Chapter 2:  When Leonia woke up the next morning, the smell of smoke permeated the air. Her head pounded and her body ached. After the villages encounter with the Guerrier tribe, she had tossed and turned in bed all night, replaying the scene over again in her head until she couldn’t think straight. Now, she walked into the kitchen where she saw Nanette and her sister seated at the table. June grabbed a handful of blackberries they’d been eating and dropped them next to Minuit who was waiting patiently under the table for her share. Leonia wasn’t much of a morning person and greeted the two with a groggy “hello.” She pulled out another chair and sat down next to her sister, plucking a stray berry from the table. ”Nanette,” her sister asked cautiously “why’d those people burn the headman’s place?” Leonia, who had the same question, looked over at her aunt and waited for an answer. Nanette hesitated, “Lots of folks ‘round here believe the Comb Jellies are magic,” she began, ”You girls ‘ve heard the stories. Years ago, when the waters rose from the sea and flooded everythin’ in sight, they floated up from the deep, and wandered into our bayou. They breathed life back into it. Provided us with a whole slew of living plants and animals that helped our folks survive. They been Givin’ us what we need ever since.” Her gaze turned toward the window and she continued her story. “The Guerrier ‘ve always lived on the other side, away from the comb jellies. And for a while they did ok for themselves. Trained those gators to help ‘em hunt for food and protect ‘em. But now their food sources are dwindlin’ and they’re strugglin’ to feed their families. Guess the only way they think they can do that is by forcin’ us out.” “But there’s more than enough here for both of us! Why can’t we just live together,” June demanded, jumping out of her chair. “They’ve never gotten along with us folks over here. They been fightin’ with us for generations. Ain’t never been able to solve nothin’ without violence.” Suddenly Nanette’s face brightened into a smile and she clapped her hands together. “Alright Girls, I got to get to a meetin’ now. I don’t want ya’ll leavin’ this village. It’s too dangerous out there.” She plucked one more blackberry from the bowl, popped it into her mouth then walked out the door. Leonia knew she had to get to that meeting. As soon as Nanette was out of sight she ran to her room, threw on the clothes she wore the day before and pulled her hair up. She was just shouting a hurried goodbye to June when she stepped out of the door and ran straight into Ambrose. She couldn’t help but smile when she realized it was him. “Oh, hey Lee! You on your way out? I was just coming by to—” She pushed past him and out the door, “We don’t have time to chat. We”ve got to get to the village meeting.” “Wait,” he grabbed her hand before she could get away, “they’re not gonna let us in. It’s just for the elders.” When Leonia tried jerking her hand from his grip he held on tighter. “I know that.” she gave him an annoyed look, “We’re gonna listen in from the back door and see what’s going on.” “Fine,” he sighed, giving in, “Let’s go.” \*\*\* The meeting hall was on the same jellyfish island as the hut that had burned the night before. They crossed the floating bridge that connected the two and came face to face with its burnt shell. The remnants still smoldered on the ground. They trudged past the remains and walked on towards the village hall. It sat at the back edge of the jellyfish, near a grove of tall cypress trees. They slowed down as they neared the back entrance. When they reached the door, Ambrose grabbed the wooden handle and pulled it towards him slowly until they could peek inside. Leonia turned towards Ambrose and gestured for him not to make a sound, then they both peered through the door at the village elders who were gathered inside. There were seven of them in all, including the village headman and Nanette. They stood in a lazy circle arguing with one another. “We need to defend the lands ourselves,” Old man Ducote shouted at the others, “we can’t let them push us out.” *‘What other choice do we have?’* Leonia thought, watching them bicker. ‘*There’s nowhere else to go in this world. All that’s beyond the bayou is an endless ocean.’* Virgil, the headsman, piped up from the middle of the group. “Well, we only have till the next solstice to decide. That’s when they said they’d be back.” Then he looked directly at Nanette, “what about the Drylands? I say we go there. I’m sure the folks living there would welcome us. You been there before, right?” *‘The Drylands?* ’Leonia shot Ambrose a questioning look. She remembered the stories Nanette used to tell her at bedtime about The Drylands but she had always insisted that’s all they were, stories. There was no truth to them at all, just something made-up to help her and June sleep at night. By the look on Ambrose’s face, he didn’t know anything about The Drylands either. He shrugged his shoulders and they continued listening. “I was a young girl, Virgil. Not much older than June and I don’t think them folks would welcome us with open arms. Even if they did, I don’t know how to get there and we don’t have a boat big enough. I say we stay and defend the land.” “Who’s going to defend it?” Letty asked looking around, “Us? Everyone here is either too young or too old. We’ve never had to fight before. We wouldn’t know the first thing about defending ourselves.” Nanette looked around the room. “We can train ‘em. Our ancestors fought for these lands and we can too, we have to, and we have to start now.” All the elders began to speak at once and their raised voices soon turned to shouting as they struggled to be heard over each other. Their voices echoed and boomed around the hall. After a few more minutes of failing to discern a word, Ambrose and Leonia closed the door behind them and began making their way back home. “Ambrose, the summer solstice is only three months away!” They had just stepped foot back on their own jellyfish and Leonia’s mind was reeling, “Our people can’t fight off the Geurrier. What are we going to do? And The Drylands? What was that about?” “I think we can take ‘em,” he said grinning and punching the air, but Leonia had her doubts. In Nanette’s lifetime, their people had never had to go to war. Had never had to deal with a threat like this. Decades ago, there was a peace treaty between them and the Gurrier people, but it looks like that was over now. “And about the Drylands Lee, it makes sense. The world’s much bigger than you think. We couldn’t have been the only people to survive the flooding.” They continued their walk in silence then Ambrose suddenly stops, “Lee! Come with me.” He grabs one of Leonia’s elbows and drags her toward his home. He barges past the doorway, ignoring his mother standing in the kitchen and heads straight for the hut’s backroom. Ambrose’s grandfather had passed away a couple years ago but his room still looked exactly the way he left it, a mess. A large, unkempt bookshelf took up most of the wall on the far end of the room and piles of paper were cluttered over a small desk and chair. Items that had been salvaged after the great flood were scattered about in random places. “What are we doing in your grandpa’s room?” Ambrose ignored her question and rifled through a drawer in the desk. After another minute he pulled out a small, rolled up parchment, bound by a piece of string. “Found it!” He untied the string and unfurled the paper. Her curiousness got the better of her. “What is that” Leonia asked as they both stared down at the document. Then, her eyes grew wide. *‘It’s a map*’. Hand drawn, and by the looks of it pretty old as well. Its edges were wrinkled and parts of it were torn but it was still in fairly good shape. It looked nothing like the maps they had seen of the world before the flood. This one depicted a large mass of land surrounded by water and three separate chains of small islands. Another portion of the map simply read ‘The Bayou’ and was illustrated as a tree surrounded by dark water. “Is this a map of the drylands? She grabbed the map from Ambrose’s hands and continued to study it. “Hey—” “Can I borrow this?” She was already beginning to formulate a plan. If this map is real then the Drylands do exist and that means there’s hope. “I don’t know,” he frowned and gave her a knowing look, “Why do you want to borrow it?” “I just want to show Nanette and ask her if it’s real. And ask her why she and everyone else have been lying to us.” She lied. She didn’t plan on showing it to Nanette at All. Ambrose had never been able to tell Leonia ‘No’, and a look of defeat crossed his face. “Fine. I guess you can borrow it but I want it back in the morning.” \*\*\* Storm clouds had begun to gather in the sky and cover the stars as Leonia grabbed her leather pack. She slung it over the side of her pirogue and it hit the bottom of the boat with a solid thud. It was filled with items she thought she might need on her journey: a pocket-knife, length of rope, some gator jerky, a fishing line, the map, and a few other things. She hated sneaking off like this, not telling anyone where she was going, but if they knew her plans, they would have refused to let her go. She needed to get to the Drylands and back before the summer solstice arrived. Hopefully, a tribe over there could help them. Maybe, they’d be able send a boat for her people or even send fighters to help them defend their lands. At Leonia’s feet, Minuit canaried out a few small chirps and rubbed against her legs. “No Minuit, you can’t come with me. “ Leonia gently patted her head and nudged her away. She had just spent the rest of the evening with June and Nanette, eating dinner and telling stories like nothing was wrong. Savoring every last moment before she snuck off in the night. Even Nanette didn’t mention what was about to take place. Probably trying to give everyone one last day of normalcy before their world was yet again turned upside down. Leonia was just trying to hold on to them for a little longer. Just in case she didn’t it back home. As Leonia stepped into the pirogue it rocked back and forth under her weight. She grabbed the sides to steady herself, sat down, and then picked up an oar. She launched herself away from the comb jelly’s shores and took one last look at home. *‘Goodbye Aunty, goodbye June,’ she thought* then glanced over at the hut beside it, ‘*goodbye Ambrose.’* She wanted so badly to take Ambrose with her, to have his lazy smile and goofy laugh along for the ride. She would have asked him to come along, and he would have probably said yes, but she needed him here in the Bayou. He wasn’t as lazy as other people thought him. He was stronger than they knew, he could be serious when needed, and he could help protect the island. He could be the strong leader they needed right now. She knew he had it in him. A moment later, Leonia heard a splash in the water. She looked out and groaned, “you pesky rat.” Minuit swam up to the side of the pirogue, leaving a trail in the water behind her. She grabbed the capybara under its arms and lifted her inside. “ Well, I guess your coming with me after all.


The first week of camp was an eventful one. Each day was packed with activities—things like swimming, hiking, volley ball—and always ended with some major event. We’d had a barn dance that first Friday night. Charlie let me borrow one of her flannels and a pair of ripped jeans, though the latter was too tight, and the former too large. She matched me in blue and called us blueberries, something only she found very funny. By week’s end, it felt like far more time had passed. I couldn’t believe the difference between the girl who first step foot onto those grounds and the girl I was now. I was a regular. I knew the songs. I knew the staff—and they knew me! I knew that the shower in the back corner was your best bet for hot water and was usually available right before dinner, but *never* after. I knew that the brown food trays didn’t clean well, for whatever reason, and that if you wanted any chance at getting chocolate milk, you either had to get to breakfast early or hope Christoff was in the kitchen that day. Both Marcy and my mother were right: this place had quickly become home. Charlie, of course, was a huge reason for this. That girl knew each and every inner working of Burntwood, like she’d designed it herself. The way she moved through it was so smooth and fluid, the entire place molding around her existence as though created just for her. I’d learn new things just by watching, my admiration for her growing each day. She was already the best friend I’d ever had, and that made me feel guilty. I tried not to show it when she slipped the bracelet she wove onto my wrist just below Lily’s. The blue and white strings kissed the very edge of the scar across my palm. Weekends at Burntwood were typically less structured, with plenty of down time to do as you pleased. Some caught up on sleep, while most hung out in Hemlock playing ping-pong or simply lounging on the sofas. If we were really lucky, one of the life guards would volunteer some of their time off to guard the main docks for an hour. Charlie, however, had different plans for us that Saturday. “It’s not that far,” she said, dragging one of the kayaks off the rack. We were going to visit her Auntie Meryl across the lake to help prepare for tonight’s big event. With Charlie, I could never tell when something was actually allowed or when she was evoking her Lovel privilege. I kept an eye out for staff as we carried the kayak to the water. “Just so you know, my aunt can be a little weird,” Charlie informed me. “But she’s great, I promise. She can do anything. She helped me get over my fear of heights. Oh! I bet she can help you with your hand!” The pain had gone down but it still felt rather uncomfortable, all blistered and hard, and stuck to the wrap. I winced as we lifted a second kayak and nearly collapsed under its weight. I was exhausted, having hardly slept in days. More than once, Charlie had woken me in the middle of the night, shaking me from outside my bunk and telling me to roll back onto my stomach. When I’d finally protested, she asked me if I trusted her. And I did. So I listened. We carried the other kayak to the water and lowered it in with a splash. I stepped into one gingerly. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with how wet the seat was, or with the spider by my feet. I wanted to stab it with my oar but it wouldn’t fit. Charlie pushed me out into the water and then hopped into hers like it was nothing. “Thanks for coming with me, Red Paw,” she said as she propelled herself out with her oar. I hated the nickname but was too happy to have one to say anything. “Last year, we made it rainbow. You should’ve seen it! It went all the way over the Valley. I think this time we’re doing thunder. It’s gonna be fun!” Before I could say anything, she added, “Also, don’t tell my mom where we went, okay?” I didn’t like the idea of lying to Marcy, nor could I have ignored her. She’d been rewrapping my hand every day and would often approach me in the Dining Hall to ask how I was doing. Between tonight’s big event and how quickly my palm oozed through each bandage, I would certainly be seeing her later. Which wasn’t good, because I was a terrible liar. Charlie and I paddled across the calm water of Starry Lake on what was a perfect summer day. The sun was just the right amount of hot, without a cloud in the sky to interfere. I’d never kayaked before, and though my tired arms left me trailing in Charlie’s wake, it was probably my favorite camp activity thus far. I would’ve had no problem cruising all the way to Canada, and was disappointed when we’d soon reached the other side of the lake. Meryl’s home sat on the very edge of the water, with just a few panels of wood protruding out for a dock. Though five of her seven children had already aged out of Burntwood, Meryl Lovel was still heavily involved in what went on there. Her daughter, Celia, was just a year shy of joining us Wood Lily girls but had remained one of Charlie’s best friends. Until I showed up. She’d still wander off to Celia’s table sometimes at dinner, which made me jealous. But I knew I was being stupid. The house itself told you everything you needed to know about Meryl, with far too many dream catchers, wind chimes, and statues littered around the outside. The sidings were painted two different shades of purple, and, more jarring, had pink columns, dirty and chipped. When Meryl opened the back door to greet us, I instantly remembered having seen her my first day. She was wearing the same oversized crescent-moon necklace I saw her wearing that night. “Oh just leave the boats there—yes, right there is fine. Charlotte, sweetie, how are you? And who is this?” She cocked her head to one side and was beaming at me from atop the steps, her little huffs of breath matching the shakiness of her hands. She moved in short jerks, like she’d just had several cups of coffee. Or something stronger. I stepped forward to shake the hand she was rubbing close to her chest. “I’m Maddie. Nice to meet you.” She squeezed the tips of my fingers and faltered at the sight of the gauze. “*You’re* the girl,” she gasped. “Madeline Goodwin? Oh, dear, I was so sorry to hear about what happened.” I feared, once more, that this was a reference to my sister, and was relieved when she said, “Come. I have something that’ll help with that.” Charlie flashed me a knowing smirk as we followed her inside. I couldn’t say I was quite so sure just yet. The back door led straight into a vast kitchen, with many cabinets high and low surrounding a center island, and windows lining the back wall for a perfect view of the water. “The kids should be back soon,” Meryl said, gesturing for us to take a seat at the old wooden table in the corner. “I sent them in town to pick up a few things for tonight. I’m low on chamomile. And garlic, of all things!” She disappeared into the pantry where we could hear her rummaging through drawers. I took the time to survey the rest of the house. There were several large plants hanging about in places you wouldn’t normally expect to see them; archaic artifacts resting atop shelves between dusty books; and weird paintings of unknown creatures scattered throughout the entirety of the first floor, which was small, but open. I could see more dreamcatchers out on the front porch through the far window of the conjoined living room. Meryl reappeared in a flash and placed a small vial onto the table before me. The liquid inside looked like ink. “Now, don’t drink that or—well, just don’t. But. Put a little bit each night on the wound and it’ll be gone before you know it. Bay leaves. Use them all the time. No scars! You may need a little extra—July can be…tricky. But you’ll thank me later!” I stared at the vial hesitantly but Charlie slid it closer before I could say anything. Meryl grinned and sprung off toward the island to check on the massive pot that was cooking on the burner. There was a half-chopped carrot sitting beside it, something we must have interrupted. She picked up the knife and continued chopping. “Are you excited for the Awakening, Madeline?” I squirmed and repositioned myself, wishing she would pay less attention to me. “I am,” I lied. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening that night, just that it was something they did every summer to mark the end of the first week, and that it was especially important for new campers such as myself. Charlie wouldn’t reveal much else, which made me anxious. She’d assured me that it was merely a way to create fair teams for games and events, and served as a way to get campers of all ages to mingle. Just another one of Burntwood’s silly traditions, she said. She was Team Fire, whatever that was. Silly or not, I was hoping to be the same. “You seem like an Earth girl, if you ask me,” Meryl began. “Very quiet, but strong.” The sound of her knife against the cutting board filled the gaps between her words. “I would know. I’m an Earth girl. An Earth girl raising three Fires, three Ice, and one Air!” She looked up and laughed, light reflecting off the knife she was wielding. I did my best to laugh along with her. You really had to pay attention around Meryl. She did this strange thing where she’d weave in and out of conversations. She could start by talking to you and then wind up speaking to the air, or to herself, only to snap back to you again. “We’re very stubborn though, let me tell you,” she continued, flailing the knife as she spoke. “Us Earthies? We’ll hold onto things for life. I can sense a little bit of that in you, Madeline.” “Mom picks them randomly,” Charlie blurted. Meryl’s face dropped. “Of course she does.” The sudden snap of her next chop startled me. I watched her scoop the carrot slices into her hand and throw them into the pot, where they thunked and sizzled. We were then blessed with silence, albeit awkward, before being saved by the noisy return of her children, who came crashing in like a wave just minutes later, with grocery bags on their arms. Gwyn, the oldest child, led the pack, the others tailing behind her, each paired up in their own discussion with a different sibling. Six girls and one boy. It was interesting seeing the combination of features they shared, some with the same eyes but different nose, or the same nose but different hair. Poor Christian. Not only was he the lone boy, he was also the youngest. He and Celia were in back waiting for their turn in line as Gwyn collected all the bags. She moved like a machine, swiftly unpacking and putting things where they belonged. She waved a jar of minced garlic at Meryl who gasped and took it with delight, before taking Gwyn by the face and pulling her in for a big, motherly kiss. “My beautiful ice queen!” Gwyn, in her twenties, gave a half-hearted smile and continued putting the groceries away, instructing her siblings to do the same. She really was quite beautiful, looking more like Marcy than her own mother, her brown hair braided around her head in the very same way, connecting in back down a long ponytail. Her demeanor, on the other hand, was far different, her resting expression one of discontent. When everything was put away, she snapped her fingers and tapped the island to indicate to the others not to go anywhere. Celia and Christian groaned and she shot them a nasty look. When she turned back, our eyes met and she quickly fixed her face. “Everyone, this is Madeline,” Meryl announced, just now remembering I was there. Her smile barely reached above the pot she was now stirring. “This is her first time at Burntwood so…today is a big day for her.” The whole family lit up amid a collective gasp. “What do you think you’ll be?” asked Faye, the middle child. She had the roundest face of the bunch, and her hair was dyed bright red. Meryl looked like she wanted to answer for me but changed her mind. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “I’m still kind of learning how everything works.” Faye stuck out her bottom lip like she was looking at a puppy, despite only being a few years older than me. She approached the table and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you everything you need to know. Come on.” She took my arm and brought me to the island, Charlie happily following along behind us. Faye talked my ear off about this stew her mother makes every year before the Awakening, and explained the purpose of each individual herb and spice that was cooked inside it. It sounded crazy and would’ve been too much to take in even had she not spoken as fast as she did. But it was a fun atmosphere to be part of nonetheless. I hadn’t had anything like it since before Lily’s chemo. I’d forgotten how much I missed the noise. I stood happily among the chaos: Meryl, Gwyn, and Margot chatting as they fed the stew; Liv, Faye, and Ellie struggling to chop something I couldn’t quite identify; Celia, Charlie, and I pulling leaves off a plant and shrieking every time Charlie pretended she was going to eat one; and little Christian running scraps to the trash and trying his best to look busy. Out of nowhere, a chorus of singing began and soon our voices rang loud throughout the kitchen. I was very glad in that moment that I’d learned some of the camp songs, each as annoyingly catchy as the next and almost always about some poor animal’s demise. We sang a few of them in what would have been my favorite moment of the summer to that point, had it ended there. “What was the one that Dad always used to sing to us?” Faye suddenly asked. I felt the air get sucked out of the room. The older few made a face that the younger were too oblivious to notice. Gwyn cleared her throat. “The Three Little Rascals,” she said. “Dad loved that one.” Faye shook her head. “No, no. It was…oh shoot, what was it? Something about a wolf.” Celia squeaked and started singing. “*‘The lonely wolf hides in the bark, its spirits calling in the dark, it waits for you to light the spark, so don’t go wandering in the park!’*” She sang it a second time, and a third, repeating the same lyrics, only faster, loudly emphasizing each word of the final line. Gwyn’s displeasure was less subtle, but she seemed at a loss. I could see her peak over at her mother from the corners of her eyes. Meryl was just standing there. “*The lonely wolf hides in the bark, its spirits calling in the dark, it waits for you to—*” “Crawling!” Christian shouted. Celia stopped. “It’s ‘spirits *crawling* in the dark’.” “No it’s not! It’s *calling* in the dark! Why would the spirits be crawling, Christian?” “Why would they be calling, they don’t want you to know they’re there, stupid!” “Alright, enough!” Gwyn cried, swiftly getting in between them. “Thank you for all your help. Now go upstairs and get changed. Go!” They sauntered off and stomped up the stairs, their muffled whispers getting swallowed up by their bedroom door. Meryl was silent, lost somewhere in a thought. Gwyn returned with a pale face and faltered a bit when she asked Celia to slide her the pile of leaves. Each of us got right back to work, the sound of Liv’s chopping and the simmering pot the only things filling the air. The girls were darting their eyes back and forth at one another while their mother continued to spin her ladle. Meryl’s mouth twitched a bit, as though bits of her thoughts were escaping her body. “Where’d she learn that one?” she eventually muttered. Everyone’s eyes fell. The room moved more slowly. “I sang it to her once,” said Gwyn. “She asked where it came from, so…” The sound of the knife against the table boomed with each chop, feeling more like the ticking of a bomb. We waited for Meryl’s response but got none. Gwyn remained on the far side, struggling to keep her composure. “So what’s been your favorite event at Burntwood so far?” Margot said to me, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. Her nails were painted purple. “The dance was fun,” I replied softly. It still didn’t feel appropriate to speak. Something clearly wasn’t right. Margot nodded and turned to Meryl. “What about you, Mom? What’s your favorite camp event?” The room shifted their attention to Meryl, who lifted the ladle and took a sip. She grimaced and shook her head, her face slowly swelling with anger. She then threw the ladle across the room. Drops of stew hit me in the face. “You see what you did!” she cried. “It’s spoiled!” She glared directly at Gwyn and pointed her finger. “This is your fault. The *one* thing Shereen asks me to do. The one thing!” She put a hand to her forehead and wailed an exaggerated groan. “We can fix it, Mom,” Faye assured her. “Oh, honestly, Faye, just shut the fuck up, for once. Please? Can you do that for me?” Tears welled in Faye’s eyes as she nodded and faded back against the wall. Celia and Christian had reappeared in the doorway, cowering in their new yellow and red outfits. I was too afraid to keep watching. I stared down at my feet where more specks of stew had been splattered. “*We can fix it*,” Meryl mocked. “No, *I* can fix it.” She huffed and continued on mumbling under her breath. I could hear her rummaging through drawers and cabinets, tossing other unknown contents into the pot. I finally looked up when she snapped her fingers and said, “Line up. Everyone.” No one wanted to move. It was Margot who broke the ice. She stepped up and flinched when Meryl simply placed her hand on her back. “Go ahead,” Meryl instructed with a nod toward the pot. Margot leaned her face forward, and spit in it. Meryl lifted her hand and waved for the next person. I watched in awe as the other girls approached one by one, each spitting into the pot without a word. Christian hung back. “Me too, Mom?” Meryl signaled him forward and he rather happily spit into the pot. She smiled weakly at him and then turned to me. “Maddie, c’mon dear.” I felt sick. I absolutely did not want to do this, nor did I have any idea why it was being done. Yet I complied, crawling to the other side of the island where an agitated Meryl was beckoning for me to move faster. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. I hopped up against the table and spit quick, nearly hitting my chin against the pot as I hurried down. Before I could get away, a hand gripped my shoulder. “Again. That wasn’t enough.” I’d never felt more disgusting. I glanced at Charlie but she was staring down at the floor. The blank look on her face made me feel worse. I turned back and got up higher on my toes, preparing a thick pool of spit in my mouth and letting it fall slowly into the stew so that Meryl could be sure of its existence. She thanked me with a pat on the back and then shot another glare at Gwyn, the only one yet to contribute. No words were needed. Gwyn reluctantly approached, stopping just shy of where Meryl wanted her and getting pulled closer, their noses nearly touching. Gwyn shuddered, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. “Go on,” said Meryl. She was blocking the way but wouldn’t move. Gwyn had to lean past her, practically sticking her face inside the pot. The moment the saliva broke from her lips, Meryl grabbed her by the braid and held on tight, looking more furious than ever. “No, Mom, please!” Gwyn shrieked, writhing in her mother’s grasp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” Meryl ignored her. “Margot, dear, get me the blue candle.” Margot hesitated, distracted by Gwyn’s sobbing. Gwyn looked over at us, as though pleading for help. But no one said a word. “Margot!” Meryl snapped. Margot dashed across the room and reached up for one of the high cabinets, where many multi-colored jars sat neatly packed, three rows deep. Still flustered by her sister’s cries, she retrieved the royal blue, only to be corrected. “No, the light blue.” Margot jumped and returned to the cabinet. Gwyn caught herself as Meryl gave repeated tugs to keep her under control, tears streaking down her cheeks as she helplessly watched Margot swap the candles. “Light it,” said Meryl. Margot nodded and found matches inside the drawer. A weight was building in my chest as she struggled to light the match, nearly fumbling it before finally getting the candle lit. She stumbled back a safe distance and stood all alone at the end of the table, staring anxiously at the flame. Meryl shoved her free hand into the drawer for a large pair of scissors, raising it to Gwyn’s braid and, in several crunchy snips, cutting off a thick, lengthy piece. The remaining stub fell limp to its side. Meryl let go of Gwyn with a shove and placed the severed braid inside the candle jar, watching it burn and melt into the wax. Gwyn continued to whimper, standing motionless just inches from her mother, tears still falling onto the floor, snot oozing out her nose. Her soul was seeping through her puffy, red eyes. Meryl paid no mind. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smokey remains of her daughter’s hair, taking big breaths and releasing them slowly out her nose. The rest of us held our breath. When she finished, she returned to the stew with a new ladle, lifting herself another large scoop. My body was numb, fearing what may happen if she had still been dissatisfied. After a crisp slurp, she swished her tongue around the inside of her mouth and gave it a few more clicks, staring through the wall ahead of her. She then nodded and gave the pot a casual stir. “The Offering,” she said, glancing over at Margot. “That’s my favorite camp event.” She smiled to herself and carried on like nothing had happened, humming “The Lonely Wolf” as she stirred. “Alright!” she suddenly declared.


I'm not going to go into how. Honestly me trying to explain's like a physicist teaching pottery. Sufficed to say, I was having coffee, on a relaxing Sunday morning and suddenly my Sunday was NOT relaxing anymore. It would have been less totally fucking abrupt if my cat hadn't been chilling in my lap at the time. He does this thing where I sit at the kitchen table and scootch up close to it. Then he kinda meows to let me know he's there and jumps into my lap. I digress. Coffee. Sunday morning. Lucifer, my cat. If you could just imagine a kind of sudden expansion? Like if you pulled the cord on an inflatable dingy. And suddenly a man was in my lap. A full grown man. Now, I'm not a witch, but if I were I'd assume that when you turn a cat into a person they show up naked. Idk why.... It's not a sexual thing. Anyway. Lucifer (my cat) did not… arrive this way. He arrived in a suit. A *nice* suit. It just got weirder from there. Because he was in my lap and he... Expanded so fast? He absolutely upset the table,the coffee, the toast, everything. Upsetting for me, upsetting for the table. But not as upsetting as having an exploded cat on your hands. Exploded is the wrong word. Expanded? You get the idea. God. No one is gonna believe this. Aaanyway. After i became acquainted with the distinctly unusual turn of events there was a serious pause. A LONG PAUSE. we stared at each other confusedly. In shock. Then the chair collapsed. I should have mentioned. My chairs are garbage. Really great for one person, but a dangerous proposition with two smal people. Never mind the two of us. Yeah. So the chair broke and my cat. My person? Reacted as you'd expect. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a gangly six foot two man in a suit try to frantically scramble up the curtains to his favourite hidey-hole, but I have and if it weren't so disastrous it would have been funny. Down came curtains, catman, and several shelves containing not one but two family heirlooms and -of all things- a tray of beads. The sound, the mess, the destruction was biblical. Not to mention the yowling of the catman who... Can he even talk? After that, there was silence. Blessed silence. I think Lucifer was stunned because he just lay there. "What the FUCK just happened???" Ah. So cat people CAN talk. I thought wryly. I added this to my little mental journal of things to note about recently transformed cat people. Then I thought "I'm being surprisingly cool about this..." Is that normal? Should I see a therapist? Lucifer, the man, the cat stood! Shakily at first. And then with a sort of grace. He would’ve been sort of regal had he not then slipped on the beads. I think in addition to his lack of experience with the beads he may not have fully grasped bipedalism. On his back a second time he shouted a frustrated: "FUUUUUUUUUCK" Rightly put out by his circumstance and obvious lack of catlike reflexes. Still sitting in the remains of my chair something clicked in my brain and I crawled over to where he lay. I was still at a loss for words. "How...? What...?" I fumbled "Fuck you" said the man in the suit, with conviction. I sat back. Look at the ceiling. There was jam on it. From the upset earlier. It fell on my face. A satisfying plop. I decided it was time to stop letting the day fuck me over. Something or someone was fucking with me and this was precisely where the buck stopped. Standing carefully, (because: beads) I said: "stay there". Then, with purpose I strode to the kitchen, almost died because again: beads. I poured myself a glass of water, dumped in about a teaspoon of salt I downed it like a shot. Then I took the salt to where Lucifer had stayed (surprisingly) and pouring myself a generous handful and threw it at him. Nothing happened. Not for at least ten seconds. Then Lucifer seemed to shimmer and the sun went out for a instant. Then everything was suddenly normal. Well… not **normal** People in the old days threw salt behind them. That works sometimes, but in my experience if you know where the trouble is you should address it directly. I imagine you're probably thinking it would take a great deal of magic to put the sun out. And you're right. It totally would. Assuming you're doing it for everyone. That said I figured by now that whatever was happening was happening around me specifically. The salt taken care of I knelt down to eye level with Lucifer (currently in the process of popping a seam) and said; "Lucy, can you understand me?" He then gave me a very familiar contemptuous look. "Don't be fucking stupid." Cat person journal entry no. 2: cats like the word fuck. Again, at a loss for words i just looked at him for a second. "Do you want to be a cat again?" "DO yOu waNT TO bE a cAT aGAiN?" He echoed without hesitation. I threw my remaining water in his face. He slapped me. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" I'd just like to pause and note here that it would be manifestly wrong to assume that all cats (given a shot at being human) are assholes. I know it's sort of what we expect when we think of talking cats or people, but I've met plenty of cats who were sweet and tender and nurturing. My cat, like some people, just happened to be an asshole. Reeling a little from the sting I said "No. Don't ever do that again." Then: “Get up Lucy. We're going to find Emiley.” AAAAAAND that's it! Thanks for reading. Thoughts welcome. Pls be kind. It's been a while. There's more to this story. Lmk if you wanna know the rest of it.


Roman Fuller rises from his seat and walks to the platform in the center of the hall. "My name is Roman, and I've killed 217 zombies." The figure astounds the audience; it is by far the highest reported at the support group. "The majority of the zombies were from Glendale, where I live and work. Just like the last guy, I have to complete the required therapy, participate in this support group, and I don't have to serve any time. It's been difficult; I don't think any of us expected there to be a cure for the zombie virus; I'm hoping this group can change people's perceptions of me I look forward to hearing from others, thank you," Roman says as he steps down from the platform and takes his seat in the crowd. Roman is heading to work through Glendale, a town with roughly 10,000 people, though post-zombie apocalypse, it's more like 8,000. A mother with a young child walks by, throwing Roman the middle finger. An elderly woman rolls down her window simply to shout at Roman, "I hope you get shot in the head." As Roman approaches the counter within a restaurant, the waitress throws him an evil eye and says, "Sorry, we're closed for lunch." "You're a restaurant; lunch is what you do," Roman replied. "Perhaps we're simply closed for individuals who killed my sister," says the waitress as she brings lunch to another table. Roman gets the picture and heads back to his work. As he enters the building, the receptionist greets him, "Oh great, the office jerk made it back alive. Lenny wants to see you," she says. "Thanks," Roman says as he walks through evil stares from everyone in the office. Roman knocks on Lenny's door twice; he's seated at his desk and waves him in. "Hey Roman, you know, the business has been on the mend since the end of the apocalypse," he says nervously as he continues. "I know we said everyone would get their job back, but there's only so much financial burden we can take on right now, so we're going to let you go." "You're firing me?" Roman inquired. "No, no, no, no, no, we're looking to maximize efficiency and performance; it was a tough call, we choose you by a hair," Lenny explains. "So you're terminating me based on my performance? Are you certain it isn't because I murdered your parents?" Roman inquired. "Whaaaaaat? Of course not; that's water under the bridge in my case. This is solely for performance purposes," Lenny expresses. "All right, can I at least pack my belongings?" Roman inquired. "I believe it would be best for everyone in the office if we shipped you your things. Avoid uncomfortable farewells. You know, keep in touch; why did you murder my family? Blah, blah, blah," Lenny says. "Yeah, I guess I get it," Roman admits. No matter what Roman did, he couldn't find work, the residents continued to treat him like a murderer, and he couldn't move because he was required by court order to attend the support group. Roman was resolved to make the best of the situation, attending meetings and conversing with other zombie slayers. "You kill one family's Mimi, and suddenly you're not invited to Christmas dinner," one zombie slayer grumbled. "Just because I stabbed your children through the ears doesn't mean I don't have feelings," said another zombie slayer as he sobbed from the platform. Roman had finally made it to his final required support group. He had big plans to leave Glendale and become a commercial fisherman; he would depart first thing in the morning to begin his new life. As the meeting was coming to a close, Doctor Mejia, Glendale's only doctor, comes rushing into the hall, panicked. "They've returned; they've returned! The zombies have returned and have taken over the entire town; we need your help," the doctor said while narrowly avoiding a zombie onslaught outside the door. "Nah, been there, done that, have the zombies come in, they can have some day-old coffee," a zombie slayer jokes, pointing to the dusty coffee machine on the table. "I secured the doors, but they can only hold for so long," the doctor says as he begins to push chairs and tables in front of the door. "What about the cure, the vaccine?" inquires another zombie slayer. "We've tried everything," the doctor says as he begins to move the coffee machine, napkin holder, and creamer dispenser in front of the door. "What exactly are we doing here? Glendale needs us again, and we're just going to sit back and watch everyone perish?" Roman motivates. "But look what happened last time, we became outcasts," says a zombie slayer. Roman walks onto the platform, "Did we get blamed for killing everyone's loved ones? Sure. Did they seize all of our weapons, making this fight even more difficult? Yeah, they did that. Will we be remembered for saving the town this time? Most likely not. But there are zombies outside that door, and if these support meetings have taught me anything, it's that zombie slayers kill zombies!" Roman says, determined. "Wasn't that the point of the support group?" says the support group counselor gently. Roman rushes up to the end of the hall, picks up an American flag, and snaps the wooden handle in half, creating a zombie-killing spike. "Come on, let's go slaughter some zombies!!" Roman says as he marches towards the door. Roman and the zombie slayers wiped out Glendale's zombie population. By the time they were done, there were almost no zombies left. The waitress from the cafe, dead; Roman's boss Lenny, dead; even the receptionist, dead! Hundreds upon hundreds of zombies were slaughtered by Roman and the zombie slayers. After an epic battle, Roman sits on the steps of city hall, and the doctor approaches him with a vile in his hand. "We altered the vaccine; there's a cure again!" exclaims the doctor. "Is that the cure right there?" Roman inquires. "Yes," the doctor confirms, "it's the only vaccine for miles." Roman shifts his gaze to the left and then to the right. He then stabbed the doctor in the head with the bloodied wooden spike he had obtained from the support group hall. The vile shatters into hundreds of fragments as it falls to the ground. "Oh, no, the doctor dropped the cure," Roman said to himself as he kills a zombie woman who gave him the finger as he walked down the street.


Who knew giraffes were omnivores? When presented with food scarcity, they often compete with each other for the highest leaves. Their teeth shape and behaviors for a million years completely align with herbivores. The flat wide molars allow the animal to grind the plant tissue. Break through the cell walls to maximize nutrient absorption. Sure, they are dangerous creatures already with a “kick powerful enough to behead a lion” and can reach speeds up to 40 miles per hour. But no one expected this. Man must pay for his misdeeds when the treetops are stripped of their leaves. We fucked it up.   Namibia, 2028: Our population has exploded in the past 5 years. The Insurgency of Cabo Delgato has spread. The Ansar al-Sunna, a radical faction of Islamic extremists, has successfully made Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Botswana into an Islamic State. The Namibian military was decimated in the Battle of Luanda, Angola. Our country has been flooding with refugees since. We just couldn’t house them all on our own, but our allies gave up. We were deemed a lost cause. We have raided what forest cover we had left for medicines and lumber. ‘People are more important than animals’ our politicians said. It was true to an extent. But it just made everything worse. People were still starving on the streets, children dying from curable diseases, violent crime is the highest in our history. Our water sources are poisoned with our own waste. Almost all water sources have been contaminated one way or another. It was just a matter of time. The desert has spread. Eating up our marshlands and ridding our surrounding plant life. There is a reason the Ansar haven’t come for us, we are not a country but a mass grave.  Then the giraffes. God, we weren’t ready.  It started when the wildlife starting coming into our camps. Exploring for food as the prey was dwindling. We have lost hundreds to lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, and wild dogs. They came in droves. Never before has anyone seen these predators working together to stay alive. Divundu became a refugee camp for 3000 people. The cup floweth over here. We lost Divundu to the animals. No one could hold them back. We were their prey. And one day, they stopped entirely. Our environmentalists have become as useful as our politicians. Half-baked answers to questions they have never been asked. Answers to quell the overwhelming fear sweeping the nation. Our people are not sated. They first appeared in Rundu, the largest refugee camp of 150,000 residents. A lone farmer witnessed a small tower of giraffes devouring the last of his livestock. No one believed him. How could they? These peaceful giants have been roaming these lands for a million years and only attack when provoked. A bus of children was found flipped over on the outskirts of town. The bodies of many were strewn about, well, what was left. The hollowed-out corpses and the shaking children whispering ‘the tall ones were here’ added support to the farmer’s claims. The hoove-shaped holes in their chests was the cherry on top. Giraffes were hunting us. God is dead. We had lost track of their population numbers. Our scientists couldn’t understand what they have been witnessing. The gestation period has decreased from 15 months to three. The litter size to 10. Giving birth is lethal to them. The calves claw and eat their way out of their mothers. They reach full maturity in 5 months. They’ve been breeding like rabbits and the current estimate is in the hundred thousands, nearing a million. This level of atavism is beyond us. Maybe they evolved? Certainly not within this time frame? Our villages were no competition. Since the discovery, Namibia has been quarantined. The last of us, 2000 survivors, are hiding in the Karibib Airbase. Without our military, this is the only way to defend ourselves.   USA, 2045: The world is devoured. Eaten alive by these ‘Peaceful Giants.’ The growth in their numbers has been exponential. First, they ate Africa. All life is wiped out. Once again, they evolved. Long known as one of the mammals in the world that are not able to swim. Scientists believed that the long neck of the giraffe and the long legs would not provide enough energy to support its neck while in water. This was no longer the case. Their gestation period shortened, their litter size increased, their maturity is faster, and they are massive. The average northern adult giraffe now measures 50 feet tall. They now have long, sharp teeth adapted to ripping, tearing, and cutting flesh. Speeds up to 80 mph. Built like a tank, it takes a lot to stop them. And they swim. God can they swim. A new species has also arisen. Brevis Fortis Panthera. An average height of 6 feet, razor-sharp teeth, 30 mph, capable of walking on hind legs, complex problem-solving. They have large-scale cooperation. They can strategize. Their sense of smell is extremely sensitive and set to human. THUMBS. THEY FUCKING HAVE THUMBS. They use tools, open doors, start fires, and seem to have their own structured language. Fuck guns. They’re useless against the towers consisting of fifty or more. They stalk the streets foraging for any remaining stray pets. The wild dog packs that ran rampant in the beginning are now gone. We can only hide for so long. The Brevis, nicknamed Short Necks, have been raiding homes, offices, businesses, MILITARY BASES. Everyone’s a gangster until you have a man-sized giraffe aiming an M16 at your head. The Short Necks and the Extra Talls work together. Extra talls are sentries. If they see you or your group, you're as good as dead. They scream and alert all others in the area. If the Short Necks need a door kicked down, they call out to the ETs. If they know you’re inside but can’t find you, they torch the place. Leave no survivors. We don't have enough scientists to research them. We don’t have a large enough army to combat them. We are the holers, the last of our kind.   Giraffica, 2090: Our society is flourishing. After the war, we were able to settle down. With mankind under wraps, our nations have been taken back by nature. All the high leaves we can eat. Our evolutionary advances have slowed a bit but we are still discovering new tribes across the world with different capabilities. In our homeland, our brethren have even taken to the skies. The bats are no longer the only flying mammals. Suck it. In the country formally known as japan, they can fish! Not only that, the newer generations are being born with gills in addition to lungs. The seas are now a reservoir of new foods. I’ve never had sushi before but i heard that Melmon can make one hell of a tuna roll. Our litter sizes are down to 1-2 again and our gestation cycle is almost back to our ancestors. Our growth rate has plateaued and is in balance. Short necks maintain the farms and buildings. They live indoors mostly and have lifelong relationships with their families. We really lucked out when we secured the last of the upright apes. Breeding seems to be the only thing they’re good at. They pushed back of course, but we dealt with the uprisings well. Us Extra Talls have kept many as slaves for harvesting meat. It’s actually a wonderful spectacle to behold. We throw a handful into stadiums and watch as they rip each other apart. Their eyes leak water when they clean the floors and prepare the meat. All in all, things are good. Our wars were well fought and easily won. Giraffe kind is at the top of the food chain. We are capable of making the world better. The ozone layer is fully repaired, the forests are taking back their lands, the reefs are growing and are bountiful with fish. We won’t screw the world up like the humans.   Tall-boi-topia, 3500: We fucked it up. Things are bad now. Right where they started. Except we didn’t expect the next peak predators to be rabbits. Billions upon Billions of rabbits. But they're no ordinary rabbits. They’re the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on! The rabbits’ got a vicious streak a mile wide! They’re killers! They’ve got huge, sharp-- eh-- he can leap about-- look at the bones filling the streets!   Rabbit world, 5000: We fucked it up.


The air creaked and reeked of sweat and death. Fifteen of them where chained up against the inside wall of the barge, hands and feet bound, with collars holding their necks for good measure. Four of them were already dead, a few more not far behind. The strongest kept their silence and looked straight ahead, trying not to breathe too deeply. Jimenez was the third man along from the only door to the stinking, foetid room they were being kept in. Had he been able to move his arms, he could have touched the opposite wall with only a mild stretch. He *was* able to move his feet slightly, back and forth. It helped keep the pain alive, reminded him that his feet were still there. They’d chopped one of the men off at the knees a few days ago for crying; he was quiet soon after, bled out on the floor. His rotting feet, along with this blood and shit and tears were part of the mixed stench permeating the room. The barge hadn’t stopped for the sixteen, maybe seventeen days they’d been aboard. There were no windows, but a light permanently filtered through cracks in the door frame. It didn’t grow stronger or fade, so it wasn’t the sun. Jimenez had tried to keep track of time by listening for changes of the watch on deck. Sometimes it was muffled, weather depending. Sometimes he had heard it clear. Other times, he was sure he’d missed it, asleep or unconscious. He couldn’t remember why he’d what he’d did. He wasn’t sure if he was a murderer or not. Might have been self-defence. Might have been straight up evil. He didn't know anymore. He only knew he had to be quiet and keep looking straight ahead. Thirty days in the dark without a word, and he’d be free. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen. Footsteps, something thumping along the corridor and then keys jangled outside the door. Time for water, and torture. The guards weren’t allowed to touch the prisoners as long as the prisoners kept silent, but there was nothing in the law to say the guards had to be silent themselves. “YOU FUCKING SCUM! WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU SCUM!” The screams of the Water Carrier were accompanied by his fist, banging on the outside of the door frame. The creaking of the barge was drowned out briefly, but the smell remained. Keys jangled again, then dull light invaded the room, quickly followed by more enthusiastic screaming. “You murderous fuckpigs! You evil wastes of skin! You wake up! You wake up! You wake up and you talk to me! You tell me your names and apologise for your fucking crimes and I will give you water! Water is freedom! Water is life! Silence is death for you bastards, so you tell me your fucking names!” The Water Carrier slithered into the room, doing his honest best not to touch any of the prisoners. He held the end of a hose in one calloused hand, the coils of it in his other. His lackey remained in the corridor, poised over the water barrel the hose was connected to, ready to pump. Jimenez opened his mouth, stayed silent. The Water Carrier was wrong; silence was life. He came into the room twice a day with the hose and the water. The prisoners were allowed to drink their fill each time, although they had had no food since the night before they were chained to the wall, one after the other. They would have no food unless they disembarked alive at the end of the journey. Thirteen, maybe fourteen days. The Water Carrier walked to the end of thin room, loosing the hose as he went and carrying on his demands to be spoken to. The last man in the row, the first to walk in, was still alive. He had his head up, mouth open, eyes shut. The Water Carrier raised the hose, nodded to his lackey, and water flowed into the prisoner’s mouth. The man swallowed, spat some up, while the Water Carrier continued to speak to him, softly. The prisoner moved his head around as best he could to wash some of the accumulated sweat and blood and grime off. Kept his eyes closed, then, when he had had enough, closed his mouth. The Water Carrier lowered the hose and turned back the way he came. Smiled. “Come on you fucking bastards! Speak! Speak! Hold your piece and I will hold the water! You will get nothing from me! SCUM!” The last word was spat into the face of the first dead man, number two in the row. The ship had barely made it out of port before he’d broken, yelled “I want out, this was a mistake, I want out!” It was always rumoured that the guards laid money down to be the First Executioner. That each one chose a prisoner, threw some gold into a pot, and whichever one picked the first prisoner to break pocketed the lot. Oh, and had the right to execute that prisoner in whichever way they saw fit. Whichever way it worked, a long dark streak of piss in a guard uniform had ghosted into the room and used a spoon to pry out the yelling prisoner’s eyes. He’d poured something, not much of something, but *something*, into the open sockets and set a light to them, a fucking stupid thing to do on a boat, river barge or not - it was a deep river and an old boat. Whatever the guard had used, the prisoner’s head lit up. His throat broke on the first scream, and his rasping cries continued for another few minutes, until the guard decided he’d had enough fun and ended it with a knife across the throat. The other fourteen of them had looked ahead, or kept their eyes shut. They didn’t say a word. A few of them pissed themselves from fear. Jimenez shat his last meal down his legs and onto the floor, clamped his teeth down on his lips and a whimper. Short, sharp breaths erupted from the remaining men as they struggled to control themselves. Breathing was fine, no matter how loudly; but they were prisoners and had no voice, symbolically. If they challenged that symbolism, spoke or gasped or cried out or mumbled or sang or made any noise from their throat, then they died. And justice prevailed. The Water Carrier reached the body of a man he’d been able to kill himself. Two days into the voyage, the prisoner had calmly said, as the Water Carrier raised the hose to his mouth, “My name is Alberto and I killed my three sons and their mother and I think I should die now.” The Water Carrier had dropped the hose, taken a leather glove studded with metal spikes and hooks from his robes, put it on, and then he had punched Alberto’s head against the wall of the barge until it broke, and then just punched harder. When the hose had come to Jimenez it still tasted of blood from Alberto. He’d drank his fill, and felt better for it. The Water Carrier looked almost fondly at Alberto’s corpse, a smile on his face like a child gazing in awe at a particularly impressive shit. “This man! This man is free! This man told me his name, and now he is free! You, bastards! You bastards are not free and if you do not tell me your name, I will not give you water! Speak your crimes to me! The hose came up, and water spilled down the face of the man to Jimenez’ left. Jimenez held his pose, mouth open, eyes watching the wall ahead. He could see the lackey, from the corner of his eye, pumping up and down at the barrel. Despite the Water Carrier’s words, they were duty and oath bound to ensure the prisoners were watered. Jimenez felt water on his face, in his mouth. He gulped some of it down, tried to spray some out and up, over his cheeks and chin, shaking his head and trying to spit some down his chest towards his aching feet. The Water Carrier leaned in close, never touching, but still speaking. “You evil fucking pig, I know what you did, I know what you *all* did and you’re all going to burn, you’re all going to burn slowly. There’s no freedom for you. Keep your fucking silence, the first thing I’ll do when you get off this boat is tie you to a fucking tree and ram a fire-heated sword blade into your fucking arsehole. Think that’ll hurt? Huh, think that’ll hurt? Best bit is, if I keep the sword there, the heat will cauterise your wound, you won’t bleed out for days. For fucking *days*. You keep your silence. They’ll be warming the coals now, you evil scum fuck.” Jimenez closed his mouth. The Water Carrier moved on. Jimenez leant his head back on the wall, licked his lips. He looked straight ahead, at the wall opposite. A man’s image hung there. The man he had killed. He looked the same as he had when Jimenez had last saw him: eyes bruised, jaw broken. A knife in his stomach. His eyes were open, hard and cold, staring at Jimenez, full of hate and anger. Jimenez knew that only he could see the dead man, just like he knew that the other men were seeing different images, of the people they’d killed. Some would be seeing their families, like Alberto had. Some would be seeing strangers, like he was. This was their punishment, their justice, their guilt trip. Thirty days in the dark to look at the people they’d murdered. To look them in the eyes and see what they’d done. To reflect, to repent. Or to break. The survivors, the hardest of them, would be freed at the end of the journey. They’d be fed and allowed to rest and then there’d be a place for them in the King’s Guard. Maybe they’d be above decks, one day, as another batch of murderers came down the river for a quiet sail. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen.


My secret was suddenly split open when a cloaked man approached me with my birth name. This name was written somewhere safe, secret in the forest. There weren’t many of us in these recent times, those who honored the trees. The young man approached with his spine pulled up tall and shoulders square with a jar full of opaque, gold, thick liquid in his hand. His vibrant, green eyes bore into me, making the hair on my neck stand on end. There was a glimmer of knowledge, and I felt as if he was a wolf and I a rabbit. I had felt the liquid approaching but was unsure as to how. The tree held my secrets; I suspect the man was aware of this. Let me take you back about 10 years. I was in my early 20’s running from a life of abuse and captivity. In my desperate need for escape, for freedom, I ran to the woods that was warned about in hushed whispers. Looking back, I can see the naivety in my actions; however, I also knew whatever I ran into, even the most feared and hated wood, it was better than where I had been. Once I dashed past the first few layers of the trees the wood enveloped, captivated, enchanted me. Somehow it even guarded my ears from the yells and screams of those who hunted me. This is what the elders of the manor had warned about, this hazed and distant feeling that overcame you once you stepped into the demonic forest. The smell of it drifted into my nose like a warm, muddy day on the farm, but instead of feeling terror the aroma made me feel as if I was being gathered up in the most inviting way. Instinctively, I knew I needed to keep climbing over the roots and stumps to make it deeper into the woodland. With each labored step that took me over branches and gnarled rocks, I was looking upwards towards the sky while tripping here and there. I couldn’t see much of the sky but to me it appeared as a canopy of open dreams. The different hues of green captivated me, they shimmered and shined as the sun leaked through the small cracks between the leaves and branches. It was enough to keep my brain distracted from the conflict growing within me. All my life I was warned that this place was dangerous, that this place would ruin and kill me. As I walked through it, I continued to feel more at peace than I had ever been in the most sacred sanctuaries in our town. This baffled me. According to my teachings I should be terrified now due to the fact that I had traveled for more than a few hours into this forsaken forest. Ironically, I felt the safest I had felt in all my life. I don’t know if the forest protected me or the men had just lost hope of finding me, but eventually I was no longer able to hear the cries of those hunting me. Somehow I knew that it wasn’t just the life of the forest guarding me, the men were truly gone. It felt as if the thick, aqueous, albeit invisible shield that had been protecting me and muffling the noises had disappeared. The most prominent sounds were the wind whistling past the branches and the leaves fluttering in a consuming sound of singing and laughter. Without knowing what the environment and its beings were talking about in the breeze, I could feel they meant me no harm. At the farm the men mostly ventured into the wood to cut down trees for houses, carts, and firewood. They would speak of men being ripped apart by the trees and warn the small children of the dangerous trees. They spoke of trees coming to life and chasing them, murdering them. In my short time in this wood, I did not feel the same terror the men rumored existed. I felt as if the canopy and trunks were opening up and inviting me in. After a few more hours moving towards an unknown destination, I realized I was growing weary after the adrenaline to keep running away from danger had diminished. Coincidentally, it happened at the moment I found a small patch of grass, no bigger than a large bed, beneath five of the most welcoming trees. They were twice my height; bark marbled with whites, browns, and blues; and their swaying branches covered the top of the grass perfectly from any sun poking its way through. I laid down and slept for an unknown amount of time. When I awoke, five trees had become eleven. They appeared to have shifted around me and blocked me in. Their curiosity about my human form was palpable, I am fairly sure humans had never made it this far alive. They were watching me with interest, not malice. “Ummm… hi….. trees”, I eventually squeaked out of my voice box. “Welcome”, their leaves sang in unison in a melodic chorus. I froze. Confused. Did I just hear their leaves talk? “Mhhmmm”, their branches nodded and hummed. Frozen, blank, because my question was not spoken. How can they read my mind? “We are you and you are us” they informed me, but this answered less questions than it created. I must have held a blank, baffled expression. How could these things, these trees be me? How could they be me, I be them, and we be us? This was a confusing moment for me. The trees just continued to sway and dance in the gentle breeze. Still, I felt a complete lack of fear, just confusion. I knew I was still safer here than back on the farm. One of the trees shifted around one of the much larger eleven trees to shyly peer at me with unseen eyes. Needless to say, the humanoid-like movement of the tree caused me to scream like a princess while my vision got very fuzzy and discolored. Next I remember waking up in the lovely soft grass that had somehow grown even plusher. The same tree was bending at the groove where the trunk meets the branches to look down over me. “hhhhhhh——aarrrreeeeeee yooouuuuuu oooooooooook?” The leaves on it breathed in slowly. “Startled, but ok” I told the tree and its leaves. We both looked, if you can call what this tree was doing looking, at each other. I shifted in the grass, sitting up, and looking around to see if the other trees were still there. Nobody else had moved. I didn’t know where to go from here. I didn’t know what to say. The tree broke the silence but instead of speaking aloud I heard him in my heart, or was that my brain? “I want to keep you safe, to protect you always. Let me have your true name to keep within my branches, sealed within my bark, and you will be free of the prison you were sold to”, he pleaded with me in an earnest tone. Without hesitation I told this friendly, young tree, “I believe you, please, take my name”, and so the tree wrapped its branches around me tightly. Its bark sliced into my skin and then itself ripped open. My blood seeped into its sap and its life slipped into me. This is where my true name has been for the last few centuries, that is until the man standing in front of me recently walked into this place. I was simply craving a lovely meal before my journey at the cafe below my lodgings, but this stranger had to make an entrance and an interruption. I watched this man with the jar of thick, golden liquid continues to walk towards me. My face remains flat, emotionless, or at least I hope for the tree’s sake. My concern was about what happened to the tree that chose to have a human as its life mate. Was the tree still alive? Is the tree simply hurt? What happened to my partner? The man clearly hunted me down for a reason, I just hope for his sake the forest is unharmed. The forest was my family after the events in the glade. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel safe. I do not feel safe with my own kind like I did with the supposed frightful wood. “Sit”, he finally demands while waving his hand to a nearby table. I saunter over to the recommended table, and sit at the one next to it instead. A staff member brings a plate of the fluffiest pancakes I had ever seen stacked into four towers, a bowl of scrambled eggs, several bowls of fresh fruit, sausage patties, stacks of toast, sizzling bacon, and freshly churned butter to the table. She sets everything down, lays the place setting with knives, forks, plates, then gives a small curtsy to the man, and swiftly turns and walks away. “Not yet” he commands the young, shaking girl. “Coffee, black for me, some for my guest here, as well as a pitcher of orange juice”, he states without looking at her. She scurries into the kitchen. The man had been leaning on the back of the chair opposite the table from myself. He continued to move the jar of liquid in his hands, never taking his eyes off me. He then steps to the side of his chair and before sitting down, slams the jar on the table causing the plates and bowls to jump off and back down. Nothing spills or falls off the table. He then sits slowly laughing at nothing in particular. “I don’t know about you, but I adore having my pancakes swimming in syrup”, he announces while slowly removing the lid from the jar, “Are you ready to have breakfast, just the two of us? Oh my apologies, three of us” he speaks with wicked pleasure.


I often wonder what others think of me and, whenever I do, it makes me feel anxious. It’s sort of a sinking feeling, where you slowly drown in your insecurities. The best way to avoid this feeling is to be like others because if they see themselves in you, they won’t judge you. I decided to buy a mirror and hang it around my neck so, whenever I meet somebody, they will see themselves. At first the mirror felt uncomfortable but, sort of like glasses, after a while I didn’t even feel it anymore. Almost immediately, my life changed! At parties people actually started speaking to me and those who used to ignore me now wanted to talk to me. Many of these people were also wearing mirrors, and this made me feel more comfortable. I guess I saw myself in them. They reflected my opinions, my taste in clothing, and my sense of humor, and I reflected theirs. “It’s so awesome hanging out with you man,” Andrew excitedly remarked, “we should do this more often!” I’ve known him for a while, however in recent months our friendship suddenly rekindled. We attended many more parties together. One evening, Andrew, myself and a few others were enjoying a few drinks when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a childhood friend entering the bar alone. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen him in so long! That kid is the biggest weirdo ever!” My friend’s remark were followed by laughter, however I didn’t join in. I wanted to go over and say hi, but the weight of my mirror didn’t allow me to move. I wanted to tell my new friends he is a good person, but my mirror prevented me from speaking my mind. I hated this mirror, but I was afraid that if I removed it, I’d be alone again. I wanted to cry right then and there, but my mirror wouldn’t let me. The mirror was getting so heavy I was barely able to stand, so I told the mirror gang “ I’ve got to go home.” I walked outside when, suddenly, I was blindsided by a loud, rambunctious laughter. It was a laughter so pure, it brought me back to my childhood days, when I could laugh for hours without any reason. It brought me back to the days where the joy that created the universe emanated through my eyes and smile. But, although the laughter was so close to me, it couldn’t have been further away from my soul. As I was staring at this group of light hearted adults, something struck me as incredibly odd. It wasn’t that they were all dressed, or acted differently. It was that none of them had a mirror dangling from their necks. One of them connected with my eyes before I could shyly look away, and approached me. “Do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” I always wondered why people used the word borrow for something they wouldn’t return. I gave him the cigarette and struck the liter. “You know, I used to have a mirror as well,” he said, appreciating the cigarette as if it had been years. “What happened to it?” I asked “I slipped once, and the mirror shattered. And not a single person who, all had mirrors, helped me to my feet. I felt crushed at first. But after some time reflecting, I felt a joy I hadn’t felt in years. I no longer worried about fitting in and for the first time, my soul was able to breathe.” “But if I remove it, the people I’ve invested so much time in will leave me,” I said. “You see, that’s what I thought. But you see my friends over there? They were the ones who didn’t help me up that day.


A rook, a bishop, and a knight walk into a bar. Each of them takes a seat as a pawn bartender moves in to take their drink order. "Can I get you something?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Just a beer for me," says the rook. "I'll take a whiskey, neat," the knight says quietly. The bishop surveys the bottles behind the bar, unable to make a decision. "We have a wide choice of vodkas," the Pawn bartender says, attempting to assist. "Oh, I'm not sure. I'm in the mood for something sweet right now. Do you know how to prepare a strawberry daiquiri?" The bishop inquires, eliciting a puzzled expression from the rook and knight. "I suppose I could give it a shot," the pawn bartender admits grudgingly. "You're a lifesaver; I've had myself a day," the fatigued bishop exclaims. The pawn moves about making the drinks, and the knight turns to the other two. "Let's get started; I was walking about in an L pattern, like I usually do, when I spotted something weird. The adversary is moving forward on the right side," the knight elaborates. "Oh my God, I'm going insane. All I can see is what's directly in front of me; I've been staring at a pawn's ass for as long as I can remember," the rook adds, a little uncomfortably. "Calm down, hear me out; I believe we should try to switch sides; we're waging a losing battle," the knight says. "Switch sides? Everything looks fine from my perspective," the bishop says. "Yeah, but you're cross-eyed, you ever noticed that you only move diagonally," the knight says. "It's never been done before; you can't simply switch sides. Don't you have any allegiance to the white king and queen?" The bishop inquires. "I did, but there used to be a second knight, and then I witnessed it, the sacrifice, simply to save the queen after she made a foolish decision. Then it hit me: we don't matter to the monarchy; everything is set up to protect them; what about our lives?" The knight snarls. "We're at war," the bishop continues, "and if the white king and queen prevail, we all win." "I'm not sure about that; there was another rook as well. Then one night, the king approaches him and requests to trade positions, mentioning something about castling. He mistook it for a sexual advance, but he was found dead the next morning," the rook elaborates. "That's what I've been saying, the king could have advanced in any direction, but instead, he put his rook in jeopardy," the knight asserts confidently. "All right, I'll consider this stupid concept for a minute; how do we switch to the other side, genius?" asks the bishop. The knight was about to respond when the pawn bartender returned with their drinks, forcing him to swallow his remarks. "Okay, the rook gets a beer, the knight gets a whiskey, and the bishop wins a daiquiri. Is there anything else I can get you?" The pawn bartender inquires. "Oh God, a dose of insulin for this sweet drink," laments the bishop as he takes a sip from his daiquiri. "Please accept my apologies; that was the first time that drink was ordered here," the pawn bartender acknowledges. "It's alright; evidently, the kingdom will be short of sugar for a while because it's all in my drink," the bishop complains. With a shake of his head, the pawn bartender walks away. The knight checks around to make sure no one is listening in on their conversation before leaning in to discuss it with the bishop and rook. "Okay, you know how we wear white, and the enemy wears black?" The knight inquires. "Don't remind me, bishops around the world get lavish and fancy robes; I'm stuck with this white potato sack," the bishop complains. "Yeah, well, the other day, while on patrol, I killed a bishop and stole his black robe. And shortly before I arrived, I killed a black knight and stole his black uniform. Once we've betrayed our side, we simply start wearing black to show the black side; we're with them now," the knight explains. "So, instead of carrying out our oath, we simply betray our kingdom?" The bishop inquires. "I've seen enough of these conflicts to know that we're going to lose; I knew as soon as I saw pawns sacrificed like candy early on. A king who has no regard for pawns has no regard for anyone but himself," says the knight. "This is making sense; we could be the heroes. We would be regarded as warrior gods if we won the fight for the black side!" The rook says. "All right, I don't want to lose this war as much as you don't; you've persuaded me," the bishop adds. "This is great; when are we going to get the black rook uniform for me?" The rook inquires. The knight gives an uneasy grin. "Here's the thing, we need someone to be sacrificed, so the king and queen don't see it coming," explains the knight. "So, who will be sacrificed?" The rook inquires. "You, you idiot, you're the only one without a black uniform," the bishop says. "Look at it this way," the knight adds, "you'll be recognized as a hero, historians will write books about you, tales will emerge about your sacrifice." "I suppose that would be sort of cool, but how do we go about doing it?" The rook inquires. "We'll begin with the queen. When the black side attacks, I know exactly where the white queen will be. You'll sacrifice yourself, and when the queen believes she's rescued, we'll dress in black and murder the white queen. When the king comes down to see what's going on, we kill him as well," the knight explains. "I like that; everyone knows that queen bish is more powerful than the king anyway," says the bishop, laughing. They finish their drinks and exit the bar. As the black queen enters the white queen's chamber to begin her attack, the rook moves into position directly in front of her. The white rook goes courageously to the right and then forward. The black queen kills the rook in no time at all. Then, the black queen turns her gaze to the white queen, who is terrified since she has no way out; she has been cornered. Suddenly, the white knight and bishop appear and take their places in front of the black queen. The white queen smiles because she knows the knight and bishop will make a sacrifice for her. However, it is at this point that the white knight and bishop don their black clothes and attack the white queen. The black queen looks on, perplexed. The white knight and bishop kill the white queen at the same time. They then bow in front of the black queen. "We are now your devoted servants, my black queen," the white knight declares reverently. The black queen is perplexed and kills the white knight and bishop immediately. The white knight and bishop are instantly transported to a ledge perched high above a chessboard. They notice the white rook. "Hey fellas, how did that go?" the rook inquires as the knight and bishop look on, unhappy. "You said betray the king and queen, you said switch sides, you said we'd be legends," the bishop quips cynically. "Shut up; how long am I going to have to suffer in this hell? This game is taking an eternity!" The knight grumbles as the three remain together in chess purgatory until the war is over.


No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be… illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them… assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here… I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered… (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out… I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was… distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” … “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is… well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day.