So, it went something like this. I was staying with my parents for a few months, and I needed to make some fast money to move out at the end of summer. The nearest place I could think of that I could get hired on with no experience for good money was the warehouse, so that’s where I went. The shifts were long, and the work sucked, but it made me feel useful. It felt like I was doing something worth doing. On my first day, they paired me up with a guy to train me. You know, ‘put the boxes onto the belt. Don’t let one hit you in the head.’ That type of shit. He was younger than most of the other guys there (and I say guys because women were pretty few and far between), but he was still about ten years older than me. We hit it off right away; I was pretty reserved, wary of being in an unfamiliar environment surrounded by a bunch of strangers, but he pried, and I told him whatever he wanted to know so I wouldn’t come off as a cold bitch. I’ll call him Sam. Sam and I got to be pretty good friends. Actually, I got to be friends with a lot of people there just because I got along with Sam so well. I told him up front that I had a boyfriend living down south, and that I was going to move in with him at the end of summer. It kind of turned into a running joke where he’d tell me to break up with my boyfriend and stay on at work. I’d always tell him no, that I liked my boyfriend just fine. He asked me a couple of times if the teasing bothered me. I always told him no, that no amount of pestering could change my mind. I wasn’t super thrilled about it, though; I missed my boyfriend pretty bad. I have a thick skin and an even thicker head, though, so I just let it go so I wouldn’t make things awkward. By then, I was telling my boyfriend a little bit about what was happening. We talked over the phone once a week, at least. “Do you remember me telling you about Sam from work?” “The guy that trained you? Yeah, sure.” “I think that he likes me.” “Has he been bothering you?” “Mostly joking around, I guess, but it’s getting a little out of hand.” “Are you okay? Has he said anything…?” “Nothing to take to HR, if that’s what you mean.” “Well, a swift kick in the nuts would probably do the job if he gets too personal.” “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” “Hey. You know you can always talk to me, right?” “Yeah, I know.” As more time passed, I started hanging out with Sam outside of work. It started with parties, then graduated to just the two of us pissing the time away. The longer it went on, I started to realize that Sam wasn’t really joking about my boyfriend, and that he wasn’t really trying to be my friend. I think I was in denial about it because it stings a bit when you realize that someone only likes you because they’re trying to get in your pants. He even tried to kiss me a couple times, and I told him I couldn’t keep hanging out if he was going to pull that shit. He always promised he’d behave, but then the same shit again the next week. I tried to not let on, but it was stressing me out pretty bad. I’ll skip some of the middle bits here, because if I told you everything, you’d be here all day. I don’t let myself remember a lot of it, anyway. Some of it I just want to keep to myself, and I can’t really figure out why. I will tell you that I never cheated, that I never even wanted to. Just thinking about it still makes me feel sick. At some point, Sam started acting all weird. He skipped a few days of work here and there, he’d get kind of snappish at people, and eventually he started avoiding me. I was a little bit bummed, but I was also sort of relieved, you know? Like, I was bummed that I was right and that he got bored when I wouldn’t put out, but I was also relieved that the awkwardness might be over. No such luck. He was gone from work one weekend for a wedding, and when he got back on Sunday, he called me up. He said he wasn’t doing so great, and would I please come over to talk? I had work really early the next day, but I thought I could lend a quick ear if he was going through a rough patch. We ended up talking most of the night. He told me a lot of things that I won’t repeat, but he also told me that he was pretty down in his feels because he really liked me. Like, he loved me, he said. We kept going back and forth, like, “would you ever date me?” and, “I don’t know, I can’t even think like that right now. I’m with someone.” and, “yeah, but what if you weren’t?” and, “I don’t know, it’s all hypothetical.” I drove the short distance home around 3:30 in the morning, crossing my fingers and hoping that my dad wasn’t already up for early morning fishing. I ended up calling in the next day, I was so exhausted. After that, things were the same, but they weren’t. I mean, I still saw him the same, but he seemed to be… expecting something. One night, though, he asked me to come over to drink and watch some movies. I said sure, I could go for a drink. I went over, and we had some vodka/soda/juice mix that tasted like shit and watched some movie that I don’t even remember. At some point, he stopped the movie and said, “The sun is setting. We should go out and watch it on the porch.” I didn’t really want to, but I went on along with him anyway. That’s when he really started talking. “I know I seem like I’m doing alright, but really, I’m not.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, we’re always joking around, but whenever I ask you to stay and you say no… it actually kind of hurts.” I knew that. He’d said it already. “Stop joking about it, then.” “That’s the thing.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’m not joking.” I looked past him to the side of his neighbor’s house, through the window and past the curtains. I was hoping someone would be staring back so I’d have something else to talk about without obviously trying to change the subject. I was hoping desperately for something to break the tension. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want to know why you won’t even give me a chance.” “You damn well know why, I’ve said it about a hundred times.” “I don’t buy it.” “What the hell does that mean?” “It means that I think that we should be together. Not like I just want it really bad, but like… I think that we’re *meant* to be together.” I scoffed. “What, like soulmates?” “That’s one word for it, yeah.” I sucked on my teeth and looked down into my drink. I wasn’t sure if I was wishing I’d mixed it stronger or wishing I’d never had it at all. “I don’t believe in soulmates.” “What?” “I think it’s a load of shit. I think that there are billions of people on this planet, and that any single person has thousands of other people that would make perfectly good matches for them. Maybe some more than others, and maybe one person most of all, but that doesn’t make them ‘soulmates.’ Nobody is *meant* to be with anybody else.” “Look, I’ve told you about my parents. They’re perfect for each other. And when they met, my mom was already engaged. If she had never broken off her engagement, I wouldn’t even be here.” “That’s nice and all, but it doesn’t mean they’re soulmates.” “But they are, though.” “Look,” I stared straight into his eyes. The things that had been simmering in the back of my head for months had finally gathered themselves into an actual thought. I just had to get them out of my mouth in the same order. “I could never break up with someone to be with somebody else. Not anybody. Once you start jumping from one to the next, what’s stopping you from doing it again? What if it never stops? Once you start throwing people out, they start to become disposable, and you’ll never be satisfied with anyone because you’ll always be looking for the next, better thing. I could never do that to somebody. I could never do that to *myself*.” “You’d only have to do it once.” I let out a huff that might have originally been a laugh. “The grass will always be greener somewhere else.” “It won’t.” “Oh, no?” “Nah.” “Why’s that?” “Because I’m the greenest grass.” I did laugh, then. I think I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t getting frustrated. “That’s an awfully bold statement.” “It’s true.” “Why, because we’re soulmates?” “*Yes*.” I leaned back in my chair, watching my hands trace patterns onto my glass. “So, you believe in soulmates because of your parents, right?” “Yeah. I mean, don’t you feel like your parents are meant to be together?” “No.” He didn’t say anything. “I’m not even sure that my parents love each other.” “Well, then maybe that’s why.” “Why do you think your experience makes you right but mine is irrelevant?” He pauses again. “I just do.” “That’s not a real answer.” “It’s just true, alright?” “No. I’m not taking that ‘because I said so’ shit. You believe in soulmates, I don’t. So we’re stuck.” “But we aren’t, though.” “How do you figure?” He knew I was getting fed up, and he smiled wide. “Because I’m right.” I threw my head forward into one of my palms, my elbow resting on my knee, and swiped my hand down my face. “Why, because you’re the man and you’re older, so what you say goes?” “If you say so.” “Ugh!” “Look, it’s not something I can explain, it’s just something that I know. That’s all.” “Well, then it’s not something that I have to take your word for.” His smile turned a little sadder, and he looked up into the sky. It was pretty dark by then, and if we weren’t smack in the middle of the city, we’d probably be looking at stars. As it was, I was glad that the light pollution made the sky so dim and ugly. It matched how I felt on the inside. “No, I don’t think it’s something I can explain to you. I’d just have to show you.” “I don’t intend to let that happen.” “Then I guess you’ll never know.” “I guess not.” We just sat there listening to the cicadas for a while, until he said, “I didn’t want it to be this way, but you’ll figure it out eventually.” “What the fuck does *that* mean?” “It means that I’m going wait for you.” He was dead serious, but he was still smiling as if he was playing with me, as if it was all a joke. I wondered if he noticed the dread that I’m sure was written on my face to match the newer, deeper pit in my stomach. “I don’t see any point in dating other girls when I know they aren’t the ones for me.” “What if I never break up with him? What if you’re waiting forever?” “Nah, that won’t happen.” “Why. Not.” “Because he’s not right for you.” “You haven’t even met him.” “Look, it’s fine. See your thing through, and I’ll be waiting here when it falls apart.” “You don’t have do that.” “I know. But I will.” “I don’t want you to do that.” “Well, it’s not for you. It’s what I have to do.” “You don’t have to do shit.” “It’s what I want to do, then.” I didn’t say much after that. My thoughts were spinning too fast for me to grasp on to a single thing to say. The mosquitoes chased us back inside and I stayed to finish the movie so it wouldn’t be awkward. I left for home after that, even though I usually have a pretty strict policy about alcohol and driving. I had pretty much sobered up by then, anyways. He insisted that I give him a hug before I left, and I did, but he found something unsatisfactory with the first five or so, so he kept insisting. By the end, I felt so awkward I ended up walking out, leaving him pouting in the kitchen. It wasn’t the same after that, really. August was crawling closer, and he started to realize that I really wasn’t going to budge. I asked him if he would still try to be friends once I moved, and he changed his mind about four times for different reasons. First, he told me that I was using him for his company, that he didn’t think I’d have any use for him after I moved. He told me that my friendship was pretty useless to him anyway. I cried when he said that. Then he said that it was all good, that I could text him or whatever, but he wouldn’t ever remember to text me first. Then, the thought of talking to me was too painful. Two days before I was done at the warehouse, he claimed to have changed overnight, that he was totally over me and I could do what I pleased. I was pretty fucking pissed at him for that. By the time I actually left, he’d changed his mind so many times that I wished he’d just decide that I was a selfish bitch and let me be. He settled on tentative friends, though. I think he was trying to find the right thing to say to make me stay. He used to tell me that I was a master manipulator. He said that I got on too well with everybody, that I was a social chameleon, and that I was bound to break a few hearts in the process. He told some people at work, too. What he didn’t tell them is that he thought the same about himself, that he thought he would never find a real connection because he knew how to play any person like a fiddle. That’s why he thought that we were soulmates; supposedly, we were both too aware of mind games to fall for them. He used to tell me that I was really smart, that he loved talking to me because he never knew what I was going say, that I’d just say what I was thinking and he couldn’t ever follow my thinking. He used to tell me that I talked about sexism too much, that he was annoyed how aware of it he had become. I told him, “you’re welcome.” He used to say I was hot, but that if I still had my natural hair, I’d be a *real* knockout. Sam died about three months after I moved down south. Something about some equipment in the warehouse, but they kept it pretty under wraps. I suppose I felt a little bit guilty, but mostly I think I felt relieved. I sort of take it as proof that he was wrong, that it’s our choices that decide our fates and not the other way around. I know it actually doesn’t prove shit, but I think it anyways. I didn’t tell my boyfriend about all of this. I mean, I told him some, but I didn’t want him to worry about me. I think that deep down I was scared that he might always wonder if I cheated on him. I might never tell him everything. I might never tell anyone. So, I guess Sam’s love story will die with me, the remaining half of the perfect pair. I’ll never get to tell him that he was wrong, that he was fucked up for what he said, for what he did to me. Letting him go hasn’t really been the hardest part, though. The hardest part has been learning how to live with his ghost, how to carry it all on my own.


A mother's watch never ends. Sabrina sighed as she picked up after her child. Toys lay scattered over his room, socks kicked aside, and empty cups adorned his table. Such a sweet young child, undisciplined, but sweet. Such is to be expected of one so young, mused Sabrina. After all, he was only a sweet tender boy of four. Barely coherent in his daily random babbling, but growing up to be just like his lovely father. Her thoughts turned to the other boy in the house. A grown man, a fine man by all means, but boys will be boys. His habit of leaving clothes right beside the laundry basket, his perpetual insistance on keeping his computer on because he *might* use it later, and a habit which his son learnt from him, of leaving empty plates on tables. So infuriating. So, similar to one another. "Am I the only grown up in this house?", grouched Sabrina. The room was dark by now, dimly lighted by the moonlight. She had been cleaning for the greater part of the day, yet her house never seemed to get any neater. Her gaze turned towards her son, and a smile crept across her face. A gentle hand brushed his hair aside as Sabrina kissed his forehead. It was to be a long day for him tomorrow, and he needs all the rest he can get. Sabrina lightly moved towards the master bedroom and opened the door quietly. Her husband already in a peaceful slumber in the middle of the bed, hugging her pillow. She embraced him in a similar fashion and laid her head upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat as she too, fell asleep. It was to be a long day tomorrow. A glimmer of sunlight shone upon her face, waking Sabrina up. She was resting alone on the bed now, her husband gone. Rare was the occasion when he woke earlier than her. Sabrina reached her hands outright and puffed out her chest as she yawned. She wandered through the house looking for her family, but it seems like they had already left without her. She knew where they would be though. Gathering herself, she stepped out of her house. Her pace quickly led her to where her family was. A flower shop at the corner of the street, and the Carnations it sold there were her favourites. She had reached just in time to see her husband and son walked out of the shop with a large bouquet of her favourite flora. Yellow and pink with a dash of white. It warmed her heart to know that the two most important men in her life remembered her favourite. She amused herself by hiding from sight, following them towards their next destination. "What a surprise it'll be for them when they see me there!", she quipped, as her lithe steps allowed her to keep up with them. Their destination was not far off. The flowershop was strategically placed for this reason. A slight hike up an incline, a meander off to the side, and across a great oak, lies a tomb. Sabrina walked up behind behind her family and held them tightly in a warm embrace. Her hands brushing their tears aside, as she kissed their heads. She will watch over them as long as she can. For a mother's watch never ends.


There was something gloomy about them – the way those ice cubes sat on the bottom of the whiskey glass as they melted and diluted whatever was left of the Glen Moray. Coasting along the rim as the glass swayed in a circular motion, they seemed doomed to some stationary post – damned to resignation, or acceptance, of their eventual dissolution. In a way, it was a fitting depiction of the end of the good times. A decade of enjoyment, debauchery, and youthful carelessness came to its close – to be banished by one of deceit, inhumanity, and despair. In one fell swoop, the orchestras were hushed, the gilded gates closed, and the laughter exiled to some wistful longing. Not a word was to be spoken of them. Not an utterance of this time of extraordinary excess and comfort. For those who clung on to whatever stardust evaded the hands of time, it seemed almost a fairy tale. A refuge from the trepidation and angst of the decade before. A Shangri-la to drown out the beating drums and woeful cries. The men, who had just as quickly traded in their uniforms for evening suits. The women who had mourned, grieved, but found love anew. The children who had grown up knowing nothing but the splendor of those ten golden years. In their joyous rhapsody, how could they have known that this was all but a momentary reprieve? How could I have heard? How could I have seen? Muffled by the brass bands and veiled by the dying lights of smoke-filled rooms lay a world ripe for the misery that was yet to befall us. The bellowing of the desolate, the false promises of the charlatan, the naïveté of the hero, and the ignorance of the spectator. I turned away. We all turned away. And slowly, we lost everything. The abundance we enjoyed, the peace we took for granted, the belief that we would be free to relish in the pleasures of our fleeting youth. As I look back to the glass, filled now with nothing more than a dash of some pale bronze mixture, I cannot help but wonder what more could have been. Beyond those moments in the sun, we could never figure out what would come next – were these times meant to be for always? Or would there be something greater, still? More. Surely, more. In our best coats and gowns we flocked to some imaginary church – a congregation of the lost and indifferent, suspended from reality by some unearthly ecstasy. And there we worshipped those sacred hosts we ourselves placed on the high altar; every earthly desire that we, in our greed, ravenously devoured. As we consumed relentlessly without pause, we lost something of ourselves. As if the world, once seemingly reborn of an age of strife, instead capitulated to man’s most lamentable sins. Are you there, God? Yahweh? Allah? Lord of light and creation? Truth everlasting? Devil. Shaytan. Prince of darkness. Destroyer of worlds. Heralder of doom. Deliver us.


It’s been a few weeks since I told the world about my experience in the school. I’ve done many things since then. I grew up, obviously, and I’ve become a horse rancher. Despite my looks, I managed to find a romantic partner too. She was beautiful in every way, and god was she smart… Anyway, it was a normal night 2 nights ago. Me and my wife sat on the porch watching our kids play, it was 8 at night but, since we were on our land and in the middle of nowhere, we weren’t disturbing anyone. We told them they had 10 minutes before they had to take a shower, and 9 minutes later they said they wanted to take a family picture because the stars looked pretty and they thought it would be a good background. I knew this wasn’t true, they weren’t slick, they knew their mom was a photo perfectionist and they would be out for another 10 minutes at the least. But after the first photo, her eyes went wide, she yelled at us to get inside, I thought she just realized what they were doing but she seemed very distressed for something as small as that. The kids went to brush their teeth and she grabbed me by the shoulder before I could follow them. “There’s something out there” “There’s a lot of things out there.” “No, something large, and most likely dangerous.” “I doubt that. The property is fenced in, you know.” Then she showed me the photo she took… And she was right, there was something behind us, all you could see was the glare of its eyes from the camera flash. I told her it was probably a bear but we both knew I didn’t think that, it was too big, and the glare of the eyes were *red*. I propped up a chair against the door, I didn’t think it would do too much against something as large as the thing in the picture. We managed to get the kids to sleep before they realized something was wrong, then we went down to the kitchen and looked at the picture again. Then *we heard it.* I grabbed our shotgun, although I had never shot at something in self defense before, had my wife be ready to open and close the door real quick, and calmed my nerves. I told her to open the door, she opened and I shot 5 times. She closed it after I stopped and immediately put the chair back. I knew I had hit it at least once or twice. I looked out the window, thinking it would be lying there, dying. But it was gone, and then I made the mistake of turning the exterior flood lights on. 8 of them, whatever they were, right outside my house. I looked for about 4 seconds before turning the lights off and slamming the curtains shut. These things weren’t animals that I had ever seen, but they closely resembled wolves, but even larger. They had dark gray fur with a black mane and snow white paws, cute. They were at least 10 feet long, but then there was the head, oh god, the head. They seemed like they were smiling almost, the corners of their mouth reaching back to their ears, teeth and bare jaws showing the entire way. I made a mistake. I alerted them, they were all going to attack now. I sprinted to the garage to get boards, to cover the windows and doors. I covered the downstairs first, and then the upstairs. I thought that if I could barricade them out, we could wait till help arrived. I called 911 once I had finished boarding up all the windows and doors, but there wasn’t any service. The water also cut, so we couldn’t wait it out forever now. Things were quiet for a good while, and then the crying started. Not the kids, but the creatures. It wasn’t crying like a dog, but like a human, it got louder and louder, eventually turning to a wail. By the time it stopped getting louder, it was a sound that wasn’t describable in one word. It sent chills down my spine and made my blood curdle, the kids were awake now. They had been for a while, ever since I shot that gun. And they were terrified, everyone was. The howling stopped, but silence didn’t come either. Scratching, the entire house was filled with the sound of scratching at the windows and doors. All of us went silent to try to find where they were scratching at so we could move away. But it seemed equally loud everywhere we went. So we just took shelter in the middle of the second floor. I had an idea, maybe, just maybe if we were fast enough we could run to the truck and peel out of there. I whispered the idea to my wife, she didn’t like it but agreed it was our best chance. It was 11PM by now, we didn’t know how fast they were, but we agreed that it was better than sitting here and waiting to die. I peeked out the curtain near the front door despite my best judgment. There was a small crack in between the boards I put up, but it was large enough to see there were no creatures on the porch. We ran right behind the kids, the kids had gotten in the truck. I had gotten in the driver’s seat. But by the time my wife was running around the front *it was too late*… The creatures were here, she got swept up by one of them right after she screamed at me to drive away with the kids. I knew I couldn’t do anything, I put the pedal to the metal and shot down the small driveway that led to the highway. They were howling again, but it started as that impossibly loud wailing that we had heard before, and it was getting louder. I looked in the rearview to see the monsters right behind me. I didn’t get to see their eyes at the house, but the eyes were the worst, they were dark mahogany eyes, with bright white pupils, I could never forget them. It’s almost as if they burned into your soul when you see them. I was almost to the main road, I had been driving for what felt like years away from these things. Then the howling stopped and something else began. A calling, for help. *“Jeremy! Help! PLEASE, Jeremy!”* An extremely scratchy voice and inhumanly loud. It almost sounded like my wife, but just a little off. *It* had eaten my wife though. And then I realized the horrible truth, *it was using my wife’s voice*. I got to the main road, and beelined to the city. I didn’t stop speeding until I saw another vehicle and the sound had completely stopped. Once we were in the city, I drove to my Mom’s house, and tried to tell her what happened. The kids were too shocked to even cry about their mother’s death. I couldn’t form a full sentence without having to take a breath because of the hyperventilation I had been experiencing. The next morning, the kids had slept very little, at least they had slept. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the horrible calls of the monster, using my wife’s voice to lure me back to the evil thing. The burning eyes, the never ending smile that they always held, it was all fresh in my mind. My mom called the cops, and they investigated the property. *Nothing was found*. I don’t mean evidence of the creatures, or my wife getting ripped apart. But anything at all. According to their reports, the road was overgrown with brush and other plant life. When they finally got to where the house should’ve been, they found a pile of rotting wood and nothing else. No tire marks, no pawprints, no anything. It was like the property had been launched 100 years in the future and no one went there in that time. If anyone remembers attending a party or something of the lines at 71098 Lakes Drive, please. Tell me. No one seems to remember being at that house except for me and my kids, even my mom says I never lived in the country and have always lived with her. No one will listen, no matter what I say to them. I wrote this record just in case I don’t get to verbally retell this story. Why wouldn’t I be able to verbally tell the story again? You ask. *Because I can hear them again.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion This week, let’s take a look back at some of our earlier writing. - How do you feel when you look back at your earlier work? - Would you say it has improved since this time last year? How? - What actions do you take to improve your writing? - What motivates you to continue to improve? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


The day before your birthday, you find out you have to fight a gorilla and you have to win. This is certainly news to you, but your parents say they’ve been talking about this for months, don’t you remember, and while you don’t, you just nod and say oh yeah I do because you’re afraid you’ll get in trouble if they find out you weren’t listening to them. Then you ask why you have to fight a gorilla, and your parents look surprised and say don’t you know? Everyone has to fight a gorilla when they get to be your age. They did it, your older brothers and sisters did it, your neighbors did it, even the nice old lady who works in the candy shop did it. You’re not sure if you believe them, but you ask your older brothers and sisters, you ask your neighbors, and you ask the nice old lady in the candy shop and they all tell you, yes, when they turned the same age you’re about to turn, they too had to fight a gorilla and win. You’re shocked, but think maybe they’re all playing some sort of prank. So then you ask some of the older kids at school and they say yeah they fought a gorilla on their birthday and look at you kind of weird for even asking. At recess you ask your teacher whether she ever fought a gorilla when she was a kid, and she says of course, everyone does. She points to a scar on the side of her face and says that was where her gorilla bit her, when she was about your age. You go to the library and ask the librarian, someone who always smelled like the old sweaters in your basement, and he grins and says it looks like someone’s got a birthday coming up soon. You’re showed a book that explains how people have been fighting gorillas on their birthdays for generations, supposedly starting with some guy named Sir Francis Nanergrab, though the book says there’s a lot of doubt he was really the first. It showed a picture of this Sir Francis Nanergrab, and he was missing an eye, an arm, and his entire lower jaw. You slam the book shut and run out the library without even putting it away. You cry for a while, both because you’re scared you have to fight a gorilla, and you feel stupid for apparently being the only one who didn’t know you had to fight a gorilla. At dinner you ask your parents again why you have to fight the gorilla, and they tell you again that it’s because that’s what everyone does when they’re around your age. You say, no, no, that’s not what I mean, and then ask why is it the thing that everyone does, and they tell you it’s just how things are, so then you say why do kids have to do it anyway, it seems stupid, and then your parents get really mad at you and say that if they had to do it when they were young, you have to do it now. One of your big brothers says he doesn’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it, and to quit being such a baby about the whole thing, and your parents actually agree with him, even though they say he should be nicer about it. You can’t sleep that night. As you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, all you can think about is how big and scary gorillas are and how you never ever want to have to fight one but everyone is going to make you tomorrow. Eventually, you see the sun rising through your window and realize you got no rest at all. Your parents come in a little while later and say it’s time to get up. When you come to the kitchen, the table is piled high with all your favorite breakfast foods. You’re not hungry. Your stomach hurts from being so nervous. But then your parents get mad at you again, saying they worked really hard to make this meal special for you, and you’re really hurting their feelings by not eating it. You take a few nibbles here and there. Your parents say you should eat more, you’ll need your energy for later, but that makes you even less hungry and you tell them sorry but you can’t eat anymore. One of your parents asks if this is still about the gorilla, as if they expected you’d forget about it overnight, and when you nod they say you must stop being so silly about this and that this is a big day for you. Instead of going to school, your parents take you across town and at first you think you’re going to the grocery store, but then they turn and you realize you’re going to that big boring building next to the grocery store, the one you always saw but never really thought about when you’d drive by it. You refuse to leave the car at first, grabbing onto whatever you can to stay where you are, but your parents are too strong and they drag you outside, then drag you across the parking lot, then drag you through the door, then drag you down the hall to meet someone they call Mr. Talbot, who they say is the town Gorilla Master. Mr. Talbot doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d force kids to fight a gorilla. He has kind, gentle eyes and a warm smile. He kneels down and holds your hand in his, which you find to be warm, dry, and a little rough. He says he knows exactly how you feel, how he was nervous too when he was your age, but was just fine, and when he gently squeezes your hand you notice he’s missing three fingers. You yell and scream, saying please, no, please, no, over and over again, louder and louder. Mr. Talbot shakes his head and smiles, says there’s always one every year, then with surprising strength drags you into a dark room in the back. It’s a little bigger than your garage and smells like a petting zoo. You look up to the man and beg him to please let you go, that he doesn’t really want to do this, but he just puts a whistle to his lips and blows a shrill piercing cry. At the other end of the room you see a pair of blinking eyes shimmer in the dark. They get closer until, out from the shadows, steps the gorilla. It’s huge. It opens its mouth wide and lets loose with a mighty roar as it beats its chest with fists as big as your head. Mr. Talbot shouts “FIGHT!” and the gorilla charges. The next few hours are not your best. You never, ever try to fight the gorilla. Instead you just run and dive and duck and dodge and do everything in your power to avoid it. Mr. Talbot yells at you from the sidelines, saying to be tough, to face your fear, telling you that all the kids at school will make fun of you if you don’t fight, but you’re still running. The gorilla keeps chasing you in circles around the room and your heart is pounding against your chest and your breath is coming out like fire and your legs are feeling like jelly but still you try to get away, you are not going to let this gorilla catch you even if you have to run forever. But you can’t run forever. You get tired. You get slower. And the gorilla is getting closer. Right when it’s about to catch you, Mr. Talbot blows the whistle again and the gorilla stops, then returns to the shadows, leaving you gasping and wheezing on the floor. Your parents come in and cross their arms and say they are VERY disappointed with you. Every single kid when they get to be your age fights the gorilla and wins, why can’t you? Between deep breaths you say there was no way you’d ever beat a monster like that, especially when you don’t have any weapons at all, but your parents say they both fought gorillas even bigger than that when they were your age and they had no problem. Mr. Talbot said the gorilla he fought when he was your age was ten feet tall and he was still able to kill it in just a few minutes. Why can’t you? Everyone else can, after all. Your parents say maybe they’d understand if you were, like, dying of cancer or were born without arms or legs, but you’re a healthy normal kid, so why can’t you just kill that gorilla like a healthy, normal kid would? You don’t know the answer. All you know is that you can’t. You wonder what’s wrong with you, if it’s really supposed to be so simple. You can tell your parents, in their heads, are wondering the same thing. Still, it’s over. For today at least. In the car ride back, they say they have never, ever seen someone act so immature. You’ll never get anywhere in life, they say, if you can’t kill one little gorilla in hand to hand combat. It’s very important to your development. So that is why, they say as you pull into the garage, you will be returning to Mr. Talbot tomorrow, and the next day after that, and the next day after that, on and on and on, until you’ve slain that gorilla like a proper young person should. And until you do, they say, no more video games.


Ever since I was a kid I have hated the dark. Though I think my real problem was with shadows. Hanging clothes and floor lamps disguised as dark figures haunt the corners of my room. So I would turn on the light, rationalise my thoughts and fall back asleep. Because that’s all they were; senseless, paranoid thoughts created by memories of horror movies and scary stories. But four days ago I saw something real. Someone under my piano, hiding in the dark of my room. I was so close to sleep I could feel my mind fogging up, until something shifted in the corner of my eye. It didn’t move the way things usually move in the dark, like when you turn your head and think you see someone rushing past the doorway. A figure crawled out from under the shelter of the piano. Head tilted with glazed over eyes. The figure was dark and about as tall as a five year old child. It was the shade of black that swallows every ounce of light with the waxy, uneven surface of a half-melted candle. I reached for the light switch instinctively. I prayed that whatever was standing 4 metres away from me wouldn’t try to kill me in the time it took for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved. I fell back asleep three hours later when anxiety finally exhausted my mind. In the morning I wrote the whole thing off as a sleep induced hallucination, but I didn’t exactly believe it. I sleepwalked through the following 24 hours until the night came again. My mind was restless, tears pricked my eyes from staring at the empty space below the piano. It was 1:30, my unblinking eyes began to close and it returned. I was paralysed, watching it repeat the movements from the night before. Except this time, when it stood it was a foot taller. I paid frozen, panicked attention to its thin frame, it’s boney hands. Black liquid slowly dripped from its fingertips and onto the carpet. Again, when the light turned on, it disappeared and I stayed awake with the light on. The next morning I stared in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and cried. I needed this feeling to leave. I needed sleep. Throughout the day I felt eyes everywhere, the sight of shadows sent me into a panic. But it was in my head. It had to be. I am not the kind of person to wear tin foil hats and hunt for ghosts, so I refused to believe that this was anything more than a monster under the bed. I got home and sleep began to call me but as I walked into the bedroom my heart dropped. There was something on the floor. Two clusters of black dots blemished the carpet, each collection less than a metre apart. The stains looked like ink the same inky black that dripped from my tormentors hands. I did not sleep. Not for a second. I laid on the couch wrapped in blankets with a knife held under my pillow, flinching at the slightest noise or flicker. The morning felt like night. All sense of time was disrupted, I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp. I got up from my couch, the knife clutched tightly in my hands. I walked to the room and the knife fell to the floor. I could feel blood pooling around me. The blood was seeping from my butchered foot and into the cracks of the floorboards. But my gaze was fixated on the walls. At the black dripping letters written across the plaster. “Why are you hiding?” The white hot pain spreading up my legs was numbed by the rampant thoughts in my mind. I crawled from the carpet to the floorboards of my living room. Travelling in and out of consciousness. I grabbed my phone from the table and saw a second message on the screen. “I can see you.” I couldn’t take it. I collapsed on the floor after dialling the emergency service number. A trail of blood tracking my movements. I woke up a day later in a hospital room. I told them what happened, I told them about the figure in the dark and asked them about the writing in the walls. They chalked it up to pain meds and delusions but I know what I saw. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to sleep.


Ina is a small town in Ilinois. The place was first settled around 1840. But the main settlement was a bit farther from Ina, about 3 miles away to the northeast. That was called Spring Garden at the time. After the railway was built in 1905, more people came to this area, and the centre was moved towards Ina. The town became a stop on the Chicago and Eastern Illinois Railroad, which connected with the major rail lines of the Midwestern United States. Nonetheless, as in almost all towns, this one also has a dark history. Dark memories, which people do not really like talking about. This story, however, could not fade away: there were rumours in the beginning and rumours turned into facts. And facts reached the press; they turned into the news which reached the whole world. As his boss and colleagues described him, Russel Keith Dardeen was a very reliable, honest and helpful person. He worked at the Rend Lake Water Conservancy District. But one day in November 1987, when he did not turn up without checking in, his employer called the police and his parents who did not see him either. When the police arrived at his parents’ home, Don Dardeen, his father gave the police access to Keith's trailer. When the police entered the trailer on the 18th of November, they faced a horrible scene: Elaine Dardeen, her son Peter, and her newborn daughter were brutally beaten up with a baseball bat given to the son by his father for his birthday. Elaine's body was duck taped, and the two children were put in bed. The room seemed to be cleaned up, which indicated that whoever did this terrible murder, was not in a hurry. ‘Is it possible that the husband murdered his family?’ – the detectives and people asked. However, this presumption soon dissipated as they found Keith’s body in a field. He was shot three times, apart from his body was removed. Interestingly, his car was somewhere else: it was found at the police station in a nearby town, Benton. The interior of the car was bloody, which implied that the scene of his murder had been that place. When the news broke out, people got terrified, and they all started to protect themselves by watching their properties, wearing shotguns and looking behind their back. They were also afraid of strangers. As I was walking down the streets after work, they were open and empty. Families did not allow their kids to go out. People preferred getting around by car, instead of walking. As for the investigation, about 100 people were interrogated, but none of them turned out to be a suspect. The motive and the reason for the murder were also unclear. In the meantime, Keith’s mother did not give up: she was pushing the place to continue the investigation and asked for the help of the public as well. However, the murder was so brutal that the media was reluctant to detail it. You might ask if there are any improvements in this case. The year 2000 was a turning point. A serial killer, Tommy Lyn Sells was apprehended and claimed to kill the family among other people. According to Tommy Lyn Sells, he met Keith at a truck stop, and he invited him for dinner at his home then offered him sex, including his wife. This claim, however, is not reliable because Sells was an untrustful person and his story was not convincing. He was executed in 2014, and the question of whether he committed it or not is gone with him. He admitted committing more than 70 murders, and this could be one that he was responsible for. But we do not know for sure. The thing is that uncertain answers are as uncomfortable as unanswered questions. To not know is to suffer. To know can be a burden. The answers you seek may be the very thing that you wish to avoid.


For what it’s worth, Mr. Hawaii already saw the Lugar hanging through my hoodie from the window. No fooling him. The police were on their way even before the convenience store door *ding-donged* my arrival. Hey, it was my first time, for whatever that’s worth, shoot me. The closed-circuit television captured me in black and white glory. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Total nonchalance, like back before I was allowed to listen to Slayer and Mom would lead me through the great glass gates of Targets and Home Depots. For what it’s worth, she did all the talking then. “Got one of those slushie machines?” My voice didn’t even crack. That was the first trick. Confidence. Mr. Hawaii’s fists pressed into the counter as he eyed me. So much hair. It tickled his knuckles and crawled up his arms into the half-buttoned vacation shirt, like back when Mom almost got tackled by the mall security woman with gorilla arms. After that, we had to drive the entire length of her collection of Joan Jett CDs before stopping again. If it’s worth anything, that’s when I first learned what cunt meant. Waiting on Mr. Hawaii’s response, my kneecaps wobbled in my jeans, the scabbed one catching denim. It was too late to turn around and abandon the plan now. Fortunately, he broke and raised his plump finger at the corner of the store. “Over there.” Don’t turn your back, Mom would say. But, for what it’s worth, this wasn’t Herman’s Hardware Supply where the aisles stretched into the ceiling. This was Konnor’s Kwick Mart where convex security mirrors were nailed to the wall. Mr. Hawaii watched me watch him from the glass. “What’re these worth?” My hand patted my empty back pocket like it was looking for a wallet. That was the second trick. Mislead. “One ninety-nine. Large.” His head ballooned in the mirror as I reached for one of the plastic cups. Cherry-red slush *glug-glugled* from the machine, like back last winter when Mom fell face-forward into the motel parking lot. Her blood melted the asphalt snow into dirty clumps of brown tar. For what it’s worth, the hanging flap of forehead didn’t even make me vomit, even when she told me to press it to her skull so she could super glue it shut. I let the slushie machine shudder to a stop. The thick flavored syrup didn’t even climb up to the brim. It was the least I could do, if that’s worth anything. Mr. Hawaii hadn’t moved. “Hey, if I worked here, I’d never stop drinking these.” My smile was big enough to show teeth. That was the third trick. Befriend. For what it’s worth, that got Mr. Hawaii to raise an eyebrow. The gun slapped against the bottom of my stomach as I walked past the great wall of chips. Flammin’ Hot BBQ. Sour Cream and Onion. Nacho Cheese. Charbroiled Bacon Burger. Each bag, a three-course meal, like back when Mom was too sick to get out of bed, and I got to eat from a motel vending machine for a week. For what it’s worth, it spit out two snacks for the price of one if you held down the “A” and “B” buttons at the same time. After that, it was back to pre-packaged salads and granola bars. Mr. Hawaii unfurled his fists to tap the counter, looking feverishly out the window. This should have tipped me off, but for whatever it’s worth, it didn’t. I was too busy flipping through the bags of chips like they were porno mags. “Hey, what’s your favorite flavor?” I asked. His shoulders sagged. Again, the eyebrow raised. For what it’s worth, he even stopped drumming his fingers against the counter. The corner of a single dark blue bag poked out from the back of the shelf. Hey, Cool Ranch, that’s one I’ve always wanted to try. Pulling it free, all the chips in front fell to the floor. Salt and Vinegar. New York Style Pizza. They scattered at my feet. My scabbed kneecap stung as I knelt down on it. “Shit, sorry. I got it.” For what it’s worth, most of the bags fit in the crook of my arm, but as I stood back up my head knocked a glass jar of queso to the floor. The congealed cheese splattered over my shoes sending the broken lid rolling down the aisle. If it’s worth anything, the gun didn’t go off. Mom would be rolling in her grave. Mr. Hawaii *tick-ticked* his tongue. “Alright,” he said, the edge in his voice was gone. “What do you think you’re doing?” Did I do it now? Mom never let me watch this part, like back when we stopped at the gas station surrounded by palm trees and desert. The first time I heard a gunshot, for what it’s worth. She almost caught me trying to shove an ice cream sandwich down my pants when she came up behind me. “Car,” she said. That was the signal. My jeans strangled the frozen treat against my thigh as I shuffled outside and around the corner to where we parked. Mom started shouting at the attendant. Her voice made it all the way into the car, muffled by concrete walls and tempered glass. I leaned forward to adjust the passenger’s seat. And boom! The Fat Boy popped open like a blown out diaper. “Eh?” Mr. Hawaii asked. The gun stayed deep in my hoodie, if that’s worth anything. “Look, just bring whatever you want up. Okay?” His shaky mannerisms evolved into confidence. I snatched the blue bag of chips and stumbled to the counter. The condensation from the slushie trickled down the sides of the cup, pooling against my thumb and finger. Mr. Hawaii reached into his back pocket, looking down his gold-tinted aviators at me. Did I do it now? He slapped his thick wallet on the counter, too big to stay folded shut, and fingered out a slick black card. The register *beep-beeped* as he entered prices. A single large slushie, one ninety-nine. One bag of family sized potato chips, two forty-five. For what it’s worth, he answered my question. “Cool Ranch.” He took his slick black card and swiped it through the machine. “That’s my favorite too.” A package of Newport menthols ruffled in his breast pocket as he crammed the card back into his wallet, like this morning when Mom died. Her half-smoked cigarette had rolled beneath the crack of the bathroom door while I watched Good Morning America on the box TV. She’d fallen asleep on the toilet before, but wasting a cigarette? She never wasted anything. I knocked first, for what it’s worth. Each round louder than the last. By the time Robin Roberts sent everyone to a commercial break, I was jimmying the lock open. Too still to be asleep, her body lay cradled in the small gap between the tub and the toilet. The cord from the motel’s courtesy hair dryer wrapped tight around her bicep. I didn’t know CPR, but for what it’s worth, I pulled her free and mimicked what Dr. Greene did in reruns of ER. Glass from a broken syringe sliced into my knee as I straddled over her and hammered her chest with the heel of my hand. “You hear me, kid?” Mr. Hawaii ripped the printed receipt from its box. “Said, there’s a homeless shelter two-blocks up.” He pointed his plump finger in the same direction as the slushie machine. “Let me give ya the address.” If it’s worth anything, my knees stopped wobbling. Mr. Hawaii scribbled something down on the back of the receipt in black marker. The dark ink bled through and smelled like bad gasoline. “Tell ‘em Steve sent ya.”I shoved the receipt and the chips into my hoodie with the Lugar. Did I do it now? I didn’t, if that’s worth anything. I mumbled thanks and left. Didn’t even make eye contact. Walked right out into the parking lot and kept going. Mom would have been so disappointed. Taking a large gulp of slushie, a chunk of cherry flavored ice melted down my throat. The cold trail left behind crawled up the back of my jaw and into my temples. My eyes slammed shut to try and override the inevitable brain freeze, like back when Mom laughed at me for biting straight into an ice cream cone. The jolt of pain from the frosted vanilla bean made me drop the treat with a *splat*. And if it’s worth anything, Mom never bought me sweets. I cried harder than Mom laughed. Dots of ice cream stippled the bottom of my overalls and Buzz-Lightyear sneakers. Mom knelt over my broken cone and held her own sprinkled covered one up to me. She didn’t even hesitate, for what it’s worth. “This time don’t eat it all at once. Okay?” she chuckled. “It’s not going anywhere.” “You. Stop.” a voice commanded. A shadow, too skinny to be Mr. Hawaii’s, appeared beside mine. “Turn around. Hands where I can see ‘em.” For what it’s worth, I didn’t let go of the slushie as I turned. Held it up in the air like a holy grail, condensation dripping to the ground. The voice belonged to a woman in brown starch. Neat and ironed. A cop uniform. She didn’t have gorilla arms, if that’s worth anything, but one of them was raised at the elbow. Hand on holster. “Got a call ‘bout a possible robbery,” Ms. Starch said. “You causin’ trouble?” Her uniform was tucked in tight. Not a single wrinkle. My knees shook. “No. No. He paid,” I said, reaching into my hoodie. The receipt would be proof of that. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t know the outline of the Lugar was visible. The slushie splattered on the cement sidewalk first. My body followed, legs crumpling beneath the weight of my torso. Someone yelled “shit.” It may have been me. I slammed into the sidewalk like a broken toilet seat. Loose gravel embedded into my face and shoulder. A warm pain drooled from my hip, spilling out onto the concrete and into the pool of slush. The Cool Ranch chips were decimated, for what it’s worth. Popped and crunched beneath my gut. No chance of saving them.


It was worth it. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head as I ascend from the cave. My breath comes in gasps. My fingernails are dirty and caked in blood. My muscles shake, my head pounds with exhaustion, and my ankle throbs. Across my back I carry a weight that drags me down like an anchor, threatening to trap me in this cave forever. It was worth it. My brother and I were on an archaeological excavation in the Yucatán when we discovered an unknown temple. As we ecstatically began to explore its depths, we found a painting of an idol. An idol with glowing blue eyes and a black, sinewy form. So eerie, and yet so intriguing and beautiful it defied comprehension. We became obsessed with finding it. At first we believed it would be at the site, but it quickly became evident that this wasn’t the case. After days spent scouring the ruins we abandoned our prestigious dig, including the new temple, and made for the city. It was worth it. We scoured the market. We talked to gurus, shamans, con men, and señoras selling fruit on the ground. We begged every person we talked to for any rumor, myth, or legend they knew about the idol. We spent every penny we had until we were beggars, dependent on the charity of those around us for food and shelter. It was worth it. Finally, we got our break deep within the recesses of a souvenir shop. The owner led us past rows of cheap clothing and knick knacks to her private office, where she pulled a book from a dusty shelf. The book showed the way to an island shrouded in pink clouds, an island with a cave protecting an idol with bright blue eyes and a dark body. The shop owner insisted we abandon our search. She spoke of the corruptive powers of the idol, and the potential harm its bearer could bring on themselves and others. We didn’t listen. When it became clear we intended to take the book, the shop owner tried to grab it and run. She fell and broke her leg in the ensuing struggle. It was worth it. It took another month of menial labor to save the money for supplies for our expedition. We barely ate, surviving mainly on trampled, moldy scraps from the market. We sheltered in alleys at night, fending off so many rats, fleas, and stray dogs that we barely slept. It was worth it. Finally we set off at a feverish pace toward our island. We walked, we rode in the backs of trucks, we stole bicycles, and we finally forced a frightened man at gunpoint to take us to the island in his boat. We jumped overboard as soon as it was within sight and swam the rest of the way. It was worth it. The cave was predictably treacherous. We fell enough times that soon we were bleeding on every limb. I sprained my ankle so badly I almost passed out, and my brother snapped both of the bones in his left forearm. But we continued on, stumbling through tunnel after tunnel. It was worth it. The idol rested in the center of a cavernous room, settled on a stone altar. Surrounding it was a lake of magma, the heat so intense it singed our faces. There was no voice, no writing, nothing to indicate our next step. But we knew anyway. The idol demanded a life in return for its possession. Something snapped inside my brother. For the first time in our quest, fear and doubt filled his expression. He grabbed my arm, face pleading, “No! It isn’t worth it!” I gazed at him for a long moment. My playmate, my lifelong companion, my best friend. And then in one motion I shoved him into the magma. He only screamed for a moment before he was enveloped. It was worth it. The magma vanished in an instant, and I found myself before the idol. It was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand, small enough to fit in my satchel. But power tingled through it, and through me. I took it and returned the way we’d come. I finally collapse outside the cave. My life, my career, and my beloved brother are gone. I am marooned on an island with no hope of escape. I take the idol from my satchel and lock my gaze with its blue eyes. They begin to glow more fiercely, and the power thrumming through it grows. I feel a presence shift from the idol to reside in me, whispering to me of kingdoms, power, glory, bloodshed. I stagger to my feet, a being remade. It was worth it.


Two of our own and one of O’Riley’s goons are dead in an alleyway on Ludlow and Canal, and the only witness we have is some street kid who says he didn’t see anything. At least, that’s what I think he said. Couldn’t take him to the station - it’s crawling with crooked cops who’ll tip off the family before we even get the cuffs off. Had to do it in a warehouse down the road and had to call in Mulroney. He’ll get this egg to crack. “Whadda we got,” Mulroney said. “Neighborhood kid,” I replied. “Not giving us his name, and he’s got no ID.” “So make him talk.” “I’ve been trying.” “And.” “And he’s *been* talking. But-” “But what?” “He only responds to me in Martin Scorcese projects.” “What do you mean?” “Like he responds to everything we ask with the name of something directed by Martin Scorcese. And I gotta say, it’s crazy how so many of his titles fit standard police questions.” “Alright, Thompson. Hand me a smoke and meet me in there. I’ll take care of this.” Mulroney approached the door of the makeshift interrogation room and gave it a few taps. “Who’s That Knocking at my Door?” I saw Mul throw on and off a confused look in a split second, but it didn’t phase him. Consummate professional, this guy. “Name’s Detective Mulroney, and I want to ask you about what you saw.” He pulls a chair up next to the kid. “But first, I just want you to tell me about yourself.” “Italianamerican.” “Alright. What else? What age are you?” “The Age of Innocence.” You can see when it clicked for Mulroney. “Where do you live?” “New York, New York.” “What do you do?” “Taxi Driver.” “Motherf-” Mulroney’s met a lot of hard-boiled eggs doing this job, but this kid’s a full 20 minutes. He’ll get through. The detective’s been here before. I mean, not in this specific situation. “Let’s move on to why we’re talking to you. I want you to tell me what happened back there. In as much detail as possible.” “Gangs of New York. Silence.” "Who was silent?" "The Irishman." “Okay…anything else? You do know I’ve got dead officers on my hands. Two great men.” “Goodfellas.” “This some joke to you? I’m dealing with five of these a night in this city.” “Mean Streets.” His patience was razor thin. He was ready to charge the kid, like some kind of raging bu- Suddenly Mulroney lit up with an idea. “How about we go with something simple? Can you give a description of the person that killed O’Riley’s man or the cops? What was…the color of his shirt?” “The Color of Money.” “Alright, good. What time did this dust-up go down? While people were still working at the bank next door?” “After Hours.” “Okay, okay. Good. Thompson, you writing this down?” “What else, kid?” I hand Mulroney the bullet shell I picked up at the site. “You know where this would come from, kid? Can you see it alright?” “Shine a Light.” The flashlight beam bathed the table and casing in a soft white glow. The kid picked up the shell. “Made in Milan.” “Alright, we can trace back the bullet manufacturer and see which gang has the connection. But how could a kid like you know that?” “My Voyage to Italy.” Always leave it to Mulroney to turn this cold case white hot again. But before we get anything else out, we heard a loud smash from the back door. “Damn - sounds like O’Riley’s boys coming to collect a trophy. Thompson, if we hold them off long enough, the kid can get out the side door.” “Sure thing.” “Kid, you gotta leave. I need you to meet me at the 14th Precinct tomorrow at noon. Any family you can go to in the meantime?” “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.” “Man, that’s annoying in this particular situation. Mul, what should we do?” “Just get out of here, kid. Thompson, get ready for a fight.” “No,” the kid said. I furiously racked my brain for Martin’s filmography, but I got nothing. Wait, I got nothing. “Hugo,” the kid said. “I’ll stay.” I’ve never forgotten the calmness of that kid’s face, or the embrace between him and Mulroney. Like a father watching his son become a man. There was no time to soak it in. One brave kid showing a lifetime of courage in a single moment. So just like that, we departed.


*\*Edit: I removed the "Prologue" because I don't think it is necessary or adds to the story.* Chapter One: Vampires I rubbed my eyes to remove the sleep. Sitting up in my bed, I could see from my window that it was already dark outside. I glanced over to my clock. 9:00 PM. That's good. That means I slept 12 hours. And it gives me time to get ready before Emily and her friend pick me up at 11:00 PM. I consider myself nocturnal. I prefer to sleep during the day and be up at night. I never liked waking up early or having a typical 9-5 job. Not that I have a job now. Since graduating high-school 5 years ago I have not been able to keep a steady job. I move from one shitty paying job to another. After I was fired from my last one for spitting in a client's meal, I decided to say fuck it and give up. No one was doing anything big or important in this shitty town anyway. Over the past 10 years I've watched the city atrophy. Businesses left, people moved out, and only those who were too poor or too stupid to leave stuck around, including my family. I knew the moment I graduated high school that I was never leaving this city. That I would live and die here. Not because I want to stay here, but because no one leaves here anymore. No one comes and no one goes. Not since the gangs moved in... With a sigh I crawled out of my bed and made my way over to my dresser. I pushed the negative thoughts out of my head as I looked through my drawers to put together an outfit. I had recently turned 23 and tonight I was going to celebrate. There's nothing else to do in hell hole than work, sleep, fuck and party. And for the rest of tonight I only planned to do one of those things. I slid a black cropped tank top of my head, followed by a black mesh top. I put on my favorite pair of fitted black cargo pants, accessorized with chains, and completed my look with black platform combat boots. I brushed out my shoulder length hair and parted it down the middle. The dyed green ends starting to fade and blend into my natural dark brown color. I wrapped each side up into bun and pulled some strands out to frame my face. I then took my time working on my make-up. I wanted to really sell the "goth/rave girl vibe". I found some assorted bright neon stick on gems and applied them around my eyes, covered with dark green eye shadow and an intense black liner. Lastly, I put on matte black lipstick, set my face and hair so the look would hold all night, and the sprayed some body glitter on my arms and around my collarbone. I grabbed some studded earrings and bracelets and took one last look at myself in the mirror before I decided the look was finished. My phone buzzed from on my bedside table. I picked it up and read Emily's message. She will be here in 10 minutes. Did it take me that long to get ready? I grabbed my bag before leaving my room. I walked down the hallway, passed my parent's shut bedroom door, towards the stairs where my brother, Christopher's room is located. I noticed my brother's door was slightly ajar so I pushed it open and stood in his doorway. His thin and lanky frame was slouched in his gaming chair, intensely focused on the game on his monitor, which provided the only illumination in his room. His shaggy brown hair fell over his bloodshot eyes. He was surrounded by empty energy drink bottles and bags of chips. "Hey." I greeted him. "Hey," he responded. "I'm going out." "Cool. With Emily?" He asked, not removing his stare from the computer screen. I wonder how long he had been up playing games. He doesn't sleep much, but he also has no where else to be or anything else to do, so he stays in his cave all day. At 19, he has never had a job. But I can't judge. "Yeah. Her friend Patrick is taking us to this new club downtown. I don't know when I'll be home." I offer. "Ok, I won't wait up." he smirks. I glance down the hall to the closed bedroom door. "Anything from them?" I ask, not needing to explain the question. "Nope." He curtly responds, still not breaking eye contact with his screen. "Oh well. I'll see you." I say before walking away and down the stairs. "Be safe." I hear him say, quietly. \ Outside, Emily pulls up riding shotgun in an beat up, grey 2010 Toyota Camry. The car looks like it smells like weed and Doritos. The grey paint is faded and chipped, and the several parts of the car are being eroded by rust. As the car comes to a stop in front of my house, Emily sticks her hand out the window and waves me over. In the driver's seat, is a husky looking guy with short, blonde hair and a matching blonde beard, trimmed neatly. I open the backseat door and immediately the scent hits me. Weed...and yep, Doritos. Called it. "Hey!" I say excitedly to the carpool as I slide into the seat and close the door. I look for my seat belt and cannot find it. The floor in the back seat of the car is filled with trash and other miscellaneous items. I use my foot to clear an empty space in front of me. Emily whips around to face me, her face covered in bright pink eye shadow and lipstick, adorned in similar jewels as my own. She is wearing her dirty blonde hair down, with small braids through out. "Alena, this is Patrick!" She enthusiastically introduces the man in the driver's seat. "Hey Alena, nice to meet you." He says smilingly to the rear view mirror and making eye contact with me without turning around. He puts the car into drive and pulls out onto the road. I greet him back. "Are you so excited?" Emily asks, still contorting her body to face me from the passenger's seat. She's smiling wide, and her pupils are massive. Small beads of sweat have formed on her forehead. She's already high. "Yes! I'm so ready to party." I respond. "So what is this place?" "Oh, it's this super cool club downtown! I guess it's been open for a while but I had never heard of it. Patrick goes there all the time and says he can get us in, he knows the bouncer or whatever. The music is supposed to be really cool, and the drugs are even better!" She says all this without taking a breath. "What are you on?" I laugh. "Cocaine. Duh." Emily says as she whips herself back around in her seat. She lowers the overhead mirror and checks her make up. "Patrick has the best. But he says this stuff at the club is way better. Even better than H!" Her eyes dart to meet mine through the mirror. "Oh, cool." I say. She knows I don't do H anymore. I couldn't handle it, things got out of control. "Yeah, have you heard about it?" Patrick finally joins the conversation. "It's seriously the best stuff ever. It use to be really hard to get but now these clubs are popping up everywhere and they are the only places you can find it." "It's not on the street?" I ask, suspicious. "No. It's tightly regulated by..."He trailed off, like he didn't want to finish the sentence. "By what?" I asked, but Emily interrupted, slamming the overhead mirror up, "Who cares? This shit is supposed to amazing! And we don't even have to worry about the cops, they never bother these clubs. I guess they have an understanding or whatever." That gave it away. The only entities not bother by the police are the gangs. I felt my heart rate increase as we turned a corner. I had heard stories, but I didn't know what was real or what was being told like a fairy-tale to deter kids from getting mixed up with the gangs. Soon I could see the building in sight. It was a modern building painted in a dark color. In the darkness, it looked black. There were no windows, and what looked like only one door to get in. A neon purple sign hung above the entrance way: "The Lair" it read. Well that is ominous. We parked on the street a block from the club. Downtown was beginning to look like a ghost town. Two-thirds of the businesses and buildings were closed with "For Lease" signs hanging in their windows. The street was relatively empty except for a line of cars parked on the same side, leading up to the club. Although the club looked busy, it was eerily quiet outside. A line of people were waiting to get in. I followed Patrick and Emily as they passed the line and headed straight for the bouncer at the entrance. Patrick said something to the bouncer, turning to point to Emily and myself. The man nodded and waved us through. He was unsurprisingly tall and muscular with a stern look on his face, but what caught my attention was the fresh puncture wounds on the right side of his neck. Emily bounced up to the entrance, beaming with excitement. I followed behind her, taking one last look at the facade before entering into the darkness, and knowing in my heart that the stories we were told as kids were true. Vampires are real.


My dog’s name is John Smith. The name was a bit of a joke between me and my sister, who got John Smith for me years ago. She asked me what I would name him, and I joked that I’d give him a full, common name. Ultimately, I settled on John Smith. Not just John. Not Johnny. Always John Smith. John Smith is a mutt. I’ve thought about doing one of those dog DNA kits, but I’ve never really been curious about the specifics of his dog heritage. He’s much more than the sum of his parts. He’s my buddy. I recently got out of a four-year relationship. The breakup was mutual, but of course, it still stings. I wish I could say I've been handling it well, but that’d be a lie. I’ve been a mess. Not the usual tubs of ice cream and spurts of crying. I’ve still been hitting the gym, still been working, still been seeing friends. But I’ve just been coasting. I’ve just been numb. So, I decided to take a week off from work, and do something to get some space away from the city. My hope was that I’d be able to clear my mind for a bit, maybe recalibrate my brain and in turn, my life. Of course, I couldn’t go without my buddy. I packed my backpack, a duffel bag, and John Smith’s supplies and threw them in my old Jeep. The thing was beaten up but boy, did I love driving it. Told my friends and family that I'd be heading to the woods about an hour and a half outside the city, and that I wouldn’t be reachable for about a week. My mom was worried, of course, both about my general demeanor and the fact that I’d be alone for a week in the remote woods. I told her I wouldn’t be alone. It was a beautiful, snowy drive out of the hustle-and-bustle and into the stillness of nature. I wasn’t a huge nature person, to be perfectly honest. I’d been camping a few times but not since after my dad died. Something appealed to me, though, about spending a week with John Smith, and getting away from work, social media, anything that could send me into an anxiety spiral. We got to the cabin, I dropped our stuff off, and then I took John Smith out for a walk through the woods. John Smith took care of some business at one point. I didn’t pay much attention to where he did it. Maybe I should have. That’s the only thing I can think about now. We got back to the cabin not too long after. I took out my guitar and set up some of my recording equipment, and recorded some music well into the evening. I started hearing the scratching around ten p.m. It sounded like fingernails sliding across the window. I leaned my guitar against the bed and went to check it out. Looking out the window, I didn’t see anything. Not too long later, the wind started to pick up. I heard the window shutters slam into the wall outside over and over again. John Smith was getting scared, I could tell. He stood behind me as I opened the front door and stepped outside. “Stay here,” I told John Smith. I closed the door behind myself and stood on the porch of the cabin. Scanning the woods in front of me, my eyes eventually began to adjust to the darkness. My eyes came across it. It wasn’t trying to hide. It wasn’t trying to sneak around. It was standing right there. It looked hunched over, but even hunched over, it was massive, much taller than me. I couldn’t make out most of its features, but I could tell that it had branches sticking out of it every which way. It was glistening, as if it was melting in front of me. It was still. I somehow knew it had been standing there for a while, maybe hours. I backed up against the front door and reached for the handle, my hand bouncing off it a few times before I finally wrapped my hand around it. I opened the door, swung myself in, and slammed it shut. I started to pace around the cabin, John Smith following me step-by-step. *What the fuck was this thing?* It didn’t seem human. So what was it? I didn’t care. John Smith and I needed to get the fuck out of there. I grabbed my keys and put on my coat. I put a leash on John Smith; I wasn’t letting him out of my sight, and worst case scenario, I could let go of it and he could just run away. I looked out the window. It was gone. That was seconds before my Jeep crashed through the front door, its roof scraping the wood floor as it slid into the cabin. Part of the cabin roof collapsed. I immediately dove for John Smith, covering him and squeezing him tight in case any debris fell near him. I turned to see the Jeep, finally still, upside-down, being pulled back out of the cabin, taking fragments of wood with it. It was pulled out and thrown into the woods, like it was attached to a string and was viciously yanked. It stepped into the gaping hole the Jeep had created. I could see its outline. I rose to my feet quickly, looking around for anything I could use as a defense. I spotted my guitar. Grabbing it, I made sure John Smith was behind me. It approached, and with all of my might, I smashed the guitar over its head. It didn’t flinch. With a long arm resembling a mossy tree trunk, it swept me out of the way. I flew into the side wall, shattering a framed picture that was hung up. I must’ve blacked out for a moment, because when I came to, I saw it grab John Smith. It seemed to be in no hurry. John Smith barked as it grabbed him. The back of my head was bleeding. I could feel my blood trickling down the back of my neck. I tried to get up as it carried John Smith towards the opening in the cabin. John Smith was wriggling aggressively, trying with everything he had to get away from it. It held John Smith in its arms, showing no signs of effort as it slowly walked out of the cabin. I had no time to lose. I finally made it to my feet, wobbly but able to walk. I reached the opening the Jeep had made, and saw the back of it, seeing John Smith still thrashing in its arms. It walked towards the woods. Something told me that if it made it to the woods with John Smith, I’d never see him again. I knew there was an ax nearby. I had planned to chop some more wood for the fire the next morning. I stumbled my way over to where it was, near a tree stump that served as its home base. My head bleeding, feeling myself getting dizzy, I grabbed the ax and dragged it for a few feet before lifting it into my hands. I gripped the wood, blood streaming from the back of my head down the back of my right arm and seeping into the handle. It was almost into the woods. I had no time left. I ran towards it, and struck it with the blade of the ax in the back of its head. It dropped John Smith, who yelped as he landed. “Run!” I screamed at John Smith, and John Smith listened. He ran back towards the cabin as I let go of the ax, sticking out of its head. It dropped to a knee, and I pulled the ax out of its head, which felt like pulling it out of a massive tree. It twisted violently, throwing me back towards the cabin. I slid into the snowy ground, the ax ending up feet in front of me. When I picked my head up to look for it, it was gone. I scanned each individual tree in my view, and couldn’t see it. I flinched when I felt something licking my bloody hand. It was John Smith. I let out a deep breath before planting my head back down on the snow. I write this inside the now torn-open cabin, snow coming down outside. John Smith sits at my feet, panting. We have a fire going, but it’s freezing. My Jeep is mangled. There’s no signal for my phone. The nearest sign of life might be miles away. And it wants my dog. I’m not letting it get my fucking dog.


I was deemed the most "normal" of Malkmuth's Legion, and as a result, I was also deemed the guardian of their one and only child. The deal was simple. I would take care of his daughter, and all my expenses would be taken care of, every frivolity that I desired would be given to me. The only catch? She could never know who her father was. He had said to me no child should be part of the Legion, no matter how impoverished or needy they were. It was why he kept his Legion as child-free as possible. I had always assumed he thought it a weakness, to desire a family, to know that love. And maybe he was right. On her first birthday, Malkmuth brought a single black gift box sealed with dark purple ribbon to the house he had put us in. It matched his daughter, Violetta, so-named for her raven hair and strangely violet eyes. He didn't stay to meet her, and he told me to not tell her that her father gave her this gift. So I did the next-best thing: I told her someone from the dark lord's Legion gave her this gift. She was one, so she didn't seem to understand either way. The days came and the days went, and soon enough, it was Christmas. It was snowing, by some miracle, and we were watching it slowly drift down from the sky in heavy flakes when a familiar black-robed, purple-masked form came up our driveway... carrying in their hands a single black gift box. He looked our way, and little Violetta looked his, and while it was impossible to say with the mask he wore, it looked like their gazes connected. I quickly covered Violetta's eyes and pulled her away from the window, and the doorbell rang. I set her down in front of the television with some children's show with children who had giant heads and little bodies, and briskly walked to the door. When I opened the door, I took the gift box and scowled. "What happened to our agreement?" "I am your Lord, and you dare to be so vitriolic?" Malkmuth asked, a chuckle hidden in his words. "You said she can't know who her father is," I countered. "Does she?" "Well she's going to figure it out if you make a habit out of coming over!" "Children are not nearly so clever." I frowned at that. "You do not know much about children, my Lord. I am the youngest of six, I can tell you, children are indeed that smart..." "Nonsense. Give her this gift." "I'll give Violetta this gift. But you should be careful, if you really don't want her to figure things out." I closed the door before he could get another word in, shaking all over. Never had I been contrary to the dark lord, and to know he could end me easily if he so wished it terrified me. Such was his power. On the other side of the door, he marveled, "Violetta... what a lovely name you gave her," in a low whisper before turning and heading back down the path to his car.


Fog stretched like a tarpaulin through the cold streets of Victorian London. Young Elizabeth had eaten some bread and beans in one of the pubs for a meagre supper and was about to go to one of the communal dormitories where, for a little money, one could get shelter from the nightly cold and a blanket, when she heard quick footsteps behind her. Speeding up her own walk, she turned into Berner Street. She didn't get far, though, because just a few seconds later a leathery hand wrapped itself around her neck from behind and squeezed, taking away her breath to scream. Deep red blood seeped from the gaping wound on her neck and ran down the curb, mingled with the autumn rain. A waiter who was taking his pub's rubbish to the yard spotted the lifeless body and reported his sight to the local police station. But Elizabeth, despite alerting the police, was not to be the last victim on this uncomfortable night. *130 years later* "Seriously? Only 17 pounds each?" Maria raised an eyebrow in disbelief. She didn't have much time to complain about the stinginess of her guests today, though, because no sooner had the last guest left the restaurant than the restaurant manager asked Maria into his office. "Paolo called in sick," Bruno grumbled, typing something on his keyboard. Maria groaned. Paolo, the colleague who was actually in charge of chopping, pulping and dressing, was not sick. The whole staff knew that by now. He just had a penchant for cannabis-infused treats and preferred to float very high above the clouds instead of showing up for work. Maria was one of the few colleagues at the trendy London restaurant who had no problem taking the night shift. Many of the cooks and waiters, because of the history of the street, refused to stay longer than necessary and especially alone in the location. Exactly 130 years ago, the body of a young woman was found here in what is now Henriques Street at around 1:00 in the night. The person who committed this gruesome act was none other than the serial killer now known as Jack the Ripper. Whenever one of her colleagues began to talk about the alleged haunting of this street, she could only shake her head with laughter. Maria did not believe in ghosts or anything else supernatural. And she was sure that Jack The Ripper was just a maniac who had a hatred for women. That such people exist has been proven countless times in recent years. After a short negotiation about whether Maria would still take the day shift tomorrow or have a day off, the young cook and her supervisor decided that she could sleep in the next day. When the last colleague had also tidied up his station and said goodbye to his well-deserved evening off, Maria rummaged out all the utensils she would need for the preparation. For a moment, she looked around the empty room, which had been wild a few hours ago and smelled of countless delicacies. Maria had always dreamed of becoming a cook. But since there were no suitable apprenticeships in Maria's place of residence at the time, she decided to pursue a career as an industrial clerk after school. After three years of dragging on and on, and one and a half years in a depressing open-plan office, she decided she didn't want to go on like that. On a spur of the moment whim, she sent in an application for a vacancy as a cook in a newly opened restaurant in Whitechapel. She didn't even expect a reply and was all the more surprised when an invitation for an interview popped up in her email box a little later. The owner of the restaurant had been so impressed by Maria's motivation, commitment and attitude to life that she was allowed to sign a contract for a permanent position only a short time later. For the first two months, Maria had been sleeping in hotels or staying with friends, as she had moved about 200 kilometres away from her home in Romsey to pursue her dream. After a long search, she finally found an affordable two-bedroom flat close to her new job. In good weather, she usually decided to walk the 20 minutes. If the UK was ever to be miserable with its clichéd crap weather, it was only a few minutes on the District Line. To break the silence, Maria turned on the radio, which had probably been hanging around this spot when Jack The Ripper was doing his mischief here, and listened a little to the quiet music. "Let's get started then," she said to herself and began to quarter small tomatoes and then tip the pieces into the plastic box provided. In rhythmic movements that matched the 80s music, Maria ran to the fridge again to get a new pack of tomatoes. Back at her workstation, she tried to reach for her knife, but this time her grip sank into emptiness. Puzzled, she looked around. She was sure she had left the knife here. Had she taken it to the fridge and left it there? After a short breath and admitting that she was simply tired from the long day at work, After a few minutes of searching, Maria gave up and reached into the wooden block to pull out a similar knife. As she reached for the mental end of the knife handle, an icy shiver ran down her spine. The kitchen had cooled rapidly in the last few minutes and Maria began to freeze. It was actually still quite pleasant outside for the end of September. A quick glance at the list of everything she had to prepare told her that all she had to do was take care of the prawns, the lettuce, and the rudiments for the sauces. On her way to the cold storage, Maria decided to bring back a popsicle as a reward for the work she had done. She placed the box in the space provided and leaned into the freezer to decide between mango, strawberry or chocolate ice cream. Just as she reached for one of the cones, a bang sounded behind her. Startled, the young cook wheeled around. The door of the refrigerated warehouse had slammed shut. Had Bruno not closed the window? No, it was almost impossible for a light late summer breeze to blow the heavy metal door shut. Fortunately, the storage room could also be opened from the inside with a code. When Maria went back to the kitchen, she called out a few times to see if anyone was here. She suspected that the cleaning service had taken care of the cleanliness of the restaurant a little earlier today and that they had closed the door, thinking that the last person had not locked it properly. But there was no answer. She was alone. Suddenly the silence made her feel a little uncomfortable. Silence? Maria's gaze wandered to the radio, which had fallen silent during the time she was away from her desk. With the broom that stood next to the door, she carefully brushed against it, hoping it was just a loose connection. But the old appliance did not make more than a hissing noise. Annoyed, and a little uneasy she switched it off and fumbled her mobile phone out of her chef's jacket. Then she would listen to some music on this new app, or even better continue watching the series she had started a few days ago because her best friend was totally raving about it. She placed her mobile phone against the wall at her station and started playing the fourth episode. Lost in thought, Maria removed one shrimp after another from their shells and placed them in a mixture of oil and various spices. A bloodcurdling scream jolted Maria out of her monotonous movement and the drama that was unfolding between the head doctor and a pretty nurse. In shock, the prawn slipped out of her hand and hit the tiled floor with a soft splat. Without really thinking about it, Maria sprinted in the direction from which the scream had come. Panic was written all over her face as she tore open the back door of the restaurant. This scream underlined her otherwise unfamiliar unease and reinforced her belief that something could not be right. A few seconds earlier, in the rush, she had reached for something that could serve as a weapon. However, when Maria looked around the small side street, she only saw a young couple taking it as a shortcut to their hotel. "Did you hear the scream too?" she gasped when they were within earshot. "What scream? No one screamed here," the young man explained, a little confused, pushing his partner a little away from Maria. "Ok. Have a nice evening," Maria murmured and pulled the door shut behind her. Only now did she realise that of all the things that could be used as weapons in a kitchen, she had reached for a …. skimmer. Carelessly she fired it into one of the sinks and glanced at the clock above the swinging door leading to the bar. It was 1:03. Fog had formed and put a steamed-up film on the windows of the kitchen. Shaking her head, she ran through the kitchen towards the small bar. From panic and frantic breathing, she felt an uncomfortable dryness in her throat. Just as she was about to put on the bottle of cool water, there began to be a rustling in the back of the room. "This darn radio is driving me crazy," Maria cursed, walking quickly to the door, following the radio's cord and yanking the plug out of the wall socket with a jerk. Due to the jerky movement on the power line, the ceiling light began to flicker a little. "This can't be happening. If there's a murderer behind me, it's like a cheap horror film," Maria raged. But Maria was alone. Although it felt as if someone was watching her through the fog outside the window. The unease was still heavy on Maria's chest. She decided to just finish peeling the prawns and then go home for a well-deserved rest. Her colleague Ellen could chop the salad the next morning, there was enough time for that. „Just some cleaning up and then I’m out of here”, Maria said, again only to herself. After she had put her utensils back where they belonged, she let her tired gaze wander over the counters once more. In the place where she had just wiped with a damp cloth, there was now something shining in the dim light of the kitchen lamp. Her knife, which she had been looking for for hours. Confused, Maria raised her eyebrow and put the knife away. Maybe her colleagues were right after all. Maybe Maria was not alone.


Before man, fire did not know its name. It was a bastard child of the Sun, made through unspeakable acts of domination, but cast out in noble embarrassment, cursed for eternity to roam the earth and feed on others just to breathe, breed, rage, dance! It danced. Through countless years and in countless beings, seeking a worthy name in their widened eyes and mangled screams. Yet nothing was found but fear. Delicious fear, endlessly abundant and yet lacking, ultimately, the satiation of an equal. So man was made, in the image of fire.  So true was man to his father. So unrelenting was the force of his insatiability. From the bloom of his youth, fire blitzed his soul. In moments of play, he sought complete domination, thirsting to prove his supremacy with brute force and fear. He would growl just to stoke the fire, he would let out battle cries and pound his chest, feeling within him a force that could break worlds. Gazing at his hands, he imagined with no remorse how it would feel to crush a man, he imagined their shared grin, their unspoken brotherhood in the ultimate dance, the victors spoils above all the consumed fire of the defeated. He walked past crowds and truly wondered why they did not bow. He wondered how certain men could stand peace, and knew that such peace would never last as long as fire was. It was fire that blew the world like the wind, everything deemed good or bad born in debt to possibilities paved by annihilation. By plows soaked in the blood of bureaucracy. By the shrieking sacrifices of kings and commoners alike, their carcasses reeking with disbelief. By ruthless ambition, a man’s willingness to bleed through hell for applause, power, gold, women! Women. Daughters of Eve… cursed for eternity to both love and hate the fire within man. They confounded him, arousing the deepest depths of his fire and yet a maddening softness, as if he were on the edge of his greatest strength and weakness. In full witness of his brutality they would scold his ways and yet gleam with desire, hating and loving the rage within him, hating and loving his hands of fire which pulsed whispers of death, wrapped around their necks in the dance of life. Who could deny themselves to be, if only for a moment, the object of a desire so ancient, eternal, insatiable?  He walks still. Festering under the veneer of civilization, under frail peace—the twisted fire of lesser men, snakes in hollow trees, dry as a desert bone. He walks among husks who have doused their fire in fear, who can no longer comprehend the danger, dousing their fire as if it were not also life. He cannot be stopped. He cares not if he burns. He is always born, he is always coming, the Mad King. Clearing the stage. Over and over again. Laughing, clapping, cursing, dancing, burning. Over and over again. Lost cities born and lost again singing lost songs through lost rubble. Looming in every distance. In every stare, lustful, vicious, unforgiving. A fire clearing snakes in hollow trees, the soil reborn, stronger, virile from the blood. He will never stop. Empires approaching beauty, with beauty, beautiful, burned, and approaching again. He clears the stage, again and again, mindless of his own purpose. And what of he, who burns with fire but does not wish to be devoured by it? He who knows in his heart that all men are hideously unequal, that the Mad King will never be satisfied, can never be stopped, and yet still stands tall against the embers heavy whisper? Blessed are those who seek solace from the fire but do not douse it, who seek solace in the unforgiving wild, wrestling mountains and rushing toward the raging stream, plunging themselves in the freezing cold just to hear the fire scream, to feel the pure heat that is life raging from within, raging to stay alive. They wield the fire like a deft dagger, always seething, always simmering, always piercing the wind in controlled bursts with powerful grace, their practiced bodies scorched and scarred and yet never devoured in their attempt to transcend destiny. Every day is a battle. He stands firmly with the world, inescapably within time, fearless, his minds spear soaked in tears of the Sun. End.