out safely, with burns. I left the house burning, then I walked all way back to my bicycle and rode back into the town. As I reached the playground, I felled from the bicycle on the ground. I was too tired to move any more, I just lied there until the sleep came. **..........................** When I woke up, I was in a hospital room, my back was wrapped in bandages. My phone was on the side table. I opened it and found that it still had the picture and files. soon the doctor came and He told about my grandparents, that my grandfather died and my grandmother had a serious concussion. I acted as I did know about it. They asked what happened. I said that I didn't remember, as I was knocked out and when I woke up I was in the hospital. This soon blew off, as my dad came and took care of things, after which we were there for a few days. On the last day before we were to leave, I went into the forest looking for the creature's cave. I did, but it was completely cleaned out, not a single trace of flash or blood. Next, I went to look for the house of Dr. Emmett, at the edge of the town. It wasn't there either, just flat ground. It seemed that Someone, maybe the "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**" covered up everything up, similar to missing family reports. But I still had those photos about these creatures and lab, and also the file. **..........................** Few days after I arrived home, I received a latter. It was from "**ABYSS FOUNDATION**" and the letter was blank but had my name on it, **Axel Adverd**... I knew exactly what it meant. They know everything. They know what I did, they know where I am, they know who I am and they are always watching me. **...THE END...


"Here it comes," Virgil whispered under his breath, turning away from the approaching policeman. Joanie shoved hands in pockets and replied, also in a whisper, "Be cool." Then, to the Nora, "Keep digging." "Hello," the policeman said, talking loud as he was still twenty yards away, moving with purposeful strides across the green grass of Tranquility Park. "I'll have to ask you to stop that digging." Virgil, in a navy blue suit, took a breath and squared his shoulders towards the Policeman. He attempted a smile and stuck out his hand. "Hello officer. What seems to be the problem?" Behind him Joanie and Nora, both wearing work clothes - jeans, boots, reflective safety vests over cotton and hard hats - paused to watch. They were standing around a plaque set into the ground that read: "*City of Houston Time Capsule. Buried September 2nd, 1960. Not to be opened until September 2nd, 2015.*" "Can I see your work permit?" the cop asked, ignoring Virgil's hand. Virgil looked around, confused and stammered, "...permit...? Why... what...?" "Yeah, yeah," Joanie said. "I got it over here." She retrieved a metal clipboard, opened it, and flipped through a stack of paper. "I can call the Mayor's office?" Virgil offered. "No, no," Joanie replied. "I'm sure I have a copy." "So do I dig or what?" Nora said. "No," the cop said. "Yes," Joanie said at the same time. Nora speared the blade of the shovel in the ground and leaned on the handle. A big girl, crowding six feet tall and past the two century mark, her top-weight pushed it down a good six inches. She winked at the cop. "I'm listening to the man with the gun." For all her heft, Nora had a very pretty face. Long, wavy curls of hair escaped from her hardhat and she made a show of tucking them back in. "Hell, even if he didn't have the gun," she continued, "he's too cute to argue with." The cop - a youthful black who enjoyed visiting the gym, radiated confidence, and kept his appearance sharp and professional - did a double take. When she caught his eye, Nora winked again and there it was - that moment a man, confronted with such an unlikely specimen, thought, *what if...?* "Here," Joanie snapped up a piece of paper. "Found it." She handed it to Virgil who passed it to the cop. The cop looked at its face. It appeared official enough, with stamps and signatures, but he didn't know enough about it to say one way or the other. "I'll have to call this in," he decided. "For Christsake," Joanie bitched. "Hey now," Nora beamed. "Overtime!" "Look," Virgil said, "Just call the Mayor's office. You know Jack Vance, right? Ask for him." "All I know is this thing isn't supposed to be dug up until tomorrow," the cop said. "There's supposed to be press; even a van. Buses of kids and all that. You guys are making a mistake." Virgil nodded his head and chuckled, "Yes, you're right, officer....?" "Martin." "Officer Martin. See, the thing is, well.... Did you hear what happened when they opened the League City time capsule two years ago? No? It was somewhat of a disaster. Fifty years ago they didn't appreciate what the groundwater around here could do to even the sturdiest box made during that time. Anyway it was a stinking mess. The only things that survived were bits and pieces of old junk that couldn't be corroded. They pulled something out that looked - I swear to God - just like a wooden dildo. Might have been part of something else when it had been buried, but when they slapped it in the Mayor's hand.... Well, most people snickered, but quite a few were very offended. All those kids asking '*what's that, mommy?*'. "Oh! And there was the frog, too. Well, the frog skeleton, dressed in an adorable tuxedo - complete with a top-hat and cane, hermetically sealed in a bag with the sheet music to *Ragtime Gal*\-" "-Can we get on with this?" Joanie interrupted. "No way this project is authorized for golden time." Virgil touched Officer Martin's arm, gently turning him away. "Our Mayor does not want that happening here. So this is somewhat of a preemptive strike. If we find everything in order, the capsule goes back and we cover it up just like it was. Bada bing. If, however, it's a big smelly puddle of slop? Well, I've got some clean old junk in my car. You understand how this works? Have to make hizhonor look good for the cameras." Officer Martin's eyes went from the unctuous Virgil, to the exasperated Joanie, landing on the bemused Nora. "Okay," he said. "Carry on." "Thank you Officer," Virgil said, once again attempting to smile. "Hey Officer Martin," Nora called out. "You want to help dig? I'll bet those big arms of yours could make short work of this hole." Officer Martin fought back a grin. "Tell you what, lady. I'll swing by here after I get off work and see if still need help with your hole." Nora barked out a laugh loud enough to be heard in Sugar Land. "When's your shift end?" "Eight o'clock." "Me and my hole will be waiting." Officer Martin strutted away using everything his momma gave him. When the policeman was out of earshot, Joanie cut her eyes from Virgil to Nora and back again. "Jesus, you two...." \*\*\* "I have bad news," Richard Hautala told Joanie. As if to emphasize the words, he dragged a straight razor across his hairy and bespotted forearm. A thin line of blood welled up from the cut. "Um," Joanie said. "Oh, this?" Hautala held up the razor. "This is just for effect." He turned it around and showed Joanie the other side where a tube containing red-dyed Vaseline lay across the blade. "It ain't real. It's about as sharp as an asshole. You squeeze this here for the blood." He demonstrated, dragging it across his wrist this time - same result: a thin line of red. "Okay." "But why, you're wondering?" "Hey, Mr. Hautala, really-" "-Surely you noticed my new look?" Old Man Hautala smiled - dentures gleaming - and twisted his head to let Joanie take it all in. An octogenarian, Mr. Hautala was bald and shriveled with the body shape - and skin texture - of an avocado. But since Joanie had last seen him, he'd added eyebrow studs, ear stretchings, and facial tattoos - tears at the corner of his eyes. He had a stud on one nostril and a loop through his lower lip. He winked and lifted his polo shirt. Both sagging, leathery nipples had been pierced; connected by a silver chain. "What do you think?" he asked. "That's.... Something," Joanie rubbed the back of her neck. "You said bad news?" "Kids today," Mr. Hautala explained, tucking his shirt back in, "do this shit now. If I want their business, I have to show them I relate." He gingerly brought a finger up to touch one of the ear stretchers. Joanie flinched when the whole ear fell off, hitting the ground with a clang. "Oops," Mr. Hautala reached to pick it up. Like the razor, it was a fake. His real ear was still where it belonged, on the side of his head. It had liver spots and tufts of hair, but no holes. "I don't mind telling you," he said, fitting the prosthetic and screwing it in place, "it's all fake. Even the tattoos. Why take a needle when Sharpies cost, like, a dollar?" Joanie shrugged. "Right?" "You said bad news?" Joanie prodded. "These couple of kids come in looking to trade on old tech. On chips? Yeah, right, I tell them I'll do what I can, but don't go buying that house in the subs just yet. Anyway, these kids look like... like... the colour out of space, you know? Barely human. The dude had horns. No shit, implanted little nubs on his forehead, supposed to be horns. Huh. The girl's pants were so tight, you could tell what she drank for.... Nevermind. Anyway, when they come back and I tell them the deal, she starts slicing up her arm. I'm hip. Bad news hurts. Give me a whetstone, a Gillette, a squirting flower and five minutes and we'll commiserate together, darlin'. So here I am. What do you think?" "Desperate times," Joanie stated. "Too right!" Mr. Hautala exclaimed. "The bad news?" Joanie tried again. "Yeah. Turns out the buyer is in a sanitarium so.... No money." Joanie rubbed a hand over her face. "Okay, so this is not to say there will never be money, but just now...? She's kind of tied up." \*\*\* *Houston, September 2nd, 1960.* *Ten year old Marion Bradley stood in wide-eyed wonder as the celebrity worked his way through the crowd. He tossed his head back and showed teeth when he laughed and, when he shook hands with the city's politicians, his head tilted slightly and his eyebrows raised inquisitively at their names. Houston doesn't have a fall season, so it was hot, but even still the celebrity wore a tapered jacket with a fleece collar. His waist was encircled by a gun-belt; the holster of which bore the image of a chess piece. He said "Thank you," with a peculiar clip to the words.* *His name was Richard Boone and he was there on a publicity junket and to watch the time-capsule buried.* *To young Marion, however, his name was Paladin and he was just about the closest thing to a living god she'd ever seen. Once a week she saw him on the television being as brave and intractable, wise and lusty as the entire pantheon of Greek deities; so how could he be here, now, walking around with them just as if he were a real person?* *She was positively transfixed.* *As he moved among the people, his eyes fell on her and he smiled. "Ho ho!" he said, scooping her off her feet. "What do we have here?"* *Under his hands, Marion's flower dress became wings and she flew in the sky. If he let go, she'd fall into the sun. He didn't let go, however, just spun her around in a circle then set her back down. "You are just about the cutest thing I have ever seen. I believe I'm going to ask your father if you can join me for dinner tonight at the Carlton Hotel?"* *Standing next to them, beaming like a child himself, her dad said, "Maybe when she's older."* *"It's a date," Paladin said, slipping her a card with a wink. He gave one to her father, too. In fact, he handed them out freely to all around.* *As they were closing the lid on the time capsule, he used two fingers to expertly flick one of those cards into the box. People cheered as it spun through the narrow opening at just the last moment possible.* *The cards all bore the image of that same chess piece from the holster. They read "Have Gun, Will Travel".* *Marion Bradley held the card in both hands like an icon. She knew it was a treasure she would never lose.* *\*\*\** "Of course she lost it - or threw it away." Mr. Hautala had bagged up the card they'd retrieved from the time capsule. He slid it across the table to Joanie. "This was supposed to be the replacement. Shame. She was going to pay over a two hundred grand for it too." Joanie, hands folded on her lap, looked at the card. It was remarkably well preserved. "What's it worth, really?" she asked. "Less than nothing," he replied. "Well, check that. Because of the press you're getting, I could maybe get a couple thou. Maybe. It isn't every day you can snag grip from a stolen time capsule. The weirdness factor alone might go five grand." Mr. Hautala shrugged. "Well, the buyer still wants it, though, right?" "Sure. But, like I said, they locked her up." "When's she getting out?" "Eh, this could be one of those *if* she's getting out situations." Mr. Hautala rubbed his thumb against two fingers, making the international gesture of money. "She's very wealthy and her family is worried about their inheritance." "Doesn't seem like a reason to lock her up." Joanie crossed her arms. "Isn't she fighting it?" "Absolutely. She's a big shot lawyer, you know. It's just that, well, she has gone a little crazy." He tapped the card. "Two hundred grand plus for this? Do you know how many of these cards are out there? Even supposedly authentic ones - printed by the studio in the 50s and 60s - can be had for around fifty bucks. Hell, you can get one signed by Richard Boone himself for a thou or less. Nope. She has to have this one; no matter what the cost." Mr. Hautala whistled low and circled a finger around his ear. "She's a collector," Joanie said, sounding indignant. "Lots of people pay lots more for stupider stuff." "Sure," Mr. Hautala agreed. "But Marion Bradley isn't a collector. She is trying to recreate her life to be exactly like it was when she was a girl back in the '60s. Bought her parents' old house; got a refurbished Chevy Covair; snatched up every toy from that era. Changed her wardrobe. She's been sinking millions of dollars into this obsession. The doctors call it *crippling nostalgia."* "They just made that up." "She showed up in court wearing pedal pushers and a denim blouse knotted under her breasts. Her hair in ponytails, sucking a lollipop. She weighs close to two hundred pounds." Mr. Hautala lifted the duffel-bag containing the rest of the stuff Joanie and her crew stole from the time capsule and handed it over. "Me? I don't get it," he said. "I never did look forward to looking back. Of course, that's probably because things were so terrible when I was a kid. Wars with a capital W. Diseases and no medicine. Hunger. And the constant fear of death from above 'cause all those damned pterodactyls." "Is anything in here worth... anything?" Joanie said, lifting the bag. Mr. Hautala made a face. "I took pictures and notes. Like I said, I'll shop it around. Y'all got a trending news story with that time capsule burglary, so there may be some interest there. But beyond nostalgia or weirdness?" He shook his head. Dejected, Joanie stood to leave. "Hey kid," Mr. Hautala stopped her at the door. "Just in case you're interested - the sanitarium where they're keeping Marion Bradley is located over on the Southwest side. In Missouri City. A place called Sendak's. Not like she's locked up in Supermax or anything." Joanie paused with her hand on the doorknob. She blinked twice. "She'd be grateful, I'm sure," Mr. Hautala continued, "for a visit." Joanie nodded slowly. "Hey, check this out!" Mr. Hautala raised the fake razor to his mouth. "You think this'll freak those kids next time I see them?" He opened his mouth wide, eyes popping, and dragged the dull blade all over his tongue. He also squirted some of the fake blood. "Pah!" he winced, spitting. "Yuk!" Joanie left him, closing the door on a sputtering of "Puh!"'s \*\*\* "Oh shit," Virgil said, his eyes growing wide. "Ohshitohshitohshit," They were sitting in the booth of a Mexican restaurant close to the airport with the time capsule items spread out over the table, taking inventory. Virgil's outburst had been caused by the door opening. Joanie looked over her shoulder to see Detective Donald Sobol walking in. "Be cool," she grabbed Virgil's wrist just as he was about to start scooping all the stolen items into the bag. "Be cool." She let go the wrist. Virgil folded his hands. Momentarily, Detective Sobol stood at the edge of their table. "Well hello, Ms. Muncie," he said. "Fancy meeting you here." "Detective," Joanie muttered by way of greeting. Detective Sobol set his hands on the table and hunched over the various maps, papers, trinkets, toys and doo-dads. He smiled. His aquamarine eyes sparkled. He laughed, showing them the two rows of coffee and cigarette stained teeth. "You've got to be kidding me." "What?" Joanie said. "Oh, nothing." He stood up. Then pushed his hands on his lower back and stretched. "Hey, maybe you can help me out with something. There was this unusual robbery yesterday, maybe you heard? A crew of slick operators stole a time capsule just before it was supposed to be dug up. Really embarrassed the Mayor in front of all those news cameras; standing over an empty hole with a bunch of nothing. But you wouldn't know anything about that?" "What's a time capsule?" Joanie asked. "Right." The detective said. "Y'all ought to be more careful. Food here's good, but they don't really clean the tables very well. Might get all this stuff sticky." "Oh, right!" Virgil exclaimed. He started shoveling the stolen goods away immediately. "Thanks for the advice." Detective Sobol watched Virgil, shaking his head sadly. Then he turned his attention to Joanie. "When are you going to stop this?" he asked. Joanie cocked her head and just looked at him with a dull, blank expression. "Can't you see it's over?" the Detective continued. "The time for this type of nonsense has come and gone. There's no more room for the common crook in today's society. You either have to be a brutal, remorseless killer or a highly sophisticated criminal to get noticed. These little grifts of yours? I hate to tell you this, but they're passé." Virgil used both hands to cram the items in the bag. He struggled with the zipper, catching it on the edge of an old map. When he forced it, the paper ripped. "Shit," he said, holding up a ruined piece of history. Detective Sobol motioned towards Virgil with an open hand. "See? This is who you're working with now? What ever happened to Leonard? Stark and Westlake?" "Hey, those two...." Joanie sat forward, getting upset. "Yeah, I know," Sobol interrupted. "But then there's Connell and Matheson, too. Hell, even Bradbury left you." Joanie brought a fist down. Her mouth became a tense, white line and her eyes narrowed. Sobol recognized he'd gone too far. His voice softened. "I'm just saying. You're time has passed." A waiter came with a basket of chips and two bowls of salsa. Detective Sobol took advantage of the interruption. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your meal." He set twenty dollars on their table. "On me." "Whoa, hey," Virgil pushed the money away like it was on fire. His distrust for police ran deep. "No need for that." Detective Sobol put a hand on Virgil's shoulder and squeezed. He used the other hand to tuck the money into the breast pocket of Virgil's shirt. "I insist," he said. "I voted for Chris Bell.


The anger, the immense and pulsating feeling that comes with being angry. I don’t know if it’s because of my nature or simply because I exude a presence of being angry but here it is, in the most elegant of colors, prancing around as if it has no cares in the world, the wind from its dance whip stones and gravel in every direction with a ferocity so careless and calm. Yes, anger is alive, and it has no care in the world. You misconstrue yourself to think that anger in its essence is angry all the time, for it cannot be what it already is, water cannot be wet for it is the essence of wetness, therefore anger cannot be angry for it is the essence of anger. In my heart of hearts I knew this to be true but I couldn’t bring myself to understand why in the seven hells such a magnificent creature would be created for such a thing, and then I see myself in a glass reflection of thought coming to the understanding that we are all of something else, we all have a hidden being beneath our cages of bone and skin. I watched as anger continued to dance around the way, seemingly completely engulfed in the trance of the world itself, the dance was futile and carefree, whimsical, and unordinary. Anyone who didn’t have a shred of sense left would know what this was, but most still held onto their sanity for various reasons; be they in hopes to find true love, wealth, prestige, whatever the case the mass of individuals clutch tightly to their sanity, I am different. We are from a place far below, under everything you know to be true, under the world, under your feet, under it all. There is no way better to explain it but to say that I was not of this world and now I am, solemnly watching as anger stirs. You ask of my purpose, of my reasoning for being and I will tell you that it has no relevance to you or yourself, it is only I that needs to know what purpose I serve. Yet, if these are to be the days I live out in this realm of rock and wind then sharing my intentions may prove beneficial to my future endeavors. Where I am from they describe me as obtuse, the failure of an intellectual mind, the break in existence on the coldest of nights, and the deterioration of consciousness on the warmest of days. I am the eerie confusion that wrestles with men and women alike in an effort to subdue the mind and cause mass delusions, I am madness. And I am here to assist anger in bringing the world to its knees. We will mold ourselves together in the dance of our kind and become one to bring about a wealth of boundless destruction in our wake, and only our lack of imagination can be our downfall. Our first order of business is to expose this generation and future generations to the truth of what this world truly is, starting with a girl and an apple.