Once upon a time, there was a magician that loved to make magical items.

One day a beautiful fairy came and asked him if if he could take her favorite feather and turn it into a magical quill so she could write out her magical season changing spells. He was so excited and agreed. He took the beautiful purple feather and cast a special spell just for the fairy. It sparkled and turned a brilliant blue light and then went back to it's original state. He took a piece of paper and began to write with the newquilland each line shone that same sparkly blue then faded. It worked! The next day the fairy returned to collect her new quill. The magician explained it was only for her to use and should it fall into the wrong hands it would be very bad. She understood and went home to begin her spell work. When she wasn't using the quill she locked it in a special wooden box she had crafted for her.

Months and seasons passed and the quill served the fairy very well. All the fairies loved her spells and they all were very helpful to them.

One day in late summer the fairy had finished her newest spell and forgot to put the quill away when she was done. She left and even forgot to lock her door! A sneaky spider snuck into the fairy's home and saw the purple feather. She loved purple things and just had to have the feather, so she took it and left. When the fairy arrived home she was so tired she went to bed. The spider simply loved her new purple feather she spent hours playing and admiring it. She then, sitting high on her web, dropped the feather and it splashed a small spot of ink onto the floor. It shimmered blue and sparkled. The now intrigued spider tried to write something with it "purple door" she wrote, and her door turned purple! Woah! She wrote something else "purple house" and her little stump house turned purple too! The spider went out and was so excited she started turning everything she came across purple! Trees, plants, even a passing innocent squirrel was now turned purple to the spider's delight.

The next day the fairy went to go write a new fall spell to turn all the leaves beautiful fall colors but when she opened her quill box the quill was gone! She began frantically looking for it but with no luck. She started asking the other fairies if they had seen it but they were too busy trying to figure out why everything in the forrest was turning purple.

She went to ask the magician for help. He too was very busy trying to figure out the purple problem and how to help fix it. The spider had turned everything in her house purple and all her neighborhood. She looked around and wondered what else she could do with this lovely quill. The fairies were asking everyone if they knew anything.

The poor purple squirrel came forward and told them he had been just working in his garden when Mrs. Spider came by and said hi and suddenly he was purple! He was so confused and could not wash it out. The fairies told him to go to the magician for help and they would go and see Mrs. Spider. The closer the fairies got to Mr. Spider's house they noticed there was more and more purple. They looked at each other, growing increasingly more confused. Maybe Mr. Squirrel wasn't the only creature purple? Was there something in the water? Did one of the Fairy's spells not work properly? What was going on?

The Fairy was on her own quest to find her quill. She travelled and looked every place she had been. She had gone through every book and cranny in her home and had noticed a small web in the corner. She knew she was very tidy so where did this come from? Maybe Mr. Spider had snuck into her home? She decided to go ask her and see if she had been there.

It seemed everyone was looking for Mr. Spider now. Where was she? What was she doing? The hunt was on.

The sneaky Mr. Spider was off still turning all things around her purple as fast as her little legs would carry her. Purple rocks, purple trees, purple water in the stream! How fun this was! So much beautiful purple things everywhere! More! More! The world must be purple! All shades of this amazing color! The Fairy met up with the others and they all discussed what they were thinking. They asked the Fairy if she started this. Or if one of her spells backfired. She told them no she had been very specific and very careful when writing them that nothing could go wrong. They asked if maybe there was something infecting the land and creatures through the rain or water. She said no. The purple is something unique and she wasn't aware of anything in the world that could turn things purple the way this was. They told her Mr. Squirrel had mentioned seeing Mr. Spider go by and then he was suddenly purple and he couldn't wash it off.

The Fairy mentioned finding a small web in her house and her magical quill she used to write her spells was missing and she was coming to ask Mrs. Spider if she had come to her house. They all decided to split up and look for Mrs. Spider and all meet at the at the great tree in about an hour or so to see if they had found her and they could all talk to her together.

Mrs. Spider was tired. She had made it from her little stump house all the way to the middle of the forrest and now needed a nap. She made herself a giant purple web and curled up with the magical quill and fell asleep.

The Fairy and a few others decided to follow the trail of purple. It wound around mountains and over hills, up through trees, and through stumps and around mushrooms and then deep into the forrest. Such an interesting route.

They turned the corner and were met with a giant purple web! Mrs. Spider was happily nestled in the centre fast asleep. The Fairy walked up and gently woke her up. Mrs. Spider stretched and saw the fairies she got worried and tried to get away but the fairies in the group surrounded her. The Fairy gently spoke to Mrs. Spider and said she wasnt mad she just wanted her to come with her and the fairies just wanted to speak to her at the great tree. Mrs. Spider agreed to go with them. In a different part of the grove some of the fairies decided to go get the magician and Mr. Squirrel and bring the to the great tree as well. Once everyone had got to the great tree the Fairy walked up with Mrs. Spider not in accusing way but to support her. She asked her if she had been to the Fairy's home. Mrs. Spider lowered her head ashamed and nodded and produced the magical quill in front of her to the Fairy telling her yes she had been there and saw this amazing purple feather and she loved purple so much she took it without asking.

The Fairy took it gently and told Mrs. Spider she totally understood why she felt the want to take it and that it was her favorite purple feather as well. She explained it was a gift from a magical bird she had met many moons ago for helping him.

Mrs. Spider felt so bad for taking it without permission after hearing it was a gift. She would hate it if someone took one of her favorite gifts. She apologized to the Fairy and explained she felt so bad. She promised to ask before taking things from now on and not go into people's places without asking first. The Fairy accepted her apology and agreed those were very good steps to take in the future.

Next Mr. Squirrel came up and spoke to Mrs. Spider, he explained how her excitement and not paying attention caused him to turn purple and that he couldn't wash it out of his poor fur! Mrs. Spider felt so guilty and apologized to him. Just then the magician came forward and told them both it was luckily able to be reversed and not to feel too bad. Mrs. Spider told them it was a terrible accident. She had been so excited that everything was turning purple she didnt know poor Mr. Squirrel got caught in the mix.

Mr. Squirrel understood and seeing how sorry Mrs. Spider was gave her a hug and told her not to worry everything would be ok just to make sure in the future maybe to be aware of her surroundings. She agreed she would try to.

The magician stepped forward next. He explained to Mrs. Spider stealing was wrong and to make sure to ask from now on because that was a very powerful spell and the magic was specifically tailored to the Fairy to do her specialty spells. She hung her head sadly and nodded understanding he was right. He told her he could fix it but he would need a lot of help from the fairies.

Feeling sorry and hoping she could change her ways, she asked everyone in the room if she would be allowed to help fix the damage she caused. She promised to work on herself and do better from now on. Everyone agreed to accept Mrs. Spider's help and offered to help her if she needed help to change. She thanked them so very much. From that day forward Mrs. Spider was a huge help to the fairies. Mr. Squirrel and Mrs. Spider decided on weekly dinners together and are now the best friends. Mr. Squirrel even decided to keep some of the purple on the tip of his tail and thinks it looks pretty neat. He says the color just grew on him. The Fairy has asked the magical bird for another purple feather and gifted it to Mrs. Spider and she was so grateful. The Fairy makes sure she is never rushed to do her spells anymore and makes sure her quill is always put away properly.

The End.


“Si ti vu ma mere?”, she said in perfect French. “You know that one?”, I asked “Yes. I find on Youtube. I am playing so much. I love. It’s so beautiful”, she replied. “Do you know what it means? In English”, I asked. “Uhhh,,,” she pondered, “something about a mother?” “If you see my mother”, I translated for her. “Oh, that is nice. A song about mother”. “It’s one of my absolute favourites. Sidney Bechet”, I said. “I will learn to play it”. “When you learn it, will you play it for me?”, I asked her. “Yes. I play it for you”, she promised, with a beaming smile. Her name was Kiko. She was from Japan, and she was my favourite student. She came along when I was three months into my second career as an online teacher of English. I started late in life and it’s not something that I ever envisaged myself doing. In my mind, the word “teacher” always conjured up visions of a shabby and perennially frustrated manic depressives who really wanted to do something else with their lives but ended up as teachers because Plan “A” didn’t pan out. At an intellectual level, I know that that is a lazy and inaccurate characterisation, though. Besides, who am I to gloat? My Plan “A” didn’t pan out either. In fact, I never really put it into effect. See, I grew up with music. My father was a jazz fan and he bequeathed that appreciation onto me. I learned to play the trumpet and the guitar and played regularly in my school band. When I was 15, I started building my record collection which included all the jazz greats and even some of the jazz-not-so-greats. At university, I formed a jazz trio called ‘The Know-Notes’ and we played student gigs regularly. I was elected as President of the University Jazz Club three years in a row. Mind you, there were only four members of said club, our trio and the girlfriend of the saxophonist, so I suppose you could say that I was a shoo-in for the post. After leaving university, I got a temporary job working as a sales assistant in a department store; something to tide me over while I plotted The Know-Notes route to glittering jazz stardom. But then I met my wife. She was an archaeology student working a summer job. For the second time in my life, I fell in love. By the end of that summer, we moved in together and, on Christmas Even no less, she informed me that she was carrying our first child. “I think we should get married”, she said. We had a Spring wedding and our daughter was born the following August. We were still living in my crummy, one-bedroom apartment and we had to find something bigger and better in a hurry. Meanwhile, the progress of The Know-Notes was, shall we say, less than stellar. We had only managed to secure one paid gig and that was at a nursing home facility as entertainment for the residents, most of whom fell asleep during our set. This was hardly the adulation we were seeking. Shortly after that, our saxophonist, a geologist by training, was offered a job in the oil industry in Saudi Arabia with a salary that he simply could not refuse. Well, that was that. My ‘temporary’ job at the department store turned into a full-time job and, from there, into a career in retail management. By the time our second child was born, I was a departmental assistant manager. The trumpet that my father bought for me on my 16 th birthday was consigned to the attic to gather dust while I climbed the corporate ladder all the way up to Head Manager of the second largest shopping mall in the country. After 27 years of ploughing away in the soil of the commercial eco-system, my dear wife was diagnosed with heart disease, more specifically coronary artery disease. I decided to take early retirement to stay at home and look after her. About a month after I retired, I returned home from a shopping trip to find her corpse on the floor of our bathroom. Myocardial infarction. I have never come to terms with losing her and I never will. So, then I was all alone in the home that we built together, our children having long since flown the nest and with no job to occupy my time. I had to take stock. I needed to re-discover a sense of purpose; I needed something to do, to occupy both my mind and my time. I had no idea where to start. Returning to the retail world was, I suppose, one option but I just didn’t have the strength for it anymore. I even retrieved my trumpet from the attic, dusted it off, played a few notes and briefly allowed myself to entertain the fantasy of finally becoming a professional jazz player. But that’s all it was – a fantasy. The naked truth is that while my enthusiasm for music was boundless, my talent was merely modest. My ambition had always far exceeded my grasp How on earth could I expect to make a living from this old trumpet now when I failed to do it as a young man? But what else could I do? I browsed the web for ideas and inspiration. ‘Teach English Online’ said the advert in big, bold type. Is that something I could do, I asked myself. Was I the right person to teach anybody anything? The advert was for an online software platform that brings English teachers together with non-native speakers who want to learn English and provides a video and audio interface for real-time lessons. I spent a long time perusing the site and then slept on it. I continued to sleep on it, chew on it, ruminate on it, walk on it and eat on it for a further month before deciding to take the plunge and sign up. At about the same time, I took an online teaching course to get myself up-to-speed and certified. I discovered that it works very much like a taxi rank or, perhaps less salubriously, an escort service. You put up a profile with a biography and a picture and you wait for a student to choose you. I waited a week for my maiden lesson with a medical student from Qatar. I felt as if I stuttered, stumbled and fluffed my way through the entire 60-minutes but I must have done or said something that chimed with her because she booked me again the following week. It turned out that the Qatari woman, this brave pioneer, whose time and money I earnestly believed that I had wasted, gave me a glowing review. So other students followed: a publisher from Italy, a tax consultant from Poland, a lawyer from Brazil and a banker from South Korea. By the second month in, I had myself a whole cadre of regular students who provided me with a much-missed sense of purpose and a renewed self-respect. Furthermore, I was actually beginning to enjoy it now, in stark contrast to my first few lessons which were characterised by my sweaty palms, lack of confidence and a sense of relief when the lesson ended without a major flub. I found that this new career suited me in many ways. First of all, the extra money augmented my pension income, though not, it has to be said, by lavish amounts. Teaching English is not something you do if you plan to get rich. Still, it helped keep the lights on. Secondly, it dispelled the loneliness that may have overwhelmed me had I not found that life-changing online advert. Every day, I connect with and converse with people from all four corners of the world, learn about them hear their stories and teach them as much as I can. It’s like having a busy social calendar and how many old widowers can say that? Pretty much all of my students wanted to learn, or improve, their English skills for career advancement. At least, that was their stated reason and that was fine with me. I knew enough professional and business English to help them draft those important emails, write reports and follow the news broadcasts from the BBC or CNN. It wasn’t long before I had amassed an impressive stock of business English materials and lesson plans. And then came Kiko. Kiko was from Japan and she told right off that she chose me because I had mentioned in my profile that I was a jazz fan. See, Kiko wanted to improve her English but, just as much, she wanted to learn and talk about jazz. As far as I could tell, she had some rather humdrum job in a bank, but her hobby was jazz music and learning to play the clarinet. She wanted to turn professional someday. I told her in unequivocal terms that I was her man. I was captivated. She reminded me of me, only female. And a lot younger. And Japanese. As well as listening to jazz, I love talking jazz but my late wife, bless her memory, had little interest in music and my daughters would dutifully listen to waxing lyrical for about ten minutes before zoning out. But now I had Kiko and Kiko had me. She booked a regular lesson once a week, always on a Friday and we spent the whole time talking about jazz. Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong, Ornette Coleman, Chet Baker, Charlie Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Art Tatum and, of course, Sidney Bechet. Sometimes we would even search You Tube together for great jazz classics and listen to them during the lesson. For me, it couldn’t get better than that. After a few weeks of teaching Kiko, I was transforming. I actually started singing in the shower and, sometimes, dancing in the shower too. My old vinyl record collection, by far my most cherished physical possession, was getting run out again, almost on a daily basis. For the first time in decades, I had begun to feel a little of that incommunicable magic that I felt when I was a teenager listening to records in my bedroom and dreaming of being a Blue Note signee. My lesson with Kiko had become the highlight of my week and I couldn’t help noticing that her English was improving as well. Of course, in between the jazz appreciation, I was slipping in some actual teaching too; a bit of grammar, some vocabulary, a few phrasal verbs and a collocation or two. But the jazz talk was the main feature. One evening, while listening to Oscar Peterson’s ‘Night Train’ album, I found myself picturing Kiko here with me, revelling the music, basking in the evening and, perhaps, practising scales on her clarinet while I pour us each a glass of aromatic, fruity red whine and……and then I slapped myself. Literally. That’s ridiculous, ludicrous and off-the-scale inappropriate. This is a professional relationship. I am her teacher and she is my student. Ethics, dammit. Standards, for heaven’s sake. Besides, I am old enough to be her father and, besides again, she lives on the other side of the world and besides and besides and besides and besides. I banished all such notions from my mind. But they kept creeping back towards me like a stealthy, prowling cat. It was soon Friday again. “Hi teacher. I learned that song”. “Hi, Kiko. Which song is that?” “Si ti…..umm….Sidney Bechet song.” “Well done”. “Shall I play for you?” “Oh, I would love that. Yes, please Kiko.” She giggled a little nervously before unsheathing her clarinet. She licked her lips and I saw the focus in her eyes and in the way she held herself. She started playing and it sounded so bloody good and then the video froze and went silent. This was not an uncommon problem which sometimes resolves itself if you just wait. But not this time. I checked my internet connection and it was working well, in full flow. So, I concluded that it must be her connection. What lousy timing! I logged out and in again in the hope that it might help but no luck. The video was still frozen and, a moment later, it went dark altogether. I sent Kiko a message through the chat system. “Try to log-in again”. I waited for a response but none came. I thought that maybe her computer had crashed or her internet had gone down. I expected that she would send me a message. I made myself a coffee and waited. Nothing from Kiko and there was nothing more I could do except wait for her to get back on line. I had two more lessons that day. That evening, I sent her another message. “Kiko, you must have connection problems. We can resume lesson tomorrow if you like. Let me know.” I made a light supper and retired to bed early to nurse my disappointment. The next morning, I got back online and as is my habit, opened my newsfeed. It was then that my guts dropped. ‘Japan earthquake: hundreds killed, thousands homeless’. I pored over every word of the news reports. It occurred, I calculated, at exactly the time of our lesson last evening. No, it can’t be. Could it be? A wave of revulsion and horror welled up in my chest like an acid reflux. I logged onto the platform to if she had replied to my messages but she had not. I sent another message. “Kiko, are you okay? Please send me a message and let know”. I waited for a response from her but, again, nothing. And hour went by, two hours, three hours. Still nothing. I told myself that it was merely a coincidence. Maybe her internet connection got cut off for some other reason. Yes, that was entirely plausible. The weekend went by with no response from Kiko. I had other lessons and I took them with the most professional demeanour I could muster and, as I always endeavour to do, gave of my best. But, inside, I was crumbling. I had no way to contact her except via the platform. I didn’t know her surname or even where she lived. She did mention the name of the place once but I couldn’t remember it for the life of me. I toyed with the idea of calling the Japanese embassy but what on earth would I ask them? I am seeking a woman called Kiko but I don’t know her surname or where she lives? But then it occurred to me that the company that runs the platform might help. They will never give me any student contact details, I know that, but I sent them an email anyway telling them what happened and asking them if they can contact her just to see if she is okay. I got an automated response but nothing more. The week rolled by without a word from Kiko until the following Friday. At the allotted time for her lesson, I opened the platform and waited for her to appear. Nothing. I try to stay positive. I imagine her in some temporary shelter without internet access and longing to return home, to any home, where she can resume her lessons with me and her proper life. I mean, it could be true, couldn’t it? Or perhaps the earthquake didn’t affect her at all and there’s some other reason why she can’t connect? Maybe. You never know. Nothing is proven. So I wait and while I wait the old emptiness returns and still there’s no Kiko to banish it away. But, worse than the emptiness is the helplessness and not knowing. Come back, Kiko, come back. It’s been three weeks now and still no reply from her. However, my heart did leap momentarily when an e-mail arrived from the platform company only to sink again when I realised it was another automated mail requesting user feedback. I gave them 5 stars and, in the comment box, I added the words: “If you see Kiko, tell her I miss her”. By David J.K. Carr


(Content warnings: Swearing/Mental health issues) It was dark by the time she had regained consciousness. She pried her forehead from the steering wheel and wiped the coagulated substance off with the back of her hand. She cried out in agony as muscles spasmed in her neck. The only source of light was the faint glow from the full moon hovering over the car. She had no recollection of where she was, where she had been, where she was going, or even who she was. All she could tell was that she’d somehow collided with a tree and the older model, two-door vehicle was unequipped with an airbag.      She surveyed her dark surroundings. Although the driver’s door was badly dented, but the passenger’s door had been slammed against a protruding mountain rock . She managed to get her car door open enough to activate the interior dome light; unfortunately, the bulb had burned out, and darkness prevailed with the exception of the full moon above.       She searched the passenger side in hopes of finding identification and a cell phone to call for help. She found a handbag in the floorboard and dumped its contents onto the passenger seat. Even though dimly lit, she could tell what the items were by touch; lipstick, hairbrush, pack of gum, big wad of cash secured with a rubber band, and a flip-type burner cell phone. She opened it, revealing the date and time: Wednesday, October 31, 2020, 12:22 AM. Also illuminated by the cell light was a damaged triangular street sign that read , Curved Mountain Road.       “Just great; stuck on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere, in a wrecked car, on Halloween night with only a burner phone and a wad of cash,” she said, rubbing her temples.        She turned her attention back to the handbag and gave it another shake-down, searching for any form of I.D. What the hell, no driver’s license? she wondered, throwing the empty purse back into the floorboard. A burner has emergency capability; I can still call 911. She flipped the phone open to lighten her dark surroundings; hopefully, she’d find something that might lead the authorities to her whereabouts. I can’t tell them where I am if I don’t know, myself; hell, I don’t even know who I am.        Using the light from the phone, she looked in the glove compartment for identification. Registration papers indicated the 1977 El Camino belonged to Joann Blankenship of Casper Wyoming. Is that me? she wondered. “I can’t just sit here and wait for another car to come speeding around that bend and crush me like an accordion,” she said, looking in the rearview mirror and picturing the worst-case scenario in her mind. “I must have hit my head really hard, cause I’m talking to myself. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, slamming her shoulder against the door. On the fourth and final thrust, she was able to squeeze her slender frame out , landing on the cold, damp cement. Using the door handle, she pulled herself up to a standing position which made her head spin. She stood still until her equilibrium returned. She shined the cell light on the wreckage revealing extensive damage to the front-end; especially, the fender, which was partially embedded in the tree.       “Blood!” she yelled, staring at the dark red substance splattered on the hood and grill. “I probably hit a deer, then swerved into this damn thing,” she said, kicking the base of the tree. The cell light inadvertently illuminated what appeared to be a body lying about fifty feet down the road. "Oh my God! Are you okay?”       She grabbed a hold of a broken but still adhered limb for support, and made her way down the hill, toward the lifeless man in running attire; his body, appearing bloody and contorted. “I’m so sorry; It was an accident,” she said . At least I think it was an accident. Yes, I’m sure it was. After all, I’m not a bad person, am I? she wondered, searching her amnesic brain for a sign that she did indeed have a conscience.

She kneeled by the victim to check for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Was it because her fingers were too cold or because he didn’t have one? She searched his pockets and found a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to Dale Blankenship, of Casper, Wyoming. She glanced back at the car. Blankenship was the last name on the car registration. Inside the victim’s wallet, was thirty-seven dollars, a photo of two children, and a picture of a woman with long red hair. She swung her ponytail forward and shined the cell light on it. With pictures in hand, she stumbled back up the hill and back to the car, squeezing herself into the passenger seat. She pulled the visor mirror down and shined the cell light on her face and gasped. Just as she suspected; the woman in the picture and the reflection in the mirror were one in the same.       “Oh my God; if that poor man is, was my husband or ex, these are probably my children,” she said, shining the light on the children’s photo, hoping to generate a memory or at least an emotion, but it didn’t do either. “I’ve got to call 911 and at least report this to the police. I’ll just explain my situation; that I don’t know where I am and that I’ve been in an accident and have amnesia; surely, they’ll understand,” she said, rubbing her forehead.       Just as she started to push the last ‘1’ on the cell, she snapped the phone closed and picked up the large stack of cash that was still in the passenger seat. She thumbed the bills under her nose and inhaled. None of this look’s good. I can’t explain the money or the body. What if I was running from the law and someone has my license plate number? The cops won’t believe that it was an accident and I’ll probably do time for vehicular homicide. Besides, it’s too late to call for help for him because; he’s already dead ,” she said, looking down the hill at the victim lying in the road. And, as for the children, his life insurance will provide for them. Besides, it’s not like I’d be a good mother if I don’t know who they are or who I am, she rationalized, managing to squeeze out a couple of crocodile tears. I know what I must do…        She kissed the pictures goodbye and laid them in the passenger seat. She picked up the wad of cash and stuffed it in her pocket and squeezed back out of the car. She paced along the mountain road, searching for anything or anybody that could implicate her in this being anything more than a tragic accident.        Tiny orange rectangles staggered throughout the mountains represented the windows of the nearby cabins. She prayed that no residents or bystanders would be witness to what was about to transpired. In a fugue state of mind, she meditated. …        I’ll create another identity. It won’t be difficult since I don’t know who I am, anyway. I’ll stage my death. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. No more Joann Blankenship, or whatever the hell, the papers say I am…or was. No one will ever need to know. Hopefully, along with Dale’s life insurance, Joann’s will also care for her surviving children. My surviving children.        She squeezed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. She didn’t know why she hadn’t tried to start it before. Nevertheless, she was surprised when the old jalopy started on the third try. She put the gear in reverse and gunned the engine. The embedded fender made a grinding sound, finally releasing itself from the tree’s hold. She put the gear in park and got out, leaving the driver’s door open. She leaned over the seat, shifted the gear into drive, and backed away from the moving vehicle. It was as if she wasn’t responsible for what the old El Camino did. The car picked up speed as it rolled downhill toward the lifeless man lying in the middle of the road. “Stop! This is not part of the plan, you idiot!” she yelled, while charging downhill toward the runaway vehicle. Was it fate or luck that the car veered slightly to the right, avoiding the victim’s corpse? She sighed with relief. “That was close. Two impacts with the victim would rule out an accident for sure and really fuck-up my plan.”        Using the cell to illuminate her path, she made her way to the edge of the cliff just in time to see the El Camino somersault over the flimsy metal guardrail and disappear into the depths below. She could hear the shattering of glass and the crushing of metal. She shined the cell light down the cliff just in time to hear a loud ‘boom’ and see a plume of smoke, confirming its final impact on solid ground. She smiled. Unfortunately, her celebration was short-lived by the realization of another flaw in her scheme. Her disappointment echoed throughout the mountains. “Dammit, there won’t be a body to recover!”        A sudden splashing sound was music to her ears for it was the welcome confirmation that both, the El Camino and its owner, had made it to their final resting place –the flowing river below. She shined the cell light down into the abyss, illuminating the tangled remains, drifting downstream. She smiled. No worries: the authorities will assume that Joann Blankenship’s body was carried away by the current .       Without warning, a dark shadow ran toward her, finally taking on the shape of a man. She shined her cell light on the image standing in her presence, then on the road where the victim had met his demise. The body was gone. “No, it can’t be, you’re dead!” she cried, covering her eyes with her hands.       “Melanie, it’s me, Johnathon,” the man said in a calming voice.        “Dale, you know I’m Joann, but the fact that I’m still alive is a secret,” she whispered, making a shush gesture. “What is this, a Halloween prank? she asked, wiping some of the gooey substance off his face.        “You’re scaring me, Mel. Your blood sugar must be getting low, let me get you something to eat.”        “Stop calling me that. What is it you want?” she asked sternly.        “I just want you and I want you to be okay, that’s all,” he said, his voice cracking. A paranoid expression flashed across her face.       “I know what you’re after,” she said, pausing to reach in her jacket pocket. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked, waving the wad of money under his nose. “Well, you’re not getting any of it; it’s mine, every fucking penny!” she yelled, backing away until her rubber sole shoes teetered on the edge of the cliff.        “Mel, stop!” the man yelled, grabbing her jacket, and pulling her into the safety of his arms.        “I don’t want the money, it’s not real, anyway; I just want you,” he said, still holding her tight. He waved his arms to get attention. “Zac, need help over here; there’s something really wrong with Mel.”        A bright light engulfed her in its celestial-like presence as human-shaped silhouettes descended upon her. The muffled sound of their voices harmonized in her ears. She could see the man she called Dale nervously hovering over her, but she was not afraid as a warm and peaceful feeling encompassed her soul. She closed her eyes, smiled, and asked. “Am I in Heaven?”       Although she received no answer from the Divine Creator, a loud human cue came from behind the bright light…        “Alright, that’s a wrap!”


The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was the driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong. I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from blacktop to hard-packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement somewhere up ahead, so I continued. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street. Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk, and froze in mid-stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to explore. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle, and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials, and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion. Hope was originally founded when a vein of silver was discovered in the nearby mountains. The town grew and prospered for sixty years, but then the mine played out. The residents were not ready to give up on their community. They switched from mining to raising cattle and farming. These new ventures extended the towns’ life for another twenty years, but the end was inevitable. Without the daily shipments of silver, the railroad reduced the number of trains that stopped in Hope. Cattle and produce shipments were not enough to justify running trains through the isolated town. The residents slowly left Hope and moved to other parts of the state. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. On July 15, 1910, everyone living in Hope gathered in the town center. They said goodbye to one another and to their beloved town and left for good. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me. Hungry, thirsty, and desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings for something to eat and, more importantly, water. Food was a lost cause, but I located a well. Much to my surprise, the hand pump still worked. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst.  I continued to search for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. First the well and now the bicycle. Maybe it was my lucky day after all. The wheels were steel and although the leather on the seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption.  I’ve watched people in old newsreels ride along on one of these without a care in the world. It took me multiple attempts, countless falls, and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast. I filled a couple of jugs with water and departed at sunrise. Once I got that big front wheel spinning at a steady pace, I made surprisingly good time. When I reached the location where the road split, I took the left fork, which was the right one. Approximately five miles from the highway, I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. You can imagine what he was thinking when he first spotted me cruising down the road on an antique bike. The agent listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished, he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. People organized a search party and spent the next three days looking for them. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely were buried by it. Either way, no trace of the last residents of Hope was ever found.” The agent helped me load the bike into his truck and gave me a ride back to civilization. I bought some large gas cans and got a ride back to Hope to retrieve my car. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this adventure, you should never abandon Hope.”


Sergeant Jack Washburn was a sergeant in the police department of Tekhood, Minnisota. He was a strict yet kind gentleman, recently married to his wife, Lilliane. Lilliane was exactly like her husband, except on the softer side. She had a soothing, soft voice, a big heart, and was too kind to be a human. She was more like a god. It had been a few days since the return from his honeymoon when Jack Washburn received a call from the Saint Paul Police Department. Saint Paul was about 50 miles away from Tekhood, and Jack saw no reason why they would call the Tekhood Police Department at all, let alone on a night such as this. The moon was bright, the stars were gleaming, and the sky was clear. Jack was out on his wooden porch admiring the view past the wood when his phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and picked up. Lilliane rocked quietly on a rocking chair beside him. "Hello. Sergeant Washburn," Jack said quickly, realizing the caller had dialed his work phone number. Lilliane realized this too, and glanced up at her husband in confusion. Who is it? she mouthed. Jack shook his head. I don't know. "Hello, Mr. Washburn?" "Yes, who is this?" Jack spoke hurriedly, not wanting to talk for too long. "Hello. I'm Detective Florence George from the Saint Paul Police Department." Jack paused. "Uummm... hello. To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Florence?" "Yes, we received a call earlier today that a bank was getting robbed. We arrived at the crime scene too late, and after a few hours of investigation we concluded that the criminal was the same person who robbed the USAB bank last week." "What does that have to do with the Tekhood Police Department?" Jack asked. "You didn't let me finish." Florence said sternly from the receiving end. Jack gulped, and Lilliane frowned, wondering what was going on. "Please continue, Detective." "Very good. As I was saying, we managed to figure out the license plate of the car that the criminal drives. We've been tracking the movement of the car, and it's headed into Tekwood County. It'd be a real help if you helped catch this criminal." Jack was flabbergasted. "Well-" he started, trying to catch his breath. "Yes. Yes, I will definitely help you, Detective Florence!" "That's great. Do you have a pen and paper with you? I'm going to read you the information that we've gathered. We'll fax it over to your headquarters tomorrow morning." "I-" Jack snatched a pen and paper up from the woven, outdoor coffee table and tucked his phone onto his shoulder. "Okay, I'm ready." "Good. License plate number is 0TYS431. Car is 2000 model Honda Accord with blue paint and a red paint streak on the trunk. The criminal who should be driving the car is a female, age 42, by the name of Shirley Bash." Jack dropped his pencil. "Great. I got all that down." He reread his notepad. "Wait a- Shirley Bash?" Jack's knees trembled ever so slightly. "Yes. That's the woman. That'll be all now, Sergeant Washburn. Thanks for your help." Detective Florence hung up. Jack collapsed onto his patio floor, staring off into space, sweating. Lilliane stood up quickly. "Jack!" she said in a hushed tone, her Hungarian accent slipping out. "Jack! My love, are you okay?!" "I-I'm... no." Jack said, stuttering. Lilliane had a fearful expression on her face. "What is wrong? Did they say something bad?" "M-my... Shirley." Jack spat. Lilliane sank to her knees. "My darling, what are you-" "My sister is a criminal, Lilliane." Lilliane turned red. She stood up silently and pursed her lips. Without a word, she turned around and walked into the house. Jack panted. "I'm supposed to catch- catch my- Lilliane....ooohh..." Jack leaned his head back against the rocking chair and closed his eyes tightly. "Say it ain't so.... say it ain't...ssoo..." The next morning, Jack woke up and walked into the kitchen. He found Lilliane already awake and whisking away at a bowl of pancake batter. "Good morning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I got it." "Got vat?" "I figured out that we need to catch Shirley." "And...?" Lilliane poured some batter onto a frying pan. "I have the perfect idea of how to catch her." "Do you, now?" "We invite her over to a party. Here. We also invite some friends, the Jacksons, the Frosts, and a couple of my guys from work. Then, in the middle of the party, we corner her and arrest her." "Zat sounds fine," Lilliane said simply, flipping a pancake. "Except...." "Except what?" Jack asked. "I do not want zat woman in my 'ouse." "Why not? Hon, it's only-" "She is scoundrel, no? I do not want her stealing my vases from Russia, or my money for Africa, or our baby right out of my stomach!" "Honey, that was from a movie- Beastmaster , I think. I doubt Shirley is going to cut you open to get a baby that isn't even half way developed yet." Lilliane frowned. "Still." She held up a small platter of pancakes. "You want one?" "Sure." Jack snatched a pancake and took a bite, before kissing Lilliane on the cheek. "Love you, babe! See you later!" " 'Ave fun at vork!" Lilliane called after Jack as he walked out the door. Jack stepped into his car and turned his keys in the ignition. The engine sprang to life. -------------------------------------------- Jack left work that day satisfied. He had gotten his fellow police colleagues into the scheme, and Lilliane had called him during a meeting to inform him that she already had 20 friends coming to the party tonight, which she'd decided needed a theme. She'd said "Vat's the party for? I came up with a cookie exchange. Everyone brings cookies and ve exchange them and critic the sweets and talk and everyone has a good time." Jack arrived home to find his wife feverishly working inside the kitchen, with 4 platters of different flavored cookies already spread out on the island. The house was sparkling clean (except for the kitchen), and the sweet scent of another batch of cookies could be smelled from all the way upstairs. Jack rushed over to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. She blushed and playfully whacked him with a rolling pin. " 'Ere, try," she said simply, stuffing a cookie into Jack's mouth. He swallowed as he let the savory flavor touch his tongue. "Mmmm...." he managed through chews. "What flavor...?" "Raspberry almond nut with a hint of cranberry juice in the dough! What do you think?!" "I love it!" Jack said, smiling. His wife looked incredibly happy with her creations. "Hon," he said quickly, just remembering something. "We have to invite Shirley to the cookie exchange." " 'Aven't you done that already?" Lilliane asked, opening the over and taking a batch of caramel-mint chocolate chip cookies out. "No..." Jack trailed off. "But I should." "Yes. Now." Jack sighed. "Fine." He walked out to the porch and took out his cell phone. He stared at it for a moment, then regretfully dialed his sisters number. He half heartedly put the phone to his ear, and took a deep breath as he waited for someone to answer. "Yello?" Jack caught his breath. "Yello? Annnnyyyybody there?" "Shirley! Hi, it's Jack!" "Jack? Oooh. Hey, Buddy, what do I owe the pleasure?" "Hey! Look, Lilliane and I are having this huge cookie exchange bash, and I know your job is always taking you places, so I just thought I'd shoot you a call to see if you were in the area." "Well, golly gee, you caught me at the right time. I just happen to be right outside Tekwood. Would ya mind if I dropped by? Fine time since I seen Lilliane and the kid." "We don't have a kid," Jack coughed. There was a pause, before Shirley's country voice came back on. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come fer sure. But do I need to bring anything?" "Nothing. Unless you happen to have a box of cookies in the trunk, then you're off the hook, Shirley." "Well, thanks again, Jack. I'll see you there!" "Bye, Shir! Love ya!" Shirley hung up. Jack trudged back into his house, where he found Lilliane putting in a batch of what appeared to be honey-graham-nut cookies. " 'Ow did eet go?" "Well," Jack shrugged. "She's coming." "Zat is good, no?" "It's swell." Jack managed a weak smile, but it formed into a real one when he saw his wife's glowing face. "Now how about one of them cookies that you promised me?" ---------------------------------- Shirley was caught. Jack got promoted. Lilliane gave birth to a baby boy who Jack named Florence. The End. Authors note- Readers; this was less a story about cookies and criminals but more a story about love and support of the spouses. I find it beautiful how 2 people can love eachother with such a strong passion despite it all. So to anybody out there who is reading this, true love and honesty and trust can conquer all. "Forever is a long time, but I don't mind as long as I spend it by your side."


I, Melquart, god of the unknown, welcome you into my story, my realm, my tangled web of fiction, my sea of interpretations and fantasies. Welcome stranger, welcome friend, welcome victim, welcome misfit, welcome everyone. Before we begin, can I interest you with a glass of wine, straight from our generous vineyard, kissed by the sun, squeezed under the feet of our maidens, can I tempt you with festive alcoholic juices of nature? Drink now, drink till you’re full, till you can’t lift a finger, nor open your beautiful eyes, stories are best heard when asleep. I want to tell you my story, to reveal everything. I figured, it's time to do so. See, I'm going to die. But Gods don't die, you'll say. I can read minds too. I'm planning my own version of death. Don't tell anyone. I'm just tired and I want to rest. Isn’t my right, after all? After all the centuries of trickery, the only one I truly want to deceit is myself. I am the only one worthy of a real prank. It’s time for self-love. Where was I, right, as I was telling you, dear, I want to die a simple death, nothing too fancy, I'm not "Adonis" nor "Ashtarout", those guys are too dramatic for my taste. I will let in a little secret, you know how "Adonis" was supposedly killed by a wild boar, and died. Well, this isn’t what really happened, forget what you read in all those good for nothing history books, the truth resides somewhere else. It resides with me, or in a glass of wine, as our roman brothers say. Sure, sure I’m not the god of truth, there is no such thing, have you ever encountered one, I ask you? Only “Veritas”, that coward, you know she spent her days in the bottom of a well, that sums it up for me. Who would want to listen to god living in well, that moldy water, that smell. She was the one who started using the expression “the ugly truth”, she was describing herself, if you ask me. As I was saying, truth gods are a rarity, practically, such entities don’t exist. No god is that self-righteous. Anyway, I was talking about “Adonis”, that handsome, stupid young one, he was neither killed by Apollo nor by Ares who allegedly metamorphosed into a wild boar out of jealousy.

It was I. I confess. I, Melquart, God of stories and trickery. Trickery for the most part, but there is no trickery without a setting. It was the beginning of spring, the source of Afqua in the mountains of Lebanon, never looked fresher nor greener than this particular moment. Cool water, descended like a long awaited queen, crisp grass and flowers welcomed their visitor with a ray of sunshine on their surfaces. Adonis was hunting. He loved to hunt, a noble sport, he would say, where you are in a competition with nature, a true test of your core. I saw him chasing after a wild boar, and it hit me. Why don’t I make it a bit harder for him? He used to say, that it’s a competition after all. “Bring it on!” I made the boar fly, dance, wriggle his tail, transform into a dragon, a lion, into medusa even. It was hilarious, the poor Adonis was traumatized, that poor lad, rubbing his eyes, pinching himself. I remember his expression of fear and disbelief.  And then I appeared in front of him; - Hello friend. I saluted him. - Who are you? He replied. - I am a shepherd, I lost my sheep, have you see them? - No, I’m afraid not. Adonis, opened his mouth, and sheep began to crawl out of it, like vomit. Twelve sheep in total. I was laughing while trying to maintain my shepherd character, but his sight was a something to remember for centuries. His eyes wide open, his mouth stretched like a volcano, erupting wool instead of lava and his muscular built twerking like a terrible earthquake of the soul. It continued for seconds, then everything stopped. As I stepped closer, I found him dead on the ground. He might have died of surprise, of shock, of heaviness. I really don’t know. But seeing a god die was a real spectacle. Something to think about. Something to recreate. I pulled his body and place it next to an abandoned cave, I covered it with scratches and wild boar imprints. I didn’t mean to kill him. But shit happen and that’s life, I got a laugh and a story out of it though. That’s what really important. The essence of life. I saw his death as an opportunity, I went to “Ashtarout”, his beloved and told her that a wild boar killed him. -        But how? He’s a young strong god. How can a wild animal kill him? She sobbed, hiding her face with her long black hair. -        I don’t know dear; it must have been a special animal. I offered my arms to comfort her, I held her tight, in the sacred temple. -        A special animal? What do you mean? -        Could be an enchanted animal, some spell of some kind. That’s the only explanation. -        Oh, you are right. I have my suspicions. -        You were always beautiful as were clever dear. I left her temple, knowing she would blame Apollo for it. Or Ares. I didn’t mind. It turned out to be an entertaining soap opera that lasted a couple of centuries. The fighting, the bickering, the love hate relationship, the love triangle, the whole drama. I do what I do for fun, for the trill and the adrenaline rush. I do what I do, to feel alive, through stories, to create mayhem and contemplate it consequences, it’s the flow of life. To ask the what if questions. I will tell you now my secret plan, since I’m the last surviving god, having assumed the lives of all the gods before me. I’m the totality of all. And the last piece of the puzzle, there will be no gods after me, there will not be gods anymore. I have decided, drum rolls please, that, I will turn myself into a human.  A simple human whose life is up to change any minute now. Have you drunk your cup? Have you finished your wine? Did you feel it intoxicate you? What about those strange sensations creeping up, the looseness of your body, the translucidity of your soul, the urge for chaos? What about life? Do you feel it? Do you feel alive? Great. Now I will take your place in your body. Now I will become you.


Who’s better than Baskin Robbins? I will let you know the answer to that question in just a few. This story is about a freaking Superhero, with the most murderous positive Superpower ever gifted to man. Dang, do not want to sound negative, but he is killing Superman. Much honor and respect to the man that is super. I viciously connect more to my Superhero and the lasting effects of his Superpower. Do not shoot me yet, check it out. There was this living carcass, a species which all humanity calls them or rather him, a villain. This certain individual name was, um. Dang, do we have to give him a name. Bad News, his name was Bad News. Key word ‘WAS’ laugh out loud. Bad News was a serious patch of sore pimples on your bottom. This guy attitude and character alone was created out of movies and horrific violent music. No seriously, his strongest influencing role models were. Frank White, Nino Brown, Scarface, Denise The Menace and Brother Lynch Hung, to name a few. Bad News being a villain, stole those characters and others, Superpowers. Which was the power of manipulation, complaining, thievery, destruction and acts of self-loveless demonstrations towards others. He hated being born into a world of monstrous behavior and poverty. Instead of fighting against it, it consumed him and made him angry and evil. Bad New always had bad news, his work sometimes made the bad news section in the newspapers. Totally ironic. Bad News was filled with every emotion possible. He was angry one second and then worried. Happy one second then depressed, furious then joyful. Explosive then wonderful to be around. Pissed off then kind, violent then an enormous guilt trip. This guy was all over the place. He would use his Superpowers on everyone including to those who cared about him. The repercussions and tax return on his deceitful acts of deliberate violence caused catastrophic injuries. Mentally, spiritually, sometimes lightly physical damage to his victims. The magical Universe than holds the planets together would use its Superpower, Krama. Bad News would unleash more of his power the more the Universe would release its power. Bad News went deep into his sorcery. His powers became more ultimately destructive and extremely powerful. He loved the fruit those powers produced. Bad News was sitting on top of the world. The Universe powers could not defeat his powers or at least that what Bad news thought. Bad News did not know that the power of Karma was only at DEFCON one. The Universe released Karma at DEFCON four. Bad New powers began to work against him. His emotions hit tremendously hard causing mental breakdown. The long beautiful bridges that lead to amazing cities and to Divine spectacular human beings burnt down. The access to those who gave him love and affection were blocked by titanium walls. The more he used his power the more Bad News suffered. Absolutely nothing suppressed his misery and pain from his cancerous powers. Karma made him see all his tax return in full and more. Bad News could not rest, could not sleep. The agony from his malfunctioned powers and Karma brought him to his knees. No longer could he experience his one minutes of happiness anymore. Death was his final thought when he woke up completely alone. On his last road to his final resting place. He notices a bridge, a skinny narrow bridge. It was a pathway to a secret new world. He smiles from the thought of using his powers once again. So, he scraped his body trying to fit through the painful thin bridge. Bad New entered this humongous beautiful new world. He is met by this tall, deep voice, intimidating Superhuman. Bad News looks at him curiously but not able to see him clearly. This Superhero has an extra electrifying superpower, his smile. This smile alone is divine. He felt something weird about this guy. By the halo alone that follows this Superhero you know he meant business. Bad News stood at attention preparing for battle. The Superhero released his God given Superpowers violently correct. Bad News fought until he was decapitated by those lighting volts of Power. Bad News was defeated by the power of truth and self-love. The high-power words of comprehensible conversation on several topics destroyed Bad News negative pride. The more the Superhero talked, the more his superpower destroyed Bad News fictional character. Viciously the vocal literature spread through the mind of Bad New dropping him to his knees. The knowledge on how to build your real character is revealed. Consumed by positive energy and a different state of mind he begins to transform. He was taught how to love himself. Forgive himself, to forgive others, take responsibility for his actions. How to control himself, discipline his action from disappointments. How to stop giving all emotions negative meanings. The Superhero release more of his power each second. Bad News was taught how to dissect each human emotion. That negative emotions are messages from the Universe to change something to be greater Superhumans. To change his perspective on things and their meaning. Or simply to change his actions, to receive a better emotion. That gives, smiles and hugs rather than violence. The Superhero superpower poured mountains of strength and knowledge in each sentence. Bad News cried as he was taught, he had the choice to be a Superhero or Villain. The truth on who superpower last a lifetime without regrets or guilt after being used. The Superhero powers were a gift from his creator. His superpower is to help others, use and find their superpower to live ‘GREATNESS’. After a day of being beat up by the vocabulary superpower of wisdom and motivation. Bad News took of his mask off. He summitted to the ultimate Superhero, the Universe. And acquired unused Superpowers he already had within. Like the superpower to choose, love, forgiveness, kindness, fairness and understanding. And changed his name to the Great News.

Coaching and understanding human nature to change our direction become our greatest selves was the Superhero superpower. So, to the question. Who’s better than Baskin Robbins?  Simple, my Superhero, The Amazing TONY ROBBINS!!                                                                       The End


The last thing she saw before passing out, was her partners pail white face... “This is gonna be awesome, I can’t wait, we are so gonna win this”,Quinn said with excitement, packing her large army fatigue bag and tossing it over her back. Quinn Lambert has been a adventurous child and grew to be a very enthusiastic woman. She had began mountain climbing when she was only 7 years old and mud races when she was 10. She loved snakes and other slimy reptiles and considered herself a tomboy due to her boyish ways. She never liked dresses and very much hated makeup. Her parents were a homosexual couple so they didn’t mind that their daughter dressed differently or didn’t act like a average girl, therefor they decided to put her in an all girls charter school. There she met the love of her life, Alice Coleman. Her pretty blond hair always swayed past her shoulders, her blue eyes sparkles like clear Crystal ocean. She was just beautiful. They had began dating and have been together ever since. Now that they were adults, Quinn was ready to have this adventure with her. ”I’m not so sure about this, are you sure this is safe”? ”I’m positive” ”okay but you know I’m scared of heights and you know I have bad PTSD” Quinn caressed Alice’s soft face and spoke. ”As long as you don’t look down and stay by my side you will be fine, I promise“ she kissed her forehead and  with that, they hopped into their Jeep and drove to where the contest had began. The drive took about 3 hours, the hot sun beaming on the hoodless Jeep. It was as if the vehicle would stop mid drive and melt into dusty street. Alice couldn’t stand this heat while Quinn on the other hand, was not too worried about the heat. No, she was more concerned about the contest and most importantly, winning. They had eventually made it and boy were they relieved. They parked their car, grabbed their bags and began to walk towards the host. He spoke. ”Hello there, Are you hear for the wilderness mountain contest”? Quinn spoke for the both of them. ”Yes we are, I hope we’re not late or anything”. ”oh no, he said, your right on time, may I ask for your names”. lucky for them, they had filled out their applications online so they wouldn’t have to worry about waiting in a painfully long line while the host would have to search their names up. “Quinn Lambert and Alice Coleman, sir. ”ok... let me check, hm hmm, Oh their you guys are, y’all good” The host pointed them to towards their stations, where they could set up and get ready. On their way they passed a very short woman and what looked like her brother due to some similarities in the face area. They also passed two more couples, a male couple, and a married couple. Quinn glared at each of them noticing so many strengthens each couple had. From heavy build muscle toned bodies, to some of them even having go-pro cameras on their head. Gearing up and preparing for the most dangerous hike their ever was. As Quinn thought to herself” would I be looking death in the face.. No No I am a survivor. I am tough. I AM Quinn”.

although Quinn knew she had this in the bag, something inside of her was kicking her gut. Her inner self had a feeling.

Your not gonna make it.

she shook her head, trying to remove those thoughts and focus on winning the $1,000. The host began

to explain the rules of contest. ”No cheating“ ”No shortcuts” ”Only follow the path given” ”and finally have fun” One of the other players on another team began to ask a question. ”But like what if one our teammates get injured or dies?” ”then you will be disqualified and your teammate will be immediately rushed to a hospital” The other players began to scowl in disgust as those filled their ears. Quinn didn’t mind, because she knew. She knew she and Alice were gonna be fine. She knew that she Had to win, and that’s what her intentions were. She kept that in mind the whole time the host was speaking. Alice was just paying attention to what the host had been saying. She peering at Quinn, wondering why she had a blank expression on her face. Yes, she knew Quinn would daydream randomly, but it would be for a reason. But for this particularly situation, Alice was a little puzzled but simply ignored it from that point on. The host stated that they had to wait due to some difficulties. Quinn just didn’t mind. Alice wanted to go home. An hour went passed and by that time the sun was already about to set. Than all of a sudden a loud boom sound scared everyone either out of a nap or caught them by surprise.

“Alright contestants, Are you guys ready for your adventurous and dangerous journey”?

“Heck yeah”, said one of the power couples. Moans came from the remaining team players. Some stretched, and some yawned. Some were already pumped and some were just ready to go home. Quinn checked her watch. 4:30 p.m. It was time for the competition to hopefully (finally) start. As the sound of another boom blasted through everyone’s eardrums, that was the signal that it was time. And with the third boom, the couples were off on the trail. While the other competitors took the right path, Quinn suggested that take a short cut, to get ahead of everyone else. “Um.. I don’t really think this is a good idea, we are gonna get disqualified” “We will not get disqualified, plus the other teams won’t even care or notice” “Okay but what if they have cameras watching us, testing us, to see if we are gonna break the rules”. Quinn looked at her with the funniest expression. She began to speak in a mocking voice. “So their really gonna have cameras watching us, in the dead wilderness”? Alice began to chuckle. “I guess not”. “Exactly”.

They both chuckled and went on the path. Eventually it got dark so they found a resting place and set up for camp. After a few minutes of setting up, Alice got settled and comfortable in her tent and went fast asleep. While Quinn on the hand, was sitting in front of the camp fire. With a blank expression.

This is a bad idea. Go Home!

Quinn tried to think hard but all she could hear was a small voice repeating the same thing over and over and over again.  Your not gonna make. Your not gonna make it. Your not gonna make.  She was getting more and more frustrated as the voice grew more and more louder.

Your not gonna make! Your not gonna make it! YOUR NOT GONNA MAKE IT!.

She snapped, punching a piece of burning fire wood.

“Shit”.

Alice than jumped out of her sleep, startled by the sound of her wife muffled cries in pain. She opened the tent and saw that Quinn’s hand was bleeding.

“Babe what happens to your hand?” “Nothing I’m fine”, she replied,”I was uh.. trying to kill something and accidentally punched the log”. Alice just brushed it off and went back to sleep. Quinn soon did to. —————————————————————————————————— It was the next morning and luckily for Alice, who was not a morning person, didn’t have to worry about the sun because the trees were blocking it. She yawned but quickly had a realization.

Where is Quinn?

She jumped up quickly and exited the tent hesitantly. She began to yell. “Quinn”! “Quinn where are you”! Suddenly she could hear her voice. She turned and saw her walking back towards the camp site. Alice quickly jumped on her, hugging her tightly, making Quinn drop almost everything.

“I was worried about you, where did you do”? “Sheesh calm down, I went to get supplies for the rest of way”. Alice was skeptical about where the supplies had came from. “Um where did you get it from”. “Don’t worry about that, we should continue”. Alice didn’t bother putting up an argument, so she just packed the camping equipment and they began their walk again. For the first time in a while, Alice actually enjoyed nature. The pretty birds with their colorful feathers. Just the color of the forest itself made it majestic. Besides the mud and frogs. But something wasn’t right. As they began to walk farther into the forest, Alice started to notice the other teams equipment and supplies. She also noticed blood but she didn’t want to let Quinn know because she knew that she would make it seem like she was paranoid.  eventually they made it to a fork in the road. It went both ways, One way leading to a path another a cliff.  Quinn got curious. “Hey you wanna take some pictures on the cliff before we continue”? Alice was hesitant at first because of her very bad fear of heights, but finally gave in. They took the path that lead to the cliff not realizing that, that would be the worst mistake they had ever made. After passing some signs that clearly said No Trespassing! They eventually made it to the cliff. Quinn stepped closer to the edge, grasping onto Alice’s hand, pulling her closer. Quinn took a sniff and inhaled the beautiful fresh air. “It’s beautiful up here, don’t you think”? “Um yeah, sure”. “come on you gotta face your fear at some point, why not now”. Quinn nudged Alice closer but as she got closer her heart was beating at a rapid pace. She felt like she was gonna pass out. And with that she snapped. “Okay Quinn that’s enough”. “Alright jeez I’m sorry”. Quinn hugged her tightly and they went back toward the same direction they had came from. 2 days went by, which wasn’t a bad thing due to the fact that the website had said

“this content may take a number of days to complete”.

But in between the hours of those two days were actually pretty decent. Berry picking, flowing collecting, laughs, giggles, kisses and more. They had never felt this close before. Alice although still was a little skeptical about the other teams but Quinn Insured that they were fine.

The last day, something came over Alice and she looked at Quinn with a smile. “I think I want to go back to the cliff”.  Quinn nearly choked with a surprised look on her face.

“Are you sure”? “Yeah I’m sure”. So after two hours of walking and taking breaks, they had finally made it to the cliff. Alice sat by a tree and Quinn followed. Just then she had an idea. She pulled out a large black pocket knife and carved her and Alice’s Initials into the tree. This would be their happiest place. The one place they felt more connected with and around including being more connected to each other.  Alice stood up, her back facing the edge. Quinn also stood up and they hugged tightly. “I love you Quinn” “I love you too Alice” Alice stepped back and tripped over a bunch of gravel and a vine hidden under the surface of the earth. Quinn caught her hand and gripped the ground with her feet. She held tightly onto Alice’s hand, trying to pull as hard as she could. But her boots were no match for weak gravel they had walked. They both heard the the ground break. They both felt the pressure. And with quinn’s foot letting go of the vine, both of them eyes filled with tears, they said to one another.... “I love you” And with that they both fell of the cliff together and both hit the ground with a thud. —————————————————————————————————— Quinn open her eyes, she felt for what she had landed on. A bush. She looked over but the  last thing she saw before passing out, was her partners pail white face. Quinn woke up in the hospital. Her neck and back filled with Excruciating pain. She examined the hospital room and noticed the doctor and guy in a black suit. The must have noticed the she was looking because he came walking towards her with a concerned look on his face. He began to speak. “Well looks awake, well I guess you might be wondering why your in here, well I’ll tell you”. He then began to explain. “After you and your partner fell off the cliff, the people who had negotiated and or had something to do with that contest, had placed trackers in your backpack. When you fell they lost the signal so they tried to follow and trace the last time you guys were active and boom found you”. “Now another thing, the other teams didn’t make it due to active bear attacks so their was no survivors”. Quinn noticed a pen and paper on the tray next to her bed. She grabbed it and began to write. It said

Is Alice okay?  The detective’s expression went from concerned to sad.

“Well because you landed in a bush, you suffering minor yet major injuries while Alice on the other hand landed on straight rock, when she fell, she broke her neck instantly , I’m so sorry”.

Quinn began to cry under the body cast. She also felt low on air. But she didn’t care all she cared about was Alice. Her sweet, sweet Alice. The thought ran through her head again.

I should have listened to her. Now she’s dead. I have nothing. I am nothing without her.

As the thoughts filled her head, the doctors noticed that Quinn was having a heart attack. The doctors tried to help but Quinn didn’t care. She wanted to be with Alice again. She closed her eyes and imagined all the good memories they had.

The berry picking. The flowers. The wedding. The planning of kids. A home. A future. The laughs. The cries. The amusement park rides. Everything.

As she began to reimagine those memories, her heart beat was increasing heavily. She. Did. Not. Care. A single tear went down her face and with that, the heart rate monitor showed a flatline. Quinn was happy in the afterlife. She was with the woman she loved. And that all right. —————————————————————————————————— A news report showed on tv 2 days after the deaths. Some people suggest Quinn died of heart attack but were a little confused because records show she only had a broken leg and a broken leg. But some people. The people who believed in love. The people who of Alice’s death and knew how close her and Quinn were. They knew no heart attack killed Quinn. She died of a broken heart.


Cynthia was unusually quiet as she and Millie walked home from school. They weren't neighbors, Millie live a couple streets over,  but Millie always walked Cynthia home to make sure she got there safe. A while back Millie had asked why Cynthia walked home from school alone instead of taking the bus. Cynthia wouldn't say. Millie only wanted the best for her, and liked her company, so she offered to walk with her from then on. "Did your chemistry exam go ok, Cynth?" Millie asked as she kicked at some loose asphalt on the road. "Eh, it went alright." Cynthia replied solemnly, her backpack weighing down on her slouched shoulders. Millie brushed her chocolate brown bangs out of her eyes as the breeze tugged at them. She knew something was tugging at Cynthia's heart. She just didn't know what. "Did you get to talk to Tasha today about the history project?" Millie asked, trying to hear a glint of positivity in her friend's voice. "Mil, I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to her, I was studying in the music room." Cynthia replied a little forcefully, Her blue hair falling out of it's messy bun. Millie could tell that Cynthia was getting a little defensive. Millie remained quiet for a while as they got closer to Cynthia's house. As they walked up her porch steps, Millie stopped her friend. "Cynth, I'm really sorry if it felt like I was being controlling back there. I just want to make sure you're ok. Are you?" Millie looked at her friend with sympathy in her eyes. "No." Cynthia replied and dropped her backpack. Millie watched as she walked slowly to her porch swing and sat down. Millie followed. "Do you want to talk?" As she sat down on the swing, she noticed that the frown that played on Cynthia's face was becoming more common these days. "My life doesn't have meaning, Millie. I'm useless." Cynthia groaned. "Oh, Cynth, don't say that!" Millie gasped and grabbed Cynthia's hand. "I mean, no one cares about me. No one talks to me. I'm depressed." Cynthia muttered. She laid back on the porch swing made of cherry tree wood. "I care about you!" Millie exclaimed. Cynthia's blue hair fell into her eyes. Millie brushed it away. Cynthia crossed her arms. "You're not enough!" She whimpered. Millie wanted to take it personally, but she knew Cynthia's heart. "I'm not the only one who cares about you though." Millie sat back onto the swing. "My parents left me with my grandma who is too busy to care, no one but you talks to me, I can't do anything right, and no one cares if I stay or depart this planet! Who would care about someone like that?" Cynthia screeched. Millie was used to Cynthia's outbursts. It was hard to remain friends with someone so negative, but she remained. She knew she was a sweet girl inside. "Your Father cares." Millie replied as she pushed off of the concrete porch to make the swing go higher. "My father left me! He doesn't care whether I'm alive or not." Cynthia shouted. Millie shook her head. "Not that Father." "Oh, is this another one of your 'Jesus talks' ?" Cynthia's tone made Millie wince. "Cynthia, just listen. Your Heavenly Father created you and knew you before you were even born. He sculpted every detail- every part of you. He put you on this planet for a reason and He has a plan for you. He loves you. You are His child." Millie laid her hand on Cynthia's. Cynthia jerked her hand out from under Millie's. "Why would he do that? There is no plan. The plan is for me to live a painful life and die in vain. There is no God who loves me like you say." Cynthia huffed and turned away from Millie. "He-" Millie started. "He what?" Cynthia interrupted. "He doesn't care about how I live or what I do! I don't even believe there is a 'He' at all! If He loves me as much as you say, and He's in control of the whole world, why doesn't he give me some relief?" Tears started to slip down Cynthia's flushed cheeks. Millie knew her pain. She sympathized with her, and only wanted to help her. Only God could help her though. "I think you could relate to Jesus, Cynth. When God sent His Son to earth to be crucified for all of our sins, Jesus prayed and asked his Father to let the cup pass from Him. In other words if it was not necessary for Him to face this trial could God please save Him from it? But He also added at the end of His prayer, 'Not my will be done, but yours.' Because God did not let the cup pass, and Jesus was crucified and endured all that pain, the sins of the world are forgiven. And if you believe in your heart that Jesus is your Lord and Savior, and repent from your sins, you can go to heaven with Him when you die." Millie took a breath. Cynthia was silent. Millie knew she was listening. "God is using the pain you are going through to refine you, not reject you. Even if you were the only person on earth, God would have still sent His Son to die for you, and He still would have died on that cross." Millie squeezed Cynthia's arm lovingly. "You are forgiven, not forgotten. You are loved, not left behind. You are wanted, not wandering. You are chosen not forsaken. You don't know your worth, my friend. You are loved so much that God's Son died for you and me! Can you believe that?" Millie shook Cynthia's arm. "Can you believe that?" Cynthia looked up, tears dripping from her chin. "Really? He did that for me?" She asked shakily. "Yes, Cynthia, He did!" Millie smiled and wiped the tears from her dear friends face. "I believe." Cynthia whispered. Millie pulled her into a tight hug. Millie let her go and stood up. "Oh! You like reading right?" Millie asked. Cynthia nodded, confused. "Then you'll love The Book I'm about to show you."


I strummed a single chord. “No,” I said to myself. I strummed another chord. “That’s more like it.” I began to play around that chord, strumming and picking various notes until a song started to evolve. But it was garbage. I put the lyre down with a thud. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” said Paris. My brother had apparently just come back from hunting. He smelled like dirt.

“You’re a prince of Troy,” he continued, “there’s no reason for you to be a musician, like some common vagabond.” “But I’m not going to inherit the throne unless you break your neck chariot racing or something. I want to be remembered for something,” I responded.

“You’re never going to be him,” said Cassandra. My sister always spoke the truth, but I didn’t believe her. A slight, cool breeze floated through the open window, ruffling her dress and hair. The sun was setting on Troy. “I can’t give up,” I said, “I have to keep trying.” “Good luck with that, brother,” said Paris as he left.

“He was taught by Apollo himself,” continued Cassandra, “You’ll never be that good.” I picked up an amphora and threw it against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. I didn’t feel better, though. “Now you have a mess to clean up,” said Cassandra as she left the room. I sat in a corner to sulk. It was undignified, I know, but I didn’t really care. Cassandra was right, as usual; Orpheus was the best bard ever, and I’d never hold a candle to him. I sat there until something she said hit me like a lightning bolt from Zeus: “he was taught by Apollo himself.” I would get Apollo to teach me! How to get a god to teach me to play the lyre and sing would be more challenging, to say the least. It was hard enough to get the gods’ attention as it was, but to convince him to give you music lessons? I was determined to try anything.

I arose early, before sunrise, and left the confines of the city, lyre in hand. As the sun began to peek above the horizon, I started to play. I played a hymn to Apollo; one of Orpheus’ old standards. My fingers flew over the strings and I sang my lungs out, hoping he’d hear me. There was a brilliant flash of light. I covered my eyes to keep it from blinding me. A rushing wind blew over me, and I bowed my face to the ground. “Alright, who summoned me?” a rich voice said. I was afraid to look up. “Hey, I don’t have all day. Lighting the entire world is hard work!” he said. I finally worked up the courage to look up. There he was, big as life. He looked pretty much like all his statues; a handsome, youthful man with curly hair. He looked a little annoyed.

“My lord,” I started “y-your most holy awesomeness, I um...” “Get to the point! I already said I don’t have all day,” Apollo snapped, placing his hands on his hips. He glared at me; his eyes were like daggers. “I want to be a great musician!” I said finally, “Want to sing and play like Orpheus!” “Show me what you got, kid,” said the sun god. He sat down on a nearby stone and crossed his arms. I picked up my lyre and began to play another song.

“Hold it!” he said, holding up his hand. I hadn’t even gotten to the second verse. “What’s the matter, your holiness?” I asked, confused. “You’re not really playing,” he answered.

“What do you mean?” I inquired. “You’re... playing, but there’s something missing. You’re playing all the notes right, but you’re not feeling the music,” he said. “I’m not sure I understand.” “You said you want to play like Orpheus, right?” “Yes.”

“Well, you’re trying too hard to be Orpheus. You can’t be Orpheus. There’s only one Orpheus.” I was still confused. I furrowed my brow. Apollo stood up and looked me right in the eye. His gaze wasn’t angry anymore; that was a relief. “The only reason Orpheus was great was that he found his own voice. He didn’t try to be anyone else. He didn’t have to be; he was himself, and he was happy with himself.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Play what comes to your heart. Don’t try to copy someone else. You be yourself because you can do awesome things.” I picked up the lyre again and started to improvise. “That’s an improvement,” said the sun god, “But it’s still missing something.” I began playing harder, more passionately as Apollo listened. He rested his head on his hand and furrowed his brow. “Stop!” he said holding up his hand, “I’ve got it. I know what you’ve been missing.” “What is it?” I asked, eagerly. “Pain. That’s what you’re missing. It’s pain.” “Pain?!” I said in shock.

“Pain. The reason Orpheus was so great is that he experienced tragedy in his life,” said Apollo, “That tragedy gave his music an edge you’re missing.” “Then what do I do?!” I said in desperation. Obviously tragedy is something you can’t force; it just happens. I was doomed. “You have to be willing to suffer and sacrifice for your art,” he continued. I sat down on the ground and began to sulk. “Cassandra’s right again,” I said after a length of time, “I should just give up.” “You’re never going to make it with that attitude,” said Apollo “Here; I’ll do you a little favor.” Apollo began to glow, brighter and brighter, and then flashed with a brilliance I’d never experienced before. I fell backward. “That should do it,” he said. I was alone in silence and darkness.

It had been several weeks since my encounter with the sun god. I had stubbed my toes 1,000 different times, bumped my head, walked straight into a wall, fallen down three flights of stairs, but I was finally adjusting to being blind.

“Why did you do this?!” I shouted at the sky. Though I could only barely see it, I could feel the sun’s rays on my skin. “You asked for it,” came the answer, “You wanted to be great, and I told you you needed to submit to pain and loss. I gave you that pain. You’re welcome.” Pain was right. My head still throbbed. “Hey, Demo!” I heard a voice behind me say. “What do you want, Paris?” I asked. I sounded a bit exasperated.

“I want you to play at my wedding,” he responded. “I thought musicianship was only for ‘common vagabonds’.” “Well, your playing and singing have gotten better, since... you know. I want to impress Helen. You think you can come through for me?” “Well, I’ll do my best.” “Thanks, bro,” said Paris as he brushed past me. “Cassandra, where’d I put my lyre?” I felt her gently place the lyre in my hands. “You’re going to write the greatest epic ever, Demodocus,” she said. This was comforting, though I still didn’t believe her.


Cassidie had always hated Thursdays. A few lucky teenagers spent their weeknights pouring over homework or watching YouTube videos. Most others were out hunting Unnaturals, experimenting in labs with Unnatural compounds, or researching them in hopes of becoming a scientist. Everyone was involved with Unnaturals somehow. Cassidie didn't get that luxury. Instead, she got to spend every night sitting at the reception desk of Delilah's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium. Cassidie had no idea why it was called Delilah's. The owner, her father, certainly wasn't named Delilah. her late mother hadn't been either. As far as Cassidie was aware, there was absolutely no good reason to have it named as such. She had petitioned multiple times that her father change it to something that made more sense. Maybe Eli's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium , since that was his name. Nevertheless, the nonexistent Delilah reigned supreme, and so her name stayed on the sign above the door. When Cas's father died, she had thought for a moment about changing the business's name. A moment later she had sworn at herself for even thinking such a thing. It would have tarnished his memory, and she could never bring herself to do that. It wasn't as though the funeral home got much business. That may have been due in part to the fact Delilah's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium wasn't. There wasn't a single casket in the entire building, and there certainly weren't embalming fluids of recently deceased corpses. There were long-dead corpses, but those were in the catacombs beneath the basement and had been there for over two hundred years. Instead of ensuring that the corpses of the recently dead had safe passage to the family's cemetery of choice and a nice casket, the business was more of a halfway house. Cassidie had mentioned this to a classmate once. He had looked confused and asked who for, but Cassidie decided that he wasn't exactly worth it, and refused to tell him. Even with all that fun stuff, Thursdays sucked. Those were the days when she had to grant safe passage to the spirits who came through. More than once, she had seen the face of a childhood friend or a classmate go by, and every time it broke her heart. For months afterward, she would be quieter, more subdued. Then, when things finally seemed to be getting better, she would see another familiar face. And then they would be gone. Passing ceremonies always left Cass feeling abandoned. It was foolish to grow attached to spirits, but seeing people she knew and loved die was more than she could bear some days. The first time she had said goodbye had been when she was four years old. Her next-door neighbor and best friend had been caught in a fire that killed her entire family. Cassidie had screamed in terror the first time she saw her neighbor's ghost, but her mother had calmed her and guided her through the passage-granting ceremony. For a while, passage ceremonies became a normal thing for Cass. But then her mother had died, and Cass had been the only one who was a stable enough anchor to guide her into the spirit world. For almost two years afterward, she hadn't been able to look at anything that reminded her of her mom, including her own father. During that time she stayed with friends on the outskirts of the city. Eventually, she had to come back, but things had been different ever since. When she finally came back, she made friends with a spirit in limbo; a little girl named Melinoe.

The only way for a spirit to be stuck in limbo is for a said spirit to have an unfulfilled purpose on the planet. Melinoe had been twelve years old when she died in a car crash. Her parents had survived, but Melione's father succumbed to guilt and killed his wife in a murder-suicide. "Hey, Cass!" said a disembodied voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Cassidie's head snapped up and she caught sight of the blue little girl in front of her. With a grin, Cassidie jumped over the receptionist's desk and hugged her spectral friend. That was one of the few perks of being a Necromancer: she could touch ghosts. "Melinoe! How're you doing?" The specter smiled shyly. "I've been alright. I brought a few new spirits by last night. You weren't here though." Cassidie flinched "Sorry about that. Mrs. Villegas assigned a three-page essay entirely in Spanish. I had to write the whole thing in two hours. You know how she gets when I don't turn in my work." The blue girl cracked a smile. "I know, I know! 'Ms. McFarland, you may be a Necromancer, but that doesn't excuse you from doing your work! Write to me thirteen verbs conjugated in the past participle form'." Melinoe burst into giggles before she could finish, and it didn't take long for Cassidie to follow suit. It took a while, but eventually, the two girls calmed down. Cassidie looked over at Melinoe, who had gone dead silent and was picking at her wisps of fingernails. "You aren't usually this... noisy," Cass noticed. "Is everything okay?" Melinoe looked up, phantom tears pooling in her hollow eyes. "Oh, Cass. I... I got approved." The all too familiar feeling of abandonment and emptiness spread through Cass's chest in a pang of pain. She had prayed that this day wouldn't come. It was too much to bear, the loss of another friend. She silently cursed herself for growing attached once more. When she finally spoke, Cass could barely keep the tears from her voice. "That... that's amazing, Meli. When is your ceremony?" The other girl's voice was small. "Today." Cass could feel Meli's hesitance and tried to take a deep breath. "O-oh. I guess I'll get the candles. Do you want to meet me in the basement?" Meli smiled softly. "If you say so. Thank you, Cass." She hugged Cass fiercely, her face buried into Cass's shoulder. "Thank you." -------------------------------------------------------------------- Cass burst into tears the second Meli floated through the wall of the room and into the basement. She couldn't think, couldn't move. For years, Cass had given Meli the cold shoulder. She had tried with all her might not to be connected to the girl. After long enough, she had given up and the two had become friends. It seemed like Meli would never move onto the spirit world. But the day had come, and Cass would be alone again. Cass's finger stumbled across the shelves of wax, finally coming to rest on the only candle she had never been able to use. Her mother had given it to her when she was young. One day, this candle will find its place. But that is up to you. Keep this and hold it sacred. She slid the candle into a canvas bag, alongside multiple others. Little glass vials filled with plants and herbs- anemone, basil, bluebells, holly, ivy, mandrake- were held in a leather pouch. She closed the canvas bag and moved from the storage cabinet. Cass's movement was slowed by her grief, feet scraping across the floor as she walked. Though it took a long time, she headed the basement, where Melinoe hovered silently with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Behind her, a blue and black vortex swirled calmly. Cass kept the sacred silence of the Passage room as she set the candles aflame. Her fingers lingered for a moment on her mother's candle before letting go. It would be time soon. The dried herbs and flowers filled the room with their scents, coming together into a beautiful aroma. She looked to Meli and nodded. A wind swept through the room, circling around Cass. As her eyes glazed over, she began to recite the words that had become a mantra to her. With the silence held sacred And the memory of days old Here we gather to witness the passage Of a friend into the eternal field I ask, O great spirits For your arms to stay open To you I entrust this souls Whose name is Melinoe Roman Take this gentle child Into you loving hands And bless her travels now Through the eternal light Her voice caught for a moment. The usual three stanzas had come easily, but now she remembered that there was another option. To add a personal touch. She had never done it before. But today she would. Her voice trembled as she spoke. Melinoe, my closest friend, I wish you safest travels You have brought me nothing but joy these past years And I know that you will find peace Though I shall miss you until the day that I die I shall hold you in my heart For you are my friend My confidant, my sister And my love for you shall never die Like the stars in the sky, my love shall burn on Even when I am gone, I shall love you For eternity and more Goodbye Tears pooled in both girl's eyes as Melinoe was drawn toward the vortex. "Thank you, Cass. Thank you." Cas smiled. "Goodbye. May your days be long and your peace be eternal." "Goodbye."