I could hear the terrible ruckus from my linen closet. Pots and pans clattering about. My good dinner plates shattering on the floor. I cursed under my breath as I doubled my efforts to find those blasted extra-large towels. Both to dry my soaked person and to try and contain... Whatever that *thing* was. I rushed back into the chaos of my kitchen. The *beast* was in the same place where he had burst out of; except instead of in a pot, he was now curled up directly on top of the largest burner of my stove. His unintentional black incubator upside down, spilling its soup of broken eggshell and water all over the tile. Large shards of what was left of this creature's egg gleamed an iridescent greeting to me under the fluorescent lights as I returned. The remnants of what was supposed to be the rest of my dinner and the utensils I was using to make it scattered about on the counter. *Ostrich egg my ass,* I thought as I turned my attention to the scaly animal that had turned my relaxing night on its head. During the chaos that ensued in my absence from the kitchen, he must have accidentally flicked the burner controls to full, because my stovetop was now spewing flames. The... lizard? I suppose lizard would be most appropriate. The lizard sat unbothered amid the small inferno in my kitchen. Fire licking at his skin. It seemed almost as if he was drawing some sort of strength from the blaze. His pale scales drinking from the blue flames, turning iridescent for a bit just like the inside of his egg, before settling into a deep red. He must have sensed me staring because he lifted his head to stare back with piercing orange eyes. The gaze snapped me out of whatever trance watching his scales had put me in. Was this animal dangerous? Probably. But could I afford a huge gas bill this month? No, that was out of the question. "Up! Up, up, up!!! Get off of there you mongrel!" I shouted as I approached the stove, minding my broken plates, and banging a toe on one of the many pots on the floor. Using the towels I brought I, I grabbed the stove knobs one by one and shut off the fire. This did not please my unwanted guest at all, and he began to unfurl itself as he hissed in protest. Curled up he was maybe a meter across, but in his annoyance, I became frightfully aware of how large this creature was. Its body may have been only a meter, but the long powerful looking tail attached to him spilled onto the floor and easily doubled his size. As he rose, he stretched out a pair of leathery wings that were probably four meters from tip to pointed tip. A sharp tapping noise made me painfully aware of the nasty talons he had on all four feet. A snort returned my attention to his head which was adorned with horns and a mouth full of tiny daggers. He screeched. I yelped. And as he lunged at me, I slipped on the wet mess beneath me throwing up the towels I had brought. My fall probably saved me from a world of much worse pain as the lizard ran into the towels instead; tangling himself in them as his leap carried him across my kitchen island and into a wall. The impact shook more things loose, and my future self just got a much larger mess to clean up. Clawing my way back onto my feet, I turned to where the beast had landed. Thankfully, his frustration was no longer directed towards me as he now struggled with the towels that now ensnared him. He looked almost cute fighting with the garments like one of those cats walked into a plastic bag. My admiration of the fight was broken by a bowl that rolled across my island, spilling flour as it did. *If I don't stop him now, I'm going to spend the whole weekend renovating this place.* I thought. "Hey! Quit it!" I barked at the writhing mess of scale and towel. Much to my surprise, he appeared to listen and stopped his struggle. The lizard peered at me through a towel covering part of its snout, looking almost disappointed that I was angry with him. *If that was possible,* I thought. I made my way over to the creature, squatting down in front of him. He no longer appeared frustrated, and in an act that could have cost me my arm, I slowly reached towards his head. Luckily for me, all he did was watch as I removed the towel covering his snout. I met those piercing orange eyes again; their slits widened and shrank as the creature looked me over. "Well we can't have you on the floor, now can we?" I asked him. The lizard tilted its head almost as if it agreed with me. Carefully and slowly, I placed my hands around him in a manner that would grant me the proper leverage and began to rise. The creature was surprisingly light, and as I stood his arms hugged me back. Not wanting to risk trashing more of my abode, I set him on the already messy kitchen counter. Like a cat, he sat down on his haunches, tail curled politely over his feet. Once he left my embrace however he began to shiver. *Ah, you must be cold-blooded! Well, raising the temperature won't cost me anything this time of year." I thought as I turned to my thermostat and turned up the heat a little. The increased temperature didn't do much to quell the lizard's shivering though, and the clattering of his claws on the granite continued. "I'm sorry but turning my stove into a mini hellfire for you again is off the table," I told him. "However, we might be able to fix your problem another way," I said as I picked up one of the towels strewn about the room. After a few tense moments of faffing about with the lizard's tail and wings, I had managed to use what towels I had to wrap him up into a little burrito. "With how much you remind me of a cat, I'm tempted to call you a purrito," I informed him. And as if to confirm my comparisons the creature chuffed in response. "Well, you just stay put and out of trouble right here while I give the good Doctor a call and figure out this mess, ok?" I told the lizard. Instead of agreeing with me this time, the creature whined and started to struggle in his cocoon. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm sorry but you've demonstrated that you're not ready to be set loose yet. This is just a temporary arrangement, ok? You'll get plenty of room in no time whenever you get sent to whatever reserve you belong at," I assured him. This, however, did not seem to satisfy the lizard, and his struggle continued. *I can't have him getting free and making a mess again. Ok, ok. Think. He’s a baby, right? He probably wants something. Um... lizards don't drink milk, do they? No, they don't. Ok, so maybe he's hungry! That must be it!* "Hold on one second, I'll get you something," I told him as I searched through the wreck of my kitchen for the venison that I intended to prepare tonight. I found my main course on the floor near the pot that once contained what I thought was an ostrich egg. Returning to the bundled-up lizard, I dangled the meat above his mouth. He stretched his neck and snapped up the cut whole, narrowly missing my fingers. I yelped again and inspected my hand for any damage. The lizard trilled happily as if he was laughing after a joke he had played on me. "Ahaha, very funny. You're a real joker, aren't you?" I gently scolded. "Well, try not to take off my hand while I feed you the rest, ok?" After tossing him all my former dinner, the creature nestled into his swaddle and fell asleep. Gently the purrito rising and falling gently as he breathed. I took the welcome much welcome calm to grab a sandwich from my fridge and make my way to my living room to collapse on my couch. After some much-needed nourishment, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet; searching through its contents until I found the card I was looking for. Punched in in purple and gold lettering was, "Doctor Anthony Burmak, Professional appraiser, exotic items vendor, and..." I read the business card aloud and trailed off as I noticed a descriptor that I was sure wasn't there when I received it. "Alchemist..." I finished. *Of course, this guy is some sort of kook and sold me a weird lizard egg when I went in. Ugh, I should have known better than to buy an "ostrich egg," to try out. He’s probably some endangered species. No doubt I'll be put on a list or something for having bought it. Ugh.* I turned the card over where a phone number was punched in the same color scheme as the front. Beneath the number was a message encouraging customers to call at any hour. I pulled out my phone and glanced at the clock. *11:54 P.M. Doubt he'll be up, but it's worth a shot.* I dialed the number and anxiously hoped that he would pick up. Just as the seventh ring finished and I started to think I wouldn't get through, the phone on the other end clicked. "Hello? Is this Anthony Burmak?" I asked. "Yes, this is **Doctor** Anthony Burmak speaking. Mister Kareem, I presume," a staticky voice responded. "Right, Doctor. My Apologies. Listen, I know it's late and you must be getting ready to close up shop so-" "Oh no, it's not too late at all! I always pride myself on my customer service. Is this about the ostrich egg? I told you you'd want to buy more than one. They are quite delectable after all!" the Doctor interrupted. "No, it's not about the ostrich egg. Well, actually it is. Look, I think-" "I'm sorry to say I used whatever eggs I had left for my supper, but I can assure you that I'll have a fresh shipment on Monday! I'll make sure you get first pick!" the Doctor continued. "**Look!** I don't mean to be rude Doctor, but I've had one hell of a night. I think you sold me the wrong type of egg. It's... It's some sort of..." I had been hesitant to use the word, but now it only seemed appropriate. "I think you sold me a *dragon* egg. Err... Ok. That may be a tad bit crazy but he’s some sort of liz-" "Did you say *dragon*?" "Yeah, that sounds crazy now that I've said it aloud. He’s probably some sort of exotic lizard, could you just get this bef-" "Daegan, that buffoon! Mister Kareem, are you ok? Has it hatched? Where is it?" I was starting to get tired of the interruptions. "Yes Doc, I'm fine. He hatched maybe an hour ago when I was making dinner. Right now he’s on my kitchen island, I've fed him and swaddled him in a couple of towels to keep him warm. Listen, I really would appre-" "Has anyone else seen it? Have you told anyone else about it???" "No, it's just you and me who know about him, we're not in trouble with any authorities yet. Look, I would appreciate it if you could stop cut-" "I'll be there within an hour! Don't leave! Don't let anyone else see it! And don't let it out of your home!!!" "Doctor, you don't even know where I- *click* - Hello? Doctor? Burmak??? Oh great." I grumbled to myself sinking into my couch. I tried calling the number back to no avail. *Great, now my only hope at help is going to be running around the city and I have no way to get in touch with him. I glanced at the time on my phone again. *Midnight. Well, might as well get a head start on cleaning that kitchen.* I ducked into the kitchen again to make sure the one responsible for the mess was still asleep. Thankfully, their bundle rose and fell with the same rhythm assuring me they were still tuckered out. I didn’t want to risk waking him up while cleaning, so I picked gently up the… *The dragon.* I gently picked up the dragon. he stirred a bit in his swaddle but calmed down as I quickly began shushing. Carrying the dragon to the living room I gently placed him on the couch. Now that any I could safely begin cleaning, I walked back over to my sink and opened the basin drawer to fish for that box of cleaning supplies I kept. Forty-five minutes probably passed before I heard I light knocking on my front door. *Oh great! Who is it at this hour? Well, at least they didn’t use the bell* I passed by my couch to check on the dragon before making my way to the door. I unlocked it and cracked it open. “Hey… Dr. Burmak!” I exclaimed. Sure enough, the short, eccentric man was standing on my porch. He was shrouded in a brown cloak, no doubt wearing that weird tan tunic underneath, and carrying a carpetbag. His tanned, square face was slightly wrinkled with smile lines and crow’s feet. *He certainly smiled a lot at his emporium when I was there.* I couldn’t tell how old he was, but his head was surprisingly thick with fading brown hair. If he wore a toupee, he did a damn good job hiding it. “Hello Mister Kareem, I’m glad to see you’re doing alright. May I come in?” “Hmmm, oh! Yeah, yeah! Please come in,” I unfastened my chain lock and opened the door all the way. “How did you know where I-” the Doctor brushed past me, placing his bag down to remove his cloak before picking it up again and placing his cloak on my coat rack, turning to me. “Please, where is the dragon?” The annoyance of being cut off paled in comparison to how stumped I was by the Doctor’s arrival. “Right, he’s sleeping on the couch,” I motioned for him to follow me to the living room. Just as I left it, the dragon still slept peacefully on my old couch. The Doctor sharply took in some air, “It’s magnificent!” “Yeah, he was quite the sight. Hey, um... Doctor what kind of ‘dragon’ is he. I’ve never seen a lizard like this before. I know there are those Komodo Dragons or whatever, are they related?” I inquired, slightly surprised I hadn’t been interrupted. Dr. Burmak waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. This isn’t any ordinary lizard. This is an actual dragon. The kind that you would have heard about in stories and folk tales,” he responded. “But Doc, that’s crazy. Dragons… dragons aren’t real” I nervously laughed. Dr. Burmak glanced wryly towards me. Lying before us was a bona fide dragon. I had seen him sit atop flames like it was nothing, I saw his wings. For goodness sake, I had my hands all over him while wrapping him up in my towels. But still, it was like I needed someone else to say what I had been thinking the past few hours for it to truly register as true. “Oh boy. Oh boy!” I grabbed my temples. I searched for one of those foldable chairs I kept around so I could sit down and take it all in. “’ Oh boy,’ Indeed Mister Kareem,” responded the Doctor, placing his bag down and opening it. “There hasn’t been a dragon sighted in this world for almost three and a half centuries now. And for some strange reason, none of the eggs left would hatch either. I had always assumed that it was in part due to the strange energy flow over the past century. But clearly, there was also some sort of mana factor that I-” “This world? Centuries? Planet-mana whatchamacallit? Doc, what are you talking about?” This time it was my turn to cut him off. The Doctor stopped talking to himself and rummaging through his bag to look at me, “Ah yes, this must be all very, very overwhelming for you.” “Ya think?” He chuckled, “Yes, my bad. Now tell me, Mister Kareem, ha-“ “’ Mister,’ makes me feel old Doc, please just call me Kareem.” “Alright then. Kareem, has anyone else become aware of the dragon in the time it took me to get here?” “No… no. It’s still just you and me.” “Excellent, I’ll leave you to your thoughts while I perform a quick check-up on our little friend here.” I quietly observed as the Doctor pulled out a leather-bound notebook and flipped over to some pre-marked page. He then pulled out a variety of tools from the bag and organized them on the couch next to the sleeping dragon. He took what appeared to be a thermometer and stuck it gently into the dragon’s slightly ajar maw. He recorded measurement and went to remove the tool, but despite his deliberate movements, the baby awoke. Seeing a strange man leering over it, the baby began to wriggle and whine again. I quickly stood up to comfort it. “Shhhh. Shhhhh. It’s ok. He’s a friend, it’s ok. He won’t hurt you.” I comforted the dragon, patting its swaddle. Thankfully, the baby calmed down, and instead took an interest in the new room it was in. “Hah, it’s almost like he can understand me, Doctor. I think you should be able to get back to work on him. He doesn’t seem very aggressive. Nothing like the dragons I read about in stories as a kid.” The Doctor picked up another tool, “Yes well, stories and legends do tend to get a bit out of hand. Also, **she,** can understand you. Well, to an extent. Communication will improve later down the line.” “Back up a second Doc, how do you know what gender he… err… she, is? Also, what do you mean ‘later down the line,’ aren’t you taking hi-*her,* with you?” Dr. Burmak continued to work as he explained, “A dragon’s gender is determined by the temperature the egg is incubated at.” “Like an alligator?” “Exactly! Now, I doubt your stove can produce high enough temperatures necessary to hatch a male dragon, so she must be female.” The dragon trilled as if to approve of the Doctor’s statements. “Now, as for my statements about the long run, this dragon has imprinted on you. You are, as far as she is concerned, her guardian. Now, I would have much more preferred it if she had hatched closer to my emporium among other things, but for now, she will have to remain in your house. It’s too risky to try and transport her at this time.” “Now, here is a short manual I compiled for you before I left, it should cover everything you might immediately need to know about caring for your new charge,” the Doctor took out a small notebook and pressed it into my hands. “It is of utmost importance that you do not let anyone else know this creature exists, as well as make sure it stays out of sight and in your house until I can find an appropriate housing solution.” Dr. Burmak then reached into his bag to pull out a sack, “These are some supplies that I think you’ll need. The manual will explain what each item is and is used for, you should have enough in here to last you the weekend,” he said handing me the heavy sack. “Now then,” He stood up. “While I would love to stay and help you get acclimated to your new responsibilities, I’m afraid I have to rush back. There are many things I must prepare for given recent events, as well as a ward I must scold for being careless with handling merchandise. Best of luck Kareem, I will be in touch with you soon.” Before I could ask any more questions, Dr. Burmak had packed his belongings, retrieved his cloak, and started on his way back to his emporium. I sat down, trying to process the sudden torrent of information and turn of events. The dragon looked at me, still swaddled in her towel burrito she began to purr. I returned her orange gaze. *Well, it's not like I had anything exciting planned this weekend anyways.* Getting up, I plopped down on the couch next to her. Her purring became more intense. I scratched her muzzle, “You sure you’re not related to cats somehow?” I asked her. She chuffed in response. I wasn’t exactly sure if it was a chuff of agreement this time. “Well, I’ve got some reading to do, mind keeping me company?” She trilled, and I knew exactly what she meant this time.


I’m sat at the far end of a dirty bar, sipping from my pint glass trying to read the suds at the bottom like a fortune teller. I feel a pair of red hot eyes on me. I dare not look up from the glass in case it’s the heavy at the other end of the bar. Maybe he doesn’t like what he sees, maybe he fancies giving his wife a night off tonight and beating a stranger like a case of eggs instead, blow off a little steam. As it happens, it’s a beautiful red head sat alone at a floating table a few metres away. I succumb and look up and her eyes catch mine and pierce right through the iris, looking beyond and somewhere inside me. I’m drunk and my motor skills are fuzzy now, but I fumble for the stool next to me and usher for her to join me. As she walks over, her dress flows off her like cigarette smoke from a burning hot ember. “You look like you’ve had a bad day” she smirks as she sits beside me. She’s not wrong I guess, although I have a feeling she’s about to make this bad day worse in her own special way. “Starting to feel like a bad life, honey” “Tell me about it then, make me feel better about my own shitty life.” The left side of her mouth curls up as she speaks and then she takes a sip of her drink. Looks like whiskey, two rocks of ice and a dash of soda. “I don’t even know your name, maybe I don’t want to spill my guts to a stranger” “It’s Courtney” and she grabs the back of my head and pulls it towards hers, kissing me as my stool almost topples beneath me. “And now I’m no stranger, I’d say we’re quite intimate.” The back legs of my stool land with a shudder on the tiled floor. I sit there, quiet for a moment. “So?” she enquires between pursed lips as she goes to take another sip. I laugh lightly and turn back to the dregs of my drink and sigh into the stale beer. “Just an ex wife holding on to a couple of things.” “What sort of things?” “I suppose a few years back I was hiding a devil inside me that lay a firm hand on her from time to time. I’m not proud of it, hell I still beat myself up about it. I got sober for a bit, that helped. But she couldn’t let it go. Maybe she shouldn’t. I don’t know.” I drain the last drops from the glass and usher the bartender to pour me another. Courtney stops him before he reaches the tap. She looks at me for a moment, her eyes full with sympathy and something else – I can’t quite put my finger on it. ”You want to stay here?” She asks. It’s clear there is a right and a wrong answer. We climb the stairs in her apartment building, marble finished and wide enough to fit a family of four. She pulls her keys from her clutch bag and before she puts them in the door her palm is on the side of my face and she kisses me. This time it is soft and gentle and for a brief moment after she looks me dead in the eye and I feel a warmth I’ve not felt in years. It lasts only a few moments. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the black leather sofa in the middle of the apartment and I perch on the arm, cautious about getting too comfortable. Liaisons are precarious, I assume little. As she’s fixing us a drink, she calls from the kitchen. “Tell me about her. What was her name?” “You don’t even know my name.” I hark back. “I don’t think I want to know your name. It’s easier that way.” She’s now back in the room holding two short glasses of stiff whiskey. She hands me one. The glass is cold to touch but the drink burns and I grimace “So, tell me about her.” “Okay” I take another sip and feel each drop slide down my throat, already I feel the full weight of my eyelids as the alcohol enters my system. “We met when we were thirteen. She moved into the house next door. My mum used to make me walk her to school, I guess she didn’t like the idea of the poor girl next door not having any friends to play with while I rode my bicycle up and down the street with Eddie and the guys. Made her feel good about herself I guess. Anyway, as we got older we became close and eventually it just made sense. She was always nice, good to me, good to the kids. But I guess after twenty years, we just liked the idea more than we actually liked each other. We separated last year. Haven’t signed the papers yet, but that bitch wants everything. Doesn’t even want me to see the kids. Yeah I hit her, and I don’t know if she deserved it, but it was years ago and now she wants everything I’ve got.” The whiskey has hit me now. I can feel the blood flowing through my body, circulating the alcohol, carrying it straight to my head. My hands feel cold and my grip on the glass feels weaker. Courtney is watching me intently now. She notices every twitch and every bead of sweat. “...” I try to speak but a strained breath is all I can manage. The glass slips through my fingers and shatters on the hard wood floor at my feet. I slip backwards and my position on the arm of the chair is compromised as I topple to the floor. My legs are weak now and struggle to find a grip on the floor as they slip through the puddle of whiskey and shards of glass. Courtney stands above me showing no signs of concern. The corners of her mouth turn upwards as my body stops responding to the neurons firing at full capacity, desperately willing my my arms, legs, anything to just do something. All I can do now is look helplessly at the woman stood over my lifeless body. The walls and furniture are fuzzy now. My periphery begins to blur into shapes and colours and features are hard to pick out. Though my view is hazy, the fiery head of hair on my assailant cuts sharply through it all and as she stares into my eyes and past my iris in the same way she had done only a couple of hours earlier, I knew hers would be the last face I saw. Just as quickly as it had deteriorated, my vision clears and I can see things like crystal again. But what I see now confirms my fear. I look down on the red head and my helpless body lies at her feet. I watch as she reaches for a cushion from the sofa, plush and the colour of blood, and presses it down against my face, obstructing the air. I can see into my own eyes, I’m still alive, but there is no coming back. She pushes down harder. Courtney begins to speak but all I hear is a faint muffle as if she were in the adjacent apartment. I watch her mouth move and try to piece together the shapes with the rhythm I can just about make out. “Victoria says ‘hello’, she won’t be needing you to sign those papers after all.


Time has often been described as sand, falling through a great hourglass that is life. However, I find that it is more akin to a great river: vast and gentle from afar, but swirling with changing rapids in every nook. Consider a ripple. The disturbance seems to not have an effect on the river as a whole, but inspect any rapid somewhere down the stream, and you’ll find it directly influenced. It is this property that renders the waves and currents of time unpredictable and mysterious. One cannot possibly trace every drop of water in its journey down an infinite slope, cannot possibly measure every minute fluctuation of its velocity. Such a feat would be to conquer time itself, to thrust oneself out of the third dimension through which we’re born and into the fourth, where time itself is still and unchanging, and all that was, is, and ever will be is already decided. No, the feat is impossible. But I have come close. I have sent out machines like scouts to the wild, observing every quantum particle in its every aspect. Heisenberg would call me a fool, but his so-called uncertainty is of no obstacle. For is it not destiny already for me to approach this task? Even if to see is to change, was it not already set that change must be made? But I digress. Truly, thinking on time and the effects of its grasping are a migraine at the seed. I have come to realize that seeing the future is to see how fixed your own fate truly is. That our concept of free will is nothing but a series of logical reactions in the chemical structure that is our brains. And so I do not look into the currents of the future, but the currents of the present, and their relationship to the surfacing waves of the next great catastrophe of life. I must protect the world from the sadness of the inevitable, but I must also not shirk my duty to use this cursed knowledge for the betterment of all. It is true that a secret is like a virus, and one that will spread to those that touch it. For this reason I have infected only a select few, trusting them to remain sanitary. I call them my sailors, but they must ride across time to gaze not at the ripples in the water but at the growing swells that threaten to capsize them. The difference is that my sailors have not oars but rocks, so that they may drop one into the water at such a time and place as to negate the swell before it could even appear. “Do not look at it as time travel,” I told my sailors one day. “For it is more like time sight. I will allow you to see the future from afar- to gaze at the picture of it and grasp its image- and you may then act on what you have seen.” But even they do not know of the sadness. The inevitability. The futility. Some days, they look upon a failure, and say, “What have we done wrong?” I so want to say, “Nothing, for you have done everything you were meant to.” But that would remove their illusion of free will, of having impact at all. For the truth is… the truth is that seeing a real future is to become a slave to it. To know what is to be and have no power to stop it. They say we spend most of our day in waking hypnosis. We react in automatic ways, and truly think rarely apart from a few unexpected outliers. However, even in these moments, when I focus with all my mind, my soul- if such a thing does exist- I cannot outwit the future. For whenever I clash with, or wish to act in a way that is directly opposed, I am a man possessed. Literally. By the mind from which my own intelligence is wrought. That is why I do not show them the true future. I show one without their great deeds, without their heroic missions, so they may have inspiration, aspiration, and drive. Though I know I am a slave to the future, I cannot help but derive my last dregs of joy from their blind belief that they are making an irrefutable difference in the world. Pure humanity. I have seen my death. It is suicide, which I am not surprised by. Though I have lived as a slave for much longer than I might have imagined (back when I had to imagine the future) I cannot live this way forever. I know the ending to every great tale to ever be told. It’s terrifying and dull, a blend that twists around my mind with enough emotion to keep me clinging to life by hair, or by a fraying rope to which I know the exact strength. And I know one day, and I know which day, it will finally snap. It is tomorrow. Humanity is not meant for the fourth dimension. Time is not a concept to be conquered. It should be left with some degree of mystery, so that we might play about in its silky shadow but never find ourselves crushed beneath the weight of it. That is why, on the day before my death, I will destroy the boat and leave my sailors landlocked. I cannot bear to think of them sailing ever onward, waiting for the swell they cannot overcome, until they finally are swallowed by the unchanging river I have hidden from them. It is too much, and anyway it is already decided. That is, I have already decided on the day I saw myself writing this very- well. Whatever this is. I hope no one reads this. I hope no one finds this, to discover the sadness of time. I do not want to ruin it for everyone. But I cannot leave with nothing. I cannot leave without some evidence to my being apart from the lasting ripples cascading across a river that appears not to change. So I write this. And in this, I find consolation. In this, I find courage. In this, I find closure. To my thoughts. To my struggle. To my life.


The door opened and behind it a short young lady peered through the darkness, and beckoned him inside. Pointing towards a room off the hallway he walked through with the short young lady in tow. Few words were exchanged before clothes were taken off, he with confidence undressed and she shyly took off her t shirt and jeans and exposed her naked body. 5 notes were placed on the bed and she picked and counted them as he lay on the bed, the ordeal was over with in minutes, he left but she stayed. In the dark 4 by 4 room. She came from a small village in Taiwan and had been in London for just a few months, at first trying to get a job as a nurse, before turning to prostitution for quick cash. The man who had helped her get into it had made it now so she couldn’t leave. She had been sold a dream which instead was being given as a nightmare to her. For every 5 notes she received she kept one, the rest going to the cost of the room and the pimps customer base. Confined to a room. In the centre of one of the worlds most wealthy cities but only staying in a small room. A dark room, with a red curtain. A suitcase on the floor, sleeping on the bed where she services the men she sees. Outside the apartment door next to the elevator going down is a dead mouse. she sees it as a grim reminder of the dirty world she now is living in. once life was more simple for her, she went to school and did well. She was reasonably popular and remembers nights by the river in her hometown having fun. She remembers innocence. But now she is trying to forget. She is trying to forget where she came from, what she is doing now, and really who she is. The drugs are affecting her looks, her arm is scabbed up from missing veins, her face is gaunt and grey. She is trapped in a scenario she couldn’t have ever imagined. Now just another prostitute in Soho. But in reality she is more than that. She is so much more, every working girl in the city is. But whether she ever realises it or not is the question, if she will be able to break free. Break free from her captor. The capture of drugs, the control of her pimp, the allure of money. The river still flows in her hometown, her old friends still laugh and think about her. Her family is still there, but she isn’t. She has left this world, and is escaping into her own filled with dopamine induced dreams and sleeps. The man didn’t see her again, nor did she see the man, but she saw others. And now the sun has gone down and the needle is filled again, she can escape to a different place.


He crashed loudly while she danced around him. He was clumsy, connecting with everything as he moved. She was delicate and agile as she remained strikingly beautiful. Her touch could destroy much more than his brute strength, but when people saw them both, it was he they feared. She was admired, and it upset him to be the bad guy. She was sly and snaky in every way, and he got the blame for each of them. It was his job to be loud and brash, but the thought didn’t make it any easier for him. He acted as her bodyguard; the one who scared away intruders. To make people think only once about approaching, if they dared to. She didn’t need the assistance, but it was his role in life. He was there to be scary and noisy, whilst she lit up people’s eyes in amazement. He watched her dance. Her body electrified everything, spreading light to corners and shadows long since forgotten. He felt as though he should be jealous of her. He could see why people fell in love with her, it was just he was given the bad hand. As he watched her move he could feel rage building up inside of him. Her moves were eloquent, gracefully choreographed and self-taught over the years. She had perfected every one of her moves, created every streak for the purpose of luring people’s eyes. To make them fall in love with something they could never reach. He felt himself getting riled up as he thought of his own clumsiness, alongside hers. How silly and infantile he must look. How crazy and destructive people must see him. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him, and as if on cue to match his boiling point, she winked at him. He threw himself around as hard as he could. When he got angry, this was how he dealt with it. He hit every part of his body that he could, as hard as he could. Thumping and crashing around, punching, kicking and flailing everywhere to create as much noise as he could. He was trying so hard to hit something with the amount of force that would quell his anger. He could not hit her, but he could not stand being her shadow either. Finally he hit the final blow of his explosion. He steadied himself to get air back into him, as she danced past him quietly, moving onwards. “Wow, Thunder. You’re doing great tonight!” She flashed again, making streaks through the sky as she moved above the city. Thunder watched her moving away, losing interest, and his energy as he felt his efforts were futile. He would always be her shadow, and it was his job to set up the atmosphere for that show off Lightning. For the rest of the storm, he hit feebly, creating noise, but very minimal sound as he carried on watching her. Maybe one day he could become the show, but for now he was the stage.


Chapter 3 A unexpended discovery I opened the door let out a sigh of defeat, dropped my backpack carelessly on the floor and fell onto my bed, and screamed into my pillow at the annoying mystery I had in front of me. How could I have detected magic for an instant from one of the two children then discover neither had even a hint of magical talent coursing through there veins? I was trained properly in the detection of magic even before I gained any of my abilities in my homeworld so even if for some reason this new body of mine never was blessed with the gift of magic I should still be able to identify it. I squeezed my pillow in frustration hard enough that my hands began to ache causing me to direct my anger at my weak body. “Gods damn this body for being so fucking weak!” I screamed no longer having my face buried in my pillow and slapped my face as hard as I could causing an intense burning sensation on the right side of my face. I stared at the blurry floor as tears welled up in my eyes and streamed down my face as I wept softly rubbing at my eyes. Gods, please let me get my magic back, I thought while trying not to be too loud with my sniffling not wanting anyone to witness my weak moment. I heard my door begin to creek open and quickly got off the bed and faced away from the door holding back my tears trying not to make another noise. “Son, are you alright?” I heard my new Father whisper gently like he was speaking to a feral animal trying not to spook it. I shook my head up and down slightly not wanting to say a word in fear my voice would crack. “Son, look at me.” I shook my head no, not wanting him to see the shameful act of my crying and he closed the distance between us without me realizing it and turned me around gently with his giant hands. His face was level with mine and when I looked into his eyes I did not see the shame on his face I saw empathy something I had only seen a handful of times from others that were never directed towards me. Anger boiled in my veins knowing that his empathy must be fake and I balled up my fists ready to strike him in the face, but before I could do so he did something I would have never expected from anyone even from this man. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a soft gentle hug and patted my back. I wept into his shoulder no longer caring if he saw my weakness and let the sorrow flow out of my eyes until I had no more tears to shed. Crying for an extended period tends to drain the energy of one’s body. That is why I wasn’t too surprised to find that I had passed out in the middle of my crying session and had woke up on the couch next to my Father that was watching TV. I looked out the window nearest to me and saw the sun was close to setting meaning I had been asleep for the better part of two or three hours. My eyes turned towards the TV and watched a man in a white outfit with glasses talk about things called particles and how they make up the new world I was in. I watched him list the things that made up the world like electrons, neutrons, and protons made me have an insane theory. What if magic did not start in the bodies of creatures in this world, but rather the opposite was true and the magic began in the air, the water, the earth, and all other sorts of places? I sat up slowly contemplating that possibility and my Dad rested his hand on my shoulder. My Dad? When did I start to think of him as my real Father? I looked up to the man that I began to consider as my real Father and not as my new Father and saw him giving me a warm smile. He pressed something on the remote causing the world on the TV to freeze. “Son is someone bullying you at school?” He said with a serious note to his voice. “You can tell me and I will speak to your teachers about it.” “No, no one is bullying me,” I said with sincerity in my voice. “Then how did you get that red mark on your face?” He said in a not so convinced voice. “O.” I said touching my still tender cheek. “I did this to myself.” He gave a look that said I don’t believe you and he pressed another button on the remote making the world on the TV move again right where it had left off. Later in the night after my parents got done tucking me into bed, which still embarrasses me and weirds me out a little, I waited until I could no longer hear them talking in the other room and then got out of bed and sat on my bedroom floor and closed my eyes and felt with my senses. This was a whole new territory for me considering I was use to feeling out specific objects or creatures for magic. Now I was trying to expand my senses to detect magic anywhere around me. For several moments I felt nothing and slowly I felt my hope draining again, but suddenly I felt the slightest flicker of energy. I concentrated harder, clearing my mind, ignoring the sounds of the wind and the settling house, and began to feel more tiny sparks of energy throughout the air. The sparks were so tiny that even losing a fraction my concentration made the sparks invisible to my senses. I felt a smile creep onto my face when I realized there were not just a couple of these small sparks of magic there was an ocean of it waiting to be harnessed all around me. My eye’s opened slowly and my grin became a smile so large that it hurt my soar cheek. I found magic.


It had been six hours since Mary-Lou decided she wouldn’t sleep tonight. Soon, the sun would rise, and the roosters’ calls would bring forth a new day. A special day. For today was The Celebration of Wishes, a ceremony to bring in the new year for all the members of the village. Elder Orylyn would be calling upon the benevolent spirits of the dell to grant wishes for a select few of the villagers. An old woman, the townsfolk knew this could be her final Celebration, and envy would surely spread through those not chosen, much like a fire through grass in the midst of a dry spell. This fire would be promptly quenched with an assortment of alcohol and dances in the village center, an event which all able bodies would attend. Mary-Lou had kept the same wish locked away inside her heart for the past five years, since she’d become old enough for her parents to begin negotiations to find her a husband. She wanted a new life, a new adventure, and the man of her dreams to accompany her. She didn’t know what part of her this wish had grown from, but she had her guesses. The desire to leave the monotonous life of a farmer’s daughter surely originated from the day to day experience of being a farmer’s daughter, she thought. Mary-Lou got out of her bed and dressed for the day. Her dress was becoming worn through, but the holes near the center were easy enough to cover with an apron. She finished tying her shoes (which were also adorned with holes) and set off for the town center. Although the sun’s rays were barely visible over the grassy hills to the east, Mary-Lou was not the first to arrive. It seemed that a few villagers had a similar mindset to Mary-Lou: if there’s but the slightest possibility that Orylyn rewards punctuality and sacrifice, it would be worth the lost hours of sleep. A handful of others stood around in conversation, and Mary-Lou could immediately identify why they were so keen to be selected. One older man seemed to shred his lungs coughing when incited to laugh, the sound sickened Mary-Lou. Paxton Farnsworth stood proudly despite missing his left arm, the result of an unfortunate accident which the family had thus refused to disclose. The rest of the villagers gathered were either on death’s door or very young, all of them holding the same sorts of youthful wishes within them. Mary Lou approached Paxton, who had a stalk of wheat pressed between his lips on the right side of his mouth. “Hello Paxton. I see you couldn’t find any sleep either?” Paxton smiled. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can guess my wish. I’ll even give you three guesses,” he said. “Hmm. Well, if I had to guess, I’d say you’re asking for a bountiful harvest.” “Wrong. Two guesses left.” “A healthy new calf?” “Incorrect. Final guess.” Mary-Lou furrowed her brow in mock concentration. “Could it be… oh of course! How could I fail to see this earlier? It must be to fix your crooked nose.” Paxton attempted to keep his serious expression, but he shortly failed in this effort. They shared a friendly embrace. “So, how have you been, Pax?” “Oh, you know, milking one utter at a time, trying to find a creative way of shearing the sheep,” Paxton said. “And you?” Mary-Lou sighed. “I’ve been bored, Pax. I’ve been really bored.” She considered telling Paxton all about her wish, about the feelings she’d harbored for years, but decided against it. While she was certainly close enough with this young man she’d been schooled with, to talk about marriage would be a sore spot, as she was certain he’d become a far less desirable match upon losing the arm. They caught up for a while, speaking of different incidents on their families’ farms only to learn that the occurrences sparking their stories probably weren’t as special as they’d once thought. As they spoke, more townsfolk filtered into the center. Her family would soon arrive, she was sure of it. She didn’t feel like speaking with them today, she was too tired, and she didn’t want to hear their demands that she wish for her father’s back to heal. Her wish was non-negotiable. Paxton was called away by a voice in the crowd, and Mary Lou was left to wander the center, ultimately finding solace in the alleyway between the Elders’ living space and the general store. She leaned against a wall, then sank down to the grass. She examined the scene in the center. Over a hundred villagers had gathered now, some she hadn’t seen since last year’s Celebration due to age or infirmity. A light veil of dust had risen from all the feet on the dirt clearing. She watched it settle, only to be kicked up again. She was captivated by this cycle for some time. Mary-Lou’s concentration was broken by a gruff mail voice behind her. She turned her head, and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Matterson, the city manager. Mr. Matterson was a kind man within the few conversations the two had shared, but everyone in town knew his penchant for order and practicality, properties which landed him his position in the first place. His beard was neatly trimmed, something few men of the village could say. “Not wanting to enjoy the festivities, I see?” “I’m sorry Mr. Matterson, I’m just a little nervous, that’s all,” she said. “I understand, Mary-Lou. Believe it or not, I remember being nervous about my future when I was your age,” Matterson said. “But I’ll let you in on a secret: I think this whole thing is a sham. For some people, I think their wishes are granted by coincidence, and others grant their own wishes just by believing they’ll be granted in the first place.” Mary-Lou’s gaze shifted downward. Mr. Matterson took the hint. “Ah, that’s it, is it? Well, seeing as I’m responsible for your well being, young woman, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was her desire to finally speak her mind to someone, but Mary-Lou readily responded. “Oh Mr. Matterson, I just can’t take this life anymore. I love to read all about adventures, and I’m sure I’ll never get to live my own if I stay on this path.” Mr. Matterson was about to cut in, but Mary-Lou continued. “My parents talk to me every day about finding me a husband. But I’m not so sure I want to marry a farmer. I don’t want to live the same life as my mother, and her mother before her. I’ve read all about the towns, no, the *cities* from far away, and I’m just so amazed. You wouldn’t believe the things they have over there. Did you know-” “Alright, Mary-Lou,” Mr. Matterson interrupted. “Maybe a farm isn’t in your future. I understand that. You know, the O’Brien’s son is only a few years younger than you, and he’s to inherit his parent’s general store. In fact, it’s this store right here,” Mr. Matterson said as he patted a log making up part of the wall to his right. “And what’s more, as part of the business he goes into a big town up north once a month. I’m sure he’d take you with him to see it.” Mary-Lou sighed. “I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Matterson. I really do. But I… I just don’t think my future is in this village, that’s all it is.” Mr. Matterson’s expression changed, a stern expression overtook his face. “I’m sorry to tell you that’s just not the case. This town functions properly for a reason, and that reason is because everyone is committed to expanding and improving it. We can’t do that if healthy young men and women like you want to up and leave. You’ve never left this place, have you?” Mary-Lou shook her head. “Well,” Mr. Matterson continued, “I have, many times as a matter of fact, and you wouldn’t believe what’s out there. Terrible people, people who will rob you blind and never look back. Creatures that’ll tear out your throat if you give them the chance. Bands of marauders armed to the teeth with whatever firepower they can purchase with their blood money. You don’t want any part of that.” But maybe she did, Mary-Lou thought. Maybe she did. After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Matterson walked to the town center to start the proceedings. Mary-Lou remained seated for a moment, then walked toward the now large crowd. She kept her distance, she knew her chances of being chosen were slim at best. Mr. Matterson began the proceedings. Mary-Lou couldn’t hear his words, but keenly watched the crowd’s reaction. They were still and silent in anticipation. He held up a small wooden box, and removed a scrap of paper. He shouted a name, and the crowd went silent. A figure was being pushed to the front. It was Paxton. Mary-Lou’s heart dropped for a moment, but she knew that Paxton deserved it more than anyone. Paxton entered the Elders’ lodgings, and Mr. Matterson read the next name. The crowd seemed to murmur, disappointment spreading. No one came forward to receive their prize. Mary-Lou’s heart fluttered for a moment. Her mind entertained all her hopes, dreams, and fantasies at once. A boy ran away from the crowd toward the southern section of town, right at Mary-Lou. He passed her without saying a word. He turned to shout back to the crowd. “I’ll go tell him! I’ll see if he can come down here!” Mary-Lou’s heart dropped, but this time to her stomach. She knew she wouldn’t be picked. It happened this way every year. She felt like an idiot. The same every time, and yet she still allowed herself to get excited enough to be dismayed when the inevitable passed. Yet still, she started rehearsing her wish in her head. *I wish for a gallant adventurer to take me away from this place*, she thought repeatedly. Mr. Matterson was reaching for the third name. He read it. Groans filled the crowd, and an old woman hobbled up to the front. Everyone in the crowd shared Mary-Lou’s opinion that such wishes would be wasted on the elderly. Mary-Lou felt a sob bubbling up. She fought it as best as she could, but soon it won the battle, and tears were streaming down her face. She ran away from the town center, running between some of the homes and shops stationed nearby. She’d let no one see her cry. She was too old to be getting her hopes up, after all. She dropped to her knees and cried for some time. Maybe a few minutes, maybe a half hour. She was stopped by Paxton’s voice. “Mary-Lou? What’s wrong?” She attempted to speak through her erratic breathing. “Oh Paxton, I… I just thought this would be the time for me, you know?” She gave up her sense of shame and looked up at Paxton, half-expecting to see a newly formed second arm. But the space where his arm used to be was still empty. “W-what happened with the Elder? What did she tell you?” “Oh, she did her whole song and dance to the gods, but I’ll tell you, I’m certain it’s all fake now. You should have heard what she told me. She said that the gods were listening to someone else while she was trying to summon them. She told me they might not hear me, and apologized. She said it had never happened before, and she asked me not to tell anyone else. Well damn it to hell, that’s what I say to that.” Paxton finished his monologue by lightly stamping the ground. Some of the produced dust fell onto Mary-Lou’s face, but she was too focused on what Paxton had just said to notice. “Could they, could they have heard me?” Mary-Lou’s eyes were locked on Paxton’s. “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Paxton said, confused. “But hey, your parents are looking for you, they said if I found you I should send you to the festival. They want to introduce you to someone. I’m headed there myself if you’d like to join me.” Mary-Lou’s mind was snapped back to reality. Of course, her parents. While the gods of the dell were probably fake, her parents and their wishes were perfectly real, and would soon be enacted upon her. She suddenly hated everyone and everything, including her parents for asking Paxton of all people to deliver the message. She ran away, running until the pain inside her dulled. She didn’t know how long she’d run, but now she was by the lumberer’s homes on the outskirts of town. She looked back to where she’d run from and saw a pillar of smoke. The bonfire was as big as ever this year, and she could hear music emanating even though she was so far away. Mary-Lou wanted nothing to do with that festival. She turned back to the homes and noticed an unfamiliar covered wagon being pulled by two horses. She knew it was foreign as the horses were too large and battle-worn for this town, sporting a collection of scars. The emptiness within her was filled with curiosity. She investigated the cabin across from the wagon. She snuck around the side of the home, and peeked through a window. She dropped away from the window, back to the wall. She’d seen a man inside. A man with flowing brown hair, a gun on his hip, and a shaped leather bag in his right hand. She tried to sneak away, fear engulfing her. She’d only seen a gun held by friends and townsfolk. It was significantly scarier on a stranger, she decided. She crept back to the front of the house, and saw the man leave the logger’s home. He lifted the canvas on the back of his wagon and disappeared into it. Mary-Lou guessed he was storing whatever he’d put in that bag. She stayed crouched and ducked back behind the corner of the cabin. She held her eyes closed as tightly as she could, and shortly became aware of the fact that her heart was trying to escape her body. What felt like an eternity passed. “Excuse me, miss, what might you be doing in a place like this?” Mary-Lou opened her eyes to the sight of the stranger. He seemed to loom before her, although there was nothing threatening about his stance. He reached a hand forward slowly. “Could I help you up?” Mary-Lou tried to nod her head slowly and calmly, but when she reached her hand out, she found that it was shaking fervently. The man stepped back after helping her up. “Now, miss,” he said, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d really like it if you answered me honestly, alright? I have a knack for knowing when someone’s lying to me. I don’t mean you any harm, I promise, but I need you to answer me.” Mary-Lou was about to cry once again. She wasn’t sure she had any tears left, but the sobs were coming back. This time from fear rather than heartbreak. “I’d like you to tell me if you saw me in that cabin. And I’d like you to tell me what you saw.” Mary-Lou audibly gulped. She told the truth, never considering any other option. She told the stranger that she’d seen him in the home, then had ducked away from the window. “And that’s all you saw?” “Yes sir.” The man seemed to ponder something, but Mary-Lou’s mind was racing as fast as it ever had. Unbeknownst to the stranger, emotions were bubbling within the woman in front of him. She was thinking about the wish she’d made. She was thinking about the fact that she’d never seen a stranger in town before, and she was thinking that this one seemed awfully dangerous. She asked a question. “Are you… are you planning to leave this place?” The question snapped him out of his train of thought. “Yes, I may have some more business to conduct but I’ll be leaving.” Now that she’d gathered the courage to look the man in his eyes, Mary-Lou was becoming entranced by them. They seemed to sparkle, and filled her with a strange melancholic sensation. “Could you take me with you?” Mary-Lou asked. She didn’t know where the question had come from, but didn’t dispute its authenticity. She’d meant it. “And why might you want to come with me?” For the second time that day, Mary-Lou revealed her soul to another. She told the man about her dream to leave this place, she told him about how terrible her future would be if she didn’t leave this place, she told him that she didn’t think she could do it alone. She hesitated, then told the stranger that if she didn’t leave this place today, she’d kill her dream. She’d suppress it and punish such thoughts until she could accept the life of a woman in the village. She didn’t know how the man would react to this, but she didn’t much care. The man raised a hand to the stubble on his face, rubbing his jawline from ear to chin. He thought for a time, then responded. “You haven’t even told me your name, but you’ve told me your deepest wish. I think you’re a strange girl, you know that?” Mary-Lou nodded. “You know,” he continued, “I know just how you feel. I felt that way myself for a while. That’s why I steal. That’s why I take from communities with too many resources. The communities who make people like you unhappy. Are you alright with that? The way I make my living? Could you truly come to accept it?” “I…” Mary-Lou trailed off. “I think I could. I think I’m accepting the idea more and more, even now. So what do you say? Can I come with you, wherever you’re going?” “I didn’t think I’d be the type to be swayed by someone like you, but dammit, I can’t tell you to stay in a place like this. You can come with me.” Mary-Lou’s lips stretched upwards in excitement. “So when do we leave? I’m ready to go now, you know,” Mary-Lou said. “I have to finish my business here, that business being a good old fashioned robbery. Why don’t you come help me, and when we’re done, I can promise you we’ll be racing out of here.” “Like Zeus’s chariot?” The man crumpled his nose. “I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.” “I’ll explain it on the way out,” she said. And thus, their unlikely partnership was formed. The stranger had Mary-Lou keep watch outside the homes while he went in to rob them, but no one ever came. He told Mary-Lou that he’d scouted this location for the last three years. He knew that everyone went in to town to celebrate this time every year. It was a thief’s dream. After the fourth house, Mary-Lou asked the man what he was stealing, and if it would harm the townsfolk. He told her that this town produced a specific resource very efficiently, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone to take from a community with too much. He said he’d heard that the way the town produced it was even causing some townsfolk some harm. Mary-Lou tried asking exactly what he was stealing, but the man said she’d have to wait and see. They continued robbing home after home, each time the man leaving with his shaped leather bag, depositing the contents into the wagon, then continuing on. After fifteen or twenty some homes, the man said they’d be leaving soon. They’d been lucky, most of the homes had what he was looking for. Mary-Lou asked him about the money involved, and he told her they’d have enough to travel the world wherever they pleased, enough to find plenty of new adventures. Mary-Lou really liked the sound of that. Eventually, the man exited the wagon with a smile on his face. “Mary-Lou, it’s time for us to get out of here. I hope your time as a robber’s been plenty exciting, because we’re putting this life behind us. Happiness coming over her, Mary Lou ran to the stranger and embraced him, planting her head in his shoulder. The man returned the gesture, and they stayed that way for some time before releasing each other. The stranger told her to hop onto the wagon, and they were off. After a few minutes of riding, the man asked her if she was hungry. Considering she hadn’t eaten since the night before, Mary-Lou told him she was. They pulled over with the town still in sight, and the man found some smoked jerky, a few apples, and some milk in his wagon. They ate their meal and subsequently passed out, the warmth of the sun over the veil of leaves above them was too pleasant to resist. Mary-Lou woke up to an unfamiliar voice. Groggily, she wiped her eyes, and once they finally focused she saw an older man pointing a revolver at the stranger. Her new friend was on his knees with his hands held high, the gun just inches away from his nose. The man was yelling about something, pointing to the wagon excitedly, his face red with rage. Mary-Lou vaguely recognized him from the town, but didn’t know his name. Mary-Lou yelled toward the older man, begging him to stop. It was just like a man from her town to threaten an outsider. He would never understand why they’d stolen, he’d never understand that the man on the other side of the barrel of the gun had hopes and dreams just like her. That town was where dreams died, and this was simply an expression of it. The older man looked towards Mary-Lou and shouted something, and that was all the time the stranger needed to act. He gracefully sprung to his feet, grabbed the gun, and kicked the other man hard in the knee. The older man fell to the ground, releasing the revolver in pain. The stranger looked toward the girl. “Mary-Lou, look away now.” In a state of shock, Mary-Lou did exactly what she was told. She heard the gunshot ring through the air, then felt the pull of the stranger’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we need to move, now. They’re trying to destroy what we’re building, it’s now or never,” he said. Mary-Lou obliged. She climbed up to the front of the wagon, and the man ran around to the driver’s seat. He handed Mary-Lou a pistol he produced from under his seat. “If anyone tries to hurt you, don’t hesitate. You just point and squeeze the trigger, alright darling?” Mary-Lou nodded. She vaguely heard some commotion behind her. She looked behind the wagon and saw a group of townsfolk chasing after them on foot, likely thirty seconds away. Their shouts were of anguish. Were they trying to rescue her, or did they just want to maintain order? This confused Mary-Lou. She heard a strange noise come from the back of the wagon, but it soon stopped. Before she could ask the stranger about it, they were off. The wagon was building speed. “They’ll never catch us,” the man said, “they don’t have a chance in hell.” They rode like this for a few minutes, and once they’d put some distance between them and the mob behind them, Mary-Lou felt like she was finally able to breathe. The stranger placed his hand to the sun. “Seems like we’re about six or seven hours to sundown,” he said. “We took a bit of a detour from where we’re trying to go, I didn’t want them to follow us. Damn, it might wear off soon.” Mary-Lou wasn’t sure if the man was talking to her or himself. He seemed distant to her, his eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. Suddenly, he snapped out of it, and looked at Mary-Lou. “Hey, you remember why we’re doing this, right?” Mary-Lou nodded. “And you know if we do this, we go live the life we’ve both dreamed of,” he said. It wasn’t a question as much as a statement for which he sought affirmation. “Yes, I know that,” Mary-Lou said. “Well, alright then. We may be able to make it by nightfall. We trade this wagon for a sack of cash and fresh horses, and we leave this place,” the stranger said. He was about to continue when Mary-Lou heard another noise coming from the wagon. She wasn’t sure what it was, it sounded almost alien to her. She started to wonder exactly what her town was hiding. And yet, there was a familiar quality to it, she just couldn’t place it. The sound stopped once again. Mary-Lou turned to the stranger. She’d just realized she hadn’t even asked him his name yet. Just as she opened her mouth, he cursed under his breath. Mary-Lou looked back at the road. Riding toward them were two men, both sporting gleaming silver stars. Mary-Lou didn’t understand the stranger’s dismay. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Those men…” he started, “Just let me do the talking here, alright? Please, don’t speak unless you must. I’ll get us out of this, but it might not be easy.” He looked at Mary-Lou and cast a reassuring smile toward her, then shifted his gaze downward and noticed she was still holding the gun. Startled, he took it from her and hid it back under his seat. The men on the horses were upon them now. The stranger and the rider on the left exchanged smiles. Mary-Lou hadn’t noticed when he’d done it, but the stranger was gripping her hand with his own. As the men on the horses passed, the grip tightened, then released once they’d cleared the wagon. Another noise sounded from the wagon, and Mary-Lou heard the horses behind them stop moving. The riders turned around and rode back even with the stranger, one on each side of the wagon. The rider near the stranger cleared his throat. “Excuse me sir, would you mind pulling over for a moment?” The stranger’s grip on Mary-Lou’s hand was painful now. “Well,” he said, “I would, but my wagon is holding sensitive cargo. My boss told me to let no one see it under any circumstances.” The rider was unphased. “Sir, I’ll ask you again to pull over. I’m not too keen on asking a third time. I’m asking you with the power given to me as a deputy of this county. Do you understand that?” “I-I-” the stranger stammered. His palm started sweating. “I’m afraid I can’t do that sir, I work for a powerful man, you see?” He released Mary-Lou’s hand, and began to slowly reach under his seat. He glanced at the rider on the other side as he did so. “I have the paperwork, if you’re worried about that. I can show you the manifesto if it gets you gentleman on your way.” “Well, I suppose that’s a start. Let’s see it then,” the deputy said. The deputy reached out toward the wagon, and the stranger continued to rummage around under his seat. He turned to Mary-Lou, and spoke so softly she thought it could have been the wind speaking to her. “When I lift my hand from under the wagon, you need to duck.” The stranger searched for another couple seconds, then found what he was looking for. “Sirs, I think you’ll find this satisfactory,” the stranger said as he raised the pistol from under his seat with his right arm, and unholstered the revolver in his left. Before the deputies had a chance to react, he’d planted a bullet in the head of the rider on the left. Then, flipping his head, he shot the other man just as Mary-Lou ducked under the barrel of the gun. Mary-Lou didn’t see the bullet connect, but she heard a now familiar sound of metal embedding itself in flesh, then heard a body hit the dirt path. Mary-Lou was shell shocked. She couldn’t find the courage to lift her head, much less to speak. She expected a comforting gesture from the stranger, but he now had hold of the reigns, increasing the speed of the wagon. They raced down the road for a few minutes, then he relaxed his speed. The two didn’t speak again for the rest of their ride. As the sun was setting, the stranger veered off the main path, taking the wagon through some tall trees and into a grassy clearing. A man with a similar covered wagon was waiting there. He was older, his hair readily receding and his teeth all but rotted. A few saddled horses grazed in the field, Mary-Lou assumed they were what the stranger had mentioned earlier. The setting sun cast shadows which seemed to loom throughout the clearing, the sky seemed to burn a shade of orange above them. “Hey, Mary-Lou? Why don’t you let me do the talking again, got it? Don’t worry, this is the man who’s giving us the money and horses, just like I told you. We’ll be living our new life soon enough, I promise.” The stranger planted a kiss on Mary-Lou’s forehead, then stepped down from the wagon to approach the other man. They conversed for a moment, but Mary-Lou couldn’t quite make out what she was hearing. She thought she heard the phrases “more than I thought” and “don’t worry about her.” She became nervous, but she calmed down once she saw the two share a friendly handshake. The stranger waved Mary-Lou over from the wagon, and the older man went over to inspect its contents. “My darling, today marks the first day of our new lives. Our man here came through just like I thought he would,” the stranger said. He pointed to the horses. “See those fine horses over there? Their saddles are full of gold, gold that we can exchange for as much cash as we can carry once we get into town. Then, I don’t know, we get a boat anywhere we want!” Mary-Lou didn’t know what to say. She thought that even if she knew what she was feeling right now, she wouldn’t be able to express it through language. The only word that came to mind was unsettled. Was this really what I wanted? More questions swirled through her mind, and she was more than willing to let the stranger lead her by the hand while she sorted them out. They mounted their horses, and like the stranger had said, the saddle bags held bars of solid gold. The stranger reached his hand toward her, and she took it, their horses cantering aside one another. The sun fell below the mountains to the west, Mary-Lou noticed as they passed the wagon one last time. The noise came once again, but louder than ever. No, she thought, it must be more than one noise. She wouldn’t even try to figure out this mystery, she was content to leave this place and never look back. But as they rode through the trees, realization flooded through Mary-Lou, and she became pale in the waning sunlight. The sound she’d heard hadn’t been from wild animals. It hadn’t been alien. It hadn’t been the clink of disarrayed coins, nor had it been the sizzling of a strange reaction. Mary-Lou thought she might fall off her horse. The sounds which had emanated from that wagon were surely the muffled cries of babies. The sorts of cries which would only be resolved by the gentle touch of the mothers they’d never again see. Into the sunset they rode.


Not really sure how to classify this one so I just went with sci fi because it has a few elements.  ***And the Drums Rattled On***  And the drums rattled on. Bells and pots and pans. The hot sun beats down against the back of your neck. Like the wooden spoon banging against the frying pan in our new daily sonic communion, you are the sun’s percussion. You inhale the hot stale air that has collected underneath your mask. A bubble of sweat is gathering below your nose and itching persistently, but you are compelled to accept the sensation because you can’t touch your face. The drums rattle on.  Now. The moon grins sardonically. You hide from its light in the dark corner of your room. It looks in through your window and calls out your name, your eyes meet; haunted unknowable cold terror. In the moon’s eyes you see things that were never meant for a human mind to comprehend. You forget your name. The drums rattle on.  You wake up. The moon’s terror lingers cold on your spine. You still can’t remember your name. You get up and flick the light switch on your wall. It has no effect. You wander through hallways and cabinets in the dark. The drums rattle on.  You wake up again. You were asleep on the couch. The room is dimly lit. A medium steel pot falls violently, or is thrown from the top of the stairs and bangs loudly at the bottom of the steps. No one is awake. You remember that you forgot your name. It stays forgotten. You experience a tense ache in your chest. The drums rattle on.  You wake up again. You are in a room full of clowns. They do not look at you. You look out the window. The sky is falling. It is extraordinarily beautiful, the world is filled with new colour. The clowns continue to make preparations for the celebration. They are busy making commemoratory paperclip necklaces, assembly line style. There is a handheld mirror on the table next to you. You pick it up and make eye contact with yourself. You don’t remember your name but you start to remember your life. You feel lost. You cry out in anguish. The clowns freeze. They slowly turn and make eye contact with you. Their eyes are huge, hundreds of kilometres wide, filled with craters and volcanoes. You feel the pressure of their immense gravity. The moon is no longer laughing. The moon is crying. You can’t remember your name. The sky continues to fall, the room is filled with bright indigo light. You sob alongside the moon intensely. You are falling through a series of watery caves carved out in contradictory non euclidian patterns. The sky finishes falling. Your cave is pitch black. You do not have eyes. The drums rattle on.  You wake up. You do not remember your name. You think about your childhood. Playing in the laneway behind your house. Your street, shielded in a ceiling of octogenarian trees. Two alleys on either side, plants growing out of cracks in the jagged concrete. It was a far encompassing universe with all the plasticity that entails to the perceptions of your young mind. You and your friends sit on skateboards and ride down a slight slope in the laneway road, filled with exhilaration, convinced it is a steep and dangerous hill. You immerse yourselves in your intricate fantasy game that mostly involves play-fighting each other with tall sticks that have had all the bark picked off. You eat from the gardens of your front and back yards, sour berry eating contests, chives and lemon balm. In the summer you fill up plastic jars with dirt and bugs. One year a group of kids climbed dangerously up the fence to the top of the mulberry tree. The mulberry’s were blended up and made into popsicles that were rather disappointing, but the mysticism of childhood is such that the disappointment was very quickly forgotten.  You hear three knocks on the door of your room. *Thump Thump Thump.* You don’t answer. Three more knocks. *Thump Thump Thump.* You get up, walk over and open it. It is the moon, wearing dark Ray-band glasses. “How are you feeling” You don’t know what to say. “Uh…” The moon smiles, takes off its glasses, looks you in the eye and says: “I’m dreaming…This dream I’m having is a lucid dream, a waking dream. You are a figment of my unconscious.. A character of my mind.” You feel like someone is pouring warm water and lemon juice on your scalp; prickly, concise, and unrelenting. Your perception of your own physicality takes on an irrational uncanny valley characteristic; like your head is where your foot is supposed to be and your foot is where your head is supposed to be. “What I’m wondering about” Says the Moon, “is do you have your own sentience or do you just exist within my mind?” You regard the moon, the moon regards you back. Neither of you know the answer. You slowly start to feel a sense of warmth and solidarity growing out of your mutual existential confusion and anxiety. This eventually leads you to smile and embrace. The drums rattle on.  **\*\*\*\*\*\***  The sky has fallen. In the scattered remains of Earth’s death, the Moon sits alone.  The clowns living on the moon have a machine that converts all known physical matter into paperclips. You can hear the sounds of screaming clowns echoing throughout the halls, hallways, corridors, vents, windows, and doorways of their town as their bones continue to be crushed efficiently in the paperclip mechanism.  A planned exhibition to Venus for the purposes of converting all of it’s material into the paperclip mechanism is being constantly delayed as the clowns planning it continue to have their bodies ground up in the cogs of the paperclip machine.  A conference is called in 4 days time. 4 days pass. The conference convenes. Reduced price on green clown wigs. Sarcastic calculator in the centre of the conference beams vaguely with contentment. The Cogs roll and roll. The clowns scream with pride of their fantastic machine. The conference adjourns. The drums rattle on.  **\*\*\*\*\*\***  You wake up. You have an email. The jumbled text is incomprehensible. Words seem to jump off the page before you can make them out. The characters are moving around and interposing on top of each other in a contradictory and irrational manner, the “S” and the “A” are both in the same place, but at the same time they are both somewhere else. The birds chirp loudly outside your window. It’s that time of day, the drums start again; pots and pans, gongs and whistles, improvised percussion, and clapping. It naturally mixes with the divine rhythm of the birds singing and forms a universe unto itself, a byzantine sonic ecology. You doze off. The sonic tapestry becomes aware of itself, and circles inward toward you like a tornado, or a dog chasing its tail. You allow the tapestry to eat away at your conception of ego. It turns and turns, slowly, chipping away bit by bit. The distinction between you and the tapestry becomes increasingly blurred. Eventually it has swept you away. You buzz peacefully alongside the sentient rhythm. You have no eyes. You have no name. You are alive and the drums rattle on.


How can I deal with this?” He asked himself. The crimson stains gradually clawed their way through the pale carpet and reached out to him. The bright steel of the knife's rim was stained and the blood flowed steadily down and dripped into the carpet once again and the stains embraced each other. This was no way to commit a crime, this time it was messy. He should have stayed with the routine, wait, watch then strike. He got cocky. Emotion wasn’t helpful for these situations, but he had to deal with it all, perhaps this was nature’s way of telling him that it was time to stop but he couldn’t just return to his life, he had no life to return too. He killed that along with his first victim. Frantically looking around he locked eyes with the hob. How could he have not thought about it first, sprinting towards the kitchen he twisted the hob as far as he could and could smell the gas already filling the house. With the cigarettes he already had lit he threw it into the source of the gas and with an explosion that was the end of Henry Slater. I lived a perfect life, single dad with an amazing daughter, great job and a great home. It all started when I was picking up my darling Cassy from school, that proud grin reaching to her blue eyes, I could tell it had been a good day. Why wouldn’t it have been though, everyone was friendly, there were never any problems in the small town we called home. She bounced into the car and started to jibber jabber about her day when she asked for some sweets. She always asked for sweets. I had already started to drive when I reached towards the glove compartment to get the bag of sweets. That’s when it happened. The one moment that would change everything. BANG. Someone’s Lexus slammed into the side of the car. Blood. Taken. Pain. Sirens. Screams. Help. Beep. Beep. Beep. He was in a hospital with a monitor making a slow and steady beeping sound. Beep. Beep. Beep. A stern looking doctor walked in. “Henry, you were in a car crash, you're badly injured but you will survive.” Henry processed this. Again and again. He kept processing he would never stop. How would he stop. “Where is she?” Henry asked the linger of fear in his voice hinted towards the fact that he already knew. The doctor looked him dead in the eye without even changing his facial expression. “Where the hell is she!” Henry yelled. “Henry, your daughter didn’t survive the crash.” He stated without the slightest hint of emotion. How could they. How could these idiots let his daughter die. He got up pain tunnelling it’s way through his blood but he didn’t care. What he did care about was his daughter. He started to attempt to storm out his body slowly crumbling in on itself as he walked. A younger doctor came rushing towards him and gently grabbed his arm. “Listen Henry, we are very sorry for your loss but you need to stay in your ward.” He said he was trying his best to sound sympathetic but Henry knew the truth. All these people have been desensitized to this sort of thing and just wanted it to look like he cared. At least that first doctor had been honest with him. “No, no don’t feel sorry for me if anything this is a relief I’m glad my daughter is no longer living in this screwed up world where they tell a single dad on heavy medication as he is just waking up from a freaking coma that his daughter, his god given daughter is dead. Oh no no if anything I should be apologising to you. I’m sorry for taking up all of your precious time, why don’t you just pull the plug on me. Hey! You would do it for a dog but not for me.” “Listen Henry, you need to go back to your room or we will have to get you back there by force and trust me neither of us will enjoy that.


“Please welcome our sixth performer, Eric!” The show was on. There was applause. Anderson, the MC, stepped offstage. Eric stepped up to the microphone. He wasn’t holding a guitar or sitting at the piano, and the folks in the audience seemed a tad confused. “I haven’t told you what I’m going to do yet,” Eric said into the mic, marveling at the amplification of his voice. The audience was silent. They’d quietly chattered through the other performances-- lousy emo folk singers and one choir girl who'd sat at the piano and banged out an obscure Ruth B cover. Now they’d gone quiet to the point of discomfort. It was like they were actually expecting something. “Calm down,” said Eric. “Everyone just calm down.” A few dry laughs came from the back. Air forced out of throats in polite puffs. *Heh heh heh* The coffee shop was called Bomber’s, a strip mall joint, about 400 square feet of drywall and scuffed floor tile. The open mic was held on Tuesdays at 8. People signed up on a little list snapped to Anderson’s clipboard. Up to ten performers were allowed, each doing three songs or about five to eight minutes of material. Mike, the owner, served coffee and other beverages from behind the counter. There were tables and chairs set haphazardly about the place. Seated were older folks and younger folks, college kids and high school students, grampas and aunts. Eric cleared his throat. “Everybody just calm down,” he said again. This time he got only one dry laugh. It was time to start his act. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s weird when you’re doing stand up at an open mic,” Eric said. “No one seems to understand you.” Complete silence engulfed the space like a giant inflatable pillow. Everyone stared. A few people smiled without knowing why. Suddenly anxious, Eric clutched the mic with both hands. “I met a guy on a plane the other day,” he said. “Good thing he didn’t know about my schizophrenia.” A few people chortled at that, but Eric had a feeling it was for the wrong reasons. “I like to talk to pants,” he said, shifting gears into another joke, perhaps too quickly. “All they want to talk about is their waist size, though.” This got no reaction at all. “Hello, my good man,” Eric said, turning to address an invisible companion. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, acting out the invisible companion’s reaction. “Size 30… 28 length…” The PA gave a quick whistle of feedback that shot over everyone’s heads like a runaway bird. All of Bomber’s was either looking at Eric with abject pity or looking at their phones or looking out the window or the wall or the floor. A few were trying to stifle laughter. Eric thought of the giant mural behind him on the wall — a war plane dropping bombs on unseen targets. *Subtle.* His father was the reason he'd tried out this cockamamie idea. Earlier that day, Eric had offhandedly mentioned an interest in trying stand up comedy. His father had suggested the open mic night. “That’s how they start,” he’d said. “Who?” “The pros. Bill Burr. Patrice O'Neal. Dave Chappelle. They started at open mic nights.” “But I’ve never done it. What if I suck?” “You never know until you try,” his father had said, attention focused on his business laptop. The stage was raised a few inches, a dusty old rug thrown on it. Eric stared at the rug as he told his jokes. “Everyone just calm down,” he said again. No response. Sweat erupted from his forehead pores, beading his brow. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” There was a soft reply, people murmuring things like, “Fine,” and “All right,” and “Okay.” It was like talking to a dentist’s waiting room. “Everyone say HEY!” Eric barked, noting several patrons gave startled jerks at his sudden change in volume. “Hey,” said about twenty percent of the audience. “More people than that say, ‘HEY.’” “Hey,” said about thirty-five percent. Eric cleared his throat. “That’s what a horse eats,” he said. “That and oats.” Nothing. Eric exhaled loudly into the mic, trying to fill time. He decided he liked how his exhalations sounded through the PA, how they gave him a second to clear his head. He did it again. And again. And again. The PA started squealing feedback. Eric huffed lungful after lungful of air directly into the mic. Anderson dashed over to the PA board and started turning knobs. Eric looked up through the sweat in his eyebrows and cleared his throat again. He wasn’t sure about this next joke. “I… love you people,” he said. “You’re such a nice room.” One person in the back gave a little, “Whoo!” “Will you… fuck me tonight?” This brought a burst of startled guffaws and snorts of laughter. “I’m serious,” said Eric. He looked at the floor. “I want you to… fuck me.” More guffaws and snorts, barely suppressed. Eric squeezed his eyes shut. When he’d practiced it in his room earlier, he’d imagined everyone falling over themselves laughing and getting out their phones to film him so he could go viral. It was too late now. He had to finish it. “…I’d fuck me.” Almost everyone was laughing now, but not how Eric wanted. They laughed in short, fat little bursts quickly cut off or coughed into palms. Snorts and glottal expulsions. Incredulous glances covertly exchanged. *Can you believe this shit?* Most of the older woman were looking at Eric like they would a three-legged kitten. Eric felt a hand on his shoulder. Anderson leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Eric, this is a Christian establishment," he said, the mic picking everything up. "You know that.” “I’m sorry,” said Eric. “I didn’t mean to offend Jesus.” “You’re at six minutes,” said Anderson, patting Eric on the shoulder. “You're doing great." “Praise God,” said Eric. He cleared his throat for what felt like the twentieth time. “Let me tell you about the car accident I caused the other day. I walked out in the freeway cause I thought I saw a dime. Then there was a pile up.” No response. Eric could hear all the freezers and fridges humming on the back wall. Mike watched from behind the counter, brow knitted in either intense concentration or severe concern. “I’m glad you didn’t laugh,” Eric told the room. “Twenty-eight people died in that joke.” No laughs. No reaction. The room seemed to be getting even quieter, somehow. Eric paused. He exhaled into the mic one more time. “K, that’s it,” he said. “Number six, number six…” His stiff fingers released the mic as Eric scurried out of the spotlight back to his table. He sat his fat ass down in his seat and slouched. The embarrassment was so total it felt as if Eric wasn’t even physically present. He couldn’t even leave yet because getting to the front door would require walking in front of everyone, something Eric did not want to do. He’d have to wait until the next person was on and everyone’s attention was focused away. *You never know until you try,* Eric thought of his Dad saying. *Well, I know now.* Bomber’s Cafe remained completely silent as Anderson took the stage to introduce the next performer. “Give it up for Eric,” he said, clapping. “That was really fun, although the language was a bit much.” There was a scatter of applause. Eric sipped his can of root beer. No one looked at him and he was thankful for that.