Wesley and Jackson’s friendship was born from the depths of competition. While Wesley was far more competitive, Jackson was a natural born winner. Jackson’s ability came with confidence along with a sizeable helping of ego. Wesley was a hard worker but a devout overthinker. They were simply made for one another. Alongside their studies in college, they played board games, video games, pick up games, and made money on the side through under the table poker games in the dorms. Furthermore, their competitive tendencies were backed by talent. In their last year at Cal, Jackson and Wesley decided to delve into something far more serious than any game – a prank war. Of course there was no good ending to what was being started. It was *war* after all. The only real way either could have won was by ruining the other's life. \~ ‘Honey.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You remember Wesley?’ ‘God, talk about a name I haven’t heard in years.’ ‘Well.’ Jackson took a sip of his coffee. ‘I just got an email from him this morning.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. And I have yet to open it.’ ‘Hopefully it has some answers to how he’s been.’ Jackson’s eyes locked onto a notification reading *email from \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_*. It stuck out like a fly Jackson had graduated ten years ago, and being a Berkeley Law graduate he lived comfortably. He looked beyond his laptop screen at his own reflection in the glass wall of his home. Beyond his reflection he saw it all. The water, the bridges, the city, a regatta speckling the bay. He clicked the notification. Dear Jackson, Bet you haven’t thought about me in a long time huh? I know I kinda *fell off the map* but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about old friends, especially you. I know you’re also probably asking yourself *why is Wesley contacting me?* All will be explained. I didn’t have a lot of friends in college. You knew that. I’ve been working on something for the past few years and I couldn’t stop thinking of you during its final days of construction. I want you to try my escape room. I know you’ve heard of them. Hell, is there really a game out there that we haven’t played? I’ve been waiting to open it publicly for the past few months but something still needs to happen. *You* need to have the first go at it. So yes - this is me inviting you to New Mexico to play a game. Oh yeah, I live in New Mexico now. Let me know if you can make it down here one of these weekends. \- Wesley. \~ Their “war” kicked off innocently, garnering attention from classmates and friends. Pranks consisted of genius plots with satisfying payouts. Their early pranks acted as training. The year went on and the pranks got worse, but they never caused any serious emotional or physical harm. Whatever the case was, it didn’t matter, because Jackson always won. \~ ‘Well you’re not going right?’ ‘Well, I’m thinking about it.’ ‘Jackson.’ ‘What?’ ‘Are you fucking serious?’ ‘About going?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I mean, he is – well was my best friend. I dunno, I feel like I owe it to him. Never really got the chance to apologize.’ ‘It’s weird though – him coming out of nowhere like this.’ ‘Yeah, and it makes it *that* more intriguing.’ Jackson shrugged. ‘You’re a real piece of fucking work.’ Jackson’s wife left the kitchen again. His presence was occasionally unbearable, especially for his wife. He shortly followed up with an email saying that he'd love to make it but couldn’t find any cheap flights to Albuquerque that month, and that he didn’t want to *hold up the show* by keeping Wesley waiting. Thirty minutes later Jackson received an email from Wesley about potential dates he would be able to fly him out. \~ Never had any of their competitive endeavors lasted more than a few weeks, let alone months, until Jackson’s subconscious barriers crumbled due to the reckless and volatile inclination to win. Jackson’s inspiration spawned from his *Intro to Politics and Current Media* course in which he had just read an article on deepfake; a technique in which artificial intelligence superimposes images onto a video to present something that did not occur. Jackson spent the next two nights using an online service which superimposed images of Wesley’s girlfriend onto one of the millions of generic sex tapes online. His girlfriend’s Facebook provided a crammed vault of photos and video to digitally replicate her facial structure, features, imperfections and capture the once innocent tone and sound of her voice. After the service finished rendering the video, Jackson asked one of his fraternity friends to personally invite Wesley’s girlfriend to an upcoming formal. \~ The plane touched the ground and Jackson didn’t look normal, because what he was doing was far from normal. He walked through the terminals and consciously made an effort to not look visibly disgusted by the faux adobe walls and midwestern theme of every single thing surrounding him. His plan followed - staying the night at Wesley’s, completing the escape room the next day, and flying back home later in the afternoon. It was short, but he knew he’d still have to endure speaking with Wesley before he played the room and beat it. No one else could complete the room before him. He saw Wesley standing outside the arrivals gate and moments later was engulfed in a bear hug. Jackson had to process the moment, but figured returning the hug was the only way out. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, how was the flight?’ ‘Not bad, good ol’ melatonin knocked me out.’ ‘Good to hear. Hey, let’s get going and catch up in the car. Every time I see this place I wanna throw up.’ Jackson and Wesley smiled at each other. The drive to Santa Fe was long. Jackson had landed a few hours before sunset, allowing the sun played its part in maximizing the beauty of Wesley’s home. Orange rays shot through the glass walls which made up the majority of the house and the adobe walls surrounding the compound bounced a warm glowing light. Cacti and other desert plants surrounded the driveway and perimeter of the home, all of which was complemented by modern sculptures and a section of Roman statues leading to the front door. They spent the night drinking and touring the home. Wesley had taken after his parents and delved into the stock market eventually landing himself in the profession of an art collector. His major in computer science was left behind. Wesley gave a guided tour of his home and of the sculpture garden in the backyard. It was as if nothing had changed. They talked about a multitude of things while dancing around the subject of the escape room and what happened years ago. However, Wesley and Jackson couldn’t dance forever. A stint of silence couldn’t have been a louder beginning to their inevitable conversation. ‘Jackson, I know you’ve probably been trying to avoid this, but I just wanted to say it now. Whatever you think was your fault – wasn’t.’ Jackson focused his attention on a sculpture of a naked woman outside. He couldn’t avoid the talk but he could avoid eye contact. ‘I was in a very bad state at the time – frankly, I just wanted to move on, so I used your – *prank*, as an excuse. I figured if I just dropped out without having some motive, then people wouldn’t be able to leave me alone, ya know? They’d ask me questions, tell me to come back, that sort of thing.’ Jackson couldn’t avoid this however. He turned and looked at Wesley. ‘I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time, Jackson. If anyone ever thought less of you for what you did I’m sorry. It didn’t affect me at all.’ Jackson stared through Wesley, unable to process his thoughts, let alone formulate a sentence. Wesley got up and patted Jackson on the shoulder and left him in the living room. Jackson had a hard time sleeping that night. It didn’t help that he was drunk. \~ The day after the formal, Jackson uploaded the video and waited till the evening to text Wesley. Hey Wesley I think Anna cheated on you last night… Jesse you know ? Our friend in KA ? Well he texted me a link to a video this morning. I really hate to be the one telling you this, but no one else had the balls to say something. I’ll send the link but I think it would be wise to talk to Anna about what happened if you end up deciding to watch it. Wesley watched the video first thing and jumped to any and every conclusion about what he saw. He went berserk, broke up with his girlfriend, moved out, dropped out of college, and fell off the map – because not once in his life had Wesley been betrayed. Jackson had dug a hole into the core of his best friend’s insecurities. \~ ‘Morning buddy.’ Wesley was making coffee and breakfast while the beauty of his glass home was resurrected by the warm light that flooded in. Jackson woke up, hungover. ‘I should’ve woken you up earlier because we have to head out pretty soon.’ ‘Oh. No problem. Where is the room anyways?’ ‘It’s out on this rez a few hours away, it’ll only take about forty five minutes to finish so we’ll get back well before your flight heads out.’ ‘A rez?’ ‘Yeah, one of those Native American reservations, they let me and helped me build it out there for a lot cheaper. No building permits, contracts, taxes, *nothing*.’ ‘Well that’s convenient.’ \~ Wesley slept on the ride to the escape room. When he woke up he had no idea where they were or how long they had been driving for. Jackson didn’t ponder that fact for too long as he became fixated on the two story rectangular, concrete building in front of their car. It was windowless with a vault door leading into the first floor and a staircase leading up to the second. There was no road leading to the building or even a structure on the horizon. The building was a monolith of the desert. Wesley admired the building for a few moments with a smug look. Jackson looked at him and the building in confusion. Escape rooms usually had a theme, and *Battleship’s* theme seemed to be an above ground fallout shelter. ‘*Battleship* – huh?’ ‘That’s the name*.* Remember when Battleship became our escape from Settlers of –’ ‘I do, yeah.’ ‘Well I thought I’d give a little homage to those days.’ Wesley got out of the car and Jackson followed. They walked to the front door and were cascaded by the shade falling from the building. Jackson couldn’t see anything through the porthole in the door. ‘The actual escape room is on the first floor. I’ll be monitoring from the second. I doubt you’ll need any help though.’ Wesley handed him a blindfold and a plastic band. ‘Put these on and I’ll lead you in. After you hear a short alarm you can take your blindfold off and get started. You excited?’ ‘Oh yeah. Just a little anxious.’ ‘You have nothing to be anxious about. You’ll probably get it in no time with your luck.’ Jackson was going along with anything at this point, which was exactly how he ended up in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico with a friend whose life he thought he ruined. Jackson donned the blindfold. Wesley guided him into the pitch black room, let go, and walked back to the front door. ‘Jackson.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I never forgot about what you did to me.’ Wesley closed the door behind him and the sounds of hydraulics pierced through the air and his footsteps reverberated when he walked up the stairway to the second floor. Jackson heard the hydraulics again as Wesley closed the second story door. Jackson hadn’t thought about the plastic band until he felt it tighten on his wrist. The alarm then sounded at an earsplitting level. Jackson tore off his blindfold, the alarm stopped, and the room was now completely lit. A checkerboard print of black and white squares, big enough to stand on, covered and lit the entirety of the room. He reached into his pocket for his phone and looked around. The phone was lost and the door was covered – mixed in somewhere with the tiles. Across the room from Jackson was a tablet with a flashing white screen. He walked over and picked it up. A video began to play. ‘Welcome to Battleship. Much like the original game, the rules aren’t too different. You will use this tablet to choose where to strike. If you get a hit, the squares to choose will change. You will start off by selecting positions on the floor. Once you or your opponent is hit by a floor strike you will then select positions on the wall. Once and if you get a wall strike then you will then select positions from the ceiling. You are allowed to change positions after your opponent’s attempts to strike. Do not move after you have chosen a position when it is your opponent's turn to strike. You will have fifteen seconds to move and select a position, and fifteen seconds to select where to strike. The first one strike the other opponent three times wins. Select heads or tails on the screen.’ Jackson had many questions and no way to answer them. Both the coin flip and the room stood as games of complete chance. He chose heads, and heads it was. The screen transitioned to the dimensions and pattern of the floor beneath him. A timer appeared at the top of the screen and began counting down. He selected a square at random and waited for another fifteen. The square on the screen flashed red and it was a miss. The countdown began again on his screen and Jackson moved to a square while taking some time to observe his surroundings. Small indentations covered every square in the room. Fifteen seconds passed and a square in the corner of the room flashed red. The room spoke. ‘Miss.’ The back and forth went on for awhile. The room was flashing with red squares and announcing *miss*. The game showed no indication of ending anytime soon. Jackson attempted to play smarter, striking more on one side of the floor to possibly drive his *opponent* to the other side. He played that strategy for a while and finally made a move. Jackson selected a spot at the opposite corner on the tablet. After the timer finished he instantly heard screams from above him. The square he selected flashed a bright green on the screen and the room announced ‘hit’. Jackson ran under the exact spot where he heard Wesley’s screams. Jackson cried out for him and as he cried out towards the ceiling he could see a reflection of green on the white tile above him. Before he had the time to look down, spikes ejected through the indentations beneath him for a split second and retracted back into the tile. One opened the side of his left leg, slicing through tough muscles and tendons, while another pierced through his heel and between the bones of his right leg. The other spikes inverted and severed a few toes. He was razed to the ground and splashed into a pool of blood and torn flesh. Lying flat on his back he saw the tablet across the room. Despite the trauma, he remembered the rules well and knew he had to make a choice within seconds. He dragged himself across the room and hastily selected a tile. It was a miss. The experience of fatal injuries made time feel shorter and for Jackson, time was genuinely of the essence. The tablet transitioned to a select number of squares. A square across the room on the bottom layer of the wall turned red. Whatever was next would come from the walls. The game would progress faster and the chance of getting hit was much higher. Again he hastily made a selection and then slid to a far corner of the room. His blood acted as a convenient lubricant. He missed. At the end of fifteen seconds Jackson attempted to sit up, and failed. He let out a small scream and fell to the floor. A square at the other end of the room flashed red. ‘Miss.’ Jackson made a selection on the tablet and slid across the room again until the friction of the dry floor stopped him. Another miss. Wesley would either choose a spot to hit in his old or new position. Towards the end of fifteen seconds Wesley had chosen an opposite position. A tile to Jackson’s left turned green and an object flew through his torn calf. It wasn’t nearly as agonizing as the spike through his heel but he still couldn’t help from releasing a whimper that came out more like a suppressed shriek. He was losing more blood and chose to remain where he was. He could only hope Wesley would think he moved like he did last time. Jackson made another random selection and at the end of fifteen seconds he heard a scream that would have been deafening if it weren’t for the ceiling between them. Jackson had gotten a wall strike. The timer was counting down again, Jackson stayed put, and Wesley’s shrieking continued. Ponds of blood were a reminder that moving would be just as deadly as settling in one place. A tile directly next to the one above him flashed red. Wesley’s howls were relentless, despite the fact that they were nearly muted. It was obvious where they were coming from. Time was beginning to move slower. Jackson took the lapse in reality to cry. The timer was ticking and he closed his eyes. Jackson pressed the tile on screen where the weaning screams emitted from. The timer ended and a bang rang through the room followed by a swift thud. Hydraulics sounded and three tiles fell from the wall behind him, splashing into a pool of blood. The door opened and the sun was setting. Jackson had won.


Past 2am. He was awake, again. While his corpulence always exhibited the inadequacy of his duvet, tonight his sweat had also soaked it. He reached out for the glass of water by his bedside. The glass had a thick curved bottom, ornate on the top. It rested on a table with a surface of pure silver. He loved shiny things. A voice of some late TV presenter was ranting. Pictures of a massive processions interlaced with that shriek of a voice. He knew exactly who the presenter was, he knew all of them. His life centred on TV as much as TV centred on him. He pressed the power off button. "How dare they...", he said in a tired, almost morose manner. He had given his listeners a new lease of life and they used it to destroy him. All his life he sought to serve the people around him. Favours, deals, everyone being happy. Everyone that mattered of course. You can't make EVERYONE happy, that would have killed him. \- "How is your wife?", the blank TV says. His own face starring back at him, with an eerie translucence that flat screens are experts on. His own eyes piercing right back at him. Oh... \_He\_ was also awake. "Still angry with you?" the translucent figure says. \- Beads of sweat formed around his forehead. His voice crackled, "No... Please leave me alone tonight... please! I have barely slept this week". \- "I sensed you needed me. I sensed you being weak again. Let me comfort you. Forget that ungrateful bitch." \- "Yes... she is so angry... Until this gig is over I can't even divorce her..." \- "She is not the only angry with you, you know", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. "The whole world is. Actually... the whole world despises you" \- "No. They love me! I woke them up! They hugged their little pillows until I showed them that they ruled by darkness. I brought the light!", he retorts. \- "You brought fear. You brought loathing. You brought power! It's not light that you gave them. You didn't wake them up to lead. You woke them up to destroy them. For me to destroy them", the figure smirked. \- "Yes... and now... who is left in my corner? Constant bickering. I'm so lonely". His fingers played with each other. Weaving an imaginary web and promptly dismissing it. \- "What about your friend, Vladimir was it?", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. The figure on the TV is patiently waiting for his reply but he stared down. His lips tremble. "I have not heard from since...". He missed Vlad. When Vlad was around - physically or even in his thoughts - he felt the world was no longer a land of wonder and opportunity but of certainty. Yes. He was the dealmaker and thrived on opportunity but in this new gig... they wanted him to certain. About everything. The whole fucking time. \- "He was never your friend, you know." \- "What?!" The figure on the TV leaned in to whisper, as conspirators often do. \- "He is like a russian doll, layers upon layers. He showed you what you wanted to see. What you wanted to hear. He manipulated you in this misery so HE can look strong.". \- "No. NO!", his face became red. \- "Oh yes my friend. HE isolated you. He is loved. You saw the the news. That was a procession in his honour.". \- "That... Is... Ugh. Yes. I saw". His sweat had evaporated. His eyebrows closed in as he processed all that information. He had been so caught up in his emotions to see the obvious. Not only he had been played but he was being played now as well. Images and sounds. Images and sounds... he had listened for too long. \- "Yes you saw and listened. Now listen to me, I can guide you through this if you just... oh shit...", the figure in the screen opened its eyes wide as the image got distorted and then were no more. There were shards everywhere now, the remote control embedded into what remained of the flat screen TV. \- "ENOUGH! I had enough!", he shouted with vigour. He had to do more than just deal with this the figure in the screen. He had to resolve this permanently once and for all. All images and sounds would have to be silenced. TV boxes, radios, the Internet. All the LIES would have to surrendered. There was only one way to ensure that. Only one thing could disrupt all of the lies. He saw it in a movie. An electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion. A lot of nuclear explosions. But he couldn't do that. No... Someone else will have to be "inspired". He acted on that thought and put his phone away. Peace was upon him. The kind he had rarely felt before. Filled him in every hair of his being. That and confidence. Soon. He would be loved unconditionally by everyone on the side of good. Past 5am. Reconciled, Donald fell asleep, wrapped around with his own arms. The rest of the world was stealing a few extra moments of slumber before being confronted with the New World he had just tweeted into creation.


“So…what do you do for fun?” he asked awkwardly. She just laughed. “You’ve never been on a date before, have you?” He copied her laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not much of a people person, you know?” “I get that. It’s okay, I’m just messing with you.” They continued on their date, laughing and bantering with each other. There were moments of awkward silences, or as they called them, “silences.” These two were normally quiet people. But they were okay with that. The silences were just that. Silences. There was no awkwardness in them. Were they awkward people? By society’s standards, yes they were. But when they were with each other, they could be themselves. No longer were either of them wearing masks, hiding the quiet, sad people they truly were. That said, they weren’t quiet or sad with each other. They were free. They could be who they truly were. More importantly, they could be who they were meant to be. The silences, and their comfort in those silences, showed that they were comfortable with each other. And, even though it was never said, it was understood that if they weren’t saying anything, the company was still appreciated. It was more about being with each other than what they were doing or saying. That mattered more to them than anything else. Having someone who understood. They had gone most their lives without someone who truly understood them. People try to understand, at least the good ones do. But no one ever really does. But none of that mattered now. They had each other. They were together, united, working for one another. A month went by and nothing had really changed. A lot of relationships tend to lose that initial bit of spark after a while. They both knew it was coming, but it hadn’t yet. They didn’t focus on that though. Instead, they kept hanging out with each other, going to dinners, going to movies, spending time with one another in any way they could. Some days they talked more than others. But still, it never mattered what was said or how much was said. There’s a common quote that “Actions speak louder than words” and their relationship was proof of it. They knew what they had was love, even if it was never said it. By being there for each, by showing they cared, they proved how they loved each other. How could people who had met just a month or two ago be in love though? Well, it’s simple. It depends on one’s definition of love. For them, love was being able to care for someone more than oneself. Having someone in one’s life who gives meaning. Gives purpose. For so long in their lives, they were surviving, not living. Now, they each had something, someone, to live for. They knew how much they meant to each other and, because of their own past, knew not to take that for granted. They were two souls truly destined for each other. They were spending the night, her laying in his arms as they watched a movie. He kissed her on the head, something he had never done before. Neither were really the “physical” type. That wasn’t what made them work. She took special notice to that. “What was that for?” she asked blissfully. “I never really say it, but you mean so much to me.” She blushed, but didn’t say anything. “You’ve given me something that I never really had before.” “Oh yeah,” she replied with some snark. “What’s that?” “Happiness.


The coastal elite controls the national news, so when the midwest was taken over and turned into a kingdom, it took about three months for the news outlets to notice.  "What states were it again?... Kansas, Missouri, AND Nebraska?! ... is that a lot? Oof... We've got forty-something more of them left, right?" the president said. His oval office staff traded concerned glances.  The following weeks brought news of the King, who began a campaign of conquest that saw the Midwestern kingdom annex Mississippi and Iowa. All under the eye of an astonished president.  "Can he do this?" What is happening?!" the president's advisors shuffled papers as they struggled to tell him that as the president, he has to decide how to handle the King. "This is America! Land of the free-- home of all fifty states and the schmucks that voted for me!" The day presided without a plan in place.  The Kingdom launched giant pumpkins via trebuchets against the military forces blockading the former states. Ranch hands sent cattle herds stampeding against the infantry. Water balloons full of sour milk and eggs peppered the remainders.  The US army troops refused to shoot at the non-lethal enemy combatants, and instead began defecting after hearing about the kingdoms inclusive medical plans-- they included dental and visual! A couple of brace-face cadets started the journey over, but the rest joined when they heard about the four day work week (modeled after Finland's ambitious plan).  The guns the troops took with them were melted down and reforged into community centers. The gun power they extracted from the bullets created the fireworks for the first annual independence festival. It took place on July third- unofficially named "Independence day 2.0."  What had started as an initial domestic oversight turned into an international catastrophe as support from foreign nations for the young Kingdom grew. While the title "The King" was used- in truth, shadows were surrounding the figure that guided the growing nation. However, the data emerging from the residents placed it at the top of the happiness index, pipping perennial winner, Denmark, and with it, garnered further support and envy for its actions.  Years soon passed without the reveal of the King on the throne. The world had no face to attribute the incredible rise of a near-utopia within the belly of the American beast.  Year five finally marked the curtain crashing down- exposing a puppet ruler. A literal puppet sat on the throne- behind a velvet curtain. Journalists discovered a coalition of former film students ran the Kingdom. Their sovereign rise born out of a thesis project taken far too serious.  They had intended to parody a split from the United States and unintentionally succeeded when crowd participants didn't see the cameras and assumed it was a legal separation. The coalition used film craft to keep the oppositions, spies, from piercing the veil. They also happily accepted all who defected- especially after escaping severe repercussions from the US armed services.  Puppy Spring served as a vital cog in the defection victory. The remaining soldiers not sold on the promise of healthcare and sustainable work weeks were wrought low by the unbearable cuteness of the puppy horde unleashed upon them. Thankfully the success of Puppy Spring meant plan "Kitten Puffs" wasn't employed. Small studies showed that while adorable and soft, kittens get agitated at great heights and scratch those who pull them from their mini air balloons. An innovative aerial tactic, but a classic case of "cute, but not worth it."  Exceptions for defection did exist, and celebrities and billionaires took the majority of cases. The Kingdom ordered those who possessed immoral amounts of wealth to renounce their assets. The old rules of cut-throat capitalism did not belong in the new nation.  As the Kingdom annexed more states-- it left North Dakota for those who didn't want to join the nation. A rumor circulated through the Kingdom that the Koch brothers fought each other over the last functional oil well in the lone state.  The Kingdom had repurposed Colorado into a solar farm, which Elon Musk applauded from afar in his new role as an orchard owner. He praised the achievement while insisting people stopped calling him "Johnny Appleseed."  The final victory came with the arrival of the former president of the United States. He admitted that the job he took on held too much stress, and wanted to try out the four day work week. Especially since a three day weekend gave him a chance to finally read "Life of Pi" and expand his whittling collection.  The Kingdom made a collective "huh" to feign interest and moved on. Within the decade, the whole of the former union bore allegiance to the Kingdom. While the fledgling nation didn't have the same military might as their predecessor, they did possess personal security and self-worth, and with it came ungodly amounts of cowbell and yoga.


A couple of years ago, after some deliberation, I took the Ancestry DNA test. I was prepared for surprises. After all, there was a problem with my grandmother, Lil. She seems to have appeared one day and married grandpa, with no documentable past. Escaped slaves or vicious criminals, might be revealed. Six weeks after taking the test, results appeared on the Ancestry web site. The results showed high percentages of western Europe countries and one big surprise. I'm six percent "unknown." Looking at the online map, I saw the routine blobs on Europe, indicating the locations of my Ancestors. However, there was another blob covering the Pacific Northwest. Sensing that I might be able to brag about native American Ancestry, I became obsessed with finding out what this was about. I contacted customer service on Ancestry and was told that the genetic material was not Native American, the people who have this trait always trace back to the Pacific Northwest. I started leaving messages on Ancestry to my cousins, trying to find an answer to my genetic puzzle. Most did not reply, but finally, I traded messages with a cousin who told me a little about the Pacific Northwest branch of the family. This cousin informed me about her great aunt Sarah who lived on a mountain road east of Seattle. Great Aunt Sarah knew all about the mysterious branch of the family. Aunt Sarah had no landline, and the only way to contact her was to drop in and visit. Soon I flew to Seattle, rented a car, and, using a map my cousin had sent me, drove into the mountains. The countryside was lush, the trees were leaning over the road and shading into a greenish twilight. Following the map, I turned down a twisting side road and drove up a mountainside. It started misting as I turned down a long driveway. Soon an old log cabin came into view. A big coon hound ran out excitedly to meet my car. An old woman, shrunken with age, sat in a rocker on the front porch. As I got out of the vehicle, the old woman stood to see who was visiting. Even with the years diminishing her, she stood over six feet tall. She wore an old baggy dress and a bonnet. She spoke, “You must be Libby’s boy, Ralph. I was told you’d be coming.” She motioned to an empty chair next to her rocker, saying, "You look just like your grandfather. Big feet and hairy hands and all." Introducing herself, she said, "I'm your Aunt Sarah. I knew your mother Libby, a little bit of a thing. Libby was ashamed of our branch of the family and never told anyone about us." After I sat, aunt Sarah pulled out a gallon ceramic jug, poured a pinkish liquid into a mason jar, and handed it to me. She went on, “This is an old family recipe. My great grandfather was a mountain man from Kentucky, and he brought the art of moonshine with him." The liquor was strong and had a smooth, pleasant taste. Sarah told me, sipping from her own mason jar, "The pink color is from mountain berries which we soak in our shine for flavor and smoothness." Then Sarah said, "You're not the first to come up here looking to find out about the unknown nationality. Everyone before you, when they find out the truth, they have decided to keep it to themselves. The branch of the family that lives in these hills is very shy. We are just as happy being alone." “My great-granddaddy, Jeff Jefferson, came to these mountains to escape some legal trouble back in Kentucky. He made his living in the fur trade and built this cabin. Great granddad was a friendly man, but local tribes didn't want to have anything do with him, thinking he was crazy. His existence was prosperous but lonely. One winter, great-grandma moved into his cabin, one thing lead to another, and they considered themselves man and wife. Nowhere to get a ceremony in those days. She was bigger than him, but always treated him with gentleness and love.” She continued, "Your cousin Goldman is coming by today to drop off a fresh batch of shine. That must be him now." I heard something that sounded like a club beating against a tree. Aunt Sarah picked up a large wooden club and beat it on one of the porches supports then whistled. A large man stepped out of the woods wearing a straw hat and coveralls. He stood over seven feet tall and must have weighed over 400 pounds. His large feet were bare. His beard and body hair gave him a furry look. My hand disappeared into his when we shook hands. Sarah spoke up, "You must have figured it out by now, you are part sasquatch.


I was her first, and she was my last. I know that’s overly cliched, but it was the absolute truth for both of us. I don’t recall, exactly, the very first time that I saw her. She was working at a local market as a cashier. The owner seemed to regularly rotate through pretty girls from the local school. I had frequented there for close to a decade and a half, although I never asked how he managed to find them, but they were generally a feast for the eyes. She was a little shorter than I was, probably around 5’9” or so, and had crystal blonde hair that stopped just below her shoulders. Add in green eyes that one could get lost in, a lithe body and a certain … perkiness, if you know what I mean … and she was utterly gorgeous. I do remember the very first time that went beyond simple pleasantries while she was ringing up my order. There were two people ahead of me on line and she was the only cashier working just then. She had on a loose T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants tights. Those tights made me finally truly understood what the phrase “like they were painted on” meant. While they covered her from the waist down, they were utterly revealing. As the line slowly progressed, I could not take my eyes off of her. She was smiling and full of energy. When it was my turn, I quickly looked around and noticed that there was no one else in line and no one else nearby. Taking a breath to put a little courage into me, I leaned forward a little and said, “I know this might be overly forward of me, but you might want to consider wearing something that’s at least a *little* less revealing?” I paused to smile. “Not that I don’t appreciate the scenery, of course.” She smiled and laughed, and it was a quiet laugh with such a clear sound that I was sure there were angels getting jealous that theirs didn’t sound so beautiful. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the view. You’re the first one this whole day who’s commented, never mind everyone else seems to need to force themselves to not even look.” Her smile just then utterly melted me. Without even thinking, I introduced myself — even though I’d been here multiple times, I didn’t think she knew my name. And then, not even realizing what I was doing, I asked if I could invite her out for a cup of coffee some time … or lunch … or dinner … or breakfast in bed. I think the last one was what broke through to her. She laughed again and told me that we would have to wait on breakfast, but she would love to join me for a coffee. She told me her name and that she would be finished today at 5:00. If I was serious about that coffee, I should be waiting in the parking lot for her. With that, she turned away to do something else. \# # # I was back and waiting in the parking lot at least ten minutes early. Something told me that this was one of the most important appointments of my life. Little did I realize. She walked out of the door exactly on time, waving to someone inside, a light blue windbreaker over one shoulder. A twist of her head flung her hair around and I was, once again, utterly entranced. I waved and she headed towards me. Once she was seated, I suggested a local coffee shop — not one of the “name brands”, where we could sit comfortably and talk. A small smile indicated she was fine with that, and a few minutes later, we walked in the door. If I were tortured for the information, I could not recount what we talked about. All I do remember is that we actually *talked*, about ourselves, about what we wanted in life, and about all sorts of other real subjects. The more we talked, it seemed utterly natural that we would start holding hands. It happened almost without thinking — for both of us. The time passed all too quickly until we were told by the manager it was time to leave, as they were about to close. I escorted her out, holding the door to the cafe and to the car. Once I was inside, we looked at each other and her mouth turned into that slight smile that I was already falling in love with. “About one minute, I think” I had no idea what she was talking about and said so. “Oh … Well, right now, you’re going to drive both of us to your home. And I think it will take about one minute for us to take all of our clothes off before you take me to bed.” Who was I to resist a challenge of that magnitude from the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on? \# # # It turned out that she was wrong — by about 20 seconds. Then again, I don’t think she’d considered the time saved by torn clothing and buttons that would need to be retrieved and sewn back on later. Afterwards, we lay in bed, sweaty. I had an arm around her while she was half-cuddled against me, one leg hooked over mine, her arm casually draped across my chest, and her head resting against my shoulder. I slowly caressed her golden hair and then I heard her seemingly whisper, “Hold me … and never let me go.” I instinctively held her closer and tighter before gently kissing her forehead. Then I whispered back, “If that is to be so, dearest … then we must agree on how we treat each other.” She looked up at me, that smile once again cutting through to my heart. I smiled back warmly, and told her that there must never be secrets between us, not even in the things that we didn’t say to each other. We had to be able to talk about anything and everything — including the deep, dark secrets that we had never felt safe revealing to anyone else. And we must never say anything to intentionally hurt each other. She tilted her head back, climbing slightly up my body to kiss me, murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes…” as she did. And with that, we had made a certain sort of vow to each other and, magically, had become a couple. \# # # From that point forward, we spent all of our spare time together. When we were in public, our hands would always reach for each others’. And every time that we wound up in bed, after utterly tiring ourselves and each other out, she would always curl up against me and whisper those same words to me. It had become a sort of ritual, in a fashion, and I would now always respond by holding her a bit more tightly, and responding the same way. Somehow, that would melt her as she melted me and she would relax against me, seemingly feeling even more secure with me. Of course, there were complications. Any sort of serious relationship has them. At first, her friends were concerned for her and outright suspicious of me. After enough whispers behind her back, and even to her face, she confronted them. With her fingers twisted with mine, she practically yelled at them, saying that I was the best thing that had ever happened to her and if they were truly her friends, they could see that. I remained silent, almost on the verge of tears hearing her say those things, promising myself that I would never do anything to hurt her. Eventually, her friends came to understand. I suspect that at least part of what drove that understanding was that every time I was with her, she would always reach out to grab my hand, and that simple touch was enough to bring smiles to both our faces. I was never truly accepted as one of them, but they became more willing to allow me into their circle. Worse, though, was her family. Her mother never accepted me, and, I think, never stopped hating me for, she believed, seducing her daughter and taking her virtue. Her father, though, merely started out concerned for her. One time, while waiting for her to finish dressing, with him glaring at me, I quietly told him what she and I had discussed that first night in bed. I didn’t provide the details of the setting, but merely what we had agreed for how to treat each other. His expression softened, he nodded his head and then reached out to shake my hand. “You realize that we can never be ‘best buddies’. But so long as you hold to that for how to treat her, and I can continue to see the sheer joy she gains from being with you … I have nothing I can say against you.” I nodded understanding and agreement, moments before she came dashing down the stairs, grabbing my arm and shouting a farewell to her family as we went out to whatever we were doing that evening. \# # # We never lost those feelings for each other. Sure, I would occasionally look at someone else, as would she. That’s only natural. But even those instances were talked about between us. “No secrets” means exactly that — even when we had some sort of passing interest in someone else. No matter what, though, we had both come to the realization that there would never be anyone else for either one of us. Finally, before I asked her, I went to her father. It was still quite awkward between us, but I felt that I needed to — for my own sake, as well as, perhaps, for hers. I acknowledged that I was being quite “old school”, and then proceeded to ask for his daughter’s hand. He laughed and said, “I’ve seen the way you look at her and she looks at you. I also know the sheer joy you bring to her life, and can only assume the same is true for yours.” I whispered quiet agreement, not wanting to interrupt him. “I would be a fool and a worse father if I denied her that. “I’ll hold you to your promises about how you will treat her. And, honestly, I doubt that there is anything I could do to stop her even if I were to say no. So, yes, if she’ll have you — and I utterly doubt that she would ever say otherwise — you have my blessing.” I hadn’t gotten a ring. I was reasonably sure that she would not require such a trinket. That night, with her laying against me, once more … our ritual completed … I murmured softly, “Will you be mine, forever? I want to be with you and you with me. I know that it would be nothing more than a …” I searched for the right words. “A public acknowledgement of what we already have.” Before I had even finished, I felt her nodding her head, whispering, “Yes, yes, yes…” against my chest. Then she looked up at me, her eyes bright and somewhat watery, saying, “… and never let me go.


The metal bars slammed shut and the keys turned as Kalam stood from the corner he was just shoved into, he lunged at the bars with a seething rage, "You can't keep me here forever! You hear that! You're all gonna pay! You can't keep Kalam here forever!" In the cell opposite him emerged a face from the shadows chuckling, "Of course they can't keep you here forever, you're going to die someday" the man said He kicked the skull laying on the floor to the stone wall of his cell then paused, "Or maybe they could... My apologies Cassian" he said to the skull Kalam diverted his burning scowl to the old man, breathing heavily Bemused, the man stepped back startled, then he took a step forward and squinted as they held eye contact, "What was that?" "What?" Kalam snapped "That glint... in your eye... I've only seen it when... Ahhhh" “When what? What glint?” "I see you've met the Wizard...", he stepped forward, illuminating the wrinkles on his face "You met the one" He pressed his face against the bars "Ohhh but you didn't just meet him, you really really met him" he said, stroking his long grey beard Now worried, Kalam relaxed his scowl "What? What do you know?" "Don't waste my time young man, I know you met him, the one they call the Time Walker" he said now gripping the bars till his knuckles went white Kalam staggered backwards "How... How do you..." "He leaves an imprint on the souls of those he connects with, and you, you have his signature in bold" "That's... " "Conceited on his part, I know, but then again, I suppose we all have our quirks." he stepped back from the light, leaning his back to the wall He looked up at the ceiling with half a smile, shook his head, "So what prophecy did he tell you?" he scoffed "Wizards... Oh wizards and their prophecies, that's all they're good for anyway..." he smiled "They are the only ones with the power to single-handedly stop this madness, but all they do is push poor young saps like you to battle in the shadows." With folded arms, he stared into the darkness shaking his head, "So, spill it young fellow, What did he tell you?" Kalam dropped his head and began to speak *He said just a couple dozen particles drew the line* *Between the King's chains and mine* *But iron is more stable than gold* *That's why Kings surround themselves with walls of stone,* *Reinforced with steel columns, gates and doors* *And men with iron armour and steel swords* *Eventually, the weight of all of that takes its toll* *The weight of the screams of pain and hunger and sorrow* *And when those screams are sharpened by the pressure of souls,* *Then heads, oh heads will begin to roll* "Ominous..." "Ya..." Kalam sat, still staring blankly "Wait, he said iron is more stable than gold?" Kalam nodded slowly, "What does that mean?" The old man held a vapid stare like he was in a trance, rapidly tapping his right foot... Pensive... Then he stopped He turned his blank stare to Kalam "So?" Kalam shrugged, "What does it mean?" "It means we'd better get to work" he replied as he receded to the shadows at the back of his cell "What work? And who are you by the way?" The man knocked on a sequence of stone tiles on the floor, four knocks, then seven, then one and finally, two slow gentle knocks.


The Last Time I Cried In truth, I am not an emotional person. I do show my emotions, but only with a smile or a frown. I used to cry a lot. In fact, I can tell you that most people enjoy a good cry. Although, I haven’t cried since the year 2014. Wondering what happened then? I’ll tell you. Betrayal. It’s such a strong word, no? Over the years, I have found that people tend to overuse it, along with words such as ‘hate’ or ‘love’. Well, I can assure you that, in this case, I do not exaggerate. In fact, I believe I handled it all very well. So, it all started in January 2014, I had just gone back to school after Christmas. School back then was fine, you know? Not too hard, not too easy. Just… fine. Or at least it was. The thing you should know about me is that I am rather inept when it comes to making friends. Truthfully, I suck at it; I start talking to someone and then I get so afraid that they’re not going to like me that I decide that I’m not going to like them first. This happened every time I would try to socialise. Of course, there was, as there always is, an exception. This exception’s name was Ruby. Allow me to tell you a little bit about Ruby. She’s my age (so was 9 at the time), has (or at least had the last time I saw her) long golden hair that smells of roses, and beautiful brown eyes. We had known each other since birth, as our parents were also childhood friends. I’m not sure if this is true or if it is just a lie my mum told me but the first face I saw after I was born was Ruby’s. She was my best friend and my confidant. Of course, nothing lasts forever. Ruby and I were never really interested in romantic relationships (because we were ten) and so all of our energy was focused on each other. You’d think this would get tiring but I can tell you that we never got sick of each other. We were inseparable. This made what happened next sting so much more. We were in year 5 and we had just gotten a massive project: the science fair. Now, in retrospect, this wasn’t that big of a deal but, at the time, it was the most important thing in the world. When a project is announced, you look around and try to find a partner. Of course, you’re supposed to be listening to the teacher, so this must all be kept under wraps. That group-finding experience is often the most soul-destroying activity that one would ever have to participate in in school (nay, in life). Naturally, as soon as a teacher announces a group project, you look straight at your best friend and make direct eye contact with them. Then, you both share a nod full of excitement but also covertness. That nod sums up everything about your relationship. This is what we do did every time… until once Now, the week before the fair was announced, Ruby and I had gone to TK Maxx with our mums so that they could buy trainers. The people to whom these trainers would belong would forever remain a mystery (they were for us). As is protocol in such scenarios, Ruby and I, while our parents were trying on their detour clothes (the clothes that people try on when they visit a shop, just to waste time and fill up their wardrobes), we ‘borrowed’ some money from each of our mothers’ handbags and awayed to McDonalds. When we got in, we were going to order but I needed to drain my bladder (as, at the time, it felt like I had a fish tank in my pelvis) so I went while she ordered (we both know each other’s orders (5-piece chicken select, large diet coke and chips for me and an entire share-box of McNuggets, a large diet coke chips for her (we weren’t fat, we just had large appetites))). While I was gone, Ruby had an encounter. This encounter was with a boy named Elliot. First, let me tell you about Eliiot: he had chestnut-brown hair and piercing blue eyes, he was charming, handsome, everything most girls wanted and everything most boys hated. Despite their hatred for him, every single boy in the school seemed to bow down to him (all but one-me) and every single girl seemed to love him (all but one-Ruby). The standard reaction received from a girl when encountering Eliiot was something along the lines of ‘Eliiot… wow… you’re here? That’s such a coincidence… Oh my god! It’s fate! Ha… Isn’t that silly?’ (even when they ran into each other at school). This is what made seeing Ruby encounter Eliiot all the more pleasing, as her greeting went something along the lines of “what do you want, ****wad” (yes, that is the language we used at the time). However, this day was… odd. This is because, while her initial greeting was identical to the ones of the past, their next action was a hug. Wondering how I know this? I was about to emerge from the bathroom, but I saw it all the door. Ruby collected our food and then sat down with the monster (Eliiot Price) at our table. I watched on in abhorrence as Eliiot munched on my fries. Although, I couldn’t help but notice that there was something off about Eliiot. There was something of with his face. It’s almost as if he was… sad. Shocked? Me too. But… what could the Eliiot Price possibly have to be sad about? Was he struggling that every girl in the school loved him? Was he frustrated that he was too handsome? I was stumped. Eventually, after devouring half of my fries, Eliiot stood up (as if to leave) and gave Ruby one last hug, loaded with suspicious innuendo, and got his almost weeping butt out of Ruby’s and my ‘straunt (as we called it at the time). After watching for about 10 minutes, I had had some time to calm down. Unfortunately, this did not come through in my greeting. In fact, the words that came out of my mouth were something along the lines of “WHAT THE ****, RUBY?” (past-me’s words, not mine), “You hate someone for years and suddenly he’s your best buddy? What’s that about?”. Her response made me eat my words: “Charlie… his mum died”. Instantly, my anger was quelled. I sat down. Suddenly, it was so blindingly obvious why Ruby’s hatred of all things Eliiot had been temporarily silenced-out of kindness, sympathy, decency, whatever you want to call it. Despite my hatred of all things Eliiot Price, this… event only made me respect Ruby more. About 10 days from then, came the ruling, judgement day the possible apocalyptic outcome. By this, I mean the day we chose partners for the Science Fair. That day, I woke up with a plan in mind-go to school pick Ruby as my partner, live happily ever after. However, it appears that Ruby had formulated a different plan-wake up, go to school, rip out my soul and stomp on it, live happily ever after. Melodramatic, no? Well I didn’t think so at the time. Nevertheless, the first 2 steps of our plans were similar: wake up and go to school, and so we did. As was the norm for us at the time, I was driven by my mum to pick up Ruby at her house , which was only a few streets away. We exchanged pleasantries with Ms. Rydohi (Ruby’s mother) and then we departed. What stings the most about what happened once we arrived at school is that, to Ruby, it was an ordinary morning, and we conversed accordingly, me completely oblivious to what would soon happen and her with the most malicious of intents. We arrived at school. Typically, we would have greeted our friends, taken our time putting our coats and bags on the pegs in the cloakroom and then lazily saunter to class. Today, however, our typical routines we rendered moot. This is because the entire year-which was really only the size of about 2 classes- was dying to get to registration first. See, the way pairs were chosen at the time is the first pair there would be together. Because of this, people would wait outside the classroom for their partner and then enter. And so, I did. Unfortunately, it seemed that Ruby had found a new default partner: Eliiot Price. That’s right, her vowed arch-nemesis, the Joker to her Batman, the Lex Luthor to her Superman, and suddenly they were best friends. Confused? Yeah, I was too! As I saw that idiot Eliiot Price walking down the corridor with my best friend, I was hurt to my core. It was like someone had reached down my throat and pulled out my heart, along with all my other organs, rendering me without means of living. Instantly, I relived all my greatest memories with Ruby, but, when I say ‘relived’, I mean ‘watched’, as my face was slowly morphing into that of Eliiot Price. Soon, I was erased from Ruby’s life and all I could do was merely watch while I was somewhat shunned from my entire life. It is a pain that I still relive to this day. You may be thinking “Oh my god, stop over-reacting; it’s just a science fair”. Well, I can tell you that it was not ‘just a science fair’. In fact, it was my relationship with Ruby. She was an endless well of happiness and comfort on which I could draw and, that day, she was taken from me or, more accurately, she left me. Unfortunately, this pain was not… swift. I then had to endure watching them both walk into registration and… be paired up. I couldn’t take it. The thought of them working together tore me apart. I knew that if I stayed a second longer I would break down. In prevention of this, I ran. I ran and I ran like the giant green monster was chasing me. Over the years, there has always been a safe haven for people in this situation: the toilets. I had my destination. My feet carried me, as if separated from the rest of my body. I didn’t notice how fast I was going until the classic corridor T-Junction, where I bumped into my headmistress, knocking her onto the floor, scattering her sheets of paper onto the floor. “Mr. Looker, what are you doing?”, she asked. Unfortunately, I was not in a position to answer such a question so the response she received was something along the lines of “I… Flannin…” before I panicked and ran even faster to the toilets. Thankfully, upon my arrival at the toilets, a stall was just being vacated, I was too distraught to notice the faint odour of faeces and old urine. I loudly opened the stall door, put the toilet seat down, sat on it, and wept. It was a cry like no other. Everyone knows it: silent, yet deafening, a soul-penetrating sob, an elegy for the greatest of losses. I didn’t go to the science fair. Obviously, there was an awards assembly and a week full of people congratulating the winners, but I just couldn’t stomach going. I know it seems stupid now but i never talked to Ruby again; I saw her in the corridor and bumped into her in Tesco but we never… talked. You know what? I’m quite happy it ended like that, because it was the last time I cried, and it certainly was a memorable one.


"There you go, one large Pepperoni and one medium Carbonara! That'll be twenty dollars. Oh, and the Carbonara has the extra olives." "Perfect, thanks! That's her favorite", he winked while pulling out a couple of bills. The delivery man chuckled. "You can count on me, sir. Good evening!" He walked back to the living room, grabbing a knife on his way, put down the pizzas on the coffee table and plopped back down on his side of the couch. "Bon appétit!" he chimed, already trying to cut his pizza and look at the TV at the same time. For a moment, only chewing could be heard as the pizzas were being gobbled up. Daniel really was a great pizzaiolo, and these were a staple of their friday nights. Their dedicated "don't care" evenings, when they'd order pizzas, flop down on the couch and watch whatever movie she'd have picked. He wasn't much into movies himself and, in fact, she probably wasn't either. They'd already woken up more than once on this couch on saturday mornings, with no recalling of the film's ending whatsoever. But their unspoken point was pizza and snuggling, and they wouldn't have it any other way. "Oh dear," he let out as he glanced at her pizza box, where only a handful of olive pits and a grease stain remained. "You've already eaten all of this? I've barely made it to half of mine and I feel like I'm gonna explode!" He smiled. He might've been twice her weight, but it seemed like food would vanish around her before he had a chance to blink. She wasn't one to play princess, especially not on a friday night, and he loved her for it. He, on the other hand, had definitely overestimated his appetite this time. "Well, I'm full. Unless you want some more, I'm just gonna save it for tomorrow. Lemme throw the boxes away as well." He went to the kitchen, slid the remaining half of his pizza onto a plate and put it into the fridge. Turning around, he looked at the recycling bag, which to his dismay was already filled to the brim with empty pizza boxes. "Damn. Honey, I forgot to take out the trash, be right back!" He walked out of the flat, closing the door behind him, and began going down the stairwell. He wrestled with the door to the basement with his elbow, his hands occupied by the large bag and the two pizza boxes. After pressing the dusty light switch with his other elbow, he continued down the last flight of stairs, under the humming of the fluorescent tubes, to the trash bins room. The rattling of the olive pits inside the boxes went softer and softer as he slowed down and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. With a sigh, he shoved the recycling bag and the boxes into the nearest bin. Then he sat on the first step of the stairs, his head buried in his hands, and started weeping.


“Hey, Bill.” “Hey, George.” My patrons greet each other. Nothing has changed, wives are a pain, jobs suck, and the world is crazy. I hear it day in and day out. Same drivel, same nonsense, but shit, I get paid to listen. “-What I’m saying is, if he gives you the eyes, you can’t show you’re afraid!” George exclaims. I loathe business talk. It always riles up the customers. I can’t seem to go a night without somebody trying to start a ruckus. “Well what was I supposed to do? I’m not gonna argue with one of the brokers, they give me the heebie-jeebies.” Bill shivers with the thought. “Do I have to explain everything to you? I swear the bloody sun has more sense than you.” George sighs, “If you go to a meeting expecting entrails, and you get offered eyes, you have to explain to them diplomatically that eyes won’t cut it for what you are trying to do. Don’t fucking argue with them you dolt. Gotta be diplomatic, like them preachers.” Religion! I think. That’s even worse than business. I want to steer the conversation away, but there is no stopping people when they get going. “The preachers? They don’t know shit. They are always saying that the bleeding sun is a sign of the end of the world. The sun has been bleeding for over a decade! I don’t see any end times!” Bill shouts with exasperation. “Just because the sun started bleeding and the brokers showed up, deciding they ran the world, doesn’t mean I have to put up with one of them squidfaces welshing on their end of the deal!” I set down the glass I was cleaning and turn the men. Trying to convey a jovial appearance I say. “Can I get you gentlemen a refill? Can’t have any dry throats in my establishment!.” My voice cheerily interrupts their conversation. “Fuck off squidy, just because you own the place doesn’t mean you can speak unless spoken to.” Bill says. “See this is my problem with all of them squidy’s who aren’t brokers. They think that just because their freaks of a kind run all of the black magic they have the right to speak to us real people. I can’t believe that mankind owes a debt to these lot. They are pathetic.” I can’t stop my tentacles from squirming in agitation. These so-called “men” think that I wanted to be summoned into this world? I was dragged here by the foolishness of “men” like these thinking they could harness greater power. I will not be spoken to in such a manner, I will show them the power I hold. These puny “men” couldn’t fathom the worlds I have seen and devoured under my undying shadow. But I have instructions, and I will follow them. “Well I’ll be here if you need me!” I assure them. Yes, I will be here. Waiting for the time when I can serve them. Waiting for the time where I can wet my own throat.


“Grayson County, this is Julie, please hold” “Julie I—” The phone cut to hold music, as Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen instinctively bit down and gritted his teeth together. Allen was the victim of a rough morning. He had been given orders from his supervisors to assist the state of Virginia with enforcing their new laws against semi-automatic firearms, and the feedback had been astounding, even in his own office. Six of the eighteen agents he supervised had turned in their guns and badges, four of those being the most tenured in the office. His A-team, his go-to crew. He had begun checking on all of his remaining dozen agents in the field and had been successful with most. Except Miller. Miller was his young gun, prone to fits of stupidity and headstrong. Maybe it was a mistake sending him the furthest from the office, without a senior agent to go with him, but that’s what the locals were for, right? “Grayson County, this is Julie, is this an emergency?” “Kind of, yeah” Allen haltingly gave up into the phone “This is Special Agent in Charge Ryan Allen, I sent a –” Julie cut him off at the pass, “Yeah, an ATF agent was here this morning, are you his supervisor? Because if so, he might need to have a talking to about manners and making demands of local law enforcement.” “Right, okay, I’ll talk to him when he gets back. Can you radio your deputy and see where they are at? I can’t get him on his cell, and he’s not answering emails either.” “He doesn’t have a deputy with him. We’re not enforcing that particular piece of legislation out here. My boss told him to pound sand, and the Sheriff has the same view. Anything else you need? These phones are ringing off the hook—someone lost a load of cattle out of a semi and we’re busy.” Allen sighed, knowing somehow that Miller would manage to piss off the local law enforcement and go at it alone. “No ma’am, good luck with your cattle issue, and I’m sorry for Agent Miller’s conduct, we’ll try to remind him to play nice with others.” Allen pressed the phone down into it’s cradle on his desk, looking over the various paperwork stacked there, and glancing at the monitor to see a growing inbox waiting to be conquered. As the special agent in charge of a Virginia Field Office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Allen’s email was constantly filled with directives, requests, new policy and personnel issues. The director’s office had sent a memo detailing the new Virginia laws that required confiscation of firearms of a number of different and very common types, and confiscation was not going well. Of the twelve agents that Allen now supervised, three had reported being shot at, one was without a vehicle due to some sort of sabotage on their tires, and the remaining eight had all encountered resistance from a number of sources, including local law enforcement, citizens and the ever present news media. So far, since the beginning of their day, they had seized a total of three firearms. Two from a self-proclaimed “Instagram Influencer” and one from a 45-year-old assistant to a Senator, who did not want to lose his seat at the table with his boss, a rabid anti-gun legislator from the middle of the suburbs. Three guns. That was it. One of the other field offices reported two agents down, both in critical condition after leading a raid into the home of a former Special Forces Sergeant who lived in a cabin closer to Lexington. They made it almost a hundred feet from the house before withering fire cut down several the agents and local law enforcement. They gathered up enough courage to evacuate everyone, leaving a few cruisers and a ton of equipment right there in the yard. Allen feared that they would find this again and again, as the Virginia backwoods seemed to be a preferred retirement ground for many of the United States Military’s finest former experts. Allen tried Miller’s cell phone again, this time from his personal phone. JP was usually reliable but could be headstrong. He had caused Allen grief more than a few times from his brash demeanor, usually tangling with local law enforcement or citizens, and it had put him within inches of a formal reprimand from Allen a time or two. JP was, without a doubt, a lawyer who also happened to carry a gun. His six-foot, broad shouldered frame could be intimidating, but even more so was his ability to whip your words around to change the meaning and make you argue not only with him, but with yourself. It was a dangerous skill, especially with some of the idiots they dealt with on the street, but Allen had to admit, it was usually effective. Miller’s cell phone continued to ring, eventually going to voicemail. Allen hung up. He had already left a pair of voicemails, the first concerned. The second, more authoritative, with an order to call in immediately. “Ryan!” Cal Grassley called out as he turned the corner into Allen’s office. Cal was their resident equipment wizard from the Technical Services Branch. He carried a printout with him as he strode into Allen’s office and plopped his overweight body into one of the chairs across from Allen’s. His smudged glasses and coffee stained tie paired with a defeated look on his face as he slid the paper across the cluttered wasteland of Allen’s desk. It slid by in the one clear spot and promptly landed on the floor, its landing accompanied by a hard sigh from Allen. “Cal, please tell me you found something on Miller” Allen growled, leaning down to grab the sheet from the weathered carpet at his feet. Grassley responded with a sigh, explaining “His last activity was fairly early this morning, sent a read receipt on your email with the list of targets, then…well, nothing. His signal kind of peters out after that. Doesn’t really seem to be any pings off the cell towers, but that’s common for that kind of rural area.” Allen shook his head. “Cal, is there any way to track his car? I know my Tahoe has OnStar—can’t we just do that?” Grassley tilted his head a little, thinking on the query. “I know that Ford has the 911 Assist, but he’d have to have turned it on, and then the car would have had to been in an accident. Probably not.” Allen tilted back in his chair, pondering this latest predicament. Cal popped up out of the chair, surprising Allen with his agility, especially compared to his size. “I’ll be back in my hobbit hole if you need me, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Allen nodded, silently contemplating his next move. The best move would be to have the locals go look for him, but with JP’s prior confrontation, that search would be half-hearted at best, and at worst, not done at all. Allen went to his email and examined the roster of agents. Woodley would be the next closest, but he had lost all the tires on his vehicle when he went to get gas in a rural area, and made small talk with the clerk at the station while paying—apparently pay at the pump was not the standard like it was in the DC Beltway. Alvarez and French were the next two closest, their day had started with harassment from the local police department, and so far, had resulted in no seizures and nobody willing to answer the door for federal agents in plate carriers with rifles. Allen glanced at the list, mentally trying to remember which of these towns was near what. His next name on the list was Lindsay Clay, his newest agent to the office. She had wavered at being sent to Roanoke to assist a local group of Virginia State Police who would be going door to door in the suburbs, but relented when advised by a senior agent that it held the least amount of danger anyone would face in this particular type of scenario. Clay was a fresh-faced blonde from the DC area, where she had excelled at lacrosse and went to the University of Virginia on a lacrosse scholarship, playing under Julie Myers. Prior to her ATF career, she had never fired a gun, never even held a gun, in fact. She was book smart, but certainly not street smart, and the ATF’s field training officers had their hands full trying to train the green-ness out of her. She was a capable agent, though, and was well-versed in the law. Allen decided that she was his best bet for finding Miller and bringing him home. The fact that she was a semi-attractive blonde wouldn’t hurt, but the fact that she knew the rules and took orders well would seal the fact that Allen could trust her to reel JP in and bring him back. The trick now would be getting in contact with her and getting her going. Allen dialed her from the desk phone, hoping that the familiar number would get her to answer him. “Special Agent Clay” Lindsay chirped, seeing the number on her screen and knowing that this was probably some more guidance. She desperately needed guidance, as the team that she had been given for this operation consisted of a four-man squad of brand-new troopers, fresh out of the academy and roaring to go. Clay had spent most of her day trying to temper their enthusiasm and hoped that the call from the Field Office was a return and regroup order. This day had not gone well so far. She had been carrying a heavy shotgun, wearing her heavy body armor, and going house to house with a team that had the general maturity of middle schoolers. This was not what she had signed up for. “It’s Ryan, how’s the day going? Never mind, listen, I need you to go find JP. He’s gone missing near you in Independence, or Freedom, or Liberty…I can’t remember what the hell the name of the town is. You need to go find him and then report back here ASAP. We’re getting our butts kicked and we need to strategize.” “Okay. I just need to know where I’m going.” Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief at the news that she’d be teaming up with Miller. He seemed to know what he was doing, most of the time. Plus, he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, though he did seem a little full of himself. She watched from the back of her Tahoe while the four troopers walked up to the next door in the little suburban neighborhood, they had chosen to through next. “It’s Independence. He was near there. Ask around, figure out where he’s at and follow him back to here. If you get time, try to hook up with Woodley—he lost some tires earlier today and he’s stuck. I’ll figure out where and text you.” Allen hung up the phone without finishing his conversation. Lindsay sighed. Jamar Woodley was not the agent she wanted to have to pick up and be stuck in the car with. He was loud, animated and hyper aware of his surroundings. She was sure that he’d be driving the locals nuts by the time she got to him. Maybe she could make JP pick him up. That would be perfect for her. She could turn up her music, drive home and maybe make it back to her townhouse to soak her sore muscles in her own bathtub tonight. She turned to head towards the troopers as the windows from the two story they had chosen exploded with gunfire. Rounds slapped the dirt around the troopers as the glass spread all over the carefully manicured landscape. Clay pulled her pistol while scurrying back towards the relative safety of the blacked-out Chevy. She reached to hit the release for the back hatch as she saw one of the troopers take a shot to the leg, screaming out in pain. Her original plan involved grabbing a shotgun and hoping to at least give the troopers some covering fire. Now her plan was to grab the medical kit and hopefully get close enough to make sure they all survived. The fire intensified, then slacked as the shooter (shooters?) inside reloaded. She saw two troopers make a break for their cruisers, while the wounded trooper and the fourth stayed put near the door. The first trooper to reach the cruiser jumped in the driver’s seat, as Lindsay watched the second attempt to open the door to his cruiser, he spun, a rifle round striking the plate on his back, and knocking him to the ground. The first trooper swung his cruiser across the lawn, beckoning the two sheltered by the door to get in. The wounded trooper began a low crawl across the yard, only to collapse halfway, crying and shaking, his exertion too much to bear with his wound. His partner ran to him, grabbing the handle at the back of his carrier, dragging him towards the relative safety of the cruiser’s backseat cage. The two of them loaded in the back, returning fire as the third sped his way out of the combat zone. Lindsay looked to the second cruiser, seeing the trooper there struggling to get up. She started to examine the area, looking for cover, or at least concealment from the view of the shooter inside the house. The fire had slackened, with the main threat removed from the front door, and Lindsay saw movement inside. She took the opportunity to jump in the front seat of the Tahoe and backed up next to the open cruiser door and reached across the console to open the passenger door, her pistol still gripped in her left hand on the wheel. The trooper looked up at her from the ground and grasped the side of the seat, pulling himself up into the vehicle. His eyes met hers as he glassily stared at her, stunned from the impact and the previous minute of madness. “Get me the hell out of here” He bellowed, wheezing as he spoke. She turned the wheel and punched the gas. The Tahoe churned it’s back wheels into the Virginia grass, fish-tailing as it scrambled off the lawn, the smell of cordite hanging in the air.


[FN] a four leaf clover Hi, I’m a four leaf clover. Over here! No, to the left. Your other left. Bingo. Here I am. It must’ve been difficult to find me, amongst these three leaf clovers, suffocating my beauty like a fire blanket. They spread rampant like weeds, don’t they? . I mean, okay, granted I am a clover as well, but I have 4 leaves. Count them if you don’t believe me. One, two, three, wait where’d my other- oh there you are, and four. It’s easy to get me confused with a three leafs, especially if you’re not looking hard enough. But you, you’ve found me. You are my knight that slayed the dragon, you can rescue me from this mundane ordinary tower and lift the curse of the malicious witch . I have been mistaken for a normal or cursed by the hatred. Sometimes I even worry if I actually have four leaves, being surrounded by the three leafs that I continue to keep count everyday. 4, 4, 4, 4 is the magic number. Why must my beautiful be bundled away beneath. I want to be seen! I am extraordinary and a treasure for men who seek, not men that lie. You must have an eye for greatness unlike these other men. Men who walked past me without a glance, who walked on top of me without an “Excuse me”, trampled me with their field games. The nerve! There was one who laid their hands upon me only to disgrace my unique beauty by making me his pillow. These three leaf clovers granted do make great pillows, but I however am a four leaf clover. I am to be held to the greatest honor, hoisted on a wall to be ogled. But instead they mistake me for one of THEM. How disgusting. How putrid. The clovers around will attempt to trick you and pretend that they too, have a fourth leaf but let me assure you, they are only facades. Somehow they’ve been managed to be picked before me, the real deal. But you, you see me as I really am. Yes lower your hands and pluck me out of this misery to leave behind all the three leaf clovers in the bed they have made. The clovers swayed in protest but I have graced this earth long enough. That bed is not for me, but I know you will give me a bed worthwhile . A bed for royalty as you can see I very much am. Wait, what are-, that hurts , OUCH. What are you doing? Are you some kind of savage? Who rips someone up by their stem, I have ROOTS you know. Oh, I’m fading, there won’t be left much of me once I’ve finally felt the honor i deserve. Why has my life been cruel? What will be my legacy but this fourth leaf of mine. Oh sweet leaf, you are special. But in the end, I am still only just a clover. I fed off the soil we shared together, yet I thought I was too good for your soil. And your bed is what has given me the nutrients to grow my fourth leaf. The fourth leaf that I owned and only I could own. What a wasted revelation as the young man has put me in his pocket now. I am no longer a four leaf clover , I am his.


I felt a nudge on my back. The voice, which I recognized as my grandma's, stated again in her thick Arkansas drawl, "Get up and go kill that ole blue goat." Rubbing sleep from my eye, I half-sat up, rolling to face my Grandma and raising myself on one elbow. She was dressed in a plain black dress, the same dress she'd been wearing since Grandpa died almost 6 months ago. My parents had sent me to stay with Grandma "on the farm" for the summer, to help her out while they went on a cruise. "The farm" as they called it was really just kind of hodge podge collection of animals my grandpa had put together since he retired from the phone company. He hadn't grown anything really- they didn't even really live in the country, they just had a really big yard and didn't have any neighbors nearby. But that didn't slow them down. They'd started with a couple of chickens Grandpa got from a friend and built from there- a couple of peacocks, a few rabbits that kept becoming a lot of rabbits, a miniature horse, a smattering of other animals that often didn't live very long, and finally, the goat. The goat never had a name. They just called him "the old blue goat". He wasn't blue of course, that'd be ridiculous. He was, however, a sort of deep gray with some darker spots. He sported a wispy beard that, combined with the subtle glint in his eyes, gave him an unsettling look of almost human intelligence. Over the years, the goat had become known for its bad attitude and general distaste for everybody and everything. All this ran through my mind as I struggled to grasp exactly why it was that Grandma wanted me to kill this animal. "Um....why?" I muttered, still half-asleep. My eyes still half-closed could make out the gun tucked under my grandma's arm, an old single barrel pump-action shotgun with my grandpa's name engraved in the stock. I knew the gun well, I'd seen grandpa use it snakes and raccoons many times as a child. Grandma didn't say anything, just shoved the shotgun into my hands and grunted. "It's loaded" she growled as she turned on her heel and left the room, her battered old house shoes flopping as she walked. **** Shading my eyes from the early morning sun, I found the goat standing by the barn, hovering near the feed trough, apparently waiting for me to feed the animals. It eyed me blankly, the gun weighing heavy on my shoulder. It was hot already that morning, and I could feel sweat beginning to bead up on my head as I approached. It continued to stare, absently chewing at something as I readied my gun. "Come on Goat. Don't look at me like that" I grumbled. The goat almost seemed to shrug in response, its eyes never leaving mine. I tried not to think about it, raising the butt of the gun to my shoulder. The sweat was pouring down my face now. I tried to block out the poor dumb goat, staring at me, with no idea what was going to happen to it. I shut my eyes tight, as I slowly squeezed the trigger. A metallic clink sounded as the hammer on the gun came down. There wasn't a shell in the chamber. I'd forgotten to pump it. My eyes flung open. The goat still stood there, stupid as ever, still absently chewing whatever was in its mouth. I dropped the gun. "Grandma can kill you her damn self" I muttered, turning on my heel and stalking back to the house. **** A few hours later, I was plopped on the couch in Grandma's living room, drinking lemonade and watching her ancient console TV. She didn't have cable, but I always enjoyed "The Price is Right". A fat woman from Wisconsin had just guessed $50 when asked the retail price of a can of coffee when my Grandma walked into the room with a shovel. "Need to go bury that goat" she growled. Grandma was a smoker, had been since she was 8 years old she claimed, and her voice showed it. "Put him in the wheelbarrow and carry him out in the field" she instructed. She thrust the shovel into my hand and turned to go when I stopped her. "Uh... Grandma...." She stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn. "What?" "I uh... when I tried to kill the goat, it uh... the gun didn't go off, and the goat ran away." Her head turned sharply, In her gnarled old profile I saw a look I'd never seen on my grandma, The corner of her mouth drooped. Her eyes were wide. Her nostrils flared. It was... fear. "The goat... lives?" "Yea... um... " I rubbed the back of my head. "I don't know. It just ran away. It probably won't come back. I mean, it looked really scared..." Grandma crossed the room in three preternaturally quick strides and lifted me from the couch by my shirt collar. "Did it see you?" she asked, her face contorted in a savage snarl. "Uh, I, Uh..." I stammered, trying to find my feet and keep my balance. "THE GUN!" she yelled, shaking me. "Did it see the gun?" "Yes!" I shouted, struggling to maintain balance. "Yes! It just stared at me and looked all stupid and harmless and I was scared and I didn't want to kill it and-" Grandma released me, and I crashed back to the couch, landing on my back. "Fool!" she shouted, going to the gun cabinet. "Grandma I'm sorry, I just..." I watched as she flung open the cabinet door. Remembering the abandoned shotgun, my heart sank. Now she was *really* gonna be mad. "Um, Grandma, I uh..." I edged for the door. "I think I left it on the porch, I'll-" "DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!" Grandma whirled around, stretching one bony hand toward me. "No no, it's uh... I think I leaned it up against... uh... " startled, I reached behind me to place a hand on the door handle, but just as I turned to leave, I was startled to see, standing on the porch, staring back in at me, was the goat. And Grandma saw it too. "GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!" she bellowed, dashing across the room. I was too surprised to move when she grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me away from it, slamming the curtain closed and turning the deadbolt. She threw her back against the door, bracing herself. Dumbfounded, I stood, staring at her. "WHERE IS THE GUN?" she demanded, gritting her dentures together. "I uh... left it outside when I ... " "YOU LEFT IT OUTSIDE? JUMPIN’ JESUS SON ARE YOU TRYIN’ TO GET US KILLED??" I didn't know what to say. I stood, flat footed, as my grandma hurried around the room, shutting windows and peeping out of blinds. She grabbed an iron fireplace poker and held it in both hands, her eyes darting this way and that. "Grandma, I'm sorry, I'll go get the gun. I'm sure it's still there." I started toward the door when she cut me off, wielding the poker like a club. "Boy, think" she snarled. "Did the goat see that gun? Did he know you came to kill him?" I shrugged. "Grandma, he's a goat. I don't think it had any idea what was going on." She slapped me across the face. "Idiot! Don't you know why I asked you to kill that damn goat? Don't you know what happened to your Grandpa?" My eyes widened. "M-mom said he had an accident..." Grandma smirked. "Oh it was an accident alright. That goat accidentally gutted him like a damn fish with its horns." My stomach knotted up. My Grandma glared at me. "And when a goat starts killin... it can't stop" Just then, the world exploded. The sounds of breaking glass filled my ears as a dark gray shape lunged through the living room window, showering us with bits of broken glass. I reflexively threw my arms up and covered my face, but still felt the sting of bits of glass lodging in my my exposed skin. "GET UPSTAIRS!" my grandma screamed as she turned to face the goat, who had climbed onto the couch, a menacing look in its eyes. Grandma whirled around and swung the fireplace poker at it, but the goat dodged deftly and leaped at her, issuing a threatening bleat as it did. I turned and ran for the stairs, taking them 3 at a time. Thinking quick, I pulled on the cord that released the ladder that gave access to the attic and scrambled up as quick as I could, pulling the ladder up behind me when I did. Once in the attic, I slammed the hatch shut behind me and tried hard to catch my breath. After long moments, I was calm enough to listen. All was quiet. I strained to listen, holding my ear to the trap door, hoping for any sign that grandma had prevailed. Finally, after what felt like a long time, I heard footsteps slowly mount the staircase. They came closer, trudging up the steps. Whispering a silent prayer, I risked cracking open the hatch. Peeking through, I cast about, hoping for some sign that Grandma had won. Then, suddenly, a gray head came into view. But not Grandma's. I tried to stifle a sharp intake of breath, but leaned too hard on the hatch, causing it to squeak. The goat's head turned sharply, immediately locking eyes with me through the crack. Too horrified to move, I stared back until it let out a plaintive "Naaahhhhhh". I slammed the hatch shut and backed away. The goat leaped up, slamming the hatch with its horns over and over again. Desperate, I began throwing boxes over the hatch till the goat could no longer move it. I heard its hooves clomping around on the floor for a couple of minutes, then they faded away, going back down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief as it left. The summer heat in the attic was sweltering, and after a few minutes I was drenched in sweat. I began to wonder how long I could hold out, when there was a sudden scraping noise. I started and looked around. Had I imagined it? Soon, I heard it again- A steady scraping, scratching sound. I cupped a hand around my ear to listen, trying to figure out where it was coming from, when suddenly little bits of dust began to filter down in front of me. It was coming from the roof. I barely had time to think when the hole burst open in the roof, the horrible leering face of the goat glaring down at me in a mad fury. It let loose a furious "Nyahhhhh" as it scrambled to widen the hole with its front hooves. Mad with terror, I flung the boxes away from the exit hatch, and I had just barely finished and dove out of the attic when the goat crashed through the hole in the ceiling and lowered its head to charge me. I hit the floor below with a jarring thud and heard a sickening crack in my ankle. I drug myself to my feet, knowing I was hurt too badly to run. I made my way to the stairs, thinking I could get myself to my grandma's car, but the goat was following close behind. I heard it crash down from the attic, bellowing a challenge as I limped my way down the steps. I glanced over my shoulder when I was halfway down and saw the goat rounding the corner, slowly, craning its neck at an almost unnatural angle to find me. A demonic furor burned in its eyes as it began to follow me. I turned back around, moving as fast as I could down the stairs, barely keeping myself up right. As I came into view of the now destroyed den, it was obvious the goat had destroyed the place. Blood was everywhere, and I knew my grandma must be dead. The sound of the goat's hooves slowly negotiating the stairs followed me, almost like it was too confident in the kill to hurry. I finally reached the bottom of the stairs and made for the front door, half hopping and half walking on my broken ankle. The goat continued calmly behind me, the steady clomp clomp of its hooves descending the stairs. I flung open the door and tried to get out and slam it shut behind me, but at the last second I lost my grip on the door handle and crashed to the ground, landing flat on my stomach. A satisfied bleat behind me told me the goat was about to close in for the kill. I knew this was the end, when out of nowhere, right in front of me was a battered old pair of house shoes. I looked up at my grandma, bloody and bruised, but clutching the shotgun in her gnarled old hands. "Goat, you're like a damn hemmorhoid- a pain in my ass that keeps comin' back" she said as she pumped the gun. I rolled to my side to see the goat rear back on its hind legs in fear, but it was too late. A resounding boom rang out, and the goat's blood spattered everybody and everything. My grandma spit blood and a couple of teeth at her feet, threw the gun over her shoulder and walked into the house, leaving me and the dead goat lying in the doorway. "Almost as bad as that God damn rooster a few years ago" she muttered as she slipped into the kitchen.


It was Christmas morning, 1992. A gentle snow was falling outside idyllically. Inside, my siblings and I were nearly buried in an avalanche of toys, boxes, and wrapping paper. Like every other eight year old, I hardly slept the night before. I was so excited for Santa to come. I woke up early, around 6:00 am, and commenced to rousing the rest of the family. Gift opening was stretched far past breakfast time. Dopamine filled my body like a soaked sponge as I tore through the paper. As the gift opening slowed, all of those factors caught up to the whole family. Mom got up to make a nice Christmas breakfast for everyone and I was just lost in a sea of Christmas remains. Then my dad opened his mouth and set off that life-changing chain of events. "Let's get all of this cleaned up before breakfast," he said. A totally reasonable request, looking back now. But eight year old me just flipped out. I don't recall the stream of protests exactly, but my already short-tempered father was growing more impatient with each one. I remember how it ended, though. "You are treating me like a piece of crap!" I cried. "That's because you *are* a piece of crap!" Dad yelled. My world stopped.      My heart sank. It was hard to breathe. To dad it was just the culmination of being tired, hungry, and frustrated. He didn't mean it. To me it was confirmation. Even at eight years old I knew the feeling of being a disappointment to my parents. I was bullied at school then came home to be picked on some more. In short, young me had suspected for a while that I was a worthless waste of life. Still, hearing those words from dad, confirming my confused young anxieties, was like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to think of ways to get out of this situation and undo everything that had happened in the last few minutes. I felt the pressure on my eyes as tears started forming. My best coping mechanism for bullying was to pretend that it didn't bother me. Just laugh it off; they don't matter in the long run anyway. But what the hell even *is* "the long run" when you are 8? By then most kids have spent half their lives in school. The ones getting bullied have spent half their lives living in fear. This was just my life. I couldn't laugh this off. I couldn't. I tried. My lips quivered and the tears started falling down my face. In a situation like this, it's fight or flight. *Run away!* my mind thought. And run I did. With hardly a thought I found myself in the basement of our house, hiding in a closet. I wanted to get away and go start a new life, but there were only two ways out: through the back door, into the snow wearing just my Christmas pajamas, or back through the house to get dressed for the weather and pack some necessities. I was stuck in that closet. In the dark. Out of sight, running away from my problems just like a real piece of crap. Once I ran out of tears and it was clear that no one was going to come console me, nor was my dad going to apologize and see if I was okay, I determined to just leave. *No one cares about you* I thought. Emerging from the closet and climbing the stairs, I had some doubts. Maybe the cat would miss me. Or maybe my sister would be lonely. Of course they wouldn't. I made life a living hell for everyone around me and deserved to leave and endure whatever fate lie ahead. I looked back, sniffed once more, and opened the back door. The fluffy snow stung my bare feet as it squished between my toes and consumed me up to my ankles. It was a surprising texture, though not interesting enough to overpower the pain. I nearly turned back. But something did hurt worse than being cold: facing my father and living with the fact that he hated me. I trudged on. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, warming my body enough to stop the shivering. Eventually even my feet were warm, though my toes (and my fingers too) were bright red. I passed so many houses as I wandered aimlessly down the street. Most were decorated with their trees and lights. I could see happy families through some of the windows, enjoying their new toys and undying love for one another. Why couldn't that be me? Why did I have to be out here in the cold without warm clothes, boots, gloves, or anything? Oh yeah, it was my fault. I made dad angry. I ran away. I ran away without getting anything but the pajamas on my body. I turned south, finally deciding where to go live on my own. Clouds began forming again and a breeze picked up. After a couple of miles my feet and hands were freezing again. My toes had gone from bright red to pale pink and my fingers were starting to change color too. Every step stung. The fluffy, squishy snow I started with now felt like meat cleavers with every step. I shivered uncontrollably as I approached my "secret" place. When I reached that big pine tree at the end of a path through the forest, I collapsed. I couldn't cry anymore. I couldn't walk anymore. I wouldn't be a burden anymore. Sirens blared in the distance. "Someone else is having a pretty bad Christmas too," I mumbled. Snow fluttered between the trees. The whining sound of police cars made my head spin. I was warm again. In fact, I was hot. The tips of my fingers and toes were purple now. Was I turning into a monster? My heart raced again. I felt so hot that I tore off my shirt and rolled in the snow. Everything was spinning. Everything was changing colors. My skin was burning. Memories flooded my mind. My pets. My friends. My family. My school. Sirens getting closer. "Your are a piece of crap" were dad's last words to his little boy. Now he wouldn't have to be bothered by me any more.