The mounted courier blazed past the line of carts and splashed through the puddle in front of Gretchen’s makeshift stand. She curled her lip and flicked a glob of mud from the ribbon stitched to her pink apron. “Really, Nora? Dignity aside, you had to choose a miserable day to do this?” “You made the wager, and I won fair and square.” Nora glanced up from her newspaper with a smirk. “Besides, the fundraiser is tomorrow. You’re doing a good deed.” “Nobody is buying lemonade from a witch on the side of a road. This is all to humiliate me. Where d’you learn to yodel like that, anyway? Anyone would think you’re some kind of mountain-woman icon.” Nora chuckled and turned her attention back to the paper. “I’m a woman of hidden talents.” Gretchen rolled her eyes and watched the procession to the city crawl along. Merchants and traders who hadn’t been early enough to get the worm waited as guards took their time to admit them past the gates. A delivery of raw hides was getting closer, and Gretchen wrinkled her nose at the stench. “Oi, you there!” A driver leered at them. “Reduced to serving drinks, is it? Potion business not treating you well?” Snickers came from the traders within earshot, and Nora stirred. Gretchen held a hand to her friend’s arm and stood with a cheery smile. “Just doing my good deed for the day, sir. For the old witches’ home. Poor souls deserve a crust of bread, same as anyone. I think you’ll find our lemonade is the best of refreshments for a hardworking man such as yourself.” “You’d do better with ale, hag,” he chortled. “A fire in his belly is what a man needs. Should have charmed your face into something pleasant if you wanted to con a man out of his coin.” Gretchen smiled through gritted teeth as the peanut gallery roared with laughter. Pouring a cup of a slightly different pigment, she stepped over a puddle and proffered it. “A taste test then. I challenge you to say this isn’t the finest lemonade in the city.” He opened his mouth as if to refuse then glanced at the onlookers. Gretchen reckoned his type wouldn’t back away from a wager, and he snatched the cup with a grimace. “Probably horse piss. But I’ve had worse.” He tipped his cup to the spectators and threw it back in a single swallow. Gretchen bit back a grin and watched as his eyes widened. With a hand to his belly, he gave a mighty belch and flames spewed from his mouth. The poor beast in front leapt ahead and jostled the next wagon. A chain reaction ensued and shouts came from the entire line. Gretchen dodged a flying hoof as she jumped over the puddle and grabbed Nora’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.” “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Nora panted as they ran for the cover of the treeline ahead. “Made the entire venture worthwhile.


“That goblin was mine.” Tara stared down at the creature lying motionless on the ground in front of her. “Well, you should have been faster. That’s twenty-one gobs for me. How many did you get? Sixteen? Seventeen?” Jace smirked as he wiped the green goo from his blade. “Nineteen,” she mumbled under her breath. “Let’s go before more show up.” She walked through the bodies of dead goblins, pulling out arrows as she went. No sense wasting them when she could reuse them. Jace trailed along behind her, his ever-watchful eyes scanning the trees to the left, and the mountains to the right. He got all the cool powers. He had the eyesight of a hawk, the ability to blink in and out of sight, and he could hear things up to a mile away. All she got was the ability to control the wind. She huffed out a breath as she stomped down the dirt road looking for more goblins. It would be a shame if he actually beat her in the gob count. “Hey, wait up.” His long legs easily caught up to her shorter ones. “So what are we going to do after we kill the goblin king?” She rolled her eyes without answering and continued to march towards the castle. It was really more of an oversized hut with rubies stuck on the walls and roof. A few gold coins hung in the windows, the light of the sun reflecting off them. If the place were made of brick, it wouldn’t be too bad. Although many people have seen the hut from a distance, to her knowledge, no one has ever been inside. No one even knew what the goblin king looked like, but Tara could use her imagination and come up with a hideous creature. Jace nudged her shoulder, bringing her focus back to him. “I can’t wait to see what the scary goblin king looks like.” He flashed her a smile. “I get first swing at him because I’m older.” She glanced sideways at her fighting partner. They had been training together since they could walk, and she never missed an opportunity to remind him she was the older. “By three days.” His smile turned into a frown when he looked at her. “I’ll give you fist swing at him anyway.” They crested the top of the hill and gazed down at the jeweled dwelling below them. It didn’t look like much from the outside. The only thing that made it different from other hut’s she’d seen was the rubies, gold, and jewels. A small paddock to the left held to happy horses munching on grass. A barn sat beside the fence, its doors open, allowing the mooing of the cows to be heard from a distance. She crept down the hill with Jace by her side. When they reached the bottom, she ducked behind a large boulder and dragged Jace down with her. He stumbled forward, grunting, and cursing under his breath. Goblins of all sizes exited a large building down the road. They chatted and laughed as a human would. Tara furrowed her brows. Where were the bloodthirsty monsters she had always been told about? When the crowd of goblins dispersed, she crept forwards once again towards the door to the king’s castle. The wooden door was the only thing standing between her and the monstrous king of the goblins. She took a deep breath, counted to three, and burst through the door with an arrow nooked in her bow. Her breath caught in her throat as she got her first glimpse of the king. Jace stopped right beside her, mouth hanging open. This was not what they expected. The goblin king was nothing more than a child. He wasn’t a goblin at all. Tara lowered her bow and put the arrow back in her quiver. She would not kill a child. Turning on her heels, she strode out of the goblin king's hut, never to hunt or kill a goblin ever again.


Do you remember what it’s like to be that short, wide-eyed boy and all that you wanted was to win that giant boat from the arcade? The one that hung up on the top of the ceiling, dangling in front of you, luring your quarters into the adjacent claw machine. Do you remember the scent? It was like popcorn and an old spilled soda. Direct the prongs to grab onto the prized white box, specifically the one that says one thousand tickets, so you can buy that boat! It must be impossible, but you try anyway because it’s fun to imagine. What a memory, something close to the heart that warms you like watching the snowfall by a fire...  Now you’re a little older, more interested in those early morning fishing trips with your dad than the rafts in the arcade. There’s something innate about fishing, it’s like a great connection to a simpler time. Being here reminds you of a simple life, and that there is hope for one. The only worry in the world is that eventually, you’ll have to go home.  Scrolling on your phone a few years later, reminiscing of those happy times, makes it feel like it was just yesterday. Don’t you wish you could be there again?  Take her by the hand, and buy her a ticket to the Lac Du Saint Sacrement, the biggest boat in town. Don’t get nervous, it's just the third date. You just met last week, and you’ll be gone by tomorrow. Her hair has these soft-colored highlights, blue pink, and blonde, and it reminds you of the way holiday lights shine in December. This is your summer fling. She smiles at your jokes, which is a first because no one thinks you’re funny. You share stories of growing up, about how you’ve been coming here since you were a kid. The smell of cheap funnel cakes and greasy burgers mix with the cool summer breeze. You take in a deep breath and feel the endorphins sprinting through your body, which makes it feel like the last day of school. This reminds you of what you crave in life: Love, affection, peace, and a drop of sun.  Aboard the Lac Du, an artist plays his guitar strings to the sound of Jimmy Buffet, but he sings about Lake Georgeville instead. It’s more comedic than anything but you clap for him anyway. Take a trip up to the top floor, and if it’s too cold, you can promise to keep her warm.  The last golden gleams of sunshine hit the water and the sun looks at itself in the mirror, like that picture in your bathroom. You scoff, laughing, remembering what it’s like to be back home, with that stupid photo in the stall. Now the stars have a chance to see themselves in the reflection as the sun goes away. From here, there are a thousand stellar lights visible. Darkness--Wait--Oh no. This is the last night you have here before you have to leave heaven. What a strange but wonderful place, how all of these people, alone in the woods, can be connected. It’s like a summer camp but without the need to be woken up for breakfast. Red, green, blue, orange, white lights fill up the evergreen mountains with a sound that can shake rib bones. Fireworks, one last hurrah. You hug her, lay your cheek on hers. A perfect night for a first kiss, or maybe some time away from school, or maybe a blissful night to get away from work. Then it hits you. Your stomach tenses. This is the last night here, after this, you’ll be going back home…  Trash blows across cracks of concrete and sirens roar a loud squeal and reverberate off of skyscrapers that cast a cold shade onto the streets. Your nose runs but you don’t have the hands to blow it, or even a tissue, to ease the mess that’s now leaking into your mouth. It’s quite disgusting, and you’re quite disgusted. At night the only quiet soul in town is the thick layer of smog that hovers above the buildings like something out of Independence Day. This is not living, and there is no love here, so you decide to start scrolling on your phone again. Soft pink lips, streaks of strawberry highlights dazzled between strands of straight blonde hair. You miss her. You miss it.  Smile child. It’ll be summer again. The Lake will still be there, the mountains will still be there, and the fireworks will roar once again. You’ve saved up enough, it’s time to book your plans. It’s what every person should have the opportunity to experience...the place where the boy became a man.


July 14- 00:00 I never understood the point of keeping a journal until I started working at this little taco stand at the corner of 6th and 8th street. It wasn’t your ordinary taco shop, it was below ordinary, All the food was frozen and had to be microwaved. My little hut consisted of four rooms, the main area where I stood, the kitchen, which was just a microwave and a freezer, the employee breakroom, and the bathroom which was the only way out of the shack. Our stand used to be one of these old Japanese food stands with the pedestals outside, how it turned Mexican? Beats me. I got the job through a phone call interview; I was told to be dropped off and will be called when my shift was over. Now, the location made no sense to me at all. The taco stand was in buttfuck nowhere, I remember only seeing one car pass in my four-hour shift and it was my car! I can’t complain though, 16$ an hour for the nightshift? Who would say no! It’s been boring for a little but an hour ago I had seen my first customer… it was a man in a trench coat. Now it wasn’t one of those small dick flashing trench coats, it was a whole ass noir suit, something you would see in a detective movie, really fucking weird. I obliged and took his order, “what’s the order?” “Empanadas… two….” “uh sure 5 bucks” he smiled with almost one big hillbilly tooth and put the money on the desk. I heated up the empanadas and stared at him. Now a NORMAL human being would engage in conversation, No! the fucker stared at me and rubbed his gums with his tongue. He took his empanadas and left, where he went? Different ass story. 03:15 Okay, what the FUCK just happened? A little while after the incident a new guy, no scratch that, A FUCKING STATUE appeared! I didn’t even see it at first but every time I had blinked it appeared closer and closer… twelve blinks later and it was basically where my stand was. Now I freaked the fuck out, I closed the shutter and sat in a convenient area under the register. The statue or whatever kept knocking louder and louder, I was shitting bricks. I locked the bathroom door and sat there in complete silence. Couple minutes later it stopped, and I peeked through the slit in the metal shutter to see if whatever it is was gone. Fuck me. July 15 The rest of yesterday’s shift was normal, couple crackheads needed to use the bathroom. Heard one of them scream and checked to see, no one had entered… whatever. The dayshift dude, Nunez took over and I went back home. Now I just got back to work, and Nunez finally tells me about the dumb things that happen during the nightshift. He calls them “rules that I muse oblige to or end up dead and missing!!” How the hell does he know I’m going to be dead if I’m missing? Load of bull shit. He gave me the list anyways. “Lil Jose’s nightshift” Rules To Stay Alive 1. Keep the bathroom door locked, if you need to go, run to the exit door and lock it. DO NOT WALK 2. Always have one thing being microwaved, does not matter what. 3. Always have the lights on unless Steve comes. 4. Never keep the register open 5. Never look outside for too long, if you see something that is not a customer, close the shutter and wait until daylight. 6. If Steve comes, do as rule five but go into the employee breakroom and stand in the middle. Continually laugh until Steve leaves. 7. Do not clog the toilet you fat fuck Wait, that’s it? So, fucking dumb ??? Okay not as dumb as I thought, Steve came, well he’s HERE. He has round glasses and stuck up hair. I was in the middle of his order when It finally struct me to ask for his name. “Oh, I’m glad you asked… it’s Steve.” I smiled and looked at the listen which he could also see on my naked desk next to my phone which had po- which was off. “ah one second there…” I slammed the shutters closed and went into the employee breakroom. I’ve been laughing for who knows how long, he wont leave. He keeps knocking and asking to come inside. “I just want to laugh with you Jonathan!” I started laughing harder, this place has no fucking name tags and the last time I checked I was NOT employee of the month, Nunez was. I’m terrified and I don’t know how long he’s going to stay. FUCK July 16 Eventually Steve left, or disappeared, or was abducted, who cares? Nunez opened the room and I finally stopped laughing. I feel like I have a six pack now. Hello! This is Kenneth, Jonathan took the day off and allowed me to work for once. He probably forgot to mention me but I’m one of the workers of the nightshift, granted I sleep in the employee lounge all day, it was rude that Jonathan never brought me up shame!! Jonathan said he needed to “find himself” whatever that means. So, I must work for once. I’ve been working here for a little over seven months, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go and learned a lot from it as well; how to correctly heat up a burrito, the price of every item, how to defend the shop during the blood hours… the usual. A customer came up to the shop and asked to use the pay phone. I groaned and looked at the freak, “10 cents and hour no change is provided." She pleaded with urgency, “please you need to let me use your phone I don’t have any cash I’ve been chased for a little over an hour please please please” I denied, a policy is a policy and it’s dumb to lose this treasure of a job over 10 cents. She ran away and I continued with my night. Later, a man with a wolfs hide came up and asked if I saw a girl. His voiced changed every time he spoke; it went from an elderly voice to a child’s… Without looking up from my phone, I pointed in her direction and kept swiping left on my phone. I really don’t understand the point of this food stand. I know Mexican delicacy is great and all but we’re in nowhere New Mexico somewhere near the border of the state. But for SOME reason this shack gets new inventory every week. It amazes me why the store is still open.


Cooking is an art. This is a very underrated statement, and many people can’t seem to fully appreciate that fact. I indulge in cooking from time to time as a hobby, and a rather passionate one at that. My busy work-life grants me little time to do what I love so, when I do get that precious time, I cook like there’s no tomorrow. It is a meticulous process, but in the end; the exploding taste buds and each individual flavor blending in perfect synchrony, almost like the instruments in an orchestra, create a paradise...no, heaven in my mouth; and that gives me enough reason to do what I do the way I do it. Tonight is a special one. I’ll be spending the evening making one of my all-time favorite dishes; the chicken sausage pasta; with a side of steak. And, I thought I’ll walk you through it. Obviously, the first thing to do is to collect the required ingredients. I consider myself to be a man of purity. Everything I touch, eat, even the air I breathe; is and has to be pure. It is following this reason that the source for my ingredients is local produce; my local produce. I have a farm where I grow everything I require not too far from the city; I think of it as my personal supermarket. This farm provides me with everything, with the exception of meat. Another one of my hobbies is hunting; it takes me back to our roots and almost humbles me; looking at how far we’ve come since the time of hunters and gatherers. After a trip to the farm, it’s time to get the meat. This is one of the more elaborate steps in the cooking process. It usually takes around 4-5 days. First, I pick my target. The selection process involves a lot of factors; a lot of them depend on the dish I’ll be making and also the consistency of the finished product. Then, I capture my meat source when it’s in solitude; away from all its brethren. First, I corner it into a tight space, then; I lock eyes with it. As my prey slowly starts to lose its grip on reality, becoming a shell of what it once was, a confused being; I make my move, usually with the help of a sack. What follows is an hour or two of undisturbed, concentrated “surgery”. It is a bit out of place calling it that, yes, but; given the amount of effort I put into getting the meat that I’ll be using in the final process, I think it’s fair to label it as such. The slaughterhouse serves as the operation theatre, I; the doctor, and actually, the tools remain pretty much the same. The first step is to cut out the flesh. The realization that there’s no savior, that this is the end; and their eyes slowly filling with fear while frantically moving around in search of that last non-existent ray of hope as the cold, metallic scalpel makes contact with their skin excites me; it...entices me. Something stirs inside, and there’s this unknown rush I get; it’s a high and it’s beautiful. Given that I’ve been pursuing this hobby for about five years, I’ve been only recently been able to make these cuts on them without having to experience that shrill, high-pitched noise we call screams. It’s amazing how we hear their voices all around us every day and yet they become demonic the moment they’re under slight discomfort. Now, once the cuts have been made, I weigh up the required amount, wash it thoroughly, and keep it aside. The prey has been made as if transparent, each and every organ on display; much to my delight. Listening closely, you realize that each organ beats, or moves in perfect sync, my personal orchestra; with me as the conductor. Watching their life slowly leave their body with every organ, every piece of flesh removed is another sight that gives me the same high as before. I guess you could say cooking’s my drug. This is the standard procedure for the torso. When it comes to the thighs and/or head, I resort to something more...quick. To get meat from the legs, I resort to the Maguro Bōchō, a long, highly specialized sword used by the Japanese to fillet tuna. I’d say it serves the same purpose here, a clean-cut, in one swoop. If they’ve managed to survive all this, I put them out of their misery. My meat cleaver is a perfect fit for this job. Like the traditional Guillotine, the last thing my prey sees is metal being brought down on them. Even in their final moments, some of them try to wriggle themselves out of this pickle by pleading with their eyes. Futile, but it always manages to get a laugh out of me. Then, I glance over to get a final look at their still-beating heart, mirroring their rolling head, and both slowly coming to stop simultaneously. And now, it’s time to fuel my passion with the fire within me. In the kitchen, I become a different person. I usually put on some music in the background, usually Mozart or Beethoven and it transports me to another world. Time goes by and each and every step of the recipe is executed with perfection, precision, passion, and patience. The cooking utensils dance on the food, just as puppets would, and I become the puppeteer. The flame does its job as it should, giving a layer of light brown on the meat. The floor loses its friction, becoming smooth as marble as I glide through the kitchen piecing together the final part of the puzzle. And just like that, I’ve created yet another masterpiece. Ah! That’s the doorbell, my guests have arrived, just on time. I’m having a few friends over for dinner. You know, since they’re here, I might as well stock up for my next trip to the farm...


I have been dating this girl for about 8 months. Let's just call her Anna to conceal her identity. One day Anna told me she wanted me to meet her mother. We live in D.C. and her mother lives in Virginia so we had to make a road trip. We got to her mother's house which is secluded about 20 miles away from the nearest town. It was an old victorian style house the ones you know are definitely haunted. Her mom was amazing but a bit eccentric. She cooked us a huge dinner that night ham, turkey, with all the sides it felt like thanksgiving. After dinner, we had a few drinks to celebrate and had a blast. We turned in for the night and I slept like a baby. I woke up early the next morning so early it was still dark out. I strolled to the kitchen to fix some coffee. Her mom is a coffee addict like me so i was glad she had the good shit. As my coffee was brewing I heard some strange noises coming from one of the guest bedrooms. Scratching noises from the room directly across from mine. I open the door and whreeeer! A cat jumped out at me. I almost pissed my pants I was so freaked. Nevertheless, it was just Anna’s old cat Bella. I was walking out of the room when something caught my peripheral vision. A box the cat knocked over near the closet. So the nice guy I am, I go over to put the box back in its original place. I started picking up what fell just a bunch of old electric and gas bills. Until I came across a small red photo album labeled “Bruce.” I remember Anna telling me her father's name was Bruce and he died about 2 years ago. Cancer I believe. Curiously, I looked through the album and there were a lot of pictures of Bruce in a hospital bed that was here in the house. I could tell by the Van Gogh painting in the background. As I flipped through the pictures they just got sadder and sadder. You could see the cancer take a toll on his body, each picture he's looking more like death. I was about done looking until I saw a dvd with “2018” on it. So I peeped my head out to make sure everyone was still asleep and shut the door. I popped in the dvd and it was just a video of Bruce sleeping. Then about 15 seconds in I see Anna’s mother creep in the frame. It was a bit weird because she was standing over bruce watching him sleep. This went on for about a minute. And then shit got dark. She picked up a pillow and placed it over Bruce's face. Bruce was flailing his arms and legs fighting for air. Fighting with every ounce of energy that was left in his body. He was just too weak. His movement then came to an end. Anna’s mother removed the pillow from his lifeless face. She looked back directly at the camera with an evil grin. She picked up the camera laughing hysterically and said “It's finally over!.


Wind chimes swaying endlessly as my head swirls deeper into my own thoughts. You could never really describe your own problems, the constant lies you had to live through. Facade. The 'living' room is greyish, a slight dim orange light coming from the lamp in the corner. That light gives you a blurry view of reality, it shows the way to the broken mirror in the room, you stare helplessly..so deeply and you see a cracked image of yourself. You're Broken. Have you forgotten the warm memories you had with her? A question I asked myself frequently. How I wished things were more sweet than bitter to the very end. You approached me with that fake smile, I could still remember the words you said, "Save me someday okay?". I never understood what you meant by that, after all we have been going out for awhile and I thought it was just one of your usual flirts, you know...how some couples try to flirt with each other with corny lines. I was wrong. I never got a reason as to why you, a beautiful goddess would approach a slump like me, I was an average guy. I had boring emotions and reactions, what did I mean to you? I knew you meant the world to me but what did I mean to you? They say, god passes down a factor into your life, someone or something that will change your emotions towards life, you see, I was never fond of life to begin with. I had doubts on everything, constant negative thoughts always fill my head and I would live through it like any other day. Unfortunately, those gathered up thoughts would bite me back. You found me at my lowest with that fake smile of yours. How glad was I to finally have someone to spend my boring days with. We went on fun dates, we both had warm memories together, laughing, crying, loving. Letting out our hidden emotions together. You changed me, you influenced me. You were the lamp, giving dim light to my dark room. "Save me someday". Now I knew what you meant by that. You did not have to lie about your true emotions, I could have helped you if you just told me. I was by your side every single second and I tried my best to make the both of us happy but I guess, you viewed the world as a pale blue. I was far from the guy you knew back when you found me but you were still the same when we first met. 'Sarah, if you are listening, I am still alive and well, I just wishes I could tell you how my life went from utter bitterness to sweet. Allow me to show you how my world turned colourful from ash grey. I miss you' I could still remember her fake smile, yea they were not genuine but you still felt a sense of comfort behind it. The notes I found in her room, they gave me warmth again. She wrote of our countless journeys together, it was the most purest thing I have ever read and held. I wished she could see how the tears rolled down my cheeks. Its cold again. My warmth never existed in the first place.


Edward stands at the edge of the yellow ‘Do Not Cross’ line listening to the rattling metallic screech echoing from the tunnel. Shimming back, he glances down the dark tracks watching the lights come closer until the train roars passed and shrieks to a halt. Two tones sound off the subterranean walls followed by an electronic voice. “Doors opening.” Like the ocean tide, the passengers flow in and out of the train car. Edward steps through the sliding doors and the voice chimes once more. “Doors closing.” Almost immediately the train lurches forward. Ed sighs harshly after catching himself on a rubber handhold that hangs from the ceiling. He looks around the car thinking how funny it is that he recognizes the strangers on his morning commute. He nods to the familiar faces he makes eye contact with and notes the others who are caught up in their morning routines and sleepy stupors. Like the middle-aged gentleman juggling a thermos, a newspaper, and his cell phone. Or the large woman with thinning brown hair and fading dye who chews her breakfast louder than the train runs. Edward glances out of the window at the dark tunnel thinking of the other sleepy faces around him. The occasional light bulb wooshes past distracting him from both the familiar and unfamiliar. He reminds himself beneath his breath. “Two stops ‘til daylight.” The train’s professional voice sounds off once more cutting through the uncomfortable morning silence. “Approaching Clarke and Division. Next stop: North and Clybourne.” A Sikh man Edward recognizes bounces onto the train offering all who meet his gaze with bright smile. After another exchange of passengers, the train surges forward once more. Edward closes his eyes after returning the greeting and he reminds himself. “One stop ‘til daylight.” Edward forces a low airy laugh finding humor in a wandering thought about his morning ritual. It reminds him of turning on the light in a dark room. He closes his eyes to prepare the onslaught of sudden illumination. The light shines through his closed lids and his pupils adjust. Yet it feels silly to do now. He has already walked through the morning light to get to the train in the first place. Not to mention, the trains own fluorescent bulbs. What makes the sun’s light different? Is it the magnification off the city windows? Ed plays with different reasons but none of them feel right. He shrugs his thoughts away and continues to observe his many foreign acquaintances. He wonders how the pink haired woman with the side cut and the dark lipstick reads her novel while squeezed between the loud chewer and a smartly dressed but dazed looking businessman. The train screeches to a stop and the voices informs. “This is North and Clybourne. Exit through the doors on the right. Fullerton is next.” The doors thud open and the car becomes emptier. The businessman rushes out pushing past a homeless man as he enters. The vagrant looks at Edward and smiles. Some of his teeth are missing but his eyes are bright. “Morning, Eddy boy.” Ed returns a smile. “Good morning, Hughie.” “Doors closing.” The train launches again. “Fullerton is next. Transfer to the purple and brown lines at Fullerton.” Hugh points to his eyes. “Daylight’s a comin’. Better close the eyes before the sun burns ‘em out.” He laughs turns and finds his way to the back of the train car giving Edward a dismissive wave. Edward smiles at the delightful Hugh. He closes his eyes still wondering whether he shields them from the sudden shift in light or if it is a game he subconsciously plays with himself like children lifting their feet off the floor of the car as they’re driven by a cemetery. Listening to the screeching railway, he sways with the train car lightly correcting himself with the plastic handhold hanging from the ceiling. The sun’s warmth is sudden and even through his closed eyes he winces. There is both pleasure and discomfort. The sound of the train no longer echoes off the tunnel walls. It makes Edward feel as though the train is floating away like objects ejected from an air lock in space movies. The train slows and the momentum makes him sway forward. The train’s automated voice calls out again. “This is Fullerton. Switch to the Brown and Purple lines at Fullerton.” Edward sighs and the doors crank open. He can feel the bodies shift in and out like the air in his lungs. The sunlight shines through the skin and blood making a fine crimson beneath his eyelids. The train calls out to the passengers. “Doors closing. Next stop Belmont. Switch to Brown and Purple Lines at Belmont.” The doors close rapidly and the train lurches forward. Finally, Edward’s eyes flutter open as his body becomes accustomed to the train’s speed. He blinks at the rising glass buildings reflecting the sun’s light. He looks over the familiar faces of his commute noting that his vagrant acquaintance is gone. There is one new face with curly black hair and light bronze skin. She is looking at her phone with a bright smile. Her eyes are a green-hazel color trimmed with golden flakes. She is radiant. She is a flashbang grenade that steals away Edward’s sight and sucks the oxygen from his chest. Everything feels like that picture perfect movie moment. Guy sees girl. Time slows down. Love at first sight. Edward watches her for a moment. Wondering if it is appropriate to move over and talk to her. He decides against it. Who would want someone hitting on them at 7:23 in the morning? He averts his gaze outside and is taken aback by the sight. Three birds, a robin and two finches, are frozen in mid flight next to the window. The train is no longer moving. The trees outside are frozen mid wind induced sway. The vehicles and pedestrians along the streets and sidewalks all paused in their movements. Edward looks at all the passengers in the train car. The middle-aged man’s thermos is falling from his hands the liquid spilling over the side while his phone seems like its levitating awayt. The loud woman still holding the phone to her face on speaker phone mouth paralyzed in an exaggerated position mid conversation. He cringes at the sight of the half-chewed food in the other woman’s half open mouth. Edward swallows his disbelief, and he waves his hand in front of the nearest person. There is no reaction. “No. This can’t be happening. What is even happening?” Edward regurgitates the skepticism and it splashes over him in a panic. He rushes over to the man whose thermos spills hot coffee. He grabs the thermos and turns it over. Nothing falls out. He lets go of the container. It does not fall. Edward screams at the man’s face. There is no reaction. He pinches his arm hoping the pain might wake up from this strange dream. His fingernails slice his skin, and he remains awake. “I’m not asleep.” Shocked tears fall from his wide eyes. He lets the fear take him like the high tide waiting for himself to breathe in the calm. When the fear subsides like the low tide, he looks at her. How the sunlight is fixed on her motionless frame. Her brilliant beaming is comforting and intoxicating. It makes him feel safe. Edward blinks hard as if it will reset his malfunctioning eyes and brain. Perhaps he has fallen asleep, or he is stuck in a bout of sleep paralysis on the train. Yes! He thinks to himself. That must be it! He leans back in the seat growing lightheaded. The edge of his vision becomes static tunneling into the center. Edward breathes deep trying to get his breathing under control. Trying to get his perspective of the situation under control. He opens his eyes and his gaze immediately falls on her. “Is it you?” He whispers to himself taking in her hair like fire in the morning light. He shakes his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense.” Edward looks away only for a moment, and then glances back noticing even from nearly ten feet away the freckles along the bridge of her nose. He scans the train car taking in the other subjects frozen in time. Edward stands walking over to the coffee floating almost as if it were liquid floating in the vacuum of space. He dabs his finger and licks it. A thought crosses his mind, and he grabs his phone from his pocket. He clicks the lock button, and the screen remains dark. He sighs and looks at his darkened reflection. The man stuck in time gently tosses the phone upward expecting it to stay suspended like the coffee. It falls to the floor shattering the screen. He sighs again. “How long?” He wonders out loud. “How long will it be this way?” \*\* Ed’s stomach growls painfully. He scratches his long and greyed beard and sniffs the grime that burrows beneath his fingernails. His nose scrunches and he lifts the fingers in question to his eyes. “Time doesn’t exist. This is proof. It did once before, but now, like the dinosaurs, it does not. This train is the meteor that broke time.” Edwards sunken bloodshot eyes flick toward the radiant woman. She looks like a religious statue carved from the most precious material. “Or maybe it is you? Maybe this is wrong! Maybe time is not broken! Perhaps this is limbo, or an afterlife and this is my punishment.” His eyes go to the birds suspended outside of the train window. He digs the dirt from his fingernails using the corner of a debit card from his wallet. His bones poke through his skin as he hunches over to get a look at his toenails. His clothes drape over him as if they are on a mannequin to small for their display. “Maybe this train went off the rails and this is the moment before I died. I am stuck here. Yes. Yes! I did not believe in any God or religion. The universe doesn’t know what to do with me. So, I am here! Suspended in time! Losing youth and mind! Yes! Yes!” Edward tosses the card aside and stands up. He grabs the rubber handholds in front of the coffee man. He hangs bringing his legs up and lowering his face level with the man and his spilled drink. “What do you think, Stefan?” He waits a minute and begins to nod his head. “Yes. I understand. We don’t speak enough for you to want to answer. I think I know what you would say though. You would agree with me. Yes. Yes you would, Stefan.” Edward sees the man’s phone in his pocket. He releases the handles and falls onto his knees. He inches forward and slips his fingers in grabbing the phone. His stomach drops at the sight of his reflection. His skin is wrinkled and covered in liver spots. His eyes are desperate beads in sunken sockets. His hair is long greasy and thin, and his beard is unruly and down to his belly button. “I am my own demon.” Edward says to his greyed reflection. He notices his decaying teeth and infected gums. “My own punishing angel.” He looks to her. “I feel myself slipping. I’ve felt it for so long now. I don’t know how long I’ve been this way. Have I *always* been this way? How long has it been since my body has decayed. You are my constant, yet I do not know your name!” He lets the phone slip through his fingers as he stands. He gestures to the people around him. “I’ve fished into their pockets and learned what I could about them. My neighbors here frozen in this pocket of time. I’ve grown to love them. They are my friends and they’ve brought me solace in this time.” Edward grabs two metal poles four feet away from the radiant woman. “I’ve refrained from learning about you. Stopped myself. I don’t want to disrespect you. I don’t want to invade your privacy.” His lips curl into a frustrated sneer. “We could become friends! Like Stefan and I! He shares his coffee with me! Imagine what we could share! Imagine the conversations! I want to know your name! I want to know who you are!” Spittle sprays from his mouth. He breathes rapidly and steps forward hesitating as his hand reaches for the purse hanging from her arm. He reaches in and feels until he grabs something that feels like a wallet. There is a sense of relief as he pulls it out. The train rattles and screeches as it brakes pulling into the next station. The sudden shift in momentum pulls Edward down sending him tumbling backward. He lands on his back and matches the shocked stares at the passengers above him. They stare and plug their noses. He grasps the wallet holding it up in his hand. The radiant woman steps forward and snatches it back. “What the hell is wrong with you!” She shrieks. Edward’s ears ring and his face is hot from embarrassment. The other passengers begin to move between him and her. Their mouths move but he cannot hear. They point to the opening doors. He scrambles and runs out. The sudden sensation of noise and movement is too much for him to comprehend, an overload of his dulled senses from his pause in time. He pushes through the people waiting to get on the train. He falls onto the bench grasping his chest and howling in physical and emotional pain while watching the train refill. The doors close and the train lurches forward. He looks up finding the radiant woman in the window. She matches his look and gives him wry smile. Struck with fear, Edward struggles to stand. He limps down the stairs trying to run. He pushes with all his bodyweight through the turnstile and rounds the corner to a narrow alley riddled with potholes. He leans on a brick walls hidden by a dumpster. He looks down at a puddle and stares at the man who he became while lost in time. A brief quizzical look from his reflection back asks if this is who he was all along. Edward’s grasp on reality becomes as difficult as his breathing. His chest pulsates with pain. He closes his eyes, and he thinks of the radiant woman. Ed smiles weakly feeling the warmth and comfort. His voice is hoarse. “She’s warmer than the sun.” And his final breath croaks outward as if squeezed from a rusted tin can. ***** Thanks for the read everybody! Would love to hear some feedback. You will also be able to find this story and some more over on my Royal Road platform.


Thanks for reading. Happy to hear any inputs. Sonti The Sophist Sonti was my friend. We were about the same height, though he had a slightly darker complexion than me and a chubby face. His long dark hair was combed and parted over his left eye. Strands of hair would fall over his right eye which he would flip with a twist of his head to bring them back over his head—a characteristic display of his irreverence. I don’t know when he got the nickname “Sonti”. Maybe when we were in our second grade? I remember he fell from the mango tree at our school, fractured a bone in his right arm, and stayed at home for two months. When he came back to school he started learning to write with this left hand. As was the norm in our class we ridiculed him as “Sonti” (lefty). Whatever it was, the name “Sonti” stuck with us: only teachers at our school knew his real name. He made exaggerated claims about his struggles to learn to write with his left hand. But his other stories and claims captivated us even more. Like that one time in our third grade he told us about how he learned to ride a bicycle by himself: His father had asked him to rent a bicycle at Kumar’s Bicycle shop near his house and bring it back home. “First I chose the Hero bicycle that was about this length,” he lifted his palm to his head, “and I asked Kumar if it was a good vehicle. Kumar assured me it was the best he had and wrote my name in his notebook. He said he knew my father. I tapped on the seat twice with my right palm—just to check if the seat was ok. I looked around the bicycle and the air pressure in the tires seemed fine. Then I simply got on the bicycle and slid my right leg to the other side of the pedal, and slowly lifted my left leg onto the left pedal and balanced myself. I fell twice, for sure. It didn’t hurt me. After two attempts, I easily rode it like a monkey riding the bicycle,” he briefly paused to let us imagine a monkey riding a bicycle, “and I crossed the Seven Bisons bridge where I had to carefully drive on the side to give way to the No.10 bus. When I reached home, I told my father that I parked the bicycle outside.” He narrated it all so casually, as if the whole event was just like another leaf falling from a tree: pre-ordained and inevitable. Ennai, Mottai, Doku, and I listened in awe to hear Sonti’s mini travelogue. For us a third grader riding a bicycle by himself was quite a feat—or so we thought, till Sonti told us that he learnt it the very first time, by himself! One day during our fifth grade we were chatting at school before the morning bell. My friend Mottai was narrating his weekend experience riding the pillion of his uncle’s moped for the first time. It was a TVS-50, a lean 50-CC two-wheeled vehicle—in essence, a bicycle with a motor. “He drove for half an hour. Towards the end he went fast. May be 90-95km per hour, zhuuurrrrrrr.” He sounded like the roar past a supersonic jet engine. “I was frightened when he rode at 100 km per hour to overtake a truck,” my friend claimed. “100km. That is nothing,” Sonti dismissed my friend’s claims nonchalantly and continued, “One of my uncles has a Rajdoot. It is a large motorcycle,” his hands widened, “It looks like a big bull. My uncle and I went for a ride from our village to Madurai. He told me to sit in the pillion and told me to wrap my hands around his waist. But when we were returning, I asked if I could sit in the front, just above the petrol tank. It was dark in the evening. As he rode fast, I feared my dangling slippers might fall off. He even let me drive. I firmly held the motorcycle’s handlebar with both my hands. You know what I did?” he paused to look at me and gauge if I was following him, “I turned the accelerator and rode fast, rocket fast, at 150 or may be 200 km per hour. I overtook four cars and three buses and we came back home in half the time. My uncle was impressed with me. You know what he said? ‘This Rajdoot is yours’.” Sonti looked at us with his eyebrows lifted up. A casual swagger. “Is it that easy,” I asked. “It is, for me,” he shrugged. We nodded our heads in approval and looked at him with a sense of gratitude: at least, he is still our friend. “Super, super,” Ennai was emphatic in his approval. In sixth grade he ratcheted his claims even further: like that one time he told us that he had an uncle who was a District Superintendent of Police (DSP) and how he and his uncle went chasing a robber. “My DSP uncle asked my father if he could take me to Salem for ‘official work’ and my father consented. I was sitting in the passenger seat. An hour later he stopped at a roadside tea stall in a village. He ordered a Limca for me and a tea for himself. He described a person to the tea stall owner and asked if he knew his whereabouts. We walked towards the village and a man, who resembled a thief, started running away from us. My DSP uncle told me to stay behind and started chasing him but I also ran behind my DSP uncle. Fast and faster. When we finally caught him, the rascal couldn’t run anymore,” he finished with a triumphal grin. “Incredible,” we all muttered with our eyes open. “Why didn’t you chase him in the police jeep?” my friend Ennai wondered. “Don’t you know that roads are narrow in villages?” he bluntly rebuked Ennai. During the initial days of our seventh grade, he used to talk a lot about his pet peacock—a gift from his father’s friend. “My father is a government official. He gets a lot of gifts but he mostly rejects them because he is an honest man. When someone offered a peacock as a gift, I asked him if we could keep the peacock. He agreed under the condition that I would be responsible for its upkeep.” Before any of us could challenge his claim, he pulled a small iridescent blue and green colored plumage with a spotted eye in the middle from his back pocket and gave it to me: “This is a good luck charm. But you have to keep it inside a book. Otherwise the peacock will curse you.” My friends were envious, but I felt honored to be the custodian of his gift. There was one time when he claimed his family was related to the famous Tamil actor, Vijayakanth, and that his family always got free tickets to watch Vijayakanth movies. Who knew? Sonti once told us about how his father wrote to the state’s Chief Minister about improvements his father had suggested to a canal digging project and how the Chief Minister responded in a letter with grace and appreciation. “I think he might be promoted as the District Collector,” Sonti mused with a slight irreverence, as if his Dad becoming the most powerful man in the entire district didn’t matter the least to him. We were however excited at the prospect of having a powerful friend in our midst and were immediately curious: “Would you come to school in one of those police jeeps with a blue light atop?” “Would the police accompany you to the bathroom during recess?” etc. As was his habit, he simply shrugged—either he didn’t know or didn’t care or wasn’t interested in responding. One evening after school Dokku brought a picture of a tall building in the United States. The caption read: “The Empire State Building.” He said it was 100 floors stacked one on top of another. We took turns to look at it and gasped at the marvel. “How do you build 100 floors?” Dokku wondered. Sonti took a peek at it and paused. “This is all recently built. Anybody can do it,” he simply rejected the grandiose claims behind the Empire State building. “Did you know my ancestors built the Meenakshi temple in Madurai thousand years ago? Have you seen it?,” he sought our reaction and continued, “Even though people call it a thousand-legged hall, it has only 985 legs and the remaining fifteen are atop two shrines. Every pillar is sculpted with images of Gods. The entire temple was built by my ancestors,” he paused again wondering if his claims registered with us. “One thousand years ago,” he lifted his right hand behind him to emphasize the long past. “Think about it.” With those three words, he relegated Dokku’s wonderment into oblivion. Sonti’s stories were convincing. Whenever we challenged his claim, he countered us with questions for which we had no answers. Whenever we accused him as a cheat and a liar, he simply ignored it. One day, just as our afternoon session was about to begin at school, Sonti came running into the class and impatiently dislodged his school bag. He summoned the four of us into a huddle. His voice was frantic and he sounded tense. He gasped for a few breaths. “Somebody shot and killed Prime Minister Indira Gandhi today.” Our collective shock was shattered when the school bell rang. It was 1:00pm on the 31st of October, 1984.


If you are reading this, then hello. If you aren’t already in a safe area, get to one. I’m pretty sure the world is safe if you are reading this, so try and bring this journal to a government facility or something. But if it isn’t, keep this journal safe at all costs. I’m going to try and write as much of what happened with me as I can. February 5th, Friday, 7:43AM I was walking with my two friends, Jack and Ronin, on the way to school. Friday, I thought, hoping I could get through school for today and be out for a two week break. We were talking about random stuff, I couldn’t remember. One thing I do remember, and it still haunts me on how it happened. “What would y’all do in an alien invasion?”, asked Ronin. “Uh, probably get dual wield katanas!”, Jack said. “I would try to get a-”, I get cut off as a cylinder shaped tube, kind of like a Cyro-Tube from that game Halo, crashed into the street. Right as it happened, miraculously the Military showed up, and started shouting orders for people to get back inside. The tube started to open up, and when finished launched out this thing, reminding me of a Facehugger from the movie Aliens. It got near a group of people filming with their phones, and exploded. They immediately fell to the ground, and started to spasm and convulse. It was disgusting, but I didn’t get to see the aftermath. My friends and I booked it to my house, along the way with Ronin saying, “Talk about perfect timing am I right?” We make it to my house, quickly lock the doors and windows, and run to my room. My parents are at work, so it was just us three. We heard screams of agony, pain, and fear. We soon heard a knock at the door, saying it was Military Personal. They take us to a bunker, with many others. We get there, and get a room, with two bunk-beds, meaning someone else would be in here with us. It was a guy at our school, Tommy. I knew him, but didn’t talk much to him. We eventually fell asleep, hoping it was a bad dream. But it only became a nightmare. February 6th, Saturday, 9:28AM I wake up, and realize I am sore all over. I go ahead and get up, and wake my friend up, Tommy already gone. We head to the cafeteria, having oatmeal and a piece of toast, along with either water or orange juice. Wasn’t bad, but wasn’t the best either. I got to meet a group of special military forces called Spartans. They were called Fireteam Sabre, made up of Spartan Kenshi, the leader and swordsman of the fireteam, Spartan Ridge, the sniper and second in command, and finally Spartan Specter, the Tech Specialist. They head out, with other military forces, to try and rescue others. They do come back, with only a few survivors, including my parents. A few military were killed while rescuing. We went through the rest of the day, and went to sleep for the night. March 11th, Thursday, 3:47PM Remember how I said it would soon become a nightmare? That is exactly what happened, except it was real. I was just hanging out, talking with my friends in the room, since there wasn’t much else to do. Suddenly, an alarm starts going off, someone gets on the speaker saying for us to get to the hangar to evacuate, that we have been breached. It was chaos, so I told my friends and Tommy to follow me. I go to my parents, and we make our way to the hangar. As we were making our way, this mutant thing, which I assumed was once a human, had led a couple of other mutants and breached the bunker. How you may ask? How would I know? We got to the hangar, passing by dead mutants and survivors. We eventually make it to the hangar, and quickly get into an armored truck, with others inside. I look out a small barred window, and see a few more survivors get killed. They almost made it, but the Mutants had other plans.... I later had my assumptions confirmed. The Mutants were indeed other people. Apparently a cure is in the works of being made, and hopefully this cure will solve our problem. March 12th, Friday, 1:51PM We had come across an old village, and decided to check for supplies. Apparently, these Mutants are still smart enough to plan ambushes. Spartan Specter had gotten attacked by three Mutants, and killed one, but got overrun. Before he turned into one of them, he killed himself. He was able to give Spartan Kenshi his Tech, having a bad feeling. Guess he was right.. March 14th, Monday, 4:23AM We had finally made it to the bunker, this time will loads more people and protection. A few other survivors were found, and others died. At the new bunker, Head Scientist for the Cure, Dr. John, and his associates, Dr. Halsey and Dr. Cutter. They were close on a cure, and would release it after some testing. I had hoped those tests would be quick, and they were quick, but not in the intended way. May 11th, Tuesday, 2:55PM Those tests with the Cure had led to even more mutations, causing a short lockdown. A few unlucky survivors were killed in the rampage, but the Mutant was locked down again, this time with much more security for further tests. June 27th, Sunday, 6:34AM I was awoken to Tommy. Apparently, he got word the Cure was ready to release. I woke up fully at that, and was happy. The estimated time for the Cure to fully cure the entire world would be around 1-2 years. I got a little disappointed at hearing that, but was hopeful. I am going to also give this journal to Dr. Halsey for safe-keeping. I am hoping the Cure has worked. Anyways, this is the last time I’ll use this, so goodbye.


Today sucks. There are paintings on my walls but they cannot capture my imagination. Sounds come from the radio, but they’re full of static. Behind it I think I can hear a melody, but not a song. I can’t stand being in my house, but I don’t know if I'm brave enough to leave it. The world outside is much too frightening to face alone. After a few hours of staring at the clock, my attention is drawn to a vase; it’s an empty vase. The vase makes me feel better momentarily. Unlike the paintings on my wall, it could be something new, something real. Thinking about what I could put in it offers me an escape from my pervasive melancholy. When night time comes, thoughts of my vase help me drift into my typical fitful slumber a little earlier; And even at night I dream of my vase. When I wake, I look out the window, where I spot something most peculiar. It’s a flower. From this distance, I can’t tell what kind it is, but in the still dim dawn, I can see that it’s glowing. I immediately pull on a shirt and don a mask, as I step out the door to greet the flower. When I walk up to it, I swear I hear it giggle. The flower’s petals are astonishing, unlike any I had seen before. They were purple and blue, and they seemed to change shape and colour at will, sending the shifting rays of light in all directions. All of this creating a scene that would take even a photograph a thousand years to replicate. Almost instantly, I know that I want that flower to fill the spot in my vase; and the flower seems to think that as well, extending a leaf on its stem towards me. I stretch out my hand to pick it, but then I recoil. I'm realising now that the flower has thorns. This gives me pause. Perhaps I should think about the flower a little more, I warn myself. I walk back inside, and finish my day optimistic about the morning’s events. The next day, I am ready to commit to the flower, I take my time getting outside, sure that it will be waiting for me. But when I meander to the place where the flower was, It’s gone. My mind races to explain. Maybe it was taken by someone else, maybe it died, or maybe it just got tired of waiting. No matter the reason, it is absent. “Whatever”, I tell myself, “fuck that flower”. But deep down I know I don’t mean that. ... It’s been a whole month since I found the flower, I've looked at other flowers, some of which, quite beautiful. However, they don’t have the character of the one I met before. What was I thinking? “All roses have thorns, but that flower was willing to overlook mine.”, I think the realisation of my mistake now clearer than ever before. I look around my dark and depressing and awful house, and I get fucking livid. I take my vase, and I smash it on the floor. It shatters into tiny pieces, all glistening and shining across my living room. Remarkably, the bottom remains intact. In it’s undamaged surface, I see my reflection. I drop my burning rage, for I realise now that I’m not mad at the vase, or the flower, or any other stupid thing. I’m mad at myself. As tears well up in the corners of my eye, I fall on my side. I don’t care about the glass cutting me, I just wish I could go back in time.


As I woke up, fragments of the same story I had been following for a while pieced together in my head. Or, in simple words, I slowly remembered the dream I had. I was a little kid who went exploring into the forest a little too far and got attacked by a group of angry, grey versions of the villagers. They seemed to be outcasts of the villager society. They were the ones who dived a bit too far into the realm of magic and sorcery. I shook my head to try to get the thoughts out of my head. I had stuff to do today, mostly chores but that didn’t matter. I got up grudgingly as I had woken up early and gone to sleep late. I slowly crept to my basement and got on my armor. I then thought of what I had to do today and wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. I first had to go to my farm and harvest some plants. I harvested the plants and put them in their respective chests. I then had to care for my animals in the pens behind the farm. I fed them and checked on the pregnant ones to make sure they were okay. I then had to work on my basement. I got some logs and placed them to make the walls of the basement. I also put some chests with signs for organization purposes. Once I was done, and officially dead on my feet, I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, and as soon as I hit the bed, I was asleep. I woke up as the fairy lights above my bed blinded me. *‘Dang it, I was so tired that I forgot to turn off the lights.’* I thought to myself while rubbing my eyes. I went through most of my morning routine before I remembered the dream I was recording. But, thinking back, I didn’t have a dream that night. Maybe if you’re tired enough, you don’t have dreams. I don’t really know how this vision stuff works. As I went on with my day, my thoughts were running a mile a minute. I kept speculating about why and how these visions kept appearing in my dreams. After a while, I noticed I wasn’t getting anything properly done and went to the village for new info. I searched through their book collection. I could only find stuff about magic and teleportation. I then had an idea, wasn’t that religious monument thing a teleportation device? I could use the device to travel to the other village and see their book collection. I quickly ran over to the device and touched it. As my hand collided with the warm stone, I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. I counted to 5 in my head and opened my eyes. I was in another village. I was in the middle of the forest, right next to the village. I said hi to the villagers even though I never got any response. I then hastily jogged over to the village’s library of sorts. I opened the door and started scanning the shelves for books. As I read the titles, I found that they were sorted in alphabetical order. I looked for the books that started with the letter ‘V’. I scanned the shelves some more to realize that there was no letter ‘V’ section. I frowned and went on my way back to the other village. In my sadness, I didn’t realize that it was nighttime and monsters were appearing everywhere around me. I pulled my shield out of my bag and equipped it. I ran back home and into my bed as quickly as I could. Before I fell asleep, I remember looking at my arms and seeing a few scratches from skeletons' arrows. I fell asleep like I was slowly sinking into the mattress. My eyes slowly opened to see my small bedroom with only enough room for a bed. I sighed. *‘I should have made a bigger bedroom.’* I thought, reprimanding myself for not thinking that far. I slowly slid out of my bed and put some clothes on. I walked over to my desk in the hallway and sat down. I wrote down my dream. Last night, I had dreamt of being a builder. In the dream, I had helped a huge group of builders build a religious temple that looked like a prismarine pyramid. After me and my group had finished building, we went home. My builder self overheard our leaders speak of rising waters. After I had heard this, my dream turned into flashbacks of the future. Flashbacks of rising waters and most of the buildings being underwater because of it. I wrote this all down and went on my day. The rest of the day was very uneventful and all I did was finish some chores until the sun set and pondered my dream. By the time I went to bed, my muscles were sore from working in the fields all day. I peacefully fell asleep, drifting off into dreamland.


“To live is to love, yet to love is to die” is what my grandfather told me. A seldom spoken man yet a kind one. He was the type of person to never hold a grudge, I believed he wasn’t capable of doing harm on anyone as a child. But every man has a breaking point. It is those who are most patients breaking point that you do not want to see. My grandfather had such a breaking point. I questioned his quote, the speech he gave me after he went silent for months. We visited him many times after his wife, my grandmother’s death. My mother and I would make the long trip to his secluded home in the countryside every fortnight to see how he is doing, yet he was quiet. He was half French and half Irish, and interesting blend of a man. Tomas was his name. Such a gentle name. I only knew one Tomas and it was him. I wished to never meet another, for they would never live up to him. His greatness outmatched all other men, my husband to be at the time could only match his shadow. Yet my grandfather enjoyed his company all the same. My husband Michaél, like my grandfather was a man of the land. He farmed wheat and barley whilst my grandfather cared for his fields of meadows and his orchard. How he loved the meadows. They were his pride and joy, until his wife passed. As a child me and my siblings would fly kites and play games of hide and seek all throughout the orchard and meadows until my grandmother called us in for dinner. The blissfulness of the fields was like something else I never felt. A place of pure joy, where no evil found its place. I never understood until my old age what he meant by “To live is to love”. Not until we sat that day under the tree that sat atop the hill, overlooking his kingdom. Both of us had not spoken in weeks, yet we knew he was nearing the end of his story. That’s why I believe he confided in me. He had to finally let go. I was sat in the kitchen that had the view of the tree that had then stooped so low it took the form of a willow, a sad giant that once held up the sun. Tomas slowly climbed the hill struggling to reach the summit with his feeble body. It hurt me to see him struggle, yet I couldn’t help. I knew if I went to aid him, he would refuse. He refused everything since Daisy passed. She went in the night, Christmas eve. Yet she was already gone. The dementia took her long before, a slow yet painless death for her. Not my grandfather though. I could tell it wore him down to his lowest yet he still stood tall. That was why he fell further; he was a proud man and it is the proudest who fall the hardest. I watched as he visited her in the hospital or sat on at the side of her bed. The cottage they owned slowly wore down yet neither of them seemed to notice. They could only focus on each other. One day I sat in the living room, playing in front of the small fire on the ragged carpet that itched your legs once you hit the floor. Daisy was reading a book, or somewhat trying. I think she just stared at the pages as Tomas watched her. She would ask his name every time they met, and Tomas would smile at her maybe a tear running down his cheek. “I’m Tomas” he would say with a sad smile on his face, “and you are?” “I’m Daisy, pleasure to make your acquaintance” she would say, smiling with her blissful ignorance. But this time it was different, Tomas greeted her with his regular saying but she looked up at him. No sign of ignorance, but she looked sad. Her eyes met his and a tear slowly escaped. Daisy grabbed his wrist and titled her head. “I don’t know” she whispered so silently only the slight wind creeping in the window overshadowed her. “I don’t know my name.” Tomas grabbed her wrist alongside it and did something I could never. He smiled and kissed her hand. “You’re just tired my love, go back to bed” And so, she did. He sat back in his chair, his bed for the forthcoming weeks and put his head back. She was gone, and he knew it. He just didn’t know I saw. It killed me to watch him at his lowest point. To see her fade broke him, never to be repaired. Their love story wasn’t unique, nor was it a miraculous story. Yet I find that is okay, the most rue love is found in the mundane. It is not a flashy anniversary present, or an expensive date. But the small moments, that is what they had. Walks through their meadow, their hidden kingdom only known to them and that was all that mattered. They would wake early in the morning and read together, the easy silence that not many are blessed with. That is what love is he taught me. To feel such comfort with someone you don’t need to always communicate. There is love in the silence, through looks. A quick smile and maybe a laugh, because you both know what the other is thinking. You are whole in one another. The flowers bloomed every spring, but without the care they died sooner than the sun could hit them. Tomas once watered and cared for them, but it was bleak now. I brought Michaél to try care for them yet Tomas wouldn’t allow it. He would not allow another pair of hands to touch them. It was a dark meadow now. Empty of any colour but grey allowing a thin blanket of fog to fall over it every night. It was only a matter of time until the great oak made its grave in the meadow. At that point the meadow would become its bleakest, no love in sight. I knew he had passed when I received the call in the night from my mother. She wasn’t grief ridden nor was she shouting like you see in the movies. We both knew it was coming but I still felt the pain. Like I had been hit in the stomach, a travelling pain that ricochets throughout the body. I went to the cottage a few days after to clear my mind, the long countryside drive under springs newly blossomed trees always brought me solace. When entering the home, I felt a sense of emptiness. Like it was no longer a home, but an empty field with no other purpose other than to exist. An eye sore on the beautiful horizon. I headed to the kitchen and ran my hand along the old dusty table. It was as I last saw it, an empty fruit bowl and old newspaper thrown on it. Looking out to the meadow I noticed the tree. It had fell further, almost ready to collapse. All other trees in the area had blossomed but the great oak had no leaves and its branches fell gracefully to the floor. That day Tomas sat under the tree, he beckoned me up. This was the first he initiated conversation with me in weeks, so I met his call without question. Sitting beside him under the tree he spoke to me and asked me. “Tell me, your husband, does he love you?” This came as a shock to me, what sort of question was it. “Of course,” I responded with. “Why do you ask?” “I once was young like you, cherish your memories dear, cherish them like nothing else because at the end that is all you will have. No money can give you memories, not real ones. If you love him and he loves you. Then you willy truly live.” He slowly rose using the trunk of the tree to rise. “To live is to love, ye to love is to die because once they are gone, the life you once knew is gone.” I thought he said this in sadness, but he was happy. He smiled at me and grabbed my hand. I grabbed his wrist and kissed his hand. “Grandad you’re tired, go back to bed.” It took me years to truly realise how right Tomas was, to live is to love and to love is to die, like his meadow. The flowers he grew were a sign of his love for Daisy, yet with her gone they died with her. The dying oak the last thing standing atop the meadow. As I walked through the meadow to reach the tree but came to a halt. A bright colour stood out amongst the grey. I walked over and leant down to gaze at the star amidst the fog. A daisy rose above the dirt, trying its hardest to grasp the sunlight. The last of the meadow holding on, waiting to fall. I walked away allowing it to fall gracefully not looking back at the bleak meadow, to preserve the memory of the daisy, of the sea of flowers, and the unbreakable love.


Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge. After the Armistice was signed and the Great War ended, the crew, once of the SMS *Swabia,* became pirates, changing the name of their ship to the SS *Fury of the Reich* and repainting the tricolor on their flag into a Jolly Roger. It had been two years since then and they had recently received a telegram from a supposed officer by the name of Alban Krebs, a major in the West Russian Volunteer Army and the commander of a battalion of 400 Freikorps militiamen that now sought to desert. When the ship docked at Ventspils, Dieter went out to meet Krebs and his men himself but found they were nowhere to be found. However, in the thick early morning fog, this made sense, as even with a kerosene lamp, he could hardly see ten meters in front of him. When, soon after, he heard the march of hundreds of men, due to this lack of visibility, he was only able to tell they were German as, in the same direction, he heard a similar number of men singing, "\[And when the day ended, we shook hands for the last time. She was laying on my, my arm, my heart was being so warmly, don't forget Maruschka, the Polish girl!\]" It was a folk song that, when he was on the ground, he had noted, the men often sang in place of the usual marching songs. After about a minute, the fog began to clear and the men came into view. Until regular officers, Krebs walked on foot ahead of the men, who were in remarkably good formation, for paramilitaries. "\[Not only are you late,\]" Dieter joked, "\[you were the ones who told us when you'd be here.\]" "\[Well,\]" Krebs replied, "\[plans change. Besides, it was only one minute.\]" "\[One minute for the Bolsheviks to arrive, execute me, and my crew to leave you here and sort out a new chain of command themselves. Now, come on, get on board. We best not waste anymore time. Besides, I need your men for something.\]" Krebs and his men marched aboard, most of the crew already there now having to share their quarters with the men, taking turns sleeping in the bunks and on the cold, metal iron floor in sleeping bags. He and Dieter looked over a map of the ocean to survey their next target and plan their next raid. Most of the time, this was done at night, when the rest of the crew was asleep and would not be bothering them. There was a war room, but they preferred to talk in the bridge as, if a British ship came along, Dieter could steer the ship away and hopefully remain unseen. On the first night, though, this did not occur. He let Krebs sleep in his quarters as, firstly, he was his guest, and secondly, he didn't sleep most nights anyway. "\[You're more important to this ship than I am,\]" Krebs had told him, "\[You should get some rest.\]" "\[It's fine,\]" he has replied, "\[I'll manage. After all, what else is caffeine for?\]" After that, Krebs accepted Dieter's offer and fell asleep in his bed. Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge.


My old man is a lone locksmith who was locked in his own loneliness. His remaining days and monotonous nights are spent by dancing in the shadow of sadness. For this reason, he made me to keep him company; to have something to hold on to while he continue to exist. But do mind that I am no Pinocchio; because I cannot speak a word to ease his sorrows. Nor be by his side as he stare at the horizon, wondering where does it end or would it ever do. I am merely a tool that has a will birthed from his blue colored heart. And along these lines, he created me with no particular peculiarity nor bewitching beauty. I have none of those remarkable characteristics that may differentiate me from any other keys crafted by his poor, calloused hands. Out of his old wife's cheap wedding ring with his dead daughter's earrings, he forged me altogether. Pleased by the result, (although there is nothing pleasing about my appearance) he tied me on a black cord to hang around his saggy neck. Once in a while, he would hold me and rub me gently on his frequent nostalgic periods. Sometimes, he would remove me from my string only to put me onto his palm, gaping at me until the clock's hand disappeared to the oblivion. His eyes are lacking of emotions; as if it was tired of mirroring his soul. Or perhaps, there wasn't any left to reflect anymore. As the unceasing time passed forth, I started to wonder: what is my purpose? I am a key: a device for opening locks and such, yet I have never been used in accordance to the purpose I serve. What is his intent then for making me? A daily memento of his both deceased wife and daughter? How pathetic it would be if that is so. I am a key, my meaning is to unlock. But why was I not used in the way I should be? With nothing to do, I ponder, and ponder, and ponder why. If I was to be only a remembrance, why reconstruct me into a key? Why not keep the ring and earrings as it is? Do I hold further importance than just being a rusty keepsake of his family? While I continue to seek my significance, eventually his dusk came. One day, he went to his bed, never rising from his slumber ever again. His true and only friend, who is also a good carpenter, found him three days after. He looked at his rigid and cold carcass for hours, as if mourning silently, then left. After a while, he came back with his son, bringing along a casket made from wood at exactly my maker's size. He then instructed his son, a fine young man; to probe my Father's belongings. He on the other hand, groped my old man's body as if finding something on him. He search and search, then finally, his search soon landed on the locksmith's chest, getting a hold of me. My old man is a lone locksmith who was locked in his own loneliness. His remaining days and monotonous nights are spent by dancing in the shadow of sadness. For this reason he made me: a quite common key which opens his coffin. I am his gateway to his long-desired escape: in the arms of death, where his sweethearts in the otherworld awaits. He was freed at last, from his agony he called...life.


Where We Go The ELIK stare intently across the rounded table. Their cold, calculating glares have always been a major factor in their power over the hominians. Although, the hominian here have certainly dealt with the ELIK long enough to not let that intimidate them, especially not now. While the projector shows footage of the hominian being shoved into cages, crying children being torn from their mothers and fathers, all manners of restraint being employed as hominians struggle to flee from the ELIK, the hominians in the room become saddened and horrified while the ELIK maintain their cold glares. The footage ends and Kayla speaks. "This clearly shows the inhumanity of the ELIK race. For too long have the ELIK been determined to rule over us, as machines would do over humankind in some dystopian universe. But we are not seeing machines on these videos committing attrocious crimes, we are seeing people." Kayla says with conviction while the other hominians scoff. "I urge...no, we urge, the ELIK to reconsider their current occupation of Timea. The first step in moving forward together is signing this peace treaty." She then looks directly at Kenobi. "Your feelings of urgency do not factor into this negotation High Commander" Kenobi responds to Kayla. "Furthermore, it has been stated numerous times that no treaty will be recognized, so long as hominians maintain military presence within ZONE24." The ELIK refer to Timea as ZONE24 as their mapping system follows a zoning protocol, as that is more logical. "General Gorbus and your people were fairly compensated after the battle of 2299, and yet you hominians continue to refer to ZONE24 as this...Timea. As long as you continue this ..." Kayla interrupts, "General Gorbus was a traitor, he does not represent us and never did!", she says fiercely. Then she looks over to Simon, her friend and senior deputy, with an almost immediate regret in how she responded. The ELIK notice the rise in Kayla's emotion, a mistake she knows not to make. "Isn't that so like your kind Commander?" Corea says smuggly, clearly attempting to rise that twinge of anger that Kayla revealed. Corea is Kenobi's most trusted advisor, some say she is the one truly in charge the ELIK. She continues, "One moment a loyal citizen...a loyal friend even. The next moment, nothing but self-preserving altruism. Such a finicky trait and yet it is so valued." But Kayla knows better. "My kind, no. My kind would never commit war crimes like the ELIK have committed at Timea. My kind wants peace, which is why we've brought forth this treaty." She then looks directly at Kenobi, "Kenobi, we can learn to exist side-by-side with one another. It was many years ago when the ELIK parted from the hominians - with good reason. But there has been nothing but blood shed ever since. Why do you insist that we continue this war that our ancestors started? This began during a time when they knew nothing of each others differences, which led to fear and that fear created hate. It's a tale as old as time and yet we don't learn from the mistakes of our past. We can continue on this path but it leads to more death and destruction, with no end in sight. Can't you see that this waste of life, regardless of which side suffers, has no grand meaning or design. You believe this is some system, cleansing itself of it's old programming". Kayla is referencing one of the four main tenets of the ELIK code, which governs their entire society. However, hominians are only aware of the one tenet. Kayla continues on. "You follow this code as if this gives meaning to your existence. The rules by which a society governs itself simply lays the foundation, however, what we build upon that foundation is where meaning is found - the beginning and the end of all existence, and everything in between. We know what you are and how we are different from you. Your logical minds provide for a greater foundation than the hominians could ever imagine - but with that youth, you have yet to discover the illogical. You can start now. Sign this treaty and take the first step into understanding the greater meaning. If you don't, meaninglessness prevails. Where we go from here is your choice." The ELIK are silent now. There is no more reasoning to put forth. The hominians appeal to an empathetic nerve that was severed from the ELIK long ago. It wasn't as if the ELIK weren't prepared for negotiations to turn this way, in fact the ELIK counted on it. In their minds, defeating the hominians isn't a choice, it's predetermination. They don't know of life having a beginning or an end, as Kayla suggested, they only know time and space flows without restraint. How this negotiation ends is a matter of calculating each move and maneuvering beyond each manipulative attempt, of which the ELIK have determined cannot be accomplished with reason, only by elimination. Kenobi breaks his silence. "Commander, choice was never an option. You speak of an end to all existence..." Suddenly the base alarms go off. Kayla turns to the high court window. A storm of high frequency laser pulses are zeroing in from just outside the atmosphere. She turns to Kenobi. "...


**<Iteration 6>** Meta-humans are an oddity. See, like most meta-species, the meta-humans live for the length of an entire universe. Unfortunately, they’ve also been a pesky bunch. As other creatures began inhabiting their respective physical forms, then reincarnating into newer random ones, the meta-humans rebelled; they wanted to choose where to reincarnate into. This was the first time the meta-squared’s had to intervene in over six iterations, and after 120 rounds of discussion, 144 global pandemics, and 603 world wars, they came to an agreement: metas could choose, but had to follow 3 rules: 1.Only travel forward 2.Never interact with yourself 3.Don’t kill all of humanity Most of the metas did just fine following these rules, at least for the first five iterations. But this time, they did something different — they started to form groups. First there were the maximalists, metas that made it their mission to maximize any sort of quantity, be it happiness, wealth, or suffering. In each life, they became actors, CEOs, and despots, then exploited their fame to sustain success in future lives. This group held strong at 60,000 members but was starting to show cracks on account of a few risky soiree’s that destabilized humanity for the majority of the twentieth millennia. Then, there were the immortalists, metas who went through life trying to lead humanity across a steady path towards immortality. For most of their reincarnations, they lived purely banal lives. But, at critical points in time, they worked in concert to ensure the survival of the human race. Their best recruiter last time around was a fellow named A who inhabited Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and Terrnamus Skymander, then capped it all off with simultaneous nuclear peace treaties across three hundred different planets. Finally, there were the artists, a truly sick lot who used their lives to create exquisite, often grotesque, meta-portraits. Within the artists, there was an even larger subdivision between brutalists, romanticists, modernists, and traditionalists, each trying to develop photos, film, or time sculptures through the interactions of billions of humans across their entire civilizations. However, if an artist found that her portrait was intersecting with that of another artist, she would go to great lengths to ensure her rival reached a timely demise. These are the only crimes of passion recognized as legal by the international meta-court. We’d dealt with similar divisions before with the Pangea incident, but this had us more worried. Then, the maximalists started to directly break the rules. Within two meta-days, the maximalists won — transforming the universe into a sea of gold plated planets, civilizations full of human sacrifice, and barren wastelands that can only be accurately described as Hell. Once more, we started negotiations. But, this time, we were effectively helpless. Within a span of 3 yottas, the maximalists became meta-squared’s, the immortalists stayed meta, and the artists… well they just stayed put. This is the first story of many about the meta-infinity but, I warn you, this journal only gets worse. **</Iteration 6>** **..


The city was silent. Lights twinkled in the dark like the stars in the night sky. The window sill wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it allowed Devlin to relax as she admired the view. She drew on a cigarette blowing the billowing smoke out the open window. The soft wind taking it away. As she pulled the burning stub from her full lips, her blood stained hand was shaking. A charm bracelet slipping down her arm. Although she was skinny and wore nothing more than lingerie, she was immune to the cold. Her mind was on other things. Her eyes were glazed over, blood dripping from her face. She flicked the cigarette butt out of the window and slipped off the sill with ease. As she made her way across the studio apartment she glanced over at the carnage she was responsible for only a few moments ago. His head was almost gone and what remained was unidentifiable. His naked body was drenched in blood and soaking the silk bed sheets beneath. A spray of pure red up the headboard and wall. Devlin entered the bathroom, flicking on the bright light. She stared into the mirror and thought back to how she got here. Devlin sat at the bar of a busy club, the synth-pop competing with the many voices chatting away. She was sipping at a glass of wine staring longingly at a photograph of Roxy and herself, happier times. She stroked the glossy image with a gentle finger, memories flooding her brain. Days spent together shopping, dinners out, every moment together was a gift. Her mind drifted from one to the next, a subtle smile growing on her face. Her cheerful reflections faded away when she remembered it all ended on one particular night. There was a strong chill in the air. Devlin and Roxy were waiting on the street corner in provocative clothing trying their best to keep warm. Clients were always harder to come by in the winter months. As they hugged themselves, rubbing their arms, a car pulled up beside them. Roxy wasted no time approaching the vehicle and leaning in through the window to talk to the hidden driver. Devlin watched impatiently before Roxy turned to her and smiled. She pulled the passenger door open and the internal light lit up the face of the driver. Devlin got a short, but clear look at the sinister man before he disappeared back into darkness as Roxy climbed in and slammed the door shut. She didn’t know it at the time, but as the car drove away that would be the last time she saw Roxy. Several days of stress and worry followed. The police were no help and Devlin was beginning to lose all hope. She didn’t have the energy to leave the house, eat food and sleeping was an impossibility. She spent many hours of the day staring at the front door of their small apartment hoping she would step through and all would be okay again. That moment never came and she realised it never would when she flicked on the news one morning. They were reporting the discovery of a body, a young girl severely beaten and dumped in a field. Devlin’s fingers gripped the arms of the chair as she watched with bated breath. As the photograph of Roxy flashed up on screen, Devlin felt her entire body relax in despair. Tears welled in her eyes as she slumped forward onto the floor. Her blood-curdling scream echoed around the room. She was back in the bar, still staring at the photograph. She glanced down at the charm bracelet around her wrist. It belonged to Roxy. Among her personal effects given to Devlin as her only next of kin. Something to remember her by at least. She heard his voice at first ordering a rum and coke, soft and soothing, nothing like what she had imagined. As she turned to look at him she almost froze with fear when she saw his face. Strong features with kind eyes and a charming smile, the complete opposite to the night she saw him in the low light of the car. Could this really be the same man? Of course it was, she knew it was, but doubt sometimes sets in even when you’re sure. He caught her staring at him and offered a gentle smile and a wink of the eye. Her heart was racing, but she had to maintain her cool. She returned the friendliness and slipped off her stool. Taking her small handbag she glided over to him oozing sex appeal. Devlin was back in the bathroom washing the blood from her hands. She scrubbed them furiously to remove every last trace. She splashed some of the water over her face to remove the red staining clinging to her skin. Each drop a reminder of what she had done cast aside as if to erase the crime. As she stared into the mirror her dark eyes reflected back at her, upon the face of a demon she no longer recognised. She reached up and pulled a black wig from her head to reveal golden blonde hair with pink streaks through it. There was the girl she knew. Suddenly she came over nauseous and turned to the nearby toilet. The vomit burned her throat. She had not eaten in a while, so it was mostly bile laced with vodka and coke. Devlin collected her small handbag from the bedroom and returned to the cold bathroom with anticipation. She sat down on the toilet lid and removed a small tin from her bag, flipping the lid open to reveal her “survival kit”. It consisted of a syringe, rubber tube, spoon, lighter and a small plastic bag of white powder. The needle pierced her skin with ease, the rubber tube tight around her arm helping locate a protruding vein. As she slowly squeezed the plunger the liquid rushed into her body sending a chill of elation throughout. She drew the needle from her arm dropping it to the floor, then pulled the rubber tube loose to allow the flow to reach every part of her. She sat back against the cistern and let it take hold. Just as she had expected it didn’t take much to persuade him to take her back to his. Within half an hour they were entering his lavishly decorated studio apartment. As he made his way to the kitchen to fix them both a drink, Devlin analysed the decor. Modern furniture neatly placed, shelves lined with antiquities and artistic photographs of nude women on the walls. He returned with two large glasses of red wine, passing one to her. They clinked glasses and both took a sip, staring into each other’s eyes. He with passion and her with retribution. He gestured for her to sit on the white leather couch. She sank into it as it creaked beneath her. They placed their glasses on the coffee table and he threw an arm over the back of the sofa, a charming smile on his face. She could see in his eyes he wanted her and she would let him think the same of her. She leant toward him, hinting at him to do the same. They kissed passionately, their lips pressed tightly. His venturing hand reached out to cup her breast. She pulled from his lips and smacked his hand away playfully. The tease excited him. Devlin collected her handbag and slowly standing so he could see every curve in her body, made her way to the bathroom and disappeared inside. He knew the protocol. It was something he had experienced many times before and he wasted no time getting to the king-sized bed at the other end of the apartment. He sat down on the edge of the silk sheets and leant over the bedside table where a small mirror holding several lines of cocaine waited. Taking a rolled up bank note he snorted a couple of lines with relish before hurriedly ripping his clothes off. Devlin stood on the cold tiled floor looking at herself in the mirror. She took several deep breaths before slipping her leather jacket from her shoulders. She then unzipped the pink cocktail dress hugging her slender body and let it slide to the floor. The black lingerie, stockings and suspenders leaving very little to the imagination. One last breath and she felt ready. She had waited so long for this moment and now it was finally here. She couldn’t back out now. She had to do it for Roxy. Devlin collected her handbag and exited the bathroom. She found him lying on the bed in his underwear, hands behind his head, waiting in anticipation. She slinked over toward him and placed her handbag down on the shag carpeted floor. She caught sight of the lines of cocaine and felt the need for some boost in confidence. She bent over ensuring her plump rear was shoved in his face and snorted a line. She felt the rush through her veins and the power it gave her. He extended his grasping hand to take hold of her right arse-cheek, but she pulled it back from his reach and slapped his hand away. He grinned devilishly. She spotted a couple of ties hanging alongside a suit on the wardrobe handle. She whipped them off and smirked as she climbed on top of him, legs straddled, and bound his hands to the bed frame. He found it hard to contain his excitement and she could feel it. He watched as she kissed his hairy chest delicately, then shifting her focus to his piercing blue eyes reached up and gently teased his eyelids down. She continued to kiss his chest as her hand searched the nearby handbag. She lifted a rusting hammer from its containment and slowly raised it above her head. He couldn’t help but take a peek, but found himself looking up at the hammer high above him. The metal glistened in the light. His eyes widened with shock as the heavy steel head crashed down into his face. His nose broke immediately caving in to the cavity of his skull. Devlin proceeded to raise the hammer and bring it down four more times until there was nothing recognisable about him. The amount of blood was immense redecorating the walls and drenching Devlin’s hands and face. Bits of bone and flesh scattered like jetsam. Exhausted she stared at the mess before her, hands shaking, breathing heavy. Her grip on the tool released, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. She climbed off his corpse and took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, struggling to light one with nerve shredded fingers. She made her way over to the window. As the heroins power wore off, Devlin opened her eyes and remembered where she was. She sat up on the toilet lid and looked around with glazed vision. For a moment it seemed like it had all been a dream. She picked up the crumpled cocktail dress and slipped it over her hips, zipping it up tight. She then threw on the leather jacket and collected her handbag before stepping out to view her carnage again. Devlin couldn’t help but stare at the hideous sight once more. A sense of relief washed over her. She picked up the stained hammer from the blood soaked carpet and wiped it down with the bedsheet. She placed it back inside her handbag and slung the strap over her shoulder. Her eye was drawn to a brown leather wallet sitting on the bedside table. As it flipped open, a large wad of notes wedged inside revealed themselves. She plucked them out and shoved them into her pocket, tossing the wallet back onto the table. She then headed for the front door and quietly pulled it open, taking one last look back at the scene before ducking out into the darkness. Days passed and she still struggled to sleep. The action she took that night didn’t give her the sense of closure she hoped it would. Revenge was not what she had been led to believe. It stuck like a thorn in her side. She found herself sitting up late watching television every night, hoping the relief would eventually come, but it didn’t. Then one day something she saw on the news made sure that sweet emotion would never come. Police were reporting they had arrested a notorious serial killer. He had been arrested attempting to murder another girl and subsequently confessed to several others, one of which was Roxy. Devlin had killed the wrong man.