Bill Rogers locked the garage door, slid the hose into the driver’s side window, climbed into the back seat, laid down and shut his eyes. When he woke up, he was surrounded by clouds and a blue sky. A man, neither young nor old stood next to him. He wore a coat like an Afghan goat herder, Bill thought, maybe made of sheepskin, or cowhide—tough to say, as Bill was no expert in husbandry. The man was small where Bill was large. Bill was six-three and two hundred and fifty pounds. He had played tight-end in college and lorded his physical stature over small men all his life. He felt it gave him an advantage at contract negotiations. He always made sure to be sitting when the opposing lawyers walked in because his size was hidden. Then he would stand up from behind table—a great reveal, a physical imposition—in an effortless attempt to intimidate the other team. It was mostly an effective strategy. The man, nearly a foot shorter, and a petite lady’s-weight less was standing almost eye-level with Bill. He sheepishly looked at Bill and asked if he was happy now. 

“I suppose so,” Bill answered, rather dazed and unaware of all that was happening. “Are you God?” asked Bill. The old man smiled knowingly and set his delicate hand on Bill’s shoulder. “What can I do to make you comfortable?” Bill attempted to stand up but the man’s hand held him in place without applying any extra force. “A scotch would be nice! Do they serve scotch in heaven?” he laughed. The man laughed and gave Bill a scotch.

“Let me tell you, God, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it! When do we go through the pearly gates?” 

“I’m afraid you’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. That’s not how it works. Tell me, how was life on Earth?”

“Well, I guess you can tell by how I checked out it wasn’t great. But I am feeling better now. Sometimes you just need a good night’s sleep, I guess, right?”

“I guess so. You weren’t very happy down there. But that’s what I’m here for. You can fix it all now. Tell me, what went wrong in your life?”

“Wait, is this Purgatory then?”

He chuckled, “No. Don’t be silly. What went wrong down there?”

“I knew it—those nuns were all off. Well, for one, I worked too much. I spent 80, 90, 100 hours a week every week for years—hell, probably decades when you add it all up—in the office, chasing the ring, getting the promotion.” His thought broke and he looked at the man and said, “you know I cleared 950-k last year?” Sinking back into his thoughts, “but it wasn’t enough for her. She could give Cleopatra a run for her money. Man she could spend. I worked all the time, always on the road to a different client’s office, eating airport food, never exercising. Traded my health and youth for wealth, then she got to enjoy it. I ended up all alone in my big house, all by myself and my LonelyFans Platinum subscription. Look at me, I got so fat no pretty woman could stand to look at me. If I could do it again, I’d go back and just make 60k a year, keep my health, my good looks, and go to clubs every night and dance with beautiful women. I wasted so much.”

“Wow, thanks for being so honest, Bill. I’m glad you were honest, because now I can give you the chance to fix it. I am going to give you the opportunity to craft the life you always wanted, the life you dreamed of! This is your chance Bill, to do it right this time. You had a full life, you tried out things: some worked, some didn’t—that trip to Tokyo probably didn’t help your marriage, did it; but now that’s all behind, now you get to create the perfect one based on everything you learned. Now you get to play God to yourself. You will have the power to create any life you want: money, women, food, servants, power, glory, the revenge on everybody who did you wrong—anything.”

“Oh, Good Lord, heaven is even better than Mother Superior led on! I get to do that? Now?”

“Yes, I’m granting you this power. Total freedom to do what you want. You deserve it! You’ve earned it, Bill.”

“Ok, so what do I do? Just point and make something happen?”

“Sure,” he said with a chuckle, “everybody always wants to point at things like some Vegas magician. The entire creation was spoken into existence, but ever since Adam people want to point things into existence—whatever makes them happy, I guess. Anyway, you’ve got the power of the Lord, do it however you want!”

Bill pointed to a cloud in front of him and a new truck appeared before his eyes. “Holy moly, I can’t believe it’s real.” The sun reflecting off the chrome was just a big blur to Bill Rogers water-filled eyes. He had to squint to see that it had the turbodiesel engine he had imagined. “I’m not going to get carried away on the wealth. I learned my lesson there. It doesn’t buy happiness. I had eight digits in my savings account,” he looked to see if the man was listening, “and look at where that got me. No, just a simple life for me,” he pointed to a cloud and four-bed, three-bath house with in-law suite and three car garage next to a lush green lawn appeared. It fronted a cul-de-sac. “You can’t take it with you, right?” he laughed.

“Is that it, Bill? What else do you want?”

“Well, like I said, I want to be young and healthy.” His stomach disappeared into his abdominal muscles and the brown spots and wrinkles on his hands vanished into a smooth clear skin.

“And what are you going to do with your time? Go back to your old job?”

“Ohh, you got a good sense of humor, God!” The old man laughed along with Bill. “Like I said, I just want to live a normal life and go to the bars at night, talk to beautiful women. Dance with them, smile, laugh. Have fun, that’s all.”

“Your wish, is my command,” he said, and Bill asked if that is how it really worked, and the old man laughed: “no, but people really started to ask for it after Aladdin got big, so I started doing it.”

“You’re a real people-pleaser, aren’t you, God?”

The small man’s sheepish smile resurfaced and a faint pink tint rose up to his pale cheeks.

“That is it for now, enjoy your new life, Bill. I’ll be back to check on you after a while.”

“Thanks, God, you really are great.”

“Oh, wait, one more thing—I almost forgot. In your newly made, perfect, heavenly life— do you want your children here?”

Bill let out a huge laugh, “of course! How could I forget! Yes, of course, I want to see my children! Not every day—and don’t have the Queen of Sheba bring ‘em by either, if you know what I mean,” he nudged the old man with his elbow, almost knocking his small frame over, “but yes I always regretted not having more time with the kids.”

“Great, I’ll make that happen. I’ll be ba-a-a-a-a-ck,” he said as he turned around.

A door appeared out of nowhere and the old man glided over to it, with his sheepskin coat dragging behind him. The door opened and he walked through it. It began to close, but his coat got caught in the door, and he had to reach back and yank it through. As the coat flew up, Bill thought he saw the tip of a German Sheppard’s tail and wondered if the dog had been there all along, but soon didn’t care as he saw his new neighbor, a young blonde woman in yoga pants and high heels getting into her Mercedes coupe. He tried to get her attention, but she was focused on fixing her lipstick and hair in the mirror as she drove away.

Bill settled down into his new life, got comfortable in his small house and extended cab truck, and began going out to bars and clubs, just as he had imagined. Every night there was a bar to go to filled with beautiful women, and they all were happy to let him buy drinks and chat for a while. Sometimes he would invite one or two to dance and they’d agree, and then disappear with their friends. Other times he would meet a young woman in pub and talk to her; they’d laugh and joke and maybe she would give him her number and maybe not. But he never saw the same woman twice. If he called or texted a woman, she never responded. If he asked a woman if she’d like to go somewhere for coffee she always declined and said she had to get back home. 

On the rare chance that a woman did sit down and talk with him, the conversation was always the same: polite introductions, niceties, some flirtatious exchanges. He tried to talk to the beautiful women about life, what they wanted, what mattered to them, but they all just said they liked to have fun to some degree or another. 

After three weeks of going to the bars and trying to talk to women, Bill got tired of going out. He stayed at home for a week, then he tried to find his neighbor again. He saw her car in the drive and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. He only ever saw her driving away.

After a couple slow weeks, he tried going out again, but it was the same routine: a few drinks, a few laughs, nothing to talk about and goodbye, never to be seen again. Bill sat in his truck in the garage and contemplated his after-life. He wiped a tear from his cheek and heard someone knocking on his front door. He let the old man in, and Bill sat down at the barstool. 

“Can I take your coat?”

“No, I like to keep it on. I came by to see how you are doing?” 

“This isn’t what I thought heaven would be like,” said Bill, hunched forward, hands between his legs, staring at the floor.”

“Heaven?” said the old man, looking up at Bill. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Who are you?”

The old man took off the sheepskin coat and Bill saw the gray and white fur all over his body. The gray tail dragged on the floor, and the old man’s face looked like the snout of a grey wolf.

“This is your own doing, Bill. You made the life you wanted. You’ve had two chances now. This one you are stuck with, forever. No escaping. No crying, no laying down in the back of your truck for eternal sleep. This is the eternal sleep.”

“This is hell.”

“Call it what you will.”

The wolf got down on all fours and walked to the door. “Can you let me out?”

Bill opened the door and the wolf ran outside, almost knocking over the two people walking up Bill’s sidewalk.

“What are you doing here,” he shouted at them.

“We came to see you!”

“No! Get away! Get out of here, go! Go!”

The neighbor was getting into her Mercedes and looked over to see what the yelling was about, but then looked away before she could make eye contact.

“Dad, we missed you! So, we followed you here. The old man told us how to find you! He asked us what our perfect life would be, and we told him ‘we just want to be with our Dad.’”

***

Follow u/quilandtrowel for more at Medium & Twitter. (links in bio)

Vi walked the all-too-familiar streets of the slums. A child lay in the street, abandoned. The young girl sobbed into her dress as townsfolk passed without a second glance. Memories rushed to the surface at the sight of her. Vi fought back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. When this assignment was over, The Order would finally accept her as a member. No one would hurt her again.

Vi chewed her lip as she tapped her fingers together in succession—thumb and index, then middle, ring, and finally pinky—repeating the motion several times. I’m not ready for this. I’m going to fail. They’ll kill me if I fail.

She scanned the street, trying to disentangle her mind from the waves of customers crowding the vendors, each patron haggling for the best deal. The smells of bread and sweetmeats wafted in the air, fusing with the merchants touting their wares, composing the symphony that was the market. Finding her mark in this mob would be complicated, and The Order would accept nothing less than perfection.

Vi double-checked her disguise. Her vibrant red wig flowed down in waves to rest upon her shoulders. She wore an apple cap pulled tight to hide the wig’s shoddy craftsmanship. Accompanied by the motley of ragged clothes, she was indistinguishable from the other beggars who plagued the streets.

Satisfied, Vi twisted the ring on her finger; a small needle protruded from a hidden groove underneath. Carefully, she reversed the spin of the ring to conceal the weapon. She scanned the street for her target, ready to do what she needed.

A young man across the street caught her attention; he wore a red scarf embroidered with silver daggers, just as The Order described. Vi’s heart rate doubled as he stopped at the bread vendor directly in front of her. She took a deep breath and tapped her fingers methodically one last time to steady herself.

This is it, Vi. If you do this, there is no going back. She thought about her life before The Order took her in. She had barely survived the streets, begging and stealing what she could just to prolong her wretched life. There was no way she would go back to that now. Convinced, she scanned the exits—families, merchants, beggars, and guards flooded the streets, creating a maze of sorts.

Content, she slid down the steps and weaved through the masses towards the young man like a snake slithering towards its victim. Her hands shook as she approached him, doubt creeping up with each step. He was barely old enough to grow hair on his face. Did this man deserve to die?

The memories of that night washed over her like a wave. Her father lay on the ground, a knife protruding from his chest, the shine erased by the dark blood that surrounded it. A man with jagged teeth knelt over her mother, gradually turning to look at Vi.

He smiled at her with a crooked grin that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. "Don't worry, child. I haven't forgotten about you." He chortled a rough, cracking laugh that turned into a cough.

She snapped back to reality. Tears welled in her eyes as all reservations shattered. She would go through with this, no matter the cost. She twisted the ring as she advanced, her eyes blank from emotion.

Vi feigned a trip and stumbled into the man, stabbing him with the needle. "I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t eaten in a week and I just got a bit dizzy," she lied as the needle dug into the man's arm.

He regained his balance and paused before handing a piece of copper to the bread merchant. The man picked up a loaf and ripped a bit off for Vi. He smiled. "Here you go. No one should have to go so long without eating."

Her face wilted. What have I done? She spun without a word, refusing to take the piece of bread. Her eyes filled with tears as she walked away.

The sound of a thud reverberated as the young man's body hit the hard dirt. It was too much for Vi. Tears flowed down her face uncontrollably as she ran. She didn’t look back. She would never look back.

An early sunrise stirred me from whatever state I'd succumbed to. I hadn't slept - of that, I was certain - but I'd still woken, from some sort of unconsciousness. Time had passed so quickly through the night. I remember counting the seconds and then the minutes past midnight, willing each moment to slow down, to wait, to stop. But they didn't, and I knew they wouldn't. I know this feeling well.

And even quicker than the night passed, did the remaining hours of morning. It's suddenly 12pm and I'm stood before a courtroom, exploring all of the faces watching back. Some I love, many I loathe, others I look at with nothing but pity, and they're all waiting for me.

I'm not ready. I have to trust my voice and myself, but I don't. This moment is too big for me. But this moment is also not about me. So I stand firm, take a breath, and begin.

"My daughter Rosie died in my arms on May 19th, 2019. It was a Sunday, a few seconds past 8:50pm exactly when she took her last breath. I will always remember because the sun was close to setting, and somehow I just knew that it would be any moment. But how could I ever forget?

It was beautiful outside that night, in ways that I couldn't appreciate at the time. Like with most things these days, I struggle to find the right words to explain what's in my heart and mind. The sky was everything she loved and admired and so often spoke about, in her stories and poems and all of the other ways that she expressed herself. "Daytime retreating into night", "a vivid mess of twilight colours". She could say it better than I ever can.

In the distance, the sun was dipping below the horizon. I remember thinking that it was taking its time, like it was sitting still, like it knew. It felt as if hours had passed where it hadn't moved. I look back now and like to imagine that it was waiting for her.

Her brothers and I were right beside her. We held her throughout, spoke to her, whispered reassurances and promises, did all we could to make that moment as easy for her as such a moment can be. We opened the curtains so she could feel the sunset. After the weeks of pain, her peace was all that mattered to us. And when it happened, it was peaceful. If I hadn't felt her chest still and her heart stop beating, I'd have thought she was sleeping. She just didn't wake again.

I find it extremely hard to be grateful about most things from that time. But pure and vicious grief has taught me the value and importance of appreciating all wins, no matter how small they may be. So while little else, I will never stop being grateful that her moment was what it was and no one can ever take it away, from her or from us. She was surrounded by those who love her the most in this world. She was at peace, and the sun was setting. Her favourite time of day. She adored sunsets, and she chose a beautiful moment to go.

But this should never have happened at all. At the age of 25, she lost her life at the hands of those entrusted to save her. This wasn't a mistake, they happen, and this wasn't one of them. This was deliberate, with intention. They took her life. They broke her, violated her, did all they could to prolong her pain. Recorded it. Spoke triumphantly about defiling her, boasted about it, elated at having the opportunity to degrade her. Then they killed her - the very people who were supposed to save her. If that wasn't enough, they continued to desecrate her character, as if they are the victims whose lives are over. There is a sick and distorted irony there that lives in me and shall never settle.

Until recently, my heart hasn't had the strength to talk openly about her loss. Iwanted to. For her, for her brothers, for Jackson, for her friends, for me. But I couldn't do it. I could never find the courage. Doing so would have meant accepting that her missing, her absence, is final. And how could I ever begin to understand that she wasn't here? That she wasn't coming back? That someone I love so completely and unconditionally has gone through death?

How can someone who is still so very alive in my heart and mind and soul, no longer exist for me beyond those places? Where has her voice gone? Her laugh, her quirks, her wit and mind and love? Her beauty and gentle heart, her warmth and energy and spirit? How is it possible that she, and everything that made her, can be gone all at once?

I'm making my way through a stage of loss where acceptance barely exists. I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot explain it, I can only call it a limbo. Some sort of state, frequenting some kind of unconsciousness where time passes slowly and quickly. A limbo where you toss and turn, unsettled, uncomfortable, uncertain. Where you do not sleep but somehow still wake in the morning to the same pain, over and over, as relentless as it always is. There's no escaping it. Rest and peace are gone. The dread and fear and anger that this loss is forever is as paralyzing as the shock.

Being a father to six sons and one daughter is the greatest thing I have ever been. It's everything I have. My children are the hum and beat of me. But becoming the father of a daughter who's died... I didn't think I could ever survive. I didn't know how to be that man, and I didn't want to be that man. I often wonder how I'm still breathing. How much more of the grief my heart can take.

It's a pain that will never ease. I hurt for her every day. I hurt for her brothers and friends and their broken hearts, I hurt for Jackson and his agony, I hurt for the moments of her life that never got to be. I hurt for being a father that outlived one of his children, I hurt for not being able to protect her or save her, and I hurt from the restless love and parts of our hearts that are always hers, always, but can no longer be given to her. It will never not hurt.

I miss her. I'll never stop missing her. There is so much I wish I could tell her.

But I can't. So instead, I will say to all of you, that today makes the start of a journey for justice that we have spent these last four years fighting for. For my daughter. And for the five other victims and their families who must also live with their own broken hearts like we must.

I have to believe that somehow, she can still hear me. So, to my daughter; we love you more than you could ever know. And I'll keep your heart and love with me every day, til the very moment I can see you again. Until then, my girl, rest in endless peace. Rest in love, and rest knowing that we will carry you forever.

With my closing words, I'll say:

'And after all else is done, then so comes the setting of my darling sun. But I know that she shall rise again."

I wrote this for a writing prompt in r/writingprompts, but not many people will see it because the prompt is a little old. I just wanted to share. Wrote during breaks at work so forgive me if it’s a little rough around the edges.

The prompt was, “Watching the man or woman of your dreams fall in love with someone else.”

feedback appreciated

::Caitlyn::

I watched her through her kitchen window.

She stood by the sink—wine glass in her hand, gently swirling it as she looked at her phone. God, she was pretty tonight. The yellow kitchen light cast a glow upon her skin, and I swear she was the brightest thing in the room—more so even than the bulb itself. Fishnet lace snaked up her legs, red as summer wine, and her bathrobe parted just enough at the top to tease—just enough to draw your attention to it so that she could playfully scold you for looking.

It’s what she did.

I knew what she was waiting for, though. This was the first night he hadn’t shown up in over a week.

I didn’t get it. That guy—the guy who tracks muddy boots through the house, the guy that smokes cigarettes in the laundry room even when she specifically tells him not to, the guy who hasn’t touched a single dirty dish in as long as he’d been there—a dirty anything for that matter, and he’s the one she swoons for? Fucking bastard. That’s all he was. A dirty fucking bastard that didn’t deserve a woman even half as nice as my Caitlyn.

No, she didn’t get it—really, she didn’t and it made me feel kind of sorry for her. God, I mean if she only knew the things I’d do for her—the things that we have in common. We would be so happy together.

I like to read just like she does, the same genres and everything. I even picked up the book she started last week, and it’s already one of my favorites. She likes to jog; I like to jog; she likes binging shows; I like binging shows. Both of us have a horrible sweet tooth as well. I can never help but smile at the thought of that.

Now, it’s three hours past eight, which was the time that he was supposed to arrive. She’d moved to the couch and was lying on her back, letting one leg dangle to the floor. Blue light from the TV illuminated her features in the dark of the room, and it wasn’t difficult to tell that she was upset. God, I hate to see her cry.

Occasionally, she would glance over. She would peer out the window with that sad face and look in my direction. At first, I thought she was trying to see over me, to look over the hedge and into the trees behind her drive. After a few of her glances, though, I wasn’t sure anymore. I was almost convinced that she noticed me and was looking directly at me.

Maybe she needed me. Perhaps this was her way of saying, “Come get me, Richard.” And what if it was? What if this was my chance, and I missed it because I thought about it too hard? Maybe she knew I’d been out here, watching all along, for all this time. If that was the case, then she surely knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist those watery eyes.

It was time—time to be the man she needed—to finally confess my love for her, then hold her tight in my arms as she did the same.

I straightened myself—no more hiding. No more lurking in the shadows while she filled the void in her heart with all of these other worthless men. It was time she had a real man, a man who cared.

I walked to the door. For a second, I wondered if she’d left it unlocked for me. She’d done that before and pretended she was asleep whenever I made my way inside. She always did like to tease like that. I almost just opened it and walked straight in, but on second thought, I figured it might’ve been a little jarring. I decided to knock instead.

My throat felt as tight as a fist. Why was I so nervous? She loved me; I knew she did, but still, I was nervous. Sweat beaded down the side of my face like condensation. I wiped it away with my sleeve and took a deep breath. This was it. In a few moments, I’d finally have my Caitlyn. I’d finally hold her in my arms like I’d always dreamed.

I brought my fist to the door, and my stomach tightened into a knot.

Just as I was about to do it, I heard gravel crunch in the distance.

Quickly, I darted back into the safety of the shadows. I could see two bright headlights through the trees as they bounced down the dirt road.

It was him—the old Chevy Silverado with the silver toolbox in the back.

Of course, it had to be him.

He’d messed up this time, though; there was no way she’d forgive him now, not after tonight. With a smirk, I watched, wondering what kind of pitiful attempt he’d make to try and win her back this time, knowing that whatever it was wouldn’t be enough. Then he stepped out of his truck.

He was covered in black grease from head to foot and wore a mechanic uniform. He held something small in his arms, something with a bright red bow tied around its neck. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a little black lab from where I stood. Trustingly, it pressed its head against his chest and darted its eyes around the new scenery.

He walked up the porch steps. He was going to knock, but before he could, Caitlyn flung the door inward and glared at him. As much as I hated how she felt, that twisted expression of anger she shot him gave me more joy than I could’ve imagined. That joy was only fleeting, though. The man flashed a smile as he looked down at his arms, rubbing the puppy’s head. It melted the expression right off of her face.

“Oh my God!” She squealed, happily shuffling her feet as she held her arms out.

I was appalled. A puppy? A little dog and all of his sins are erased?

The two of them seemed so giddy together. They laughed and hugged and spoke in high voices to the puppy while they rubbed its head. The whole scene made me sick to my stomach if you really want to know the truth.

I don’t know how he did it—how he managed to weasel his way back into her heart and occupy the space that was so rightfully mine—truly, I didn’t. Who knows, maybe it was all an act. Perhaps it was her way of telling me, “you should’ve knocked.” And now, this was my punishment.

Maybe I should’ve. Maybe then I could’ve been the one to answer that door. A puppy wouldn’t soften my eyes, not like hers. I failed her, I know, but I will not fail her again. That is the last night he will ever come knocking on her door. I’m certain of it.

Chapter 1

Morning Glory

“Making money is hard. Building wealth is easy. You put your money in the right place and tell it to sit. Then, when you come back for it years later, it's grown from a small pile to a large one!”

   -Lord Cushonbottom 

10 chubby little Piggly wigglies jiggled awake at the foot end of a feather mattress that slumped upon a fine mahogany frame. 2 black ringed, thickly-layered-as-Canadian-bacon-still-in-the-package eyelids followed the lead piggies in this morning procession of porcine body parts powering up. One by one the hands flapped, the arms rolled in the pit mud that night terrors accumulated, the big pink belly rumbled, and finally the red little upturned nose oinked. Lord Fistburn had awakened.

“Lawrence, ohhhh Lawrence!”

The calls flapped from his overstuffed jowls.

Ever attentive, Noble Lawrence answered his Lord.

“Yes, m’Lord?”

“Oh Lawrence! It was horrible. Just horrible I tell you!”

Lawrence stood before his master patiently as the overgrown farm animal bleated and howled about how he once again had the dream where the figs “ate him instead”.

He scratched at his bare cheek, right in the crevice left by a scar from when he’d been called up as a boy.

“Ahem. Lawrence don't scratch your face that's awfully droll”

the fat little piggy sputtered as he finished the ridiculous tale of his ridiculous subconscious. This man, Lawrence thought as Fistburn hobbled out from his covers and off of his poor, dilapidated, dying bed, this piggy must be the worst creature Lawrence had ever met, and each day he just gets worse.

‘For Christ’s sake, the dreams are actually getting scarier by the bloated chaps renditions! What began as one sole fig nibbling his fingers is now a ravenous horde eating him from the inside out!’

he paused mid thought for just a second

‘what in the fuck could be causing this fat lazy shit so much internal strife!? It doesn't make any sense! Each day he just eats and farts and gets fatter and fatter and eats some more and…’

“Lawrence!” The jowls jiggled

“Lawrence help me with the corset”

Poor Lawrence could barely hold it together at the word corset. The fat piggies’ “corset” was like a stretcher for whales folded in two.

The greater part of the next half hour was spent stuffing and tying and trying not to burst out dying laughing.

But alas, Noble Lawrence is not the hero of this tale. No, we shan't be so lucky as to hear of his humble origins, how he cared for his sick mother right up til her untimely demise, how he lied about his age to serve his great nation, went over the top countless times and survived countless others. Traveled through country after country, loved and lost, only to settle down into a life of gentle luxury, the caretaker of a prized hog of a man.

No, this tale is of the hog. The wet, slimy, greased up hog.

He needs just a little grease each morning to truly make the corset fit.

After the last button in his spring sport coat was laced into its wife, clinging on for dear life, flying in the face of the most ancient physics, Lawrence patted Fistburn on the back, and released the creature into the wild.

“Breakfast awaits in the hall, m’Lord”

And onward unto glory our hero waddled. Right up until he got stuck in the doorway.

“Lawrence! Lawrence I need more grease! I'm stuck in the door frame again!”

this was inspired by the movie Gravity I would recommend watching it

All or Nothing

I woke to the sound of alarms blaring, I opened my eyes to see nothing just empty black i began to panic but then the planet below came into view, and I was relieved but the realization of my situation began to creep into my mind, I was alone… truly alone. I tried the radio but I knew it wouldn't work I was too far away from anything. Cursing my situation in rage I began to panic once again after about 20 minutes I calmed down. I had a problem (a very big problem) but this is what I was trained for, first things first… stop my rotation and figure out where I am and how long I can survive like this.

I am stable and not spinning anymore and I can survive for another 3 hours like this, but I still have no idea what my orbit is on the upside my last recorded relative speed is high enough that I'm in orbit and not going to be burnt to a crisp. I need to conserve oxygen so I lower the o2% but I begin to feel lightheaded so I turn it back up. It wouldn't be good to make decisions like that. “I need to find a station or an eleva—” Something caught my eye i rotated myself to see what it was i gasped at my luck, it was an old satellite. I used a little bit of my dwindling supply of fuel to get to it (if I could figure out what satellite it was then I could find out where I am). I slowly grabbed onto the satellite I saw a plate with the words “Mars Global Surveyor” I immediately connected my straps to the handles and pulled out my holo map that shows all objects in a close orbit to our craft and found it. I let out a sigh of relief because I am heading in the direction of an elevator, only one problem, I'm moving too slow by the time I get close enough to get to the elevator I would be long dead.

10 minutes passed and I'm still trying to think of a way to get enough velocity to not die of oxygen deprivation. I began to yell my heart rate began to elevate i let go of the handles and punched the satellite sending myself in the opposite direction, when it hit me, use the satellite as a counterweight to launch myself, i could maybe gain an extra 10m/s of velocity and I could also set myself up with a better orbit for a closer pass with the elevator. Anyway, I'm out of time… it's all or nothing

I detached my straps and got rid of my now-empty main oxygen tank all I have now is my emergency tank with only 2 hours of oxygen. I'm ditching all the weight I can so I can get more velocity. I put my feet against the hull of the satellite and with my hands still holding on in 5 seconds I'll jump like my life depends on it. My heads-up display showed a countdown.  5, 4, 3, the seconds felt like minutes 2, 1 I jumped, and as I left the Surveyor behind. I used my maneuvering thrusters to orient and adjust my orbit for an intercept.

Once again I'm floating through space. I got a little bit more speed than expected at 10.8m/s. I begin to lower my o2 to conserve oxygen giving me the largest possible margin for error. As time passed, each minute felt lonelier than the last. I checked and rechecked my oxygen levels, trying to eke out every last breath. The loneliness gnawed at me, a relentless companion in this vast emptiness. I thought of everyone I got separated from, wondering if they even knew I was out here, still alive. As reality set in my hope diminished faster than my oxygen and I began to question the point of all of this. But even as despair threatened to drown me that voice of determination and resilience continued to echo throughout my mind and that's all I needed to know that there is still a way, even if it's a 1 in a billion chance that I survive I'm starting to like my odds.

In the distance, I could see the 5 cables that connect the ground and space i started my minuscule preparations consisting of grabbing the straps that I saved connecting them to my suit, and starting an ETA timer. As the clock ticked down time began to slow. I was still too far from the cables to make contact and I needed my fule to slow down, but I planned for this and I still had the straps that I had when I connected to the Surveyor right before I passed the first cable I braked as much speed as possible using the last of my fule and threw one of the straps around one of the cables and caught the other end that swung around the cable. My heart began to settle but then the strap snapped, unable to control my movement I drifted into another cable and grabbed ahold i used my second strap to connect myself. But, the struggle wasn't over I began to slowly let myself slip down the cable, and after 500 meters of sliding I reached a maintenance catwalk where there was an emergency alert button. I sat down after hitting the button and As my heart rate began to settle I finally noticed the blaring alarm that indicated my oxygen was almost completely gone and I passed out.

When I came to, I was lying on the cold metal catwalk. The alarms had stopped, replaced by a distant sound of machinery reverberating throughout the cables. My head throbbed. With a groan, I pushed myself up and fell, struggling against the weight of exhaustion.

The emergency alert button I'd pressed blinked nearby letting me know it worked. feeling a sense of relief wash over me. Help was on the way, I hoped. As I waited, my mind raced with thoughts. How long had I been out? Minutes? Hours? My oxygen was almost depleted when I passed out; I could only pray it hadn't run out completely.

Footsteps approached, breaking the silence.

 A voice reverberated through the ground distant yet reassuring. "We've got a signal, someone's out here!"

Relief flooded through me. I'd been found. I managed to sit up, weakly waving my arms to signal my location. Soon, they arrived, faces covered by helmets, but their urgency was all I needed to know. They rushed to my side, checking my vital signs and oxygen levels. I was hoisted onto a stretcher, surrounded by flashing lights and the sound of people's voices.

"Stabilize him and get him back to the station," one of the rescuers ordered.

The journey back was a blur of motion and noise. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the weight of my ordeal finally catching up with me. When I woke again, I was in a sterile white room, surrounded by monitors and medical equipment. A doctor stood nearby, monitoring my condition.

"You gave us quite a scare," the doctor said with a smile. "But you're going to be alright."

Relief flooded through me again.

"Where... am I?" I managed to ask, my voice hoarse.

"You're aboard Anchor 9 a orbital platform," the doctor replied. "We picked you up just in time. You're lucky to be alive."

I nodded, the reality of what had happened sinking in. I had faced the vast emptiness of space and survived. As I lay there, surrounded by the beeping of monitors, I knew one thing for certain: I was not alone. Even in the darkest reaches of space, there were others who would come to your aid, a reminder that no matter how dire the situation, there was always hope.

This is the first time I have written something of this length, and is more of an exercise in self-therapy than anything else. Disclaimer: This story contains conversations about child abuse. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it.

Nathan’s number appeared on my phone screen. I debated whether or not to answer it. We hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while, and while we did keep in touch sporadically, it was usually because of important family issues. I didn’t know of anything happening with mom or dad, nor with Talia or Rio, so I let it go to voicemail. I could always call him back later. I placed the phone back in my pocket, and returned to cleaning my camera. The phone buzzed again. A text message came through. I read the preview line from the home screen. “The city declared eminent domain on the house” I unlocked my phone, read the full text message, and dialed my brother.

I wasn't able to get any closer to the house than a few blocks. Most of the area was blocked off with chain link fencing and construction equipment in preparation for the demolition that was supposed to take place within the coming days. The barriers didn’t prevent people from walking in to the neighborhood, but it hindered scrappers from coming in and stripping the houses of copper wiring and plumbing.

I grabbed my camera bag out of the trunk of my car along with my tripod. I shouldered it and hooked the tripod to my bag. I pulled my water bottle out of the center console and shut the door. I stood next to my car surveying the neighborhood. 12 city blocks of old single family homes comprised the neighborhood where I grew up. Some of the houses had been empty for months, others for years. There was an eerie silence that permeated the still air. I could not hear the familiar sounds of people, pets, or cars. I locked the car and put my keys in my pocket. I patted my jacket down to ensure I had what I needed. After a quick check, I started my walk.

The sidewalk of the old neighborhood streets still bore the familiar cracks and grind marks from years of buckling and remedy. Leaves dropped by the trees still lay scattered all along the pathways and sidewalk. Korina’s house was the first house I encountered as I made my way through a gap in the fence. The yard was overgrown with tall grass and thistle. I could see the faded blue paint of the old house contrasting the green and browns of the lawn. The chain link fence that marked off the corner property was nearly invisible through the thick brush. As I continued walking west towards 110th, I started to feel something was off. The streets seemed wider than I remembered. It took me longer than I’d like to admit, but eventually I realized what was different. There were no cars.

The streets here typically had cars lined bumper to bumper in any spot available, and were visible from block to block. The absence of all these vehicles made me realize just how deserted the neighborhood really was. House after house, yard after yard, the telltale signs of desertion reinforced what I could see from the moment I passed the construction fence: This was no longer my neighborhood. There were no signs of life, and no one I could expect to find still here. Abandonment was the new normal here. I continued on, glancing at houses and recalling memories of summer bike rides, and daily walks with dogs I used to have. I remembered walks home from school, and chasing after ice cream trucks when they passed our houses. I smiled a bit as I remembered more and more of my years spent here. I don’t quite know just why I was smiling. There were plenty of bad memories here too. Fights, yelling, being beat up, being robbed. I could remember failed friendships, lost loves, and bitter feelings of failures too.

Still, I felt a certain amount of nostalgia despite the weight of these negative feelings. I almost wanted to experience everything again, although I wasn't sure why I was feeling this way. Concrete, asphalt, billboards and liquor stores were the normal vistas of everyday life. Occasionally, after a good rainstorm, the grey haze of smog would lift, and the mountains would be visible to the north. At least, they would be visible until mid-morning when the exhaust from a million cars covered them behind a veil of pollution.

It wasn’t until the first time I travelled out of the city that I realized there was more to see. Traveling up the coast north along the Pacific Coast Highway introduced me to scenes of deep blue ocean water spanning the width of my vision. Driving up Highway 3 introduced me to the permeating scent of Pine and Fir trees. The two-lane stretch of highway from Portland to Tillamook introduced me to lush green forests that I had only ever read about. When I came home to the same old dirty, dusty concrete and boiling summer asphalt, I had made up my mind. I would do everything it took to leave this place. I would not spend another day longer than was necessary living in cramped quarters and fighting for parking space.

I arrived to the house, and paused at the gate. The house sat in contrast of what the rest of the neighborhood looked like. Instead of overgrown grass and tall weeds all over the place, the landscaping showed signs of relatively recent work. The guava tree in the front lawn still had some fruit ready to be picked, and the avocado tree on the other side of the pathway was still weighed down by its own fruit. Flowers still bloomed in the raised bed in front of the house. My brother had clearly tried to keep up on things until the last possible moment. The house, too, looked better than what I expected after walking up 4 blocks and seeing nothing but dilapidated houses and unkempt yards. I opened the gate and walked up to the small porch. The metal gate that enclosed it was gone having been removed by my brother when he took over the property. It looked nice to see it open instead of the cage it once felt like.

I turned the knob on the door, but it didn't give. Ever a creature of habit, my brother had locked the door when he left. Of course, he did. I sighed and prepared to find another way in when I remembered my parents hiding a spare key. I wasn’t sure if it would still be there, but after running my hands along the back side of the gutter downspout, I was rewarded for my efforts. I unlocked the front door and stepped into the front living room, the sounds of my footsteps and the closing door echoing in the empty space. The room felt both larger and smaller than I remembered it. I suppose it was lack of furniture that made it feel larger, but it still felt smaller than I remember. The result of growing taller throughout the years I suppose. I slowly walked along the slate tile floor towards the central hallway that connected the front of the house to the back bedrooms. I wasn't entirely sure that just because the front door was locked, that there wasn't some squatter looking for a little temporary shelter within the back rooms. I carefully and silently crept step by step towards what used to be the bedroom shared by my sister and me. I stuck my head in and gave the room a cursory glance. It was empty, thankfully. I moved back into the hallway and peered into the bedroom across the hall. This is where both of my brothers had shared a room. It too, was empty save for a few boxes holding hardware and doorknobs from the closet doors of the bedroom. I walked back towards the back of the house where my parent's bedroom was. The walls in the hallway bore the dusty signs where picture once hung. The bedroom door was open. I stepped inside, and looked around. The old avocado paint that my mom had picked out years ago still adorned the walls. Walking further towards the addition that was the small room my grandma and grandpa lived in showed that there was no one here. I breathed a sigh of relief as I set my bag down and set up my tripod. I reached into my bag a pulled out an envelope of old photos. These were old snapshots that we had all taken at some point in time in the house. There were pictures of all of us sitting at the dining room table playing a game of Monopoly. There was a picture of my brother and sister sitting on a couch in the front living room. There was a picture of me hanging on the bars of the front porch. I looked through them all and held them in place in front of me as if I were holding a window to the past.

Each picture made the lump in my throat grow as I started to struggle to control my emotions. There was history here, and soon it would all be gone. This is the place where my parents had raised four kids. They had taken care of my grandparents in their twilight years here. My Aunt and my grandmother had both died in this house. Birthdays, graduation parties, and anniversaries had been celebrated here. The echoes of life had reverberated within the walls of this place. Now, the house sat silent. It would never again know happy screams of kids having a water-balloon war out in the front yard, nor would it hear the cries of anguish as the matriarch of the family passed away surrounded by her family. What once was a home full of life was now just an empty house made of drywall and paint. I sat there for a moment contemplating just how much family history was actually made here. As I thought hard about my siblings and my parents, I felt pained at the thought of our strained relationships. We had all scattered once we had the opportunity to be free of each other. My oldest brother had married and moved away as soon as possible. My sister now lived in northern California. My parents too had moved away. I was now living in Utah. Only my older brother had remained behind. The lump grew larger in my throat as tears welled up in my eyes. I held back sobs of anger and pain. Why was I hurting? Hadn’t I dealt with these issues already? I walked back to my old bedroom and sat down under the window. I pulled my head down into my knees and cried. I could hear yelling and screaming in my head. Shouting matches between siblings and parents, brothers and sister, rattled inside my brain, making the pain grow. I sat there and cried. I hadn’t cried like this in a long time. Eventually I ran out of tears and tired gasps of sorrow and regret washed over me as a blanket of drowsiness enveloped me. I leaned my head back and fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of footsteps. It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing and hurriedly stood up. Had someone followed me? I knew the police were patrolling the area sporadically. Had they seen me enter the house? I knew there would be a possibility of getting a trespassing citation, but I figured I could either talk my way out of it seeing as to how I was a former resident, or I could probably fight the citation in court if the judge knew why I was there in the first place. Ultimately, passing through the gate had been a calculated risk that I was willing to take for the sake of my art. I got up from my corner of the room and moved towards the door. If there was someone in the house, I needed to know. I didn’t want my gear to stolen, and if there was a cop in the house, I wanted to ensure I didn’t get shot.

I was greeted by the sight of a startled chubby boy standing on the other side of the door. His round cherubic face was crowned by a head of short curly hair. His hazel green eyes stared widely back at me. He clearly didn’t expect someone to be here in the house. His body recoiled in fear as he cowered back towards the hallway. “Wait, what are you doing here?” I asked as non-threateningly as I could. The boy muttered something that I couldn’t quite make out. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you” I replied. “Are you here to rob us?” he timidly responded. “Rob you? What are you talking about?” I asked as confusion set in. “What are you doing here?” It was his turn to be confused. “Uh…I….live here?” he replied. “What do you mean you live here? No one lives-“I stopped midsentence. I hadn’t noticed in my initial shock but the room wasn’t the same. A familiar blue couch caught the corner of my eye. In front of that was an old console TV with a partially broken antenna hanging on the wall behind it. I walked further in to the living room to notice wood paneling on the walls. A large mirror hung on the wall to my left. Familiar yellow lamps sat on round drop-leaf tables on either side of the couch. A large hutch sat in one corner, a collection of letters and bills, mail advertisements, and a phone book covered scattered over it. “What just happened?” I asked out loud to no one in particular. I was thoroughly mystified by what my eyes were seeing. I had walked into the house from the front door and had stepped into an empty white room with slate floor tiles, but somehow now found myself in a furnished room with brown carpet that was all so familiar to me, yet was nothing but a distant faded memory. I turned to look at the boy still startled by the intrusion of a strange man looking wildly around the room in total shock.

“You can take what you want, just please let me go. I don’t want problems.” He stated his voice still shrill with anxiety. I blinked a few times as I tried to process just what the heck was going on. I gathered my thoughts as best I could and tried to reassure him. “Kid, I’m not here to rob anyone. I was just-“I shook my head “Where the hell am I? Am I having a dream?” I asked myself. “I must be dreaming. I’m just tired and still sleeping. This is all a dream. Yeah, that’s it.” I needed to sit down. Being back in the old house must have overtaxed my senses, I told myself. I’d having a dream about an old memory. I walked over to the chair next to the couch and sat down. I sunk into it and rested my head back towards the wall.

The boy kept his distance, but sensed I wasn’t there to hurt him. He looked me over with anxious curiosity. He stood at the far end of the couch, examining me while he played out scenarios in his head in preparation for a quick exit. “Why are you in my house?” he asked me. “Dude, this is all just a dream I’m having. I’m not really here.” He reached over to the couch and picked up a pillow. He reared his arm and threw it at me. It landed in my lap. “I don’t know, man. You sure seem to be here.” He said to me. I opened my eyes, startled. I looked down at the pillow he tossed and examined it. I ran my hand over the fabric and felt its texture. I remember this pillow. This was the pillow I would roll under my head as I lay on the couch and watched TV as a kid. A sudden realization hit me as I looked around the room with fresh eyes. No longer was I blinded by the fog of confusion. I knew exactly where I was.

I was home.

I looked at the boy still standing at the edge of the couch. I looked him over and realized who he actually was. I stared in disbelief as I smiled and tried to put him at ease. “It’s ok Johnny. I’m not here to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you. Please, sit down” I told him. I motioned to his end of the couch. “Who are you, and why are you here?” he asked me.

“This will be hard to believe, but I’m you” I said with an incredulous tone, “I’m not sure how I ended up here, but I’m here.” He looked at me as I had grown a second head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could you be me? Did we invent time travel? Oh! Are we secret government agents with the CIA?”

I chuckled. “Wait, wait, wait. Let’s start at the beginning. I’m you at 38 years old. You’re…what, 11… 12 years old? It makes sense. I fell asleep under the window in my- our old bedroom. I didn’t come here on purpose or in a machine. And no, I’m not a government agent.” His face contorted to display understanding, disappointment and finally suspicion. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in towards me. “How do I know you’re really me?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment. How could I prove to him that I was who I said I was? A few seconds of silence settled between us. I stroked my chin, thinking of a solution.

“I have a better idea. Ask me questions that only you know the answers to.” “Okay” he responded. He glanced around the room trying to come up with something. His eyes fixated on the Nintendo sitting under the TV cabinet. “What game do me and Nathan have a map of?” I looked over at the NES. I hadn’t thought about this for years, but I knew instantly what he was asking. “YOU don’t have anything. Nathan is the one that made the map for Section Z” His jaw dropped. He tried to trick me, but his plan failed. He knew well and good that Nathan never let him play. It was always ‘I’ll let you play when I die’ or, ‘you can play when I’m done’. The problem was that he never followed through. Usually by the time Nathan was done, the NES was overheated, and the game would no longer load until it cooled down. By that point, it was time for bed.

“How do you know that?” he asked in astonishment. “I know these things because I’m you. Just like I know that you wear t-shirts to the pool because you’re embarrassed by what others will think of your body. I know that you used to think that people that die off in movies were prisoners that were set to be executed from death row, so they used them for making movies. I know all about you because I’m you”

Johnny sat on the end of the couch in bewilderment, his mouth slightly agape. He had never told anyone any of this. He didn’t have any close friends to talk to about such things, and those friends he did have were more acquaintances than friends. There was only one way he could possibly know these things. He was talking to his future self.

I could see Johnny’s mind completely explode. There lay endless possibility and the answers to a million questions he could ask about his own future. He started to ask a question, only to stop, close his mouth, and try asking another. I knew if he kept this up he would have a stroke or something. “Dude, calm yourself. Let’s talk this out rationally, otherwise you’ll end up stroking out or something.” I told him. He took a deep breath and I could hear him muttering quietly. I knew he was trying to form a coherent sentence before he actually spoke it. I did it all the time. “Ok, first of all, are we rich?” he asked with tempered expectation. I chuckled and grinned back at him. “No, not at all. If I was rich, would I be dressed like this?” I replied as I motioned to my beat up brown Vans and worn out jeans and T-shirt. “We-, I – make enough to get by. I’m not poor, but I earn enough to pay the bills.” His face grew a smirk as he commented “Yeah, I figured. What do I do for work? I mean, what do you do for work?” I thought about it for a second. I wondered how much information I should divulge to a younger me. I still didn’t think this whole situation was really happening, but if it was, I probably should proceed with caution. “Well, it’s complicated. I do a little bit of everything. You know how you’re constantly taking things apart? Let’s just say that it’s good to put them back together in order to keep them working. Take good notes on paper if you need to, and make sure you have a clean work area so you can keep track of all the parts.” He gave me a sheepish look. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I had spent countless hours sneaking dad’s tools to my room so I could figure out how something was built and try to figure out how it worked. I had gotten myself into some pretty bad trouble with dad over a drill, his timing light, and other stuff I had taken from his room. His belt had become quite familiar with my butt cheeks.

I gave him a knowing smile. “What else do you want to know?” He thought about it for a second. “Do we have a girlfriend?” I laughed, probably a little more than I should have because his face contorted into a sour frown. “You don’t need to be a jerk about it” he scowled. I continued to chuckle. “Yeah we have a girlfriend. We have more than a girlfriend” I could tell he was irritated with my vague indirect answers. I knew what he was asking. I remember the crush I had on my neighbor across the street. We had been friends since kindergarten, and had been classmates for 1st, 2nd, and 4th grades. We got along really well, and I knew from around 12 or 13 that I wanted to be her boyfriend. Unfortunately, things never progressed beyond the ‘just friends’ stage of things. It wasn’t from lack of effort on my part. We had just grown up together most of our lives that she didn’t see me as anything more than a brother and friend. “Dude, look. You just started to go through changes and you are starting to notice girls, but that doesn’t mean that you need to love every girl that shows you a little kindness or subtle interest. You need to slow down and let things happen naturally. You can’t force a relationship with someone.” Johnny pondered these words for a moment. I sat back and put my feet up on the coffee table. I looked around the room some more while I waited for another question. There was so much I had forgotten, but being back here had unlocked more and more memories that continued to wash over me. I was trying to hold on to my cool as not all those churned up recollections were pleasant. I stood up and walked over to the front door to peer outside the small central window embedded into the center of it. I could see the old neighborhood as I remembered it all those years ago. The lot across the street that served as a parking area for those that worked at the wheel works at the end of the block was empty of cars. I furrowed my brow as I thought for a moment. An empty lot meant it was afterhours or the weekend.

The gears in my own head started turning. “Wait, where is everyone?” I asked Johnny. Johnny turned to look at me still processing my last response. “Uh..oh, Mom and dad are out of town. They took a trip east this time. I think Rio said they are in Arizona right now. Rio and Nathan went out to get some food and to rent some movies from Video Showcase. Knowing them they’ll eat out first. Talia is staying over at Tia Rosie’s place today with her friends.” I grunted at his response. My mind was wandering as he mentioned Talia and Tia Rosie.

A sudden sharp pain pieced my heart. The pain of a thousand memories now unsealed spilled out from the box I had locked them away in. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes as I turned back to look at Johnny. He felt it too. He stared at the floor with an intensity that made me think it would burst into flames at any moment. I walked back over to him and sat next to him. He didn’t move. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he threw himself into me. I could feel the tears dripping onto me as he sobbed intensely. “Hey man, its ok. It’s going to be ok.” I said as my own tears started to flow uncontrollably. I pulled him close and draped my other arm around him.

I knew the pain he was feeling. It was such a heavy burden, and I knew there was no one he felt he could talk to. I remembered it all so vividly. We sat there for what seemed to be an eternity. When we finally stopped sobbing, and our noses ran dry, we tried to breathe our way through to calmness. I got up and knelt in front of him. “Johnny, listen to me and remember what it is that I’m about to say to you. You are stronger than you think. You are stronger than you believe. NO ONE should ever have to go through this. Just because it happened to Talia, doesn’t mean you have to put up with it any longer. I know you didn’t think it was wrong, but I’m telling you that what she is doing to you is wrong. Talking to mom and dad isn’t going to make them hate you. You are not doing this to her, she is doing it to you. I’m not making excuses for her, but she is also more damaged than anyone realizes, and she is also dealing with the same level of pain you are. Remember that we do unto others what has been done to us. That doesn’t mean we need to continue the cycle of abuse” The lump in my throat grew immense at my own statement. I swallowed it as best I could and continued “You are going to deal with this pain a little bit at a time, and you’ll slowly get over this. It’s like a broken bone. When it happens, you don’t realize how bad the pain is until the adrenaline wears off, but then the immense pain is there. Just remember that this will pass. Just like a broken bone, you will heal over time, and one day, you will realize that the pain is gone and the bone is no longer broken. You’ll remember the pain, but it won’t hurt anymore.”

Johnny sat there in stunned silence. I knew he didn’t have anyone to help him through this. He couldn’t talk to Rio or Nathan about what was going on. Mom and Dad were constantly working to keep the family fed and sheltered and while they provided materially for their kids, emotional help was less available. Perhaps it was due to their energies being divided into 4 kids, a mortgage and multiple jobs, or perhaps it was also the culture of not talking about problems. Either way, they needed to know what was happening. They wouldn’t be able to fix it otherwise. “They’re going to be mad at me” he finally said after a few moments of silence. “No they won’t be. They love us all. I know you’re not used to hearing it, but they do love you. Everything they do is because of their love for us. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Telling them isn’t going to cause them to be angry.” I thought for a moment to find a good analogy. “You love Odie and Lady, right?” He nodded in agreement. “Ok, how would you feel if you knew someone you trusted was coming to the house and beating up our dogs when we weren’t around?” He thought about it for a second before his face changed to anger. “I’d want to kill them!” “Yes, but would you also feel sad that you weren’t there to try to protect them?” I reasoned. His face changed again. He understood what I was saying. Mom and Dad would be angry, but not necessarily at him. They would also feel a great sadness knowing that someone was hurting their child.

I smiled at him. He understood. I nodded. “Dude…You’re going to come to understand that life is not what you think it will be. Life is messy and can change in an instant. The plans you make today may not make it to next week. A lifelong goal can be derailed because of something out of your control. Mom and dad have spent their life protecting us with the goal of keeping us safe, but circumstances out of their control have affected their kids, and now we- you all have to deal with the fallout. Just remember that you are not the culprit. Yes, mom and dad will be hurt and angry, but not at you. Trust them. They don’t do things to hurt us” Johnny hugged me. I- He didn’t have many people he could trust and open up to. He liked to talk a lot about everything going on in his life, no matter how trivial. Everything, except this. This was a shameful topic, and he didn’t feel like anyone would understand why he didn’t go to an adult sooner. The problem was simple. He simply didn’t understand that it was wrong. Now that he had an adult that he could talk to, himself no less, he wanted to lift this burden off his shoulders. He was happy to have found someone and he hugged me tightly. I hugged him back just at tightly. It wasn’t every day that I could meet my younger self and help to comfort them. “Thank you” he said to me.

The world darkened, and everything faded to black.

I lifted my head out of my knees and looked around. I was sitting under the window in my old bedroom again. Had I fallen asleep? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. I was emotionally drained and incredibly tired. I hadn’t had sleep like that in years. I got to my feet and looked around the room briefly before walking out to mom and dad’s old room. I grabbed my camera and slowly walked the house, snapping picture after picture. The only sound to be heard was the sound of the camera shutter and my soft footsteps. I thought about my dream as I took pictures.

Upon entering my room, a random memory hit me.

The stash.

I was pretty sure I had taken the hidden box when I moved out all those years ago, but since I was here, I should double check. Heading into the closet, I pushed the panel that led to the attic space out of the way and peered in. I couldn’t see anything, so I reached up there to feel around. The box was indeed gone. I felt around for a few more seconds and was surprised to feel what felt like a thick envelope. I didn’t remember leaving anything up there, but after pulling it down and giving it a cursory glance, I figured it was an old envelope of lost love letters. It wasn’t until I blew off the thick layer of dust that I realized what I was holding. It was a letter. Not just any letter. It was addressed to me.

Under the now semi-cleared layer of dust were the words “To be opened by future me”. I looked at it for a few moments before opening it. I couldn’t remember making this at all, much less storing it up in my secret hiding spot. If ever I hid something, it was in the stash box. My hands shook a bit as I started to open the envelope and pulled out the yellowed pages inside. I started reading.

"Dear Future John. I have spent the last few years remembering a dream I had when I was younger. Life was…difficult at that time, and I spent a lot of time escaping my reality by reading a lot of books and watching a lot of TV. On the off-chance that what I think is a dream really happened. I wanted to write some things down in an effort to give you my thanks. I merely consider myself a conveyer of thanks, although I will pile on my own thanks to you for your words of encouragement. I remember finding a stranger in the house one day while I was home alone. I was afraid he was there to hurt me at first, but after a few moments, I came to realize I was meeting myself. Well, I was meeting me, but from the future. I think he said he was in his 40’s, but I couldn’t tell you with any certainty. Either way, we talked. We talked about life, and what the future held in store for us…

Mostly though, we talked about the abuse. Well, Talked is being generous. We cried, and then we talked. I don’t remember exactly what he told me, but I remember how he made me feel. He made me feel safe. I felt like I could trust him. Trust myself. In the end, he gave me the courage to stand up for myself both at home and at school. He also gave me the courage to talk to mom and dad about what was going on between me and Talia. I do remember being afraid that I would be punished, but he reassured me that they wouldn’t, and that they loved me.

It was a difficult and awkward conversation, but in the end, arrangements were made for me to share a room with Rio and Nathan. I didn’t have much of a relationship with Talia for a long while, but after some years, we managed to patch things up. She apologized to me, and I came to understand the abuse she herself was subjected to by so-called family friends. She didn’t tell me this in an effort to excuse it, but to merely help give me closure to a difficult time from my own childhood. Mom and dad promised to be more attentive to us and we sort of established what I guess you would call an open door policy. We talk more about stuff that’s happening in our lives. Mom is much easier to talk to now. Dad is a little more patient with us too. I apologized to them for not coming to them sooner, and dad gave me a “nugget of wisdom” that I think I’ll live by: We can’t fix what we don’t know is broken. I’ve tried to make sure I talk to them when something is wrong, and I’ve tried to implement that in my life so I don’t have problems with other people.

I’m trying to grow up to be a good guy. I want to have good relationships with people. Nathan says I’m turning into a people pleaser, but I don’t necessarily see that as a terrible thing. I know when to say no to someone. Well, either way, I wanted to make sure I thank you for the help you gave us. I probably won’t remember writing this, but I hope I do find it again someday. Here’s hoping I turn into the man I feel you are. -John Age 16."

I stared at the letter, the words blurring as tears welled up in my eyes. I quickly brushed them away as I quietly spoke to no one in particular. “Thanks guys. I hope I live up to your expectations” I folded the letter, placed it in my pocket, and walked out of the room. After picking up my backpack and tripod, I silently walked towards the front door, my footsteps echoing in the empty house. I turned to look back at the empty living room one last time, and after a moment, I walked out.

A reporter drives along a dark twisting road, to a secluded town called Halls Landing tucked away in the Appalachian mountains. He had heard rumors of a local legend about a man who lived in a cabin tucked away deep in the woods. Supposedly, those who visit the cabin come back "twisted", "broken", or "changed" a different word is used for every retelling. Sometimes those who visit are said to never come back at all.

The reporters first stop would be the Due Drop Diner for a quick breakfast. He takes his seat and quickly decides on a cup of black coffee and the classic bacon and eggs. The waitress brings his meal to him. "We don't get many visitors here, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" The waitress, who's name tag read Stacy, asks in a very prominent Appalachian accent. "Well, I'm a reporter." The man answers. "I'm actually here to report on a local legend if you're not to busy." Stacy's face and demineaner suddenly shift. She goes pale and her warm smile and cheary personality fade for a moment to a look of anxiety, before quickly switching back. "I'm sorry but I can't talk right now, I have other tables to get to." She hurries off to one of the two other patrons in the Diner, who were here before he had arrived.

Dispite his strange encounter with the waitress he was determined to find out more about the local legend who driven so far to learn about. Yet, everyone in town seemed to react the same way, either dismissing the topic, changing the subject, or finding some reason to leave. It's as if no one wants talk about it, as if it's a secret.

After deciding that it might be a waste of time, he stops into an old country store, run by an older man he hadn't seen around town much, if at all. After purchasing a few items and turning to leave, the man speaks up. "You're that reporter right? The one the folks are so antsy about?" He turns back to old man, he has long grey hair and a thick beard to match. A pot belly coverd by a white tank top and overalls, and a voice that sounded like he smoked a pack a day sense the age of 6. The reporter replied "Yeah, I just wanted to know about the man who lived in the cabin, tucked back in the woods somewhere. Everyone always acts so dismissive and dodgy." Almost on instinct, the only man replies. "There's an old sawmill at the edge of town, behind it you'll find a walking trail. Head up that trail for about two hours. At the end you'll come to clearing, with what your looking for right there." The reporter, had been writing down what he could and hoped he could remember the rest. "Man, your a life saver thank you so much, you probably just saved my entire trip!" The reporter turns back to leave excitedly, before he can make it to the door, the old man says one more thing. "Just remember son, legends exist for a reason. " The reporter hastely made his way to his car, quickly turning the key and heading to the saw mill.

Something strange he noticed, however, was that everyone he could see, was watching him drive. Stopping any and all activity, just to stare him down as he made his way up the winding road. Men, women, even children. As if trying to force the car off the road.

He parked his car and made his way around the abandoned saw mill, until he found a break in the fence, with a trail leading up the mountain. After a grueling two hour walk up the trail in silence, he found it. A small clearing with an old cabin. The cabin was dark and decrepit compared to surrounding greenery. It looked as if it had been their first centuries, almost completely untouched. Feeling as if his hopes might've been dashed, he slowly makes his way to the front door, still panting from his hike up the mountain. He Knocks on the door, and to his surprise, after a few minutes, the door opens. Standing in the door way looks to be a man in his early 20s. Short, Dark brown hair, blue eyes, wearing a blue flannel, a pair of jeans, and heavy black boots. All of which look relatively new. The reporter, camcorder in hand, was expecting someone much older than the man that stood before him, and before he could get a word in edgewise. The man flashes a smug grin and speaks. "Let me guess, you want to hear about the man on the mountain." The reporter, having his plans laid bare before him, answers still tired from his hike. "uh yes, I had heard of the legends and thought I'd come see for myself. The towns folk seem pretty reluctant about giving me directions though." The man leans on the doorway, crossing his arms. "Yeah well, you know how it is. Superstition can cause people to act strange and weary, especially around new faces." His grin turned into a more friendly smile. "But where are my manners. The names Dean, and this old cabin was built by my great great great grandfather. He was the man on the mountain you've heard about."

The reporter, as excited as a city boy can be after hiking up hill for two hours straight. Smiles back at the man, excited to learn what this man might know. "Well, what happened? Why are the towns folk so weary of this place?" The reporter asks eagerly, his legs shaking from exhaustion. "The man on the mountain was cruel to say the least. He'd lore people up here, he'd carve weird symbols into their skin, mutilate them, dismember them. Some say he could even twist up someone's soul, change them in ways no one, not even god can fix." There was a moment of silence between them, before the man speaks up again. "Well, you're probably tired from your hike all the way up here. Come inside I'll get you a drink and we can talk more about it." The man steps aside to let the reporter in. The doorway was dark, as if swallowed by some impenetrable void. Regardless, the reporter enters the cabin, the door closes behind them. The lock clicks. The reporter never comes back.

Part 1

Chicago, 2016. Flinn Gerald is doing his best to make it in the city. Born in Selma, Alabama, he has spent his entire life trying to escape the ever tightening grasp of his small town. But alas, he made it out and is adapting to life in the big city. With a big fancy corporate job, an endless supply of friends, an apartment with a stunning view of the lake, and great distance from his family, what more could he need? Well, there is a lot more (or less) that he needs, but of course that is a story for later. 

On a typical Tuesday night at a bar, the regulars crowd in. Flinn is late, as usual, as he stayed late at work (again), but on his arrival, the cheers and hugs from all the friends make everyone forget of the regular inconvenience. Conversation ensued, starting with all the boring finance jargon, but as the drinks flowed, so did the conversation, moving away from work and more into life. This is what everyone preferred. 

“Another round, anyone?” asked Raheem, enthusiastically. After a murmur of concurrence, he stood up to make his way up to the bar. “Flinn, care to lend a hand?”

Raheem Bartlett was Flinn’s college roommate and the first person he met outside of his hometown. The pair hit it off instantly despite having wildly different backgrounds. Even in their freshman year, the engineer and the finance major would get into all sorts of trouble together, but eventually they leveled out. Six years later, they still have each other’s backs just like day one.

The pair made their way up to the bar and waited to get the bartender's attention. “What's up with you, bro?” asked Raheem. “You’ve been seeming a bit off.”

“Oh, ya know. Work, life, everything kinda happens so fast. Work has been busy as of late, and the hours long.”

Seeming displeased by this answer, Raheem stared back in concern.

“Really, I’m fine… just long hours.”

“Back in school you’d pull back to back all-nighters and then still make it to a morning class. I find it hard to believe that the mighty Flinn would be so setback by ‘long hours’.”

Flinn took a moment to ponder, staring down at the bar covered in various stamps and postcards beneath the epoxy surface. “I guess, ya know, it's not all it was cracked up to be. I guess I had expected more.” Flinn had mostly dropped his accent, but occasionally it would still slip out.

Despite coming from a long line of mill workers (mostly paper) and farm hands who never ventured further than the Dallas county line, Flinn yearned to leave his small town and conquer the world from a young age. Coming from the poorest county in Alabama, his family always squashed his dreams, labeling them as impossible. But Flinn knew better. Or, at least he knew he could do better. Graduating top of his class a year early and winning a full-ride scholarship to Northwestern University, he had proved everyone wrong and set his own path. The path he was told was impossible became his reality.

“More what?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, what more is there? This is what I always wanted, right? The stable job in the city, never having to worry about money. It’s great, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but… something is missing. Doing the same thing day after day staring at a screen, moving clients money around. I… just hoped it would be more fulfilling, especially after all it took to get here.”

Before he could finish his thought, the bartender came up to take their order: another round for the table, plus a round of shots, plus two more shots.

“What am I saying, really?” added Flinn. “I shouldn’t be complaining. Look at where I am now compared to six years ago. So much has changed. My home, friends, even my diet. I just feel a bit off. Like I need something more to do..

“I get it, bro. Adjusting to your new life can be rough.  Enjoy it for a minute or two.” Raheem slides a shot in front of Flinn. “Here, take this.”

Tuesday had become fairly consistent to this point for this group of misfits: Raheem and his girlfriend Amy; Jack; Jasper, from Flinn’s firm, and his wife Max; and of course, Flinn. For nearly two years, these six have been meeting at O’Malley’s every Tuesday night for drinks and trivia. Some nights are more wild than others, but Tuesday has become the staple of the week among them. 

Drinks flowed pretty regularly and heavy over the next few hours as the clock approached the end of day. Still going round for round on alternating tabs, the useless debates began to heat up.

“You can’t seriously think Wicker Park is the best neighborhood outside the Loop. Y’all need to get out more,” said Flinn.

“Bro it’s obviously Wicker Park,” argued Raheem.” Right on the blue line, getting to O’Hare is insanely easy, plus you can’t find better music in the city. Besides, Wicker Park has Davenport’s.”

“No one ever says Wicker Park,” adds Jack. “Have you ever heard someone say Wicker Park before?”

“Dude, but you can obviously get to O’Hare from anywhere in the city,” said Flinn

“Sure, but beats walking through that dumb Block 37 Center transfer like you and your red line. No transfer is the way to go, plus the blue line gets you right to the center of the loop.”

“So does every other L line as long as ya don’t mind walking a few blocks!”

“You’re both wrong,” adds Max. “Neither matters because Midway is better anyways.”

“Woah!” the whole table murmurs, sharing shocked looks as if she just confessed to a crime. Flinn rolled his eyes at this notion.

“Who flies out of Midway?” asks Raheem. 

“What? Less people, cheaper flights, and more space. Why wouldn’t I fly out of Midway?” said Max.

“Wait, wait, that aside,” interrupts Raheem, “can we go back to the fact that Jasper thinks Sheffield is the best neighborhood? I feel like we moved past that too quickly.”

The debate rages on for many more minutes, until Flinn, seemingly out of nowhere, had enough.

“Can y’all just shut the fuck up! Why does it even matter?” Everyone’s glance quickly shot over to Flinn as a deafening silence overtook the table. Everyone pondered how to respond, and couldn’t seem to find an answer. This behavior from Flinn was unexpected, nay, unheard of. Flinn was the most level headed amongst them by far. Not even Raheem, his best friend of six years, had ever seen him get angry, let alone over an inconsequential friendly argument. “I…” Not even Flinn knew what to say next. “I’m going to go home. Long day tomorrow.” Already on his feet, he quickly walked away from the table and out the door.”

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The walk home was fairly brisk, but Flinn had grown fond of the cold. He tucked his hands into his coat pocket and hunched his shoulders forward, only looking down at the pavement ignoring the mostly asleep but still wide awake city surrounding him. His thoughts ran wild and near out of control. Of course, his intoxication did not help with clarity, but the inner dialogue was deafening. Not even he knew what was bothering him, but he was obviously bothered, deeply. He made a fool of himself in a way he never had before, and right now he felt he did not recognize himself.  Surely some sleep will help, right?

He slowly made his way down the steps to the platform, carefully watching each step as to not fall, to wait for his train. He posted up against a pillar and stared off onto the dark, empty tracks. What has gotten into me? He did his best to calm his racing, wasted mind searching for some legibility amongst his thoughts.

Once he finally got home, he slumped down on the couch and scarfed down some week-old sushi he found in the fridge. He turned on some old documentary and was asleep before he knew it.

Suddenly, he was woken up by his phone ringing. It usually does not ring this time of night and was less than thrilled to be woken, so he let it keep ringing. It stopped after a couple of seconds, and he glanced down at the screen:

Mama

(2) missed calls

Dad

(1) missed call

Now concerned, he calls his mom back in a hurry. “Hello?”

“Flinn? Your grandfather, he’s dead.”

Part 2

The wet air engulfed Flinn’s face as he stepped out the airport doors into a warm February day. Six years had passed since he smelled the Alabama air. Even after all this time, it still smells just as he had remembered as if not even a day had passed. The drive to Selma was another ninety minutes, and despite having five days to mentally prepare himself for his arrival, it was not nearly enough time. He had not seen or spoken to anyone from his town, not even family, since he left early that August morning all those years ago. He left everything behind to start his new life. The life so many told him to not start, that he needed to stay. He left anyway and never looked back.

That was, until now. He had little choice in this regard. He knew he would have to make his return someday, but he knew not when nor for what. But today was that day. Flinn and his grandfather (Pops) had always been close. If anyone had been supportive of him, it’d have been Pops, but he was a man of little words. Even when he could talk, he hardly chose to. He was a great listener, and not just because he could not speak. He showed he was engaged and listening no matter what Flinn had to say. At times, he felt Pops was the only one who understood him as if he had been just like him before, but no one would ever talk about his past. All Flinn knew is Pops lost his tongue after a failed lynching.

The familiarity of the scenery zipping past was bittersweet. He had not realized how much he missed the rolling hills and thick forests beneath the unforgiving southern sky. He kept his head pressed against the cool glass of the car window even through the constant bumps in the road. He couldn’t look away. So many memories happened here, and the closer he got, the more plentiful the memories became, and the more potent they were, and the more painful they’d become. 

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As the dust settled behind him, he stood on the driveway staring at his childhood home still unsure how to process his emotions. It was all so overwhelming. He was thinking everything at once. He took a deep breath, rolled back his shoulders, and swallowed. He reached for the door handle, hesitating slightly, and took a step in. One foot, and then the next.

“Martin!” Flinn smiled as his old friend and childhood dog rushed towards him without hesitation. He knelt down and embraced him as Martin excitedly rustled through his arms seemingly showing more energy than he had in years.

He walked down the hall and around the corner into the living room. There, both drawn to the large television like moths to a flame, he saw his parents sitting beside one another on the couch watching some daytime program with their backs to him. They seemed to pay no notice to the commotion at the front door nor the loud creaking footsteps he took along the old wooden floors. They knew he was there; they just chose to ignore him. He walked into view to greet them. "Mama, dad." His father smiled slightly but caught himself and refrained. 

Mama kept a straight face, but seemed to be fighting tears."Howard, help Flinn with his bags, dear."

“No, it's alright, I know where to take them,” said Flinn. “How are y’all?”

“Service is tomorrow at eleven down at the ole First Baptist Church. Make sure to wear something nice.”

“Alright, mama. I’ll... I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Whole family is coming tonight. Dinner is served at...”

“At seven, I got it, just as always.”

“It’s good to see you, kid.” said his dad. “Let me know if you need anything”

He did not expect things to go like that, not that he knew what to expect. He had hoped time would have been more forgiving. Perhaps leaving unannounced in the middle of the night was not the best plan, but at the time he felt as if he had no other choice. Everyone knew he was leaving. That was no secret and had not been for years before any plan had actually been set into motion. No one knew the date or time, except for Pops, of course, but he’d never tell. Of course he wanted everyone to know. He wanted everyone to be proud of him, but it was too big of a risk and commendations were too much to expect. Besides, Mama always had her schemes, and had she known, she would have found a way to stop him.

Not much had changed since he’d been here last. The old wood paneling still lined nearly all the walls, crack in some spots, replaced in others, but all coated by decades of cigarette soot. On the walls were a combination of family portraits from over the years and cheap artwork found at the flea market. Old green furniture, too many house plants to count, and a tacky themed kitchen, it was all still the same. 

His childhood bedroom, however, was much different. Hardly even recognizable, what was once his bedroom was now a storage room filled with endless shelves and boxes. He set his things on the lonely cot in the corner, sat down, and took it all in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not realizing he had drifted off, Flinn awoke and looked at the clock. 6:55. Convenient. He sat up and brushed his hair down with his hand as he suspected it was sticking up in the usual way. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the dining room. The whole family was there, probably about twenty people or so, all scattered about throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room engaged in various conversations. His nana, aunt, and Mama were cooking away putting the final touches on the large meal.

“Well if it isn’t this fucker…” said a familiar voice to his left, laughing. Flinn looked over to see his cousin who’s just a year younger than him. 

“DeAndre, how are you?”

“Never thought I’d see you again, even since you left. Thought maybe you ‘ood be dead.”

“Nah,” Flinn laughed. “Still very much alive.”

“I can see dat. Wearin’ your fancy suit and all.”

“Yeah I’ve been doing pretty well. Work has been… good. I have a great job at a finance firm in Chicago. Everything has been… Good. Yeah, good. How about you?”

“Now you ain’t goin’ city on us, are you?”

Flinn laughed. “I think I might already be.”

Just as dinner was finishing up, a line started to form and people found a seat wherever they could, be it at the table, on the couch, near the counter, or outside. 

“Flinn!” his dad called out. “I saved ya a seat here at the table, kid.”

Flinn took his seat right next to his dad which positioned him right across from Mama. The table could sit eight, and the seats filled in pretty quickly so he was lucky to get one. Besides his sister, all of the oldest family members took the other four chairs.

The dinner itself was mostly uneventful, except for the food of course which was extraordinary. Flinn had not eaten Mama’s cooking, or anything like it in six years. The southern food in Chicago was alright, but nothing like what you can get down here, and no restaurant is going to have the same quality and taste as a home-cooked meal. By God, he had not realized how much he needed this. It was almost healing, like a part of his soul had been lost and he found it once again. The last week had been incredibly overwhelming, and last Saturday he never foresaw being here now, but he was glad he was, regardless of the looming tension. All the stress from work and life back home in Chicago was now all gone. All he had to worry about was… oh yeah, the family drama. The dreaded interactions, what he had suppressed for so long, that had kept him up at night for years. All those long nights doing homework or anything else beside sleeping. They had not been by choice but rather necessity.  He would have slept more if he could, and some of those nights he really needed to, but instead was kept motivated by the pain. The pain of knowing no matter what he did, no matter how successful in life he became, he would never be good enough for his family, good enough for Mama, because he left them.

If there ever was a time to clear his conscience and get everything out of the way, it would be today, or at least over the next couple of days. When else would he have the chance? Not that any of this had been planned, and his therapist would probably advise against it. She did not even know he was here. What would she have to say? Avoiding conflict has always been his choice. He has always been quiet, never been at the center of drama, but some things need to be said. Just, maybe not by him. If he waited long enough, perhaps they would come up on their own. So he decided to wait, but he knew time was limited and he could not wait forever.

“Mama, could you pass the butter?”

Mama just stared back at him. “Get ya own damn buttah, since ya can do everything else on ya own.”

Flinn stands up and reaches for the butter. “I can do everything myself, and I have. I hope you’re proud, Mama.”

“Proud? What do I have to be proud of?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe my job, my degree, everything I have been able to do to build a good life for myself.”

“I don hear anything worthy of praise.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mama.”

“Oh, so now you’re sorry? You could’ve fooled me. Is that how you felt when you left? Unbelievable.”

“I left because I had no other choice.”

“Oh don go lyin’ to me now. You did have a choice. You had a choice and you chose to leave us. You didn’t say goodbye, and you were just gone in the mornin’.”

“If I had not just left, you would’ve stopped me.”

“Cause you ain’t got no reason to go nowhere.”

“I had plenty of reasons to want to leave, and not because of you. I’ve always had dreams, Mama, ya know that. I’ve always been bigger than just this town.”

“Oh, so now you’re too good for us, city boy? Huh? I don wanna hear no more of it.”

“It wasn’t about that, Mama. Look at all I’ve been able to do.”

“I ain’t see nothin’. You never call and you never visit. How am I supposed to know what you been doin’?”

“I thought you didn’t want me coming around any more?”

“Well, you’ve got that right. Glad to see you still have some brains left.”

“Well excuse me. Maybe it's best if I leave again. Sorry I ain’t make you proud, Mama.” Flinn got up and left the table.

Part 3

Just as the early light began to peak through the blinds, Flinn was woken up by a firm knock at his door. “Flinn, may I come in? It's Uncle Terrence.”

Flinn sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yep, come in.”

“How are you this morning, kid? Ya know, she’ll never admit it, but ya Mama missed ya.”

“I find it hard to believe.” Deep down Flinn knew it was true, but she was hard as a rock, and arrogant. She would always find a way to be right, even when she knew she was wrong, and she would never let you know she knew she was wrong.

“Well, we’re all proud of you, kid.” Flinn hated when Terrence and everyone called him kid. “Just wish yoo’d come around and see us every once in a while. I know ya busy with all the big city stuff and all.”

“I thought no one wanted anything to do with me any more?”

“At first, maybe, but I miss ya, kid. Ya know who missed ya most of all?”

“Pops?”

“Yes, of course. He always wanted to know about ya, every time I’d come round. He couldn’t call, but always wanted me to.”

“I should have called.”

“I think everyone wanted to call, but as time went on, it became harder and harder to push that button. It was already so hard at first, and only got harder.”

“I thought about everyone a lot, especially at first. Leaving was really hard, and I almost didn’t, but I always wanted more. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in this town, and if I had not left when I did I probably never would have. But it was still hard. I wanted to go home so many times, but I convinced myself no one wanted me here no more or that y’all would’ve said ‘I told ya so’ or sum bullshit. No one wanted me around any more and I had left, so I was stuck on the path I chose. And I’m happy, and I’ve done so much, but it’s never been easy.”

“Pops was a lot like you when he was your age. Set on leaving as quickly as he could. Things were different back then, not that they are any better now, but Hank... my brother… Pops, was just like you.”

“What changed?”

“Well, he never did. Just no one talks about it anymore. After what happened on that day, they blamed his behavior. Said he should’ve played it safe and he’d still have his tongue.”

“No one has ever told me the story.”

“And they won’t. It changed the whole family.”

“But you’ll tell me?”

“Only if you promise not to tell. I don need an earful from ya Mama.”

“I promise.”

“Hank couldn’t be confined to Selma, just like you. He joined the army right out of high school, and after he was done in Lebanon, he didn’t go straight home.”

“Where did he go?”

“Everywhere but here. He used the small amount of money he got from the army and went anywhere that would let him in. Across Europe, parts of Asia, Northern Africa, even parts of South America. Of course, a young black man traveling by himself at the time was challenging, but Hank could hold his own pretty well. He still ran into all sorts of trouble. He spent more nights in jail than he would have liked, but he would have done it all again if he could.” 

“What happened when he got back?”

“He was much different, but for the better. He couldn’t wait to get back out there again. He had confidence like I had never seen before. That’s what got him in trouble not too long after.”

“How’d he lose his tongue? I’m guessing that is what changed everything.”

“When he got back, he got involved with a girl, I think her name was Susan. She was the mayor’s daughter. They snuck around for a while. Their relationship was not acceptable, especially to her father. If he found out, Hank would be in a lot of trouble, and of course eventually he did find out. He spent about a month in jail in just awful conditions even for the time. They didn’t have anything to hold him on so eventually they had to let him go. About a week after he got out, he was walking downtown and some guys grabbed him. He took him out to a field and tried to lynch him. Luckily, they failed and he survived, but they took his tongue as a warning. He was never the same after that. All of his confidence was gone, and of course he couldn’t speak no more.”

Flinn did not know how to respond. It all made sense now: why the family so desperately wanted him to stay, why they were so hurt by him leaving, and why they’d feared who he was becoming. They were all traumatized and wanted to protect him. They did not want him to suffer the same fate as Pops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The funeral itself was fairly uneventful and went nearly as perfectly as expected. The church filled in with hardly any empty seats, tears were shed, and speeches were given. Pops touched the lives of almost everyone he met, and they came to show it. After the service was the reception, and yet again, the food was spectacular. Everyone got along just fine today and there was no more residual drama, at least for now. Today was Pops’ day.

After the reception, the family gathered back at Mama’s house for the reading of the will. Pops did not have many possessions, at least not of monetary value, but what he did have was meaningful in other ways. He was very clear on who he wanted to give off, and handpicked what would be most substantial to each person.

Everyone gathered around much as they did at dinner, and the lawyer began his reading:

I, Hank Gerald, a resident in the City of Selma, County of Dallas, State of Alabama, being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby absolutely revoke any and all other wills and amendments previously made by me.

The reading went on for some time as there were many beneficiaries. Flinn began to daydream about what could be left for him. Flinn was not a very sentimental person, so trinkets and heirlooms paid him little interest. Perhaps his car, or maybe money. Something that will be useful to him.

To my dear brother, Terrence, I leave my 1964 Pontiac GTO and all tools and parts associated and necessary with/for the running and upkeep of the vehicle.

The further down the list he went, less was given, but this is to be expected. As the end of the list neared, Flinn began to wonder what would be left for him if anything at all. The will had been in order of age, to this point, so he should be up soon.

To my Granddaughter, Nia,...

Nia? She's younger than me… Flinn thought.

I leave her my grandmother’s locket containing a picture of my Grandfather before he left for the Great War. She looked at it everyday to keep the memory of him alive until he eventually returned to her alive.

How could he skip me? Perhaps I should have called, or never left. Flinn got lost in his own thoughts and barely paid attention to the rest of the will. He and Pops were so close, and he never imagined he would be taken out of the will. But that is my own fault, afterall. I left, and I never even care to call. He died, and I never even said goodbye. 

Just as Flinn began to accept the consequences of his actions, they got to the last beneficiary listed in the will:

Finally, to my oldest Grandson, Flinn, who is more and more like me than I ever could have wished to have been, I leave my journal. I hope whenever you need the motivation, you read it to find the meaning you are looking for in life.

Part 4

Flinn sat at his desk unable to focus. It was fairly slow for a Friday, but he still had work to do. After a chaotic weekend back home in Alabama, he was ready to settle back into his monotonous routine. The experience had been healing in some regards, but still left a lot unanswered. What did he mean by finding the meaning in life? Flinn wondered as he flipped through the endless pages of Pops’ journal, all filled with endless recounts, drawings, symbols, and pictures from his travels, just as he had since Monday. The journal consumed his whole attention, and nothing else seemed important enough to focus on. He had even ditched his friends all week which he never does.

He is supposed to meet Raheem for drinks tonight, but now he is wondering if he even wants to go. There is just too much in his head right now. He just wants to be alone. 12:37. The clock is moving too slowly. Flinn clears his calendar for the rest of the day and decides to go home. 

At home, he still finds himself flipping through the pages of the journal, not even reading them but just looking at them. Again and again, he flips through until he has enough. He drops the journal on his lap and stares off into the distance at the gorgeous view of Lake Michigan. The endless city and skyline take up most of the horizon until it just stops, cut off by the endless ocean-like lake. He stares at it for quite a while until something catches his eye. He has seen this before. Well, of course he has. He lives here and this is his view everyday. But he knows he has seen it somewhere else.

He picks the journal back up and flips through in a hurry. There it is. He holds the journal up to the window to show a matching two-page drawing of this exact view. Well, not exact. It is a slightly different angle, but it was close enough. Pops was here. He would have loved visiting. I should have invited him. This made Flinn sad, and he threw the journal down on the table in frustration.

Just then, that is when he noticed it. There was a page sticking out from the journal, but it was not like the rest. The page was white and pristine, aside from a few wrinkles, as if it was new, whereas the rest of the journal showed its age. He rushed over to grab it. He opened it to find a letter, addressed to him:

Grandson, When you left, I knew that you would accomplish everything you set out to do. I also knew, however, you would find yourself lost someday, returning home for answers. I was hoping I’d be able to give you those answers myself, but as time goes on that seems less likely. I too found myself lost, and I knew not why. I had gone and seen the world, and it changed me, but I was still not fulfilled. I came home still looking for the answers, and it took a while, but eventually I did find them. 

Through this journal, I hope to share my findings so that you too, when you are lost, find the answers you seek. Whenever you are ready, follow my journey and the clues I have left for you. Go out and see the world, just as I did. You will find that what you want from life is less than what you expect.

I hope the experiences you have are less harsh than my own, but still be careful. The world has changed a lot, but still not enough. But don’t skip ahead for the meaning may be lost. Take only one step at a time, and when it comes time to take the next step, it will reveal itself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seven o’clock rolls around and Flinn walks into the bar to meet Raheem. He hasn’t seen Raheem, or anyone else from the group, since last Tuesday when he had his outburst. He begins by telling the story of the events of this last weekend, but leaves out the parts about Pops’ past.

"Pops left me a hidden letter.”

“What do you mean?” asked Raheem.

“Like in his journal, I found a hidden letter. It was addressed to me.”

“What did it say, bro?”

“He says he was a lot like me when he was my age. He wants me to go where he went and learn what he did.”

“In Alabama?”

“No, everywhere but there. He wants me to start in Western Europe and follow his clues around the world.”

“He traveled?”

“A lot, apparently. I never knew. He was in the army, and after he got out, he traveled… everywhere, basically.”

“Why did no one tell you?”

“They wanted to keep me safe, I guess.

"They wanted to keep the whole family safe after what happened to him.”

“What do you mean, bro. What happened?”

“I can’t talk about it, but it doesn’t matter now anyways. I’m living a different life now.” Flinn never shared much about his past or his family with anyone, not even Raheem. It has always been a mystery. This was the most he had ever shared with him.

“Well, are you going to go?”

“No, I can’t. I have work. It took too much to get here. I can’t just give it away.”

“It’ll still be here when you get back, bro.”

“If only it was that simple.” 

“It can be. You have money saved up. Chicago isn’t going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere. Plus, you’ve always talked about traveling more. Why don’t you take some time to do it.”

“I suppose, but I like my life here.”

“If you don’t do it now, when will you? You’ve taken a leap before, why not take another one. You’re smart, you’ll land on your feet, bro. Besides, your grandfather thought it was important enough to not only give you his journal, but hide you a letter for you to find when you needed it most. Maybe now is when you needed it most. You’re way too stressed at work anyways, and I can tell you’ve been off for a while now. Perhaps some change could give you what you need.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On Monday morning, when Flinn gets to work, he walked straight to his boss's office. He turned in his letter of resignation.

Two weeks later, he took the red line to the blue line to O’Hare. Journal in hand, he boarded a flight to Dublin.

The golden rays of early morning shone into the shelter, landing on the boy’s eyes. This stirred him from sleep and through instinct, he immediately clutched at his chest, making sure it was still there. A small pouch tied to a cord draped around his neck, the reason he embarked on this journey. He crawled from the hovel of branches and dead leaves into the forest. The trees were beginning to shed, and the ground was damp. The dense woods turning light brown. The boy set out to look for food.

Silent and slow, the boy explored the forested basin, bow in hand. There were no signs of anything larger than himself there. No trails, no droppings, nothing that might provide the boy with a meal that would last longer than a few days. Birds would do. So, the boy continued, his gaze focused on the forest canopy. While terrain, weather and people might have changed throughout his journey, hunger was the only certainty.

Some time later, the boy managed to shoot down two scrawny cranes and had them tied around his waist. He spied a swan resting at the banks of the river. It was far, but his father taught him to shoot well. The boy focused, drew in a breath, and loosed the arrow. It grazed the swan’s neck, and struck a rock behind it, flint tip shattering. The swan began twitching on the gravel bank, the indirect strike broke its neck. Before the boy approached the dying bird, he noticed a rustling in the bushes next to it. He stopped and waited. A wild dog emerged, just as cautious as the boy, and slowly padded towards the swan. The boy could see its ribs clearly through the dogs matted fur, its shoulder blades threatening to break through its skin. He let the dog take his kill.

It was raining heavily. The boy decided to make camp inside a deadfall at the banks of the river. The boy sat soaked and shivering next to his fire. As he dried, he dreamt of warmer lands, and of the place he received his gift.

The sun steadily grew warmer. The lands changing from a lush green to dry grass and eventually to dust and cracked rock. The people also changed. They spoke in a language strange to the boy, guiding him with vague gestures and garbled tongues. He stumbled through the desert, trailing behind his guides, accumulating other ragged followers as they went. Then he saw it. Just along the shimmering horizon was a blot of green atop a hill. A beacon in the desert calling out to lost pilgrims seeking to gain its knowledge.

As the weary group approached the high perched temple, the dry winds carried the stench of rotting flesh. Bodies lay strewn on the sand, swarmed by countless vultures. Their decaying flesh being ripped from the bone by great hooked beaks, their bones to be returned in time to that sacred place atop the hill. Like the wilderness surrounding it, the temple’s rites embodied all aspects of life; With death being a necessity for birth and growth.

The boy plunged his face into the natural spring at the gates of the temple, wetting his parched throat and blistered face. A plant grew around the spring, and it grew like no other plant the boy had ever seen. Lines were dug into the earth, allowing water to flow through impossibly straight rows of tall grass. He knew that this was the reason he was sent here.

The days grew longer and longer, with more and more travellers arriving at the oasis. The boy was sitting in the large camp of strangers and the sun had reached its highest point of the year when they were summoned into the temple.

The boy surveyed the cavernous hall, perplexed. A juxtaposition of the natural and artificial. The large room was composed of straight lines and sharp angles, yet etched into the stone was lifelike depictions of the desert fauna; Foxes chasing rabbits, herds of wild horses running along the walls of the room, and in the centre a mighty pillar carrying the image of a large vulture, its magnificent wings spread, scythe beak turned to the side on full display.

The ceremony began with the beating of drums echoing off the high walls. A large stone basin was brought before the audience. With elegant movements, the temple’s residents poured soil into the basin. A human bone was ground up, the bleached white powder scattered onto the soil. They produced seeds from small pouches hung around their necks and buried it in the basin’s loose mixture. Next, they poured that life giving water from the spring onto the soil and began to dance around the room. The boy’s eyes traced their swirling and noticed the moon carvings on the walls. Waxing and waning stone circles. This dance was the passage of time. Each lap of the hall representing months. All while the seed waited in damp soil.

The boy and his fellow travellers were ushered out of the hall and were led to the spring with the strange grass. The grass was cut from the ground and beaten against a flat rock releasing its grain, the stalks being cast aside. The grain was ground down, mixed with water, and baked over a fire. The audience feasted on this new food, along with all manner of desert beasts and a thick liquid that made the boy feel dizzy. The boy hadn’t feasted so much in his entire life. But food wasn’t the gift he had come all this way to receive, at least not in this form. When it was time for them to leave the temple, each group of travellers were presented with a small pouch much like those the dancers wore. The families rejoiced at receiving this benevolent gift, the boy received his gift alone.

The land was dusted with frost, cold winds funnelled through the mountain pass biting at the boy’s skin. Occasionally he would glance behind him, spotting the same wild dog watching from behind a rock or quickly running out of sight. It had been trailing behind him ever since he had shot down that swan.

The boy paused for a moment, then quickly ducked down behind a mound of loose stone. There was a clearing in the woods below, and noises. Speech. A group began to enter the clearing. A band of young men, around the boys age, carrying spears and clubs, wearing the skins of great beasts. He had heard of such people from some of the pilgrims in the desert. Boys sent out into the wilderness, tasked with killing a creature stronger than them, wearing its skin, and returning as men. The boy could hear them from far up the mountain ridge. No doubt the animals in that forest did too. The rear of the line finally emerged into the clearing. They were dragging along women bound at the wrist. Stripped bare, some younger than the boy, some with hair beginning to grey. Most had distended bellies hanging from skeletal frames wholly unsuited for the burden of pregnancy. The boy waited; Still frozen in place long after the party had disappeared back into the treeline. When he could only hear the natural sounds of the forest once more, he rose to his feet and looked up at a path further up the mountain. The wide eyes of the dog stared back at him, waiting for the boy to move ahead so that it too could stand up and continue its journey.

As time passed, the land grew a thick coating of snow. Food was even harder to come by now, yet with each kill he would leave a small pile of refuse some way away from his camp. It would always be gone by the next morning. He didn’t see the dog much. It was a careful companion, and rightfully so. The boy had noticed the dog’s belly swelling over time; It would have pups any day now.

Amongst the snowcapped trees the boy found a glacial lake. Shimmering blue reflecting the cloudless winter sky above it. He would be able to fish here, possibly enough to last him the remainder of the journey. He didn’t know how close he was. He thought he recognised the land surrounding him, yet the drifting snow made him uncertain. He made camp in a small cove along the lakeshore, weaving basket shaped traps and leaving a pile of slightly damp wood for a fire later.

The boy paced along the water, dropping traps where forest streams fed the lake. While he waited, he chipped at the edges of his knife, dull stone flaking off to reveal a hidden sharp edge. The traps hadn’t caught as many as he’d hoped, but it’d keep him fed, and that was enough. After gutting the fish with his newly renovated knife and draping them over the smoky fire to dry, he walked a little bit further down the shore and left a pile of offal. He placed a whole fish at the top, for the pups.

Back at the camp he stripped down, leaving the small pouch tucked in a crevice for safekeeping. It was a while since he bathed, but it wasn’t raining now, and he had a fire to dry off next to. He made his way back to the edge of the water and looked down, gazing at his reflection in the water. It revealed someone unrecognisable to the boy, pale goose pimpled skin stretched over a wiry frame, more bone than muscle. Hair also began to sprout on his upper lip, this journey had changed him.

He tread the freezing water until his feet began to go numb and the sun began to set. As he emerged from the lake, he noticed that the pile of guts was left untouched. No matter, it would be gone by tomorrow. With shaky steps he went back to the camp, barricading the entrance with stones and fallen branches to keep the heat in. He sat next to the fire clutching the gift around his neck, hoping he would see his family again soon.

A sharp gust of wind entered the cove, waking the boy up. Through sleep blurred eyes he saw figures standing over him. He shot up, spun to the entrance, and saw them clearly. The pelt hunters. The eldest stood before him, a cloak of thick sandy coloured fur slung over his shoulder, grinning with teeth that were beginning to brown. An unseen blow struck the side of the boy's head, and he went back to sleep.

"Sammy!" Gus's voice cut through the chatter of the dimly lit bar.

The tall, sharply dressed man swiftly made his way to Gus's table. "Gus?"

"You got any smokes?" Gus's request was direct.

Sammy reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a carton of cigarettes. With a deft movement, he opened the lid and offered one to Gus.

"Thanks." Gus accepted the cigarette, placing it between his lips.

"You're welcome, Gus," Sammy replied before heading back to the bar.

"Wait, Sammy..."

Sammy paused a few steps away, turning to face Gus.

"You got a light?"

"Sure, Gus." Sammy returned to the table, producing a lighter from his pocket and igniting Gus's cigarette.

"Thanks." Gus took a drag, the tip glowing orange in the dimness.

"You're welcome, Gus." Sammy retreated to the bar once more.

"Where the hell is Vinny?" Gus turned to Tony, who was meticulously counting cash at the table.

"He said he had to deal with something for Mikey Sacks."

"Since when does he cozy up to Mikey S?" Gus questioned, exhaling smoke.

"I don't know," Tony replied, still engrossed in counting. "He said it was urgent and-"

"Joey!" Gus's face lit up as a young man entered the bar. He rose from the table, arms outstretched.

"Get over here, kid."

Joey approached, reciprocating Gus's embrace. Gus planted a paternal kiss on Joey's head before gesturing for him to sit.

"How you been?"

"I'm alright, Uncle Gus," Joey replied, taking a seat.

"I thought you ditched us, kid?" Tony extended his hand to Joey.

"Aw, c'mon, Uncle Tony," Joey grinned, shaking Tony's hand. "How could I forget about you guys?" His gaze turned to Vinny's empty seat. "Where's Uncle V?"

"That's the question of the hour, kid," Gus remarked.

"That's a lot of dough, Uncle Tony. Who'd you shake down?" Joey's eyes flicked to the piles of cash on the table.

"Hey, watch it, kid," Gus retorted with a smirk. "I'm a legitimate businessman here. No shaking down involved."

"Yeah, sure, Uncle G," Joey chuckled, a playful glint in his eyes.

"What brings you to the world-famous Pinucci's Pizzeria?" Gus inquired with a grin. "Don't tell me you need money," he added playfully.

"Nah, I was actually looking for some advice," Joey replied.

"If advice is what you're after, then you've come to the right place," Tony chimed in, taking a brief break from counting cash.

"Uhm..." Joey hesitated, glancing at Tony. "I was kinda hoping Uncle G could help me this time."

Gus let out a hearty laugh. "Keep counting, Tony," he said, waving off Tony's offer of assistance, who chuckled to himself and resumed counting.

"What's the matter, Joe?" Gus inquired, attempting to take a drag from his already extinguished cigarette before discarding it on the floor.

"Well..." Joey began, "I met this girl..."

"Wait," Gus interrupted, his attention drawn to a commotion outside the window.

"Is that Vinny?" Gus pointed towards the window.

"Shit," Tony muttered as he swiftly rose from the table and headed to the door.

"Marty, Lefty," Gus called out to two men sitting at the bar, who immediately turned their attention towards him.

Gus gestured towards the disturbance outside as he followed Tony out the door.

The two men from the bar swiftly rose and followed Gus and Tony outside. As they emerged onto the street, they were met with a grim sight—Vinny on the ground, being assaulted by a group of attackers. At the sight of Gus and his companions, the assailants scattered in the opposite direction down the street. Marty and Lefty chased after them briefly before returning to the scene.

"Oh my God, Vinny," Gus exclaimed, rushing to his friend's side. "Can you hear me?"

Vinny, conscious but unable to speak, laid on the ground, his clothes stained with blood and his usually impeccable hair now disheveled and dirtied.

"Tony, get the car!" Gus ordered urgently.

Tony dashed off to retrieve the vehicle.

"Joey, help me lift him," Gus instructed.

Together, Gus and Joey carefully lifted Vinny from the ground.

"Marty, Lefty!" Gus called out to the men who were returning. "Hurry up!"

The two men quickened their pace, jogging back to join Gus and the others.

Soon, Tony pulled up to the curb in the car. One of the men opened the rear door, while the other assisted in getting Vinny into the vehicle.

It was a short story I read in a Best of 20xx (I don't remember the exact date, but pre2015) collection. It's so memorable, and I retell it to people now and again, but I can't find it anywhere! The name of the story is the name of the fictional Russian nightclub that serves as the setting, as well as the legendary gangster who built it.

Story goes like this.

Russian gangsters, the protagonist is the 2nd in command (we'll call him "P"). The Boss is taking him to a famous exotic nightclub but doesn't know P has saved up a ton of $$ and is planning to leave the game for good with his exotic dancer girlfriend. The club is named after another infamous old gangster who, upon the club's grand opening, disappeared into it, never to be seen again.

They enter the club into the main ballroom and take a seat at a fancy table before a central stage. This level of the club is very posh, filled with people of means. P knows that every morning, before the crowd turns over, there's an auction on this stage where the most beautiful dancer presents the crowd with a single pristine red rose. It's all show, for the high rollers to show off how much money they can throw away, but that rose is coveted nonetheless. P's boss introduces P to a suspicious associate, and after the formalities, P takes his leave to meet up with his girlfriend. This is where the story begins to get psychedelic.

A floor down, P meets his girl while she's working and takes a seat at a bar. He orders 2 shots of the club's house vodka (also named after the mysterious og gangster who built the place). After he takes the shots, he finds himself eerily walking alone in a snowy frozen wooded park. Suddenly, the suspicious associate of his boss comes out of nowhere and attacks him, ostensibly on the boss's orders. Our P loses this violent fight to the death, and as his eyes fade to black, he wakes up at the bar again with 2 empty shot glasses in front of him.

Shaking off the intense "dream," P leaves the basement floor of the club to find someone he can pay his large sum of $$ to, to buy his woman's freedom. This journey takes him up an elevator this time, and past a filthy and grotesquely emaciated janitor. As P passes the janitor they lock eyes, and in an instant P knows that this man is in fact, in the flesh, the owner of this club, the infamous og himself. With a silent and mangled grin, the decrepit janitor reaches out a gnarled open hand toward P, to receive the money. P knows this moment is crucial, but he hesitates when his sensibility demands a more formal transaction. The moment passes, the janitor turns back to his work. P is forced to walk on, angry and deeply disturbed, down the hall, to the next room of the club.

This floor has several rooms of themed masquerade, and as P stumbles through them, he finds himself talking to people he hasn't seen in ages. Some are family and friends, while some are old enemies of his. After calming down from his encounter with the horrible remnant of the club owner, he begins to realize that some of the people he's surrounded by should be dead. He's seen many of them die himself, and yet here they are, drinking and dancing the night away. He flees the scene, afraid he will somehow be stuck in that place of shambling walking dead, until he feels snowflakes again on his face.

P is in the snowy park again, but this time he knows the game. The cat-and-mouse game of death is P's home territory, and after the night he's had, he is more than ready for it. P stays in the treeline and waits for his assailant to reveal himself. Soon enough, his boss's new associate walks into the clearing, completely unaware of P. P sneaks up behind him and attacks, this time with vengeful ferocity and the clear upper hand. As he watches the light leave his assailant's eyes, all around him his surroundings dissolve into curtains that raise into the ceiling to the sound of thunderous applause, and P finds himself in the main ballroom again, center stage. He notices his boss, still seated at his original table, laughing and clapping with a thoroughly entertained smile on his face.

P silently climbs offstage and sits back down with his boss. He is just in time for the rose auction. Lo and behold, it's P's girlfriend on stage presenting the rose to the audience. As she begins to take bids P sits exhausted, and feels like this may be the last chance to buy freedom for him and his partner. He stands and offers his entire briefcase of savings for the rose, and not a single attendee will raise his offer. She saunters over to him, and says that this is it, it's over, and everything is ready for them to leave in the morning. She looks at him emotionless and says he had his chance to pay the owner, and he made his choice to keep the money. She takes the briefcase, presents him with the rose, and walks away.

P sits down again, and time passes in a blur until his boss claps him on the shoulder and tells him it's time to leave. They go outside to the boss's limousine, and P is left reflecting that after all that, it's back to work tomorrow after all.

Chapter 1: Fate

On a cold, dark night in the city of Cornwall, the markets buzz with villagers bustling about, their breaths visible in the icy air as they prepare for the harsh winter ahead. Amid the crowd, a mother and her young son, Henry, weave through the stalls, searching anxiously for her husband. As the first snowflakes begin to fall, casting a soft glow in the lantern light, Henry shivers.

“Hush, Henry. We will be home soon,” she says, offering him a comforting smile that belies her own concern. He lets out a long sigh, tugging at his mother’s hand as they make their way toward the dock.

As they approach, the woman’s eyes narrow; something is amiss. The guards stationed on the walls that loom over the city appear unusually tense, their movements quick and eyes darting. Villagers hasten their steps, their earlier chatter replaced by an uneasy silence. Abruptly, the stars and moon vanish, swallowed by an impenetrable darkness.

“Henry, help me find your father. Please son, hurry,” the mother urges with a hint of desperation, leaving Henry by the bustling dock as she calls into the growing wind. “Harold? Harold!” Her voice, warm yet laced with fear, is snatched away by the gusting wind.

Henry, feeling a swell of worry, shouts for his father, but his small voice is lost in the chaos. Suddenly, a group of guards rushes past, inadvertently knocking him to the snowy ground. Stunned, Henry lies there for a moment, the cold seeping through his clothes. When he looks up, the sky holds a terrifying sight—where the moon once hung, now two beady purple eyes gaze ominously down at him. A chilling shriek vibrates through the ground, sending shivers up his spine.

Scrambling to his feet, Henry calls out for his mother, but his voice is drowned out by a deafening explosion. The city walls shatter, sending stone and dust into the air. Amid the pandemonium, the ominous eyes in the sky watch, unblinking.

Chapter 2: Alone

Henry stands frozen as the explosion's echo fades, replaced by the sinister skittering and groans of night creatures pouring through the crumbling walls. Amidst the chaos, giant arachnids with gleaming eyes crawl over debris, their legs clicking against the cobblestones, while figures that once were human stagger aimlessly, their moans chilling the air.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Henry plunges into the billowing smoke, calling for his mother. His voice is just another whisper in the wind, drowned out by the desperate cries that fade into eerie silence. With each step, his hope dwindles, smothered by the thickening fog and encroaching dread.

Then, faintly, a voice—her voice—cuts through the chaos. "Henry!" No more hesitation; he runs, guided by her calls. Dodging twisted limbs and leaping over fallen market stalls, he is driven by a single purpose.

He stumbles upon her at last. She lies crumpled on the ground, the family sword clutched in her grasp. Dropping to his knees, Henry barely notices the fog lifting, or the encircling danger. His mother, with fading strength, touches his cheek tenderly. "Son, remember, wherever you find yourself lost, think of my love for you. It’s a beacon that will never dim." Her hand slips away, her voice a lingering echo in his heart.

"That's a load of bull!" Gus burst out, his laughter bouncing off the cozy walls of the small diner.

"Yeah, Tony. That's not how it went down at all," Vinny chimed in, a grin spreading across his face.

Tony leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his glass. "Alright, then spill the beans. What really happened?"

Gus shot Tony a playful glare, trying to stifle his laughter. "Come on, Tony, I'm not playing your game."

Tony chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a real character, Gus. Vinny, what's the scoop?"

"We got ourselves another Rossi problem," Vinny sighed.

Gus sat up straight, a frown creasing his forehead. "Rossi again? How much did he stiff us for this time?"

"The whole damn tab," Vinny replied, his expression grim.

Gus slammed his hand on the table. "The whole thing?"

He glanced around the diner, his mind racing. "Tony, get the car ready."

Tony quickly finished his drink and rose from his seat to fetch the car keys.

"Sammy!" Gus called out over his shoulder.

A tall, sharply dressed man hurried over to their table.

"Gus?"

"You got a smoke?" Gus asked, his voice calm despite the urgency in his demeanor.

Sammy reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. With a nod, he offered it to Gus.

Gus took a cigarette, then hesitated before accepting another. "Thanks," he muttered, tucking them into his shirt pocket.

"You're welcome, Gus," Sammy replied before heading back to the counter.

"Can't stand that guy," Gus murmured. "Talks like he's got a screw loose." Despite his annoyance, he chuckled softly, though a sharp pain shot through his side.

"Let's get moving. Tony's waiting," Gus declared, pushing himself up from the table.

As Gus and Vinny exited the diner, they found Tony waiting by the rear driver's door, already open for Gus. Gus climbed into the car while Vinny walked around to the passenger seat.

"Why can't Rossi just pay what he owes?" Gus grumbled, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placing it between his lips. "I'm not asking for the world."

Gus patted his pockets, searching for a lighter. "Vinny, got a light?"

Vinny reached behind the seat to retrieve a lighter and flicked it, igniting Gus's cigarette.

"Thanks," Gus muttered, taking a few puffs.

"Maybe business is slow for him?" Tony offered as he pulled away from the curb.

"All year?" Gus shot back, disbelief evident in his tone.

Tony fell silent, his focus on navigating the streets.

"I don't want to have to resort to drastic measures," Gus admitted, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I've always liked Rossi... but he's not leaving me much choice."

"What else can you do?" Vinny asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Gus remained silent, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window, lost in thought.

"Remember Beans?" Gus asked the car, his voice carrying a tinge of nostalgia.

"Beans?" Tony echoed, trying to jog his memory.

"Tall guy, slick hair? Used to run with Sonny's crew back in the day..." Gus prompted, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Oh yeah, Beans. I remember him now. What about him?" Tony recalled.

"Beans had a brother named Larry," Gus continued, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Larry owes me twenty grand as of yesterday."

Tony's expression softened. "Oh, I see."

"Anyway, Beans fell off a boat a few years back," Gus added casually, his tone belying the gravity of the situation.

"Oh," Tony murmured, understanding the unspoken implications.

"I heard Little Larry moved out to Minnesota or something after Beans passed," Vinny chimed in from the passenger seat.

"Yeah, he did. But he's making a return trip for his sister's wedding," Gus explained.

"Vicky's getting married?" Tony asked, surprised.

"No, not Vicky. The other one," Gus clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Vinny twisted around in his seat to gauge Gus's expression, realizing he wasn't joking.

"Who's the unlucky groom?" Tony inquired, intrigued.

"Some hotshot lawyer from Manhattan," Gus replied, his tone dripping with disdain.

"When's the wedding?" Vinny inquired, breaking the momentary silence.

"Today," Gus replied tersely.

"We're here," Tony announced, pulling the car to a stop in front of a quaint flower shop.

"What's the plan?" Vinny turned to Gus, anticipation evident in his voice.

"First, we deal with this Rossi mess..." Gus began, only to be interrupted by Tony.

"And what's the plan for that?" Tony interjected, his tone expectant.

Gus paused, considering his words carefully.

"Let's go," Gus declared, swinging the car door open and stepping out onto the street, with Tony and Vinny following suit.

People say it's childish to be afraid of the dark. They say it's a symptom of an overactive imagination. And yet the same people- all people- know that you don’t go out at night, not without light or charm. And everyone knows, instinctively, in the marrow of their bones, that you don’t go out on a moonless night.

I had been out on a moonless night for days. Most people can’t tell, but once you're trained, you can- Darkness loves darkness. She likes to stretch her time out as long as she's possibly able. Everyone wants to spend time with kindred spirits. It’s nature, human or otherwise.

There’s nothing I can do about it, so I do my best to enjoy it. After all, you have to pick your battles, and my gun makes it pretty easy to figure out which ones I can win. She's a lovely gun. Big, which is fine with me, because I need all the power she can muster. Nine custom rounds rotate through, each enchanted by my own self. Not as effective as a professional enchantment, but I get by, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.

The only light came from the muzzle flare of my pistol. They smothered my campfire long ago, leaving me with only the vaguest sense of where they were, occasionally silhouetted against the trees when I fired. They were big, looming over me, high into the crooked trees and the moonless sky behind them. Who could say how long tonight would last?

I try not to cast on Nights, because it just acts like more of a beacon than I already am, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. My chest burned as I threw up a Buffer against a sudden wave of creatures, but they tore it down before it hardly had time to help. I bit down and cast a Warding, felt my arm burn harshly in the wild energy of the new moon and felt the following cold cut its way through my flesh and deep into my bones. Popping the spent rounds out with my right hand, my left knitted itself into the Ward shape automatically, trained by years of habit. Now I’ve really done it, I thought, because I could practically sense them perk up from miles off, even without casting a Seeing. It worked, though, and I was given brief respite for my efforts. I’d sure as hell pay for it in about 10 minutes, but for now I needed to stop bleeding and deal with the sensation of a drill pressed to the back of my skull.

“Skippers,” I growled. I hated Skippers.

The problem with Skippers is they’re small, harder to notice than anything else, and instead of trying to take off your head they try to get into your head. From there they can do whatever they want while you watch- make you walk off a cliff, bite off your own tongue, flay yourself alive. Like I said, whatever they want, and they're usually pretty mean. I’d seen them really go to work on all sorts of people, mostly people I knew and trained with. Hazards of the job- sorcerous training let you see a whole new world, but it opened you up to the threats that lived there, more so than regular folk. I was in worse shape than most sorcerers, which was part of what put me out at Night in the first place. Luckily, I’m better than most sorcerers, but it still meant I had to be careful.

To get rid of a Skipper, all you have to do is burn them off with a little Light. I'd needed the break- 3 of them dripped out of me right away, and a fourth started to run down my back as it tried to escape.

“Bastard.” I struck it with the handle of the gun as it slithered away. No sense wasting ammo on idiots like that.

The Ward wavered, the Night grew around me, and I hadn't even had time to heal anything. Damn.

Sam watched from behind the counter as the man walked through the door. Under the door, rather, as he had to duck to keep from hitting his head. He was pale, very pale, unlike the merchantfolk that usually came through the inn. His face was covered by a bushy beard, his hair was long, and his eyes were rimmed with red, but he could certainly be no older than 40. It was strange- for someone to come in so early in the morning, and look so tired- he must have been traveling all night, but he had no horse to be stabled.

The stranger was an armory- small blades and strange, bulbous jars jutted out from pockets and packs all over the man, daggers strapped to his legs, and even metal nubs in the knuckles of his gloves. What caught Sam's attention, though, was the man's huge gun, strapped tightly to his waist. He had never seen a gun that big, and the ammunition the man was carrying in the sacks around his waist must have weighed heavily on him, though he showed no signs of it.

“What does it cost for a room?” His voice did not match the tired, worn image in front of him. It was firm, and had the sound of recent laughter in it.

“Let me get my mom.” Sam began, starting for the back room. He never handled rooms.

“That's alright. You'll do fine. How much?” The man pulled out a purse, smaller than the other bags on his belt, and it was clearly much lighter than anything else he carried. “I’d like to find a bed and use it.” His voice did not betray him, nor did his hands, but the redness of his eyes did. They were a startling blue, and they seemed to contain nothing except exhaustion.

“I need your name,” Sam remembered as he directed the giant stranger to his room. The man's eyes, just for an instant, darted to one side before returning to Sam.

“Joan,” he said.

“O-kay.” Sam jotted the name down. “Two nights, food at 7 and 7, anything else you pay for.” He began to walk the man down the hall. “Strange accent. Are you from Melano, or Baden?” He didn’t really know what those accents sounded like, but he knew they were far from Newmark.

“No.” Joan walked into the room indicated with no further comments.

Sam stopped at the door while the man called Joan dropped his bags to the floor. “What kinda gun is that?”

“Mine,” he said simply, as he unbundled it’s holster from his belt. “I make the ammunition myself most of the time.”

“It's impressive. My paw was a soldier, and he showed me his old gun once, only it was a lot smaller than yours, and all rusted out besides, but-" Sam stopped as the man removed his cloak. There was a bright gash, still oozing dark blood, working its way up the man's side behind the thick leather plates. “Holy cripes! You oughta see a doctor, sor!”

Joan gave no indication that he could even feel the wound, nor did he instantly react when the boy cried out. “This? It looks a lot worse than it is. Rest, and solitude,” and here he looked at Sam, “will do me more good than any doctor from this town.” He moved to close the door, and against Sam's protest seemed to shut him out with no effort at all.

He ran down the hall to inform his mother of their newest guest.

I didn’t want the kid to see what I had to do next. It really wasn’t that bad- on the outside. Because we put so much ourselves in the spiritual world, the physical world didn’t matter so much. But it’s all tradeoffs. It had cut a pretty chunk out of me spirit-wise, and that hurt worse than any gash could. Really, I was better off than most sorcerers would’ve been with a cut like this- I had less to lose. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

I Worked a minor Healing, but anything more would’ve taken more out of me than I could hope to regain, so the rest had to be resigned to sleep. Stupid. I should never have let anything get that close anyway, but it seemed like the Skippers were going crazy last Night.

I was too tired even to dream. A small blessing.

Waking up was not pleasant- I was stiff and sore, and still hurting something fierce. And cold, of course. Always cold. The physical wound had scabbed over, and I figured I would get away with just a minor scar. My innards were still shredded, but marginally less so than before, so I could breathe without grimacing. I expected I’d be laid out for a few days yet. Lucky, since Night had just passed, so things would be calm for almost the entire month now.

Exhausted as I had been, I had no Wards up, nothing even blocking the door. Nice going. Practically begging for a stray to wander in and eat you. As I flipped the coin I’d lifted off the kid, I examined the room for anything that might have snuck in, but it was clear. This time.

It was around this point that I realized how hungry I was. It had been (what felt like) days without a hot meal, and apparently this podunk little inn could provide, so I wandered out to the main room to see if I could scare up some food.

When the kid saw me, his eyes widened. That’s never a good sign. Recognition meant questions, and the answers to those questions usually meant getting pushed to the next town before I had time to heal. I had been hoping to score a decent meal and a bath, at least.

Sam could hardly believe his eyes. “Criminy, sor, but I didn’t expect you to be up at all! It's barely been a day!” The cut had been bleeding heavily, and very deep, he was sure of it, but now the man was clean and walking as if he had never been injured.

The stranger called Joan sat heavily at a table, ignoring the implied question. “Any chance of a man getting some food around here?” He inquired. “Or, perhaps,” and he glanced at the barrels of ale behind the counter, “some drink?”

San quickly filled him a tankard and plate from supper earlier, then sat himself at the table, as the crowd in the room dwindled down to a late few. The man interested him. He did not seem to interest the man, however, as Joan simply ate and drank in silence, apparently unbothered by his wound. He was still pale, almost deathly so, but Sam had heard tell of people from far north being much lighter than the tanned workers of nearby towns.

“Are you a soldier?” Sam didn’t know much about the war to the south, but occasionally troops passed through, and he had heard his ma talk in the back room about an extra levy because the Northern Kingdoms were allied. “I never saw someone carry so many weapons that weren't a soldier. What are those jars you carry? Is that them new bombs they been talking about? With gunpowder, only you throw the jar so it’s like a cannonshot?” Sam did not know much about weapons, either, but he saw so few soldiers come through that he had to learn what he could, if he was going to join the war when he was of age.

“Sure, kid.” Joan tapped his empty tankard on the table and placed down the coin he had been flipping. Sam ran to fill it up again before sitting back down.

“So did you come from the southern border, where all the fights are? What's happening? Are we winning? We have all kinds of the Northern Kingdoms working together, right? We must be winning!”

“The southern border? No, no, I didn’t come from the southern border,” he snorted. “That whole war is just nonsense anyway. The Northern Kingdoms, in some alliance or another, have had it out for Onis since time began. Maybe even before. The war is just an excuse to keep the money rolling in. Seems like there’s less and less of it than ever.” He mumbled this last part into his cup.

“That’s- that’s not true!” Sam's pa had fought, same as Sam would. “The war is important! Onis could really invade anytime! Besides, you said you were a soldier. If you aren’t fighting in the war, how can you be a soldier?” Joan did not answer, but he reached for his sleeve for a moment as if to roll it up, then seemed to catch himself at the last second. Was he a deserter? “Are you a deserter?” Sam blurted out, realizing a second late that he was pushing his luck. Joan just tapped his mug again.

Sam's ma hurried over. “So sorry for this one, sor, he has a bad habit of being curious.” She cuffed him on the ear and it smarted.

“It's no problem, mam.” The stranger smiled warmly, but in his eyes there was nothing. It was a chilling sensation. “He fills my cup just fine.” His ma dragged him off before Sam could object, and Joan got up before Sam could return.

Broder laughed as he took Flander for another hand. Three hands up, he was, and showed no signs of slowing. He stopped, though, as a big man in a heavy cloak came to the table.

“Deal me in?” His voice, deep and rich, did not match the weathered exterior. The man was no farm hand, that much was clear. More a mercenary sort. Broder glanced around the table, but no one seemed to object outright, so he shrugged. One more fool for the best poker man in the west side of Newmark. “Promise I know the rules.”

“Can you make ante, pal?” Jaten sized him up from across the table, suspicious from the long, ratty hair sitting on his shoulders and the general sense of dirtiness emanating from the man. He didn't notice what Broder had seen- nice leather, warm coat, and firm shoes. The man had some money, at least.

“He's good for it, Jaten. What's your name, stranger?” Broder gestured at the empty space next to him as he began to deal the hands. The stranger threw his ante, and Broder couldn’t hear much left in the purse. The poor ones were easy to sucker in.

“Joan.”

“You from Onis or something, name like that?” Cogen sneered.

“Na, man, listen to his voice, he's from up in Lansing or summat.” Garrett spat. “You're pickin a fight so you don’t have to deal with your shite hand.”

“That's not true, mate! Maybe you ought to keep an eye on your own mess in front of ya!” Cogen threw in extra to compensate. They all knew each other, knew the tics and tells and habits, but this stranger would be interesting.

That was what Broder thought, but as they went round for a few hands, the stranger losing more than he won, it became clear he was just another sucker thinking he could smash the small town guys. He had seemed confident at first- smug, even- but Broder had moved in with a predatory efficiency and would not let up. He offered to buy a round for everyone, apparently hoping for mercy, or to dull them, but the man seemed to be getting a bit red in the nose much faster than the well-seasoned drinkers of the little town of Aren, where there was little else to do but work or drink, or play cards. Broder began to really work on Joan for everything he had left, preparing to take the man for anything he could offer. The game was boring, and Broder needed beer money, so he went to end the man entirely.

What Broder did not expect was for the man to turn his whole plan backwards by dropping a flush when he should’ve had nothing. That cleared the table pretty fast, and Broder noticed the man's nose was really not that red at all.

The hand was nonsense. He couldn't have won, couldn’t have had those cards. “Alright, pal, roll up your sleeves, eh? Just a friendly game, here, after all. No reason to stay all formal-like.” Broder saw the other men nod their approval.

“Are you sure? Isn’t it possible, just a little, that I might be better at the game than you?” Joan smirked, taunting the men.

“Roll those up in here or we'll roll em up for ya out back,” Cogen growled. He was the biggest, aside from the stranger himself, and had a knack for bar brawling.

“Alright. No need to get snippy that I beat you so bad.” Cogen almost stood, but Joan began to roll up his sleeves. Right, then left.

His left arm was covered up to the elbow in fresh burn scars- a bright, angry red. If Broder squinted, he could almost see fine lines tracing letters across the harshly burned skin, but he didn’t have to. He knew what he was looking at.

“You're a bloody wizard, ye stupid bastard!” Garrett exploded. “Ye- ye bastard! You used magic on our all heads, ye did!”

Joan's eyes darkened briefly, but he did not react.

“Garrett's got the right idea- who's to say you weren’t using magic trickery to win the game, eh? Seems like something your lot would do,” Jaten added smartly. “It seems only fair you give us back the money you stole.”

“In the interest of accuracy, I am a sorcerer. Wizards do not leave their little towers and their little books. Besides, if I had used any magic, why would I stop now?” The stranger pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just leave, or to make you forget you ever saw me?”

“Well- there are 4 of us! Maybe you couldn’t do us in all at once, eh?” Jaten shot back. There was a chorus of affirmation from the group. “Be honorable, man, just give us the money back.”

Joan rolled his sleeves down. “If I had wanted to,” he began quietly, gravel in his voice, “I could make you all give me your land, your wives, and your unborn sons and you wouldn’t even remember your names when I was done. I did not cheat,” he suddenly smiled. “You boys just suck at poker.”

“Now listen here, son,” Broder began. “You may be some wizard from up north-"

“East,” Joan interjected.

“You may be some fancy wizard from up north,” Broder continued, “but don’t think that means you can insult us small-town folk. We might not have your ‘education’ or what have you, but we know from poker.”

Joan sighed. “I am leaving town in two days. Leave me alone for those two days, and I will forget your names, faces, and the name of this backwater town you live in. I did not cheat you.” He looked each of them coldly in the eyes, and Broder saw that all the mirth and cheer that had been there earlier had been drained, replaced with nothingness. Not even hatred, or anger, but simply blank space. The stranger stood up with a groan, signaled for another round of drinks, and trudged to the back of the inn. None of the men followed.

I was lucky none of these farm hicks knew anything about casting, or else they’d have known I was bluffing. It didn’t seem like any of them could actually read my burns, because if they could’ve, they would’ve known I could only cast a couple Bindings, and that’s if I wasn’t hurting like hell.

What was most insulting, more than calling me a wizard, was that they thought I cheated to beat them at cards. I don’t need to cheat at cards. I had slipped a bit of coin out of their pockets as I brushed by, but that was hardly cheating. Just good, honest thievery*.* And to call me a wizard? I ought to burn down their houses anyway, just for that. I was cold just thinking about it.

Still, I had to accelerate my schedule and leave tonight. I hated to do it, but I needed to be three towns over by the time they decided to kick the shit out of me. Bastards.

Amidst my wrathful musings I became aware of a presence at the door.

It was that kid. What had he seen? I ran the scene over again and realized he had been watching the end from the table he had been cleaning. Sloppy*.* He'd tell everybody. I couldn’t kill a kid the way I would've those guys in front, and I didn’t want to besides. Kids have always had a hold on me, and it pissed me off. It wasn't like I could remember why. Besides, I didn’t exactly mind the town knowing; it just meant I’d have a tougher time sneaking out, and I was tired enough that it bugged me.

“Sor?” He nudged the door open, but not all the way, I noticed. “I saw your tattoo. What do they mean? My ma said not to ask, but those men seemed pretty upset out there. I asked them and they said you was a wizard, but I didn’t think they were real. Are you a wizard? Are those tattoos your clan or something?” He spoke fast, like he thought I would cut him off, or cut off his head. “What are you doing?”

I spoke carefully to mask my distaste for his questions. “I am not a wizard. Wizards hide in their towers and ask questions nobody is curious about.” I hoped the dismissal would be clear.

It was not.

“If you aren’t a wizard, what are you?”

“What I am right now, kid, is packing, and what I’m going to be in a minute is gone. Scram.” I looked around and realized that aside from the bags I could clip to my belt, I had nothing else with me. Damn.

“Well, whatever you are, sor, I know those marks mean you're bound to help people-" that wasn’t true “-and those men out there maybe won’t tell you, but I will! See, sor, we're in mighty need of a wizard these days, on account of a monster been stealing the livestock and trashing the lumber yards and-" he slowed his speech a bit, but before I could get a word in he continued- “and I think it took the Granlenses daughter, only cause they won’t tell anyone where she went but I haven’t seen her in town at all and she used to come help me with my chores some days and it’s been a long while, maybe a month or so. Anyway, nobody’ll believe me when I tell em, and I haven’t seen it exactly, but I’m sure there’s a monster!”

“Kid, you know not every stroke of bad luck is a monster, right?” People don’t believe in monsters or magic until it’s convenient for them, which means they know nothing about it, which means most of the time they’re just making up stories to get me killed or run off, or else they’re just plain dumb and attribute every case of rainy weather to a made up beast.

“I know that! I just know there’s a monster around here! Look, sor, I’ll help you find it even, and-"

“I charge for my services and I don’t take kids on field trips when I work. Are you going to pay me?” Most of the time, threat of payment was enough to deter all but the most determined, or most superstitious, folk.

“I bet if you kill it the whole town will pitch in! Please, sor, I just wanna help out, and it seems like you could fix us all up only nobody wants to ask.” He wasn’t lying, I could tell, but kids are always seeing things that aren’t there. On the other hand, sometimes kids are better at seeing what’s right in front of them.

And when it turned out to be nothing, it meant I had an excuse to stay an extra night without getting an attempted beating, probably.

“Alright, kid. Where was this monster last?” Hired by a kid who probably couldn’t even get on a horse on his own. If anyone caught wind of this, I’d never hear the end of it.

"Tony, grab that bag from the trunk," Gus instructed firmly. Tony promptly exited the vehicle to retrieve the bag while Gus fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket, then patted his pockets for a lighter. "Vinny, you got a light?"

Vinny reached behind the seat to ignite Gus' cigarette. "Thanks," Gus murmured, taking a few deep puffs. Tony returned to the driver's seat, presenting a black plastic bag secured at the handles. "Open it," Gus commanded.

Tony untied the bag and peered inside, glancing at Gus through the rear-view mirror.

"Give it to him," Gus ordered. Tony handed the bag to Vinny, who immediately inspected its contents.

"Stash those in your pockets. Expect a call from me at one. If I don't call...," Vinny nodded in acknowledgment.

Vinny exited the car, leaving the black bag in his place on the seat. They waited a few minutes to ensure Vinny got inside safely.

"To Pinucci's?" Tony asked as he began driving to the corner.

Gus took a few more drags of his cigarette before replying, "To Pinucci's."

Tony turned right toward Pinucci's Pizzeria.

"I don't know what the hell happened," Gus muttered, his voice barely audible as he gazed out the window.

"Can I tell you what I heard?" Tony asked, prompting Gus to roll down the window to discard his cigarette butt.

"Doesn't matter. What happened wasn't supposed to happen, but it did," Gus said sternly. "I don't know what's going on. All I know is I got sent for..." Gus suddenly sat up. "Stop!"

Tony slammed on the brakes, startled. Gus leaped out of the car, Tony following closely. Rushing toward an alley in the middle of the block, Gus yelled, "Rossi?!"

Tony grabbed Gus' arm, urging him to calm down. "There's nobody there, Gus." But Gus persisted, convinced of Rossi's presence.

"Come on, Gus," Tony said, guiding him back to the car still idling in the middle of the street.

"Fucking Rossi," Gus whispered, embarrassed.

"It's alright, Gus," Tony reassured him, opening the rear passenger door for Gus to get in. They continued toward Pinucci's in silence.

Tony parked in front of Pinucci's. "You ready?" he asked.

Gus sighed as Tony exited the car to open the door for him.

As Gus stepped out, he looked up at the glowing red "Pinucci's Pizzeria" sign. "You know," Gus began, "this place used to feel like home." He chuckled to himself. "Now, I see it's just a graveyard."

"Not everybody in the graveyard is dead, Gus," Tony offered, trying to comfort him.

"Yeah," Gus said, meeting Tony's gaze. "Thank you, Tony. For everything. You and Vinny: the best things to ever happen to me." Gus's eyes welled up, but he held back tears.

"If I could go in there with you, Gus..."

"I know," Gus interrupted, smiling and patting Tony on the shoulder.

Under the red glow of the sign, they stood, staring into each other's eyes, both fighting back tears. Gus took a deep breath and extended his hand to Tony. Tony wiped his eyes and shook Gus' hand.

Gus smiled, then turned to walk into Pinucci's. At the door, he paused, "Tony?" His reflection clear on the tinted windows. "Go home. I'll call you later..."

With that, Gus pushed open the door and disappeared into the darkness inside.

#Welcome to Micro Monday

Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry).

However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting.

#Weekly Challenge Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!

Theme: Exploration

Bonus Constraint (15 pts): A character questions their reality. (You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story.

This week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme ‘exploration’. You’re welcome to interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP.

Last Week: Zoos, Aquariums, & Animal Sanctuaries

• Winner: This story by u/Street-Wrap2504

You can check out previous Micro Mondays here.

#How To Participate

• Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt. You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.

• Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday. Only actionable feedback will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points.

• Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week using this form. You have until 3pm EST next Monday. (Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)

###Additional Rules

• No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI. Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments.

• Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion. We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of all sub rules here.

• And most of all, be creative and have fun! If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail.

#Campfire

• Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!

#How Rankings are Tallied

Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!

TASK | POINTS | ADDITIONAL NOTES |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint | up to 50 pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | Use of Bonus Constraint | 10 - 15 pts | (unless otherwise noted) | Actionable Feedback (one crit required) | up to 10 pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30
| Nominations your story receives | 20 pts each | No cap | Voting for others | 10 pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week!

Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.  

###Subreddit News

• Join our Discord to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events!

• Explore your self-established world every week on Serial Sunday!

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• Interested in being part of our team? Apply to mod!

This short story is a part of the Mieran Ruins Collection. The rest of the stories can be found on this masterpost.

The beach was a symbol of relaxation. It was where children played in the waves while the parents relaxed in the sun. Well, the parents let themselves bake in the sun until they realized they lost their kids. Then, they panicked and searched across the sands annoying everyone. Eventually, a helpful volleyball player showed up with the kids. You thank them until. Wait, why is your spouse staring so long at that volleyball player? Sure, they look like you did younger. Well, more like a young fit version of you. Okay, they looked nothing like you did, and why was your spouse standing so close. This was a disaster. We should've never came here on family vacation.

To most people who haven't had such a dramatic experience, the beach was a nice place. It represented a freedom from modern stresses and a chance to enjoy the sun. Sandcastles lined the sands like an army defending its territory. Shells were collected as if they held monetary value. Such a shame this culture was destroyed by the Mierans.

Humans had always liked to take breaks, but the location was limited by time and resources. When the world was destroyed, the breaks turned into a night where two people guarded the door rather than three. The prime real estate became the pond a few blocks away to keep an eye on the supplies. Tourist traps became rusted as there was a lack of tourists to trap. Except for the dumbest people.

"Hurry up, we are going to be late," Polly yelled. Jim fell down the stairs. He had a beach towel on one arm and a tuxedo on his other.

"What is that for?" Polly grabbed the pants.

"You said bring a swimsuit," Jim said. Polly shook her head.

"Why I am surrounded by idiots." She turned back to the stairs. "Check-in ends at four pm."

"Isn't it your friend who's in charge?" Olivia walked down the stairs carrying a handbag full of vacation essentials. Her dress was loose and flowing.

"He told me that he wouldn't make exceptions," Polly said.

"That makes sense. If you were my friend, I wouldn't make exceptions for you too," Olivia replied. Polly ignored her which angered Olivia.

"Reid! Frida! Get down here," Polly yelled. Frida ran down the stairs. She was most excited about the possibility of hunting. As such, she had a crossbow, a harpoon, and a flare. Her prey wasn't sharks; it was crabs. Reid followed her down in a swimsuit. With every step, he practiced flexing and posing. His body was adequate. His biceps were present, but they didn't bulge. If he held his breath, his torso acquired some definition. In total, he was making a fool of himself.

"I'm ready to mingle." He shimmied at the bottom step. Polly and Olivia reacted with horror while Jim nodded his head.

"We're going to be so popular." Jim put his arm around Reid who shook him off.

"Just me. You can be my wingman," Reid said.

"Sure thing," Jim replied.

"Whatever, let's get going," Polly said. The five of them made their way out of their small house. The road to the vacation was long, and it took a few days travel by foot. They didn't plan on travel time. Fortunately, Frida was skilled at capturing beasts (some of which were mutants) and tried all plants to ensure it wasn't poisonous (Jim tried them as well because Frida was likely immune to all poisons). After their journey, they reached Pacifico City.

It was one of the few cities established after the war. The military ran the country, and Pacfico City wanted to cater to their needs. Multiple resorts sat close to the beach. By the resorts, there shooting ranges and ATVs for pleasure. There was an assortment of bars and restaurants as well. Each had its own signature dish or cocktail. There was one issue. The customers never came.

The upper brass couldn't leave. The new military was disorganized, and vacations were an opportunity to be removed by force. The soldiers were forced to stay by their commanders. If they were going to be miserable, everyone else was going to be miserable as well. The result was a sad city filled with abandoned resorts. The weapons and ATVs were stolen by raiders who put it to better use. The bars and restaurants had their supplies looted, and the workers moved on.

The vacation house in question was a dingy hotel far from the beach. When the five arrived, a man sat behind the desk with his mouth open. A fly flew in and out of it. There was a wall with keys behind him. The man didn't react when they entered. He did perk up when Polly hit the bell on his desk.

"Welcome to Tropical Fun. You missed check-in time," he said.

"Rick, it's me. Can't you make an exception," Polly replied.

"Check-in ends at four. It's half past five." Rick pointed at the clock. Olivia looked down.

"That clock isn't moving," she said. Rick looked down.

"Oh, I've only been working here for a few months. I inherited it from my uncle. He died in a mutant iguana attack," Rick said.

"Sorry for your loss," Polly said.

"Don't be. I hated him." Rick turned around. He gave them two keys. Before arriving, it was agreed that Olivia would get a room by herself. Reid and Polly were okay with this because Jim and Frida slept on the floor. The floor was preferrable when they saw their rooms. Reid's bed was simultaneously too hard and too soft, Polly's was always wet, and Olivia's had mutant bed bugs. The rooms smelled like burnt cabbage. The bathrooms were filled with flies and rodents.

"Well this is a disaster." Reid looked out the window. "There's no one here to enjoy my show."

"Their loss." Olivia was hiding in the other room because she was scared of bugs. She wouldn't let them know.

"No, every cloud has a silver lining." Reid turned with a smile on this face. "We are going to restore this city to its former glory."

r/AstroRideWrites

I hear the birds. I hear the birds whistle and tweet; a romanticised conversation that no one can understand, but I hear it. The leaves rustle as the gentle wind brushes through them, stroking them one by one; skipping through them like a child. I take a deep breath, (in… out…) I am ready, I am prepared, I’ve been ready- I’m listening.

I see the colourful petals kissed by the essence of spring as it twirls around the globe. The bright green of the leaves, an evolutionary decision, yet somehow beautiful. The clouds are a warm pink, it’s not quite sunset but the sun is slowly lowering to the ground. I watch it fall, we all watch it fall.

It’s not quite dark. I like the dark; I love the peace of it all, I love the silence. People aren’t scared of the dark, no one is scared of the lights going out, no one is scared of being alone in the dark, it’s not the shadows that scare them, its what’s making the shadows.

I’m not scared of the dark, never have been; never will be. I’m not scared of the dark.

I’m scared because I know I’m not alone.

When we turn off the lights at night we can sleep in peace knowing there is nothing to fear, nothing can hurt us under our own roof. I don’t sleep, I don’t turn off the lights, I have something to fear, something can hurt me. I can feel it when it starts to go dark, the shadows that haunt me; the shadows that I fear. I know someone’s there- something’s there. I know because I’ve emptied my room four times.

The shadows come back.

They always come back.

I’ve screamed, yelled, called the police, told everyone I know… but, no one can help. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, everyone has left.

I sit here alone, on the floor, lights on, scared night after night. I’m scared to breathe, move, swallow. I don’t know what it is, who it is, what they want- are you a stalker? Did I hurt you? Am I just your next victim?

So tonight I’m ready, I’m ready for whatever’s there; I can’t take another second of this hell. Maybe I’ll go mad. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Maybe there’s nothing there.

No.

There’s something there.

So tonight when the shadows rise I’ll be waiting, listening, watching; waiting for the monster. Children think monsters are big creatures, blue or purple and covered in spikes. I know the monsters are just like me. I know the monsters are people. People are more dangerous.

So tonight when you go to sleep ask yourself, are you really alone? Are the monsters real? We don’t trust children when they say the monsters are under the bed. We soothe them back to sleep and remind them that it’s just a bad dream- a nightmare. We don’t give them enough credit, at least they have the sense to ask the age old question.

Are we ever really alone?

Cassy’s grazing her fingers through my hair. I feel the warm blanket swallowing us whole. The sunlight beams directly into her piercing blue eyes. I stare intently. I know she’s leaving me soon, but I let the thought of abandonment slip to the back of my mind. 

I walk to the kitchen, tired and distraught. Cracking eggs over a pan, I hear the pitter patter of little feet. Our little feet. A head of brunette hair peers over the counter. Small feet kicking in the air. I set three plates out on the kitchen table. 

“How long is mommy going to be gone,” the little head of brunette hair asks. 

“Just three weeks, such a short time,” I answer. I know how long it seems to such a little child. 

“That doesn’t seem very short,” my sweet little baby mumbles. 

“It’s way shorter than you think honey,” I mumble back. I want to say something more reassuring, better than what I just said. I can’t. I’m exhausted. This marriage, this life, it’s draining me. 

I set everyone’s plate on the table. We're all sitting around wondering what our future holds for us. For autumn, a three-week hiatus from her favorite person. For Cassy, possibly a raise. For me, three weeks without my wife.

“Well, you know this is somewhat of a big deal, if I get this promotion you won’t even have to look for a job anymore.”

I look up. I’m confused more than anything. When did I ever say I didn’t want a job? Why does she think finding a job is an inconvenience for me? “I think we both know it was never my dream to be a stay-at-home dad. I think we also know how strange of an arraignment this is for the both of us.”

“Ryan, Autumn would be so happy. You never got to spend time with her due to your work schedule. Now you have a chance to bond with your daughter. Take it, please.” 

“I’m not promising anything, but right at this moment I’m making up for all the lost years,” I stuttered, already regretting it. 

“Well then make up for it.”

Three Weeks Later

Were sitting at the same table, without the same feeling. I’m starting to wonder if she ever thought of me the entire time she was gone. Three weeks. So short. So much change in such a short time. Quitting my job to take care of our child didn't mean much to Cassy. Staying home for three years, because she wanted to advance in her career. Meanwhile I no longer have a career. Wasn’t this her dream? Isn’t she the one who wanted a family? 

“So you slept with your boss?” I don’t even sound mad. I’m not mad. I couldn’t care at this point. 

“Ryan, our child is sitting right beside you! What is wrong with you?” Cassy has always had an amazing way to divert attention. A carefully crafted skill of distracting you from anything she doesn’t want you to see. 

“ Autumn baby, go to your room, ok?” I watch Autumn leave. The life we brought into this earth. Something we made together. She just threw it all away. 

“ What the hell are you talking about?” She knows I know. Her lack of eye contact speaks volumes in this silent, loveless house. She looks panicked. 

“I’m talking about your boss. The one you're sleeping with. You know, behind your husband's back.”

“ You are insane, Ryan. I went on a business trip. I’m trying to get a promotion. I’m trying to support this whole family.”

“By sleeping with your boss?”

“ What are you even talking about?’

“ I ran into Jay at the grocery store. At first I was a bit shocked. I asked why he wasn’t on the company trip to Japan with the rest of your coworkers. Then he looked shocked. He asked what in the world I was talking about.”

“Ryan, nothing happened.”

“I would love to believe you, but if something nefarious wasn’t going on why would you lie? Why would you tell me this is a “company trip”? Why would you spend three weeks alone with your boss?”

“I needed this promotion. We needed this promotion.”

“I have sacrificed everything for this family. You said you wanted a kid, so we had a kid. You said you hated being a stay-at-home mom, so I quit my job. I became a stay-at-home dad for a cheating, ungrateful wife who couldn’t care less about the family she wanted.”

“ I did it because I care about you.”

“Cassy, people don’t cheat on their husbands because they “care” about their husbands.”

“It was the only way I could move up through the company.”

“Maybe if you were actually good at your job, they would give you a raise Cassy.”

“Ryan, I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to take care of us.”

“ If we were so desperate for money Cassy, you know damn well I could have started applying for jobs. I make twice as much as you on a bad day. This isn’t about our family. This is about Cassy. Everything has always been about Cassy. I am so sick of you, Cassy. “

“I'm done having this conversation.”

“Because you know I'm right?

I watch her walk away. She doesn’t look sorry. She’s sorry that she got caught in a lie. Years of staying at home, watching the kid of this woman, cleaning this house for her, cooking for her, just for her to complain. I’ve wasted my life on the devil in the body of a middle-aged woman.

Peeking through our doorframe, I see her thin outline. Steady slow breathing. I’m sure she'll be out for a few hours. She’s always tired after she cries. 

Stuffing clothes into boxes wasn’t on my to-do list today. I mean what am I supposed to do? Stay with a narcissist? I think I'm better off taking my chances elsewhere. Passport, driver's license, debit card, what else do I need? Maybe I'm crazy and losing my mind? Maybe I'm completely right?

“Dad, where are we going?” my sweet little baby asked.

“Far away baby, on a vacation” I say. I act like this isn’t a permanent vacation. 

“Yay!”

I know this is technically wrong. But almost anything can seem wrong without context. I have reasons. I have proof. I have to leave. Staying just means raising my daughter in a house where her parents fight. A house of constant chaos. With no love, only a home drowned in hate. 

It’s the summer of ‘79. She’ll never know where I am. She'll never find us. 

Okay so I have this literature assignment and the only limitations is that it’s a short story that has an underlying theme something to do with cultural assumptions and can be a maximum of 2000 words. I’m only in the beginning stages of actually writing the story but it will take place in space on a cargo ship and an alien will come and pick of members of the crew (basically the plot of alien) but the alien has come from a “perfect” civilisation and is judging and killing the crew members based on what the alien thinks what the crew and as an extent humanity is doing wrong. I’m formatting it as if it was a diary entry on retro futuristic computer (think fall out 3 computers) and every day there will be a new diary entry and the perspective will be from the captain of the ship. I’m planning on having it go for about a week depending on how much I write each day. The current end of the story will reveal the space ship is heading for earth with the alien on board and the rest of the crew dead. Some advice or some ideas of how to subtly introduce the alien and it’s origin alongside some ideas on how and why he would be killing the crew mates would be especially helpful and any advice on how to effectively write horror in the story how really help out. I only want to reveal the alien towards the end of the story creating like a mystery ish type story but all the crew members will be proven innocent leading them all to believe something else is onboard committing these acts. Also I’m toying around with the idea that the narrator (diary writer) presents himself as the perfect leader but begins to crack under pressure.I’m very new to this and any help would be great

Here is what I have written so far:

AUTHORISED PERSONEL ACCESS AND OPERATION ONLY

[TERMINAL BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED]

STATUS: CONFIDENTIAL ENTRY CODE: ********

[WELCOME: CREW MEMBER #43221 TO ARTEMIS CARGO SHIP MAINFRAME]

STARDATE-2245.7 – CARGO SHIP ARTIMIS – EN ROUTE TO COLONY 79

DAY-46

The limitlessness of space is only punctuated by the inconsistent spread of stars dotting the infinite emptiness of the cosmos. The subtle hum of the Artimis is a comfortable reminder of human ingenuity. The crew have finally established a routine and have become accustomed to the daily procedures of life upon the Artimis. The specimens procured from colony 118 have shown promising results, we do not have much supply left of from the specimens and due to how it was obtained it has proven difficult to acquire more. I ascertained that Provisions, hydration and energy resources are in abundance allowing us to facilitate the completion of our journey. Laughter echoes through the halls, a testament to the camaraderie onboard. Yet as I retire to my personal quarter I cannot dispel the weight of isolation I feel travelling on this vessel.

(Imagine if it was in a cool font i have no clue on how to do it on reddit)

Jim, a middle-aged man with a penchant for Sunday football, found himself in a peculiar predicament. It all began innocently enough—a sweaty locker room, banter echoing off the walls, and the familiar camaraderie of fellow players. But as Jim sat there, wrestling with his shoelaces, he noticed something odd: one of his socks didn’t belong to him.

“Ah, well,” he thought, “it’s just a sock. No harm done.” So he shrugged it off, tugged on his sneakers, and headed home.

The drive back was anything but ordinary. Jim’s foot pressed the accelerator with an urgency he couldn’t explain. The speedometer needle danced dangerously close to the red zone, and the steering wheel felt like a wild animal under his grip. He swerved through traffic, heart racing, unable to regain control.

Arriving home, Jim greeted his son with a tousle of the hair and bestowed a gentle tickle upon his son’s guinea pig—the little creature that followed the boy everywhere. Dinner awaited them in the cozy dining room, but as they sat around the table, Jim’s leg twitched involuntarily.

With a swift kick, he sent a chair skidding across the floor. His wife shot him a disapproving look. “Jim,” she scolded, “you need to control your temper.”

“But it wasn’t me!” Jim protested. An argument erupted, voices rising, and suddenly, he stood up. His leg swung out, booting his wife with a force he couldn’t comprehend. The kids screamed, and Jim stumbled away, fleeing to his room.

His rage knew no bounds. He pummeled the walls, the furniture—anything within reach. His wife, bruised and bewildered, had enough. She kicked him out, and Jim found refuge in a dingy BnB.

The next day, he stumbled into work, late and disheveled. His boss summoned him to the office, eyebrows raised. Jim sat down, his leg twitching beneath the desk. And then, inexplicably, he kicked the table. The boss’s patience wore thin.

“Jim,” he snapped, “what’s gotten into you?”

Apologies spilled from Jim’s lips, but his leg had a mind of its own. It kicked the table relentlessly, like an unhinged metronome. The boss’s verdict was swift: “You’re fired.”

Back at the BnB, Jim wept. The same sock clung stubbornly to his foot, defying all attempts to remove it. The more he struggled, the tighter it clung, as if fused to his skin. Desperation gnawed at him.

And so, in the dim haze of drunken sleep, Jim dreamed of unraveling threads, of unraveling sanity. The sock whispered secrets, ancient and malevolent. It bound him, body and soul, to a fate he couldn’t escape.

As dawn painted the room gray, Jim awoke. The sock remained, a silent witness to his unraveling life. He wondered: Was it cursed? Or was it merely a conduit for something darker?

Jim’s life had spiraled into chaos. The cursed sock clung to his foot, a relentless reminder of his unraveling sanity. But the worst was yet to come.

The next morning, a knock echoed through the dimly lit BnB. Jim staggered to the door, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. There stood his son, clutching the guinea pig—a creature that had unwittingly become a harbinger of doom.

“Hey, Dad,” his son said, oblivious to the impending catastrophe. “Mom dropped off Mr. Whiskers. Said you forgot him.”

Jim welcomed them in, the room heavy with tension. As they chatted, the guinea pig nestled in his son’s arms, Jim’s leg twitched. It was a subtle tremor, but he knew what was coming.

Without warning, he kicked the guinea pig. The little creature soared through the air, its tiny body twisting. His son screamed, and Jim’s rage erupted. He stomped around the room, kicking chairs, lamps—anything that dared cross his path.

The BnB owner, alarmed by the commotion, dialed the police. Sirens wailed outside as Jim’s leg propelled him toward madness. He crashed through the window, shards of glass raining down.

Outside, the world blurred. Jim’s car became a missile, hurtling through the streets. Police cruisers swarmed, lights flashing. They cornered him, guns drawn. But Jim was beyond reason.

He stepped out of the car, his leg coiled like a spring. The first officer approached cautiously. “Sir, calm down,” he said.

Jim’s leg snapped out—a roundhouse kick that severed the officer’s head from his shoulders. Blood sprayed, and the world slowed. The second officer opened fire, bullets tearing through Jim’s body. He fell, life draining away.

But then, the impossible happened. Jim’s severed leg twitched. It hopped, knee to ankle, across the asphalt. The officer stared, horror etched on his face. The leg lunged, smashing into the officer’s skull. Bone cracked, and the man crumpled.

And so, in the aftermath of chaos, Jim lay dead, his leg still animated. The guinea pig watched from a distance, its beady eyes wide with understanding. Perhaps it had known all along—the sock, the rage, the unhinged leg.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows, the severed limb hopped away. It had a purpose now, a malevolent drive. And somewhere in the darkness, a curse whispered: “This is just the beginning.”

And so it was—a tale of madness, vengeance, and a leg that danced to its own deadly rhythm.

Grennichville was a small town in the USA, established in colonial times it hadn’t changed much since being known as the most traditional place in America. You'd think being a small American town it'd be all tight knit and cozy. But no, Grennicheville is fucking brutal. Being infested with hookers- dressed in clothes that would be considered normal if not modest anywhere else but in Grennichville would make any 'proper' lady faint in shock- and whose bodies regularly decorate the town having been murdered , often brutally by their customers.

Unfortunately I was a hooker myself. I checked my cheap watch, 8:00 pm, the time when anyone who wished to be considered decent in Grennichville would go home. But I was not one of decent people in Grennichville and for me 8:00 pm meant the beginning of 'work time'. I walked around in search for a client but was instead found someone very different.

"Who's there!" A familiar voice shouted.

"Oh, it’s just you, Helen." The voice said stepping out of the shadows revealing herself to be my friend Rachel. She ran a hand through her tangled red curls before turning to speak to me.

"Sorry for surprising you, I’ve just been so anxious because of you know, him." Rachel said. Ah yes, him. The butcher of Grennichville, the man who has been terrorizing Grennichville for the past year.

"Yeah, it’s alright anyways, good luck tonight." I said to Rachel.

Rachel smiled albeit nervously and said. "Thanks Helen, good luck to you as well."

And so we parted ways and I promptly nearly ran into a man.

"Hey! Watch it whore!" The man shouted.

"Go fuck yourself!" I shouted back.

The man rolled his eyes and said. "Whatever, how much?"

"Depends." I responded.

We walked into and ally and he pulled down his pants and I got down on my knees and got to work. Once we were down he handed me 50 dollars. I would have five more clients that night earning a total of three hundred dollar.

I was walking home when I stumbled over something. I looked down. Oh god. My stomach turned. It was Rachel. No it was Rachel's body.

Her stomach was cut open and her organs were splayed around her. Her throat was deeply slit and her face was covered in slashes. I nearly vomited. This wasn’t the first time I had seen a dead body but this was the worst death I had ever seen and to happen to someone I was so close to. I was utterly horrified. I quickly ran off to find the nearest house. And I banged on the door which opened to reveal a groggy man and woman in their pajamas.

"What?" The woman said sharply and cruelly.

"There’s been another murder." I said desperately.

They called the police who soon arrived and next thing I knew I was in the police station awaiting questioning. I shivered as the station was cold and my thin clothes did very little to give me any warmth or comfort. I was still very shaken from finding Rachel's body. I was soon escorted to the interviewing room where there was a small table and two chair, one chair was occupied by a middle aged man who had short greying brown hair and a thin mustache. He gestured at the other chair inviting me to sit which I did.

"Miss?" The interviewer asked.

"My name is Helen and what is it?" I asked offhandedly.

"Tell me what you know about the murder of Miss. Rachel Thomas." The interviewer respondented.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday!

To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 1000 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 1 other writer on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.

#This Week’s Theme is Void!

Image | Song

Bonus Word List (each included word is worth 5 pts) - Please list which words you included at the end of your story.

• vehemence
• vortex
• vigil
• vacuous

Void. Absence. Nothing. The void is defined by what it is not. It is both terrifying and alluring, for we have all heard its call as it draws us closer to the precipice. The desire to take just one step closer to a cliff, to peer into the darkness of a mysterious cave, and to throw ourselves into the unknown from whence there can be no coming back. How do your characters cope with the touch of the void? Do they defy its allure, and cling to existence? Or do they leap into the darkness, and embrace the nothingness? Blurb provided by u/Zetakh.

These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. For the bonus words (not required), you may change the tense, but the base word should remain the same. Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.

Don’t forget to sign up for Saturday Campfire here! We start at 1pm EST and provide live feedback!

###Theme Schedule:

• May 12 - Void (this week)
• May 19 - Watch
• May 26 - Yield

  Previous Themes | Serial Index
 

#Rankings for Undermine

• First - u/MeganBessel
• Second - u/Zetakh
• Third - u/AGuyLikeThat
• Fourth - u/ZachTheLitchKing
• Fifth - u/MaxStickies

#Rules & How to Participate Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation!

• Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, written by you and set in your self-established universe that is 500 - 1000 words. No fanfics and no content created or altered by AI. (Use wordcounter.net to check your wordcount.) Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. If you’re continuing an in-progress serial (not on Serial Sunday), please include links to your previous installments.

• Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 9:00am EST. Late entries will be disqualified. All submissions should be given (at least) a basic editing pass before being posted!

• Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). When our bot is back up and running, this will allow it to recognize your serial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.)

• Do not pre-write your serial. You’re welcome to do outlining and planning for your serial, but chapters should not be pre-written. All submissions should be written for this post, specifically.

• Only one active serial per author at a time. This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday.

• All Serial Sunday authors must leave feedback on at least one story on the thread each week. The feedback should be actionable and also include something the author has done well. When you include something the author should improve on, provide an example! You have until Saturday at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. (Submitting late is not an exception to this rule.)

• Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week. If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead.

• Serials must abide by subreddit content rules. You can view a full list of rules here. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!

#Weekly Campfires & Voting:

• On Saturdays at 1pm EST, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our Discord’s Voice Lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. You can sign up here

• Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted with this form. The form is open on Saturdays from 12:30pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations!

• Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials. Celebrate your accomplishment! Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the weekly feedback requirement (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information.

#Ranking System

Rankings are determined by the following point structure.

TASK | POINTS | ADDITIONAL NOTES |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | Use of weekly theme | 75 pts | Theme should be present, but the interpretation is up to you! | Including the bonus words | 5 pts each (20 pts total) | This is a bonus challenge, and not required! | Actionable Feedback | 5 - 15 pts each (60 pt. max)* | This includes thread and campfire critiques. (15 pt crits are those that go above & beyond.) | Nominations your story receives | 10 - 60 pts | 1st place - 60, 2nd place - 50, 3rd place - 40, 4th place - 30, 5th place - 20 / Regular Nominations - 10 | Voting for others | 15 pts | You can now vote for up to 10 stories each week!

*You are still required to leave at least 1 actionable feedback comment on the thread every week that you submit. This should include at least one specific thing the author has done well and one that could be improved. Please remember that interacting with a story is not the same as providing feedback. Low-effort crits will not receive credit.

###Subreddit News

• Join our Discord to chat with other authors and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly World-Building interviews and several other fun events!
• Try your hand at micro-fic on Micro Monday!
• Did you know you can post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday? Check out this post to learn more!
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Link to serial master post for other chapters

The evening before the next free day, Marcus was waiting at Madeline’s bunk when she returned from her day’s work. He was beaming as the pair of them approached, clutching his clipboard to his chest in place of a gun. “Good news!”

Madeline’s heart fluttered as she sped up to close the remaining distance, dragging Billie behind her by the hand. “Yes?”

“You know the young boy that you enquired about…” He looked down at his clipboard. “Liam Davies.”

“Yes?”

“Well, he’s in our system.”

Madeline clasped a hand to her mouth to contain the smile spreading across it. Tears of relief and wonder pricked at her eyes, spilling forth along with uncontrollable giggles as months of repressed worries and questions were finally answered.

“So what does that mean?” Billie asked.

“Well, as a minor he’s in one of our education programs, learning a skill or trade that will make him useful. In his case, mechanics. According to his record, he’s been a good enough student with only a couple of black marks against his name from his early days here — but that’s to be expected with children.”

The joy glowing inside of Madeline dimmed slightly as she took in the meaning of Marcus’s words. Images flashed through her mind of Liam being dragged here, fighting back like the tough kid she knew he was, possibly even trying to escape to get back to her — and him being punished for it. She winced.

“But he’s doing well now!” the young guard said hurriedly. “And while we can’t arrange a family room for you all just yet, we can arrange a meeting in around a month’s time — if you keep up the good work, of course. And then we can go from there.”

Madeline nodded to herself as she tried to take it all in, not quite sure what she was feeling. Of course, she was relieved that Liam was alive and well but she felt guilty that she had found what she’d come here for while Billie had not. And surging close behind that relief and guilt there was joy. She was overjoyed that their plan to find him had worked — at least in part. Their plan, getting captured, working the system here, it had all been worth it. Then there was the excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. But that relief and joy and excitement were tempered by a deep sadness at the thought of what he’d been through, and simmering at the edge of that sadness was a quiet rage. Rage that the Poiloogs had torn them apart. Rage that they were keeping him from her still. Rage that everything was always a few weeks away or a month away — if you keep working hard. The carrot dangling always out of reach.

She took a deep breath, schooling her expression to meet Marcus’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said as levelly as she could. “I very much look forward to it.”

Giving her a slightly quizzical look, he nodded farewell to both of them and left them to it.

As soon as he was gone, Madeline sunk onto the bed, sitting on the edge and cradling her head in her hands. The mattress sagged as Billie sat down next to her, and the warm, firm pressure of a hand settled on her back.

“You doing alright there, Mads?” they asked softly.

“I don’t know how I’m doing.” She lifted her head, wiping away tears that could have been from sadness or joy — or both. “This is a good thing, right? He’s here. He’s safe. He’s alive.”

They nodded. “It’s a good thing. Of course, it is! After all, the alternative is…”

Madeline’s heart lurched as she realised how insensitive she was being. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how hard—”

“Sshh.” They placed a finger gently on her lips. It tickled slightly, like sparks dancing over her skin. “You have nothing to be sorry for. This is good news. And you have every right to feel all your feelings.”

Madeline threw her arms around them. “I love you, Billie.”

“Love you too, Mads.”

“And I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

The knowledge that she was waiting to be reunited with Liam — with her family — made the days that followed drag by for Madeline, every second stretched by the tense excitement coiled in her heart. It also made the need to get the other elements of their plan moving all the more pressing. After all, it was all well and good getting information about lost loved ones, and even reuniting with them, but the ultimate goal had been to get as many people as possible out of here to reunite with their friends and family, if they had any left.

So the late-night conversations with Lena moved on from covering the minutiae of Poiloog operations to possibilities for escape.

Tucked under the covers with Billie, she whispered into the walkie, “So how do things look on the outside?”

There was a pause, longer than Madeline would have liked, before Lena replied, “Not great, to be honest.”

“Care to elaborate?” Billie prompted.

“Well, if you ever thought that a city felt like it was crawling with Poiloogs, that was nothing to what it looks like out here close to their base. I suppose it makes sense that they would guard their assets well, including the people they’ve captured and whatever resources they’ve hoarded there. It’s taking practically everything we have to avoid being found ourselves — keeping far apart from each other at all times, only leaving cover to pick up supplies dropped off by other people, and moving on at the first sign of trouble. It’s hardest for me, to stay in range of the walkies. I can’t even begin to imagine how we could sneak one person through all that, let alone lots of you.”

There was another pause as Madeline and Billie digested this information. It wasn’t exactly unexpected. And there were always things they could try — plans they could come up with. Perhaps a concerted effort from the inside and the outside. A distraction outside could draw some of the Poiloogs away, then it was just the human guards to contend with. And who knows? Maybe a few of them could even be persuaded to join in the escape. And if they could organise everyone in the whole facility, and they all rushed the main gate together…

But it was hard to imagine how that could possibly play out without massive loss of life.

Besides, it wasn’t good to delude themselves too much. Madeline had known when she’d volunteered to be the one captured along with Billie that there was every chance they’d never make it out.

A crackle from the walkie broke the silence when Lena spoke again. “How do things look in there? Do you think it would be possible to organise a jailbreak from the inside?”

Madeline glanced at Billie. She could see the cogs whirring in their mind just as they were in hers.

“In some ways, security is more lax than I’d have expected,” she said. “They rely a lot on threats and promises to control people. But between guards with guns and Poiloogs scuttling about just when you least expect them — not to mention that enormous barbed wire fence that I’m fairly certain is electrified — I still wouldn’t like our chances.” An image of the haggard Sarah flashed through her mind. “And I’d dread to think what they’d do to us if they did catch us.”

“Do you know if anyone’s managed to break out in the past?” Lena asked.

“Not that I’ve heard about,” Billie replied before grinning at her. “But maybe that’s something Madeline could ask her admirer.”

“I’m sorry, Madeline has an admirer besides you? How is this the first I’m hearing about this?”

Madeline sighed. “Because it is entirely in Billie’s head. A complete fantasy, fabricated to make me feel embarrassed and awkward. He’s just a friendly guard who seems to be doing his best to take care of everyone and make sure they’re as happy as they can be given the circumstances.”

“And he’s particularly concerned with Madeline’s happiness.”

She thumped Billie on the arm.

“Well,” Lena said, “It’s good to hear that you two haven’t changed. And whether he’s your secret admirer or just a friendly guard, it certainly sounds like a good place to start.”

Author's Note: Next chapter due on 17th May

TW: Assault

I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just moved into my new apartment on Hampton Street and not even a week after was nearly killed. It was around midnight and I was standing on the porch, dressed in a red hoodie with my hair down, ready to reunite with my old friend Jerry Stalter at his house a few blocks over. We were meeting up to play video games together like old times. I wanted to kick his ass in Tekken 5. My fingers were itching to hold the PlayStation controller again.

Neighbors were asleep, and there I was, ready for a night on the town. I remember feeling excitement, nervousness, and hunger because I hadn’t eaten all day. Jerry and I planned to order Domino’s, their two two-topping pizza combo for $5.99 each. This is why I’m a fat fuck, I remember thinking as I squeezed my big, doughy belly. I looked ahead to the streetlamp near Ford Street and decided to leave in a few minutes. The shrouded figure in my peripheral meant nothing to me, I hadn’t even thought of it; I was safe in the bright light of my porch.

Before I could process the movement of the shadow, it ran at me with lightning speed and immediately struck me in the gut. The blow could have been from a fist or a hammer, the pain was too intense to understand. I was bewildered and had no time to react. The dark figure grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to the ground. I felt my shoulder crack against the sidewalk, and my neck smack the edge of a porch stair.

I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was that I was being attacked by...someone.

I took Muay Thai when I was a teenager, but in the chaos of the attack, I lost all fighting skill. I was defenseless amidst the brunt of the chaos. I curled up into a ball, made myself small, and did the best to protect myself from the blows of whoever my assailant was. I felt like a coward, but I just wanted to be safe.

 “Please, just stop, I did nothing to you,” I begged. The words left my lips slowly, with gasps in between each strike of their fists against the back of my head. Tears felt hot on my cheeks. I could taste salt and dirt in my mouth. “Why are you doing this?” I pleaded, as the hard tip of a boot sent shockwaves through my rib cage.

Overweight and at a massive physical disadvantage, I felt paralyzed with fear, and thought to scream as loudly as I could for help. My mouth couldn’t move. It felt like I was stuck in a dream where screaming feels impossible.

Everything moved so fast, and the events were out of order. In the confusion, I somehow managed to muster a quiet scream, “Help! Oh my god, help me! Somebody, please!” I cried to whoever could hear me, but I didn’t think anyone would come.

Then, without warning, I felt an icy chill and searing pain in my lower back. My attacker’s dirty, clammy hand had plunged a knife into my flesh. Immediately, I felt a warm trickle down my back and sides, soaking my undershirt and my pants. I smelled metal, and all I could hear were my own cries and the rustling of clothes as the figure’s blade plunged into my back over and over.

I knew then that I was going to die, but all I could think about was how eerily quiet my assailant was, a faceless void sent by Death to claim me. They hadn’t said a word, didn’t grunt or shout, they just stabbed me like I was meat. What the hell do they want with me?, I thought. I remember feeling my mind slipping away as I questioned the most ridiculous things, like whether I had left the stove on or if my socks were matching.

I screamed again, this time belting like a ravenous beast. “Get the fuck off me, somebody help, helllllp!” I repeatedly shouted “help” until my vocal cords were shot. The strength of anger roiled inside of me as I bellowed, and I knew somebody had to have heard me this time. Neighbors, passersby, anyone. They had to hear me, or I was going to die.

Thoughts were racing around my head and the world was spinning. The attacks did not stop. One—after—the other. Breathing was minimal. Muscles were weak. I knew hopelessness and terror, but I felt peace. Lake waves. Grass between toes. Peanut butter ice cream. Chicken bacon ranch pizza. There was Dad. Mom. Brother. Jerry. Concerts and museums and video games. My life was in my assailant’s hands and I accepted my fate as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Abruptly, I heard the sound of a storm door being swung open and cracking like thunder against the door jamb. Glass shattering. Slippers or flip-flops clacking against creaky wood. The smell of lavender mixed with stale Newports and sweat. Then, the recognizable chk-CHK of a shotgun being cocked in front of me.

A hoarse female voice shouted, “get the fuck out of here, or I’ll shootcher fucking brains out, motherfucker,” the war cry of a rugged rural battle angel sent from Heaven to correct Death’s mistake. She was Heather, my sweet, elderly upstairs neighbor. She heard me and came to save me.

The arrival of my nightgown-clad saint and savior was the last thing I remember before waking up in a hospital bed with Jerry sitting in one of those uncomfortable pink felt chairs. The sick and sanitized smell of the ICU overwhelmed me, and I remember falling asleep for what felt like years. Now and then, I’d awake to hear CSI: Miami playing on the TV, with Jerry playing some kind of RPG on his phone.

I don’t remember much of my diagnosis, but I do know the seven stab wounds didn’t hit any vital organs. Still, I spent three weeks in hospital recovering. The day I got out, Jerry and I split a 14-inch chicken bacon ranch pizza and a half-gallon of peanut butter ice cream. It was the best damned meal I’ve ever eaten.

To this day, I don’t know who tried to murder me.

Centuries from now, in the year 2364 CE, 57 years after the Choice of Empire—The elected Emperor of the Solar System and his family are massacred by the Sargons, a rival family who seized the throne and created chaos across the Empire. Caleb, the youngest son of the slain Emperor, was saved by the Altas, who were once friends of his family until they mysteriously exiled themselves from the imperium many years ago and remained hidden in an unknown location ever since.

Caleb is now in that faraway place, beyond the reach of the Sargons, where he will live in refuge and prepare for the day when he can have vengeance, justice, and redemption—and possibly salvation.

Burrowed deep within an asteroid in the Belt of the Solar System is a secret community of scientists, artists, thinkers, and engineers led by the Altas. A large hole is tunneled through the face of the asteroid, the entrance to the hidden world within. It was made to look like a human eye.

Its name is the Iris.

[Interlude]

Caleb woke from a deep sleep. The salt of his tears had dried on his face and sweat covered his body. He looked around the room and saw a man who was like an uncle to him asleep on a chair next to his bed: Han Moret, the leader of the Altas.

Caleb thought that Han Moret looked younger and radiant. His hair, once thin, was now full. His body, once frail, was now strong. His skin, once wrinkled, was now smooth and shining.

Caleb got up from the bed and put a hand on Han Moret’s shoulder.

“Han,” he whispered.

Han Moret woke with a start, “Christ!” then smiled when he saw Caleb, “Oh, hello my dear boy.”

Caleb was quiet for a while. “Why couldn’t you save them?”

Han Moret sighed and looked to the ground, “We didn’t have time. We learned of the Sargons’ plans too late. You were in your bedroom and everyone else was in the throne room. Saving you was the only way, all we could do. The best we could do.” He raised his head, “I’m sorry Caleb. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there, for not being able to do more. But you’re here now. We’ll help you. We’ll fight back and win. I can promise you that. I can give you that.”

“How?”

Han Moret grinned, “Come. Let me show you what we’ve been working on all these years. Why I left all those years ago.” He walked to the door and opened it, “Welcome to the Iris.”

Within the asteroid was a colossal garden paradise: waving golden fields and rolling green hills, thick forests and snow-capped mountains, gleaming towers and sprawling villas, vast lakes and flowing streams, smaller suns and lesser moons orbiting each other in the center—worlds within a world.

They walked through a field and stopped beneath a large oak tree.

“Han, this is incredible. How did you do it?” Caleb asked.

“Trillions of builders. Quattuordecillion, actually.” Han Moret raised his hand and an apple fell into it. He took a bite, “Probably more.”

“But there’s only…How many people are here?”

“A couple hundred. 964, I think. No, Arina was born this morning, 965.” He furrowed his brow, “Why do you ask?”

“Trillions of builders, hundreds here?”

“Oh! Right, yes. I see. Come, come. You’ll see too.”

While they were walking, Caleb learned that Han Moret was still fond of long and rambling monologues:

“Isn’t it obvious? Look around us. Well, beyond the asteroid. We seem to be alone in the Universe, but the probability that other life exists says otherwise. So what’s the explanation? It’s simple. We are the first intelligent life in the Universe. It makes sense when you think about it. Our homeworld, the planet Earth, was among the first habitable planets that formed in the Universe after it began, earlier than around 90% of the other habitable planets which now exist! And most of the habitable planets that will ever be formed in the Universe haven’t even formed yet. So, the planet Earth was one of the first habitable planets in the Universe that could support the rise of life and its long evolutionary development into intelligent life, to beings like us. Therefore, assuming that life out there will fundamentally be the same as it is here, and assuming that it only arises in an Earth-like environment, it shouldn’t be surprising that humans developed before others. You see, someone has to be first. There must be a first form of intelligent life in the Universe, before the rest. But it seems like no one has considered that maybe we’re alone in the Universe right now because we are the first and others will come after us, and maybe the others are already in the process of doing so, so we won’t be alone for long. And when those future life-forms ask the same questions as us, “Is anyone out there? Are we alone in the Universe?” we will be there to answer them, to be their aliens, to give them the comfort we never had and accelerate their development like we never could. And this is all the better too, because we’re going to need all the help we can get to do the ultimate thing, since the only reason we exist is to…”

“Han, thank you, that was…enlightening. But what does it have to do with what you were going to show me?”

“What? Oh, nothing. Sorry. What were we talking about? Ah yes, how we built the Iris. Fear not, the answer lies ahead.”

They walked further through the field towards a clearing. And there, out in the open, was a scientific laboratory and engineering workshop, tables and equipment and all with nothing but the sky above and a beautiful world surrounding them.

Han Moret led Caleb to an empty table, “So, here is it boyo. What do you see?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“Ha! Yes, but in nothing there is everything. For from nothing…” Han Moret glanced at the table and appeared to concentrate, then the table grew into a tree “…something.”

Han Moret tapped a finger to his head, “Mind-controlled nano-bots. That’s how we built this place. A one-to-one control of atoms within our local environment, limited to the area in which nano-bots are dispersed and the reach of electromagnetic signals emitted from implants in the brain, also limited by the mental symbiosis between a group of people if they’re working together, and of course the extent of their imagination. Everything within the Iris is touched by the stuff, so everything is under our control.”

“That’s…How did you do it?”

“Trade secret I’m afraid. But here, we call it…” Han Moret slapped the side of Caleb’s head, “…Pleroma.”

“Ow!”

“There! Brain implanted. You are now pleromatized. You can control the world around you, or at least the little bit within your proximate sphere. No worries, the plerons are easily inserted and removed, so no harm, no foul. Go on and try it. Synchronization is instantaneous, but learning how to use it is, well, a process. Your ability to control the world is determined by the strength of your mind—your concentration and focus. It depends on the speed and coherence of your imagination, the complexity and detail of your mental constructions, along with the depth of your knowledge and your intelligence, clarity of thinking, force of will, and, most importantly, very most importantly, the strength of your Self. Meditation helps, as does improving your brain with the stuff once you get the hang of it, but none of that will matter if you are not strong within. Oh, and you can change your body too.”

“Ah, so that’s why you look younger and glowing.”

“Indeed, and thank you. I’ve never felt better, haven’t been sick in years. We certainly look…godly, don’t you think? Although the secondary effects of being able to control our brains and bodies have been far more numerous than we anticipated, mostly socially, very odd and interesting things, but that’s a conversation and exhibition for later. If I may continue, with the Pleroma, the strength of your mind determines your power over the world, so if your mind is stronger than others, then you can overpower them. For example…”

Caleb’s body rose from the ground and hovered for a moment, then returned.

“See?” Han Moret said. “I could feel your instinctive surprise and mental resistance, but alas, I’ve had this stuff longer than you, and my mind is, for the time being at least, stronger than yours, so your resistance was, as they say, futile. The plerons that made their way into your body when you entered the Iris obeyed my commands and not yours, and your body obeyed my mind and not your own. Now, your turn. Try and turn the tree into something.”

Caleb looked at the tree and tried to concentrate. He vaguely imagined things, but was unsure of what to create and how. The tree became a gray mass, then began to violently vibrate and rapidly shapeshift. Colors flashed and textures flickered. Various sounds blasted all at once. It seemed like reality was having a seizure. And then the asteroid began to rumble…

“Woah! Alright, alright! Not bad for your first try. Certainly better than others. You have a powerful mind, no doubt, but not yet a disciplined one.”

Han Moret waved his hand and smoothed the chaotic patch of existence back to an empty table. “We’ll try it again soon. Mastering the Pleroma will require a lot of practice and self-improvement. I can improve your brain of course, if you’d like, it’ll help speed up the process and enhance your basic abilities, but even with a better brain, you’ll still fail to use the Pleroma if you don’t improve your consciousness, your mind—your Self. You must become stronger, Caleb—not physically, but mentally—if you want to master this power over the world. You could have a perfect brain, but if you don’t perfect your Self, then the Pleroma will be useless, as we just saw. You’ll only create chaos in the world and others will be able to control you.”

“Yeah, alright, I understand. But Han! That was amazing. I’ve never felt…I’ve never felt like that before.”

“Yes, but it is so much more than that, Caleb, so much more. You’ve only seen the least of it, the smallest bit. You see, this is why we had to leave the Empire. Weren’t you listening before? I was onto something. We’re going to need all the help we can get, including from other forms of life, if we are going to do the ultimate thing, since the only reason we exist is to prevent the end of the Universe.

For centuries, we’ve known that, given the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the Universe will end in the future, or at least its habitability for life—for us! We know this, and so we have a responsibility to do something about it, to stop it from happening so that life can keep living. ‘We’ are the Universe—just a local collection of its atoms, yes, but an equal part of its whole nevertheless—and we have within us both the genetic urge to survive and a personal desire to not die, so we can say that the Universe itself does not want us to die, or rather it does not want to die itself. Don’t you see? The purpose of our lives, the purpose of the Universe, is embedded within the structure of our existence. But how do we prevent the end of the Universe exactly? We don’t know the answer to that yet, specifically. That’ll take time. But we do know the basics of the answer, and it is very simple: we must control the Universe to prevent its end, and to do that, we must become God.

If humankind is to live forever, and more importantly ensure that there is a world in which we can live forever, then we must gain the knowledge and power to control the Universe so that we can prevent its end. In other words, we must become all-knowing and all-powerful, or at least gain sufficient knowledge and power to ensure that we can have an endless life in infinite eternity, through whatever ways we can. But whichever way ultimately works, we’ll need to create an eternal home for life, and that’s Godhood boyo. That’s the ultimate thing, and the Pleroma is a first step towards that: controlling the world around us with our minds, instantaneous creation by command. It’s a growing up for us. We began as children, born from the God of the Great Unknown at the Beginning, and we must grow up to become God to prevent the Great Known at the End. That’s the only thing when you think about it, our only purpose and the measure of our being, the direction of our progress and the future we’re heading towards: Godhood. If we don’t, then we will have accepted the end of the Universe and the eventual death of humankind, and everything before that will become pointless, the value and meaning of our lives will become forfeit. If we choose to do nothing or say that it’s impossible without trying, then we condemn the generations of the future to ultimate destruction, and in the long stretch of time, we will have annihilated the basic and universal value of human life, and therefore annihilate our own value too. Even if the end of the Universe will happen billions of years from now, or much sooner from some natural or cosmic catastrophe, that’s just a number that seems big to us, so the number doesn’t matter, it could billions of years from now or tomorrow—or today. On the scale of the Universe, what’s the difference between a billion and one, tomorrow and today? If humankind will become extinct in the future, no matter how many years from now, then there will be no point to all of this.

No, we must save ourselves by preventing the end of the Universe and become God to achieve that salvation. What comes after that? I don’t know. But for now, I know that we must spend our days working to achieve Godhood. That’s why we’re here and nothing else matters, except of course to make life worth saving, by making it worth living, by spreading love and creating art and asking questions and filling the darkness around us with light and the color of our lives, to expand outwards until we reach the end and then go beyond it—always onward, always creating, always living. You see, the end gives us our beginning. We begin at the end. God created and God will save, because we will become God to save ourselves. I call it the Anthroteloeschacosmological Principle, the purpose of humankind arising from the end of the Universe. I tell myself a little poem every morning: “The Universe will end / and I will die / if today I do nothing / to save starlight and humankind.” I wrote all this in an anonymous essay a few years back, The Salvation of the Universe…”

“That was you?”

“Yes, and it made quite a stir across the imperium as I understand it, but nary an effect. Typical. Anyways, we must prevent the end of the Universe—by whatever means, at all costs, and within moral bounds. The Sargons knew this and accepted the first two, but they rejected the last. I grew up with them. We discussed it often, along with your father. The Sargons think morality is an obstacle, a human thing that will prevent us from becoming God. They think Godhood is only about being all-knowing and all-powerful, but we Altas think differently. We think morality is essential to Godhood, because being all-knowing and all-powerful will be pointless if we are not also all-good, or at least as good as we can be when we try. Without morality, that wonderfully human thing—determining what is good and evil and then making it so—there’d be no point in becoming God, because there’d be nothing worth saving in the end. We’d just be a heap of atoms that figured out how to perpetuate themselves, like all of the other forms of life in the Universe, except on a bigger scale. But we are not like the other forms of life. No, we are different, and that’s what makes us so special and important. What’s the point of living if not for something, and why are we unique if not because of our morality allows us to say, “This is good and this is bad,” and then use that power to shape the world around us according to our imagination and will, enhanced by our knowledge and technology?

So you see Caleb, this is why we had to leave the Empire. We all know that the Universe will end in the future, but it seemed to us Altas like were the only ones who understood the significance of that fact, what it means for us and our purpose in life, the responsibilities that it gives us. We saw that the plan for existence is embedded in the structure of the Universe, our destiny and fate written across the stars, but when we looked around, we saw that everyone was living their days as if it wasn’t so, ignoring our ultimate purpose and wasting their time on lesser things. We had to leave, you see, to be away from the limitations and distractions of Empire, so we could do the work to achieve Godhood, to take the first step in leaving our childhood to create the Pleroma.

Your father disagreed with all this. He thought Godhood was a silly idea based on old religious notions. And that’s what makes what happened all the worse. You see, the Altas and the Sargons agreed with each other. We were unified against your father in our belief that we must achieve Godhood and that the stagnation of the Empire was preventing us from doing so, and your father was leading that stagnation, so we both felt compelled to take action. The difference between us, however, the vital difference, is that we Altas believe in morality, so we left the Empire to work in peaceful isolation, and the Sargons do not, so they murdered your family to seize power.”

And with that, Han Moret was finished.

Caleb was silent for a while. “But, I don’t understand. If you had this the entire time, why couldn’t you save my family when the Sargons attacked? Why couldn’t you use it to protect them? You could’ve prevented all of this. Why didn’t you share it with us?”

“Because the Pleroma is still in development, Caleb. It still has its imperfections and unknowns. We’ve only worked within the asteroid so far, and only with a small group of people who already had deep bonds and a shared way of thinking and years of training together as the power of the Pleroma slowly progressed, so our learning was limited by the pace of its development. And this was good, since the Pleroma would be apocalyptic in the wrong hands. This asteroid, these people, are minuscule compared to the scale of the Empire, to the true extent of what the Pleroma could reach and do. So, with all of its unknowns, we couldn’t risk deploying it beyond the Iris, and we couldn’t risk revealing ourselves by going beyond it and using it or building transmission relays across the Solar System so we could take long-distance action from here. We had precious little time after learning of the Sargon’s betrayal. And once we were there, in the fog of war, for all we know we could’ve killed your family if we had tried to intervene. Not everyone here has mastered the Pleroma yet, especially to use it in such a complex and rapidly changing atomic environment like war, with life and death in the balance, with its intense mental pressures and emotional reactions and all that would test the mental strength of even the best of us, even me. So, even if I had brought the best of us when it happened, we couldn’t risk trying it for the first time in such a situation, especially with such a close proximity between friends and foes. But we’re improving it and eliminating its imperfections, we’re learning, and it’s nearly ready to be used beyond this little home of ours.”

Now Han Moret was silent for a while. He looked around the Iris.

“I… You see Caleb…” He tried to gather his thoughts, but was conflicted between defending himself against Caleb’s criticisms and trying to proceed with his planned lecture. “With the Pleroma, we can control the Universe, both around us and within us. Everything, everywhere, all the time. And time itself too! Though that’s still in the experimental stages. One fellow tried to slow time by condensing his local spacetime and then went poof and, well, we don’t quite know where he is at the moment, but we’ll find him…hopefully. But with this stuff, we can speak and it shall be. We can create by command and move worlds with a wave of our hand. Dear, I’m getting poetic, but isn’t it so? This is what we’ve been working on all these years. And once we created it, we knew that the people of the Empire weren’t ready for it, so we remained in hiding. Most people beyond the Iris aren’t mentally and spiritually strong enough to have this power without creating chaos, destruction, and death across the Solar System, especially with the Sargons around. But now, with the Sargons in power, with chaos across the imperium, with you here, we think that perhaps it’s time. You have a powerful story Caleb, and you were born into a unique position to sway the hearts and minds of the people to shape the course of Empire and help them. And as your old tutor, well, I have faith in you, especially now that you’ve seen the Pleroma and understand what it can do and what’s at stake. I believe you can do what we could not and prepare the way towards a better future.

What are those quotes from the books I used to read you? ‘A people shall come, and when they say, “Be…” It shall be,’ and ‘Can you lift up your voice to the clouds, so that a flood of waters may cover you? Can you send forth lightning, so it may go and declare, ‘Here we are?” That is this. We are it. Speak your voice, Caleb. Manifest your spirit. Create by command. With this, you can do anything, everything…” he amplified his voice to make it was deep and booming, “…ALL.”

And with the last word, hundreds of people suddenly appeared around Caleb.

A few hours passed and it was night. The suns above had dimmed, sharing their fading light with rising moonlight, creating a new and beautiful natural phenomenon that Caleb had never seen before, what the people of the Iris called a Sunrisset.

They were all in the field, groups of them sitting around bonfires. The ceiling of the asteroid was made transparent so they could see the stars around them. They were celebrating the arrival of Caleb and the simple fact that another day had passed of which they had come to know. Some of the fires were multi-colored, shifting with the mood and intentions of the people around them. Around one of them was a woman singing an ancient song. The flames danced and rose and changed colors to match her pitch and rhythm and tune—and when she finished with a climax, the flames burst into the sky, adding sparks to the stars. Throughout the night, there were fireworks from all directions and mini-supernovae exploding in the sky. Auroras waved above and among and between them. Such was life in paradise.

As conversation mixed with music and song, there was, most of all, a feast. It was the best food and drink that Caleb had ever tasted.

Han Moret gave another lecture, “Food is just chemistry, a unique combination of atoms that interacts with our taste buds to cause a specific reaction in the brain: pleasure. And with the Pleroma, we can have it all the time.”

“Don’t you get used to it though, having the best food all the time? What’s that saying, without the ordinary there’d be nothing extraordinary?” Caleb asked.

“I used to think that, but it’s been years and the food is still great, so no, you don’t get used to it. It’s utopia here boyo, paradise, the land of the blessed, whatever you want to call it, and not just culinary-wise. We can control our brains and bodies on the micro-level, so there’s no disease and, more importantly, no aging. I realize I might’ve buried the lead on that one, but yeah, we’re immortal here too, along with everything else. Godhood again. Everyone in the Alta, anyone touched by the Pleroma, will live forever, or at least as long as they choose and not be murdered by nature, which is all that matters. We can create anything we might need and want, and so we have everything we might need and want. It’s utopia, but it’s not without its problems.

Frankly, utopia is not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s certainly better than the past and something that everyone should have, power and abundance and immortality and all, and we’ll help them get there, certainly, but it’s not the final place, not by a long shot. Even with all of this, we have a lot to do and further to go. You see, when all the problems are solved, when you can have anything you want all the time, some people just get bored. Who would’ve thought that heaven would be boring. But it is so. Since humans began on the planet Earth all those years ago, our purpose was to survive and solve the problems that nature laid on us—scarcity, poverty, ignorance, disease—so we could have a brief moment to pursue our happiness before we died. But what happens when our survival is secured, the problems are solved, and we have infinite opportunities to pursue our happiness? Wouldn’t life get boring? That’s what we’re struggling with now. Frankly, utopia doesn’t agree with everyone. There’s trouble in paradise and all. Ah, perfect timing. Look over there. See him?”

Han Moret pointed to a man who was a few bonfires over. He was drunk and stumbling through the crowd. Since the man was pleromatized, he had a literal aura of drunkenness around him and projected a blurred existence beyond his body that wreaked a playful and entertaining havoc on others as he walked by.

“Damn it, Thrax. Not again!” someone shouted.

Han Moret continued, “You see, many people here have chosen to drown themselves in happiness and never resurface, as if that’s the only end and aim in life. Maybe it is, maybe we haven’t found the true meaning of happiness yet, maybe there’s something else, who knows, but with the ability to instantly create whatever we want whenever we want it and cure our bodies of anything, a lot of people have chosen to exist in what, in my opinion, is a false state of happiness. They get drunk and use drugs or just go straight to the source and alter their biochemistry so they can remain in a permanent state of euphoria, and they can do so without harm because the Pleroma prevents damage from constant intoxication and allows them to become sober immediately, whenever they choose, so their productivity remains the same, which makes it harder for me to argue that they should imbibe less. There have been many arguments about it. But it’s undeniably a feat of hedonic adaptation for our species when you think about, being bored in heaven and all. Nevertheless, many people like that fellow Thrax over there seem to never want to end it, their eternal happiness. I don’t know, boyo. We’ve done wonders here, but it’s not perfect, far from it.”

Han Moret was silent for a while and looked lost in thought, “Anyways! Apologies, I’ve strayed from my prepared remarks. There’s more for you to learn. Alright, what’s next? Yes, one of my favorites. Lora! Get over here.”

A wind blew through the camp and a woman appeared in front of Caleb. She looked into his eyes and smiled flirtatiously, then became wind again and reappeared behind Caleb. She tapped him on the shoulder and then rose above the ground and swirled around him, finally landing on the seat next to him.

“Hello, Caleb. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She drunkenly leaned into him, “So, did he tell you about the sex yet?”

“Uh…” He looked to Han Moret, who was conveniently looking elsewhere. “No.”

“Of course not, the prit. An old-fashioned manners man through and through. But my god! You have to try it. Imagine two people are like two atoms and now they’re having sex, but people are many atoms, octillions of them, so sex with the Pleroma is octillion times greater, a grinding cloud of pleasure, a great orgy of the Universe, all between two people, or more if that’s your taste. Does that make sense? Oh! See that electric cloud thing in the sky over there? There you go, some people are having a go at it,” thunder rolled across the camp, “and by the sound of it, having a lot of fun. One night when the elders were away and the kids were in bed, we younger ones—well young is relative now, I guess—but anyways, we wanted to test the limits of the stuff, and man…let’s just say we filled the space and rocked the place a little too literally.”

Han Moret interrupted, “Yes you did. Thank you, Lora. You may go now.”

Lora laughed, then kissed Caleb on the cheek and disappeared, creating a golden streak of light across the camp as she moved to another bonfire.

Han Moret resumed his lecture, “So, as you just saw, when you can control the atoms of your body, you can move yourself around. In other words, you can fly. Now, after hearing this, there is, logically, an obvious question.”

Caleb thought for a moment. “How is the mind not destroyed when the body are deconstructed and moved? Wouldn’t the person die in the process?”

“Correct! That is something we did not know until we tried it, or rather one person. Some crazy bastard just tried it one day and it worked, and from the fruit of such courageous experimentation we learned a lot about the nature and structure of consciousness. We still don’t know everything though. We know it has something to do with the attachment of plerons to neural atoms and the signals that they send to each other across a distance, like a spatial expansion of the underlying physical structure of consciousness, but we’re still figuring it out. For now, though, the important thing is that it works.”

“But isn’t the reconstructed person just a copy of the deconstructed one and not really the original person? Wouldn’t the original person be destroyed during deconstruction?”

“No, it’s them. When you go from body to nebulous state to body again, you can feel yourself the entire time. There aren’t any gaps or skips. It’s a continuous process, from one point to another, and you’re aware of it throughout. You can feel yourself dissolving, then nebulous and moving, then coming together again. And let me tell you, when you’re scattered like that, truly at one with the Universe, it’s liberating. It feels like…” Han Moret searched for the right words “…pure being.”

He continued, “Anyways, we’re nearing the end of the night, so let’s end it with a bang. What do you want? You can have anything you’d like. Some Viking ale?” A horned cup appeared in his hand. “One of those Parisian cafes we toured on Earth?” He tossed the cup in front of him and it became a miraged-like partition of one. “An ancient mosque?” The cafe rearranged into one. “A conversation with the legendary President Takhani?” The mosque condensed into the 22nd century woman. “Or better yet, how about a chat with another me?” The President morphed into another Han Moret.

“Fret not, he’s just a copy of me. Not really me. He’s not actually alive at all. Doesn’t have a consciousness. Just a puppet on my mental strings. Anyways, anything you want. What do you say?

Caleb stared at the fire and the flames slowed. He thought “my family” and must have unknowingly projected due to his intense emotional state, because Han Moret sighed.

“I’m sorry Caleb. I can’t do that…Not yet.”

The copy of Han Moret chimed in, “But we’re working on it!”

“Yes, thank you. We’re working on it, trying to resurrect the dead. So far, we can recreate the bodies of those who have been, but it’s recreating their consciousness that’s the tricky part. As you’ve seen, we can deconstruct and reconstruct the consciousness of living individuals across space while maintaining their continuity of being. The Self isn’t destroyed. It’s reconstructing…Hold on, that reminds me.”

The copy of Han Moret dissolved.

“That’s better. It’s reconstructing consciousness across time that’s the problem. Specifically, it’s reconnecting the consciousness of someone who lived in the past at the moment of their death, the presumed termination of their consciousness stream and Self, to the present that’s proving difficult. We’re trying to connect disjointed time-points between death and now so we can restore a dead person’s continuity of being, their true and original Self. We have the ability to create a likeness of someone’s consciousness, dead or alive, as I just showed, but it’s not truly them, it’s just a copy of them. If we can resurrect their stream of consciousness, awaken them from what would seem like a long nap, then we will have achieved true immortality, and not just for those who are living and yet to be born, but for all those who have been, all of the billions who once existed in the Universe, back in the world alive and well, forever. And we’re close, Caleb, we’re close. We actually made a big step today. Let me show you.” He amplified his voice and carried it on the wind, “Arina!”

A young and beautiful woman appeared. Caleb struggled to think of another word than “perfect.”

“Meet Arina. It’s her birthday, by the way.”

“Hello, Arina. Happy….” Caleb stopped because he recognized the name and remembered his conversation with Han Moret earlier. “Hold on, when I asked you how many people were in the Iris, you said that someone named Arina was born today.”

“And indeed they were. Her. The first of her kind, a fully grown human created by the Pleroma. Instantaneous creation. Now, I can anticipate your train of thought, and yes, the ethics of missing childhood with all its memories and growth and learning are concerning, and we will explore them, but we are in the first days of this stuff, so there will be many questions, and we are ready to answer them. But regardless, we constructed a new consciousness boyo! We did it, and we’re learning. Perhaps we can spark consciousness in animals too, any form of life actually…maybe even non-life come to think of it. But the next step is to resurrect old consciousness, which, as you know, would be the true power of resurrection. Godhood again! I told you Caleb, we’re seeking Godhood here, and we’re gaining a little of it every day.”

Han Moret seemed satisfied with himself and took a deep breath. “Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight. You’ve had a long day and have been shown much. Time for some rest. We Irisians don’t need sleep anymore, but you certainly do. Your body isn’t used to the godly life yet, so…tut tut, time for bed.”

The next day, Han Moret flew himself and Caleb around the Iris. Children passed by in the air on their way to school and nearly crashed into them several times, laughing. After a while, Caleb and Han Moret landed near the edge of a lake.

“See them?” Han Moret gestured to a man and woman in the distance between the lake and the foothills of a mountain. They were in the midst of combat. As they fought, various weapons rapidly materialized and dematerialized in their hands; each strike and block with someone new: now a sword, then a bow and arrow, now an axe, then a spear. They were flying and shifting and moving in a rhythmic flow, using the land around them and pure force as weapons. It was a literal storm of battle, as if reality was at war with itself, clashing shards of spacetime, two gods battling in a field.

“So, you want me to learn how to do that? Fight with the Pleroma to defeat the Sargons?” Caleb asked.

“Fight? No, those two are just bored, so they’re having a little dance. For Earth’s sake, Caleb. Haven’t you been listening? Watch.”

There was a boom in the distance. Caleb looked to where a mountain was, or rather, where it used to be, since it was missing. Han Moret had destroyed it instantly, deleting it from existence.

“With this, all you need is to be in the same room as them and then boom, gone forever in the blink of an eye, with only a thought, without even a fight, without even a flinch. Theoretically, you don’t even need to be in the same room as them. You could be here and destroy them wherever they are in the Solar System with targeted pleron dispersal and sufficient transmission relays. You could do whatever you want wherever you want. But I think the people need to see you, Caleb. They need to see you standing before the Sargons, declaring their wrongs, making things right. They need to hear your words, your plans for the future, and see the awesome power of this stuff, how it will change everything. Because with this, there will be no more war. With this, we become God. We’ll live forever, boyo. We’re free now. What will we do? Ah, so much, so much. There’s so much we can do now! Peace in our time, gods in Empire. A new day in a new age. It’s coming, Caleb. Gods among us because they become us. Are you ready?”

Caleb thought for a moment, then closed his eyes and stood in silence.

After a while, he flashed his hand. And all at once, a burst of wind blew, thunder cracked, and the suns shone brighter—the world shook.

He opened his eyes, “Yes.”

Two and a half thousand years ago, a small trading town existed on a small island off the coast of Valencia, Spain, just a quarter of the way to the Balearic Islands. It was a peaceful and bright society. However, one day, panic was set about when the town's chief scientist, who mostly spent his life in obscurity, made a harrowing statement.

"There are two beasts beneath the earth, at war with each other. Eventually, at the culmination of the war, their movement will reach this town. The turmoil of the two beasts will sink much of the island, except this very town, to the bottom of the sea. However, only the knowledge and wisdom of man will determine whether this town will suffer the same fate."

Indeed, about four hundred years later, the island was sunk beneath the waves. The shallowest parts of the island were, as prophesied, part of the small town, only two meters beneath sea level. The island and its town were mostly forgotten until a team of archeologists, in the 1970s, discovered the anthropogenic-marked sandbar. Most of the remaining material beneath the shallow waters was of little historical value, so society didn't mind when a hotel company bought the land and decided to build a modern hotel resort on top of the sandbank on the turn of the millennium.

Isle Tarshish opened to the public on 7 April, 2005. It was an exclusive but hugely successful attraction, with 50 rooms, an infinity pool, a spa and sauna room, two restaurants, an art gallery, and even a TV station, all surrounding a central waterway going from the west side to the north side. Various walkways and bridges allowed the guests to go from one place to the other. There was even a conference room on a smaller island north of the main hotel island and a more exquisite suite on the west, and beautiful sculptures on the east. But despite its glory, it was not destined to be forever.

On the 13th of May, 2022, geologist Anna Hernandez discovered a previously unknown magma plume directly between Valencia and the Balearic Islands. Formed by the subduction of the African Plate's oceanic crust beneath the Eurasian Plate, it was made of melted, ferrous rock. And it was rising. A danger to Isle Tarshish seemed unlikely—at first. However, a week later, an earthquake of Richter magnitude 2 occurred. Its epicenter was to the west of the previously-detected plume's geometric center—it seemed to have moved towards Isle Tarshish. Three days after that, a slightly stronger earthquake occurred. And it was even closer.

Hernandez realized that Isle Tarshish may become the epicenter of this newborn battle between the forces of the Earth. She believed early warnings were key to survival and the salvation of lives. On the 25th of May, she visited the island with a mission: to meet with Isle Tarshish's General Manager and tell them of the possible geological threat. It was a two-hour boat ride, which made her feel seasick.

"Could you please make this boat rock a little faster?"

"I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do. The waves are like this, and we just have to embrace them."

When she arrived at the resort, she was in shock. It was a sunny day. People were playing around, walking with their families around the buildings, swimming in the sea, or bathing in the heat after some time in a presumably colder country. The infinity pool was on the other side of the direction of arrival. The shock and allure of such a place cured Hernandez's seasickness, but she was concerned about the future of the island. Concerned that one day, as they had fun in the sun, a disaster, one as vicious as a fire-breathing dragon, could come up from beneath and destroy them.

After going on the resort's main pier, she went to the reception. She was guided to the hotel's management office. The general manager was an uptight, estute man named Santiago Galante.

"Hola!"

"Hello. I'm Anna Hernandez."

"So what brings you here today?"

"Well, you see, I'm a geologist..."

Hernandez twitched anxiously as she thought desperately of what she had to say, and how to word it effectively.

"So you're a geologist?"

"Yes, and I have just discovered a possible threat to this island. I have discovered a new magma plume, just fifty kilometers beneath the surface directly between Valencia and Ibiza. It seems to be rising at a rate of two kilometers per day."

"Yeah, and what does that mean?"

"Assuming this rate stays constant, the magma will hit the ocean's surface just before the end of June... causing a volcanic eruption. Which is interesting because the whole region of Spain has never seen a volcanic eruption in years, except the Canary Islands. But again, that's concerning, for obvious reasons."

Again, the room was as silent as a snake, for a second.

"Where will the eruption occur?"

"We don't know... but there have been earthquakes increasing steadily in magnitude... and the epicenters have moved between close to Ibiza... right to where we are."

"Oh."

After a few seconds of silence, Galante spoke his mouth. His secretary, Gaspar de Arroyo, started to chime in.

"You know, yesterday, we had a pastor at the United Pentecostal Church of Spain just leave, but he left us with a blessing."

"Yeah, and what did he say?"

"He said Isle Tarshish will flourish for years to come and even until the Second Coming of Christ."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. He said people would scoff at his claim, but he said that, in the end, even when cities like London and Los Angeles fall, Isle Tarshish will stand ground."

"Scientifically speaking, that's nonsense."

"Remember, this used to be part of an island that was mostly above water, but which has mostly sunk. I am literally providing evidence right before your very eyes that this resort might be right in the firing line of a forming volcano."

"Who are you to question the servant of the Lord?"

"I'm a scientist. I make claims based on things we can observe with our five senses. I have more credibility over some charlatan who's probably out for people's money."

At that moment, de Arroyo spoke.

"You know, my son has seizures, but when we visited that pastor in the past, his seizures disappeared like magic!"

"You know childhood seizures can stop manually?"

"Yeah, basing that from the little you know, miss. Now please quit bothering me and my boss with all this volcano talk."

"I agree with him," Galante said. "I'm sorry to say this, but you've offended us with questioning the pastor who blessed us. We place our trust in him, and not in some scientist who probably doesn't go by faith. So please, enjoy yourselves here, and don't shove your nonsense down other people's throats."

Hernandez left the resort, dismayed. She felt saddened seeing the souls having fun on the resort as she left on the boat. She also felt sickened thinking of them and the possibility of them having heard that megapastor. First he scammed them from their money—and now, worst case scenario, he might take all of their lives.

On the first day of June, the people at Isle Tarshish woke up to a tremor that shook their cups and rocked their pools. An earthquake of magnitude 3.5 on the Richter scale. Hernandez woke up to it too, thanks to an alert. And, as expected, the earthquake's epicenter was even closer to the island.

While searching for TV channels, Hernandez stumbled across it. The pentecostal megapastor about whom Galante had spoke. And, during the few seconds in which he spoke, he mentioned the recent earthquakes off Valencia. He said they would stop. They didn't.

The more the earthquakes occurred, the more Hernandez felt sick listening to him. He looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

By 10 June, the earthquakes were nearly of Richter magnitude 5. Hernandez knew the probability of her worst fears coming true—a volcanic eruption directly at Isle Tarshish—were increasing rapidly as the earthquake depths decreased while their magnitudes increased. Magma was rapidly approaching the surface.

And Isle Tarshish was not safe.

Yet, she heard Galante and de Arroyo telling the guests at their doomed paradise that everything would go fine, all based on the crap talk from some charlatan the month before. Enraged, she sent them an angry voice mail, but they wouldn't listen. Isle Tarshish was not evacuated. However, it was not long before the guests began to rebel. A few days later, there were leaks in their pipes. One of the spa pools had turned yellow with unfamiliar minerals. And cracks had formed on the ground. The conference room had no power. Many of them wanted to leave—but Galante and de Arroyo decided they had enough. Proclaiming the Isle as their "promised land" sheltered from outside demonic activity, they ordered the guests to stay there and those in charge of the boats to not take them back to the mainland.

And then it happened. 22 June, 2022.

All the guests stranded on the island were jolted awake by a 5 magnitude earthquake, at around 7 AM. From her office in Valencia City, Hernandez saw that the earthquake's epicenter was right below the Isle, at a depth of only 50 meters. The endgame had come.

By now, the whole resort was out of power. The guests began to panic. At 8:30, Galante ordered Erasmo Cifuentes, the Isle's chief electrician, to investigate. He, along with another fellow electrician, entered the power management room. Closing the thick door behind him, Cifuentes was aghast when he saw a massive crack on the room's rocky, haggard floor. It was a very large crack, about 10 centimeters wide at most.

"What do you think lies at the bottom?" his friend asked.

"I have no—"

Just then, another tremor occurred. Cifuentes and his friend bolted straight for the heavy door—but it did not bulge. The earthquake had sealed it shut.

A few seconds later, the earthquake ended. However, temperatures in the room began to rise. Scared, Cifuentes went over to massive crack he saw earlier. However, the last thing he saw was what lay on the bottom.

A red, rising, and viciously glowing substance.

It was rising directly towards him.

As it inched closer, he could see hot streaks of yellow on its surface, and hot, smelly, rising bubbles. That's when he realized what it was—and the sinister realization that it was too late.

Lava.

This story… her story is a devastating one. A story of loss chaos and destruction. But that might be my fault. Her story starts off as many do with beginnings and growth but as all stories do there is an end. She just didn't think hers would be so soon. I didn't think hers would be so soon. The second I saw her I knew this was not the end of our story. Through the years, through the pain and sorrow, through the hurt and discomfort, our story was not over. In a world where no one raised us we raised each other. We laughed, cried, and eventually met our end… together. I didn't know this was going to happen. I didn't know I was capable. I didn't know I could have this much power. The power to take lives is one not many feel. A select few feel guilt and remorse. And I did, I swear. But it did not overpower the feeling to do it again. Watching the fire burn, hearing the sizzles and crack of the dry wood. Smelling the smoke and burning chlorophyll of the grass. It was addicting. It did not stop at one life or two. It did not stop at three or four. The roaring orange flames. It was as calming and therapeutic as it was terrifying. It was my best-kept secret. The only thing I ever hid from her. And as I sat on top of that hill, watching the flames engulf the city. Smelling the smoke and chlorophyll, one of the screams sounded too real. I heard her screams for me, I heard her screams for help. I was paralyzed, the one true love the one that made me, me… was gone. The smell of burning flesh was one I was familiar with, but it is different when you know this is the end. When you know it is the last time you will ever watch the burn, ever smell the smoke and burning chlorophyll, ever see her face, ever smell her, ever touch her hair. Devastating. The anguish that usually burned away with the flames was not anymore. I still had the anguish but now, sitting with the anguish was guilt. This time it was not surpassed by the flames. It ate away at me. It was a constant reminder of what I had done. So now as I sit holding my match, I will burn away the anguish again, but this time I won't remember. I heard the scratch of the red phosphorous lighting as I swiped it against the rough sandpaper. It smells awful as well as comforting. As I dropped the match on my leg I felt the sizzle against my skin, I smelt the burning hair of my leg. I didn't even feel it. I just watched as the fire engulfed my body. And with my body the anguish, the guilt, the memories of her.

 (this is filler text to hit the word limit sorry Lol)

The undead numbers have taken a massive hit, which, would be a good thing but, as Jakan took off his helmet after entering the castle courtyard. I see worry in his face, it made me ponder why he is worried. Jakan looked into my eyes, mouth moved with the intent to speak his mind but, stopped and closed it quickly.

'How many did you slay? Jakan.' Lankensy asks happily, contrast between the warrior's perception of the situation is worrying.

'Thirty one, you?' Jakan replies, keeping his worries hidden from Lankensy, my guess is that he is waiting for a more appropriate time to voice his concerns.

'Thirty eight. That was a great battle we have won.' Lankensy says and smiles warmly.

'What is the state of the battalion you lead?' Jakan asks calmly, slowly warming up to the atmosphere that surrounds us. I am certain that he still is worried about something.

'Out of the four hunded fifty, two hundred seventy eight wounded, of which eighty seven are more major wounds and require lengthy recovery time.' Lankensy states thinking about it.

Jakan looked at me and his expression is mildly horrified, he quickly regains his composure and looks back to Lankensy. 'Sir Lankensy, I wish for a meeting to take place before darkness in the same courtyard has yesterday.' Jakan replies in calm tone.

Lankensy looked at Jakan with confusion clearly shining from his eyes, two warrior's stare into each others eyes. Lankensy's confusion turned into mild worry. 'Yes, we shall.' He says to Jakan, and they both shake hands. He whispered something to Jakan quickly but, I didn't hear it myself.

Jakan became mildly relieved and nodded to Lankensy, maybe in agreement of something. We returned to our tents in one of the many courtyards in this castle. 'Time for me to explain.' Jakan says to me, expecting correctly that I have intention on asking him of what just happened.

'With such high losses, the enemy is more than surely going to change tactics. With a victory like this... It is more than perfect moment for commence subterfuge of some kind... This still is a victory but, I fear that we might have escalated this conflict...

Worst is, these are no feral or dark arcane maddened undead, we already know that this is more organized conflict. I believe you are familiar with a paragraph, our enemies most likely have asked from each other.' Jakan says with shadow dragon language, for those not dragons themselves.

'There must be, a better way...' Reply in same language, and realize the worst case scenarios. The town is still primed for recruiting followers from inside of it. Jakan nods to me and looks mildly content that I am now understanding him.

'I still need to ask for how many have wounded but, I suspect they are greater than what Tyrelia told us, there is always more casualties than first reports say there is. Severity and numbers are what I am most concerned of. Past me really would consider present me, completely mad...' Jakan says and reflects on his past quickly.

'What about you? Are you okay?' Ask from him, mildly amused of the expression which flashed on Jakan's face in the moment of reflection into what used to be.

Jakan looked at himself, felt around his body and looked at his armor. 'I am fine, some mean bruises from attacks armor protected me from but, nothing I haven't experienced before.' Jakan replies in his more usual tone, thinks a moment, this prompted me to pull out our logbooks from our tents.

'Thank you Volarie.' He says to me, receiving his own logbook from me and we commence writing on our logbooks, even some of our personal thoughts on the situation. Thinking back to the moment of victory and after having a sobering conversation with Jakan, about our situation. The contrast is mildly dizzying.

'I can see you are almost completely unscathed from the battle. I am going to guess, the tally you accumulated only counts for the actual joining of battle, and most of them from the counter attack.' Jakan says, which prompted me to think back on the battle.

How unfazed I was with the situation, I started to think of myself crazy for doing something like that. 'Yes. What was the what you did with Lankensy about, before the operation?' Reply, pulling myself back together and, promising to myself that, never again, preferably.

We stopped writing into our logbooks. 'Oh, that, just a warrior's punt... I owe him a drink.' Jakan says, only now realizing, that he lost against Lankensy on the bet. Mildly embarrassed but, also glad that it isn't anything worse than that.

Smiling warmly to Jakan and blink slowly to him. 'I have a feeling that it isn't a drink he is interested on, from you.' Say with smug smile on my lips.

Jakan is sorting his considerations and, seems to have arrived to a conclusion of what I am meaning. 'Great... Well, might as well ready myself to receive a hearty kick in the rear from him... No shame in loosing to a better.' Jakan replies, not too eager to face Lankensy in a mock duel.

'Correct.' Say to him with a warm smile. Jakan looked mildly annoyed, I suspect, that he would have preferred to take it easy tomorrow and spend more time on preparing for what he suspect is to follow but, he started to rub his knuckles and looked calm again. That is the Jakan I prefer.

We have a good chance to get to know the heroes of the riven war better tomorrow. Valerians will receive reinforcements and a convoy will arrive, ready to be escorted to the town, it should lessen the risk of betrayal in the town but, tough to not be concerned. It is Lankensy's home town... He would not respond well to something ill befalling to it.

'I think, I do look forward to the tomorrow. Although, and I am quite sure that, even you are concerned.' Jakan says with content tone.

'I am, area control wise, I am guessing we are in a lot better position now.' Reply to him calmly.

'We are, well, armed forces of Valerie are... We should soon receive a letter from our lords. Hopefully, nothing new, or something about why you were almost assassinated.' Jakan says in mildly content tone. He wants to motivate me, to keep doing my best here. I do feel slightly more motivated to continue doing my best.

'Pretty sure, that was your second time of battling without me, considering how you came out from it, I believe. You should try to work more autonomously, don't worry. I will advice with best of my ability.' Jakan adds, he knows me well. I nod to him deeply and we embrace each other lightly for a moment.

'Hopefully, no more large battles for me. Would like to get back to being an agent. These conflicts are your area of strength.' Say warmly to him. I thought back to the lessons about the shadow dragon organization history, how different it is from, back then, and how it is now.

'They most surely are, I am not that good with infiltration as you are but, it would be difficult to call me clumsy about stealth.' Jakan replies, reading his face, seems to be thinking about tomorrow. Resting a little bit longer, it is almost night, when the next meeting commenced.

Present are all of the castle commanders and heroes of the Riven War. 'I believe we may begin the meeting.' Kyrem says in slightly serious tone, getting attention of everybody currently present.

'Yes, how did your battle go? Castle commanders.' Lankensy replies interested to hear the answer.

'Cavalry and cavalry archer forces did their part amazingly, the undead inflicted small casualties to our battalions, rate is about five of thirty, from what I heard, your battalion took on force of three to one.' Salgi replies happily.

'Yes, seven out of ten are wounded. Thankfully, we destroyed their formations to the last. I sense that you are not too merry of this situation Jakan.' Lankensy states but, ponders what Jakan is so grim about.

'I fear we may have escalated this conflict, these type of losses force enemy command to look for other options.' Jakan replies thinking of the possibilities.

'Prudent of you, agent. I wonder why you did not become a general or a captain in Ghaudun.' Tynzio states with respect.

'All high military ranking positions are also political influence positions. That is why I am not there. I love battle, it is my lords, that taught me to diversify skill set and, how to be an agent, while also having warrior's heart.' Jakan replies setting aside his worries for a moment.

'Well stated. What should we expect then?' Tynzio says calmly. I look at Lankensy, a smirk came to his lips. I am correct on the assumption, that he very much would like to mock duel with Jakan, with a quick glance to Jakan, he seems to have verified my assumption himself too.

'That is something I am not all too sure of. While we might have confirmed that our opponent has some idea of military movement and deployment... I do not know how sophisticated or inventive they are on using dark arcane. I mostly faced undead myself, with few cases of dark arcane maddened individuals.' Jakan replies, taking a pause to see how others react.

'Then, it will be our scouts that will be our eyes and ears of what are our enemy planning.' Salgi says calmly but, having some seriousness in his voice, probably understanding the scope of Jakan's statement.

'I expect you to continue doing your best Volarie, although, both of us should begin to target their critical personnel. About time we get to do what we were primarily trained for.' Jakan says.

'I agree, Jakan.' Reply to Jakan warmly.

'Considering such aim, do you think it is better for our scouts to focus on the war itself and keep gathering enemy movements?' Salgi asks.

'Have few scouts look for anything that could be high value targets. Inform me, and I will take the information forward to Jakan and Volarie.' Kyrem replies.

'Understood sir.' Salgi says acknowledging the order. The meeting continued with discussion of what the army should do in future, where to establish new outposts and supply situation.

Then we all went to go get some sleep. 'You are very correct on the assumption of Lankensy desiring to combat me in a mock duel, I feel nostalgic almost, more from the warrior side of me, of course.' Jakan says as we walk.

'Well, tomorrow we also will have chances to get more better acquainted. Something that both sides have been needing here.' Reply, Jakan hummed in an agreeing manner. We quickly embrace each other and go get some sleep.

Next morning, I woke up feeling normal. Once I exited tent and looked around, it is telling that Valerian soldiers have realized their casualties, this is a quiet and soul moment. I prepare everything for both of us, as I open a ration pack for both of us, remembered that this is the day when a supply caravan should arrive and reinforcements, mages of Valerie...

Heard shuffling of movement in Jakan's tent, he has awakened now. As he exited the tent, he looked around. 'Good morning Volarie.' He says calmly.

'Good morning Jakan. The Valerians will receive reinforcements today.' Reply to him.

'Yes, it should improve the morale among the Valerian soldiers. Hopefully they won't be too weird. We should talk with Seirialia about them, to have some kind of idea what kind of people we will need to work with.' Jakan states, thinking about what is happening today.

'Agreed, thankfully I can go quite unnoticed but, quite sure you will be hissing louder than a kettle when you just want a moment of peace from all the questions.' Reply to him.

'I, so, look forward to that...' Jakan says mildly irritated by the idea of it, while I keep my amusement hidden. We eat our rations and drink water. When we were done, we walk to the eastern gate, guessing that heroes of the Riven war would be there to receive the supply caravan and the mages.

They arrived there as we did, I see the light in Lankensy's eyes as the five approach us, he is carrying two wooden two handed swords. Jakan just looked at his to be opponent in a mock duel. 'So, I believe I owe you a drink, right?' Jakan asks in tone invoking camaraderie.

'Not exactly but, something better.' Lankensy says as approaches Jakan face to face and gives him a wooden sword.

'Know that it is a honor to face you, sir.' Jakan replies as he receives the mock blade from Lankensy.

'There will be no honor here, just two souls, whose passion, is battle.' Lankensy says joyously, as they both take distance from everybody in the courtyard and take positions at the middle of this open space. Some of the soldiers have stopped what they are doing.

First blade contact happened a lot faster than I expected, which seems to have taken Jakan by surprise but, he presses his defense forward to stabilize the situation. Lankensy is happy with this, I saw Jakan smile as they orbit each other as their blades have contact.

It takes longer than all of us expected but, Lankensy finally scores technical skill hit on Jakan, the blow looked like it would hurt but, Jakan didn't even budge, they both took distance from each other and prepare for the next round. From what I see of Jakan's posture, I think he is thinking about change of battle form.

He then nodded to Lankensy, that he is ready. They approach each other again and take their stances, second round, began. This time after blocking first two strikes from Lankensy, Jakan changed his posture, standing straight, grip of the blade only on right hand and left arm set wide.

Lankensy saw the change of posture as he attacks again, Jakan quickly parries it and grabs Lankensy's weapon hand, while his blade moved quickly to Lankensy's right arm pit. Point scored by Jakan this time. They separate and measure each other.

It's a tie currently, Lankensy is smiling widely and rubs his chin quickly, this most certainly has to have come as something very unexpected from Jakan, to have learned a little bit more sophisticated and elegant fighting style. Jakan is pondering his next move.

Usually clashes like this are best out of three, I believe in Jakan, but, for a moment, realized something about his blade movement and foot work there, it was way too instinctual, he is still learning it. It is very clear that he has good understanding of how to do it but, he needs more experience on employing more duelist type of fighting.

They nod to each other and approach. Third round, Lankensy approaches with a little bit more caution, I see that he is measuring Jakan's posture and size of him. Jakan extends his arm fully forward, blade at the center, waiting for Lankensy to attack.

He does attack and from what I can see, he tries to not win Jakan with skill, instead, using his strength a lot more, this caught Jakan by surprise, he responds by not receiving the attacks on his blade, instead of that he pivots and uses dexterity. Lankensy keeps staying on the offensive but, has difficulties on finding an opening.

Finally Lankensy makes an opening by hitting Jakan's blade off center and reaches Jakan's gut just as Jakan's own blade was almost in position to hit Lankensy's throat. Lankensy won the duel but, while he is happy of his victory.

'I have to say, employing that type of fighting was completely unexpected and, you have some knack for it too. That round could have gone for either of us, good fight sir.' Lankensy says, being respectful and excited of the duel.

'Yes, I still need more experience but, I am glad we had this duel, makes this old draconian feel a little bit younger again.' Jakan replies respecting Lankensy.

'Now that was something to behold Jakan, many of your kind tend to employ more strength oriented fighting styles. I am looking forward to have a sparring match with you one day.' Tyrelia says warmly. Jakan seems to have mixed feelings but, eventually turns slightly serious.

'Any time, lady Tyrelia.' Jakan replies calmly as receives the mock blade from Lankensy and gives them to a soldier who was watching the fight who nodded in respectful manner to him, Jakan nodded back respectfully, he then returns next to me.

The gate started opening and the supply caravan and carriages carrying the mages begin entering the courtyard. So much for talking with Seirialia about them. There is some teachers among them and they begin coordinating the students of varying age to disembark the carriages.

Some of the students are looking at both of us with interest, prejudice and confusion. Then I notice one of them staring at Jakan more particularly, she seems to be a human... Jakan is looking what is happening and then looks into the mage's eyes.

Lankensy is greeting the mages along with Kyrem, Tyrelia, Trenon and Seirialia. 'Lankensy, why are there Ghaudunians here?' The young lady asks, Jakan let out an audible, huh. As I look at him, it seems that he recognizes the voice and the face of the lady.

'I can explain.' Both Lankensy and Jakan reply quickly as possible. While I am still confused on what is going on. Jakan looked into my eyes. Lankensy is also a little confused how both of he and Jakan said the same thing at the same time.

'Volarie, she is a member of Valerie's royal family...' Jakan says terribly worried of the situation. We bow deeply and keep our heads down.

'Princess Jiakyn, they are here to help us with the undead crisis we have here. They are agents of shadow dragons.' Lankensy says with very respectful tone.

'We believed that you heroes would have been able to handle this completely without any help. Why are they helping us?' Princess Jiakyn asks with pressuring tone and wanting answers.

'This, unfortunately is our first time of fighting undead and, my home town is danger. So, we went to talk with their lords to draft a friendship treaty, they agreed to place agent Jakan and Volarie under our command.' Lankensy explains and we stand straight again.

'Is this so, speak agents.' Princess Jiakyn states straightly, she sounds slightly smug of the situation.

'It is so, your highness. I have extensive knowledge and experience of fighting the undead, so, my lords sent me.' Jakan replies cueing me to speak next with his words.

'It as sir Lankensy stated, your highness. I might be young and new to the organization but, I am good at scouting and if required, infiltrate enemy controlled areas, which is why my lords sent me.' Say feeling slightly nervous of the situation.

'We are to assist, guide, fight and protect, the heroes of the Riven war.' We state same time and wait how she will respond.

'Why wasn't I told?' Princess Jiakyn asks accusatively from Lankensy, who is having difficulty to formulate a response.

'My apologies for interjecting, your highness. We requested our involvement to be kept secret from general populace and individuals of political influence, due to the political situation of both nations. Accept our apology for acting how we saw best for all involved.' Say calmly, with some regret and apologetically. I heard Jakan breath in stressed manner but, relaxed slightly when I had spoken.

Princess seems to be slightly taken aback by our response to her question, she is somewhat shrewd of the situation. She gave away her response before she spoke it. 'I understand agents of the shadowy ones. You have conducted yourselves logically within our kingdom.' Princess Jiakyn says in a more fair and friendly tone.

'My apologies princess but, I believe you were ordered to strictly stay at the academy grounds. I am quite sure that the king and queen are quite against of you being here.' Seirialia says calmly. That invoked some alarm on the princess.

'May we speak in private heroes, agents?' Princess Jiakyn replies quickly composing herself, retaining her confident tone but, clearly there is a small crack in that voice that hints, that, yes. She shouldn't be here.