I am writing this in a state of fear, the kind that comes with the express knowledge that something is coming for you, and the only thing standing between you and the end was your own obsessive curiosity. My phone was lost in the abyss of unknown horrors that could've been avoided had I just shown up during office hours. Professor Liam Lasky was an English Professor at Dunsmuir University. He was perfect. I know that this will initially come off as a school girl with a crush, and maybe there is some truth to that, but my mind races with what I know which stands directly against what I knew, and my head is having trouble coming to an appropriate conclusion. Professor Lasky was handsome, middle aged, confident, smart, oozing with charisma, appreciative of those who participated, and constantly pushed all of his students to be better versions of themselves, whether English was at the forefront of conversation of lecture or not. He made me feel like the best version of myself. I never fashioned myself one of those clichés where the school girl would lean forward on her desk and become captivated and inebriated on every word that would escape a professor's lips. However, my mind would run, and I would imagine going into his office at night, and having a thorough conversation about the degeneration of the modern English language, and maybe I would feel my cheeks flush more intensely than they do at the the mere idea of that concept. One night, tonight, on November 2 nd of two thousand and twenty three, I decided to act on that concept, make it a reality. I came to his office after hours, like some kind of lustful harlot wanting to seduce the professor in a scenario that the boys playing college football masturbate to every night before bed. Yes, I dolled myself up, and made myself presentable, straightening out my black hair, blushing up my cheeks, wearing a skirt, and a simple but ample top. In my self reasoning it was not to come off as some creature of the night coming to frighten Professor Lasky. I came to his door and knocked, I could see through the obscured glass window there was a lamp on inside. After no answer, I proceeded to let myself in, continuing the aforementioned football player analogy. And just like that scenario I called out, “Professor Lasky, are you here?” as if I would see him behind his desk, touching himself to some lewd video playing from the University's computer. Instead I saw the cold blue glow from the computer monitor, and one lone lamp on. I walked around to see if there were any clues as to his whereabouts, for all I knew at the time he could have just gone to the bathroom. My own inquisitive nature got the best of me, and I saw that the computer did have a document open. I looked around and sat in the chair, the same chair I am sitting in now, furiously typing away in an empty document. Before me was a Student roster that had links to previous assignments and comments for each student. Of course I looked for my own, and even now I find myself pulling up that tab reassuring myself that this is some kind of ill-conceived nightmare, but the sound of sludge dilutes my mind. I fear what I saw makes my mind grow and stew in it's own paranoia. Looking at my dear Professor's notes on me hardly seemed to make any reasonable sense, the letters blend and blur into nothing. However at the time, the comments sent my heart a flutter. “Top Student” and “Need to keep my eye on her to cultivate and help her advancement.” Those words alone were an aphrodisiac to all of my senses. My hands ached and traced his desk in excitement, and my fingers grazed by a button that seemed so easy to push into place. It was loose, begging to be touched, and so I put more pressure onto it, and I felt a slight wind behind me, as a stone wall opened inward. My excitement could not have been more palpable. It felt like an invitation, something for his top student to find, like he set this whole thing up. I immediately sprang to my feet, and pulled my cell phone out, using it's built in flash light to shoo away the darkness. I looked for a light switch only to find nothing but cold stone. Thinking perhaps I was to surprise him in return, I just lead myself by the light of modern society. Every step down, the echo of my shoe clicked louder and louder. I tried to slow my descent, but my excitement kept pulling me forward. The same elation made me ignore the sharp clenching of my gut, telling me the logical truth which was “something is wrong.” I finally came to the bottom, and still, there were no lights. I found that odd as I was sure Professor Lasky had to be down here. My phone's torch glided a blue glow across the stonework. University of Dunsmuir already had an old Victorian architecture to it, but down here the architecture became more Gothic as before me lay a ribbed vault. To the left was a short hallway that ended in a simple door. Clearly that must lead to a simple maintenance shed that would be as inconsequential as the ribbed vault before me. I walked forward, taking only a few momentary steps before I heard something drop and clamber throughout the hall. It sounded like a metal utensil bouncing across a stone ground. Finally I felt I had some confirmation that Professor Lasky was down here. I pushed my legs forward to match the fervor in my mind. I got to the wood door that was laden with iron bands, and without thinking I pushed it open. Stupid, dumb, Olivia. I heard gnashing in the dark room, and the sound of sludge. Instantly I felt my breath become lighter on my own volition, and cold by whatever was in this room. I instantly thought Mold, so I turned my lantern around the room to see evidence of the fungal growth, but the divination of my light showed me something I am afraid I can never forget. There was the jolt of electricity up my spine, that reverberated through my body and it made it hard to move any appendage or even have the mental fortitude to command my body to do anything other than stare in fear. My phone dropped onto the ground, the light shining upwards and giving a general illumination to a creature I wish I did not see. It slowly grubbed across the ground with a massive slimy mound not propelled by legs, its body arching up with harsh ridges where one would reason ribs and a spine. Hanging low beneath shoulder blades was an enlarged head with black, sunken eyes, a withered mouth, and long greasy white hair. It's head turned to me, revealing no eyes, just the sunken abysses, and no nose but slits that were large with hairy filaments coming from within. The creature lifted it's head with great weight above it's shoulders to sniff the air, and coo out what sounded like a bird call mixed with the purring of a cat. Two completely innocent noises that combined into a horrific etching into my mind. I could smell rotted meat mixed with a pungent damp odor coming from the creature's mouth, as it's head dipped closer to the light I could see large pieces of flesh in it's teeth, rotting away inside. I backed away, horrified, and with every step, the creature slugged forward, using its long skeletal arms to help propel it forward, it's nose constantly sniffing to keep a bead on me. It dropped a human arm that had long been stripped of any decent flesh next to my phone. I let out an audible yelp which I thought for sure would doom me. “Olivia?” I heard from my right, as a light came through another doorway I previously did not see. Professor Lasky came out of the darkness with an actual lantern. Electric or gas I can't recall for the ghastly image slowly positioning itself in front of me was all my mind and eyes could focus on after a quick glance to see the man I so admired and respected coming to my rescue. “Help. Me.” I tried to quietly, and confidently assert. “How did you get down here? Why are you here?” “I just wanted to talk about my advancement.” I gave a half truth. Maybe if I had given him and myself the full truth the situation would have played out differently. Professor Lasky stepped towards me, concern covering his every feature. His head tilted as he looked off to the side, and then his eyes traced up towards the creature. “Just my luck.” he said, as hope rose in my chest. “I couldn't find anything to feed you, but seems like it just wandered in, blessing us.” Just as quickly as my hope rose, my heart sank deep into my chest. “Feast.” Professor Lasky uttered under his breath. Without hesitation I heard the creaking of bones as the creature, who was poised to strike, leapt towards me, wailing an inhuman scream that was meant to paralyze me with fear. It reverberated through the room and the very core of my bones with a deep baseline, with what sounded like a high pitched wail being inhaled. 	Thankfully instinct was on my side as I ducked off to the side, slamming into Professor Lasky. He fell with me, his lantern bouncing and breaking on the ground. With only my phone's light laid bare on the ground to guide me, I used Professor Lasky's body to launch myself to my feet and charge for the door. I immediately got out and pulled the door shut, falling onto my rear as the door shuddered under the massive weight of the creature in the room. For a moment, I prayed it would eat Professor Lasky instead. Not wanting to waste any more time, I leapt to my feet and ran through the Ribbed Vault, turning right into the simple door that I had previously seen and left unexplored. I wish I had left it that way, as I opened the door to more horrors. Bodies were stacked upon bodies, flesh stripped from the face and limbs, the torsos of people torn completely open and surgically sucked of their insides. I screamed, and when I did I heard that inhuman wail again. Returning to the intersection I saw the creature had burst through the doors. It's eyeless form searched the vault. Overwhelmed by the horrific sights of the room behind me, the terror of the creature that did this, and nauseated by the creature that I once knew that stood behind the creeping terror, I screamed. It's head swung like a mighty pendulum towards my direction, as it's skeletal arms began hoisting it's arthropod-like body forward. All my mind could process was the sludge like noise scraping across the ground. Thankfully, in the last few moments I was able to compose myself and run towards the steep staircase that lead back to the University. My feet pounded up every step, the darkness shrouding my vision, and the sludge assailing my auditory senses. I eventually saw the warm blue glow of the computer monitor. I leapt forward, and reached under the desk, slamming the button, the mysterious stone door sliding shut. For a few moments I sat, crying, waiting to hear the creature slam itself into the wall to remind me of it's very real presence. Eventually I forced myself up, and sat in the chair, opened a blank document, and began writing my experience. Why didn't I, or haven't I left? Because part of me feels like going back down to find Professor Lasky. There is now a pounding at the door. I can feel the tears pouring from my face as I try to type out my final words, fear guiding every key stroke. The sludge hasn't left my mind. It pounds again. Perhaps Professor Lasky is under this creature's control. The wail! That horrible, gut wrenching wail! Any person with logic would've left, but my mind is weighed by guilt that if I don't muster up the courage, then Professor Lasky will be lost! I can still hear the loud sludge scraping against ground. Maybe I can save him. Grammar is a bit frazzled, and odd details were added that took away from the whole experience. Interesting blurb about your attraction to me.


The 3,000 ton ship slowly inched its way to an impossibly small dock.

Chloe’s face was pressed so hard against the tiny round window that her cheekbone was aching. She had slept the entire second leg of the journey and missed the change in waterscape.

Down below, she could see chunks of ice floating in the blue water. She had never seen water this shade of blue before.

She leapt out of her twin bed, her blanket cascading to the floor. Dashing around the tiny cabin, Chloe dressed in her thermal gear as quickly as possible. She pulled on her thick wool socks, laced up her boots, and did a quick look in the mirror to adjust her hair under the knit hat. Finally, she pinned her ID badge to the front of her parka identifying her as Chloe Davis, research assistant - intern . It was time to get to work. As she stepped out onto the main deck, the moment was overwhelming. The air immediately bit her face. She stood for a moment taking everything in, trying not to forget a detail.

The sky seemed lower, the air seemed thinner, and every sound seemed to be more significant than any sound she had heard before. Cracking ice, water sloshing, people laughing, shouting, talking. For a moment, she almost thought there was something wrong with her vision. If not for the colors in the flag flying down by the dock, she would have thought she had gone colorblind. Everything was a shade of gray. A quick glance down at the colors in her mitten reassured her. At the bottom of the exit ramp she paused. Looking down at her boots, she took a deep breath.

“This is it, Chloe. This is what you’ve worked so hard for.”

Slowly, she stepped onto the dock, took a few steps along the wet surface, and then sank her foot down into the arctic land.

She smiled. She pulled her hat further down her ears and started towards the trailhead.

* “MOMMAAA,” the tiny girl called, tears in her voice.

Chloe glanced over from the stove where she was stirring that night's macaroni and cheese. Her daughter had been more sensitive lately, and tonight was no exception. The girl reached for Chloe so she bent down and brought her into her arms.

“Momma, when will you leave?” This was the question that had been on repeat ever since she had told her daughter where she was going.

The answers were well rehearsed by now.

“I’m going to the North Pole, my sweet girl!” “Why?” “Well, to walk in the snow, and take pictures of polar bears!” “How come?” “To help the earth.” “What’s wrong with it? How come you have to go? Will Santa be there?” She had wondered the same thing for months now. Wondered about each choice she had made since deciding to study biology, to leave school, to go back to school, to apply for the internship, to move across the country, to uproot her family…to leave her family.

But she had to do this. This is what she was meant to do. Being a mother is what you’re meant to do. She pushed the painful thoughts aside.

It was only 3 months. She had to do this.

She had to go. As they sat at the table eating dinner, Chloe tried to remember every single detail about the evening. How her daughter's hair lay across her face. How her teeth looked as she chewed her food. The size of her hand, how it held her fork, the way she kicked her feet as she ate.

Next to her, her partner sat watching Chloe closely. They chatted about the days’ events, the plans they had while Chloe was gone. They chatted about what the weather would be like when she returned. Chloe continued to field questions from her daughter, hoping that when she returned home, she would have something to show her daughter that would make her proud.

Gratitude swelled in her chest. In the morning, everything would look different.

Everything would be different.

* After weeks of returning to her cabin feeling defeated, cold and exhausted, Chloe’s guilt began to rise. What was she doing here? They were getting nowhere. How much more could she take? Her data was underwhelming and the landscape was harsher than the guides had predicted. There was hardly a bird in the sky, let alone bears.

Chloe thought about the idea of returning home to her family having accomplished nothing. How could she face them? Later, as Chloe sat crouched in the snow with a lens pointing right at the bear, it all made sense. Right before her eyes. It was all happening. It suddenly occurred to her. She had done nothing to earn the right to be here , and yet there she was. Others' choices would bring them sorrow and despair; dead ends and regret. Not this.

How did she end up here? In this moment, watching the rarest of moments with people she hardly knew.

In an instant, Chloe understood.

She frantically snapped photo after photo; one tiny bear emerged, then its sibling, then another, and then…a fourth. This was unprecedented.

Beside her she could hear her colleagues shallow breathing as they took in the moment as well. The mother emerged behind her fourth cub and they all made their descent to the bottom of the mountain. After what felt like a lifetime, the cubs and their mother were out of sight. Chloe still couldn’t believe what she had witnessed. Four cubs? This was positive. This was a win for the earth. A win for her. She gathered up her equipment and began the return hike to base.

Back at basecamp, she checked on her water samples and was relieved to finally see some progress in her data. Instant relief swept through her.

That night in her cabin, she opened her journal to document the day. As she sat down she caught a glimpse through the window. She saw some of her colleagues down at camp gathered around a small fire pit. One of the older crew members was dressed as Santa Claus.

Chloe couldn’t wait to tell her daughter.


She woke up like every other day. Opened her eyes exactly at 6.15, got up and felt that raw taste in her mouth. Blood. Again. She sighed. Every time the same. She spat into a glass placed next to the bed for this purpose, then grabbed her phone, which was loading on the desk, spat again and fell asleep. 7.05. She woke up the second time and rose from the bed in slow motion as if by mechanical movements. Then picked up her clothes, counting: 1, 2, 3. 4, 5. Underwear, bra, socks. Stand up. Pants, shirt. She went to the bath, looked at her toothbrush, hair combs, customized hairpin, brushed her teeth, and washed down all of the blood-stained toothpaste. Back to the room. Powder, concealer, mascara, lipstick. And perfume. Lots of perfume to overshadow her own smell. She just hated her smell. It was strange. Just going through the day she would forget, but when she would return home and enter the room a big air gush smelling like rotten synthetics would hit her. 7.25. Just in time. She slides into the kitchen. One sandwich and half a cup of tea. Neither more nor less. Overeating - nausea. Not eating at all, no matter how y much she would want it - belching and then a bunch of questions following it. 7.30. Just like every morning, she walked out the door. 7.32. Like every morning she was seen by a neighbour walking a dog, and later the driver of the bus, that arrives at 7.36, saw her sitting in it. Someone else saw her get off. And next ... Next, we have nothing. She won't be at her college auditorium that morning. A couple of classmates will still scoff at the fact that she is probably late but will drop the question by the middle of the lecture, deciding that she is most likely to be ill. She won't be at lunch in the cafeteria, nor will she be on the bus heading home. She won't lie in her bed that night. Instead, her uncomfortably twisted body will lie on the cold ground in the dark. On the other hand, if I were to tell the story from my side... I saw you for the first time in the most bizarre circumstances you might imagine. Fully drunk, you were lying on a lawn next to our house. Your brown hair was tangled, eyes closed, and the head leaning sideways enough to understand that you are asleep. Dressed in a white shirt and high-heels, tie around your neck, all clothes and the major of your mouth covered in blood. Not waiting for any explanation I pulled you in and sat down on the couch. You looked like a full-fledged angel and somewhat jerked through dreams. In the light of the lamp, your eyelashes threw a long shadow on your red cheeks, and your breath was uneven. I cleaned up the blood as much as I could, somewhat trying to hold in nausea. I was so worried about this stranger. A stranger who probably made some very bad choices, who I may have made a mistake letting in. And still, I couldn't convince my mind to go to sleep. Nevertheless, I left you alone, just overlaid with the first blanket that I could found. In the morning you were no longer there where I left you. No "thank you" or "goodbye". Just a couch that still smelled like you. That smell lasted as long as my hopes to see you again. Oh, I was in pain for all these months. How I longed to see your checks blush again, how I couldn't bear to not know you. The Gods much have listened. Just when your traits in my memory were starting to disappear, I saw you again. In the cafe just outside the corner, my safe place, my dark, secret corner. And when you stepped in, my safe place shattered into thousands of pieces. You ran in as if shooting everyone with happiness from the guns in your eyes. I could swear that your smile expanded a little more when you saw me, so I had to let my eyes down. Smiling like an idiot was not on my to-do list today. I couldn't figure out in that twisted brain of mine, if or how you recognized me since you didn't see me that night. Or maybe ... I was never letting go of the idea that that night you woke up and went for a walk around my house. That you were in my room and you saw me sleeping, peacefully dreaming. My doubts were brushed away the very last second before you left the coffee shop; you saw me sleeping. Right before closing the door after you, you shimmered with your hair and winked at me. I thought that my heart will come out of the chest. I swore to myself, that I will get to know you. That evening I talked to Mr Bennet next door, who knew Miss Loveline across the street, who was a cousin of Dr Judy Bass who lived just above Miss Dacota Ling, who moved in house 11 a few months ago, right before me. Dacota. What a lovely name for a girl with such a flirtatious smile. How fitting for sure and how shocking that you lived right under my nose this whole time. I started showing my affection. Left flowers and notes by your mailbox. All titled “The neighbour”. I never thought I was being creepy, I never overstepped the line or anything. I was just trying to make friends, to become known to each other. Well, she must have talked to her neighbours as well since she started leaving gifts for me too. Strange ones, people might say. Over the span of a month, I’ve received exactly three blood-filled jars, a strand of hair smelling awfully like silicone laced with strong perfume and tones of decorations. Cute little figures and candle holders, the same perfume bottles, rugs and pictures. And then one night she moved away. Loudly, in a car with lights on the roof at three in the morning. I saw it through my window upstairs. How they put a bucket next to her, how she filled almost half of it in one bending, how the doctors quietly shook their heads as they drove off. Just as quickly as it appeared, my mystery was gone.


I was 10 years old when I killed my first butterfly. I’d been out on the balcony, my mother standing overhead wrestling with the hair clippers, when it perched itself on the railing beside me. My mother was occupied, her back turned. So I watched it. It’s beauty was distracting. Wings of black and blue. So calm and trusting. Perfect. The patchiness of my hair felt, suddenly, unimportant. For a moment. Black and blue. It was beautiful for that moment. So beautiful, I didn’t want to say goodbye. I reached for the jar on the table. The peanuts inside spilled out of it without a second thought. I flicked back the lid, and held it close, awkwardly. It accepted my invitation and I closed it in. It was beautiful, and it was mine. My mother finished shaving my hair, and smiled at me. She told me I looked beautiful, which was kind. My scalp felt cold in the crisp night air, so I took my jar with me and rushed upstairs. I wanted it to sleep next to me tonight - and it did. * When I was 11, I killed my second butterfly. Black and yellow. A hot day. A tired day. I was playing with the hose on the grass. My parents brought out a plastic chair for me, to help with the tired. I’d like to wave the hose back and forth towards the sky, playing with the patterns and the rainbows caused by the mist and water droplets. Like a lasso. As though it was some kind of trick. As though I might join the circus one day. But then I’d feel tired again. And I remembered I couldn’t join the circus. But I could capture a friend. Black and yellow. He fluttered his wings, and I held him close. His glass prison sparkled in the sunlight. Beautiful. I kept him beside me through dinner and while I watched TV. He fluttered patiently up until bedtime when we went to bed. The next morning he didn’t wake up either. I started to believe that beauty and I weren’t meant to be friends. * On my 12th birthday, my parents bought me a puppy. You don’t have to worry. The puppy’s fine. I wasn’t though. Not when I woke up, nor when I came downstairs. But when I saw her, I felt something. I don’t know what. But then she licked my face and I knew I still wasn’t fine, not really. My mother suggested we go for a walk, and I hadn’t been sick yet that day. I was worried. It was only the morning. But maybe, I thought.

Then they went without me. * That evening, I named her Snowflake. Mother said I shouldn’t. That her name didn’t match. She wasn’t white, she’d say.

“You can’t name a black dog Snowflake.”

I could though. Because she was one. Unique. Beautiful. Not what she seemed. Probably. I don’t think anybody is, but not her and definitely not me.

I wasn’t sure if she liked it, but I like to think she did. She licked my face again, and I felt something. * When I was 13 years and 6 months old, I killed my second butterfly. Snowflake was there, but she didn’t say anything. She was good like that. It happened on my run. I liked to go on out in the early mornings. The doctors said I could now, so long as I double knotted my laces. So that’s what I did. My hair, finally long enough to secure, sat just below my shoulders. I tied it back. Snowflake wore her best harness. She smiled at me, though I’m not sure why. I loved her for it though. When Snowflake and I went running, I liked to play a game.

It was innocent enough. Where there was a leaf, preferably a dry crunchy-looking one, I’d step on it. So simple. That crunch. That feeling. Snowflake loved the leaves too. Her face, already smiling, would light up in the autumn. She’d dive for the nearest pile if I let her. And so I did. It definitely made me feel something. Something good. We’d go by the creek by my house. My favourite place. We ran, and we walked, and we ran, and leaves crunched beneath my feet and her paws. I was flying, as though I were an athlete. For a little while. I saw a leaf. Yellow and brown. It was perfect and dry. Folded partially in a particularly crunchy-looking way. A prime target. But when I stepped on it there was no crunch. And when I cried, Snowflake said nothing. She didn’t need to. She was there though. She didn’t care that I’d killed another butterfly. When I got home, my father told me that it was common for insects to land on the ground before they died. It meant that it was it’s time. It was okay. I felt a bit better. But then when I Googled it, the internet didn’t seem to know anything on the subject. Odd. It said other things though. Like butterflies sometimes like to land near puddles to take in salt and minerals from the soil. IT also said that male butterflies would use these minerals to create healthy sperm. I stopped reading there. Mostly because of the sperm thing. I know my father was probably right, because his explanation made sense. We never think about where the dead butterflies go. We never see them, do we? Well, most of us don’t. I’ve seen a couple. I hoped it was true. Because the important thing was: I wasn’t that girl anymore. I would never kill a butterfly. * When I was 15 years old and 9 months, my mother came to visit me in hospital. Don’t worry, I’m fine. There were no dogs allowed in the hospital, but she brought Snowflake anyway. I don’t know how she got away with it. Who she sweet talked or bribed for me. But I didn’t ask. My mother plopped Snowflake on the bed. She was so small, and excited to see me. I didn’t even mind the jumping, or the licking, or the gentle nibbling at my fingers. I chuckled a bit. I was happy, somehow. It was a nice feeling. Snowflake rolled on her back. A sign it was time for her hourly belly rub. I admired her. So joyful. So loving. So trusting. So perfect. My mother ran her fingers through my hair. It was thin now. Uneven. And I minded that, but it was okay. So we sat in the stillness… the clock ignoring us. Deciding, I suppose, that we were not worth the hassle. And in spite of everything… in spite of the pain and the guilt, my winglessness and all of the leaves that were in a place that wasn’t there, I was okay. And I felt that thing again, and for sure this time. Beautiful. Strong. Loved.


I had never known him. But there was something in those knowing eyes of his which drew me to him. It was an evening like any other. My remedial classes for Algebra had just ended, and I was waiting at the gate of the school campus for my mum to pick me up. I was making undecipherable designs with my shoe in the little amount of sand lining the park outside the gate when my phone rang. "Andrew dear," my mum spoke. "Can you come home by bus for today? I might be a little late today, and will have to take a different route from my office to reach home." "That's all right, mum," I responded reassuringly. Noticing the tense silence she maintained over the phone, I added, "I won't let myself be kidnapped by some random person. I'm fifteen." "All right, dear," she said, still not reassured and disconnected the call. I trudged by the road, mindful of the vehicles whizzing past me. It was a beautiful evening, and the warm glow it cast over the small city filled my heart with pleasure. I took my sweet time, knowing that the next bus didn't come for a long time. When I finally reached the place, my heart swelled with even more joy. The place was entirely empty. I had it all to myself. I strode over quickly, keen to claim the temporary ownership and plopped down on the best seat available. I soaked in around thirteen minutes of hearty ecstasy until that old man hobbled along and settled comfortably beside me. I twitched unpleasantly; I wanted him gone. However, he simply smiled at me and stared into my eyes. I returned his gaze with a mad scowl. Looking back, I feel like an idiot. I wasn't able to help it, though. I was fully aware that the bus stop belonged to the general public and I had no right to be a scarecrow for other humans. So I sat there silently, wishing harder than ever for the bus to arrive. "Remedial classes, eh?" I jerked from my thoughts. The old man had spoken to me. "H-How did you know?" I stammered, unnerved. He chuckled. "I can see the paper in your hands, boy." And to my great embarrassment, I realized I had been clutching the permission slip for my remedial classes in my hands like a idiot. I could have easily stowed it in my bag before leaving school. A dull red colour flushed my cheeks. "There's no need to be ashamed of it, young man," he beamed. "I have had plenty of them too." He continued smiling at me as if I was a highly interesting display at a history museum. It irritated me to no end. "What's your name?" he asked me. I remembered mum's words. "I'm not supposed to tell," I said boldly. He chuckled. "Good, good... I see you listen to your mother." I shifted uneasily. How was he able to know everything about me without me telling him anything? "What's yours?" I blurted out without thinking. He peered at me curiously. "Isn't that an odd question?" "I suppose," I murmured, clearly wishing I could kick myself at that moment. He stared into the open area in front of us. "You look stressed, son. Are you having problems at school?" "Yeah." "Well, then," he said. "Looking at you, it doesn't seem to be bullying. You are tough enough to withstand peer pressure. You seem bright, so it cannot be exams either." My eyes widened. Had this man popped out of one of those mystery novels which were too good to be true? "It's... it's the teachers. I am one of the top rankers in my class, so they have high expectations from me. I'm afraid I will let them down at any point of time," I answered hesitantly. He looked good enough to confide in. "I see," he sighed. "School tends to be tiring, I agree." And that was that. He said no more. There was no advice, no excess words of comfort, no consolation, not even a scolding - nothing. But he being a random stranger had listened to my problems, and it left a warm glow in me just like the beautiful weather that day. The bus soon arrived, and I stood up. "Do you think I can meet you again?" I asked without thinking again. Something inside me had urged me to say that, because it told me that it would probably be the last time I would be speaking to him. He flashed me one of those adorable smiles old people usually give. "If fate wills us to," he replied, and I got in, satisfied. As the bus pulled away from that place, I glimpsed him getting up and walking away. That was strange. Why had he come there then? I hunted around for a seat, and found one near a cop who was returning home. I struggled a bit, but managed to sit beside him. It was a bit inconvenient, but I had to reach home somehow. The first thing I did was call my mum. "I'm in the bus mum," I spoke, and I heard a huge sigh of relief from the other end. "Good boy," she responded, her tone suggesting that she was beaming from wherever she was. I wished her goodbye and put down the phone. I observed my surroundings and my eyes landed on the cop beside me. He was bent over a file and his brow was furrowed in concentration. I dared to peek in. "May I see them?" I asked. He grunted and looked at me. "Well..." he said, considering. He ruffled through the file and brought out a photo. "If you see this person anywhere, let us know. He is a serial killer." I gasped. It was the photograph of the nice old man I had met earlier. I nodded and turned my face away quickly. Our short conversation at the bus stop played over in my mind. Was he really a bad man? What had his intention been, talking to me? Worse still... had there been a kind heart beneath the serial killer's mask? I never disclosed his whereabouts to anybody after that day. I let the war my mind had begun with itself rage on with full force.


THEY WERE TWO The two stood in the darkness. The two were as such; if you saw one without the other you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference for they had the same face. They were twins. As the life of twins would have it, the two agreed upon almost everything. Except that, that ‘everything’ of which they agreed, the world, at most, would not agree. For certain they even disagreed to the very law of human birth; that one should be born alone. They were two. Today though, the twins disagreed greatly. And the solution to that thing on which they disagreed was that they should spend a night in St. Nicholas graveyard and to sleep in the open air until the morning of the Saturday of the 31 st of October. It was hallows eve (obviously). What was the disagreement you ask? Well, let’s just say, the first of the twins whose name we shall call Ian (and the younger we shall name Ryan), was adamant that Ghosts and such other things of horror, did in fact exist. “ In fact , you say?” said Ryan, “But yet a fact you have not, let alone two of any kind. Show me that thing of a fact and I will believe you. Show me that thing that is undeniable brother and I shall from this night wear my shame everywhere I go, and give up that pride that I call science!” “Tonight you shall see it,” replied Ian, “I warn you brother, I WARN YOU!”

Ian dramatically pocked at his brothers chest, “What you are to see today, brother, will be the utmost ghastly thing you will ever see.” THICK DARKNESS They set camp. As night approached it’s mid, the darkness begun to thicken. It was for every second that past towards Halloween, the darkness just knew to make it even darker and darker. It was so dark that you would wade into it, in fact if you forgot your weight, the darkness was thick enough to make you float. The wind too begun to be more stubborn and made settling in for the brothers a tough thing. In that wind, was carried some familiar sounds as that of an owl hooting, as that of wolves howling. But one sound was not so familiar, that is only because it was far into the night to have a man whistling. But it was not a whistle as one would often do; after some common jingle, nay it was a whistle long and spiked and so tense that it raised the ends of the brother’s hairs. Ian turned on his flash light having come out of his tent. He went to his brother’s tent who evidently took pleasure in that implicit fear that drew on Ian’s face. That whistle that sounded as if to call a dog, seemed in fact to call a dog. For out of the wind, all the sounds silenced except begun a bark so loud and low that it made the very earth tremble. This tremble had a thing about it that was magical. It made it difficult for the dead to sleep. The dead begun to rise. Ian had never been scared in his life, “Th...This… can’t be happening!” Seemed to enjoy this so much that among all this he found the indecency to laugh even as to roll on his belly like a child. THE RISING The dead where 20. Maybe 200. Maybe 2000. It was impossible to tell as it was too dark and that they began to move. Not towards the entrance, where the brothers had camped but rather towards the center where, if it wasn’t so darn dark, you would see a perfectly centered area that had a sort of alter. Because it was almost impossible to see, the two brothers did not realize that a man as large as two men and certainly as large as one small house was standing behind them. That large man, if one could even call him a man, say that giant, took the two at their feet and hauled them in a sack. The two screamed like little babes and even more Ian was screaming like a little girl. “Let us down, I demand it” said Ian, “Do you know who I am, and do you know my father?” Ryan seemed to run out of words, he was tucked in his belly and mumbling something under his breath. “Though …valley…..death….fear no…..” that was all that could be heard of his mumbles. “This is not a matter of prayer.” Argued his brother. “Only God can save us now” cried Ryan and continued in his prayers as tears begun to drop from his eyes. Ian himself was so filled with fear that his voice quivered and his eyes begun to form. Suddenly the two were dropped without etiquette, shaking them out of the bag as one would shake out fleas. They landed straight on that alter and then came a light. Another light. And another. 20 or hundreds more lights were lit- cascading. The view was that of those dead men, women and children watching blankly at the brothers with their hallow eyes and some still rotting and others only bone. A small handsome man came from behind the crowds and to him all of them bowed. The Giant pushed the brothers to do the same. They did. “Are you Ian and Ryan?” asked the man. There was no answer for the brothers were traumatized. “Rise and answer lower life forms!” cried the man and upon that he struck his stuff (yes he had a stuff) on the ground and that seemed connected to the dead for they growled and so did that dog whose position was unknown. At this the brothers both rose from their bow and nodded frantically. “You!” said the man pointing at Ryan. “Are you Ryan Benjamin son of the great Lord Thomas Benjamin?” “Ye…Yes.” Whimpered Ryan. “And you!” he pushed his stuff into Ian’s chest. “Yes.” There was a pretentious confidence in Ian’s voice but in his pants was sure to be found a little pee. “Bind them!” ordered the handsome man. “We shall sacrifice to the gods’ one of them and the other shall be our ruler. One for the living and one for the dead.” The dead groaned and growled and unseen wolves howled. The huge man bound the twins and made them to kneel. The handsome man drew to them and raised his stuff. “Choose your sacrifice!” he shouted looking into the empty sky. And he dropped the stuff to the ground. It rolled and stopped, pointing toward Ian. “Today you die, Ian son of Benjamin.” The huge not-man man took Ian and shoved him on the alter. “No!” cried the twins in unison. Tears were running down their faces. There was a shiver in their bodies and each begun to run through their memories. Not once have they ever been separate. Now one was to live without the other. The crowd of the dead chanted, “One for the living and one for the dead!” “One for the living and one for the dead!” I BELIEVE Laying on that alter, Ian begun to pray for the first time in his life. He recited psalms 23 like he was always a Christian. Only God could save him now. The handsome man drew out his stuff a long sword and raised it aimed at Ian’s neck. When Ian was done reciting the psalm of David, he turned sideways and stared into his brothers eyes. “Brother,” he said with tears in his eyes but calmness in his soul. He was ready to die. “I believe.” The sword begun to drop. At this the clock stroke 12 and went a Shouting among the dead. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” There were not dead. Stage lights drew out of nowhere and too balloons and ribbons were floated. Huge Fireworks lit the night. Ryan was on is belly laughing. Nothing was real. Not even the sword.


The Snort               After attending churches, synagogues, temples, prayer meetings, healing sessions, and gala gatherings at stadiums and in megachurches, Charlotte called it quits. What she meant by “it” was the search for God/gods/higher power/supreme being/true god from true god/the Trinity/Allah and so many other names she lost her common sense when she tried to remember them all. Quits had the same meaning for Charlotte as The End. She’d completed her search, there was nothing left to search for - End/curtainsclosed/donedeal/nomore/fini/over/collapsed/finished/kaput.               Her epiphany occurred one Good Friday at 3 p.m. in an Episcopal church/aka Anglican church, in the South End of Boston. It was raining. The Cardinal had come, given the sign of the cross to the damp people gathered in pews as rain thump, thumped on the roof and trickled like a tear down a wall behind a twelve-foot-high crucifix.               Women in plastic kerchiefs wept into Kleenex and paper towels. Men snuffed and wiped their noses with their fists. No children were present. They were in schools where they should have been. The place smelled like wet wool. Rather it smelled of wet wool, because everyone was wearing something woolen. Late March in Boston was full of puddles which ricocheted their contents onto unsuspecting winter jackets, scarfs and caps.               The protocol was to not say a word, phrase, sentence, to not mutter and try not to cough or sneeze or clear your throat. It was three, as silent as possible, hours, in which to ponder on the crucifixion of a man named Jesus who lived 2000 (or so) years ago.               The ah ha moment for Charlotte came at exactly 2:30 when, at first, she thought she could no longer stay stuck to the now sweating wood beneath her bottom, and then she involuntarily snorted like a hippopotamus emerging from a clear pond from which it had quenched its thirst and was having a moment of sheer relief.               The woman in the plastic thing around her head in front of Charlotte turned, frowned and put an index finger to her lips. Charlotte nodded that she understood. She shrugged as if she wanted the woman to understand she had no idea where the snort came from, that it was completely beyond her control but that she thought it an innocent snort and should not be construed as being rude.               Charlotte was wearing a cloche kind of a hat, white. She pulled at it because it had begun to itch her head. Whether it was that small gesture combined with the snort and the woman in plastic, she didn’t know. What she did know is that all the searching came tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty, but instead of falling, she felt she was uplifted in a spiritual kind of way. The searching hadn’t been in vain, but now it was done. She felt  decades of guilt fall from her shoulders and the back of her neck.               She pictured herself sliding down a waterfall, encompassed by water that rocked her and caressed her. It was the best, this waterfall, even if was only in her brain that was clearing itself of superstition, nonsense and belief in baloney.               To further confirm her unbelief burden, she tiptoed from the church to see a slice of sun trying to make its way from the back of a coal-colored cloud. She stood on the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue while schoolchildren hopped and skipped around her. Gentrification was happening all around. Old, battered walk-ups were turning into trendy condos and apartments. The gutters no longer contained nip bottles and candy wrappers and beer cans. A florist on the corner displayed bunches of daffodils and tulips in green cellophane. No one sat on curbs with signs written on cardboard that said they were hungry and had lost their jobs and their children.               Then church bells rang, slow and sad, then louder and gleeful. She knew this meant Jesus had completed his agony, had died and that he would be resurrected somehow and go up there somewhere and sit at the right hand of The Father. She wondered how she thought, when she was 21, that this made any sense at all.               At 22, she’d moved on to Judaism which believed none of this but did think there was a Messiah but that it hadn’t come yet but would. By 23, she’d come to believe this wasn’t going to happen. Jewish people, she’d thought and still thought, could use a Messiah after all their ancestors had endured.               She’d dabbled with Islam and read about Hinduism. More mystical stuff. Yet millions of souls on this earth believed what was taught by the men, and it seemed they were all men, of these two religions. Hadn’t they dabbled like she had? Why hadn’t they asked questions when some of the beliefs were contrary to reason? Maybe, they had, and they’d chosen belief over reason.               Charlotte was glad for caffeine in the morning and wine in the evening. She was thankful to herself when she’d abandoned confessions and prayers to something unknown. She didn’t feel ashamed at lust and, on special occasions, gluttony. She didn’t covet anyone’s husband, nor did she steal or (knowingly) get led into temptation to do stupid things like skydiving, not at her age of 60. Recently she’d almost been led into the temptation of riding on the back of a motorcycle across the Zachem Bridge on a Sunday afternoon, the cyclist being a man who was not good for her mental health.               Now she was glad to have worn boots even though this morning’s report hadn’t mentioned rain. But she never did trust those Doppler graphs. She bought a bouquet of daffodils for herself, ambled along to her office building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor where her cubicle was.               “Were you into Good Friday,” Meredith in the next cubicle asked? I should have, but this report can’t wait. I’ll make up for it tomorrow somehow.               Charlotte shook her hat, took off her coat and said she’d done Good Friday.


That's the thing about this city. Knowing that I would be only a walking distance away from the nine-metre tall Nelson Mandela statue should have persuaded me to come here but it never even once crossed my mind. As I walked along the city streets for the first time I could feel my heartbeat changing. It was as if there was music playing but only my heart could hear it and I was expected to just dance along. I guess that's the reason I chose to come here after all...the uncertainty. I knew of day and night as two different entities that influenced each other in no way but my truth was far from this place's reality.

A day before I came here I received a rejection letter from one of the two Colleges I had applied to. The other had me on its waitlist. That coupled with a larger than life desire to do something with my life pushed me to make a decision most thought I was insane for making. At ten am that same day I called my grandmother into my room and broke the rejection news to her. She already knew that I was waitlisted at the other college so I guess me dropping the "I was rejected" bomb on her must have felt like it was the end of the world. surprisingly, I wasn't heartbroken, relief is what I felt.

I called her into my room so that my great grandmother would not hear the news and my decision. Don't look at me like that...I had my reasons. My great grandmother whom I refer to as GOGRI, had and has always been an integral part of my life. Her wish was to see me go to school because to her, that was the only way I was going to succeed. Now you see why I couldn't exactly say "hey Gogri 'bout that school thing I'm no longer going". As my grandmother was still recovering from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki situation I dropped yet another bomb. "Grandma I've decided to head to the country's capital tomorrow ". "To do what?" She asked. "I don't know yet. All i know is that all will be clear once I'm there" I confidently replied. "Who do you know there?" She enquired. "No one but I never walk alone" I answered. That instantly put a smile on her face and she immediately gave me her blessings. My family's very religious so the "I never walk alone" statement always does the trick.

The next morning I with only around $70 in my pocket, headed out into the great unknown. I had all my belongings on me. Of course chances were I was going to get robbed upon arrival but my mind was occupied with the best case scenario. I got off the truck I had hitchhiked and started walking like I knew the place and where I was going. "The fearful are those who let fear seep into their heads. If you believe that all's gon go well then all's gon go well." My grandmother's last words to me. I immediately felt like I was home. Funny because I had never been in a large city on my own before. As I was walking like one with the land I found myself in, I fell into the hands of a man who after hearing my story gave me a full scholarship at his performance art academy and arranged for me to stay with one of his students. But I had to pay $150 in registration fees in order to secure my scholarship. I could only afford to pay $30 and luckily, he was understanding. Now that I was a school kid again...in no man's land, the exploring began. The first two days my roommate tried showing me how to get to and from school. I however, don't remember us using the same route to and from school. It was always two completely different routes but somehow he expected me to learn the "route". What a bad teacher. While he was teaching me the "route" I was focused on another subject, the lifestyle. People here don't sleep. They walk with purpose and they live their lives as such. I'd look outside at eleven in the evening and people would still be going about their lives. If people had flavors this is where I found all of them. Just as not all flavors are good flavors, so are the people here. In other parts of town it's not rare to see someone being robbed in broad daylight while other people just pass by with no care whatsoever. That didn't sit right with me so I enquired. I learned that the muggings would often be staged to lure heroes into the trap of being mugged themself. Once the hero tried to help the "victim ", he'd instantly be surrounded by the group and within seconds his belongings would be gone. They'd often go as far as leaving the hero with nothing but his underwear. That lead me to the first rule of the streets: YOU HELP NO ONE BUT YOURSELF. Cruel but rather effective. But of course if everyone applied that rule I wouldn't be here now would I? I feel like the rule was made by selfish individuals who used it to justify their selfishness. Most people choose to help others...but carefully. The secret is not to let the city consume you as that would result in you being an ass. Most people know and put the secret to use daily. This helps in unleashing different personalities and thus exposing me and the occupants of the city to an abundance of greatness all round.

I have been here for two weeks now. I've met thousands of people whom others would consider as potential partners but none of them gave me the urge to pursue them. Well that was until earlier today. As I was walking from school with my roommate and two of his lady friends, I found myself looking the other way but walking in another direction. I don't believe in love at first sight but something happened as soon as I laid my eyes on her. I knew I had to go talk to her but she was with her grandmother. I watched them as they disappeared into the distance but carefully observed their route. I quickly went home to drop my bag and change my sneakers for slides.

By the time I got out to follow them they were in no sight. I just walked and judging from what the grandmother was wearing decided to get into a Market which my grandmother and I often went into when I was still at home. There she was. Light skinned, short and caring. Just the right ingredients for me to whip up my favorite poison. Now I had to figure out a way to talk to her without stepping over any lines with her grandma. Futile exercise. It's like wanting to take an egg from an Ostrich without upsetting it. Soon as I figured that out I went in for the kill. She was walking slowly behind her grandma so I poked her. She looked back and there I was with my phone, ready to take down her number. She immediately looked to the front again and started walking faster towards her grandmother.

I had no money on me but decided to grab a basket and fill it up with fruits so it wouldn't be obvious to the grandma that I was following them around the store. Shortest thirty minutes of my life. I made eye contact with her(the girl) a few times so I assume she was aware of my presence and maybe even thought I was creepy. They paid for their groceries and went out. I obviously followed but empty handed. The following around continued till I at some point passed them. Not moving far away from them though. The aim was to see where they lived so I could wait for her outside in the morning. Hearing myself say it out loud makes me realize that I really am a creep. EEW!. Needless to say I now know where she stays and intend to pursue her till she says "I do". That's the thing about this city. It gives you the energy to do things beyond yourself and sets your soul on fire. Now I know why when I could have chosen Africa's richest city as my new home I didn't but went with this one. My soul was after a rainbow of experiences and my subconscious knew that this was the place to find that rainbow.


You don't choose a cat. A cat chooses you, according to my grandpa.

A persistent cat from the neighborhood decided to adopt me. On a hot summer evening, two huge longing eyes appeared at the kitchen door, accompanied by serenading meows. He did not flinch when I approached him. I started speaking baby talk. I don't know why, but there seems to be a neurological explanation for that. The cat, which I would later call simply Cat, seemed pleased. I gently stroked behind his grey ears. He lay on his back and let me feel the softness of his white furry belly, and he purred loudly with gratitude. In appreciation of the fact that my affections had been reciprocated, I opened a can of tuna. Cat scoffed at it and left. (So much for reciprocal gratitude) I thought nothing more about it. Cat was back a few days later, and we both acted like long-lost friends. There was petting and cuddling. I gave him some food, and this time he ate loudly. Then he went again. These meetings soon became a daily routine and something I looked forward to. Cat was used to coming into the house and, taking a nap on the couch. When I went to sleep I put him outside again. Cat did not seem to mind. My evenings were fun. The stress of the day dissolved, as Cat and I watched television curled up together in the evening. It didn't occur to me then that Cat could probably be living with someone. After a few months I bought a pet bed for Cat so he could relax, and special bowls for his food and drink. I went to work with cat hair on my clothes, and I smiled in anticipation of getting together in the evening. Everyone kept asking me how "my" cat was doing, and I replied as if the cat was mine, and showed pictures of Cat on my Instapage. I did my very best to ignore my new status: catnapper. Oh well, cats are persevering and live on their own terms I consoled my bad conscience. Animals are better than people, my grandfather always said. Animals don't lie and they don't kill for fun. They cannot harm you with the pain people inflict on each other and their environment. Innocence belongs to animals and not to humans. Cat liked the steam in the shower, so he followed me into the bathroom, sat on the sink, waiting for the hot water to rise. When I took off my clothes I always got the feeling that he was staring at me in a "biblical" way. He looked me up and down, made eye contact without flinching, and for a fleeting moment it left me feeling scandalized. But Cat was a gentleman. He was a bit plump, and his round belly made it sometimes difficult for him to reach the places where he had to groom himself. Cat was brave too. He once competed against a dog that was many times bigger than him. It was a beautiful and intelligent dog, and his owner assured me that he liked cats. But Cat was skeptical. He continued to treat the dog with suspicion. As soon as his gaze caught the dog, he began to huff and puff, arch his back, making him look twice his size, and began repeatedly slapping the dog's nose with his claws. He hissed and jeered until the dog

stood perplexed and startled or ran off with his tail between his legs.

He was also a watchdog (cat). He often sat by the window, and when he started meowing (his tell-tale distress call) that let me know that rioters were hanging around our yard. Mostly kids with their trendy and brightly colored nerf guns and boom blasters. Fortunately, he always chased them away: they never came in... And then my affair came to a sudden end: Cat disappeared. I waited days and nights, calling Cat into the sad abyss of my garden. I felt robbed and abandoned. I started imagining all sorts of scenarios of what could have happened to Cat: I was worried that he might have been run over and was lying in a ditch somewhere. I sat for hours looking at the empty cat bed and the untouched food bowls. The cat hairs on my clothes became scarce... One fine autumn day, my beloved cat went missing, I wrote in my diary. The thought that I had lost him forever loomed before me like the gates of Hades. Did I lose Cat in an accident in the street? The inattention of a car driver in a speeding car, or was it a petty thief preying on charismatic pets? I mused how Cat's friendly demeanor could play to his advantage as well as against him, depending on the people he would encounter. I continued my search and hurried to an alley where the city sometimes put rat poison. I searched for him in nooks and ledges. In neighbors’ yards and called Cat until my voice went hoarse. I tried to push the thoughts of doom out of my head. I had to find him: I searched everywhere and approached passers-by (sometimes the same people, more than once). I journaled every day about how much I missed him and what I did to find him. After a few weeks, my journalling took a different turn. I began to fantasize that Cat was sitting in the doorway in the kitchen again, telling me a story: a story about humanity, who, despite their shortcomings, had kept their innocence intact, for someone somewhere had received him kindly. At first, I imagined that he had ended up with an old lady, but after a few days, she had to leave him at an animal shelter because she was sick and could no longer care for him. -"Please take good care of him." the old lady had said to the kind woman from the pet shelter, with tears in her eyes. Then an old ruddy man with a drooping head passed by. He didn't need much convincing, and he quickly decided to adopt Cat (my Cat). He lived in a small town, where there was almost nothing to do. In the evening, the man and Cat watched a movie on television together. But Cat grew bored with the old man, and he began to attempt to clear the backyard fence as if determined to find something more meaningful than the toys, the catnip, and the lonely old man. Cat wasn't content to live like a glut who satisfied himself with food and belly rubs and lounging by the fireplace for hours. I decided to continue writing about Cat's adventures. The adventures I made up for him that is. Cat decided to go on a trip. He wanted to see some of the world. Of course, it was not easy to find an airline that allowed four-legged passengers. Finally, he had found one. As the plane began to taxi onto the tarmac, the engines revved and roared. Cat was sitting in an armchair, in a soft travel basket. He felt short of breath and even panicked a little when the plane took off. Every time a flight attendant passed by, he smiled kindly at Cat. -"Don't run on the aisle,” the friendly lady said, "otherwise I'll have to tell the captain that there's a loose cat on the plane." But Cat stayed in his chair nicely. He prided himself on finding harmony in chaos. Let the chips fall where they land, he purred to himself, I'm a globetrotter now. Cat arrived in a land of a thousand and one nights. He jumped into a cab and lay down under the slanted rear window, looking through the glass at the mystery of the desert. Occasionally he jumped into the seat next to the driver and stood on his hind legs, looking out the window. There was a lot of traffic, and people drove aggressively. Everyone seemed to honk and curse. But every car that tried to pass them slowed down to get a good look at the feline passenger. Some of the drivers smiled broadly and waved at Cat. It didn't take long for Cat to find a friend: Sami. A friendly young male. What fun they had together. In their beautiful apartment, they practiced martial arts: a headlock with hind legs on the muzzle, a neck grab, and then naps in the sun on a beautiful Persian carpet. Cat began meowing a wide range of intonations: a sweet cadence within the range of a mezzo-soprano: meowing a melancholic desperado. Cat enjoyed perfect room service. His nails were trimmed, and he was washed with a special shampoo for his head and another for his body. Then his fur was blow-dried, and his hair brushed for maximum floof. One day Cat was asked to star in a TV novella. Of course, he had to audition at the film studio first. A man in a posh three-piece suit came to pick up Cat in a nice limo and took him to the filming location. But Cat became restless in his beautiful holiday country. He had noticed that people had started acting differently, and he could hear more and more strange noises in the distance. One lazy afternoon, he sat in the living room, turning his head towards a hum that seemed to be coming his way. The sound soon changed to a whistle: the ominous wail of an incoming missile that seemed to slow down time. The mortar flew over the roof and landed in the park where Cat loved to catch mice. He had only one goal in mind: to run for his life. He ran out as fast as he could. He jumped through the air. Everywhere people were running in panic. Another kaboom. Cat reached the basement where people sought shelter, they were panting and he could hear his own heart beating. Then his mind began to wander to Sami. Where was he? Was he okay? Was he safe, did he find a hiding place? Boom, boom, boom: thump and roar. Luckily, Sami was unharmed. He had taken shelter in a neighboring building near the park. -"God save us from the hour of oblivion." Sami softly cried. The city was no longer beautiful but had become a ghostly landscape. The birds stopped chirping and animals no longer roamed the streets. Neither foxes nor coyotes were to be seen, in the parts of the city where fire and iron fell from the sky and humans hid underground- Cat had to leave. He said goodbye to Sami and set out on his journey. He went out of his way not to get caught. That sometimes led to mean games. One day a car bomb exploded close to the tree where Cat had settled down to rest. This kaboom traveled in a burst of strong sound waves. Cat was startled and jumped into the air. He came down crouched on all fours. He walked slowly across the street, his tail heavy as lead. There were only a handful of people on the street. Their faces were sullen and stoic. They moved in silence. The street was littered with shattered glass, dust, and debris. Cat's eyes closed and stubbornly refused to open again. Suddenly he felt a gentle tug on his stomach: Sami. It was Sami, spinning and kneading and sniffing Cat's head. They were both still alive. Yes, they were both still there, and Sami had found Cat. -"Take me with you." Sami cried. "Do not leave me alone." The cats decided to stay together and continue their journey together. It was time to leave that country and return to the other side of the ocean. Goodbye beautiful country. Goodbye, beautiful people. Sami's heart seemed to break. Together they found a transatlantic flight. Fortunately, Sami did not panic when the plane took off. Both cats quickly fell asleep. Cat dreamed that the people and the animals left behind, would one day too, tell a story with a happy ending… or maybe it was a prayer.


 In the beginning, it seemed as though this was perfect. The world was in dire need of help.

The news headlines read like a sci-fi novel. Good news! The world is no longer warming! Global Warming is officially over! Bad news? It’s because we have entered into a period coined “Global Boiling”. Humanity had cooked the entire planet. One that was rife with war, corruption, pollution, poaching, murder, sex trafficking… We killed everything we touched. Humans were destructive by nature and sought out conflict everywhere we went.

Then they came.

The Utawaya looked human. They’d blended in at first, merging with the masses, but as the world went further and further up shit creek with not a paddle in sight, they made themselves known.

They came in peace, they said, quoting every Hollywood sci-fi movie about aliens to have ever existed. They’d spent a long time monitoring Earth, they said, learning our ways, so they might come to land and join us.

Help us.

And, for years, they did.

They had technology that even the greatest human minds could never have replicated. Net zero energy sources, machines that outperformed the combustion engine, a social system that harkened more back to the days when items were traded instead of money, where everyone had worth and a contribution to a community. The Poverty gap closed, despite the filthy rich protesting. Weapons of mass destruction were banned and disarmed. Tyrants were overthrown. People liberated. Wars ended. Crime prevented. They promised that they could reverse the damage done to the planet. It truly was the coming of The Age of Peace. Earth was thriving, and so were the people. Then came the culling.

It was slow at first and started with the dredges of the barrel. The ones no one cared about. The Utawaya had technology that could read the thoughts of a person. There was no more doubt over a prisoner's guilt. Mass murderers, rapists, and pedophiles were the first to be killed. Then came extremist groups with the intent to cause mass harm or disaster. Terrorists, human traffickers, poachers. Eventually, those people ran out too.

Earth was massively overpopulated, the Utawaya said. The numbers needed to be controlled like we used to do with deer destroying forests.

No one was safe, really, but the Utawaya had one rule: pregnant women and women with young children were exempt.

Everyone else? Fair game.

Some volunteered, of course. Just because Earth was a utopia didn’t mean people weren’t still depressed or suicidal.

Even that wasn’t enough for the Utawaya. They began a roster. Bi-annually people were selected at random to be volunteers, like some twisted version of The Hunger Games.

At least Katniss had a chance. Those selected have no chance.

If you’re a man, you die. If you’re a woman and you have no children, you die. The male population decreased dramatically in the first ten years, and so did the reproduction rate. We all prayed to forgotten Gods that eventually the culling would stop, but every six months people were selected, and within days their bodies were returned shrouded in white. It is an honor , the Utawaya told us, to give back to the Mother in the purest form – to return your life and your body into Her waiting hands as She rebalances the scales.

It wasn’t long until people started to rebel, and then things changed, and not for the better as we had hoped.

Our rebellion was met with fury and an iron fist.

The Utawaya were enraged. They’d given us so much and asked for so little, and this was how we thanked them. By showing that destruction was at the core of who we were.

We were parasites, they said, and they would start the world anew.

Turns out, even Utopia has War…

* * * I cough as yet another cloud of dust falls from the roof, clouding my vision and drying out my mouth better than an old bottle of Vodka ever could. We hide in a bunker on the outskirts of London. It isn’t very big, but we make it work, jamming the seven bodies in like a tin of sardines.

“God bless the doomsday preppers,” I mutter under my breath.

No one laughs. I lean over the table that the four of us have gathered around and squint my eyes to see the map in the dim candlelight. It isn’t easy to access tech anymore. Candles work, just not as well as a torch would.

The others talk under their breath, running over the plan once more. I hold my breath and count to ten.

The panic is building in my chest, coiling around me like a snake.

Mick stares down at the table, his eyes moving back and forth rapidly. I know he’s running over every possible route in his head, and every possible problem that could arise.

Our one chance-- there can be no room for error. We’ve waited a long time for the leaders of the Utawaya to be in one place.

The door to the bunker bangs open. My eyes lift and lock with a familiar, startling blue pair. The balaclava hides most of her face, but I see Rave’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at me and I smile back, some of the panic fading away.

“You started without me?” The love of my life demands as she kicks the door shut behind her. Her hands are smeared with oil and dirt when she lifts them to pull off the balaclava, revealing her shock of silver blonde hair. I shuffle to the right, clearing a space at the table for her.

“You’re late.” That is all Mick says. Rave fills the space beside me, her arm winding around my waist as she presses a chaste kiss to my temple. We’re all stressed.

“She’s here now,” I mutter, affixing our de facto leader with my best no-nonsense stare. Mick’s lips press into a thin line.

“Don’t be late next time.” He grouses. Rave’s arm tightens around me. I knock my hip against hers. Silence falls over the group as she examines the map.

“So, this is it.” She says at last “Are we sure it will work?” Silence once more. The two men at the table share a look with one another. Abel and Mick are the only two men in our group. I don’t blame them for sticking together. Men were rarer since the cullings.

“This is it. And it’ll work.” Mick says. He looks between us all, his gaze wary. He nods to the other person at the table. Lucille is an older woman, the oldest of us all. She sighs as the attention falls on her and smooths the front of her shirt. It’s a nervous tick, one I’d noticed very early on in our time together.

People are what I do.

We all have a role to play here, and Lucille is about to enact her part.

I watch Lucille, noting the tightening of her eyes, and the slight tremble of her hands. I look back at Mick and note similar movements from him. He wipes his hands against his legs.

Sweaty palms, shifty eyes, dilated pupils. My own eyes narrow.

“What are you two hiding?” I demand, pointing a finger between each of them. Lucille jumps and avoids my gaze, but it’s still she who speaks.

“There’s a reason no one has done this before.” Lucille’s voice holds the soft remnants of an Eastern European accent. We don’t hear much variety in accents anymore. Traveling to other countries isn’t possible now.

“The device that Abel reconfigured can launch the Nuke.” She says.

The pause is pregnant. Lucille deliberately avoids my gaze, looking anywhere but.

Apprehension coils in my gut. “And?” I press, certain there’s more. Panic is rising again.

I grip Rave’s hand under the table. “And the Utawaya took steps that mean that entering coordinates won’t work anymore. Someone will need to take the beacon inside, unseen, and keep the device powered up. The warhead will target the link.”

“Inside. Unseen.” I repeat robotically.

“Like a ghost,” Rave whispers at my side and my heart drops out my ass.

Raven is our ghost. That is her role. I feel sick.

“It’s a suicide mission!” I protest, “This wasn’t part of the plan.” “None of our lives are worth more than the greater good.” Lucille intones. I slam my hand down on the table. Rave runs her hand up and down my back.

The movement is meant to be soothing, but it only serves to remind me of everything I will lose. “Mel,” she whispers. Tears burn my eyes and I shake my head, my hand curling into a fist against the table.

“Make the preparations. I’ll do it.” Rave murmurs.

Her words split my heart in two and the world falls away.

In two days, we will bomb the Utawayan summit. In two days, Rave will die.

And I intend to die with her.

* * * “We don’t need to do this, Rave,” I whisper. Raven draws in a breath.

“Yes, we do.”

“We’re just proving everything they’ve ever said about us to be true.” I plead.

“Maybe. Maybe we are destructive hateful creatures, but that doesn’t give them the right to do what they’ve done.” I reach up and run my fingers along Raven’s jaw, the truth settling into my bones.

“I know, Rave. I know. I just wish there was a better way.”

This woman is my world. My universe. I won’t let her do this alone.

* * * The bunker is quiet. The others look at one another. Then at Rave. Then at me. Rave fixes me with a glare that would send a lesser woman running. I meet her stare.

“No.” She protests, “No.”

“You’ll need a driver. You’ll need someone to keep them distracted if something goes wrong.” I insist. The atmosphere grows heavy.

“You’ll die.” Raven’s voice cracks. I smile a sad smile.

“Where you go, I go, Little Bird,” I tell her. It doesn’t take the others long to agree.

That hurts more than it should. Perhaps the Utawaya are right. Maybe we are all broken and corrupt inside, ready to sacrifice one another for our own personal gain.

Raven and I hold one another tightly as night rolls in, curled into the same cot.

Tomorrow morning the others leave.

The day after tomorrow, we both die.

But so do the Utawaya. * * * The others left with barely a backward glance. Only Lucille had hesitated, making sure we knew what needed to be done. They’d go north, find a way into Scotland. We had no way to know how the fallout would behave in the new atmosphere the Utawaya had been creating.

Rave and I took the old underground to get to the Summit Building. There was an old service entrance into the basement which allowed us to get in unseen, as required.

A pair of ghosts walking willingly to their death.

The tunnels were unguarded and we made it in without a hitch.

Perhaps the Gods had not forgotten us after all.

Now, we sit on the floor above that basement. We needed to ascend a floor to get a signal on the device. Many of the satellites stopped working in the wake of the war, but the Soviets still had power on theirs.

Of course, they did. I look at Raven, my heart in my throat.

“Last chance to dip,” I whisper. Her eyes lift to mine and I find hers lined with the silver of tears. She reaches out and takes my hand. Far above us, the Thirteen leaders of the Utawaya clans are meeting, the sound of their conversation, playing on speakers so the assembled guests can hear, filtering down to us levels below them.

There would be no humans above.

Humans didn’t need to be present to discuss how they could be eradicated. “No dipping.” Before either of us can have second thoughts, she presses the part of the screen as Lucille had directed.

Silence falls.

“How long did Luce say we’d have?” I ask softly. In contrast, my pulse pounds in my ears. Terror raises a cold sweat along my brow and down my back.

Death races towards us. Even if we wanted to, we could not escape it now.

“Fifteen minutes.” Rave breaths.

* * * Fifteen minutes.

The first five are spent telling Rave how much I love her. How much I wish we’d met in a different time when we might have had a life.

A future.

Another two are spent holding one another.

* * *

Six minutes to go.

We fall silent, holding hands.

Mine shake. So do Raven’s.

Above us, the alien invaders of our world discuss how they will squash the human resistance, and how they will re-make the world without the violent, abhorrent creatures known as humanity. They don’t know that the humans still have teeth.

We bite back.

They plan and they scheme, and they fail to see that in their desperation to crush our violence, they succumbed to it.

Perhaps violence and destruction are rampant in humanity. Perhaps we have a proclivity for disparity and aggression. Maybe we do destroy the things we want rather than let another have it.

But these traits are not unique to humankind. Above us, the Utawaya fail to see how flawed and corrupt they, too have become. They, like we always have, fail to see that War is not the answer, that peace cannot be had alongside violence.

It is as though the ruinous nature of humanity was a virus and it spread to them.

* * *

The ends do not justify the means.

This is my ruling thought as the timer hits thirty seconds and the room above falls silent. The air is split with a high whistle as the warhead streaks through the atmosphere.

This is a mistake. We never should have done this. We had hoped that in the wake of our attack, the world could be reclaimed. We could come out on top.

We were so blinded by revenge that we failed to see that there would be no winners. Rave and I look only at one another as the bomb detonates. Within seconds most of London will be in Nuclear Winter, and this building, and every Utawaya within, will be gone.

The world will keep on turning, but would our sacrifice change anything? Would the death of the thirteen leaders change anything, or would a new War begin? War was inevitable.

Even Utopia has War.


Say ‘Thirty, Flirty and Fabulous!’ Shelby rolled her eyes at her two sisters. Both of them holding up their phones to take a photo of the birthday girl. Shelby held out her own phone and took a selfie. She preferred her own camera to theirs. Shelby stood holding a flute of champagne, she was wearing one of the hotels white towel robes with a black swimsuit underneath. She posed a little for the photos holding up her glass. They were planning to go down to the spa after a few selfies and pics and of course after a glass of bubbles. The three of them all looked alike. They all had blonde hair with the same green-blue eyes. Shelby and the older of her sisters-Erin, both had long hair of a similar length. Whereas Kayleigh, the middle sister had shoulder length hair. Each were beautiful. Erin had brought a bottle of champagne and Kayleigh had rang down to reception for the glasses to celebrate the last sister to turn 30. Erin held out her glass and said ‘Happy 30th Birthday Shelby!!’ Shelby and Kayleigh both clinked their glasses with Erin’s and then all three of them took a sip. Each sister were now already in their 30s, Shelby having just turned 30, Kayleigh who was 32 and Erin who was 34. They all were married with children. Shelby had 3 daughters, Kayleigh having 1 daughter and 1 son and Erin with 3 boys. They certainly needed this night away and it was all they have talked about for ages. The Farnham Estate Hotel was one of the top hotels in Ireland. And nearly impossible to get a booking for. Kayleigh who is always the most organised had been able to secure a booking one year in advance. They had planned to book treatments as well. Erin was to book them a little nearer the time, but Erin being Erin, she left it too late. Although the sisters all looked alike, they were totally different in personality. Kayleigh was the one who definitely had OCD and had everything organised to the finest detail. Erin was scatty, always went with the flow, never organised and Shelby, she was nestled right in between. Not as OCD as Kayleigh but there were definitely some traits, and not as chilled out as Erin, but there were days she just chilled out without a care in the world. ‘I have been looking forward to this since forever! A child-free night!! Ahh, we should have booked 2 nights!’ Said Erin whilst taking a sip of her champagne. ’I know! Get me down to that spa! Are yous ready? Or will I meet yous all down there? For I’m heading now!’ Kayleigh replied whilst setting her empty flute down on the dressing table. Shelby was reaching for the bottle and pouring another glass, it might have been her third glass. She hiccupped and said ‘aye, gone you on ahead, I’m drowning my sorrows here, I can’t believe I’m bloody 30, i’m actually depressed at the thought of it!’ ’Wise Up Shelb! That makes us feel amazing with us being older than you! Will we meet you down there then?’ Asked Erin as she grabbed her handbag and walked towards Kayleigh who was already standing at the room door. Shelby replied ‘Aye, il meet yous there in 10 minutes.’ They waved the key at Shelby to show that she needn’t worry about bringing one down with her. Before leaving the room Kayleigh asked ‘Do you know where the spa is yeah?’ Kayleigh and Erin had both been to this particular hotel before, whereas this was Shelby’s first time. Shelby replied ‘Aye, I think I know anyway, I seen a sign earlier.’ With that, Erin and Kayleigh nodded and both left the room. Shelby sat down on the bed and downed her champagne in one. She felt a little tipsy now. She got to her feet and applied some lip balm, fixed her hair and popped on her slippers, then made her way out of the room and down the hall to the lifts. Her robe was gaping a little, she hadn’t retied it before she left. She got into the lift and pressed the button that said ‘G’ for ground, which she is sure she seen a sign for the spa entrance on the way to check in. Down she went in the lift, the doors opened and she stepped out. She paused at the lift for a second looking around to see that no guests were wearing robes. And yep, there was a wedding, there was the bride and groom and all their guests, dressed to impress! She went to turn around abruptly to press the button on the lift, but couldn’t manage it. She twisted her neck around to see what was restricting her. Her robe was caught in the lift. The little screen above the lift, started to change, the lift was moving back up, her robe lifting with it. She was being pulled towards the doors of the lift. She had no other option than to take the robe off and stand in reception with nothing on but her swimsuit in front of all these people dressed in the best! But instead, she found herself holding onto the robe as tightly as ever. The other option too nauseating to even think of. She tried to pull and pull at the robe hoping that it would eventually become free. She hadn’t even realised the position she was getting into, too focused on pulling the robe until it was too late. She had her feet pressed against the top of the elevator doors, a foot in each corner, her back flat against the doors. Her hair trailing against the tiled floor. She was totally upside down. In some sort of acrobatic fashion! As she was brought to the receptionist’s attention after many wedding guests had pointed her out. The receptionist scrambled looking for scissors then grabbing the phone and ringing maintenance hysterically. Shelby watched the whole upside down scene and for a short fleeting moment, she felt like a celebrity trying to hide from paparazzi. But she had nowhere to hide, she could do nothing but stare into the sea of flashing lights as everyone in the reception area were laughing, whispering, pointing and taking photos! Shelby in her tipsy state just shouted ‘Thirty, Flirty and Fabulous!’