Dominion. Temptation. Gambling. Retreat. Snaked around Godwick’s neck, Greymalken licked at the air with a forked tongue emerging from a tiny snout of jagged teeth. Telepathically, the pseudodragon observed, “He’s resisting .”

Wearing a spectral iron crown, Severain Yim, a healthy, young Gaelwyn Man in his mid-thirties and cousin to the King of Nodderton, resentfully gnashed his rotting teeth. He was armored, wearing a green and black surcoat and a sheathed broadsword hung at his hip. A heavy metal key trembled in his ashen hand.

“He’s a formidable intellect. He understands what I am doing, what I want,” Godwick winced, responding to his familiar within the recesses of his own mind. Concentrating, Godwick Emberfoot, a Halfling Warlock enslaved to the Arch Fae Aurusel the Gardener, pressed two fingers to his temple to reassert his will over Severain Yim. “Sentries?” Greymalken squinted into the darkness. “None. Yet. ”

The magic of the iron crown had aged and withered Severain Yim; his hair had thinned and turned the color of bone to hang like a whispy veil from his scalp; his pallor had bleached a ghostly white; his skin was made dry and flakey as if his body were just inches from the grave; his eyes had recessed into bright yellow orbs. Godwick’s gaze moved from Severain’s hand to the gate’s keyhole. Hesitantly, Severain Yim inserted the key, twisted his wrist, and opened the gate. “Walk. En-enter the san-sanctuary,” Godwick stuttered, and at his command, Severain lumbered forward, his gait stiff, jerky, and apprehensive. Following from behind, Godwick gripped the wrought iron bars, closed, and locked the gate. Layered under his colorful patchwork cloak, Godwick wore ripped and stained tan leggings and a soiled tunic while a dirty yellow cotton cravat tie hung loosely around his neck. Together, Godwick and Severain ascended a small flight of stairs. “That’ll mind the guards.” “Until they find another key,” Greymalken reminded. Nested in the hood of Godwick’s cloak, the pseudodragon examined the shambling form of Severain Yim. “Why does your enchantment alter his appearance?” “We see the Crown of Madness as a manifestation of the energy I’m channeling from the Faewild ,” Godwick replied. “It’s as if I were dumping a continuous stream of water over his head.” Impressed, Greymalken sinisterly purred, “He is charmed, your dominion over him utter and complete.” “Yes,” Godwick agreed, grimacing, “but he contests me, and as time passes, my own resolve weakens.” Standing at a little less than half Severain’s height, Godwick appeared behind him and entered the castle’s sanctuary. It was the dead of night, and the sky was full of faint pinpricks of stars. They stood in a round, cobbled courtyard built high atop a bastion overlooking a green valley. Four colorful flags bearing the crests of Nodderton’s royal families hung from the walls as tapestries. Uncoincidentally, four limestone curule seats encircled a rowan tree, its branches bearing clusters of ripe red fruit; the tree grew from a brick surround in the sanctuary’s center. “A Gifting Tree!” Greymalken said avariciously, coiling on Godwick’s shoulder. “Gaed Hok told no lies!” “The dead cannot lie, Greymalken, only obfuscate,” Godwick affirmed, meandering the perimeter to regard the tree with wonder. Godwick rested his palm against its bark. It was cool and smooth. Looking mournfully overhead, Godwick frowned, and added, “Unlike the living.” Greymalken bounded from Godwick’s shoulder to the tree’s branches and scrabbled up its side. Godwick circled the trunk, his attention drawn to its fruit of knowledge. “S-Severain Yim?” “Yes,” Severain replied in the grainy, haunting voice of the possessed. His yellow eyes watched over the valley. “You w-will answer my questions hon-honestly, with no intention to de-deceive.” Severain tilted his head and ground his teeth. “Yes.” “I m-must know if more clippings from this t-tree have been t-taken,” Godwick asked. “None,” Severain sneered, “to my knowledge.” Godwick cringed, feeling Severain’s spite push against his mind. “Have you st-stored or p-planted its s-seeds?” “No.” “H-Have you preserved its fr-fruit, in any f-form?” “I have not.” Greymalken rested as a cat might in the boughs of the rowan tree to look proudly upon Godwick. “Behold: the last of the Gifting Trees found in the mortal realm. Aurusel will be pleased.” Approaching Severain, Godwick scowled and pressed his will into the man. “Have you con-consumed the tree’s f-fruit?” Severain’s hands clenched, his gaze descending to meet Godwick’s stature. “Yes.” “Hmm,” Greymalken delightedly cooed from his perch, and his reptilian eyes glared skeptically at the man. “The plot thickens.” Godwick extended his right hand at Severain, and the iron chain binding Godwick’s wrists - a representation of his subservience - collapsed, clanked, and jostled. “You will t-tell me for what purpose.” Severain sneered, “Its fruit imparted foreknowledge of the frosts for three years. It foreshadowed pestilence. It granted insight into the timing of harvests, ascertained soil fertility in my fiefdom, and helped determine the likelihood of crop failure.” “Well, color me surprised,” Greymalken crooned, smiling as much as a dragon can smile, stalking the limbs over their heads. He arched his tail where at its end rested a scorpion-like stinger. Dubious, Godwick paused, then communicated directly with Greymalken. “If he speaks truthfully, he’s used the knowledge to instruct his farmers. He staved off losses; thwarted famine and death. This lord aided his people.” Greymalken rolled his head, issued a low growl, and exposed his teeth. “A selfless Man who acts on the behest of a greater good ? Godwick, there’s no such thing! He lies - destroy him!” Severain Yim sneered contemptuously at Godwick, sending a sharp, intense pain coursing across Godwick’s skull. Reflexively, Godwick reeled, braced against the tree, and pressed the butt of his palm against his eye as if to push the ache out of his head. “Godwick?” “I can’t tell if he’s lying,” Godwick mentally replied, struggling to subdue Severain’s consciousness. “What would it matter?” Greymalken retorted. “I’m hesitant to destroy the tree. Without his foresight, hundreds more may be lost to famine.” “You mean hundreds who would otherwise die are kept alive,” Greymalken argued. Godwick peered over his shoulder to the lush green valley beyond the ramparts of the sanctuary. “You refer to natural balances, cosmic harmonies, but those are divine questions. Suffering is a mortal experience. Severain Yim’s intentions-” “We are no moral arbiter for Man!” Greymalken seethed, glaring at Godwick from the branches. “Who are we to question Aurusel’s designs? Or decide what is right or wrong? We are to obliterate this tree, that is our sole commission - Godwick, what are you doing?” Climbing the base of the rowan tree, Godwick scoffed, “What do beings like Aurusel know of suffering ?” “Godwick!” Greymalken exclaimed in alarm. “If this t-truly is the last Gifting Tree in the mor-mortal realm,” Godwick whispered, his eyes honing on a berry cluster, “it would offer p-perfect insight. I would kn-know Severain’s truth. I would kn-know the lesser of the two evils-” His body compliantly rigid, Severain Yim’s ghostly face sneered in pleasure. “Do not be tempted ,” Greymalken shouted in Godwick’s mind. “-I’d know … what hap-happens at the end ,” Godwick breathed, seizing a juicy red rowanberry to bring it to his mouth. Greymalken arched his back, splayed his wings, clawed at the air, and fiercely hissed, “Fool!” The fruit tasted bitter on Godwick’s tongue, and as he consumed it, his pupils dilated, and he could barely breathe. Time crawled. His ears were filled with the steady thrum of his slowing heartbeat. Far above him, the light from the stars intensified as the spiral arm of the galaxy came into sharper focus. In the distance, Godwick could see fine details of the valley. He saw every rock and tree and field, and he knew of every worm in the soil, every wolf in the forest, every fish in the river, and the gentle flap of every butterfly. Godwick could see clearly, more perfectly than any mortal, shattering his earthly concentration. Severain Yim pitched to the sanctuary’s stone floor. Godwick’s Crown of Madness had disappeared, and its enchantments were dismissed, revealing Severain’s strong, youthful self. His skin was taut - young - his beard brown and healthy again, and his haunted expression was replaced with grim, fervent hate. “Godwick!” Greymalken pleaded. Perceiving the entirety of creation, Godwick gasped. His eyelids twitched and spasmed, and his hands shook, blindly reaching out to grasp at the world around him. Greymalken’s voice sounded echoey and muffled by Godwick’s own heartbeat pounding in his mind. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. I ask of Severain Yim. Refocusing his addled mind, Godwick saw a translucent image of Severain sitting contemplatively on one of the curules, his head cradled in his hands and addressing three tonsured scribes who wrote copious notes on rolls of parchment. Thereafter Godwick saw those scribes directing groups of workers. He saw shadows of hunched-over laborers tending crops, bundling and basketing vegetables, pitching hay, and working the land. He saw acres of snow made green by the return of spring. Godwick saw villages - entire families - living, thriving, healthy and happy. “Godwick!” Greymalken exclaimed. Beneath him, Severain Yim stumbled angrily to his feet. Gripping the hilt of his broadsword, Severain withdrew his blade from his scabbard with a steely ring. And physically impaired, Godwick remained immobilized at the foot of the tree, his eyes staring into a void. Armed, Severain growled, advancing menacingly on Godwick to gut him alive as a flutter of red bat-like wings burst from the tree. Greymalken clawed at Severain’s eyes, and his wings flapped wildly around Severain’s head. He stepped back to regain his balance and to address the dragon. Godwick’s pupils, consuming nearly all of his irises, beheld the whole of the universe. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. What becomes of Severain Yim’s intervention? Godwick saw images of sprawling villages and cooking fires. He saw the population grow. The translucent shadows of people trading, building new homes, erecting stables and churches, blacksmith forges, banquet halls and inns, markets, banks, and centers of commerce. Then he saw Severain Yim’s fiefdom drastically out-compete its neighbors. Godwick watched as Man constructed terrible machines to roll across the countryside. He saw black smoke rising from the horizon, an invading army, murderous pikes thrust through the bodies of helpless women and children. And he saw a darker, more ominous shadow stab Severain Yim with a dagger, whereas the fruits of the Gifting Tree fell into the hands of a new leader, vile and corrupt. “Godwick!” Greymalken’s cry sounded far, far away. Severain Yim sent his blade high and wide, narrowly missing the dragon in counter-flight. Circling to attack, Greymalken soared above Severain, spun upside down, and then dove to land behind his shoulder. Greymalken plunged his tail’s stinger only for it to be deflected by Severain’s chainmail. Lowering his weapon, Severain threw back his arm to bat Greymalken away, and the drake crumpled at the impact and was thrown to the ground. Dazed, Greymalken stirred to peel away from a crashing strike delivered by Severain’s sword. Hobbled by an injury suffered to his right front leg, Greymalken scrambled, his nails scraping frantically across the stone, then leaped into the air. Straining to beat his wings hard enough to gain lift, the dragon caught a draft to propel himself upward and out of Severain’s reach, sailing wide around Severain’s backside. “Godwick!” Greymalken screamed, “Wake up! Godwick!” Severain shouted a fierce cry as he turned around, taking his sword two-handed in a high arc to meet Greymalken’s flight path. Dodging Severain’s erratic swing, the dragon darted between Severain’s legs to soar unopposed into the space behind him. Leaning against the tree, Godwick’s unwavering eyes bore witness to everything. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. “Behold,” Godwick recalled Greymalken say, “the last of the Gifting Trees found in the mortal realm …” Godwick slowly raised his chained hands before him. He felt a cold sweat.

Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. Perfect knowledge, Godwick heard himself say. And then selfishness overtook him. How am I to be freed from Aurusel’s thrall? Pushing past the dragon to the center of the sanctuary, marching straight to the rowan tree, Severain Yim raised his blade to drive its tip into Godwick’s defenseless body. Dipping out of the sky, Greymalken raked the back of Severain’s neck in a surprise attack. A trail of crimson splattered across the cobblestones, and Severain was knocked off-balance to careen and collapse, sending his sword sliding across the stone. Godwick saw a shadow of himself standing in the Faewild surrounded by a kaleidoscope of soft, multicolored light. Perpetually under a twilight sky, the leafy forests of the Faewild were vibrant and shimmered. Tall green and purple grasses rolled from a gentle wind. But Godwick was afraid. This was more than a land of fairies and elves, and supernatural beauty. The Faewild was home to some of the most ferocious, terrifying things. Creatures of such immense presence and power that they were long denied access to the mortal world. Thorny vines ripped from the earth and coiled at his feet to tear at his flesh, forcing Godwick to his knees. Rising above the forest, a towering form appeared soaring a hundred feet above him, dwarfing the treeline. It had the torso of a man but the hind legs and hooves of an elk. It was a black shadow with simmering amber eyes, pointed ears, elongated arms and claws, and a head crested with twisted antelope-like horns. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. It was Aurusel the Gardener. Godwick cried out, cowered, and threw his manacled hands over his head. “You dare ?” it hissed in a malevolent, corrosive voice dripping with poison. Aurusel’s enormous hand arrested Godwick by his cloak. Godwick’s heart raced. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. Wide-eyed and panicked, Godwick spun his body about in the real world to claw at the sanctuary’s floor, to pull himself away. Meanwhile, Severain Yim, wincing upon reaching behind his neck to touch his wound, cursed the meddlesome dragon, and arose to his feet to reacquire his weapon. “Godwick! Help!” Greymalken shouted, banking along the curves of the sanctuary’s walls. Shocked, terrified, incapable of wresting himself free of the fruit’s influence, Godwick could only watch as Aurusel the Gardener planted Godwick’s body into the soil. Aurusel’s monstrous voice growled from inside his mind, and its burning amber eyes went to the horizon. “As you are gifted with truesight and beyond my reach in the mortal realm, you shall bear witness to your answer - the only true means of escaping my charge.” Godwick screamed in horror, drowning in a sea of agony with waves of pain crashing into him, as black claws the size of a house wrenched the soil to rend his flesh and till him back into the earth. And briefly, Godwick’s heart stopped. “You will destroy the Gifting Tree, maggot,” Aurusel demanded. Its shadowy, horned gaze turned menacingly from the horizon to Godwick’s composted, rotting body, and concluded, “So neither you nor Man may eat more of its fruit.” Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. Godwick gasped and started as his consciousness returned. And as Severain lunged to pierce the prone halfling with his blade, Greymalken slammed into the side of Severain’s head, dragging his talons and raking Severain’s right ear to shreds. Marred, Severain instinctively dropped his weapon again, snarled, and brought his hand up to cover the side of his head, gushing with blood. “Godwick!” Greymalken shouted from inside Godwick’s mind, racing on a wind current up the side of a royal tapestry. He banked and turned his wings ninety degrees on his axis. Wobbling to his feet, still traumatized - scared out of his mind - Godwick stumbled and wearily opened his arms wide, as far as his manacled wrists would allow. He tilted his head back in surrender, to draw upon the immeasurable energy of the Faewild - a power granted to him, a servant , by Aurusel, his master . “No!” Severain Yim cried, diving at the tree to grasp whatever he could of its living berries. Summoned by Godwick’s rageful howl, a blue-flamed fireball erupted from the base of the rowan tree to send an explosion of cobblestone, fire, and crackling embers into the night sky. Screaming, Severain’s body, burned within the maelstrom of the fiery inferno, was thrown by its concussive force, launched over the ramparts, and flailed uselessly in the sky above his fiefdom to plummet a hundred feet to the rocks below. Godwick’s body was kicked into the wall of the sanctuary, where he weakly fell forward to land on his belly. Blackened and charred, the Gifting Tree was consumed in the blast of swirling flame. Its ashes took to the air to drift over the fertile valley. Circling above the sanctuary at a safe distance, Greymalken angled his snout and tucked his wings, sending himself sailing through the remnants of the fireball to land by Godwick’s side. “Godwick! You idiot halfling-” “I-I,” Godwick stuttered, his voice quavering, and he dragged himself forward across the stone. His face and neck were matted with blood and severely burned. Godwick trembled, and his hands clenched involuntarily from the pain, and he gasped, glaring at Greymalken, “I ga-gambled … I l-lost.” Greymalken crawled on all fours and wormed himself into Godwick’s arms. “Damnit, Godwick - you need a cleric, a healer - I will not let you die! Concentrate! Take us to Mosshollow, on the border of the Aevalorn Parishes. Focus, do it now!” Godwick teetered between life and death. Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump. Grasping at his cowl with his shaking, blistered hands, Godwick issued a sickly, wet gasp as he threw it up over his head, causing a flaming circle to envelope them both, and together, they fell through a hole punched into the fabric of the universe.


George Hartley stared down at the rows of assorted parents, parent-governors, teachers and siblings and his stomach tightened like a boiled crustacean. He wiped a moist hand on his innkeeper’s shirt and disguised a dry cough with an acrid smelling palm. Mr Brewer queued George from the wings and directed him to take centre stage. George swallowed and stepped forward to hit his mark underneath sizzling spotlights. Two costumed classmates trudged towards him; one with a false beard and the other bearing a pillow stuffed inside her voluminous gown. They were weary travellers who’d journeyed from afar and needed a bed for the night. Every eye in the house turned to look at George and waited for the answer to their question. “Have you any room at the inn?” Hundreds of eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver his line. This was his moment to be remembered forever or witness his lofty dreams torn asunder.

# “Just remember to project your voice, George, and don’t bump into the furniture.” “But what if I forget my lines, sir?” “Don’t be concerned, lad,” said Mr Brewer, offering the benefit of his experience. “Just relax and enjoy the show,” he added, with a gleam in his beady eye. “Relish your moment of stagecraft and enjoy taking part in a rich thespian tradition.” “It’s not Shakespeare,” replied George, breaking the tension and bringing a smile to everyone’s face. “It’s only a school Nativity for goodness’ sake.” # George never failed to be chosen for the rugby team every week. It was an irksome pastime that held little interest for him, however because of his height and weight, he was destined to be battered, bruised and splattered in mud regularly. The school mapped the Winter term out in terms of after school events. Rugby team training sessions and match fixtures occupied three evenings every week and most weekends. George needed an out, and the school’s drama society offered a credible escape. Mr Brewer had commandeered Tuesday afternoons and evenings to audition hopeful young thespians and rehearse the play in time for Christmas. It wasn’t that George was particularly interested in acting, but he was less interested contact sport and so he volunteered his services. # George was known as the school clown and possessed or exuded a confident charm, accompanied by a mischievous twinkle and an impish smile. He always had a smart-lipped response in class and could often tie his teachers in knots with his mercurial patter and convoluted logic. There was no stopping George, and his formidable personality marched ahead of him. Years later, George wondered if there was a conspiracy amongst the teaching staff to include him in the Christmas performance in order to deflate his engorged ego. Was it a test of his character or an attempt to bring him down a peg or two in front of a critical audience of parents, siblings and elderly relatives? Never one to submit and yield, he considered it a challenge to defy Mr Brewer and the collected might of the school authorities. # In many ways, George enjoyed the attention, but now as he stood on stage, it was different to what he’d imagined, scary even. Shuffling about on the stage in the senior hall and delivering lines was one thing, but doing it with confidence in front of an audience was another. In George’s mind, nothing would prepare him for a live event. The dress rehearsal imitated the actual event, but without an audience, it still wasn’t the same.

# The costume his mother had made suited his robust form and complemented his ungainly physique. He was a big for a lad of his age and he enjoyed his mother’s plentiful and honest fare. She brought him up on a regular diet of wholesome pies and homemade puddings.  “A big lad who has difficulties,” is what the P.E. teacher had scribbled on his end of term report. George was en route to spend every Saturday of his entire school career clashing heads and crunching shoulders with overweight prop forwards from every school in the district. George had the sense to consider an exit strategy before allowing his ears to be mauled into cauliflower-like stumps of mangled flesh and reducing his nose to a battered mound of dribbling ruddy-coloured offal.

Mr Brewer’s acting workshops gave him a few night’s relief from endless scrummaging, rucking and mauling. Apart from the obvious benefits to his health and looks, he discovered additional social advantages. There were girls involved with the production, and these rare beings added a new and intriguing dimension. Girls were an unknown quantity for lads of George’s age. They were mysterious and other worldly by reputation. However, the ones he’d encountered so far loved his cheeky one-liners and amusing anecdotes. George knew he could get to like girls too, but he wasn’t sure how to introduce himself; drama club offered a way. # His rugby coach, Mr Worth, didn’t express an opinion about George’s newfound passion. However, rumour has it he’d bet money on him quitting before the end of the winter term. Mr Worth had a firm opinion that George was ‘scrum-fodder’ and good for little else but blocking and tackling hefty opponents on the rugby field. The coach said he wouldn’t last the course and expressed his surprise when George got the audition for one of the play’s more memorable roles. He refused to congratulate the lad on his success and, even during the final rehearsals, considered it a waste of everybody’s time. # “You’re the innkeeper?” said George’s father.

“I told you he’d be the next Hugh Grant, love,” said his mother on hearing the news. “That’s not much of a part, though, is it?” “I wanted to be Joseph, Dad, but---” “Every star has to start somewhere, George---” “Blink and we’ll miss him, more like.” “Leave the lad alone, at least he’s trying.” “He should have stuck to scoring tries on the rugby pitch.” “Don’t listen to him, love,” she smiled. “What does he know?” # George auditioned for several parts and accepted the innkeeper role after struggling with the lines for other characters. Mr Brewer encouraged him to stick it out and promised better parts in forthcoming productions. “It’s all experience, George, and no amount of money can buy time on the boards.” # The dress rehearsal went well for George and he made friends with all the cast, keeping them entertained and distracted from their anxieties about the show. Mr Brewer complimented George on his performance and was overjoyed when his mother volunteered to make all the costumes. The finished garments weren’t quite what Mr Brewer had expected, but with a week to go before the big night, he had little choice in the matter and focussed on blocking the scenes and crafting engaging and credible performances. # The technical performance went according to plan and George was confidant and looked forward to an exciting first night. His parents had bought tickets for themselves and insisted on bringing all George’s aunt, uncles, nieces and nephews. There was a second row filled with neighbours, work colleagues. Various members of their local church attended because of its seasonal appeal and subject matter. George’s mother held her breath, waiting for her son’s appearance, and knew that he would outshine his peers.

# George’s moment was towards the end of the first half of the Nativity when Mary and Joseph reached Bethlehem. They had escaped the Herod’s legions and needed a place to stay for the night. Joseph knocked on the door of George’s Inn and he opened the door and listened to their request. George had worked himself into a bit of a state by the time his moment arrived and he stared at Joseph with contempt. He’d rather fancied the romantic lead himself, having watched Mary from afar, and he thought he’d be better in the role. Joseph cleared his throat and repeated his request to the innkeeper. George took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we’re full,” he said. “Why don’t you try down the road, mate.” Mary raised her cowed head, smiling at George’s smirking face.

Joseph stuttered a feeble, “Oh, well we could try to…” Mr Brewer grabbed his headphones and hissed the correct line at George as the audience gasped and exchanged hushed whispers. “We’ve got space in the barn if you’re interested?” said George. “That’ll be fine for us,” said Joseph, and turned to help his wife. “The only thing is,” said George as they stopped and stared at him. “It’ll cost you extra, being as it’s Christmas and all.” Mary bit her lip, and Joseph’s jaw sagged as the audience disguise their amusement. George raised his inverted open hands as if to say, “What can I do?”

He shrugged his shoulders and told them low and straight. “That’s business.” Everyone in the hall howled with laughter as George bowed and invited the couple into his humble corrugated cardboard stable. The welcoming structure had a balsa crib full of straw nestled below a glue-and-glitter painted star. The End


A nanny job for the biggest name in the comic book industry. When I saw the want ad, I jumped at the chance. It shocked me to find out Drew Kirby had a child at all. Nobody talked about it, I saw no pictures, and heard absolutely nothing about there even being a woman in his life. Perpetually single, many people assumed he was gay. Of course, if you looked at his comics, you'd notice his fixation with female anatomy. Maybe he was bi? I'm a modern girl, so I made no judgments. Everything, the movies, the comics, the TV shows, have been amazing , especially Squirrel Woman and Vanessa Vixx. Notorious for his aloofness, the man lived in a gated mansion surrounded by tall brick ivy enveloped walls that gave no hints about the building's ownership, save one little bug eyed sculpture of Benny the Rat above the speaker box. I had to talk to a camera before I could even get inside the wrought iron barrier. Mr. Kirby's abode resembled the Lucasfilm Ranch, turreted white Victorian with a gnarled old tree out front. Again, no hint about what lay inside, except maybe the rather cliche fountain of Atlas holding up the world. For a rich man, the place had a light staff. Mr. Kirby himself answered the door, dressed in casual but expensive clothing. Although in his thirties, he looked much older, his face craggy, bags under the eyes, still handsome though. Hawk-like features, dark glittering eyes, stylish black hair...As an artist, not very well built, but he'd been known to take daily morning jogs.

I wondered, was he single? I introduced myself, and he let me in. Only then did I see trappings of the Kerpow Comics universe, statues of the spandex clad action woman with the bushy tail, feathery Owl Woman, Jack Rager with his trademark sledgehammer, displays of action figures, movie costumes, masks, framed celebrity photos... "Is this my new nanny?" asked an elfin voice. I turned and saw a diminutive figure draped in a large hat, veil and long flowing dress. Even the hands had been concealed in opera gloves. "This is my daughter Amanda. Due to her skin condition and light sensitivity, we always have to keep her covered up, so you're not going to be able to look at her. Hope this won't be a problem for you." Kids with problems like that just pulled on my heart strings. "Oh no, sir. I've read about things like this. I understand completely." I knelt in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Oh you poor thing!" The girl flinched. "Please no touching," the man blurted.

"The nerve endings..." "I'm very sorry, sir. I would never-" "It's fine." Kirby's expression seemed to indicate he may have overstated things. "And please, call me Drew." I straightened. "Is there...anything else I need to know?" "She's very active. ADDHD. Try to keep up with her." "Oh," I breathed. "Looks like I got my work cut out for me...what happened to her mother, if you don't mind me asking? I've never heard anything-" "Long story. I'd rather not go into it." He left it at that. It wouldn't do me any good, financially, to pry, so I let it go, hoping maybe sometime I'd run into the woman, or find out in the course of conversation. Mr. Kirby outlined what he wanted me to do, and teach. I'd cook for the child, clean, teach school subjects, answer any questions she'd asked, no matter how random, personal or unimportant they seemed. Again, no touching. Every day I was to leave her alone in her bedroom for about an hour so she could take off her coverings and rest. He instructed me to knock before entering, wait for her to open the door, never open it myself. I was to go to the guest room at eight P.M. and stay there, I would call him on the cel if I wanted to go out or visit the kitchen. I could order delivery if I wanted, he'd bring it to the room for me. Weird instructions, but I just chalked it up to eccentric genius and a developmentally challenged daughter, doing whatever he said to do. He was , at least, prepared to give me paychecks bigger than any I'd ever received before. I felt sorry for the kid. She didn't seem to know anything...about anything.  A lot of her questions didn't make sense, so detached from the world she'd become. I had to explain why it's unsafe to drink poison, why you couldn't fly from the roof if you wore a cape, and a lot of other basic things.

I cooked lunches for her, but never dinner. Amanda wasn't just in that room for an hour, she was gone for the rest of the day, I assume because she was tired. After a couple times of being stood up like this, I gave up and went to my room. My employer never complained, in fact, I got room service. Drew apparently knew how to cook. Although he spent most his time in his home office making calls, or in the art studio, he'd bring meals to my room, and not bad ones either. I complimented him profusely, but he only looked embarrassed. I never got any signals from him being interested in me, but I didn't have to order or go out once. Not only that, he gave me a laptop to keep me busy during my down time. I started with the intention of teaching the child according to the formula of course departments, math, science, English and so forth, but I soon figured out that, according to her limited attention span, I had better chances of making a lesson stick if I sort of worked the lessons around Amanda's natural inquisitiveness, answering her questions in return for some math challenges, getting her a diary where I could see her English proficiency and suggest improvements, and so forth. I tried to get to know her better, but certain lines of questioning met resistance, such as how old she was, when her birthday was, or how her family life was going. "Everybody has a mother..." I told her about mine, hoping to get her to open up. "What's yours like?" I thought I saw a smile behind the veil. "Oh, she's nice. Awfully busy, though." "Does she...work?" Amanda nodded. "She's with the police department." Although it disappointed me to know Drew wasn't single, I still felt excited to know something about the mother. "Police officers do have a lot of work...how come she doesn't come here?" "She does. You just haven't seen her." "Does she...show up around eight?" "Yeah." "Why can't I see her?" "I'm not supposed to tell you." "I won't tell anyone. I promise." She sighed. "Daddy doesn't like it. He says the house will become a freak show and people won't leave us alone." "I won't let that happen, Amanda.

I like you.

Why does he think your mother is a freak? She works for the police department, right? She can't be that weird. " I wondered if the mother did something bad and got on the news. "Is she...in jail?" "No. Not anymore." "Oh. I'm sorry. You should let your mother know that it's okay. I don't judge." "Even if she's Vanessa Vixx?" I smirked. " Especially if she's Vanessa Vixx.  She is my favorite cartoon character." "Good.

She's my favorite mom. " I suppressed a giggle. Vanessa was a police officer, and a did vaguely recall a comic book in which the character got framed for a crime and had to fight her way out of a jail. "Now Amanda, we both know that cartoons are just make believe. In real life, police don't drive around with badgers in their cars." "Mommy does."  She sounded disappointed that I didn't believe her. I told her a story about a friend of mine that lost her mother due to a divorce, and how irresponsible the mother had been. "Wow!" the child actually seemed amazed by my story. "I'm glad my mommy's not like that! My mommy loves me!" At this point, I wasn't sure what to believe, didn't know if the kid's mother was actually in the police department, or if that was all part of her imagination. "I'm sure she does...you know, people have all kinds of jobs.  Sometimes people lose their jobs because of different things, and don't have money, or even a home. And that's okay. It's not their fault...did your mother lose her job?" "No. I just told you, she's a police officer with the ATPD." I groaned. "I've never seen an Animal Town Police officer in real life." "I can ask daddy if he'll let you see her. I'm sure he will, since you're such a big fan." I continued punching holes in her story. "How does your daddy... see Vanessa?" "She crossed over." "How?" "I dunno." That's about all I got from her about the subject. I gave up and taught her math (the kid excessively right brained), some history and social studies. That evening, I walked her to her room for her nightly alone time, as usual, but once she stepped inside, I noticed she hadn't closed the door all the way. I don't think she knew she'd made the mistake. Holding my breath and standing perfectly still as to not be noticed, I peered through the crack. My jaw dropped at what I saw. Amanda's outfit turned out to be an elaborate disguise. This whole time, the child had been wearing a mask under that veil, and when she pulled it away, I saw the unnaturally bright, colorful visage of a Saturday morning cartoon character. Button nose, baby doe eyes, candy apple red lips, large mouse-like ears. The hair I'd seen had also been a wig. Her `real hair' apparently was animated, red and pigtailed. I guess I must have gasped or something, for the girl suddenly turned to face me. I yelped, forced myself to look calm and friendly. "I'm sorry. I..." "It's okay. You would have found out sooner or later." "I have so many questions. How are you real? Where did you come from?" She looked bashful.

"My daddy loves my mommy very much." I stared. "What?" "My mom really is Vanessa Vixx. And daddy..." Her skin darkened, took on a more realistic Caucasian hue. Somehow she could concentrate and make herself non-animated. "How?" Amanda shrugged. "I'm very special. A stork delivered me to the house." I furrowed my brow, not believing a word I was hearing, or what I saw.

"Your...dad...and a lady from a comic book...they had you?" The girl nodded vigorously. "Don't tell, okay?"


I’ve been in New York city for six years and in that time so much has changed. After spending nine years in LA with Sandra, my ex-wife, we escaped the West Coast. We bought a lavish penthouse in the heart of Manhattan with views that cost us multiple millions. We hired an assistant named Claire who moved into one of the bedrooms and handled the day to day cleaning, ran errands, managed our bills, did our shopping. I still remember meeting her for the first time and wondered how in the hell such a beautiful woman would coexist in this home with us without me fucking her. Sandra seemed distracted with work and Claire and I carried on an affair in secret. When Sandra was home on a business call in the office or when she was down at the pool, Claire and I would make love or sit and talk like we were a couple. It became clear very quickly that my love for Sandra had been redirected at Claire. And to think that we had talked about having children before moving to New York.

Sandra’s face was pure shock when she came home early from a business trip. She was holding the mail and must have been there for several seconds before I noticed. My cock was still inside of Claire on the sofa. And while at first Sandra tried to make a big deal that I had been fucking Claire, it was soon revealed that she had been sleeping with her boss. It was a rather quick divroce.

Claire was passionate about art. She would often catch me watching her from the doorway in the studio we created out of one of the spare bedrooms. She painted landscapes and portraits. I was her model more than once. How marvelous she was at everything. Its a shame she had to die so young.

I remember first reading about a spreading virus that originated somewhere in Europe. It was hitting all the places I had been on vacation in my previous life with Sandra. It was hard to imagine all those wonderful places that had once been so lively now filled with death. Eventually it would hit New York and spread across the nation killing millions. When Claire developed symptoms she fell to the illness quickly and when she died I wanted to die too. I would eventually find out that I had it too but didn’t develop any symptoms. It was like a sick joke.

I’ve gotten used to the way the city looks now. The buildings towering like trees made of concrete and glass. Central park is a green symbol of culture and progress. What economy is left is deeply wounded and day by day like a starving animal it crawls across the landscape searching for sustenance. But all it finds is shuttered businesses and empty streets. The living are dead things that blink and moan from inside of their homes waiting for something new to happen. But nothing ever does. Life just goes on and people are always dying. They have always been dying, but now they die so often it's just rolling digits like numbers on a stopwatch.

After Claire died I didn’t sleep. I still don’t sleep. I get by. I work for a very successful firm that despite the chaos is “killing it” in the global marketplace. But it doesn't really mean anything to me anymore. But every morning my alarm  goes off to remind me that it matters to someone. The glow of the laptop illuminates my tired face and my fingers type away like nothing was amiss.

It's three in the afternoon on a Thursday when the power shuts off. The sudden quiet causes me to rise to my feet and I look out across Manhattan to see if anything else has changed. Ten seconds later the power clicks back on and it must be the building’s generators because I can see that the street lights are out. From this high up it feels like nothing bad could happen. The world is sort of distorted in its reality. If you choose not to look too closely everything seems normal. It's when my eyes begin to pry that I notice the streets are empty. A few cars drive up the long avenues unencumbered by traffic of any kind. The only thing in the skies are migrating birds.

I receive emails from others on my team that they’ve lost power. Many of them are spread out across New York. Someone an hour later notifies us that the problem may be a part of a larger issue. A terrorist attack on the grid. I recieve an email from someone from the executive team:

Scott.. Grid is down. Maybe this is when it finally happens... The last few hours of sanity.

 I shut the laptop and wonder what I have left to drink. I have been good at keeping the stress away with rigorous workouts in my gym, supplemented by yoga and meditation. But sometimes a strong drink works just as well.

Whiskey coke, an old habit from my London days. I turn on the TV, a huge 80” flat screen that envelops me. A woman news anchor, middle aged and attractive confirms the attack on the power grid. The source seems to be an anti establishment group that has been growing in power over the last several months. I turn the TV off.

Back at my computer I have an email from the building manager informing me of the power outage. The generators have been activated and if there are any disruptions to the generator I’ll be notified. Impulsively I walk to the elevator in the center of the penthouse and push the button. The doors open revealing the white marble interior and nothing more. I step inside but as the doors begin to close I stop them and cross the threshold back into the penthouse.

I spend the next several hours getting drunk. When I wake up I”m laying on the living room floor and the lights are off and it's so dark I can’t see anything. When I finally make it to a window I see nothing but stars and the eerie figures of skyscrapers standing silent in a forest of black. Stars, I can see stars like i’ve never seen before. When I enter my bedroom to look for a flashlight I notice what looks like fire. And it is. Fire all over the streets, buildings burning. I watch it for a long time and can barely make out small figures in the dark on the street. There's hundreds of them like tiny insects devouring the city.

The elevator doesn’t work and so I take the stairs. I forget to grab the flashlight and so use the one on my phone to light the way. I suddenly feel claustrophobic and need to get out. It's twenty five minutes later that I emerge into the lobby and there is a man standing at the concierge desk with a flashlight. He hits me with the beam and I cover my eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks.

“Where is everyone?”

“Who?”

“Anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean where is everyone?”

“No one lives here anymore. You’re the only tenant.”

At that moment I hear a loud crash and someone has thrown a brick at one of the windows but the brick just bounces off.

“I don’t think they can get through that glass. It's bulletproof,” the concierge says.

I watch as a mob assembles outside with torches and rocks. They are battering at the glass and pulling at the locked door. The concierge looks terrified, he shines the light into the masked faces.

I don’t say anything and slowly back up to the stairwell and begin the ascent to my penthouse. In the stairwell it's so dark and complete that no matter what direction I look it all looks the same. I’m swimming in a black pool of my own reality. It's only when the glow of my phone again lights the way that I can see where I'm going. I feel like a deep sea diver in a cave, a tether around my waist so that I can find my way back to the surface, or so that those up top can pull my corpse up after I've lost consciousness. After a few levels my phone dies and I realize I didn’t charge it.

I go swimming in the great abyss. The cement cave where I can’t see anything and the imaginary tether isn’t actually there. And I know that I’ll eventually starve or be pulled to pieces by a mob.


Ray Baker is dressed in a blue button up shirt, a flak jacket snugly pressed against his body, black pants and matching boots. In his left hand is a large empty canvas bag and on his right hip is a glock secure in its holster. From under a black cap his eyes scan the severely outdated bank. He moves forward like he belongs there; but he doesn’t. He is firmly convinced that he only needs to look the part in order to be granted access to anywhere he desires. In his mind he is invisible so long as no one knows his true motives.

For the past five years Ray has been working at a company called S&K, one of the largest local distributors of sundries and wine supplies in the county. He’s a delivery driver and while out on his “beat” he’s developed an obsession with being in places he isn’t supposed to be. He found that all it took was showing up with a box and a truck and he would be granted access to any number of businesses and organizations without having to show his credentials. He developed a habit of bringing a package around with him on his days off so that when the mood struck him he could walk into an employee entrance or the loading dock of any number of businesses just to get the rush of being where he shouldn’t. He sometimes felt like a ghost who was able to peer into the “behind the scenes” of so many restaurant kitchens, storage rooms of large corporations, warehouses full of products being prepared to ship, and supply closets in hospitals and the back rooms of stores at the mall. He would wander long hallways with no one in them and patrol work rooms with people at their computers clacking away at their keyboards. Sometimes someone would look up and see that he was a courier by the box in his hands and go back to their tasks.

“We can’t eat there,” he told his girlfriend Mary one night when they were cruising downtown looking for a place to stop for dinner. “ Why not? I’ve heard good things, ” she said.

“If you saw the kitchen you would know why. Trust me, we ain’t eatin there.” It never seemed to matter where he walked into so long as he carried a box and moved with authority. Sometimes he would even break out the hand truck as an extra cover. He never wore a uniform or a badge. He began to wonder how much farther he could get if he did. Mary thought he was crazy when he started talking about how easy it would be to walk into a bank and rob it.

“I”m telling you, Mary. I do this shit all the time. All I gotta do is look the part. I’ll dress up like one of those armored car guys, walk into the vault and take the take! Easy peasy.”

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, you know that? I ain’t going to be your get away driver, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll come up with something...”

Steven was fired a month ago from S&K but was secretly living in the warehouse in a nest he built high up in the pallet racks. Ray was sympathetic to his situation and helped him avoid detection. Late at night after a route Ray would be the lookout while Steven climbed up the pallet rack to his bed. Sometimes they would talk, and eventually Ray shared his idea of robbing a bank successfully if they could be convincing enough. Ray was a bit of a salesman and after several discussions was able to convince Steven, who had been looking for work ever since he was fired, to be the driver. They pieced together a uniform and even though the getup wasn’t perfect it was close enough that no one would notice the difference.

They had a bit of luck when Steven met a guy at a bar who used to work for an armored car company. He laid out the details of how the procedure worked. The barcode that had to be scanned in order to keep tabs on their movement. The weekly pickups that were never done at the same time of day.

"Are you thinking of robbing a truck?" The man had asked.

"Nah, hell no. Just job hunting. Was considering applying." After the tip they were able to narrow down the pickup day to Thursday and confirmed that the truck never showed up at the same time. Sometimes it was around noon, other times closer to three, or somewhere in between.

“We don’t have an armored car,” Steven said one day as they sat outside Chase bank.

“It doesn't matter. We need something quicker. I think this ride right here will be just fine.”

“ My clunker!? You gotta be shittin. Plus it's registered in my name! We gotta rent something…”

“ No renting. How much money do you have?” “I just lost my job! I’m sleeping in the damn warehouse of my previous employer! I ain’t got no fucking money!”

“We gotta have something to get away in. Maybe we can find a ride on Craigslist.”

Ray walks toward the half door to the left of the teller booth. There are seven people standing in line, bankers sit with other clients in little cubicles. A woman, maybe a manager, notices Ray and walks over to the half door to greet him.

Outside, Steven is in the parking lot in a 80’ yellow Honda civic. He's smoking and bouncing his legs impulsively, his hands tightly gripped against the steering wheel. Ray and Mary had terminated their lease over a month ago and were now sleeping at the Sand Man Hotel.

“This shit better work like you think,” Mary said one day as they sat by the pool.

“I’ve been doing this for years.”

“You say that like you’ve been robbing banks. All you’ve done is walk into places like you own it. I can’t believe I’m trusting you.”

“Look at this scene,” Ray said, looking over at the kids jumping into the pool while their parents drank blended margaritas.

“Pretty soon we’ll be doing this on the beaches of Miami, minus the kids. But who knows, maybe kids too...”

But the truth was Ray wasn’t all that sure it would work. Plan B was something he didn’t want to act out and hoped that he could fool the bankers into giving him the take.

Outside the bank Steven is blowing smoke from his nose. He stares through the bank windows trying to make out figures. His leg is bouncing uncontrollably and when someone nearby honks their horn he jumps and yells to “Shut up!”

At the half door there is a barcode on the wall. Ray nervously holds up his phony scanner and it beeps.

“Thursday it is,” Ray had said when he and Steven met at a local diner on College and Mendocino.

“Yeah, but what time?”

“This is where we gamble.” “Sometime between twelve and three, Steven mumbles.”

“One thirty,” Ray says nodding his head. “One thirty.”

It was 1:33 in the afternoon when Ray entered the teller booth. He’s led to the old style vault, a large walk in with steel bars and a huge dial.

“What did you have for us this week?” The girl asks.

“I’m here to make a pickup,” Ray says, lost in the rush of being where he shouldn’t.

The girl looks at him a little confused. “Oh, but what about our cash?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ray says. “I’m here for the money.”

“So, you’re saying you're only here for a pickup ?”

“That’s right, like usual.”

“Okay, but I… listen, lets go back to the booth. I need to make a call. I’m worried about our cash levels.”

At a red light an armored truck squeaks to a stop. Steven, a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, turns toward the sound.

“Ah, fuckin hell!”

Inside the bank the woman begins to leave the vault, but before she can go Ray pulls out the gloch from its holster and shoves it under the woman’s chin.

“ I didn’t want to do this but you’ve made me. Fill the fucking bag or I’ll spray your skull against the ceiling.”

Ray was acting. He was the robber he wasn’t, the one like in all those Hollywood movies. “ Fill--the fucking--bag! ” he says against her ear.

The armored truck pulls up into a loading zone and the passenger, an armored guard, exits the vehicle.

“Ah holy hell!” Steven says.

The woman is stuffing the bag with cash and Ray is telling her to hurry up under his breath. When she’s done the time is 1:41.

“ Get on the ground- -and don’t--fucking move !” he instructs her. The woman complies and lays there with her hands over her face sobbing.

Ray begins to exit the vault and as he rounds a corner he sees a teller standing at the half door. Someone is on the other side but he can’t make out who. As he approaches, the teller looks behind her and reveals the guard on the other side. With a sudden instinct of playing the part, Ray raises the gun and fires three quick shots. One hits the teller in the neck and blood goes spraying into the guard’s face as a round hits his cheek and the other goes into his face just below his nose. He drops to the ground and people are screaming. Ray steps across the threshold from the tellers booth, he looks down at the guard whose face is a mess of gore, his eyes are blinking and he is reaching for his sidearm. Ray fires his weapon in the center of the man’s forehead which creates a small explosion of blood and brain matter to spread out against the floor. Before he exits the scene he leans down and takes the man’s gun.

From outside Steven can hear the four shots. He looks to the driver in the armored truck who has his eyes trained on the bank entrance. When Ray emerges he immediately aims the weapon at the truck and unloads the rest of the clip into the windshield. The bullet proof glass splinters and the driver ducks behind the dash. Ray jumps into the back seat of the yellow Honda and yells, “ GO, GO, GO! ”

As the Honda Civic takes the on ramp headed north, Ray is pulling off his clothes. The sweat makes everything stick and he frustratingly yanks it all off. As he is changing, two police cars head south on the other side of the freeway. They pass in a hurry, sirens blaring.

The yellow Honda pulls into the Sandman Hotel. “Mary! It's time to move, darling,” Ray yells as he and Steven barge into the room.

“I was so fucking worried you wouldn’t come back,” she kisses him hard.

“We gotta go baby.”

“What’s the take?” Steven asks.

“I don’t know but there were a lot of hundreds stuffed in that bag.”

“Let's split it up.”

“How much do you want?”

“What do you mean? I want my fair share. Let's split it.”

Ray looks over at Mary who returns his stone cold gaze. He raises the weapon he took from the guard and fires a round into the center of Steven’s face.

“Killing really does get easier the more you do it…” Ray says.

Mary grabs the keys to Steven’s clunker sitting on the night stand and they slip out of the room.

When they hit interstate 580 they breathe a little.

“I think we did it sugar plum,” Ray says.

“You think?”

“Every mile we get a little further.”

“What about our identities? They’ll catch up to us sooner or later.”

“Don’t worry. We got time to think about who we can be. We ain’t Mary and Ray no more, baby. It's a new scene, we gotta act the part. I figure we bum around the United States until we come up with some new identification. We got plenty of money to turn into new people.”

“Who are you going to be?”

“I don’t know yet. But you sure look like a Bonnie if I say so myself.”

“ Bonnie? Does that make you my Clyde?”

Ray looks over at her with a big full toothed smile. “You know what, baby? I think I like that. You’re my Bonnie and I’m your Clyde.” “Forever?”

“Forever and ever. There is no question,” their eyes meet and so do their lips.


The window was like a massive painting of a tulip armory in pink and yellow helmets facing their three commanders - windmills made tiny by the distance. The sky blue melted into grey, tinted by tangerine. This eight-bedroom country house inn made of 1900s red bricks oddly stood amidst the vast meadow of endless green, dotted with pink, yellow, and some purple and red bits.

William marveled at the view that he would wake up to for the next thirty days or so and hoped he’d finish his draft by then with the inspiring vista. He arranged his few pairs of shirts and pants into the cupboard and placed his laptop, some books, pen, and notebooks on the working desk, directly facing the natural cinema as the slowly-setting-sun brushed his room golden. He went down to the bar on the ground floor called Harod’s and was welcomed by a pesky fly. ‘Hello?’ He called. His voice echoed from somewhere in the deep. He nervously walked in. Apart from the sound of his breathing and occasional humming of the fridge, the place was silent as a tomb.  ‘Hi, have you been waiting for a while?’ A man darted from the door behind the bar counter. ‘I just came in. Can I have whiskey on the rocks?’ ‘Of course, have a seat.’ William settled on the high stool at the bar counter and watched his private bartender, a blonde guy with very light eyebrows and mustache on his egg-shaped face, pour that mahogany-colored liquid on a rock glass with three cubes of ice. ‘Am I alone here? I don’t see anyone.’ William looked around the bar then back to his bartender. ‘Ah,’ the bartender waved his hand.‘ You’ll see them a bit later. ‘Shall I switch on the music for you?’ ‘Sure, thanks.’ The bartender went to the back of the house, and the music started playing. William smiled upon hearing the first song. He wasn't expecting to hear such a mesmerizing French song in a place where you think you'd randomly see the Godfather. He expected to hear some pop or alternative or even metal music in a bar with red leather couches, wooden elements, a billiard table on one side, and a darts board on the other. Random sports figures portraits hung on the walls and a framed boxing glove stood on top of a shelf, a priceless jewel in an alcoholic museum. La Vie En Rose evoked some familiar feeling, but he could not figure out precisely what. Like a memory of a past life, sitting in the middle of a garden with a transistor radio on, watching rose petals fall one by one, slowly into the ground.  It confused him and raised questions about whether it really happened or it was just a story he created in his mind. It happened a lot with him in the past. He mixed up his reality with the stories he wrote. He looked at the slowly melting ice on the glass and swirled the whisky. He looked at his phone and checked his newsfeed. That’s the last day he could check social media before his phone would be chucked inside a box until he gets his manuscript done. At least that was the plan. He heard people coming in and settling themselves in the bar. The bartender wasn’t private for him anymore. Drinks were poured and served one after the other. Laughter filled Harrod's. The bar was suddenly a happening place. Strawberry and mint-flavored smoke contaminated the air fused with the aroma of sizzling Buffalo wings. William fell into the depths of social media black hole, and by the time he realized this online indulgence, he already had three glasses of whiskey, and his stomach grumbled. He looked at the menu and asked for a beef burger which was served after twenty minutes. He took bites of the juicy medium-well patty tucked between the buns and lettuces and tomatoes. He left social media some time ago and rummaged through the New York Times articles before his subscription ends for no payment in hopes of getting additional ideas for his novel. He wondered what story he would come up with, although his concept was already there—life, death, flowers, and rebirth. The flowers part came in after seeing the view from his bedroom window. William could eat massively, but his interactive metabolic system never allowed his body to show evidence. He felt heavy and sleepy with his skin and bones and burger and whiskey and decided to head back to his room. ‘Thanks, Carl,’ he handed the bill he signed and finally found out the bartender’s name on his bill. He stood up slowly and turned his back on Carl. The brightly lit bar seemed dark. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, thinking he was clouded by the whiskey. He opened his eyes and confirmed what he initially saw. The bar was filled with shadows. Shadows sitting on the tables. Shadows smoking cigars. Shadows playing cards. Shadows playing billiards on the far end of the bar. Shadows wearing suits. Shadows, everywhere. He looked back at Carl, who stood there smiling as if he already expected William’s reaction. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘You haven’t noticed until now?’ Carl asked back. William realized he was sitting amidst the crowd of shadows all those hours he spent with his eyes on his phone. He gave a questioning look at Carl. Carl served him another glass of whiskey. ‘That’s on the house. You might need it. Have a seat, once again.’ He took a swig, and the coffee-colored liquid traveled quickly down. It was warm inside. But his back shivered. Carl leaned forward. He was so close to William’s face he could feel his breath. ‘These shadows,’ he whispered, ‘were the shadows of the people who sold their souls to the devil.’ Carl sounded like a wizard passing down a curse. William felt all the hair in his body stood up. His body froze, but his heart pumped faster than ever; he thought it would pop out of his chest. ‘The shadow is automatically cut from the body once the owner sells his soul to the devil.’ William thought, who sells their soul to the devil? And as if Carl read his mind. ‘A lot of people sell their souls. Those who are in despair and have nothing more to lose. Those who can only think of two things - do or die.’ William thought of his desperate times when he lost his wife to his friend because he was so busy writing his novel that sold not more than a hundred copies while his wife found affection from someone else. On lonely nights he wanted to die in his dark house, wanting never to see the light again. They said when you dream, dream high because it's free. And that's what William did. Little did he know that he had to pay a very high price for chasing after his ambition. ‘They stay here for as long as their owner is alive. And once the owner dies, the shadow perishes quietly and dissolves into the eternal darkness.’ ‘Where do they live?’ ‘Here,’ answered Carl, his arms spread wide. ‘They were here all along.’ William wondered. It was dead quiet when he entered the bar at sunset. Again, as if reading his mind, Carl spoke, ‘you only see the shadows in the night. They are nowhere to be found during daytime.’ 'So, this is like a purgatory?' William asked. 'Hmmmm. More like a waiting room.' Carl's tone was that of a Real Estate Sales Man, showing a property to a potential buyer. ‘But, how can shadows know how to smoke or play billiards or drink?’ He remembered earlier, Carl mentioned orders even before the customers placed them. He interacted with them the way a bartender normally does to human beings hence, William thought the bar was filled with regular 'human' clients. He was just too busy looking at his phone earlier to not notice the bizarre situation around him. ‘They carry all the memories of their owner up until the day they were cut off,’ Carl said. ‘So they do the things their owners did, they mimic them.’ William’s vision started to spin; he suddenly felt vertigo that he never had. ‘And how’d they find their way here?’ he asked Carl. Carl grinned. His face was blurring in William’s vision. ‘Same way you did.’


“Hello little bunny rabbit,” I whisper as I inch toward a little bunny sitting in a grassy clearing. It’s fur is the color of hot chocolate, it’s tail is the pure white whipped cream that sits on top.

I am going hiking with my parents in a beautiful redwood forest where the trees are alive with movement.

I love to see all the animals of the forest. I could sit in one spot for hours on end just watching them. The bunny’s ears and nose twitch as it tries to figure out whether I am a friend or foe. I am just about to be close enough to stroke the bunny’s fur when -

“Lita! Are you coming or what?” Momma’s aggravated voice slices through the forest noises like an arrow. I shoot an angry look in the direction of the voice, but don’t bother responding. When I turn back to the bunny, all I see is the little white puff of whipped cream disappearing into the tall redwoods.  	“Noooooo! Don’t go bunny rabbit! I won’t hurt you! I promise!” I cry dashing after the bunny as fast as my four-year-old

legs can carry me. I get poked by branches and bushes, but I don’t care. At the moment my main priority is that light brown bunny.

“Lita? Lita, where did you run off to!” Momma calls her voice getting fainter the further I run. “Lita! Lita!” Her voice is getting more and more frantic, but her voice is only a whisper now. I almost lose track of the bunny, but then I see the little white tail that marks it. I trip over a twisted tree root, and land face first in a patch of green grass. I fight off tears, and sit up. My thoughts dissipate instantly as I take a look around me. I am at the edge of a breathtaking lush green meadow. Anemones, poppies, daffodils, cornflowers, asters, and many more flowers cover the field.

Morning dew sparkles magically in the sun. Throughout the field there are lots of houses. Each of the houses are unique in size, shape, and material. Some of the houses are giant, some are tiny, some are round, some are square, some are made of grass, and some are made in tree stumps. It’s not just the houses that catch my attention though. Roaming around the field are all sorts of different forest creatures. There are bunnies, bears, wolves, mice, squirrels, foxes, raccoons, bobcats, deer, ladybugs, spiders, bees, butterflies, herons, woodpeckers, and many more. So many more in fact that I could spend a whole day just listing them all. I realize then that I must be dreaming because I can hear the animals talking to one another! I try to see if I can spot the bunny I’d been chasing, but soon give up. I resolve to watch a group of

bobcat kittens playing jump rope instead.

After a little while of watching different animals do things like cartwheeling, playing

board games, and chasing each other, I decide that I want to join the fun. I push myself to my feet using the help of a sapling.

“Hello!” I announce cheerfully. All commotion stops. This is definitely not the reaction I’d hoped for. Everything is silent except for the occasional whisper from one animal to another, and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Slowly, a lizard, a squirrel, and a bear make their way through the crowd.

“What is your business here in Litariana Meadow?” the bear growls suspiciously. I notice how tense he is, and I start to get the feeling maybe I’m not supposed to be her. “Well, that’s a funny coincidence! My name is Litariana! I like to be called Lita though,“ I say nervously, wiping my sweaty palms on my overalls. The bear’s eyes widen before quickly resuming their usual grumpy state, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by me. Some of the other animals in the crowd start murmuring in surprise. The squirrel and lizard scurry up the bear and each start whispering in each ear. I can only hear three words; wait, 12, and prophecy. Curiosity bubbles up inside me, and threatens to overflow, but I sense this is not time for questions. The lizard and the squirrel return to the ground.

“We have come to a decision,” the bear announces. “You will leave with no memory of this happening. That is, until you are 12. Then all of your memories will return, and you must come back. However, you can’t tell anyone about this. Ever. Understood?” I nod paralyzed, my eyes wide. The bear motions with her paw, and a little bunny comes hopping forward. “This is Charlan, he will guide you back to the trail.”

I can’t help but wonder if he’s the same bunny that I followed before. He’s got the same colored fur and whipped cream tail, but then again, there are lots of bunnies that look like that. Then, before I can even say goodbye, Charlan is hopping along with me at his heels. I emerge from the trees just as Mama comes running over. I feel dazed, and there is an odd tingly sensation in my head.

“Lita! There you are! I was so worried when you didn’t respond! Where were you?” She gives me a big hug. “I was . . .” I falter. Where was I? There’s something itching at the back of my head. Something that should be there, but isn’t. I don’t want Mama to worry, so I just make something up. “I was just picking some nice flowers along the path, but then I dropped them. I went to see if I could find them, but they’re gone!” “Oh, it’s alright Lita. We’ll collect some new ones. And don’t go running off like that again, okay?” she says looking me straight in the eye.

“Okay. I’m sorry Mama,” I reply. And I’m truly sorry, even if I don’t know where I was. As we walk away I take one last look back, trying to find any clues as to where I was. All I see is a little white bunny tail that looks to me like a puff of whipped cream.


Copyright © 2020 Fallow Amber. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

*** "The Blue Grotto!" Mummy squeals to all of us. "Ooh aah…" We, except the strange kid in our family, all coo, peering incredibly at the Motoscafisti Capri brochure in mummy's hands. "The 'grotto'? Like a cave or something? Or the Grotto? As in the Grotta Azzurra?" As expected, Georgie asks, staring into space with a smallish grin on her oval shaped face. We all groan knowingly with mummy smiling at her.

Jessamyn nudges me in the back before whispering a 'tell her' to only my hearing. I nod taking in a deep breath as I move toward Georgie. "Look here Geo-graphy." I scoff out placing my left hand over her shoulders, while the others including mummy snicker at my statement to Georgie. Georgie smiles satisfied that we're beginning to call her by her 'silly' nickname. "Don't do that!" I say, removing my hand almost immediately. She frowns at my gesture. Everyone knows I hate it whenever I do something nice, or something they like, and then they get all happy and squishy at me. "You see Geo", I shorten her name as everyone stares at her, ready to see the 'sweet, sweet look' she'd have all displayed on her face. "I hate to say this, but you're sincerely no fun." I drop the bombshell, stepping away from her. Her face starts changing to small frowns hidden behind her fake smile. I shouldn't be scared but she's quite the character that knows just how to throw a fit, even though I'm the oldest child, I am not taking 'any' chances. "Why, thank you, Lorraine." She says, her lips twitching a little. I scoff at her calling me by my third name. She is the only one that calls me that, except maybe Aunt Suga who's Japanese, because Georgie has a geographical term for everyone and unsurprisingly mine is Lorraine because being the geographic whiz she is, Lorraine is a region in eastern France and coincidentally, I happened to have been born there. "Okay, okay, boys and girls, enough of all the drama and let's start packing our bags." Mummy butts in, knowing fully well that if care isn't taken, there'd be splashes… splashes of water everywhere, literally. Our own form of fighting is what we call the 'Water Fight or Slide'. The name is still under construction anyways. I walk out last with Jessamyn, Corbin and Vinay; we're all quadruplets so it's right for us to do all things together. *** "I'm Hank Marvin --- hungry!" Exclaims Cheshire, the benjamine --- the baby of the family, in her silky English accent.

"We're almost there, Ches, avoir de la patience --- have patience." I say for the third time to her, only this time in my native language, French.

Mummy and daddy had each of us in different countries and regions so we all have different languages and cultures; except we, the quads but one thing we all still have in unison is being British. "Okay..." She drops down in defeat before going back to colouring and painting. The Blue Grotto, according to daddy, is a sea cave on the coast of the Capri, which is in Southern Italy. We had to travel all the way from Hampton Hill, a Greater London suburb where we live, to Italy by plane. We got here yesterday and decided to hit the roads to the Blue Grotto today for our proper vacation on day 2. Mummy and daddy promised to take us to a lot of places for summer holidays. I picked this year's events and activities with a little help from mummy, as always. I love Italy and seas, mostly because Italy shares borders with France in the north and my best colours are blue, white and red anyways, which blue typically is the colour of any water body. And I know all of this, thanks to Georgie. Which is what explains why we're in Italy. I glance over to Vinay, who's watching an Indian movie with Corbin. I yawn feeling a little bored. I can't play with Jessamyn because she's reviewing Misha's poem. Nor can I play with Daphna or Georgie because they're busy learning new moons of planets or whatever they called it. I sigh staring at the sunny grounds outside the tinted window beside me, suddenly noticing a few buses packed with people riding along with us. "We are here!" I scream, finally feeling alive. Everyone in the van starts screaming out except our parents, of course, the little Italian words we knew. *** "Finally!" Daphna squeals as we all enter the rowing boat with some other strange people. "I'm so psyched about this!" Jessamyn says munching on her fettuccine bolognese whilst sipping on her coconut panna cotta that sat comfortably beside her on the wooden bench. She's a chowhound. "Guys, lower your heads." Georgie gasps aloud to all of us on the rowing boat. "Why?" Cheshire asks sternly, peering at her face before she continues, "I want the tour guide rowing the boat to tell us why, not you." "What no!" She exclaims about to start a boring session of geographical nonsense again. Everyone groans except the strangers before the tour guide saves the day. "I'm happy you like the Blue Grotto so much so I'd take it from here kiddo." He pats her before starting to explain all the amazing reasons why we need to lower our heads, if we didn't want to have a headache; and the few more guides we'd be needing once we started our trip into the Grotto.

While explaining, I caught a glimpse of Georgie's face; she looked like she was going to explode in rage. I snickered alongside my other quads. When we started our trip, we got into the cave; blue everywhere. The tour guide, Luca Giovanni, sang all sorts of traditional neapolitan folk songs we've never heard before but Georgie, the geographic brainiac and an Italian and strict Italian film buff like Misha, knew all the songs. Once at the centre, Georgie starts explaining more things about the Grotto to us, telling us why it's always blue in summer, the history behind it and all it's dangers.

"... And it was known during the time of ancient Rome when everyone thought that it was one of Emperor Tiberius' favorite nymphs, which is a female spirit associated with grottoes or caves..." She said, stating all things the so-called Tiberius used the Grotto for. Mummy and daddy smiled proudly at her, holding hands. "Actually, the cave was used as a private swimming pool by the Emperor Tiberius." Luca states as a matter-of-factly the real truth behind it. "This is the statue of the Greek god of the sea, son of Poseidon, Triton. Tiberius, back then, decorated the cave as a marine temple dedicated to different sea nymphs, with a number of statues lining the cave." Luca says with one of the women on the boats, we didn't know, pointing at the statue with a flashlight. "Wow!" We clap for Luca while he does a mock bow before he turns the boat around to head back to land. I take a few videos with my family and some with the other people for school report. By now, we were all starving except Georgie, who looked like she still wanted to educate us more. As we got to the mouth, Luca stopped paddling. "August Kopisch rediscovered, with Ernst Fries, the Blue Grotto at Capri after it had been forgotten for centuries once Tiberius died." He ended the speech showing us a statue of the two heroes. I took videos of the old but great looking statues. "Enough!" Georgie screams.

I knew it! She was going to definitely explode now. I set my camera on her face and Luca's ready for the drama to unfold. "For many centuries when the Blue Grotto was abandoned, the local sailors feared it because of legends of spirits and demons which stayed in the cave. But all this changed on April 18, 1826 when the cave was found by a German writer, August Kopisch and his friend and travel companion who was a painter Ernst Fries. They were all taken to the cave by Angelo Ferraro, a local fisherman, and the notary Giuseppe Pagano." She gasps out in one breath. "Mummy, daddy, I just want to go home. Luca's been stealing my thunder." She says with a tear slipping down her face. I hold her hand and put her to sit down beside me while she rests her head on my shoulders. Being the oldest, this was somewhat my job – to have my siblings' backs. "Dear, dear!" I pat her on the back while she soaked my purple long sheer blouse with salty tears. Everyone pitied her and looked nonstop at her while she sobbed. My family knew she hated whenever she wasn't the one on spotlight educating people about stuff she knew. Anywhere she went, she was given that respect of sharing her knowledge but it seemed like this place was not like every other place. "I'm sorry." She whispers out as we get to the shore. The End! Written by 💎 Fallow 💎


[WARNING: mentions the loss of a child.] Exactly thirteen days have gone by since Cibil had to lay her eight year old daughter, Naomi, to rest since the day she succumbed to her leukemia. For all thirteen days, she remained paralyzed in her unkempt spring mattress, hugging the oversized, stuffed alien plush doll Naomi would prioritize over everything else, even her mother, Cibil. Cibil hadn't stopped crying since the funeral. Even as her eyes swelled, and her head began beating slowly in pain, the tears constantly flooded her eyes from below. Cibil was all Naomi had, as her father skipped town the day he was asked by Cibil to help cover the expenses for Naomi's chemotherapy. It was that same exact decision on his part that lead to Naomi having to live with her cancer as it rotted her from the inside. Cibil blamed every bit of her devastating situation on him, the man who was supposed to fill in the role Naomi praised as "Dad". Every death comes with different feelings from everyone involved, but ends the same. The grieving will grieve, then they eventually move on, accepting what they lost under the assumption that their late loved ones are either in a place a million times better than the dark hole they spent their last days in, or in a place a million times worse if they caused that much pain for their families when they were alive. However, Cibil never reached that acceptance stage because she never moved on. In fact, she developed a new idea, one that could break the world if she's successful at it. "I'm gonna bring you home, sweetie," Cibil croaked to herself, still balled up with Naomi's alien plush doll but no longer shedding tears. The following morning, Cibil tossed a shovel she had placed on the tree in front of the house in the back seat of her card before returning to her job as a microbiologist, not to make an attempt at returning to normal, but to collect samples for her elaborate plan. Since she has a lab of her own, unexpected company wasn't something she was worried about, so she quickly got down to business.

Before Naomi passed, Cibil was passionate about her job, and used to ramble on for hours about her work with Naomi because Naomi always wanted to know about her mother’s work. However, Cibil’s work freaked out Naomi because she revealed that during a trip in Greenland a few months back, she had found a type of bacteria that could create zombies trapped in a block of ice, but wasn’t sure how. But with very little time to act, Cibil determined that if she wanted to reunite with her little girl, she needed to thaw the bacteria out and revive it as soon as possible, and when the clock struck midnight, what she called “A New Prologue”, had been successfully revived from the ice. Cibil collected the bacteria in a small vial and darted out the door, ripping her car keys off the keyholder in a frantic rush to her daughter’s grave, suffering a cut on her finger from the keyholder in the process. As she crept towards a speed of eighty miles per hour, Cibil took a quick glance towards her back seat, making sure her shovel was still laying across the back seat. As soon as she fixed her eyes on the road, she suddenly found herself violently colliding with a deer, sending the deer flying across the road into the darkness that consumed the trees which vastly populated both sides of the long road. Rather than slowing down, Cibil kept driving at a consistent eighty miles per hour, mostly unfazed by her accident. Finally, she parked in the small but vacant parking lot on the side of the cemetery that shelters her child, at which point she shoves her door open with one arm while grasping the vial with the other before traveling to the back to retrieve the shovel. Cibil knew as clear as day that what she was doing was wrong in more ways than one, but what she knew didn’t matter to her. All that mattered to her at this very moment is bringing her child back at any and all cost. “I told you that I’d be back, my sweet angel,” Cibil whispers with a smile of anticipation and eyes pouring tears all over again. She begins to mutilate the dirt below her, little by little until she sees the coffin holding her daughter. Without a second to spare, she jumps down onto the coffin to pry the upper half of the door, granting Cibil a sight she hasn’t seen in thirteen days; her daughter, Naomi. Cibil hovers the vial over her child’s face like a small cup, leaking the bacteria into her nostrils and mouth until the vial emptied. Cibil then fell back into a sitting position with her hands together, intending to pray. “Please bring her back, Jesus. She is all I have,” Cibil cries out as she waits on the coffin’s lower half. Suddenly, Cibil felt something was off. She noticed her entire hand was burning, and the cut area on her finger was foaming and sizzling, almost like a soda that had been opened for the first time. Before long, Cibil put two and two together and realized that some of the bacteria had fallen into her wound as well. Despite understanding the severity of her error, she didn’t care. She has nothing to lose except sight of her goal, but the way she saw it, one way or another, she was gonna be with her little girl again. As the sun began to rise, Cibil began to fall over, suffering the effects of the infection as it spread throughout her entire body at an extremely fast rate. She begins groaning in agony where she sat, foam and blood aggressively spurting out of her mouth and eyes, and an unknown green-red substance begins to pour out of her ears. Seeing that her daughter still remained where she rested and the bacteria hadn’t worked, Cibil began to sob, forced to accept that she had failed her little girl again. The bacteria proceeded to attack her brain, sending her into a violent seizure and rattling the coffin above her. Suddenly, a series of cracking sounds echoed from inside the coffin, and upon one last glance, Cibil, unable to control her body, watched as Naomi’s eyes began to open, her arms reaching upwards out of the coffin as if she were climbing upward on a ladder, and her mouth releases a foul, painful screech. Cibil did it. She brought her daughter back from the grave, but in the process, she lost her own life, forcing Naomi to return without her mother. None of this matter, Naomi crawled out of her grave, completely mindless but hungry. “Who’s there?” a man shouts. Upon seeing Naomi, he rushed towards her to check if she’s okay, unaware of her undead status. “Naomi! Where’s your mother?” The man exclaimed, pulling the girl into his arms in a hugging fashion. The man notices a woman limping toward him and Naomi, but before he could act, Naomi bites a massive chunk out of the man’s throat, causing him to jolt back as he frantically attempts to stop the bleeding. Horrified, he looks up at the girl and the woman, who he quickly realizes is a dead but walking Cibil. “What have you done to my daughter?” the man gurgles as he begins to lose consciousness. Cibil starts to groan loudly while looking up at her mother as their hands attempt to interlock, and police sirens begin to scream from a mile away.


It truly wasn’t that important. This is what she told herself as she strode towards the library steps. The August heat sifted languidly through the small Californian town, the pavement warm enough to wince at even though the sun had only risen hours ago. The palms of her hands felt slick against the laminated spine of the book. Far off, a siren wailed down the highway. East of Eden. She had read Steinbeck in high school for an English class, and never again thereafter. It made her eyes hurt. She resented the weight of the pages in her sweaty hands like she resented the errand she ran, and she felt the eagerness of being through with the task at the back of her mind. She pulled on the warm metal of the antiquated building’s door handle, grimacing in annoyance.

The book was, in fact, ten months overdue. He had checked it out under her name in the hopes it would prompt her to read it. If she was responsible for it. He learned that winter that not only would she not commit to reading the great American author’s words, but she would not commit to him. The break up was blunt and awkward and disorienting. He felt as if he was the last word scrawled on a piece of paper and everything before and after him had been erased. She felt liberated. And promptly forgot about the book. As he listened slowly for the ticking of the clock behind him, neither awake nor asleep, he felt the chill of the air conditioning briefly stutter as the door opened. The small, brown library lobby smelled sweet and musty to him, like the floral fabric on his grandmother’s couch. He payed the newcomer no mind, though faintly he registered the sound of rubber sneaker soles sharply protesting against the linoleum flooring. The footsteps had seemed to halt rather abruptly before his desk. Reluctantly raising his chin from his palm and opening his heavy eyes, he finally recognized his company. “Oh.” She blinked. He had not been a volunteer at the library when they had messily parted. She wasn’t surprised, however--he had always loved to read, and had fondly said the building smelled like his MeMaw’s house. “Hello.” The human stress response is a funny thing. Science dictates which hormones elicit which bodily responses and so forth, but no amount of educational jargon can fully encapsulate the sensation of an eighteen wheeler punching outwardly from inside one’s ribcage.

“Uh. Hey.” He straightened warily, cheeks flushing a dull flat red. He heard his blood rush angrily in his ears and felt his stomach muscles tighten. Her eyes only met his for an awkward beat before they dropped to the corner of the desk, then her hands, then to the wall behind him. He watched her shift her weight on her feet, then open her mouth hesitantly. “I’m...uh. I’m sorry.”

She had spun around and marched out the door before he could respond. East of Eden remained clenched in her hands. He cursed first at himself, then at the old door that clunked shut behind his ex fiancee. - Some ten months earlier, Madison and Paul sat together on the couch in her living room. Her legs were tucked at the knees, pointing away from him. His phone cast a blue light on his face as he ignored the movie in front of them. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore, as it had once been. Before, the two had embraced the sweet ease of a quiet compatibility--now it felt heavy and bitter. Their tongues felt thick behind their teeth, and sat unmoored as they do when one becomes too aware of a tongue’s position. Paul looked up from his phone to the TV screen. “I went to the library today.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Got you a book.” Madison glanced at him with distaste. “What’d you do that for?” “Because you should read more,” Paul said defensively. “It’s a good book. East of Eden.” He watched her from the corner of his eye as her head rolled on her shoulders, easing tension from her neck. She let out a long breath through her nose. “Didn’t that guy do Of Mice and Men? ” “John Steinbeck. Yeah.” “Hm.” The silence continued for a few long minutes. Neither of them knew what was happening in the movie. Madison felt the metal of her wedding ring against her finger and wished she could take it off.

Paul felt a lump rise in his throat. The same bleak hopelessness that had sporadically pitted in his sternum over the past month began to form again. Something was wrong--he felt her discontentment radiating off of her like heat. “Madison.” “Mm.” I love you. “What’s up with you?” She exhaled again through her nose, slowly and deliberately. I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore. “Just tired.” “Okay,” Paul said, and some part of him then understood that they would not be married. He didn’t consciously believe it yet. He didn’t want to. “Mads?” “Yeah.” “Will you read the book?” “Sure, Paul.” He knew that wasn’t true either. - Madison felt a hot tear slide down her cheek as she sat alone on her couch. She remembered the way the cushions tilted when Paul would sit down beside her--he was large, built like a lumberjack; his friends had jokingly called him Paul Bunyan. When he sat, it was as if he had forgotten what it felt like to be off his feet. He would plunk down with a whoosh of air, a sweet exhale of relaxation, and the soft seat would collapse inward under his weight. Anyone else sitting on the couch was sucked toward him as if he had his own gravitational pull. The couch seemed too big without him. The cushions felt too level. The library earlier that day had forced Madison to face the ugly regret she had avoided acknowledging for so long. She shouldn’t have ruined things, shouldn’t have left him. Should have at least read the stupid book. She knew this now, and it burned hot and angry in her belly. Impulsively, she snatched the thick book from the coffee table in front of her and flung it across the living room. It smacked the wall, rather unsatisfactorily, and thudded open to the floor. The pages bent under the weight of the impact. She sobbed heavily, feeling the corners of her mouth pulling towards her ears like an ironic smile. She wished she hadn’t been so terrified to be married. She wished she could have fixed things. She was ready now, and had been ready since she realized that she was completely uninterested in a life without him.

Pushing the tears up her face with the heel of her hand, Madison stood and picked up the book. Maybe it was a sign, today at the library. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She smoothed the rumpled pages, took her place back on the couch, and began to read. - Six days after seeing Madison at the library, Paul sat alone eating breakfast in his parent’s kitchen. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since she had fled the library earlier that week. They weren’t all good thoughts, necessarily--there was plenty of bitterness left over from their breakup--but he couldn’t get it out of his head what it would feel like to hug her again. He was a big man, and she was so small, but somehow it had always felt like she was the one holding him when they embraced. He pushed the memory out of his head sourly and tried to reign in his sentimental side. She had left him. She had given him back the wedding ring he had scrimped and saved for. He grimaced, stabbing at his cereal.

The doorbell rung and startled him from his stupor. The milk sloshed from his bowl as he pushed away from the table, chair scraping against the tile floor, and lumbered for the front door. Opening it, he froze. Madison stood in front of him, clutching East of Eden against her stomach like she was afraid somebody would steal it. Before he could speak, she took a step forward. “I read the book. I know it’s so stupid now because it’s almost a year late and you probably thought I stole it or something, but I finished it and I wanted to give it back.” Paul opened his mouth, not sure what words would come out, but Madison continued. “I felt really dumb at the library last week. Like, it’s not that hard to return a book, especially because I’ve had it for so long, and I shouldn’t have just left like that, but I just…” she twisted her mouth in a brief second of thought. “I’m not here to try and fix things or ask for you to take me back because I ruined things and I broke your heart and I handled everything in the worst way possible. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and I miss you, and I messed up, and I really liked the book.”

She thrust East of Eden towards him. It took a beat before Paul reached out to grab it.

She spun to leave. The awkwardness was palatable, and she yearned to run away. “Hold on,” Paul said. She stopped. He was quiet--he hadn’t actually planned to say anything. “You liked it?” Madison nodded cautiously, her body still half turned towards the street. “Yeah.” She laughed nervously. “Cathy was kind of a psychopath, wasn’t she?”

“She was.” Paul chuckled. Paused again. Remembered how it felt to be hugged. Remembered how it felt to be left. Took a breath.

“Do you want to come in?” Madison smiled. “Yeah. That’d be cool.” As the door closed behind them, Paul laughed. “This is not at all how you return a library book.”