Jorin, an unnoticeable and featureless man, drove through a city with his son Kian, just like any other day. To his dismay, they drove past Mr. Duck.

Mr. Duck was discovered several years ago. Looking much like a duck, but having grown to the size of the average man, scientists were fascinated by the anomaly. His body did not protrude from front to back quite as much as other ducks. He stood a bit more erect, almost resembling a human.

"Hey, Mr. Duck!"

Mr. Duck began throwing up a strange substance, viscous as water, but opaque and multi-colored. The colors were bright and never fully mixed, like tye dye.

“I think Mr. Duck is sick.” said Kian.

“Well,” Jorin replied, “Mr. Duck spends his time processing the negative energy in the world. This energy is processed in Mr. Duck’s internal organs. Usually, he’s able to filter it out with the normal bodily functions of a duck. But, there’s been so much more negative energy than usual over the past few years. Eventually, Mr. Duck couldn’t process it all normally. His body began to find a new way to process it, turning the negative energy into the liquid you see coming out of his mouth.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.”

“I don’t think it is. But Mr. Duck has no other way to deal with the excess negative energies. Without expelling it through his mouth, Mr. Duck will get really sick.”

Mr. Duck continues to vomit, and the two Characters continue on with their day. Jorin takes Kian to school, letting him out. Kian looks back at Jorin, uneasy.

“I don’t really feel safe at school,” Kian says.

“Why not?” Jorin asks.

“Because when I’m at school, I don’t have you.”

Ever so subtly, a feeling of heat began to creep into Jorin’s mind. The heat turned to discomfort, and he started to see the situation at hand differently than he had in years. It only took a few moments for him to remember this feeling. Fear, he thought. I remember. This is what fear feels like.

“You have the teachers,” Jorin eventually mustered. “They’ll take care of you.”

Kian looks back at the school. “If things got really bad, they wouldn’t take care of me the way you do. And if things were really bad, wouldn’t I need someone to take care of me the way you do?”

Jorin was paralyzed. Not only did he know that Kian’s words were true, but he realized that the only reason Kian would even be hesitant was if he, too, was feeling fear. For Kian, this would be an entirely new experience as he was born after Mr. Duck began processing.

Jorin, too, did not like leaving Kian, for the exact reason Kian had described. But he had ignored this fear, shoving it down in order to continue their daily routine. When a child’s words challenge your paradigm, they earn an extra moment of respect. For any time a children’s reality can cross the bridge to an adult’s, there must be a consideration that the statement carries more meaning than others.

“You’re right,” Jorin said. “Today, you’re going to stick with me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, come on. Let’s go.”

Kian closed the car door and the two of them drove away from the school. “You never let me skip school. Is something wrong?”

“Lots of things are wrong,” Jorin replied. “We’ve been trying to pretend they’re not, but they are.”

Jorin took a turn. But, as soon as the turn was made, a massive wave of a thick liquid began to sweep along the road in front of them.

“Look!” Kian pointed.

Silently, Jorin thanked himself. A sense of relief overtook any fear that might have arisen; he had likely saved Kian’s life moments ago by choosing to keep an eye on him.

The wave crashed into their car. Once surrounded, the car bagan to lift with the wave. It was floating along, only submerged up to the top of the tires. The liquid was reaching as far as their eyes could see, and the car began to rise. Soon, they were almost as high as the roofs of some of the tallest buildings in the city.

The tide came in strong, carrying their vehicle above the buildings, and bringing them down right back on top of one, with just enough force to roll the car to within a few feet of the edge of the roof.

“Do you think this was Mr. Duck?” asked Kian.

“I do think it was Mr. Duck, little one.” Jorin looked through the rear window, not for any particular reason other than to gain his bearings. “Do me a favor, open the glove compartment.””

Kian obeyed.

“There’s a small jewelry box in there. Please hand it to me.”

Kian saw a velvet, maroon colored little box shoved to the side. He handed it to Jorin, who opened the box. Inside was a sphere a bit larger and much whiter than your average pearl. He grabbed the ball, holding it ever so lightly between his index finger and thumb.

A moment later, it began to float an inch or two above his hand. It vanished into dust. From the tip of Jorin’s index finger sprouted four metal plates. These folded backward to cover the finger, sprouting more plates in front of them. The metal plates quickly consumed his hand, then his arm. In no time, his entire body was covered in a pliable metal. His eyes no longer human, but formed from concentric circles of lights in different shades of red and black.

As they spent time on the roof, other families got trapped on roofs with them. Some were carried up by waves. Others swam along the ocean of liquid, crawling onto the roofs however they could in order to rest.

As Kian looked toward the moon, a bit of fear creeped inside him: something he had not felt in a long time. As the light entered his eyes, he felt his emotions beginning to move. Like the waves surrounding him, his feelings swayed from side to side. And at that moment, he wondered:

“Maybe Mr. Duck wasn't meant to process all that energy.”

Jorin looked over at CC. The child was right, of course Mr. Duck wasn't meant to do that. It was never meant to become what it had. At first, people simply found themselves amazed that Mr. Duck was able to process anything at all. What turned into a reserve for emergencies became the norm. Suddenly, nobody wanted to process their negative emotions. Why would they when the duck could do it for them? Let alone whether the duck itself had any feelings to process.

Kian, with fresh eyes on the subject, could see this clearly in the face of disaster. Jorin had gotten too used to this way of life. He had been going with the rest of society, leaning on the convenience that the modern way of doing things leaned on. People could get so much more done without having to spend the extra time and energy processing their own emotions.

After a day, people on the roofs began to panic. How were they to survive without food or water? They thought of breaking into the buildings they stood on. However, the buildings had flooded, and nobody would last long enough under the liquid to find water. Even if they had had goggles, you couldn't see through it.

As another day passed, some became desperate, wondering If they should try drinking the colored liquid that surrounded them. After all, maybe there was some water in it. Perhaps enough to survive. A father of one family volunteered to test it: he wouldn't let anybody else in his family go first. All the nearby families watched intently as he took a sip.

“What does it taste like?” one bystander asked.

The father needed a moment to contemplate the flavor. “It tastes… kind of sour. But it doesn't taste harmful. Not that that means much…”

The father waited for his body to react. A few minutes passed. For a brief moment, he began to get anxious. Then, the sadness of their predicament began to hit him a bit harder. His mouth quivered, his wife asked what was wrong. He lamented that he worried he wouldn't be able to save his family from the flood. He also expressed his fears regarding his own safety, and his embarrassment from having that fear.

“I don't understand where these are all coming from,” he expressed.

“It's okay, dear,” his wife put her arms on his shoulders, realizing it may provide him comfort. “How are you feeling physically?”

“Fine, I guess. I don't really notice anything.”

That, he began to realize, was likely a good thing. Before he knew it, an hour had passed. The fear he had previously felt was beginning to dissipate. He was up and walking, talking optimistically to his family about ways they might be saved.

Kian had been watching the entire time.

“The liquid didn't hurt him.”

“It certainly doesn't seem like it,” said Jorin.

Kian looked down at the liquid. He cupped his hands and scooped up some of the liquid, watching as most of it dripped back into the ocean. He looked at it as though an up close inspection would help him figure out whether it was toxic. Despite realizing the flaw in this logic, holding it in his hands helped him take the leap. He poured the liquid into his mouth. Then he scooped up more and dumped it in his mouth again. And again. Then Jorin noticed.

“What are you doing??”

Jorin rushed over to stop Kian. But, by then, he had drank so much that he almost began to feel full.

“Why would you do that?” Jorin scolded. “You don't know what it does!”

“I think I might,” Kian was unfazed.

Jorin wanted to cry. Why? The last time he had felt like crying was before Kian was born. He stepped away to take a deep breath and calm himself.

A few hours passed, and like the Father from the other family, Kian’s anxiety shot up. But unlike the father’s, this was so much worse. He began to panic.

Jorin noticed Kian’s demeanor changing. His breathing became much more shallow and rapid. His skin became pale. His eyes widened.

“What is it?” Jorin asked.

“What if I made a huge mistake?” Kian said.

“Well, we don't have any reason to believe that at this point.”

“I just feel like a bad kid.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes I do things even though you tell me not to.”

“It's okay. That's not important right now. Whats important is that you stay healthy.”

A tear ran down Kian's face. Several tears followed.

“It's okay. Come here.” Jorin embraced Kian.

After a few moments of tears, Kian quieted down. He felt heavy.

“Everything okay?” Jorin asked.

“I don't feel so good.” Kian could barely get the words out. Burps interrupted every other syllable.

“What's wrong?”

Kian only groaned in response. Jorin remained concerned, but there wasn't much to do. They had no food and no medicine. They simply had their car, the roof, and a vast ocean of colorful liquid.

Kian groaned through the night, but was able to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, the pain was gone. He stood up and stretched. He could feel a bit more energy than usual coursing through his body. The sun shined a bit extra bright today.

Jorin, still nervous about the health of the child as well as their general situation, was easily awoken by Kian’s movement.

“How are you feeling?” Jorin asked.

“I feel good,” Kian responded.

He didn't just feel his symptoms fading.

“I don't feel thirsty.”

“What?” Jorin asked.

“I feel good. Not thirsty. Not hungry. Not even scared.” Kian looked calmly at Jorin. “I think we need to drink the liquid.”

Jorin looked at Kian in disbelief. But he had a point. The child looked in better shape than anybody else on the roofs.

Jorin leaned over and started drinking. He drank until he felt like he was about to vomit. Kian joined him. The other families on the roofs watched in anticipation. The Father in the one family had also not had any adverse reactions even after almost 24 hours. It began to click with the rest of them that the liquid was likely safe. They began to join in the drinking.

While those who drank heavily found themselves wading through a panicky, nauseous day, those who took the slow approach simply were met with a bit of anxiety. Everybody interacted, trying to comfort one another but often exacerbating each other's anxieties when expressing them together. However, slowly over the next day, they began to feel safer and calmer. The anxieties settled and became an emotional foundation. Their fears had not come to pass, and by surviving them, they had learned their fears to be harmless on their own.

Once the anxieties were gone, other new sensations began to fill the people on the roofs. Joy, excitement, wonder. Jorin had forgotten all of these. He wondered if Kian had even ever experienced them, having been born into a world with Mr. Duck.

“See?” Said Kian. “We can drink the liquid. We can drink all of it, and then we won't be trapped anymore.”

Jorin realized that they hadn't only been trapped physically. Before the flood, they had been trapped emotionally. By forcing Mr. Duck to process all their negative emotions, they hadn't only put their land in danger; they had deprived themselves of one of the most wonderful parts of the human experience: a full range of emotions.

“This is what we should have been doing the whole time!” Jorin shouted.

“Huh?” people around were confused.

“Drinking the liquid!”

“How were we supposed to know it would sustain us?” Somebody asked.

“No, not just now. Before the flood. Don't you get it? These are our negative emotions. We forced Mr. Duck to deal with them. He couldn't. He's not meant to. We are supposed to deal with these on our own. When we don't process our emotions, we don't get the benefits of that processing. We don't learn how to build emotional strength. We don't experience the rewards of the positive emotions. We become flat because we aren't allowing the full flow that our souls need to flourish.”

As the others let this sink in, they started chugging the liquid. As days went by, the liquid was consumed by everybody on the roofs. As they got it low enough to crawl into the buildings, they entered the top stories. They drank and drank, which took months, but as they began to feel, they began to connect with one another as well, chatting, laughing, loving and crying during their time stuck in those buildings. Their feelings created curiosity, and they explored the buildings as well. Their creativity increased and they began to make art in the buildings.

Eventually, they got the liquid down far enough that they could begin to wade. They could travel well enough to start trying to rebuild. They wanted for little, being able to sustain on the liquid for the time being. As they got close to the ground, making plans for their future society, they saw Mr. Duck floating along the water, living as a regular duck would. No longer did he seem dead in the eyes; the dead look had subtly changed to a look of calm. The people, now content with processing their own emotions, allowed Mr. Duck to pass through unbothered. Kian felt a vicarious sense of relief as Mr. Duck lived as though all ducks should, wading and swimming without a human care in the world.

Morning hung soft and golden over the small grocery store parking lot, its light pooling in lazy, rippling waves on windshields and asphalt. Marcus Blackwell balanced his life precariously between his hands: a sack of apples, a carton of milk, a loaf of bread—all simple tokens of the quiet existence he had carved for himself.

The world around him buzzed in its mundane cadence. Tires sighed as they slid over the pavement, carts squeaked and rattled in uneven rhythms, and somewhere a car alarm yelped half-heartedly before falling silent. Across the lot, a neighbor waved—a fleeting, inconsequential gesture Marcus answered with a distracted nod. His thoughts drifted, already painting the evening ahead: Sarah’s gentle laugh as they shared stories over dinner, the twins’ endless bickering over the smallest of chores.

His keys slipped from his pocket, glinting like a fleeting star as they fell. He stooped to retrieve them, the milk shifting dangerously in its plastic cage. That was when the sound came—low, guttural, insistent.

The roar of an engine rose behind him, a sudden and terrible crescendo. The world seemed to lurch as if pulled from its axis. He turned, too slow, too human, just in time to see the front grill of a truck rushing toward him, a hulking beast of metal and motion. There was no time to scream, no time to think—only impact, and then nothing.

The nothingness was vast.

It was not darkness, not truly, but the absence of all things. A void so complete it swallowed sensation itself. Marcus floated—or perhaps he did not—and the edges of his being felt as though they were unraveling, threads of himself spinning into the great, yawning abyss.

Then came the light.

It was not a sun, not a star, not a flame, but a presence—a being that was light and yet more than light, radiance without source or boundary. It did not approach; it simply was, filling the void, filling Marcus, as if it had always been there, waiting in the shadows of eternity.

“You have died.”

The voice did not speak but reverberated, an echo that resonated within the very core of him, stirring memories he did not know he carried.

Marcus tried to form words, but his tongue—if he had a tongue—would not move.

“You are surprised,” the voice continued, a hint of something ancient and weary in its tone. “They all are. Every time.”

“What… what is this?” The words fell from him like brittle leaves, fragile and trembling.

“This is the place between,” the being said, its form shifting subtly, as though trying on shapes the way a man might don a coat. One moment it seemed to have a face, worn and wise, and the next it was a cascade of shifting light, neither male nor female, but something other entirely. “Here, you pause. Here, you are reminded.”

“Reminded?” Marcus echoed, his voice small, childlike. “Reminded of what?”

“Of what you are.”

A ripple passed through the void, a whisper of something vast and ungraspable. Marcus felt it tugging at him, pulling memories from him like threads from a fraying tapestry. Images of his life—his wife, his children, the laugh of his father, the warmth of a childhood dog—slipped through his fingers, dissolving into the void.

“No,” he gasped, clutching at the memories. “No, stop!”

“You are not Marcus Blackwell,” the being said, its tone neither cruel nor kind but infinite in its certainty. “You are more.”

“What are you talking about?” Marcus cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “I don’t understand!”

“You are us,” the being said simply. “And we are you. You are a fragment of something greater, scattered across the tapestry of existence. To become whole, you must live. You must bloom.”

It stepped closer—or perhaps it grew larger, or Marcus smaller. Its light surrounded him, warm and unyielding, and with it came understanding.

“You have lived a thousand lives, and you will live a thousand more,” it said. “Each life a petal in the endless bloom of what you are. The farmer who sowed the first seed. The king who burned a city to the ground. The child who died before he spoke his first word. The mother who sang to him. You have been them all. You will be them all.”

The weight of it crushed him. He sank, though there was no ground to sink to, his form folding into itself as the enormity of the truth pressed upon him. “Sarah… the kids…” he whispered. “Were they… were they me?”

“All of them,” the being said. “Every face you have loved, every hand you have held, every soul you have saved and destroyed. They are all you, and you are them. The murderer and the murdered. The betrayer and the betrayed. Every joy, every sorrow, every triumph and failure.”

Marcus’s mind fractured under the weight of it. He clutched at the edges of his being, desperate to hold on to something, anything. “I don’t want this,” he whispered. “I just want my life back.”

“You will have another,” the being said, its light dimming slightly, softening. “You always do. But you will not remember this. We do not allow children to carry the burden of their eternity.”

The void began to shift, the light receding. Marcus felt himself unraveling, his memories slipping away like grains of sand in an endless tide.

“Wait!” he cried. “Where am I going?”

“To live,” the being said, its voice fading like the final note of a song. “You will be born again, a peasant in southern China. Another thread in the tapestry. Another petal in the bloom.”

The void dissolved, and with it, Marcus. He did not feel the moment he ceased to be, nor the moment he became again. The cries of a newborn filled the air of a small, dim room, and the bloom continued to unfold.

2 - A Record of Events at Station 4 The clock struck noon - The distress signal from Station 4 ceased and the clean up crew arrived to assess the damage at the station. Millions of dollars of equipment - both mining and military - had been damaged in combat, and at least a hundred employees were scattered about, their bodies hacked up and strewn around the station. The lead crewmember, Isaac, removed a severed arm from a control panel and began to transfer security camera footage to a usb stick. The footage showed the door to the station becoming breached, letting in dust and arid gusts of wind into the entrance chamber. About 15 heavily clad infantry stormed the room, adorned in insignias from the Agid Corporation, whose nearest outpost was around 30 miles away. Isaac jotted down the details of the breach on the appropriate paperwork.

The clock struck one - After some examination, it was determined by the crew that some of the bodies had been butchered in ways which indicated that they had been cannibalized; bite marks and dried spit gave this away, but it was not an uncommon practice among the footsoldiers of the Agid corporation. Bodies were identified by Isaac and an assistant, Vesper, and written down to be reported back to the families of the deceased. The deaths were to be described as “work-related incidents,” and the bodies would be cremated as soon as a furnace was readily available, with images of the bodies being stored in a secure server which few had access to. The crew began to assemble what they could salvage of the bodies into bags and pile them up against the door of the station.

The clock struck two - Venturing into the deepest area of the station, where employees’ quarters were located and a small armory was established to accompany them, the crew noted the nature of the attack: employees had been completely unprepared to deal with the Agid infantry, and it seemed as though none were successful in overpowering even one of their attackers. That is, it initially seemed as such until Isaac entered the armory and found one Agid soldier fallen to the floor alongside an employee who had almost successfully defended himself, and had presumably holed himself up in this room without allowing others to enter until he met his demise. The Agid Corporation footsoldier was sat up against a locker with his mouth torn in half, as if a blade had gone clean through his open mouth, dividing his cheeks as it severed flesh. It appeared that the employee had managed to pin the soldier against the wall and execute him, but had sustained fatal wounds, which was why he was now lying on his stomach at the base of the door in a puddle of blood and stool. Armory equipment like longswords, flails, and morning stars were collected and brought to the vehicle parked outside that the crew had arrived in, and the gathered inventory was taken stock of. Isaac ordered the crew to begin cleaning Station 4, and mops were procured. There were too many buckets of bloody water to count as the crew began sanitizing the facility.

The clock struck three - Vesper reentered the armory to find that the footsoldier’s body was notably absent, though a pool of blood remained in his place. He turned around and found that he was face to face with the soldier, whose blood poured from his face to the floor. Before Vesper could make a sound, a serrated dagger was jabbed through his throat, and the soldier began hastily removing Vesper’s clothing to gorge upon his flesh.

My name is Joseph, and I'm a private investigator with x-ray vision. I take on many cases that quickly get solved, but even the most skilled PI's have their tough mysteries to solve. This is the story of one of those mysteries that came across my desk.

Recently, I was eating my lunch leisurely when my boss walked into my office and sat a thick stack of papers on my desk. It was a report from a family (John and Julie Smith) who claimed that they owned a private jet, and a group of individuals took it. There was nothing they could do about it because on paper, the jet was repossessed. On the surface, it seemed as if the family wasn't keeping up with maintenance for the jet. However, what I uncovered revealed that there was more behind the scenes happening, and the story got confusing before I solved the case.

I was hired by John and Julie because they received a letter of termination from the jet company. The company had sent the letter in response to a note from Julie. Her note said, "Since you legally highjacked my jet, I'm going to ensure that you lose all your money!" Clearly, the company didn't want to have contact from her anymore. However, that wasn't the full picture. Meet the Johnson family.

For background, the Johnson family worked for the jet company for many years. When the Smith family attended frequent air shows and lectures about flying at the company's facility, they grew close to the Johnson family. In fact, John had already known Mr. Johnson when they had private flying lessons together. John got so much value from the classes that he became a billionaire in no time and bought the jet that was repossessed. The Johnson family became jealous because the Smiths surpassed them in wealth. The jet company was loyal to the Johnsons, so the Johnsons used them to get the jet of their dreams. If they couldn't steal it outright, they'd use technicalities to do their deeds. If things weren't crazy and confusing enough already, it wasn't long before John himself became a villain.

A couple of days after the case was opened, Julie called to inform me that John had disappeared. John then contacted my partners to say that Julie truly wanted to burn the jet company financially. Julie denied ever threatening to sue the company in any way, but more and more people were speaking to the contrary. When John was brought in for questioning about his wife's actions toward the company, I listened in and noticed that although he wasn't, he sounded like he was reading from a script. It almost seemed as if he was repeating a line from a TV show or from another person who recorded different phrases and put them on repeat in his ear. The interviewing investigator stepped away for a break, and I approached him. "I think he's being coached," I said quietly. "He just sounds too... well... robotic." I then looked down at John and noticed that he had a weird device attached to his waistline. That device becomes important later when the case is solved. I didn't know it, but we were all subjected to the potential destruction from that one device.

I sat down and started questioning John myself. "Where do you stay right now?" I asked. "It's top secret," he responded. "My wife said that she would take my money too, and I have a treasure chest at my new house full of gold." I left the room for a moment. When I came back, John had turned into a statue. I did further investigating. Then, all the pieces of the puzzle came together. This is what happened. Spoiler: Julie didn't write the note.

Early this year, John and Julie were living their lives as they tried to get their private jet back. They were looking forward to a future together flying around the world, especially since they had healing to do from past rough patches in their marriage. They were at odds with the company and the Johnson family, so they weren't talking to them. Out of the blue, John got a letter in the mail from the jet company saying that his wife had threatened to financially destroy them. He knew better than to believe them because of their corrupt history. Things just got more twisted from there.

One of his old friends was in cahoots with the jet company and the Johnsons. The friend's name was Bob. Bob messaged him on telegram and told him to strictly use cellular data hotspot on a secondary device. in private. At the same time over regular text, John and Bob used  certain conversations that were future-minded and that Bob knew would condemn Julie later. On telegram, however, Bob told John what they should text each other. Then, Bob said something chilling.

“You’ve betrayed us before,” he said. “You will help us get that jet and keep it. If you don’t do as I say, I’m going to send a robot to your house with a device that will turn your entire family into statues. If you come when I send the air Marshall to fly you to where I am, I’ll spare whoever is living there. If you don’t, the robot will work its magic. Oh, and don’t try any funny business because the robot is already close enough to see if anyone in your house tries to escape, so if you say a word and anyone acts to save themselves from becoming statues, they’ll become statues in a heartbeat.” Then, Bob and John resumed the conversations that were meant for everyone to see on other messaging apps.

When John accepted a flight to Bob’s house, Bob met him with excitement. “Now that you’re here, put this belt on under your clothing,” Bob said. “This device is always listening to you, so you’re never alone. If you don’t do everything in your power to let us keep that jet and help us win it, I’m pushing a button to turn you into a statue. That robot is still waiting at your house, too.” Bob and the Johnsons gave John different stories about Julie. They told some themselves, and they gave some to John to tell as his own. The Johnsons had convinced John to side with them before, but he went to Julie and blew the whistle on their tactics. That’s why this time, they had the human to statue converting devices ready for him. “You’d better tell everyone that you were never made by us to do anything,” Mr. Johnson said sternly. “Tell them you were lying about us. We’re going to ask you on a recording if we ever pressured you into anything, and you’d better say no.”

For the remainder of his time not being a statue, John wore the device 24/7. When he came to my office for questioning, he used his cell phone to look up a hack to disable human to statue converters. During his search, Mr. Johnson, who had installed a tracking app on his phone, pushed the Botton that turned John into a statue. Where Julie’s supposed note came from is a mystery. Mr. Johnson was arrested and sent to federal prison. The jet was converted into a Con Air airplane. Any time Mr. Johnson gets transferred in the prison system, he must ride that particular jet. 

Inside the intricate labyrinth of Claire’s tear ducts, a factory buzzed with relentless activity. The Tear Factory—as its workers called it—wasn’t usually a high-stress operation. On a normal day, the team would process a modest amount of tears: a few during a heartfelt movie, a couple more when Claire chopped onions, and maybe a single shift’s worth on a particularly frustrating day.

But not this month. Not since December 1.

“I’m telling you, lads, we can’t keep up like this!” bellowed Gus, the grizzled foreman of the Tear Factory, as he wiped his brow with a cloth already soaked in saline. Gus had been on the job for decades, ever since Claire was a baby and cried nightly over lost pacifiers. He’d seen his share of heavy workloads, but this? This was a rare event.

“She’s crying again!” shouted Mabel from her station near the lachrymal gland controls. A klaxon sounded, signaling yet another incoming wave of tears. “We’re running out of saline reserves, Gus! If this keeps up, we’re gonna have to dilute with eye drops!”

“We don’t use eye drops here,” Gus growled. “We’ve got standards, Mabel. Just keep that gland pumping!”

The factory’s machinery groaned and sputtered as Claire’s tear ducts worked overtime. Conveyor belts carried freshly manufactured tears down toward the ducts, where they spilled out in perfect salty droplets. Each tear sparkled under the factory’s harsh fluorescent lights before being jettisoned into the world.

“Does she ever sleep?” muttered Frank, a junior technician tasked with monitoring tear viscosity. “I swear, it’s been twelve straight days. She’s got to be dehydrated by now.”

“Sleep?” Gus snorted. “Sleep doesn’t stop heartbreak. Trust me, I’ve seen it before. This one’s a doozy.” He gestured toward a massive control panel that displayed the source of the factory’s relentless workload: a glowing red alert labeled ELLIOT: DECEMBER 1 INCIDENT.

Next to it, slightly dimmer but still ominously present, was a faded yellow alert labeled MICHAEL: 2008 COLLAPSE. Gus tapped the panel with a sigh, his voice tinged with weary nostalgia. “Ah, Michael. That was a real doozy too. Her college sweetheart. The one who got away—or rather, the one she left behind to chase bigger dreams.”

Mabel glanced over, her brows knitting together. “Wasn’t he supposed to be ‘the great love of her life’ or something?”

“Yeah, well, he was,” Gus said, leaning heavily against the console. “Back in ’08, we thought we’d never see the end of those tears. Double shifts, emergency saline imports, even Myrtle came out of semi-retirement to help keep things running.”

Myrtle adjusted her glasses and chimed in from the lubrication department. “That breakup nearly shut us down. We had to implement a rationing system. Remember the Monday Night Sobfest? I still have nightmares about that.”

Frank’s eyes widened. “Wait, wasn’t that the one where she cried so much during a Patty Griffin song that the ducts hit critical capacity?”

“Bingo,” Gus grumbled. “We were seconds away from a full-system shutdown. If it weren’t for that emergency drainage we rigged, we’d all be out of a job.”

“Michael,” Mabel muttered, shaking her head. “He was a real piece of work, wasn’t he?”

“Eh,” Gus said, shrugging. “He was fine. Smart, charismatic, good with her family… but you know how it goes. She left, and we still ended up handling the fallout. Different kind of heartbreak, but heartbreak all the same.” He jabbed a finger back at the glowing red alert. “But this one—this Elliot guy—he’s giving Michael a run for his money. We haven’t seen numbers like this since the Great Heartbreak of ’08.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “Think we’re looking at another decade long recovery?”

Gus groaned. “Don’t even joke about that.”

The team shuddered at the mention of his name. Elliot—the man who’d shattered Claire’s heart and, by extension, their standard eight-hour shifts.

Over in the lubrication department, Myrtle, the oldest worker in the factory, adjusted her glasses and sighed. “She used to cry for good reasons, you know. Watching those sad dog commercials. Saying goodbye to her kids on their first day of school. Now it’s all him, him, him.”

“Cut her some slack,” Mabel said, her voice softer now. “You know how she is. When she feels something, she feels it deep. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

The others nodded solemnly. Despite the grumbling, they all knew the truth: their work mattered. Every tear carried something important—grief, love, regret, hope. It was their job to make sure Claire could let it all out, even if it meant double shifts and empty coffee pots.

“Coffee pots?” Frank grumbled under his breath. “I’ve been downing those hydration packets. If I have to squeeze one more electrolyte gel into my mug, I’m quitting.”

“Quitting?” Gus barked, glaring at him. “You think heartbreak takes PTO? We’ve got a job to do!”

As the day stretched on, the machinery continued to hum, and the workers pushed through their exhaustion. Gus barked orders, Mabel tinkered with the saline injectors, and Myrtle polished the tear ducts to ensure maximum efficiency. They were a team, united by Claire’s endless sorrow and their dedication to helping her through it.

Just after lunch—which consisted of a communal bag of pretzels and some dubious-looking protein bars—Mabel leaned over to Gus. “Do you think she’s crying over something specific?”

“Specific?” Gus huffed. “Her crying has subplots, Mabel. Subplots!” He gestured toward a chart on the wall, labeled REASONS FOR TEARS (CURRENT SHIFT):

• 47%: Elliot-related heartbreak
• 22%: Existential dread
• 18%: That sad Taylor Swift song she keeps playing
• 13%: General overthinking

“We’ve got breakdowns for the breakdowns,” Gus muttered.

Then, just as the clock ticked past midnight, the klaxon went silent. The factory stilled. Gus looked up from his clipboard, his weathered face etched with confusion.

“Is it… is it over?” Frank whispered.

The team held their breath, listening. Outside, Claire sniffled once, twice, and then… nothing. The silence was deafening. Slowly, the workers began to relax, their shoulders sagging with relief.

“About time,” Gus muttered. “Get some rest, everyone. We’ve earned it.”

But just as they began powering down the machines, the klaxon blared to life again, louder than ever. Mabel’s eyes widened as a new alert flashed on the control panel:

CLAIRE: VOICE MESSAGE REPLAYING (ELLIOT, DECEMBER 7)

The team groaned in unison as the factory sprang back into action.

“Alright, back to work!” Gus shouted. “We’ve got tears to make!”

Myrtle sighed, adjusting her glasses once more. “I should’ve retired in 2009.”

And so the Tear Factory churned on, its workers tired but determined, knowing that Claire’s heart wasn’t done breaking—and their job wasn’t done either.

Ironies

You think that someone dislikes you utterly

Despises you

Ignores you, shuts you out

For years,

Years.

Because that’s what happened.

However, was that a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Something you did to yourself, because you were the one

Shutting out

Closing the door

Because you didn’t want to see it

Or were afraid to see it

Or even more, assumed that the door was shut before you even tried to approach it

And it wasn’t her

Because as it turns out

but the opposite is true, somehow

how?

I was wrong. I was blind.

I was… dumb?

Because

Its obvious now

She wants you.

She adores you.

.

.

.

And

Very possibly

She loves you.

I cant believe I didn’t see it for so long. i must be blind. Or in denial. Or both.

and to be honest, although I was always slightly attracted to her, I never felt the same way, until I looked in her eyes and it was plain as day how she feels. Even someone like me can see it. A blind man could see it.

ive only had a girl look at me that way a few times, and in both cases it was obvious why

ive never had a girl touch me that way out of nowhere a few tgimes, and in both cases it was obvious why

and, to be honest, she is beautiful. She has lovely eyes, a lovely smile, and a beautiful body.

For obvious reasons, it would never work out. but in another life, another randomization, another simulation restart we might have very well been together.

when we look at each other there are sparks there that ive only experienced a few times. Its not butterflies. Not awkwardness not weirdness. not nervousness. Its the kind of sparks where if we were in a room alone and we looked at each other, a kiss would happen naturally, effortlessly, without any hesitation, because we both had that chemistry, knowing what we wanted, without having utter a word or a sound. I would touch her hair, her ear, and lean in and gently kiss her, feeling her breathing, her soft sigh, and then we break the kiss and I see her smiling subtly afterwards, the tension released.

I cant get her out of my head, and its very likely the feeling is mutual. why does this torture have to happen. Nothing good can come of it

I guess its one of life’s games, mysteries. Or even oddities.

The human comedy, or whatever you call it.  I just cant believe that it reveals itself this way, the irony

We like each other

We want each other

And in the right circumstance, in another reality, we would have already fallen for each other.

I cant believe in took years, years, to see something right in front of your face, because you were too busy averting your gaze, and could not make out the wrinkled details you were subconsciously tucking away while your eyes looked elsewhere.

Really this should be [NF] . For now, so it doesn't get removed, I will post it as [HF]

For gizzard* stones I offered some rough chunks of metal the size of a baseball or so, crudely hewn silver probably. The best I could do at the time. Someone else in my entourage refined this method and formed neatly spiked balls.

Their first covering early on after rehab was a bright sparkling green forest color. Their eyes are solid gold color and I wonder if they actually contain alloid.

They are way smarter than us. I'm glad we have enough knowledge of our environment now to where I can give an apt description. Try explaining the concept of the Cretaceous period to someone a thousand years ago.

They used to target my tribe specifically it seemed like. Same as any predator they develop a taste for things. And that's how I met God. They whittled us down until I had to go up there, and then the bond was forged.

A key part of that story: I'm up there with the last female survivor and I touch one of the quill protrusions, part analyzing and part trying to instigate her to attack, and they shock me to my guts. Like it was a dog's wound and I just jabbed it for no reason. I connected with this animal. Anyone who loves animals knows. I felt great responsibility yet I had no food, relying on cannibalism to get up there. I couldn't feed myself to it obviously, though I would have if it made sense.

So while she is basically set down cowering I take one of the dozen or so eggs that are behind her and discreetly remove the contents so I can make a bowl. Again, I'm feeling worse to get better here. I cut my arm and bleed into the egg shell and place it in front of her. I sit down and I'm about to pass out.

She notices the egg and begins screeching crying seeing the cracked egg and thinking the blood is what's left of the baby. The males swoop in to rescue her but see she's fine and they are puzzled. I pass out.

They must have figured out my intention because next thing I am being rolled around like a sack of potatoes. They are trying to wake me up. I am so dehydrated and tired. It takes some effort but they rouse me. I need to eat something and there's nothing. They bring me some meat. I don't want to but I have to, a means to an end.

This was 200,000+ years ago. I was still dark. I must have gotten water from the bill. Edit: I can picture it now. It was wide enough to form a basin, like a sink. A concept that was new to me at that time. And I wasn't very eager to drink the water, as it had some kind of acid to it. It was just a very foreign structure. But imagine this animal lowering it's head to let you do that.

I'm also remembering the whole way up there I had the males dive bombing me. I learned to block out the sound of their warning cries because it was a waste of energy to react to them, frightening as they were. I would wait until I could sense the air shift from their wings, then be ready.

This wore them out. It took a lot of energy for them to do that, and we're on a volcanic mountain with limited stuff. I do have a sword too otherwise I wouldn't stand a chance. I'm the last one alive in my pack and the first one up there to finish the job. Otherwise it wouldn't have been me. My flaming sword in dim volcanic light today is this phone

Mariana and Oliver Tannenbaum hadn’t bought a Christmas tree in seven years. The imposition of watering it every two days and sweeping up its needles weekly just wasn’t a responsibility that made sense given their fantastic life.

Mariana was the CFO of Himalaya, an upscale outdoors brand whose best-selling item was an eleven hundred dollar fleece jacket lined with a thin layer of responsibly-harvested seal blubber. Oliver was a sought-after Santa Monica plastic surgeon who separated himself from his competition by making himself available for same-day all cash procedures in the event a celebrity woke up to discover something sagging.

Together the Tannenbaums had amassed a small fortune in only a decade of marriage. The highlight of each of those ten years was the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when they would escape their eight-thousand-square-foot home on the bluff above Pacific Coast Highway and spend six days mastering a new life skill from renowned experts in their field.

Three years ago, they traveled to New York City and made an award-winning short film with Spike Lee. Two years ago, they earned their private pilots’ license under the tutelage of Sully Sullenberger. And last year they met Hillary Clinton at her residence in Washington D.C. to master the art of diplomacy.

The Tannenbaums had long ago discovered that there isn’t much one can’t learn how to do quite well with one week and a few hundred thousand dollars.

So imagine Oliver’s dismay on December 17th when he returned home from performing an emergency buttock lift, opened a tall cardboard box waiting on the porch, and discovered it held a three-foot tall Christmas Tree. And not the standard pre-cut tree one might find in a parking lot, but a Berry Glen Living Christmas tree.

In a pot.

With soil.

And an instruction booklet.

“Oh no,” he uttered. Resting at the bottom of the empty box was a small Amazon gift receipt with a personal note: “merry christmas tannenbaums. love, g”

“g”? Who was “g”? They didn’t know a “g”!

Oliver opened a chat window with Amazon and typed in the 17-digit order number in the hopes of uncovering the giver’s identity.

I am very sorry but this order was fulfilled by a third party vendor and therefore I do not have that information. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Oliver put in a request for a return.

I am very sorry but live plants are not eligible for return. Is there anything else I can help you--

Oliver closed the chat window and stared out at the Pacific. He was trying to remember the mantra his therapist assigned him at their Tuesday morning Zoom session when Mariana’s voice echoed off the vitrified tile entryway. “Who is g?!”

“I don’t know!” Oliver snapped back.

They set the sapling in the middle of the living room, but only after placing a Mauna Kea beach towel underneath it. The tree looked out of place. This room, after all, was reserved for Oliver’s most prized possessions: an electric guitar autographed by Green Day, an invisibility cloak used on camera by Elijah Wood in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, and an Emmy award he took in lieu of payment from an out of work ABC soap star with a droopy left eyelid.

Sensing the disparity, Mariana dredged up their lone bin of Christmas decorations from the crawl space above the champagne cellar and together they trimmed the evergreen with a single strand of white lights and a handful of ornaments. They agreed not to water it. They wanted it to be good and dead by the time they had to drag it up their long, steep driveway en route to their seven-night yachting adventure around the Galapagos Islands.

Less than twenty-four hours later, they knew something wasn’t right.

“Is our tree… bigger?” Mariana said. Oliver rolled his eyes at the comment, but that was mostly because they had recently completed their quarterly sex therapy session and Dr. Ashlee had explicitly told Mariana it wasn’t loving to point out the relative size of every object she sees. But upon closer inspection, Oliver couldn’t deny Mariana’s observation. The three-foot tall tree was now approaching five feet, and its black plastic pot was starting to bulge.

While the instruction book did not indicate the tree would nearly double in size within a day, it also didn’t stipulate that it wouldn’t. It was alive, after all. And Oliver and Mariana admittedly did not have much experience with living things. A look around the house revealed that: the artificial grass next to the pool, the bowl of fake lemons on the kitchen island, the breasts beneath Mariana’s blouse…

So they carried on as Christmas approached, distracted by office holiday parties and whether or not Mariana’s clinically-documented fear of reptiles would make it impossible for her to truly appreciate the Galapagos animal tour or if she should instead choose to spend day four of their trip learning the art of coffee roasting from indigenous Ecuadorian farmers.

They were awakened the night of December 20th to a crash in the living room. Oliver had imagined this moment many times, when a vagrant from the beach would carve a trail up the bluff and into their home, at which point Oliver would throw the intruder to the ground in a series of swift moves he had mastered during their 2017 holiday vacation — a six-day Brazilian jiu-jitsu intensive in Rio de Janeiro.

What Oliver found instead was that the top of their Christmas tree, now measuring over nine feet tall, had shattered the living room sky light.

Oliver looked at the mess and shook his head. “It’s time to call Carlos and Mateo,” he said.

Carlos and Mateo were the sibling handymen who tackled the home repair projects Oliver deemed too messy or labor intensive. They re-caulked showers. They unclogged drains. They assembled teak patio furniture. They rarely said a word and ate their lunch in their Toyota Corolla on the street. Oliver thought of them as the younger brothers he never had.

By the time they arrived the following afternoon, the pot had burst all over the cream-colored carpet and the tree had stretched another three feet, pushing itself through the sky light and making the evergreen visible above the roofline.

“No problemo,” Mateo said as he and Carlos stood in the driveway with saws in their hands.

Oliver planned to be there to supervise, but was stuck at work doing a last minute dermabrasion on an aging Backstreet Boy, a hiccup that left Mariana in charge. She watched with mixed feelings as they set the ladder against the house and climbed to the roof. The secret she hadn’t told her husband was that she had been watering the tree, two times a day, just as the instruction booklet stipulated. Mariana was oddly enraptured by the booklet and had read it cover to cover three separate times. She was drawn in by one sentence in particular:

In time you will see there is nothing more satisfying than watching something you’ve nurtured steadily grow in strength and maturity.

Was that true? She didn’t now. And yet she couldn’t deny that over the last few days she had experienced a surprising amount of joy in finding her little tree noticeably larger. Thus when Mateo raised his serrated blade to sever the top branch, Mariana lowered her head. But just as the carbide teeth touched bark, an officious voice behind her called out.

“Excuse me!”

She turned to see a city inspector speed walking toward them, I.D. flapping against his man boobs as his taxpayer-paid Prius blocked the driveway.

“I hope you have a permit for that.”

“A permit?”

“Any tree over ten feet tall in the Pacific Palisades requires community council approval,” he explained.

Mariana clarified that she’d be happy to comply, but this was merely a Christmas tree.

The inspector walked closer to the roof and squinted. He pointed with his clipboard to the ladder.

“May I?”

He climbed the ladder and shuffled on his hands and knees to Mateo and Carlos at the sky light. He looked through the hole. He circled the tree. He pinched off a twig. He shook his head.

“This is no Christmas tree,” he called down. “This is a Coast Redwood.”

“Does that matter?” Mariana asked.

“Does that matter?!” He looked at Carlos and snorted at Mariana’s ignorance. “This is the state tree. It’s protected. This flora isn’t going anywhere.”

“Bullllll… shit,” Oliver said via FaceTime when Mariana called him with the update. “Does he know that it’s not even planted in the ground?”

Mariana kept Oliver on the phone and tried that line of reasoning. But when she escorted the inspector to the living room to prove her point, they were shocked to see the tree had spread its roots past the beach towel, through the carpet, and into the floorboards of the house.

The inspector took the phone from Mariana. “As I was saying, Mr. Tannenbaum, you’re screwed.”

In ten years of holiday travel, they had never canceled a vacation. The closest they came was their 2015 trip to learn songwriting from Dianne Warren when Mariana had a panic attack halfway between Los Angeles and Nashville. Oliver gave her a quadruple dose of Lorazepam and had to drag her from the plane upon arrival, but when the drugs wore off ten hours later, she had a rush of creativity and wrote her best song of the week, an up tempo number called “My Mouth is Dry, but My Jeans Are Wet.”

“We have four days to get rid of that tree,” Oliver declared.

His solution was simple: ignore the threats and chop the damn thing down. In the worst case scenario, they would pay a penalty to the city and move on with life. Mariana calculated the potential cost to be much higher. After all, every employee at Himalaya, even she as the CFO, had to recite an environmental oath. “Oh blue-green marble, how we marvel…” it began. It included various do’s and don’ts and was updated monthly as new global threats surfaced. Killing a redwood was more than a fireable offense. It would likely void her pension as well.

Oliver couldn’t risk that. They needed her salary. It was the only way they would ever afford the Montana fly fishing cabin with the attached pickleball court he’d been eyeing on Zillow. Still, as the tree continued to grow, so did Oliver’s resentment for it. By the morning of the 22nd, it had taken out more of the roof and was approaching thirty feet tall. A layer of needles and sap was starting to cover everything in the living room. He moved his Green Day guitar and invisibility cloak and daytime Emmy to the bedroom and put in a call to the mayor’s office.

They didn’t see this as the emergency that he did.

“It’s out of control and destroying everything in its path,” he said.

“I thought you said this was a tree,” the staff member replied.

“Yes but it’s an evil tree!” he explained.

Mariana didn’t think the tree was evil. She thought it was majestic. She had been doing research on the Coast Redwood and shared some facts over dinner at Nobu.

“Did you know they are the tallest trees in the world?”

“Hmm.”

“Some of them are over two thousand years old. That means they were alive during the Roman Empire!”

“Crazy.”

“Oh, and they can capture fog in their needles and then use it to water the ground underneath. Isn’t that wild?”

No response. Unabashed, Mariana pushed on.

“I think we should name it,” she said.

“What? No,” he commanded.

“What if… I already did?”

“Damn it, Mariana.”

She waited for Oliver to ask the obvious follow up. He didn’t. They ate the rest of their sushi in silence and returned home to find the tree soaring fifty feet out of their house and into the moonlit sky. Mariana quietly smiled at the sight of it.

Oliver woke up the next morning, spent ten minutes in his custom plunge pool, and emerged with a fresh attitude. Their flight to Quito was scheduled to leave in forty-eight hours and he was not about to let the worst Christmas present ever ruin his favorite week of the year.

“Six days off the coast of Ecuador learning about natural selection is just the reset we need,” he said with confidence.

“What do we do about… the problem?” Mariana almost said the tree’s name but caught herself.

“We can deal with it when we get home. Honestly, how much bigger can a tree get?”

Shortly after this comment, the neighbors descended on the Tannenbaums’ portico. Unbeknownst to the Tannenbaums, the tree had experienced a growth spurt overnight and various people they had never met (but had thought seriously about meeting many times!) arose to find that their prized Pacific Ocean view was now blocked by a three hundred foot tall endangered species that hadn’t been there less than a week earlier.

They demanded action.

Oliver tried to calm them. He had gone down the angry route with the mayor’s office with nothing to show for it. This situation requires tact, he thought. It requires… diplomacy.

Oliver stood up straight. He was literally an expert in diplomacy! While the neighbors yelled at Mariana, Oliver slipped inside and found his notebook from his week with Hillary Clinton. He flipped through pages, desperate to find a nugget of wisdom that would bring an end to the tree drama.

“A firm ‘no’ can become a fast ‘yes’ if you find the right pressure point,” he declared with confidence as he returned to his wife and neighbors. This would have been more impactful if he also came armed with the actual pressure point, which he hadn’t. Thankfully, the awkward silence of the moment was drowned out by the twin engines of a Southwest flight, passing low overhead on its final approach into LAX. He looked into the sky and squinted. As the jet’s flight path traversed his tree, Oliver smiled. “And,” he added, pretending he knew where he was going with this from the very beginning, “if that tree reaches four hundred feet we could have some serious Class B airspace issues.”

Thankfully, Sully Sullenberger still had solid contacts at the FAA and was able to fast track their concern. The FAA quickly looped in Homeland Security. Homeland Security made an urgent phone call to the mayor. And by 2pm Pacific Standard Time, the city of Los Angeles issued a one-time waiver with the mutual support of the Pacific Palisades Community Council: the redwood could go.

Oliver made a note to call a tree service company the first week of January. In the meantime, he and Mariana would focus their energy on what mattered most: packing their bags and charging their portable neck fans.

“Which snorkel do you think I should bring?” Oliver asked. He owned three snorkels but had narrowed it down to two.

“They look the same to me,” Mariana answered.

They were obviously not the same. The black snorkel had a more efficient top valve but the blue snorkel had a more comfortable mouthpiece. Oliver headed to the pool to do a test run. After ten minutes, he was still undecided when he popped his head up and, through his mask, saw a middle-aged man in fatigues and a crew cut standing cross-armed on the patio, looking up at the redwood.

“This your conifer?”

“Yessir,” Oliver slurred through the snorkel.

“Impressive.” He stuck his right hand down toward the water line. “Colonel McGraw, Deputy Commander of the South Pacific Division. Army Corps of Engineers. I’ve been tasked with bringing this goliath to the ground.”

Oliver shook his hand. “Actually, I was going to handle that after the holidays.”

“You’re not handling anything,” the colonel said as he dried his hand on his pants. He turned his back on Oliver and strode around the perimeter of the yard, occasionally looking up at the tree for reference. By the time he was done, Oliver was out of the pool, toweled off, and definitely leaning toward the blue snorkel.

“Here’s my assessment, Mr. Tannenbaum. That tree is too damn tall to cut down in the traditional fashion. Chainsaws and whatnot. The reason being that no matter what direction it falls, it’s taking out multiple homes with it. Nice ones. I heard Pat Sajak lives in that mid-century modern down there.”

“He does?”

“And taking that into consideration, we are aiming for minimal impact here. You follow?”

“Yessir.”

“From my estimation our best bet is to go for a controlled demo.”

“And… how does that work?”

“Easy. My men bore holes in a series of strategic locations up and down the lower fifty of your tree. Two inches wide, eleven inches deep. Plug ’em with C4. Wire it up with det cord. Push a magic button. Tree goes boom. We’re all home by Christmas.”

Oliver nodded, trying to picture what he was describing. He had one concern.

“Won’t that damage my house?”

Colonel McGraw looked up at the tree then back down at the house. “I think we can save the kitchen.”

Oliver and Mariana spent Christmas Eve shuttling their many possessions to a storage facility off the 405 Freeway. It was a race to stay ahead of the engineers. By 7am, the Army Corps of Engineers had already set a perimeter. By 9am, sappers were drilling holes and stacking explosives. After a leisurely lunch at El Cholo, they were ready to wire. And by 3pm, it was time, as the colonel put it, “to blow shit up.”

Oliver gathered the last of his things. He carefully slid his Lord of the Rings cloak into his backpack and called for Mariana to meet him at the front door. She didn’t answer. For a moment he feared he had left her at the public storage in Inglewood, but his Life360 app told him she was still in the house. Specifically it showed that she was right in the middle of the living room.

But that was impossible. The only thing in the living room… was the tree.

Oh no, he thought.

Back in 2018, on the heels of seeing the mountain climbing documentary Free Solo, Oliver booked six days of intense training over the holidays with the film’s protagonist Alex Honnold. It was grueling, but Mariana took to it quickly. She was limber and strong. And each climb presented a new puzzle for her to solve; not with numbers and a spreadsheet to which she had grown accustomed at work, but with her fingers and toes. There was a tangible quality to the challenge.

Those memories came back to her on the ninth trip to the storage unit when she eyed her old climbing gear at the bottom of a plastic bin. But like the jiu-jitsu belt and the Spike Lee film and the Dianne Warren songbook, her passion faded. Those experiences may have been fun and enlightening and expensive, but they weren’t transformative.

Then came the tree. That needy, inconvenient tree. The booklet was right. Helping it rise out of that pot, through the roof, and into the sky filled her with a sense of accomplishment that dwarfed… well, everything. It took thirty-seven years but she finally had a sense of her deepest identity. Mariana Tannenbaum was a nurturer.

And so when the Army Corps of Engineers broke for lunch, Mariana dipped her fingers in her old chalk bag and started to climb. She didn’t attempt it in the naive hope she could save her tree. She simply wanted to relish in the small role she had played in making something transcendent—before it was gone forever.

The hardest part of the ascent was the initial fifty feet, but the holes drilled by the sappers left perfectly-spaced finger holds in the auburn trunk, and within twenty minutes she arrived at the bottom of the canopy. From there she climbed a branch at a time, moving in one direction around the redwood as if she were making her way up a giant circular staircase. She was at the top in under an hour. Alex Honnald would have been impressed.

Colonel McGraw, on the other hand, was pissed.

“What do you mean, your wife is in the tree?”

Oliver didn’t know what had drawn her into the branches. But the selfless part of him, a side that had long been dormant, knew he had to go after her.

“Listen, Tarzan,” the Colonel barked, “we are engineers, not search and rescue. I’ll delay this one hour, but if you go up there and get your ass stuck, that is not the government’s problem. Am I clear?”

“Yessir.”

McGraw started his timer and stomped off as Oliver began his own climb. He wasn’t the natural climber that Mariana was. Plus he didn’t have the benefit of chalk. To make matters worse, a marine layer was creeping in off the coast. By the time he reached the canopy, the branches were dewy and each step was precarious. A few slips and he resigned himself to the fact he couldn’t go any higher. He looked up through the needles and into the twilight.

“Mariana!”

Silence.

Was she stuck? Was she hurt? Did she fall and he didn’t know? He checked his watch. Only twenty-five minutes left before McGraw promised to blow them all away. Oliver straddled a sturdy bough and ran through all the impressive skills he had acquired in the last ten years. None prepared him for this. For the first time ever, Oliver Tannenbaum, vaunted Santa Monica plastic surgeon, faced a problem he could not fix.

The fog rolled in below the setting sun. With it came an ocean breeze that blew through the canopy. He heard a faint jingle. Oliver looked over his shoulder and, just within reach, was a silver ornament. One of the few he and Mariana had slapped on the tree a week earlier with little regard.

He plucked it off and held it in his hand. It was a small, square, photo frame with the words “Our First Christmas” engraved on the bottom. He and Mariana were in pajamas, standing close in front of a tiny Christmas tree they could barely afford. Oliver had his arms around Mariana’s waist. Behind them in the picture, next to the tree with a small pink bow on top, a stroller.

Oliver teared up. Remembering. This was the real reason they always fled L.A. after Christmas. The Tannenbaums weren’t chasing undiscovered joys. They were running from unresolved pain.

“Hey, stranger.” Mariana peered down at Oliver from the branch above. She was touched that he had come to rescue her, even if he was the one who needed to be rescued.

“You’re okay!” he said. She was okay. She was more than okay. Maybe it was the golden hour reflecting off her olive skin, but his wife of ten years looked younger to him. Renewed.

“We should probably get out of here, huh?” she said as she dropped onto his branch with a grace he didn’t possess. “Follow me.”

She started to head down but Oliver hung back.

“Betty,” he said.

Mariana looked back in surprise. “What?”

“You named the tree ‘Betty.’”

Mariana froze. It was the first time he had said the name in a decade. She was the one subject he was never willing to talk about. Which meant it was a subject they could never talk about.

“You know I’ve always loved that name,” she said. A tear met the edge of her smile.

“So have I,” he replied.

Oliver kissed her forehead and pocketed the ornament. With Mariana leading the way, the Tannenbaums were back on solid ground with two minutes to spare.

Colonel McGraw monitored their descent through binoculars from his reinforced steel barricade at the top of the driveway. He was relieved, mostly because their deaths would have created a lot of paperwork.

Oliver and Mariana joined him and were provided with Army-issue ear cans and eye protection.

“Thirty seconds,” the Colonel bellowed.

Oliver leaned in and yelled in Mariana’s ear. “So maybe no Christmas tree next year?”

Mariana laughed and held his hand.

Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one.

KA-BOOM.

The base of the tree ignited in a series of flashing detonations starting at the bottom and moving upwards. And then, like a bolt of lightning in reverse, 100,000 volts of American energy shot through the wires, up through the canopy and out through its crown in an explosion so loud it interrupted spa treatments at the Burke Williams five miles to the south. For a few Newtonian-defying seconds, the tree didn’t move at all. And then it dropped, falling with the same unstoppable force with which it grew.

Colonel McGraw’s prediction turned out to be wrong. The tree did not spare the Tannenbaums’ kitchen. It flattened everything. The garage. The walk-in pantry. The home gym. The entertainment room. The craft room. The office. The other office. The hot sauna. The cold sauna. The indoor herb garden. The outdoor pizza oven. All of it buried under a six-foot pile of mulch.

When the dust cloud passed, Oliver and Mariana stood up. They weren’t sad. To their surprise, they were relieved. It was as if the tree had set them free to try again. To do things differently. To learn new lessons. Hopefully, the right ones.

“Incoming!” the Colonel yelled. They took shelter again as baseball-sized projectiles started to pelt them from above.

WHAM!

WHAM!

WHAM! WHAM!

Oliver and Mariana looked up from the barricade in awe.

Pine cones.

Thousands of them. Each one loaded with hundreds of redwood seeds.

They spread across the damp December sky in every direction, embedding themselves in backyards and in front yards.

In grassy parks and playgrounds.

Next to churches and behind schools.

On freeway medians and inside gated communities.

In flower beds.

And dirt lots.

And community gardens.

And on a bluff above Pacific Coast Highway.

Oliver laughed. Mariana’s heart swelled.

"Freedom is what we do with what is done to us."

- Jean-paul Sartre

"Oh! Look, the sun is setting. I think we should go back home," exclaimed my sister.

I nodded. The warm hues of the setting sun cast a golden glow over us. It was... relaxing. Too relaxing, I'd say.

My sister, ever the optimist, was already gathering her things—not in a rush, but with that kind of purposeful energy that always seemed to calm my restless mind.

"I guess you're right," I replied, picking up the basket filled with oranges that my sister and I had stolen from a nearby garden. "But I could stay here forever, just watching the sky change. It feels... freeing."

My sister didn't look at me, but I could tell she was smiling. "Yeah, but what about the honey cakes? You really want to leave those behind?"

The mention of honey cakes snapped me back to reality. Macrie was a town famous for its honey and baked goods. I could almost smell the sweet, spiced aroma wafting through the air, mixing with the earthy scents of the evening. There was something special about the way those cakes melted in your mouth—it wasn't just a treat; it was part of our identity.

"Can you take some of the oranges with you? This basket is heavy," I said, shifting it slightly to emphasize my point.

My sister chuckled, that playful grin lighting up her face. "Fine, give it here. You always make me do the heavy lifting," she teased, taking half of the oranges from the basket.

No one could understand my sister, not even someone as close to her as me.

She was always happy about sad things. Though not about the current incident I'm narrating, I remember when our old gardener died—Eilot, that little brat, laughed when she heard the news.

Almost everyone thought she was a psychopath—almost everyone except me and our parents. Even our older sister thinks Eilot is a psychopath. How do I even convince her otherwise?

She saw the world through a lens that seemed distorted to everyone else but crystal clear to her. Where others saw sadness, she found humor. Where others grieved, she smiled.

Take Mr. Fritz, for example. He'd been with our family for years, tending to our little garden in Macrie as if it were his own. The news of his passing hit us all hard—our parents sat in stunned silence, my sister cried quietly in her room, and I... well, I just sat there, numb.

But Eilot? She laughed. Not a chuckle or a nervous laugh, but a full, hearty laugh, like she'd just heard the best joke of her life.

"Eilot!" I snapped at her, horrified. "What's wrong with you? He's gone! He's dead!"

Eilot tilted her head, that maddening grin still on her face. "Yeah, I know," she said simply, as if that explained anything.

It wasn't until days later, when the sting of grief had dulled just a little, that she finally told me why.

"You know, Fitz used to tell me he'd outlive us all," she said, her voice soft but still carrying a hint of amusement. "He'd say it every time he saw me climbing that old mango tree, worried I'd fall and break my neck. 'I'll still be here,' he'd say, 'long after you're gone.'" Eilot paused, her eyes distant. "I guess I laughed because... he didn't get to keep his promise. It felt ironic. Like Fitz's last joke, you know?"

I hadn't known what to say then, and truthfully, I still don't. But that moment stuck with me more than I cared to admit.

Our older sister, Mira, wasn't as forgiving. She avoided Eilot after that, muttering things about her under her breath when she thought I couldn't hear. "There's something wrong with her," she'd say. "Normal people don't laugh at things like that."

But she didn't see what I saw. She didn't see how Eilot would sit quietly by Fitz's garden, her fingers brushing over the leaves like she was searching for some trace of the man who'd cared for them. She didn't see how she'd snuck out late one night to plant a new sapling in Fitz's honor or how she'd stayed up until dawn, watching over it like it was the most important thing in the world.

"Eilot's not a psychopath," I argued with Mira once, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince her or myself.

She just crossed her arms, her face set in that stubborn way that made her seem older than her years. "Then what is she, huh? Because she's not normal, that's for sure."

I didn't have an answer. I still don't.

As we walked back home, the basket of stolen oranges swinging between us, I glanced at Eilot. Her face was relaxed, her grin faintly there, like it always was. And I couldn't help but wonder if maybe Mira was wrong. Maybe Eilot wasn't a psychopath. Maybe she just saw the world differently, in a way that none of us could ever truly understand.

And maybe, just maybe, that was her way of being free.

"Ah! Look! Someone's trying to climb over that house!" cried Eilot suddenly.

Why did she care so much? Why did she care about someone climbing a house?

"It's not like we can stop him or call the Watchmen of Providence. The nearest watchhouse is at least 200 chains away," I replied. "Besides, why do you care so much? Let's just go. Whatever happens will happen."

Eliot didn't say anything. I didn't expect her to.

She just pointed towards the person, who was now on the top of the roof, like a little child pointing towards the man.

"Ugh, why don't we just go home? I already told you that we being here doesn't matter..." and we heard a loud thud.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" screamed my sister with joy. She sprinted towards the house, and there lay motionless a figure whose name was now removed from history itself.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed something strange while my sister was still running around in happiness. I can't understand her.

In our little town, only the rich and noble have blue hair. It is a symbol of their purity and status, a mark of distinction among the townspeople. The figure that lay on the ground—his body twisted in a strange and unnatural way—had unmistakable blue hair.

I felt a chill run down my spine. The woman—no, still a girl—was not just any stranger. Her hair, the bright blue strands, made her unmistakably a noble. A noble who had fallen. A noble who had, for some reason, tried to climb the house. My heart raced, my thoughts tangled. Why was she here? What was she doing? And most importantly, why was she dead?

Eilot had already crouched beside the body, her usual grin gone, replaced by a strange stillness. It was unsettling. My sister, still caught in her state of unbridled excitement, didn't seem to notice the significance of the woman's identity.

"She's a noble," I muttered, more to myself than to anyone else.

Eilot's gaze flickered towards me, and for the first time, I saw something akin to contemplation in her eyes. "I know," she said softly, her voice different, almost reverent.

"Why did she fall?" I asked, struggling to understand. "What was she doing here? There's no reason for her to be... to be..." I trailed off, struggling to find the words.

Eilot's lips quirked, but it was not a smile. "She was curious," she said simply. "Curiosity killed the cat... and maybe it killed this one, too."

"But she's a noble!" I protested. "She’s supposed to be above this. They don't do things like this."

"Yeah," Eilot said, standing up slowly. "But sometimes, the things people don't do... are the things that kill them."

I shook my head, still trying to process. This was wrong. Something was wrong. The whole scene was wrong. I glanced back at my sister, still jumping around like a child on a sugar high, blissfully unaware of the gravity of what had just happened.

I turned back to the body. The blue-haired girl’s eyes were open—staring blankly at the sky, as if she were looking for an answer that would never come.

This is part 1, I will write more later.

I've decided to write short stories about my recorded dreams, firstly to motivate me to record my dreams more consistently and secondly to make my brain think more consciously about my dreams during the day. Please enjoy! Feedback welcome :)

The Labyrinth and the Attic

The forest is quiet, but not peacefully so. The air feels heavier with each breath I take, each step I make into its shadowy depths. Empty watchtowers rise like skeletal fingers through the trees, their hollow windows staring down at us. We’ve seen them before, countless times. And every time, that same unease settles into our bones. If soldiers hid in those towers, we would be gone in moments—rebels against the state don’t get second chances.

I step toward the nearest tower, the one with the warped wooden base that always taunts me. I’ve tried to climb it before, and every time the way up was blocked. Yet something compels me to try again. This time, the wood feels different under my hands. I press and pull at the planks, and they shift like pieces in a puzzle. When the last plank moves, I hesitate. The open path above is an invitation, but also a risk. Is there a soldier waiting? The fear feels irrational, and I brush it aside. Climbing is the only way forward.

When I reach the top, the view surprises me. The towers are not solitary structures. They’re interconnected, forming a labyrinth of platforms and bridges stretching into the forest canopy. My group calls out below, their voices sharp with worry. I signal to them, and soon J. climbs up to join me. She’s always at my side, my constant in this fight. Her short blond hair catches the sparse light filtering through the leaves. I don’t know her beyond this place, yet I trust her without question.

The labyrinth feels inevitable, as if it’s been waiting for us. We move together, exploring its hidden paths. Then, as suddenly as the forest swallowed us, it spits us out into a new place—an attic. My parents’ attic. At least, that’s what it feels like. But this attic is vast, sprawling across two floors, filled with forgotten relics from another life.

We stand on the upper floor, overlooking a sea of chaos. Shelves buckle under the weight of dusty photo albums, stacks of video cassettes, and antiquated machines. There’s an enormous photo frame on the wall—more like a window—showing a moving image of my grandfather in a hospital bed. My cousins, M. and C., hover at his side, their movements looping endlessly like a memory caught in a glitch. I look away, unsettled by the scene.

J. is gone, replaced by D., my best friend from years ago. His presence is as natural as the attic itself. Together, we survey the mess, overwhelmed by the enormity of it. The task feels impossible: where do you even begin to untangle the threads of a life so thoroughly packed away?

My father appears, younger than I remember him. There’s no sign of the illness that marked his later years. He moves through the attic with purpose, unbothered by the clutter. His presence is both comforting and strange, as if he belongs here more than I do.

D. and I start sorting through the piles, but it’s a futile effort. The more we move, the less progress we seem to make. Somewhere in the chaos, the attic begins to change. Objects blur, walls shift, and I’m no longer sure if we’re cleaning or being consumed. My father pauses to look at me, his expression unreadable.

“We can’t leave it like this,” D. says, his voice breaking the stillness.

I nod, but I’m not sure what he means. Are we meant to clean, to escape, or to remember? I glance at the moving photograph again, my grandfather’s face frozen in its endless cycle.

The attic holds its breath, waiting for us to decide. But the labyrinth and the attic are the same—neither of them truly want us to leave.

The scene fades, leaving only questions behind. Was it the attic of my memories, or just another watchtower in disguise? And why does it feel like I’ll be climbing it again?

Part 1

Fire rained down from the sky. It was so sudden. One moment he was playing with his sister. Next moment, his entire world rocked. Then the sound of explosions hit him like sledgehammer. He took his sister's hand and scrambled towards safety.. or what he thought was safety.

Part 2

The necromancer kept staring at the man's soul desperately trying to leave its cage. The heart had given up a while back, only the soul had remained entrapped within by the sheer force of the necromancer's power. It desperately wanted to leave its mortal prison at last, but the power of the necromancer's will held it in place.

"Why even try," wondered the necromancer, "Just let it go embrace freedom." His face remained impassive though, his concentration steady as usual. The woman who happened to be the man's wife, had been weeping silently holding his hand. Now she spoke up. "Is there no other way? He's suffering, we all can see it. Does it have to be this way?"

Every face in the room except the man's turned towards the necromancer. At that moment, he felt a sudden rush of power. Here was where the actual power vested, in the knowledge of his art, in the depth of his mind. The most powerful man in the country was lying helpless in his seat of power and only he, the necromancer, had the power to decide his fate, and that of the country. He thought of the people dying outside, innocent people who never had anything to do with the war, reduced to mere pawns as they gave their lives for a regime that treated them like livestock. He thought back to his childhood in the ghetto, where they lived like outcasts, worse than livestock. He thought about the people he knew back there, all scattered to dust and ashes, only their memories lingering like faint redness after sunset. He could change it all, with one slip of his hand, one break in his concentration. But what good would it do? Who would replace him? He thought about the dying man's brother, deployed in a war on the frontlines. A cruel man who would not think twice before crushing his own people down like insects. A man feared even by his own soldiers. A man who would replace his brother as ruler should he fail in his duty. He closed his eyes, cleared his throat and opened his eyes again. All of them were still staring at him, their faces ashen, their eyes hollow. It was as if time itself had stopped right there inside the room.

"There is another way," he managed to get out. "All I need to do is a soul cleansing. His soul has been corrupted by his ailing body, but if I let it escape for a while and if the medbots continue doing their work in the meantime to repair his heart, then it can come back to a new rejuvenated body. But the timing has to be perfect," he continued. "We cannot let the soul stay away from the physical body for too long or else it will be impossible to bring it back".

"How long?" asked the Chief Aide, the man who was currently running the government in place of the ailing president.

"Two minutes is the ideal time, but we can stretch it to five, but not more than that, " he replied, consciously aware of the distant sound of bombings.

"Do it," said the aide. "We have to evacuate any time now. I will get the planes ready."

"Wait," cried out a minister, "Can't we do it while on the plane. Surely the necromancer could..."

"It doesn't work that way," he interrupted. "In the higher planes, souls travel more freely. It will be difficult to reign his soul in at those altitudes. It has to be here and it has to be now. Everyone clear out. I need to concentrate."

One by one, they all filed out. Only the wife remained, and the doctor controlling the medbots. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was doing this. There was no coming back now. He thought one last time about the poor souls dying in the ghetto and then started chanting softly.

Part 3

He was flying in the sky. How was that possible? Last thing he remembered was him running with his sister towards the bunker before another explosion upended his world again. Where was he now? He started looking around frantically. He had to save his sister. He looked towards the ground only to have his vision obscured by dust and smoke. He tried to get down to the ground but instead started to get drifted away from the chaos and destruction. He looked up instead. A colossal palace seemed to be glowing in the distance, beckoning him frantically. It was the palace of the ruler, he vaguely seemed to remember, but he had never seen it. The ghetto was too far away from the city proper and the palace was in the centre of the city. He started hearing a rhythmic voice in his head. Something or someone from the palace seemed to be calling him, urging him towards it. He could not resist the pull however much he wanted. He realised he was leaving his sister behind, but somehow in the back of his mind, he knew he was dead and so was she. He gave in. Maybe that was where all tormented souls go. To the palace which controlled their lives when they were alive. Maybe the cycle continued after death also.

Part 4

The medbots stopped all of a sudden. The necromancer let go of his power and slowly opened his eyes. Everything was as it appeared before the soul cleansing ritual. He looked at the clock mounted on the wall. Five minutes. He had cut it close, but it had paid off. The heart was back in shape and the soul was back in place. He breathed a sigh of relief and then opened his inner eye to examine the soul more closely. The cleansing had been accomplished successfully in the realm of the souls, now came the reattaching part. If it went wrong, there could be all sorts of difficulties. He had seen people waking up with no memory, or with completely different personality because naive necromancers had not paid enough attention to the reattaching. They tend to forget cleansing was only the first part. The reattaching was equally as important. He started examining the soul now to get a grip on it and almost flinched back. It was a different soul. How was it possible? The palace had soul barriers all around to prevent errant souls from coming in. As the palace necromancer, he knew each and every person who was sick or dying, each and every soul which had a chance of escaping. This soul, as he examined it properly, had come from outside, most probably from the area of bombardment. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Had the the palace barrier been breached? He had a tour with the palace magician the previous day only, and there had been no reports of any fray in the barrier.

Suddenly without his will the soul started getting attached to the body on its own. Realisation washed over him in an instant. The body, whoever the soul had belonged to while alive, had been a necromancer.

She stood by the window, her eyes tracing the drops that ran down the glass. She followed each one as it slid slowly down the surface, pooling briefly before another one took its place. She watched the way the droplets caught the light, the way they merged and parted, creating little streams that seemed to race one another toward the bottom of the pane. It was almost hypnotic—the dance of the rain, the way it moved with a quiet urgency. The world itself was shedding something, letting go. The rain had started earlier as a soft murmur, but now it was louder, thicker, filling the silence of the room with its steady rhythm. Her hand rested on the edge of the windowsill, and for a long moment, she simply watched.

There had been something about the rain the past few days. Something familiar and soothing in its relentlessness. It didn’t promise to fix anything, but somehow, it made everything seem smaller, softer. The way it blurred the sharp edges, muffled the noise. It was like the world itself was being given a second chance, and maybe, just maybe, she could have one too.

A sudden impulse shifted through her, and without another thought, she pulled herself away from the window. She slipped into her coat, the heavy fabric settling against her shoulders, a small comfort amidst the restlessness. Stepping outside, she felt the cool air envelop her. The rain hit her all at once — cold, unrelenting, soaking through her hair and her clothes, as though the deluge was pressing pause on her thoughts. For a moment, she simply stood there, letting the rain claim her, unsure whether she was trying to wash something away, or simply let the ache exist without holding onto it.

It wasn’t a light drizzle. The rain was heavy, the kind you felt in your bones. As she walked out into the garden, the world around her seemed to hush as if it was holding its breath in quiet anticipation. She tipped her head back, feeling the rain meet her face in a steady rhythm, each droplet a soft, cool kiss against her skin. She stood there, eyes closed, breathing it in. The rain smelled like earth and new beginnings. It felt like a cleansing. It felt like a release.

She thought of the ache that was still lodged in her chest. The ache had been there, constant, but today, it didn’t feel as acute. It was more like a gentle hum beneath her ribs, something familiar, something she didn’t mind, even though it would never quite go away. That connection she had felt—the one that had roared like a raging storm inside her—was still there, but in the rain, it seemed quieter, more contained. It wasn’t as overwhelming as it had once been, and for the first time, she wondered if it might not consume her after all.

She lifted her hands up, palms open, as the rain ran over her skin in rivulets. Her breath caught in her throat, a quiet pain pressing against the edges of her heart. There were nights when she couldn't stop herself from wondering if he thought of her, if he missed her like she missed him.

But today... today she stood there, letting the rain wash over her face, soothing the sharp edges of the past few weeks, softening the weight of all the thoughts that had cut at her. There was a strange kind of peace in the surrender of it, in the stillness between the drops. She didn’t have all the answers. The ache hadn’t dulled, but she could feel herself changing in the rain, the layers of the past few weeks—of waiting, of wanting, of hoping—sinking into the ground beneath her feet.

She wasn’t done grieving, but somehow, she felt closer to something she couldn't name. Something like clarity, maybe. She didn’t know where it would lead, but she didn’t have to. For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t trying to fix herself. She was just letting it all be, letting the rain wash it all away, piece by piece.

When she finally opened her eyes, gazing up into the gray sky, she realized she wasn’t waiting anymore. Not for him, not for answers, not for some perfect moment that would make sense of the fall. It wasn’t the ending she had wanted, but it had been the one she had gotten.

Now it was just the rain and the stillness. For now, that was enough. She was enough.

I always admired my grandfather. Not because he was a saint or a hero or even particularly interesting but precisely because he was none of those things and even more so because he reveled in that fact. To hear him speak and to see him walk was to see a loping giant of fairy tale lore swaying side to side, a genuine kindness and giddiness bubbling from his mouth in the form of passing aphorisms. They didn’t even make much sense, he’d take words that sounded fancy and inject them into his daily banality like a teaspoon of foreign spices added to a bland meal, but the spices were black peppercorns and the meal was boiled chicken. 

“Mmm-mmm, that was gwermey, madres!” He’d exclaim after eating a plate of watery marinara sauce and limp pasta my grandmother had prepared. Poor man was Polish, he didn’t know any better.

We’d all roll our eyes and move on to the next topic, but secretly I loved it. Actually if I’m honest with myself I’ve never loved anyone more. Maybe when it really comes down to it I recognize that I’m nothing special either and I love his tacit acceptance of the same condition, or maybe I was just exhausted at the prospect of having to be somebody who mattered and was heartened to see a way out even at a young age. Whatever the reason I kept that love and admiration in my heart as the years went on, as he got sicker and weaker and started telling me to turn up the Yankee game on the ancient television and that he wished Jesus would just come and take him already because he missed his mother. 

The end was the hardest part. An old union man on a pension, he decided he was too stubborn to accept the cane he desperately needed and teetered over on the stoop to shatter his collarbone. He never left the bed after that, and months later his face was sunken and ashen and his mouth was agape like it was full of flies. We all stood at the foot of the bed and the nurse told us to wish him goodbye and hasten him on his journey, so I told him Papa go into the light or something because it sounded like a thing I’d heard in the movies and frankly I had no experience with this sort of thing. 

A few days later he snapped back awake like he was struck by lightning, and screamed, “Goddamn I could go for a fucking pizza and a beer!” The whole family was gathered around the bed ready to sing the funeral hymns and before you know it we’re waiting in line to buy a pepperoni pizza and that non-alcoholic beer that tastes like cat piss because Papa’s digestive system can’t handle the alcohol even years before he was on death’s doorstep. 

A few slices later and he was gone.

Ending a long legal battle, the Supreme Court formed a majority of 8-1 against the constitutionality of Section 201 of Title 18 of the U.S. Code.

The case originated from an initiative where America’s top corporations created a one trillion dollar fund with the intent of buying support of lawmakers and administration members to projects and public policies of their interest. Fearing unwarranted reprisal from government authorities, the fund administrators filed an injunction to prevent local or federal authorities from “using arrests, fines or other forms of political persecution against the free exercise of their First Amendment rights".

Ultimately, the Court subscribed to the plaintiff’s argument, pronouncing that “All speakers use money amassed from the economic marketplace to fund their speech, and the Constitution protects the resulting speech. This Court therefore concludes that independent bribes, including those made by corporations, do not give rise to corruption or the appearance of corruption. That speakers may freely buy influence over or access to elected officials does not mean that those officials are corrupt.”

The poor performance of the defendant's attorney who, in his oral arguments, used the expressions ‘serious?’ and ‘seriously?!’ 1,837 times and needed to be repeatedly reminded by the Justices that “This is a court of law, not common sense.” can be safely assumed to have contributed to the final ruling.

Nevertheless, the court addressed the concerns raised by the defendant, stating that “...no serious reliance issues are at stake, for it is not the expectation of any reasonable citizen that a politician places values and the public interest over the sweet, sweet lure of corporate money. And the free trade of influence or access will not cause the electorate to lose any more faith in this democracy.”

The ruling comes as no surprise to the academic community, who have long pointed to the hypocrisy of super PACs, regulated lobby and other forms of ritualistic bribery and subjection of the righteous purchase of political influence to unnecessary red tape.

The market as well has received the historical ruling with enthusiasm, celebrating the end of over regulation of influence trade and the prevalence of the free bribery market. Quietly, Amazon, Lockheed Martin, the Catholic Church and other major corporations have already amended their accounting to include bribes among its business expenses and earn the respective tax discounts.

Among politicians, there has been no shortage of outrage with the Supreme Court’s decision, with many representatives and prominent party members taking to social media vowing to stay clear of corporate America and to bring back democracy to the government.

Behind closed doors, however, the atmosphere is of relief. Under condition of anonymity, a Vice-President of The United States has summarized the general feeling amidst the political class: “While the criminalization of bribery might have its place in history, the ever present innovation in society does not harmonize with ancient dictates of bygone eras. This is a win for the country. Instead of convoluted conspiracy theories and roundabout speeches, the American people will be presented with the simplicity of hard cash. Despite what you’ll hear in the following weeks, both sides of the aisle agree this will bring some much needed transparency to our democracy.”

Political scientists and analysts consulted by this publication have unanimously agreed the decision will have no impact on American politics, whatsoever.

___

Tks for reading. More attempts to laugh not to cry here.

The first day I remember is as bleak as all the others. A thick cloud hangs over the town, and the sea below churns in anguish, sending salt and spray onto this dark wooden deck. I observe as the mist from my tea blends smoothly into the morning fog, and the rain weeps softly.

I do not know how long I have been looking for you, and it disturbs me greatly that I can no longer see your face. But nor can I conjure any other image of you– it is as if you were some spectre who had flittered briefly through my life, leaving behind only the faintest impression of your presence.

All I remember is this: you remind me of the flowers in June. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it’s the only thought I have to go off of.

What is it about the flowers in June? Well, they are are warm and happy for one… but more than anything, the flowers are alive. I remember how alive you made me feel. How every blade of grass turned into an infinitely exciting wonder, or how the pattern of raindrops on my windshield could turn into a song we’d sing. I remember walking in the woods with you, and how even the slightest stone or creek would bewilder and surprise you. I remember scratching your head as you’d fall asleep.

Like the joviality of youth whispered away in the wind, I have lost you. And now I am not sure where to begin.

...

The first day I remember is bleaker than all the others, and the sky is suffocating me. Heavy black clouds loom ominous over the town, and I am nauseated by this thick sense of dread. I observe the mist from my tea as it is consumed by the overwhelming fog, and the image is transformed into something wretched and ill.

I pay my tab and leave. I know what I am doing; I am looking for someone who reminds me of the flowers in June. It’s not clear why I am doing this, but at this point I cannot remember anything else. My memory escapes me these days. When I turn inwards, I only see the vast bleak grayness of the sea, rising and falling in cacophony. The gentle nothingness makes me want to scream.

I walk along the rocky shores of this destitute town and wonder if you’re even worth finding. I suppose despair could not be so bad after all, if only I had a little love, so I need to find this person who reminds me of the flowers in June so that I may feel a little bit warmer…

Ah, I did it again.

…

The first day I remember is grey and cloudy but with a little corner of light peeking through the clouds. I feel calm as I sip my tea, and the mist rises up to greet me, gentle and happy. I laugh softly and begin to dream of other beautiful things, drifting off into the vast cavern that is my mind…

And I am brought to attention forcefully by the emptiness of memory, and of all the things I miss about the flowers in June, and it’s all too overwhelming for me to handle, so I break down sobbing. The little corner of Sun retreats as I slip further and further into despair, further and further into awareness of my own poverty and destitution. I scream as I remember that I am trapped here for eternity, cursed to search for flowers in a world with no light. And I realize this could be bearable, if only I had a little love, if only I had you–

And I remember where it all began.

…

Dear diary: today is the first day I remember yesterday. I am going to jump off of the boardwalk and let the waves thrash me against the rocks– because I realized that nothing will change until I do.

I sent you a letter, and I hope to see you soon.

(I recorded a audio reading of this story and set it to the background music that made me think of the initial scene that led to the story and I feel that this elevates the story itself; apologies as this is the first time iv'e done something like this but please enjoy and thank you for reading/listening!)

https://youtu.be/RWjEvcqbh_A?si=cIwUzFYFRL4tcn_4

In the afterlife in an ironic twist the Spirit of Life has become demented and twisted over countless years of time and now instead of helping spirits transition from life to death; she has instead begun to harvest the souls of the dead in efforts to escape her duties bound by the fates. At first the spirits attempt to escape the afterlife but as there is nothing but the void outside,they cannot escape. At the forefront of the harvesting; The Spirit of Life has made the Spirit of Death her emissary to claim the last few souls remaining.

The view then pans to a desolate area of the afterlife where only one soul is left standing. The girl's soul seems almost unaware of the things going on around her almost in a trance like state, as the Spirit of Death comes to claim her. Being one of the last few souls left Death takes his time, taking a brief moment to speak with the soul before taking its last echo of existence. Death asks "Why do you not run to escape?" She answers "I have nothing left to escape to,I have already lost my twin soul." Death let's her explain;

"He was one of the last few that stood up against the madness and chaos engulfing this world, but he wasn't strong enough to overcome the spirit of life and is no more". This explanation triggers a long forgotten memory within Death itself, forgotten over eons of time, as he too used to love the Spirit of Life and to be bound to her forever, he took on the role of the grim reaper to atleast in someway always be able to find her yet she is now lost...

Death has a moment of internal conflict and then finally speaks. "Tell me, what would you do, if you had the power to change all of this?".

Without hesitations she softly answers "I would bring him back, as without each other we are nothing, and then return life to those who have lost it"

Death reaches inside itself and pulls out a glowing purple orb of energy and extends his arm to the lonely girl spirit... ...as he crumbles away he speaks his last words. "Go... save this dimension and recover what has been lost, as my last request this is what I ask of you."

The girl's ghostly form, almost completely transparent, now has a faint purple glow within its outline.

As the last fragments of Death disappear, his ghostly voice speaks within the girls mind. "With my power you can travel into the void where the lost souls last remnants reside and restore them to the afterlife, there you will find the one you've lost."

An incredible surge of power awakes the girl from her trance like state and the urge to run sets in, sending her barreling towards the walls of the afterlife.

At first what feels like floating in water, then turns to the feeling of flight, except there is nothing but blackness all around her.

She propels forward and after an incomprehensible amount of time sees a faint dim light in the darkness.

She can feel herself coming closer to this and an image her long lost love flashes within her mind and suddenly her outline appears to become just a sliver more whole.

She slowly realizes that the closer she comes to her love the more full her spirit becomes as well.

This compounds with the Spirit of Death's power emitting a purplish trail behind her as she is able to fly faster now within the never ending vastness of the void.

The light grows brighter and she can almost make out the edges of this dim grayish light as memories of the life she and her twinsoul made together in the life of the living flash within her mind.

For just a moment she flashes in full spirit form and combined with Death's power,a pulse of energy shoots outward. She notices this and uses this energy to launch forward breaking through the grayish veil.This moves her to a dimension, one that exists between realms.

More and more of her memories of her life with the living and her twinsoul come back to her mind like a flood; almost guiding her back to him, acting as a beacon within this infinite land of the unknown.

She suddenly sees a blueish hue up ahead, and she flashes again... moving faster... the blue shade turns around as she finally reaches him.At first he just stares at her; not knowing who this person is. Then they both flash, slow at first; then little by little the energy between them brings the now full memories within the girls mind into his, and he begins to take a more complete form.

Their hands slowly begin to lift, and he remembers that he was with her. Their fingers become closer, until they are almost touching. A tiny spark erupts between their hands as they link together, clasping hands finally after what has felt like centuries.

He softly says "You found me; I can't believe it, I'm so sorry I foolishly tried to fight, I should have spent my last few moments with you..."

She pulls him closer and his ghostly arms wrap around her tightly. A bright blueish purple flash of light explodes as they embrace and while they are both still in a ghostly form, they are somehow more full than ever before.

They then notice another soul, among the void in a grayish outline. They approach and ask its name, and begin speaking with it. It responds and this interaction of recognition within the spirit causes it to pulse as well, feeling the magnitude of this newfound immense power between the twinsouls.

The view then pans back to a new dimension; one where the auras and souls of the dead are free to be in peace, resembling a dense forest but with a wide open clearing in the middle, the ghostly spirits of the creatures that once lived on a planet called earth roam about; as these creatures also existed on the same plane as the twinsouls, they are also able to exist there.

This triggers a realization within the twinsouls that this is what they must do. They must rescue the souls of the dead from this ghostly void and allow them to pass into this new peaceful dimension their love has created with their rekindling.

As time progresses they rescue more and more of these lost souls, until they finally are only able to find one left. It is the Spirit of Death, now returned to his once "Human" like form.

"So, you've found each other; Your next task is to transition back to the afterlife and rid its dimension of the chaos that now exists within it, as it will spread and engulf all of existence if it is not stopped."

The twinsouls look at each other and nod,joining hands once again before extending one arm each towards death,rescuing him as well.

"Thank you" the Spirit of Death softly speaks..."Please bring her back to me..." As he transitions to the peaceful plane the two have created.

As this happens they notice a door begin to form where Death once stood. Pulses of chaotic energy flow outward from the door as they move closer to it. They can feel the turmoil and dissonance in this other realm as they begin to make the transition back into this final chapter of their mission.

The scene moves back to the afterlife dimension, now nothing remaining of this once safe haven but explosions of chaotic energy resembling the form of a black hole.

The twinsouls take a moment and look towards the most central point within the realm. There is a large glowing aura of pure chaos with what sounds like screams of agony being heard from within, along with something dark and sinister pacing around within the energy.

They reach the outside wall of the energy barrier and each put one of their hands on it, the other hand clasped together with the other. The two begin to pulse once again looking at eachother and locking eyes, ever grateful to be by eachothers side once more.They then look at the barrier wall where the smallest of cracks begins to form. Together they strike the crack as one causing the crack to stretch and break away some of the barrier.

With this they are able to move into the innermost circle of energy, but to make it through this space; they must embrace and moved into the area in one motion. The friction of them passing through the wall of energy mixes with the instability of the chaotic dimensional energy fusing the twinsouls together becoming one being. Now more powerful then the two of them separately, along with the Spirit of Death's energy, they are now a godlike being themselves, standing for love and peace as a last beacon of hope to those who are no longer on the plane of the living.

The agonizing screams begin to converge into a singular point and an opposing being begins to take form... bright colors of crimson and dark shades of red burst outward and form a woman like body, yet horribly disfigured and morphed by the chaos around her.

The two gods stare each other down until finally the twisted Spirit of Life speaks, in what sounds like thousands of voices from the ones she's consumed to gain this power.

"What are you doing here?! How are you not dust?! Where did you get this power?!?!"

The joined twinsouls speak as one "We have rekindled our twinflame despite obstacles of incomprehensible magnitude and will not stop until this plane is set free from this madness."

The twisted Spirit of Life howls at this and the shrieks further amplified by the souls of the dead,causing visually perceptible waves of energy to burst forth.

"You both are nothing more than insolent niave children, the power of love is nothing compared to the raw power of space and time. You cannot even begin to hope to match my strength."

The two beings face off clashing over and over in immense glorious outbursts of purplish,bluish and reddish hues as they trade blows almost dancing back and forth as they battle.

At a key moment during the struggle the twinsouls move close to the Spirit of Life and cry out "DO YOU REMEMBER?!"

"REMEMBER WHAT?! The Spirit of Life roars back.

"The one you lost..." the twinsouls whisper as they two gods are now deadlocked in a power struggle.

The Spirit of Life breaks her focus for just a moment as something begins to happen...

She howls again, still enraged by the madness and chaos around her now with almost the entire realm seemingly reacting to the screams and violently vibrating all around them.

The Spirit of Life moves in a frenzy, faster than before and this catches the twinsouls off gaurd as she strikes a blow that cleaves them in two.

Now separated and weaker they struggle to both dodge her attacks and attempt to re-merge to regain their power

The man's soul yells out "We asked if you remembered because we wanted you to know that he still has a place in his heart for you!"

The Spirit of Life replies "WHO DO YOU SPEAK OF?! NO ONE EXISTS SUCH AS THIS" but somehow something inside of her speaks against this, almost like a friendly voice, one that she had not heard in ages to the point where it had become forgotten.

"I remember you" the Spirit of Death speaks, within the Spirit of Life itself and the her eyes widen as she immediately pauses.

"You... I... Remember you..." The Spirit of Life now completely transfixed on this new yet familiar voice within her.

The twinsouls link hands together but don't fuse back to their mighty form as they realize what is already happening in front of them.

"We were once one, as they are... and to thwart death itself we took on their roles to be together for eternity but we have lost our paths and forgotten the strength that held us together all these years..." the Spirit of Death reminds her.

The twinsouls also remember their years together on the plane of the living, now whole again; Cherishing memories of time spent unaware of these worlds outside of their own. They realize that our lives are nothing but slivers of existence, etching them out together on the walls of space; We carve our marks of life and of where we once stood; hopefully with a counterpart like the twinsouls,as time progresses ever onwards. These fragments of the past remain unchanged, glowing and echoing in memories reminding those that come after us of our mistakes, and more importantly; who and what we hold close to our hearts...

The twinsouls then use their power to call apon the Spirit of Death's remaining lifeforce from the peaceful realm they have created to this central point of chaos in the afterlife.

The Spirit of Death emerges from a bright white doorway and the Spirit of Life turns towards the three.

Together as one Life and Death look towards each other and Death softly speaks "I remember.... and I've waited so long for this moment. We lost ourselves before we could realize it and became lost to the duties bound to us by the fates"

Life and Death stand in front of each other and just as the twinsouls did their hands begin to rise towards each other...

They embrace and the entire dimension shakes, as the colors of mixed grey's and red's from the chaos around them begin to resemble the purplish glow of the peaceful realm the twinsouls have created.

Suddenly a couple of the rescued souls begin to return to the afterlife,and now starting to merge itself with the peaceful realm the twinsouls had created.

More of them begin coming back, but through all of this Life and Death cannot break their gaze from one another, as nothing else truly exists without the two of them.

They turn to the twinsouls and as one speak "Thank you... for helping us remember what we had once lost, for saving this place and all of the souls within it".

The twinsouls look at each other and then back at Life and Death and reply "We can only thank you;You gave us another chance to be together and we will use this chance to maintain this safe harbor for the souls of the dead".

The four of them nod at each other, before the Spirits of Life and Death turn away from the twinsouls, and stare into each others eyes before their lips meet in a long desired kiss. Their hands link together as they begin to fade, Not into nothingness but instead into eternity. To some unknown realm with just the two of them, their own fraction of existence to be by eachothers side forever...

The twinsouls now turn towards all of the souls that are now returned to existence from the void they were once trapped in. No words are spoken yet none need to be. A feeling of thankfulness easily made apparent for all to see;

As the view pans slowly outward, the realm gradually completing the transition to the purplish glow that once retained itself within the Spirit of Death's life force, now with equal streaks of emerald interlaced within it, representing the spirits of Life and Death, they themselves now serving as a beacon of how to be.

As the view begins to fade out we see the twinsouls walking amongst the returned, holding hands and for the first time we are able to see that they are smiling, now able to be together until they too eventually will transition and reside in their own realm, destined to remain together until everything ceases to be......The End.

There was once a man who led an empty life. His name? Don’t bother. It wouldn’t have been remembered anyway. His job? Office imp. Pencil pusher. Bean counter. A vocation as useful as observing paint dry with an electron microscope. A man who brought nothing into the world, did not make use of the hands he was given, did not take use of the brain he was given, made nothing of substance, did not add to the ongoing, multifaceted four billion year epic of the opera we call Earth. A chronic passerby. A net wash for the human enterprise. No family, he did not have the passion for love nor violence. Not the courage to achieve either greatness or horror. A decent man only through in-action. An indecisive, grey, blurry half life that expired at an average age of heart disease in a small corner of a hospital. So uneventful a life that its conclusion could not even be described as sad. A life so void that a true death could not even be properly identified in its hazy nothingness.

That is when the punishment began. Not heaven, not Hell. An afterlife all of its own. He was pushed and pulled and scattered and landed in Oblivion. He recognized it immediately, because he had been there before. It was there in the Court of Oblivion did he realize the true scope of his crimes. He heard the whispers and condemnations of a billion billion shadowy children. Silhouettes. They were his judges. And then it all made sense. Within the human genome there are billions of possible combinations of A, T, G, C. That magic alphabet of life. But of course only a small number of these varied combinations would have the privilege to be born. Only one in a billion are granted, by sheer fortune and the powers that be, to exist. He was one of those infinitely lucky few. Sent to Earth to live a life. The envy of his billion billion peers. And what did he do with it? Nothing… He squandered the gift that the Neverwere children had all been longing for, aching for, begging for for millenia. What did that make him? Hm? A monster? A thief? A waste.

As recompense for his crime, he would need to apologize, thoroughly, to each and every one of his brothers and sisters who never were. All the children who were not yet born and perhaps never will be born in this oh so finite universe of ours, and each and every one of those billions of children would have to forgive him, truly forgive him for wasting the most precious thing in all creation: Creation itself. Only then would he be allowed to be extinguished. Not a nirvana, a simple ceasing to be. Wasted potential finally snuffed away. Either that, or wait until each of the neverwere children could be born. Both options of redemption would take an eternity. But what else to do? He had all the time in the universe now. If the neverwere children had to wait, then so could he…

Hoffmann never saw himself as stingy or, heaven forbid, greedy. To him, money was simply a way to enjoy life and cover the essentials. He loved savoring fine food and wine or relishing the luxury of a king-size bed, big enough for two snuggling adults or a couple of spoiled kids. Comfort and enjoyment were his top priorities. Life, in his eyes, wasn’t just about constantly preparing for an uncertain future — it was more about embracing the present and making sure nothing was missing. Why not let your soul sing?

But over time, Hofmann realized his expenses were starting to outpace his income. The rapid career rise he once imagined was turning into a slow, steady climb instead. So the "poor" man had to rethink his financial strategy. He even considered cutting back on luxuries like fancy hotels and designer suits!

Then, one slightly unfortunate day, during a chat with a colleague, Hofmann learned he could save money without sacrificing quality by taking advantage of promotions and sales from major online retailers. Instead of impulsively clicking “Add to Cart” without checking the price, he decided to be smarter. He would wait for the next sale and get items for half or even a quarter of the regular price. 

Hofmann started planning his big purchases around sales events, matching his needs with flash sales and mega deals. The savings quickly added up — what a simple, brilliant idea!

But soon, he found out that these “unique” discounts and rare pre-season sales weren’t so unique or rare after all. The more he explored the world of deals, the more he noticed that one amazing promotion was always followed by another. When discounts ended on one site, they popped up almost immediately on another. If one retailer’s Prime Day ended, another would gear up for Black Friday or pre-New Year sales. And, of course, Christmas is always just around the corner. 

On one hand, he found himself making even more purchases than before, trying to save on both necessary and unnecessary items. On the other hand, the thrill of finding deals online made him feel happy and, above all, satisfied. He even thought he was becoming more careful when shopping. But his uncontrollable urge for discounted goods slowly became overwhelming. His virtual shopping cart was always full — new, old, useful, or unnecessary. The one thing they had in common? His curiosity about the price tag.

Gradually, Hofmann’s home filled up with quirky T-shirts sporting phrases like “Walking Dad,” which amused his kids, even though they didn’t quite get the joke. His collection grew to include cups, plates, and napkins featuring characters from different "Star Wars" episodes. He figured if his expensive plates ever broke, Han Solo-themed cutlery would come in handy — and be funny! Meanwhile, “it’ll come in handy” became his go-to excuse when explaining his purchases to his wife, who was struggling to keep up with the constant flow of packages.

As his desire to shop grew, Hofmann became the proud owner of several new gadgets, a mix of charging cables, a vintage CD player, and even a record player. Without any vinyl records to play, he bought a used collection of rock and roll albums from the 1960s and 1970s. But after listening to just a few, he quickly got bored and turned his attention to skincare products. He bought creams to refresh his skin, worn down by years of hard work. 

He even bought cellulite cream at a hefty 70% discount — only to realize, after the fact, that he had no use for it. The cream ended up being given to his wife, supposedly as a gift for their fluffy Scotch terrier, Molly, for her birthday. “What a great idea,” he thought.

Needless to say, the constant ringing of the doorbell from delivery drivers and the endless unpacking of boxes started to really annoy Mrs. Hofmann. After handing over countless items to her husband, she finally hit her limit, and a heated argument broke out. The budget was stretched to its limit, the house was cluttered with unnecessary items, and the cellulite cream had even expired. Trying to defend himself with excuses like, “I’m thinking about the family — we might need it,” Hofmann eventually gave in. He changed his delivery address to his workplace, where he could secretly indulge in his shopping during work hours.

To make matters worse, his sister-in-law, who worked nearby, informed his wife about his suspicious behavior. Hofmann had been seen surrounded by delivery men carrying enormous packages — boxes stuffed with expensive and cheap brands practically spilling out. Worried about him, his wife and concerned family members decided the best thing to do was seek help for Hofmann’s online shopping addiction. They turned to a well-known psychologist specializing in addictions, who offered a three-month treatment program.

The psychologist prescribed cognitive-behavioral therapy to uncover the root causes of Hofmann’s excessive shopping. They also added mindfulness-based therapy to help him recognize his habits, deal with the emotions driving his behavior, and accept them without judgment. While the exact costs weren’t shared, the treatment included psychodynamic therapy, group support sessions, and training in modern behavior modification techniques.

As the costs for his counseling grew, Hofmann slowly started feeling better. Especially after reviewing the costs for the fourth month’s procedures and realizing there were no discounts for returning clients, Hofmann assured his wife that he was cured. He promised never to repeat such nonsense again. He vowed to behave normally and resist the temptation of easy savings on discounted items. Mrs. Hofmann was overjoyed — her husband was finally cured! 

Their farewell to the hospital staff was warm, and everyone wished him well. He even agreed to consider a follow-up course next year, tempted by a 35% discount — after all, who could resist such a good deal?

“Allis, I can’t go to sleep, the game’s still on!”

“Lad, I don’t care for your game, but rather your health. Go to bed, it’s already 12.”

“Allis, please”

“My word was final Geoffrey. Go to bed and you'll fall asleep in a jiffy. And the audacity to ask me on a school night!”

But I couldn’t. I hadn’t had the chance the entire tournament to watch a match because of my exams. Scotland had finally made it to the finals of the World Cup, and they’d never got past the qualifying stages before. And I was going to miss the chance because it had to be held in Peru of all places, and anyway, who cared about a school night? Allis, my foster mother, obviously has some aversion to my enjoyment, because since when has she cared about my health all the times I had to sit up till 2, trying to learn integration or thermodynamics. I never knew foster parents were as bad as movies depicted. The worst part is Scotland was to play against an injury-ridden Japan, and I was supposed to miss such a chance? 

Nevertheless, I had a plan. I snuck my ancient phone underneath my duvet and snuggled under the little warmth that it offered me during the chilly winter weather. I always struggled against the cold, here in Scotland. Down in Devon in England, it was mostly sunny, even when it rained, and yet it was somehow more depressing. I took my phone out and turned it on. I reduced the volume to the bare minimum and laid down in a comfortable position. I opened the stream, only to discover that Marcas had blazed one over the crossbar in front of an open net. I almost let out a little scream, stifling it as much as possible.

Outside my solitary world, Allis continued to watch her soap opera, obviously lost on her the hypocrisy of wasting time as if it were an imperishable resource. The moths continued to buzz over the small tubelight in our living room while the crickets made their usual annoying chirping sound. My mind remained fixed on the game as it was still nil-nil by minute 20. I checked the time only to find that it was already 12:30, quite annoyingly. I felt weary and let out a long yawn, forgetting that I was supposed to be asleep, however I didn’t have to worry as Allis just kept herself fixated on her television, seemingly paying more attention to it than she ever did to me.

This game was also doing no favours. Like the timid country we are, we let Japan attack us, as if they were the new England. The only reason we were still in this game was because of Malcolm, who had failed miserably almost every game this tournament and had now turned into the newest coming of Jesus. I could feel my head crumbling under the pressure, that was watching this match, and it felt like my two cerebral hemispheres were being split apart, similar to how Pangaea broke up to form all the continents. So, you could say it was an intervention from a cosmic entity when Maeda was left completely alone in the box to tap in a finish, to put Japan up 1-0. Soon after, the whistle was blown for half-time and that was a signal to me to forget and move on, while the pain was still getting worse. I snuck out of my room to try to grab a glass of water, past Allis, who as usual was still entranced by that Spanish gent, whose name I keep forgetting. I drank it with an uncertain hurry and went back to sleep and the pain was now getting worse. 

I went to bed, leaving my phone by the side of my duvet on the teak cabinet which had been scratched, as if it had participated in a cat fight. I put the duvet over my head in a failed attempt to retain any heat and tried to go to sleep. I fell asleep with thoughts over the final match, hoping that by some miracle, that the land of the Brave would finally have bragging rights over the English for something.

Clearly, those thoughts hadn’t spilled over from before the slumber as I was awoken by a nightmare in which I was at a standoff over a cliff in the Balkans, trying to fight a mob, as I was shot and dropped into a pit of endless skeletons and depression. The headache still persisted, now presenting even worse symptoms than before. Allis had finally gone to sleep, apparently to the calm voice of the protagonist, since the television was still running. I left it on, thinking that it was a trap for me. I reached out for a Paracetamol as I was dazed walking over to the medicine cabinet. I almost slipped over the leather rug and tripped myself over the diwan. I stubbed my toe on a chair and fell over some spilt water, which Mother would have forgotten to clean as usual. My vision was blurred and I felt nauseous, as if I had multiple undiagnosed lesions in my brain and my body was crumbling. I managed to grab the tablet, cracking it open, swallowing it dry and collapsing on my cot afterwards. I lay there, as if pretending to avoid a hungry bear, for ten minutes, before rising up with a little newfound energy. I looked over at my phone, and thought to myself, “Just maybe?” I unlocked it and was greeted by a large number of messages, but that was secondary to me. I opened the browser and searched for the match.

Scotland won 3-1. 3-1. 3-1. I’ve never been prouder in my life. All the energy that I had gained had just tripled on itself and I felt so rejuvenated, nothing like before. I wanted to scream out with joy and mock my English friends. I wanted to punch the air repeatedly and wear my special Scotland jersey with my name engraved on the back. I’d never felt so happy and joyous in my life, so much so I could run an entire marathon simply on that joy.

I opened my messages on the thought that all my friends, in a jolly mood were flooding the group with messages of pride and happiness. However, I was perplexed to find that of all the 87 messages that I had received in the night, they were all private messages, and they were all around the same exact time at three in the morning. They all said the same thing, that is, to look at the moon, mentioning that it was the most charming and beautiful thing they’d ever seen in their life. I wondered how anything could be more beautiful than the result of that match. I read through all my messages, before reading through an official alert which specifically asked, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON.” It was apparent that somebody was playing a well-thought out prank because it seemed to everyone else, as if all the planets, and all their moons, and all the celestial bodies in our solar system had joined a single straight line and it was an unimaginable experience while the Scottish government still thinks it’d be quite funny to play with their people after Scotland’s win. It would sound exactly like them to say such a deranged thing.

I scrolled through all my messages, and everybody told me that it was such a beautiful night. Again, what could ever be something as beautiful as that final? There weren’t even any pictures.

But that only made me more curious.

Evidently, curiosity took over my practicality and I walked with soft feet over the cold floor tiles of my house. Allis was snoring on the couch, and the television had automatically shut off, which was weird, since all the switches were still passing power through. However, it had no bearing on the current situation which piqued my already aching brain who had decided to escalate the war with himself, by using nuclear weapons. I couldn’t care less, as I walked over to the balcony and opened the door silently. A gust of wind blew through, pushing over curtains and causing the faint whistling noise in my ear which I had grown to appreciate as I grew older. I stepped out into the freezing outside in my shorts, barefoot. My toes curled above the cold pavement and my legs started twitching, as if I had had a cramp. I looked everywhere for the Moon, unable to find it. It dawned on me that the moon would maybe be visible on the other side of the house. 

I put on a jacket and some trousers, pulled over my socks and wore my climbing shoes. I made my way down using the unevenness of the solid bricks. It was a poor choice to not go out with gloves as I could feel my fingers shake under the frostiness of the surrounding air. The bricks were slippery too and my shoes were unable to withstand the slickness of it, and as a result I almost fell over. After all, it wasn’t the first time that I had snuck out of the dictatorship that existed there. I kept my cool and made my way down without any more problems.

I turned around hoping I could see the moon, but it was once again impeded by the presence of the house. I ran across, phone in hand, messaging my best friend, Ishbel, to come and meet me at my house, since it was her who messaged me first about the moon. As I turned the corner past the orchids and irises and hydrangeas of the garden that Allis had tentatively planted, I looked up to find the most breathtaking sight of my entire life.

The moon seemed like it had come closer to me. It shone the brightest that I’d ever seen in all my born days. It had a slight orange tint to it, as if the sun also tried her best to illuminate the Earth’s little brother. For the first time, it’d seemed like the Moon and the Earth were twins instead. The air was so free, as if nobody lived in the nearby vicinity for thousands of miles. It felt like I could finally breathe clean, godly air, only reserved for those residing in Mount Olympus. My legs buckled underneath my feet and I fell to the ground on my knees, my eyes fixated on the moon just like Allis would watch the soap opera. I could feel the cold, freshly mown grass under my kneecaps and I laid down with my head finally being relieved of the awful pain. All my senses seemed to have been reborn with a new purpose.

It seemed to me that the Moon was extending a hand to something in the sky, as if it was offering a staircase as guidance for some faraway celestial body to be brought down to our meagre world to impart wisdom. My sore eyes relaxed and my heart calmed. The presence of the Moon was so powerful that I felt like a peasant under its light. The hand extended, not really visible as a hand, but more as a road between heaven and Earth. I stood up and closed my eyes for a second. When I opened it again, I could sense something moving about on that road. 

Actually, it would be better to depict it as a bridge between separate universes. I saw light himself, assuming different shapes and forms, walking across that shaky bridge. I imagined that light would strike me, just as lightning would, and give me a new sense of reality. 

Those different shapes and forms seemed to move across the polluted atmosphere in no particular direction, trying to find their purpose. Eventually, there were two rays of light that struck me, and I felt overpowered by its presence. They emerged out of me as two separate souls, and I could see Mum and Dad, as the face of those souls. They didn’t seem to say anything, but just gave me a gleaming smile. Their shapes kept changing and warping under the strong wind that kept blowing. I walked through the souls, just to check if I wasn’t having an episode. But nothing changed. They looked at me with that same smile, which warmed my soul too, to such an extent that I’d never felt like it before in my 16 years of living.

I closed my eyes, only to see them disappear forever upon opening them. I cried out loud, with more emotion than I had ever displayed. I felt dizzy and fainted along the grassy pavement, my head resting above a grate to the sewer.

Ishbel arrived soon. She took my head and placed it upon her lap and muttered to herself, “They say beautiful things are cut from diamonds. Then, this too was cut from diamonds, that is, our diamonds, and now, you are one of those diamonds for me.” 

This was half-inspired by a post from r/WritingPrompts. This is the first time I've really tried writing a story like this, and I want to keep writing as a hobby. Looking for any criticism and advice which could help me. Thanks a lot in advance!

I already made this question on another subreddit, and one person suggested me to come to this subreddit in search for advice, so I'm here for that.

So I have this huge idea of a story that combines supernatural mystery, sci-fi and psychological terror but I literally don't know where or how to start. I'm totally new on this writing stories thing and I would really like some advice on how to get started, like how to not have too many plot holes or a bad timeline management. Please and thank you beforehand.

On a cold, dark night in the deserts of Nevada. A single, dark shape with 2 yellow lights was flying down the empty road. Moving so fast; if not for the bright moon and stars shining down, you would think it's invisible.

“Are you sure you're not lost, Eric?”

“Babe. How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not lost; I just took a shortcut.” Said Eric while fiddling with the GPS. “The GPS is acting weird again. I think it's because your phone call connected through it.”

“That doesn't even make sense.” A gentle, female voice responded through the speakers. “You're going to make it home in time for—“

“Yes, yes. Our anniversary dinner.” Eric bluntly interrupted. “Don't worry, Vic. I'll restart this piece of crap GPS and be home in—

The call abruptly ended, and a loud metallic object, silver in color, whizzed past Eric at lightning speeds. Eric slammed on the brakes, his eyes wide and black from shock.

“What the hell?!!” He shouted in fear. With panic, he swerved left and right, unable to slow down in time before colliding directly with a large, red boulder. By some miracle, Eric survived. He opened the door, bruised and broken. His shiny blood runs down his face as smoke surrounds the engine.

“Vic, help me.” Eric muttered as he crawled away, dazed from the almost fatal accident. He collapses, his back touching the cold, hard dirt. His blurry gaze fixates on the beautiful moon.

The silver object returns, followed by what sounds like a hundred drums all banging in unison. Eric lifted his weak arms to cover his ears from the horrible noise. Suddenly a streak of bright light appears. Shining down on Eric, blinding him as if he stared directly into the Sun.

Eric whispers, “Please, help. I'm hurt.”

More silver objects appear with more lights. Eric, unable to stay awake from the pain, starts fainting in and out, in and out. The last thing he sees are two large, dark feet walking towards him. The sound of the drums is slowly replaced by yelling in a strange and foreign tongue. What he sees is too unbelievable to be true. But something tells him it's not his mind making things up or the desert playing tricks. It's reality.

“Aliens.” Eric says, before slowly slipping into unconsciousness.

After who knows how many hours, Eric finally woke up. His hands and feet were strapped to a cold, metal bed. A single light shone down on him. He blinked excessively, looking around the dark room, trying to understand what was happening and where he was. Everything looked so strange. Weird machinery and computers. Screens filled with odd text and images. At first, he thought he was inside of some kind of a hospital.

Until he saw them. Hairless and pale. Wearing long, white capes. Strange faces with piercing blue eyes and others with eyes as dark as coal. The aliens were walking around him holding strange tablets and discussing in the same foreign language he heard the night of the accident.

“Please, I don't understand what you're saying!” Eric pleaded loudly. “This has to be a mistake. I... I took the wrong shortcut accidentally. Please!”

They stick wires on him, cut him every which way. They penetrate his skin with needles and shine lights into his eyes and ears. A strange machine scans his body from head to toe, and in seconds Eric sees the inside of his body on one of the screens.

“This is a nightmare.” Eric thought to himself, “I will wake up any second now.”

He doesn’t know how long the tests lasted, but it felt like days. Like clockwork; lights on. Pain. Lights off. Lights on. Pain. Lights off. His body is covered in scars, old and new. He can barely move from the pain, barely keep his eyes open. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue are slowly chipping away at his life. He wanted to die; he begged them to kill him. But soon enough, the realization set in. There is no escape. The only joy left for him is the memory of Vic.

“Vic, Vic. Save me. Vic. I miss you. The words barely left Eric's mouth.

As the lights turn on once again, the memories of Vic fade away. More pain follows. He should be scared and angry. He wants to scream and fight, but he’s just too tired. So he lays there, without movement, without emotion. Eric knows what’s coming next.

The aliens start once again. One cut, then another. A needle stabs his thigh, then another in the arm.

“Where is it?” Eric asked, “Where is the pain?”

Something is different; something is wrong. He doesn’t feel anything. No pain, no hunger, no thirst. Is this his tired mind playing tricks on him? Like a lightning bolt from clear skies, it hits him. The fluid they injected him with the night before made him feel better.

“Was this an accident or another test?” Eric asked himself

He feels his strength coming back.

“It doesn’t matter. I have to take the chance; I have to risk it.” Eric says to himself, “I have to see Vic one more time.”

Eric patiently waits. He knows lights out means freedom, so he waits and waits. Motionless like the rocks in the desert.

– FLICK! –

“Finally.” Says Eric, already out of breath from adrenaline rushing through his tortured body.

Eric wriggles his bloody hand back and forth. It should hurt, but he doesn’t feel anything. He sees his skin slowly peeling as the tight, metal shackle cuts away. Then, by some miracle, the hand is free.

“YES! Oh, thank you God. YES!” Eric shouts as tears of joy flow down his face.

He quickly unlocks the other shackle. His cries turn to laughter. Then the shackles at his ankles, and a few seconds later he’s free!

His feet touch the cold floor, and Eric says, “Please don't let this be a dream. Please.”

Eric doesn’t have too much time to celebrate; he still needs to find a way out of this horrible place.

After a long breath, he whispers, “I’m coming to you, Vic.”

He bolts for the door, bumping into the machines and computers. The room is dark, very dark and cold. But Eric memorized the path the aliens take. Every tool they used, every cut and probe, every touch. He will not forget and will NOT forgive. The door opens with force, and his eyes quickly adjust to the light. He looks left and right. Not knowing which way is freedom. So he picks; he guesses.

“Right it is.” Eric says.

Eric runs down the hallway. Still can't feel any pain, but his muscles are still weak. He's slow. Turn after turn. Corner after corner. Breath after breath and no closer to freedom. All the running is making him slower and weaker.

“I need to find a way out of this maze of hallways, and I need to do it quickly.” Eric thinks to himself.

He turns another corner and is quickly stopped in his tracks. One of the aliens is standing there. This one looks different. He looks angry. Deadly. Before Eric can react, the alien lifts something that could only be a weapon and points it at Eric. The alien starts shouting, but Eric instinctively pounces like a cat and pushes the alien into the metal wall. Suddenly the whole area turns bright red, and the loudest siren Eric ever heard fills the halls. He panics and just starts running. Left and right again and through this door and another door. Hallway after hallway. It seems there is no escape from this red house of horrors.

“God, how do I leave?!” Eric shouts as he stops for a quick break. Out of breath and out of time.

The aliens' shouting and shuffling echo through the hallway, despite the sirens. Eric carefully peeks his head, hiding behind a box of garbage. His eyes scanned for the predators, his ears listening to their shouts and screams. The aliens are entering the facility through an open door and rushing down the opposite hallway. He can't believe what he's seeing.

“THE DESERT!” His eyes widen with joy, and the world's largest smile forms on his bruised face.

He runs. As if the south wind is pushing him on the back. The closer he gets to the door, the bigger the desert is in his eyes. Within seconds, he's outside. The cold desert feels warm compared to the torture room he was in. The dust enters his nose; the familiar desert smell. The moon's bright light shines a way to the perimeter fence. And past the fence? The boulder. The same boulder he crashed into before the beasts captured him. He needs to get to that boulder. It's life and death, literally.

With the south wind at his back once again, Eric makes his way across the desert towards the fence. Unable to slow down in time, he hits the fence face-first and climbs. Fingers and toes like small grappling hooks. Closer and closer to the top. A few more seconds, then freedom.

Unable to hold in his tears, he screams, “I'm coming, Vic! I'm coming home to y—What?”

Speechless and sitting on top of the fence. He looks down and touches his chest. Eric sees what nobody should: a bloody hand. He blinks a thousand times in one second. His brain trying to comprehend what his eyes are showing. Shiny blood. Flowing through a hole in the middle of his body. As if someone turned on the faucet of blood. Then another hole forms with more blood, and another right next to the heart that belongs to his loving Vic. Eric loses his grip and falls on the cold, hard dirt. He sees the deadly alien walking towards him, holding the deadly weapon. The infamous thought of death enters his head. Eric looks at the moon and accepts what will happen.

His last words: “Vic, my love. I'm sorry”.

The alien stands right next to Eric's green body and points the weapon. A loud bang, then silence. Darkness. Forever.

“Subject eliminated, sir.” The alien says, finger on his ear.

The alarm blaring out of the facility goes quiet. Silver helicopters and SUVs with lights as bright as the sun approach the bloody scene. Followed by scientists in white lab coats. The moon still shining on the fence, illuminating a white sign with the legendary words:

WARNING
AREA 51
NO TRESPASSING

Lakeville is a small suburban town located on the very edge of Cloud Lake, and isn’t really known for much other than its fish and pretty scenery. The town’s architecture isn’t anything special, but it can be very comfy, cozy, and it’ll make you feel at home. Most buildings are made of the same reddish-brown colour bricks, with a few modern houses making an appearance. It’s a town where you’d think after a while living there you would get bored and want to move somewhere else, but in actuality it’s a really nice place to live. The real beauty comes from the lake, as well as the surrounding forests and plains. Lush, flowery fields and tall trees dot the landscape. Around the lake are plenty of reeds and willow trees - in the spring sometimes you’ll even see a cherry blossom tree. The water is a nice clear blue colour, and there are plenty of fish that make their homes there. Lakeville is truly a town worth visiting.

Recently, more and more people seem to be flocking to this town. The local residents are usually just fine with outsiders, but lately it’s just getting to be too much. More people keep arriving each and every day. Lakeville isn’t really a small town anymore. It’s not the same town anymore. More people means more cars, and more cars means more smog. Lakeville is recognized as an urban area and its name is changed to Lake City. What used to be the docks is replaced with a freight harbour, and large freight ships now have their place here. Cloud Lake is, after all, a very large lake. Surely the ships won’t cause any damage, right? Well, that’s what the city officials tell us as they bring more and more ships through our lake. The once clear blue waters of Cloud Lake are reduced to a distant memory. There are no more trees. No more fields. No more flowers. Cherry blossoms don’t come in the spring. Fish eat toxic wastes that get dumped into the lake, and then those fish get caught and served to the citizens of Lake City.

Lake City - once a small, innocent, beautiful town - is now a polluted wasteland full of criminals and drug addicts. The corruption of the city has taken over these once peaceful lands. Now, hanging on by the thread that is its diminished attractions, no one has a reason to live here anymore. After all, why would anyone want to live here? So, hundreds if not thousands of civilians pack up and move to a small town called Chestnut. It got its name from the hundreds of chestnut trees that surround it, and also from the founder’s favorite colour (which also just so happened to be chestnut brown).

Chestnut is a small suburban town located about 40 miles southeast of Lake City, and isn’t really known for much other than its chestnuts and pretty scenery. The town’s architecture isn’t anything special, but it can be very comfy, cozy, and it’ll make you feel at home. Most buildings are made of the same yellowish-brown colour bricks, with a few old wooden houses making an appearance. It’s a town where you’d think after a while living there you would get bored and want to move somewhere else, but in actuality it’s a really nice place to live. Everyone who lives there thinks it’s a great place to live.

Everyone in Lake City thinks so too.

   Ricky could hear a group of voices outside of his student house as he lay on the couch in his living room. The voices approached the front door. They let themselves in.

   “Rickyyy!” Will said as his voice echoed through the house. He slapped Ricky on the back, who was laying sluggishly, face down on the couch.

   “Ricky, where the hell have you been?” Cam asked. Ricky hadn’t been to class in 3 days. Ricky groaned.

   Will showed himself into the kitchen and opened up the fridge, “where the hell are all the Cokes? I bought 2 cases just a couple of weeks ago,” Will said.

   “Is it the girl?” David asked, standing next to the couch, looking down at Ricky.

   “A girl?” Will asked, returning to the living room, “I didn’t know he had a girl.”

   Louis was spaced out, high from a joint he had smoked when they were on their way to the house, now sitting on the La-Z-boy in the corner of the living room. He shifted his attention to each person as they spoke.

   “It was just 2 dates,” David said.

   “Three,” Ricky clarified, his voice muffled by the couch cushion his face was buried in.

   “Just 3? That’s nothing Ricky. Get up,” Will said.

   “It’s enough to have your heart strung by the force of love,” Ricky said.

   Louis’ jaw dropped slightly and he placed his hand atop his head in reaction to the statement.

   “It wasn’t meant to be, Ricky. You’ll find someone else,” Cam said.

   “She was one,” Ricky said, his face still buried in the cushion. He hadn’t moved an inch.

   “She ghosted you, Ricky. Four texts, and nothing. She acted like she didn’t care if she was the one,” David said.

   “Four texts! Four texts Ricky?! That’s pure sacrilege. They oughta’ lock you up for that kind of behaviour,” Will said.

   “I was a fool. What I thought there was turned out to not be. I wasn’t even man enough for her to tell the truth. Just a text. One. Anything. What was it?”

   “PUH, classic,” Will said, “hard to get. A real prize.”

   “There’s truly no pain like not being able to be yourself around the opposite sex. Not even get a chance to show your true self,” Ricky said.

   Both of Louis’ palms were now placed on his cheeks.

   “Alright, that’s it,” Will said, grabbing Ricky by the ankles and dragging Ricky’s limp body, offering no resistance, down the hallway and into the bathtub. Louis observed all of this.

   Will turned on the cold water, pouring water from the showerhead onto Ricky’s clothed body. Ricky squealed.

   “We’re gonna go to Doolies tonight, Ricky. It’s gonna be fun. You’ll get over it,” Cam said.

   “You guys OK in there,” a staff member called in to the washroom, as the four stood around Ricky’s body, splayed on the checkered floor of the washroom. Drunken bodies circulated around them, looking at Ricky. The sound of the music bumped and echoed through the washroom. Ricky had vomited onto the floor.

   “He looks like he had a good time,” one drunken man said, heading to a urinal.

   “God damn it Ricky, get it together! She was looking for something else. You can do better,” Will said.   

   “She was with another guuuyyyy. She was beaming,” Ricky said, staring blankly at the ceiling.

   “Don’t worry about her. Show her you’re living your life. You’ve moved on,” Cam said.

   “Did you see her smile. Wrapped in his arms. She was never wrapped in my arms,” Ricky said.

“Ricky, you’re acting like a damn fool!” Will said.

   “I wish that was me,” a drunked man said, looking at the group from the mirror at the sinks.

   “You sure y’all don’t need an ambulance,” another staff member called into the washroom.

   “We gotta get him outta here,” Will said.

   Louis scanned the washroom, anxiously.  

   “You got this pal!” a voice shouted from one of the stalls.

   “C’mon, Ricky, you gotta snap out of it,” David said.

   “I can’t,” Ricky said, “She saw me. I feel sick. There’s nothing like not stimulating the excitement of a woman. Why couldn’t I be like that guy out there.”

   “She didn’t deserve you, Ricky. You don’t have to earn anyone. They have to earn you,” Louis said. The first words he had spoken all night.

   At that moment, a group of paramedics ran into the washroom.

   “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Will yelled.

   The paramedics parted the group and loaded Ricky onto a stretcher. The group trailed behind as they carried him into to the ambulance awaiting by the front entrance of the bar.

   “He’s fine, really. Just a bit startled at the moment,” David said, as the ambulance doors shut, and the vehicle proceeded to peel out.

   “What drugs was it, kid,” the bulky paramedic asked as Ricky was strapped to the stretcher in the claustrophobic space of the ambulance.

   “Drugs? I was just ghosted. She saw me,” Ricky responded.

   “Ghosted?” the paramedic said, “he’s hallucinating. Get him some antipsychotics.”

   Ricky awoke in under the bright lights of the hospital room, sedated by the antipsychotic medications. He was hooked to a ventilator and IV. Will, Cam, David, and Louis sat in the clothed chairs along the side of the room.

   A white-robed doctor entered the room with a clipboard, taking notes.

   “We couldn’t find any drugs in his system,” the doctor said, “what happened to your friend here tonight?”

   “Nothing, doc,” David responded, “he was just ghosted.”

   “Ghosted?” the doctor asked.

   “A colloquialism, sir” Cam responded, “not receiving communicative response from the opposite sex, following the establishment of an understood connection, as seen from the perspective of at least one party, namely our friend over there.”

   “I see,” the doctor said, scribing notes onto his notepad.

   “It was only three dates, doc,” Will said.

   Ricky moaned through the ventilator.

   “Four texts, sir. That he sent. The holy sin,” Will said.

   More moans echoed from Ricky’s bed.

   “Four texts? Yet no response?” the doctor asked.

   “Nothing,” Will responded.

   “That’s serious stuff. We’ll have him admitted into the psychiatric ward. Leave him here with us for a while,” the doctor said.

   Ricky gained the strength to pull the respirator from his mouth, “it’s that bad?” he uttered in a moment of sobriety.

   They all looked at him tenderly.

   “Please, keep the mask over your face, son,” the doctor said.

   “Is he going to be OK, doc?” David asked.

   “We’ll get him turned around. Leave it with us. You guys can go now, we’ll keep you updated,” the doctor said.

   The four went to Ricky’s bed side and patted him on the shoulder. Louis leaned over him to give him a hug.

Ricky stared at them, confused, as they left the room.

Table of Contents:

1. Prologue: The Gathering Storm
2. Chapter 1: The Calm Before
3. Chapter 2: Echoes of History
4. Chapter 3: The First Strike
5. Chapter 4: The Cost of Courage
6. Chapter 5: Bonds Forged in Fire
7. Chapter 6: The Aftermath of Battle
8. Chapter 7: The Weight of Loss
9. Chapter 8: Shattered Dreams
10. Chapter 9: The Call to Arms
11. Chapter 10: The Tide Turns
12. Chapter 11: Heroes and Villains
13. Chapter 12: A World Divided
14. Chapter 13: The Last Stand
15. Chapter 14: Requiem for the Fallen
16. Epilogue: A Glimmer of Hope

Prologue: The Gathering Storm

The air crackled with tension in the battlegrounds of Elysia, a land once rich with green valleys and vibrant cities, now marred by the scars of war. As thunder rumbled in the distance, soldiers prepared themselves, swords glinting ominously in the fading light. They were aware that this conflict would define their lives and echo through generations. While some fought for honor, others sought revenge, but all would face the all-consuming specter of death.

Chapter 1: The Calm Before

Elysia was a realm split by ideology and ambition. In the northern reaches, King Alaric had cultivated a kingdom of opulence and order, ruled by reason and diplomacy. In the south, Queen Seraphine led her people with an iron fist, believing that strength was the only path to lasting peace. The common folk oscillated between loyalty and fear, their fates intertwined with the burgeoning conflict.

As villagers tended to their daily chores, whispers of war danced through the markets. Mothers hushed their children, recounting tales of valor and tragedy, their eyes glossed with unshed tears. Young men, swept up in visions of glory, eagerly enlisted, unaware of the true horrors of warfare that awaited them.

Chapter 2: Echoes of History

Throughout history, war had been a tide that washed over nations, leaving behind relics of triumph and grief. Stories of past battles reverberated in the minds of the soldiers. They recalled the Great War of Eldorian—a cataclysm that had forever altered the political landscape. From the ashes of history arose lessons unlearned and sacrifices unredeemed.

Veterans, now aged and weary, shared their tales with wide-eyed youths, emphasizing the price of honor. “War does not discriminate,” one said, voice heavy with remembrance. “It devours the brave and the coward alike. We must tread carefully, for glory is but a fleeting shadow.”

Chapter 3: The First Strike

The first clash came on a grey dawn, the sun obscured by clouds heavy with portent. In an instant, the tension erupted into chaos—the clash of metal, the cries of pain, the stench of blood. Kingdoms collided as men charged into battle, driven by courage and desperation.

King Alaric, clad in armor, led his men with unwavering conviction. His voice carried over the din, rallying his troops, igniting their spirits. Across the field, Queen Seraphine watched with a mixture of pride and fury, her heart aching for the lives being lost but steeled in her belief of supremacy.

Amidst the chaos, soldiers fought valiantly, yet many fell, their dreams extinguished like flickering candles. The battlefield became a canvas of suffering and valor, each life lost a stroke of darkness on the portrait of war.

Chapter 4: The Cost of Courage

As the fighting raged on, the true cost of courage revealed itself. Men who had once been brothers in arms now faced the grim reality of war. Some soldiers found their resolve hardening into bitterness; others crumbled under the weight of guilt.

In a makeshift medic tent, Friar Jonas bandaged wounds with trembling hands, his heart heavy with the knowledge that not all would survive. “Courage comes in many forms,” he told a young soldier, whose bravery had led him to save a fallen comrade. “But remember, it is equally important to acknowledge the price of that courage.”

The sound of moans and the sight of shattered bodies were constant reminders that honor often came at an unimaginable cost.

Chapter 5: Bonds Forged in Fire

In the crucible of battle, friendships formed under the strain of war. Soldiers from diverse backgrounds found common ground in their shared struggle, telling stories that bridged the gaps of class, race, and creed. They became a family forged in the heat of conflict, the line between enemy and ally blurring as they faced death together.

But as bonds deepened, so did the pain of loss. Each death was a harbinger of despair, echoing in the hearts of those who survived. A sense of foreboding loomed, for war had a cruel way of testing loyalties.

Chapter 6: The Aftermath of Battle

With the dawn of a new day, the battlefield transformed into a graveyard filled with the silent echoes of the fallen. Artillery ceased, replaced by the ghostly whispers of those left to mourn. The landscape bore witness to the ravages of war, blood-soaked earth and broken weapons marking the sorrowful canvas.

Survivors wandered among the wreckage, their souls haunted by the specters of their comrades. Lamentation echoed amidst the ruins, a bittersweet melody of despair and remembrance. They sought solace in one another, yet the wounds ran deep.

Chapter 7: The Weight of Loss

As the days turned into weeks, the weight of loss bore down on the hearts of the survivors. Each face once familiar faded into the fog of memory, cherished moments now laced with sorrow. They struggled not only with the physical toll of battle but with the emotional scars that would linger for a lifetime.

Families grappled with the absence of loved ones, succumbing to despair. In the village square, candles flickered in honor of the fallen—a somber reminder of the cost of ambition. The landscape may have healed, but the pain remained etched in the hearts of those left behind.

Chapter 8: Shattered Dreams

Amidst the ruins of their world, dreams shattered like glass underfoot. For many, the war had stolen their future, replacing aspirations with haunting memories. Young men who had once envisioned glory now faced the harsh reality of survival.

“I wanted to be a bard,” whispered a soldier to his friend, voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to write songs of hope, not tales of bloodshed.”

They found themselves enshrined in a living nightmare, where the sound of laughter was a distant memory, replaced instead by the cries of the grieving. As dreams lay broken, the struggle for meaning intensified.

Chapter 9: The Call to Arms

Despite the overwhelming desolation, the drums of war continued to beat. Leaders emerged to rally the remnants of their armies, stirring a sense of urgency. The call to arms echoed across the land, undeterred by loss.

Amidst the misery, some rallied to that call, seeking solace in vengeance. “We must fight!” cried a young general, fervor blazing in his eyes. “For every life lost, we will reclaim our honor!”

But others hesitated, wondering if violence could ever lead to peace. The struggle between vengeance and forgiveness became palpable, with the potential for a brighter future hanging delicately in the balance.

Chapter 10: The Tide Turns

The relentless tide of battle surged and ebbed, leading both armies to a fateful confrontation. Under the shroud of night, plans were laid in the shadows, each side yearning for an advantage. Strategy became a dance with death, every decision fraught with peril.

As the battle commenced, a fierce tide swept across both forces, chaos erupting like a violent storm. The clash of steel and human spirit rang louder than ever, reverberating in the hearts of those who fought.

In the midst of the struggle, a realization struck—a vision of peace tangled within the turmoil. It was a moment that could lead them toward salvation or spiraling conflict.

Chapter 11: Heroes and Villains

In the throes of war, the lines between heroism and villainy blurred. Tales emerged of valiant acts and unspeakable atrocities, each soldier wrestled with their own demons. Some were celebrated as heroes, while others questioned their morality amidst the carnage.

The stories of sacrifice spread like wildfire. General Eldren, known for his unwavering resolve, became a beacon of hope for the weary. Yet whispers of betrayal crept in the shadows, leaving the truth fractured and elusive.

Amidst glory and infamy, the realization surfaced: all were merely players on a vast stage where the price of life was measured in blood and honor.

Chapter 12: A World Divided

The war stretched on, and with it, the fractures in society grew deeper. Ideologies pitted families against one another, friends turned foes. Fear and hatred spread like wildfire, consuming all that was once cherished.

In the taverns, discussions transformed into heated debates, friends torn apart by their loyalty to opposing causes. Communities fractured, familial ties strained, and the landscape became a battleground for more than just soldiers.

Hope flickered like a candle struggling against the wind, but amidst the despair, there were those who refused to let the darkness prevail. It was a struggle for unity in a world majestic yet divisive.

Chapter 13: The Last Stand

The final confrontation loomed on the horizon; a decisive battle that would determine the fate of Elysia. Determined to reclaim their dignity, both sides gathered their last remnants for a showdown that would alter the course of history.

As the sun rose, a strange calm descended upon the battlefield, as though the world held its breath. Soldiers took to their positions, faces painted with resolve, the weight of their convictions pressing down heavily.

The clash rang out like thunder, echoing across the lands. It was a desperate and brutal fight; men fell like leaves in the autumn wind. Amidst the chaos, serendipity intertwined with fate, defining moments arising like phoenixes from the ashes.

Chapter 14: Requiem for the Fallen

In the aftermath of the battle, silence enveloped the land. Those remaining gathered to pay homage to their fallen brothers and sisters. A somber procession marred the landscape, as grief became a common language.

Candles flickered in the twilight, illuminating the faces of those left behind. Names were recited—a litany of remembrance echoing against the starlit sky.

Elysia bore witness to the sacrifice, inscribed in the hearts of the survivors a collective memory that would last through the ages. They vowed, through tears, to commemorate every life lost, every story untold, and every dream forgotten.

Epilogue: A Glimmer of Hope

As peace settled over Elysia, the scars of battle remained, indelibly etched upon the land and its people. Yet in the darkest moments, hope flickered—a promise of renewal amidst the grief.

Reconstruction began; the rebuilding of homes and relationships intertwined. New generations emerged, growing not only in strength but in wisdom. Out of the ashes of war, they sought understanding, a concerted effort to heal the wounds of the past.

In the realm of Elysia, a single truth arose: the true victory lay not in conquest, but in the resilience of the human spirit to strive for light amid the shadows of despair.

Through memory, struggle, and the tireless quest for peace, the echoes of valor would remain—a reminder of the multifaceted nature of war, death, and the human condition.

The End

Chapter 1: The Divide

In the bustling heart of Metropolis, two high schools stood only a few blocks apart: Crestwood Academy, a prestigious institution with manicured lawns and ivy-covered buildings, and Jackson Heights High, a neighborhood school battling with societal prejudices and stereotypes. Students at Crestwood wore designer clothes and spoke confidently of internships and Ivy League dreams. Meanwhile, Jackson Heights kids sported thrift store finds, drowning in unspoken narratives of struggle and resilience.

At Crestwood, Emilia was a star—a gifted artist whose murals decorated the hallways. She balanced sculptures and compositions with deadlines and drama, her light infectious. But behind her radiant smile was a world of pressure—her parents' expectations heavy on her shoulders. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of town, Jaxon was an underground poet, slinking into the shadows of city parks between skateboard tricks and coffee shop open mic nights. He expressed his pain through words, infusing every syllable with the struggles of freedom and authenticity.

Their worlds collided on a chance encounter at an art exhibit, a collective project uniting students from both schools. Emilia’s piece captivated the audience: a tragic mural depicting a lonely figure, surrounded by vivid echoes of dreams, hands reaching out but trapped behind a glass wall. Jaxon stood transfixed, the raw honesty striking a chord deep within him. Little did they know, behind their eyes lay a shared longing—for love, for belonging, and for understanding in a world that dictated otherwise.

Chapter 2: Love’s Rebellion

Their connection was instant—like a spark igniting kindling in a dark forest. They began to meet after school, sneaking to secluded cafes and rooftop gardens where the city became their canvas. Emilia taught Jaxon about color theory while he introduced her to the power of words, penning love letters adorned with poetry and passion. They spoke of dreams and fears, barriers and bridges, while moonlight wove silver threads through their insecurities and hopes.

Yet, whispers of their forbidden romance swirled like autumn leaves on the wind. Crestwood students taunted Emilia; Jackson Heights students warned Jaxon about the dangers of mixing worlds. Their friends worried but mostly questioned: “Why her? Why him?” The emotional walls each built around themselves began to crumble, only to be replaced with the razor-thin separation of loyalty and expectation.

Chapter 3: The Crumbling Facade

As winter descended upon Metropolis, the air thickened with looming tension. Their schools organized a charity gala to benefit struggling art programs. When Emilia suggested they attend together, Jaxon hesitated, his heart pounding with equal parts excitement and trepidation. "We can't be seen together, Em. It'll crush everything we’ve built," he warned, voice low and fervent.

But love often races ahead of reason. The night of the gala, adorned like the stars they often gazed upon, they slipped into the soft glow of twinkling lights. For a moment, time suspended—a painting captured in eternity. But reality crashed down when Emilia’s boyfriend, Lucas—a Crestwood quarterback—spotted them. His friends surrounded him, fueled by ego and entitlement, while whispers of “traitor” echoed through the air.

The confrontation was brutal. Words turned to shoves; fists flew just as quickly. Jaxon fought back, but he could feel Emilia being pulled away, torn from his grasp as shame washed over him. Unbeknownst to Jaxon, Lucas had a reputation, and with a swift kick, the dance of love turned into a night of pain.

Chapter 4: The Collapse

Days turned into weeks. The weight of lost love and bruised hearts became unbearable. Jaxon claimed to be over Emilia, filling the void with slamming words and beer bottles, but the poetry that once flowed from his soul ceased to exist. Emilia, too, painted less, memories spilling onto her canvases in dismal hues. Each day was a dawn that whispered reminders of what could have been—a bittersweet echo.

Then, a sudden twist—Jaxon’s family received an unexpected notice. They would be moving out of the city, another casualty of gentrification swallowing up neighborhoods. He spent his last days in Metropolis torn between fulfilling family expectations and chasing after a fleeting dream of love. Panic rose within him; he needed to say goodbye.

Chapter 5: The Last Night

On a rainy evening, beneath a canopy of clouds, Emilia found herself at their secret rooftop. She could hear the distant hum of the city beneath her, an electronic heart beating with life and loss. Suddenly, Jaxon appeared—soaked, breathless, a whirlwind of desperation. “I couldn’t leave without… without knowing we tried,” he stammered.

Their fingers intertwined, held tightly like the fear of losing the other. Words poured forth—regrets, dreams, promises of change. They saw through the shattering walls of reality and into each other's hearts, rediscovering sparks long extinguished. With hearts racing, they shared one final kiss, a bittersweet reminder of all they had created and all they could never be.

As thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm unleashed its tears just like Emilia and Jaxon. The world around them faded, leaving behind only the memory of stolen moments and whispered vows. Time became irrelevant as they clung tightly, their souls searching for solace in a turbulent world.

Chapter 6: Eternal Separation

Days later, Jaxon left, a piece of his heart carried away in the wake of his footsteps. Emilia returned to school, her smile a facade; her art became dark and haunting, each stroke a reminder of love lost. She painted a mural—a tribute to Jaxon, filled with stormy blues, whispered promises, and the ache of longing. It stretched across the wall like an eternal sunset, an embodiment of their story.

Months later, on a quiet dusk, Emilia stood before the mural, tears mingling with the rain, and she whispered into the wind: “I will always remember.”

In that city of mistrust, two hearts once found each other amid the chaos, leaving behind echoes of love that would resonate forever—a testament to a love that burned bright but flickered too soon, entwined in fate’s inescapable script.

And so they became legends, their love a fleeting shadow painted against the backdrop of life’s relentless march, forever remembered through whispers and art.

The last time I fired a gun was probably over 10 years ago. My dad used to take my brother and I to a local gun range near the town where we grew up. We were by no means “regulars” at the range, but we went enough times for my brother and I to know basic gun safety. After that, the guns mainly remained in the gun safe in recent years. I technically fall into the category of a gun owner. Having one 9mm pistol that I won on a Facebook raffle that my cousin pressured me into signing up for. It has mainly remained in the plastic case that I received it in, living an incredibly boring life for a firearm. I have never fired it.

This weekend, I decided to do something that I haven’t done in years. I went on an overnight hike alone.

The past 5 years I have slowly let my mind and body slip, spending a majority of my life in an office chair. Working a corporate job, playing video games in most of my free time, and letting all of the fat and chemicals I’ve consumed settle at the lowest points of my figure. For the fourth year in a row, my new year's resolution was to be more active. So 3 months ago, I planned a hiking trip to kick this journey off. To prove that I can do something that I really, really don’t want to do.

While I have camped alone before, I have an especially pulsating anxiety about this trip. Being in arguably the worst shape of my life, (mentally and physically) and watching several “Creepiest Camping Experiences” compilations on the days leading up to the trip. The thought of running into someone with bad intentions weathered my mind. Spending time and money to do something that I am not even looking forward to, is nothing new to me. That was my primary reason for this trip. I want to enjoy things again. Camping and hiking used to bring a feeling of excitement, but sitting on my ass for most of my professional life has completely dried my soul. Ironically I sit all day for work, and then complain about doing anything but sitting after work.

When I was younger I didn’t think about the evils of the world, mostly because I hadn’t faced many of them yet. I hadn’t experienced faceless betrayal, when everything was going perfect and the door was slammed in your face. When I finally did experience the cruelties of life, It made me lose trust in happiness. The fear of having it taken away made me nervous to accept it. I didn’t want to bring my gun with me on this trip at first. However my dad said something to me on our first camping trip together, that is carved in my mind to this day.

“There’s something about wide open spaces that makes people think they can get away with something they normally couldn’t”

The drive was calm. Leaving the office on Friday is one of my few joys that I never let wear off. Though normally I’m excited to get home with a 12 pack of beer, rather than driving 3 hours to spend the weekend alone, cold, and sober. Nevertheless, I did have a spark of fulfillment that I was kindling about this trip. For the first time in a while, I was actually following through with a plan that I had made (that involved leaving the house). There was still a devil on my shoulder that wanted to find any small excuse to turn around.

“This is a bad idea, maybe next summer I’ll come back with a group of friends”

“What if I get out there and forgot something? I didn’t triple check my bag to make sure I had everything”

“What if I have another anxiety attack, Sarah won’t be there to help me calm down”

I clench the steering wheel and twist, making the leather croak underneath my fingers. At a certain point, I have to get past these fears and uncertainties. I’m in a dark point in my life, but I will only fall deeper if I don’t start clawing my way out now. Taking a deep breath, I took the keys out of the ignition and opened the truck door.

Fall is unpredictable in Texas, the weather has mood swings that can catch you off guard. Even in late October, we can have temperatures in the 90’s. I had changed the date of this trip three times in the past several weeks because of this. This week, a cold front had dropped temps down to the low 50’s. This, was my ideal weather for camping. If I was going to come out here and pretend to be some Alpha male wilderness man, I wanted at least some simulation of harsh conditions.

With my first deep inhale of cold fresh air, I grabbed my (almost too heavy) bag and took a look at the trailhead. My pistol is tightly harnessed on the left side of my ribs, in a holster that I bought off of amazon two days prior.

“Hamilton Trail”

The gravel crunched under my boots as I approached the trail, as I took one last look around the parking lot. I noticed there were very few other cars, especially for a Friday. While the cold is the reason I decided to camp, I imagine that it also steered others away from being outdoors this weekend. One of the trucks parked on the edge of the gravel appeared to be a park ranger, another was a Prius with plenty of stickers covering the bumper and back windshield. I couldn’t help but think about how hard the stickers would be to peel off, when they inevitably sell that car. It would probably ruin the paint if the stickers used cheap adhesives, but I digress.

The first thirty minutes of hiking were pretty uneventful, which is exactly the point of hiking for most people. Uneventful = Peaceful. Hiking is not a hobby that people are drawn to for fast paced action. It's a reminder that we are animals, a part of nature. Before smartphones and 2 hour commutes, we were once doing this on a daily basis.

I stopped and sat on a rock at the peak of my trail for a sip of water, and to try and take in the scenery. Since it was October, the grass was a mix of mostly yellow. There were small patches of green, the grass that did not yet want to fall asleep for the winter. The Live Oaks had started going dormant, and you could hear the dry sizzle of the leaves when the wind picked up. I sealed my water bottle, and froze.

In the distance, probably 200 yards ahead on the trail I saw a man. This was initially not anything out of the ordinary. These are public trails shared by many residents of this area. The presence of the man was not my concern. My concern was the way that he was walking.

He appeared to be walking with both of his legs completely straight. As if he had both of his legs in casts. It reminded me of how my toddler walks, like a stuffed animal being puppeteered towards you. But this didn’t make me feel joy, or warmness. There was something unsettling here. This man was either drunk out of his mind, or injured in some way. I took out my binoculars to look closer, trying my best to assure myself I must have seen him in an awkward position. Maybe he was stretching, or had a cramp in his leg that he was working through. Or god forbid, maybe he had some sort of ailment that made him walk differently and I am being a huge asshole.

I took one more look without the binoculars, still seeing him moving slowly in the opposite direction. Lifting one leg completely straight, using his hips to swing it around in front of him. Then he stood swaying trying to gain his balance, and then repeated the process with the opposite leg.

I raised the binoculars to my eyes, and started adjusting the focus with the swivel on the bridge that connects the two eye pieces together. Right as he came into focus, he was already out of view. There were trees that hung above the trail, and as he was walking uphill all I could see was the tiny snippets of movement through the dead leaves from the sagging branches. Up in the area the man was hiking, I heard the slight mumbling of a man speaking.

Though I have seen countless horror movies and would scream at someone for ignoring early signs of conflict, I pressed on. A dude walking weirdly is not enough of a “red flag” for me to turn around and walk back an hour and a half to cancel my camping trip. I imagined this might be an old man who is disabled, or someone who is going through physical therapy, and I caught them at an awkward moment.

I gathered my items and took a path adjacent to where I saw the man wobbling around. Even if it was a normal situation, I was not in the mood to interact with anyone. I felt like my mission was to clear my mind, a social detox if you will. My plan was to hike for another hour or two, and then find a campsite near the forested area that was downhill from where I was now.

The weather was absolutely beautiful. The sound of the grass, and leaves going from a whisper to a scream is something that I will always love. At one point, I stopped to watch some deer moving in the distance, two or three of them were running along the tree line and then made a 90 degree turn into the foliage. Slowly, vanishing out of sight.

I reached another resting point on the trail, this one gave me a view of my previous spot, but very far in the distance. I could also see the other side of the path where the man was walking earlier. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled out my binoculars again to see if I saw anything on the side of the path that was out of view earlier. I pressed my eyes to the lenses, and adjusted the focus once more.

I was immediately hit with a shot of adrenaline. The man was no longer there, but instead there was a woman standing at the base of the hill. She was rocking back and forth, almost as if she was about to vomit. Her head was rotating from side to side, almost as if it were on a timer. It reminded me of one of the stand alone fans, that endlessly twist from left to right at an adjustable speed. I zoomed in to see more details of her, and noticed that her face was frozen in an expression that looked like a snapshot of someone right before they were about to laugh. Her eyebrows were raised, eyes were wide and her cheeks were pushing into her eyes. Her mouth was closed, but she wore a grin that looked like it could bust open into a laugh at any second. I recognized the clothes she was wearing. It was a dark green uniform that the park rangers wore.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I said in a whisper.

My body was completely frozen. I didn’t want to move, and risk being noticed by whoever this was. Do the park rangers come out here and get fucked up when the park isn’t busy? Is she sick? Why is she smiling if she’s sick? Further in the distance I heard a man scream.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE” Screamed a male voice that I could not see from my current position.

His voice cracked as if the sentence had been forced out last second.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I saw the woman say, from my binoculars. She had a tone that was still audible, but not as loud as the unidentifiable man in the distance. The cadence reminded me of a child repeating something that they heard their parents say.

I ducked down, and sat with my back up against a tree on the side of the trail. I was out of view from the woman. As soon as I got still, I heard the crunching of leaves from the forest. It sounded like someone running. The timing of the crunches was unlike a normal human’s run. This sounded more like a dog running. The gallop of a four legged animal could be heard from the area I had just been previously.

Of course. Of fucking course I try to do something good for me, and I’m going to be killed by some maniac on this stupid hiking trail. I could be sitting at home, 6 beers deep and freshly showered by now. Playing rocket league in my underwear.

I take out my phone, and start to dial 911. My signal is so weak that it only shows “SOS” in the top right of my screen. No problem, this is an SOS situation so it should work right?

I clicked the green “call” button on the screen, and waited for a tone to indicate that the call was being made. I turned down my volume to nearly zero, even though the sound was only coming out of the ear speaker at the top of the phone. I waited for a noise, a voice, anything, but still only heard silence. After several seconds, the only sound heard would be the four soft beeps of the phone, letting me know that the call failed.

The leaf splashes of running continue, but seem to have slowed down in the distance. I can hear that they sound closer than moments prior.

Well, though I promised myself I wouldn’t do this - I feel like this is a legitimate reason to turn this ship around and get the fuck out of here. My only problem is I will have to turn back, and walk back from where I came in order to get out of this nightmare. And where I came from, is where the nightmare is.

I don’t have much of a choice. This is a one way trail, it does not loop around to the parking lot where I entered. Its actually, a pretty fucking dumb concept when you think about it. Is there a chance that this is a giant misunderstanding? Maybe I accidentally stumbled upon some park rangers getting drunk, or high. Who cares if that is the case? I just want to go home now. Why was I so eager to leave my wife and child to be alone in the woods?

I un-holster my pistol, and grip it in my left hand. This is probably the first time I’ve held this thing with a purpose. Most times before, I was either moving it between my dresser and under the bed, or putting it into its case. It's also just an assumption that this gun even works. I have never fired it. What if it jams? Or misfires? I keep my hand as deep in my jacket pocket as I can to conceal the weapon. Just in case this is a misunderstanding, I don’t want the roles flipped and I seem like the one that is going to rob or kill an innocent person on this trail. Slowly, I stumble to my feet and start slowly looking around. My head moving ironically, at a similar speed and motion, as the woman I saw through the binoculars earlier.

Looking back the way I came, I don’t see the woman where she was standing previously. I actually don’t see her at all, and the running sounds from the forest have gone silent. As I turned, I felt a shooting pain in my groin. Almost as if I pulled something on the way up here, but the pain was masked by adrenaline up until this point. I decided to (with my gun in hand) head back to the trailhead and try to undo this disaster I was in. I’d need to keep checking my phone periodically to see if I had a signal.

“This is all a misunderstanding” I keep telling myself. As I walk the trail, I am making an effort to be as silent as possible while also keeping an effective pace. It is 5:14pm, and if I don’t get back to my truck in the next hour or so, I will actually be royally fucked. There are no camping spots on the first half of the trek, unless I wanted to sleep on rocks or loose branches. So with a terrible attitude, and most definitely permanent hypertension I tip toe my way though the path, one straight at a time.

Thirty minutes go by with no noises, or sightings of anything that I noticed. At this point I had committed to aborting my mission, because even if I had turned around and decided to continue on I would not reach the camping spot before sundown. I have half a mind to think that I’m going insane, that I had imagined the man and the woman. After 28 years, I had finally snapped. “The Wood Took This Man’s Mind”, the YouTube documentary would be called. I’d watch it. I’ve always been a junkie for creepy, disturbing, and true crime documentaries. I remember as a kid, I had watched my first few (obviously fake) creepy videos online, and was mortified for weeks. Sleeping in my parents bed at the age of 11 or 12. Then growing older, I chase that feeling.

At this point I am making my way up the natural stairs that lead up to the top of one of the many hills, I desperately want to never see again. When I see it.

Another hiker, walking toward me down the original path that I took. He looks normal, a flannel jacket, orange beanie and large pack similar to mine. He clearly sees me as I reach the top of the hill, and gives a gentle wave in my direction. I up my pace, making no effort to be quiet any longer.

“Hey buddy, I don’t know if I’m going crazy but I would not take this path today.” I said, in a winded tone.

“I saw two people, one of them looked like a park ranger. But something is wrong out here. They were screaming, and it just seemed like something was off. I could be losing it, but I came here to camp, and I’m heading back home instead.”

I take my left hand out of my pocket, revealing to him that I was carrying a gun. I placed the gun back in my holster on my ribs. This was hopefully to show him that I was not making all of this up, not to seem threatening.

“I’ve hiked this trail before with no issue, but today there is something spooky happening.” I said while fastening my pistol holster, to conclude my speech and give this stranger a chance to respond.

I hadn't looked up at him the past several seconds, as I was re-adjusting my gear to be more fitting after making room for my gun once again. I glanced up at the man’s face, because he had not yet responded to me. When I did, I found that he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder, back up the hill that I had just walked down from. I turn around, and see them.

The park ranger woman, standing perfectly straight, staring down at us. This time with a full smile, cheeks mushing her eyes into tiny slits in her head. Her face looks once again frozen, this time as if someone had taken a picture of her right at the peak of laughter. A man is next to her, crouched down onto his hands and feet. His face is facing the ground. He holds the posture of someone that is about to throw up, but I can see from the side of his face that he is smiling. The crows feet on the side of his eyes are completely creased, and I can see his mouth is open revealing his teeth.

I take one step backwards, and again place my pistol in my left hand.

“This is them.” I say at a volume that I hope only the hiker behind me can hear.

“They were following you.” He says, in a shockingly calm tone.

“What the fuck is this?” I whisper.

I point my gun up at them.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m leaving now. I already called the police, and they’re on the way.” I stuttered. I have never in my life felt like I was in immediate danger by another person. If these are even people, this seems like some body snatcher type shit.

“Paige? What is going on? Why are you acting like that?” Said the hiker, in a stern voice.

This guy knows these people. Which makes this feel even worse, now that I am pointing a gun at someone that is potentially a friend or acquaintance of our new character in this nightmare.

“You know them?” I mutter, in a pathetic tone that clearly shows I’m all bark and no bite.

“She’s the ranger for this park, and the surrounding. I come here pretty often.” He said.

“I don’t know about you, but I suggest we both get out of here.” I said.

“I’m going to get help, Paige.” Said the hiker.

We both take a step back, and immediately the woman drops to all fours, similar to the man beside her. We freeze.

POP

I intentionally send a shot over their heads. The hiker next to me jumps, and then takes off running behind me. The two people immediately sprint on all fours in our direction. I run off of the path, and stumble into the foliage below. I am fully anticipating dying at this point. Brutal mutilation, disembodiment, everything that I’ve seen in every horror movie over the years. I head the galloping of them running toward us on the path, faster than I’ve heard any animal run in my lifetime. I hear them run past the spot where I fell, and realize that it isn’t me they are after yet.

“NOOO-” I hear the hiker scream in agony. But only for a split second. After the few seconds of screaming, there is only complete silence. I hear birds chirping, and the hiss of the trees once again for a moment. Then I hear him speak once more.

“Paige? What is going on?”.

After the death of their comrade, The Crusaders of The Cosmos call for backup. In a strange turn of events The Monster waited. He gave them time to think, to strategize. His hubris made him think no matter what they could conjure up it would matter not. He would kill every last one of them no matter what.

There is morbid silence in the air. Jacques paces back and forth, to the Crusaders’ surprise he doesn't go on the attack. He notices how one of the heroes' sidekicks, Mind boy, tried to slowly retreat. With a wave of Jacques’ hand a rifle appears from the ring on his back. The rifle flies over and gets in Mind boy's face. Jacques says with sinister malice “Nuh uh uh boy. Who said you could leave? Come here child, I wish you no harm.”

Jacques’ lighter tone towards the boy stiffens as he looks towards the Crusaders. “If any of you try to leave I'll kill 100 people. Do not test my capacity for violence.”

The heroes are stunned by his threat, MKUltria gives a subtle nod of agreement. Mind boy walks over Jacques, kneels down and says “Listen closely to my instructions. I didn’t know these heroes used children as sidekicks, so I have a job for you. I need you to round up all the sidekicks and evacuate. Remember, being a hero is about saving people regardless of what the villains threaten you with.”

Mind boy nods his head and leaves. MKUltria screams out “WHAT DID YOU TELL HIM!?”

Jacques calls back his gun with a wave of hands and says “I told him get the rest of the sidekicks and evacuate. Something you should’ve done from the start.”

MKUltria was about to speak, but as the words were about to leave her lips a group of beings descended from the sky. Theriphim the Nephilim, a gargantuan woman with a healing ability and incredible strength. Lord Psyclone, a man who can control the weather. Finally the Ascendant, a man who has been blessed by all of the gods who reside in heaven. This man is their champion and far exceeds any human due to the gifts brought upon him. Jacques is not phased by the blue skinned man. He says. “I am the Ascendant. The one mortal above all of mankind. The pinnacle of creation. Perfection manifest. I am-”

Jacques lets out a loud and hearty laugh. “I couldn’t care less what a blue-tinted wannabe god has to say. Let alone letting you go on and on about how much more powerful you are than humans. I just don’t care.”

“I care not for a lesser being's consideration. I wonder why you want to hunt us. It seems like a diabolical task to uphold.”

“You are usurpers. Deceivers. None of you are heroes, just federation puppets.”

“And yet you act like killing a man in cold blood makes you anything more than a villian.”

That last comment made Jacques blood boil as he then says, “I’m the only hero left.”

He begins to charge but suddenly stops. He freezes in place as his arms slump towards the floor and his eyes gain a silver hue. The Ascendant smiles and says, “Great job MKUltria now, find his weakness while we maim him.”

She walks around his mind, the creaky wooden boards making this place resemble a dark house. She notices behind her a pitch black silhouette with big red eyes marching toward her.. This thing resembles… Jacques! Terrified, she opens a door nearest to her. She opens a door that leads to a house. She sees a young boy with his parents. She quietly watches as the mother walks over to the young boy and says, “Listen my son, and listen well. Evil will always exist, whether it be a thousand foot tall kaiju or a normal sized man, but with that being said good will always outlast the evil, heroes will rise up no matter the circumstance.”

The boy looks up at his mother and says “But Mother the Galactic Federation outlawed heroes, didn’t evil already win?”

The mother chuckles softly and says, “Oh mon fils, do you really think me and your father will let anything bad happen to you or this world?”

“You’re right, mother.”

MKUltria walks out of the room as the mother and son embrace. She thinks to herself why does he hate us if his parents were heroes? As she continues to walk down the hallway that makes up his mind she feels something. A looming presence, she turns around and sees an all black figure with red eyes, it has the exact same figure as Jacques, marching to MKUltria leaving everything behind it a crumbling rubble.

To Be Continued…

Grass was a luxury in Salinas. A farm town, its fields were reserved for the likes of lettuce, artichokes, and strawberries rather than the beautiful Kentucky Bluegrass covering the outfield of the local ballpark. Acreage was precious, lives and livelihoods depended on it, but baseball was funny that way. The grass was worth it.

The park wasn’t anything special - it was no Fenway or Wrigley or Ebbets - but it was theirs. It was something.

I had moved to the California town the year before to cover sports in the Central Valley. I spent the war years covering the likes of Malmady and the Bulge for Stars and Stripes and saw enough carnage for ten men. I had more than enough of the real world. I wanted to watch baseball.

The Salinas Spurs were the local ball club, an independent. Its players were made up of local standouts, migrants, and veterans who still held on to their dreams of making it to the big leagues. They weren’t good. It didn’t matter. Baseball was alchemical like that, transforming even the most basic summer day into something magical.

I decided to cover the team from the cheap seats. It was purer than the press box. You could see everything. The diamond shining bright with emeralds, rusts, and chalky whites. America’s pastime on display. 

The Spurs were playing a Mexican traveling team from Tabasco, the Planteros. None of the players were of note, but they played as a team. They hit for contact, rather than power, and advanced runners, scoring earling in the second inning to go up by a couple of runs. 

The home team rallied back in the fifth with a bases-clearing double by way of the clean-up hitter, a Mexican by the name of Miguel, to start a two out rally for four runs.

The Planteros would counter with a solo shot in the seventh.

I looked around the field during the stretch and took in the crowd. Kids who had paid for nosebleed seats now sat behind the dugout, park attendants watching on as sympathetic bystanders who had once been young themselves. Large clouds hung in the sky with the promise of rain later, but for now it was like God wanted them to keep playing. So they did.

The score held through the eight and into the ninth. The Spurs led four to three. I looked to the bullpen as the closer, Carl Chapman, warmed up, preparing to end the game with a win.

Chapman was a nasty piece of work. An Okie through and through who headed West to California with his older brother at the peak of the Dust Bowl. They made their money hustling braceros out of their hard earned wages pitching at cans sitting on fence posts. Knock the can off and you win, miss and lose a day’s work. Carl was a natural. 

I’d heard watching Chapman pitch before the war was a thing of beauty. His control was the stuff of local legend. A rare talent that could go pro someday; especially if the Giants came out West like the rumors said. He could have been a Young, or maybe a Wagner, if the cards had been in his favor. 

However, God has a cruel sense of humor and the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, sending the world to war. The older Chapman enlisted that afternoon and died months later in a training accident, the younger was drafted and sent to the Pacific.

He fought the Japanese at Midway and Guadalcanal, taking a bullet to the shoulder. His throwing shoulder. Surgery saved his life, but ended his prospective career before it could start. Now bone scraped against bone, wearing away the architecture of the shoulder with each throw. Shoulder blades, aptly named, sawed through the tendons that once served him.

He fought through the injury at first. Sympathetic pharmacists sold him speed and morphine to ease the pain and work the muscles. It worked for a season, maybe two, but the drugs were only a temporary salve. The shoulder was a ticking time bomb.

This season had been his worst for the Spurs. Once a great starter, he was moved to the bullpen on the team’s last road trip. Chapman didn’t take the news well. For a starter to be demoted was like putting a horse out to pasture. His days were numbered.

I watched Chapman rage as he threw another warm up pitch. He huffed and snorted like a caged bull about to be let into the ring, no doubt the speed. I almost felt sorry for him at that moment. I had seen soldiers shot in Europe and imagined him lying in the sand bleeding,  far away from the beautiful grass growing between us. He threw another pitch, a curveball, and grimaced.

However, I couldn’t help but notice that the control was still there. The ball moved through the air the way he wanted it to. It was as if the ball danced on a string. He was an artist on the mound.  It was beautiful. 

Finally, the bullpen phone rang and the pitching coach answered. He nodded to Chapman like a corporal telling a soldier to jump off the duck boat in order to storm the next beach.

It was time.

Chapman walked across the outfield on his way to the mound at a snail’s pace where others ran. Again, he was a piece of work, operating by his own rules instead of the sacred unwritten rules of the game. He’d pitch on his own time.

As he walked I considered the role of the closer as a whole and wondered if Chapman could fit the bill. He ran hot where most were cool, streaky rather than consistent, and broken where the best were unyielding. The job was to hold onto leads. I didn’t know if Chapman could cut it. Three outs were a tall task.

Chapman finally got to the mound and dug in for the inning, using his foot to scrape the dirt away from the bump to create leverage for his delivery. He stared down the plate sixty feet away and scowled at the batter.

From my seat I could see the hate in his eyes for the batter, a Mexican. Chapman was a notorious bigot. He hated blacks, the Japanese, and even some whites - depending on their views of the papacy. He hated the Mexicans most of all. He blamed them for taking Okie jobs during the war after his fellow Oklahomans were drafted to fight overseas. This hate even extended to his teammates, especially his catcher, who was Guatemalan; though Chapman never cared to learn the difference.

Baseball, for all of its beauty, is a strange sport. To the casual fan the game is played as a team,  it’s harder than that.. In reality, baseball is  nine against one. An entire  team versus a single batter trying to put the ball into play, a feat so Herculean even the best fail more than not. In a game of percentages, thirty is otherworldly.

Chapman’s first pitch was a strike, a fastball that painted the upper right corner of the zone, freezing the batter.

I looked around at the crowd between the pitchees. Enraptured, men and women sat at the edge of their seats, waiting to see what Chapman would do. The second pitch did not disappoint - a breaking ball disguised as a four-seamer. A wicked thing of beauty. He led the count. No balls, two strikes. 

The batter raised a hand, calling for a timeout, and  took a step out of the batter’s box. He spit a wad of chew tobacco into the dirt and took a few practice swings as well, killing time as he tried to read Chapman’s eyes, looking for any sort of advantage. If he saw something it was imperceptible from the stands. He wound up and delivered the pitch. This time the batter was ready. He swung from his heels and made contact with the ball, sending it flying towards the outfield with the crack of his bat. Chapman’s eyes narrowed as he turned around, watching the ball carry past him into the gap. A base hit.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, the sound like a punch to the gut. The tying run was on first base, the winning run coming to the plate. Chapman seethed on the mound. He was in pain. I wondered whether the drugs were wearing off or if his shoulder had finally pitched its last, but he gritted his teeth and raised his glove for the ball. 

Chapman caught the ball with a frustrated swipe of his glove. He looked at it in his mitt like a parent about to scold a rowdy child, like it didn’t behave as expected. I’d never seen this from Chapman before. This was new. 

The next batter stepped into the box. A southpaw with long arms and a wide stance. Chapman spat into the dirt, less out of habit and more out of disdain. He squinted at the plate from the mound, looking to the catcher for a signal. He shook his head and scowled at the catcher. He didn’t like the call. He’d pitch what he wanted to throw.

The pitch was wild - inside, but much too deep. The ball clanged off of the backstop with a metallic thud. The runner at first bolted for second without hesitation, sliding safely into second before the ball could be fielded. A runner in scoring position.

Chapman slammed his fist into his glove. I watched as the frustration erupted out of him like steam from a kettle. A smattering of boos rang out from the crowd, tired of the poor performance. This wasn’t the Chapman the crowd had hoped for. This man was falling apart, teetering on the edge of collapse.

I looked to the dugout, to the manager watching the game with a professional gaze. I wondered if he’d make another change at the mound. Someone younger, a fresh face. For now, he stood silent. 

Chapman collected himself on the mound. The pitch was only a ball. He was still in control here. The game was still in his hands. 

His next pitch was conservative. A fastball outside. Something to get back on track. The batter swung hard and contacted the pitch, sending it into the stands. A foul ball. A strike. An even count. Chapman took a breath and steeled himself for another pitch. I knew he was in pain despite his best efforts to present otherwise.

He wound up and fired, the ball streaking towards the plate like it was shot from a rifle towards the inside of the plate. The batter flinched. Another strike.

The crowd roared with approval, stomping their feet against the metal bleachers, rattling the stands.

One ball. Two strikes. One to go.

Chapman stepped off the mound and called for the ball. He took it with both hands, grinding it into his palms. His shoulder must have been throbbing, a white-hot knife twisting deeper into his flesh. He turned, walked back to the mound, and took a proud stance. He’d stay in the game. 

At the plate, the batter stretched his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the bat. A smirk spread across his face as he called out to Chapman in Spanish, igniting something ugly in the pitcher. Chapman spat again, yelling something inaudible to the batter, no doubt a slur, before winding up and throwing the critical pitch in at bat. 

It was a curveball. A high arcing pitch that broke as it approached the plate. The batter hesitated for just a moment, barely long enough for Chapman’s pitch to break a little more before his swing. He was too late, missing the ball completely.

Strike three. 

An out.

I looked around as the crowd exploded, a wave of shouts and cheers rolled through the stands. Chapman stood on the mound and looked up with a smirk. This was still his game. 

However, Chapman’s celebration was short-lived. Another batter stepped into the box - a pinch hitter, a kid from Tabasco who hadn’t played all night. The crowd quieted, sensing the tension. The rainclouds from before hung low, now heavy and threatening.

He wound up and pitched the ball - high and tight, a purposeful ball aimed to intimidate, brushing him back a few feet. The kid stepped back, startled but unbroken. He glanced back at Chapman, his eyes steady. The crowd murmured. They sensed the shift. Chapman glared back, I could see his hatred simmering, feeding into the ferocity he needed to unleash.

The next pitch was a changeup, designed to bait the hitter into swinging early, but he short armed it and the kid was patient. Another ball. The tension in the air was palpable as the batter tightened his grip on the bat. Chapman’s scowl deepened, as he began to lose his composure. He wiped the sweat from his brow and steeled himself for the next pitch. The crowd held its breath. 

This time the pitch was a splitter that drifted to the inside. The young batter swung and made contact, sending the ball into the outfield for a routine fly ball to right field.  The fielder, eyes locked onto the ball as it arched against the gray sky, shifted back before catching it for the second out of the inning.

But the play wasn’t over. Chapman watched it unfold, fists clenched at his sides. The runner at second tagged up, and he was up easy before the cutoff throw made it to the base. The tying run now at third.

Chapman’s face twisted with rage as he returned to the mound, the anger radiated off of him like a heatwave on a summer day. He was an animal trapped in a cage, wanting to thrash against the bars but too weak to do so. Whatever he had taken before the game had worn off. I knew it. All he had left was his throwing arm, connected to a failing shoulder that could give at any second.

 I tried to collect myself as the next batter walked to the plate with purpose. For a moment I had never gone to Europe. I had never seen the evil war brought out of men. I was a boy watching a game. Top of the ninth, two outs, the equalizing run at third with a potentially winning run at home. At this point it had started to drizzle. It was a warning from the clouds that no matter what the game would be over soon. 

 I was surprised by how much I found myself caring for Chapman. He was a bastard through and through, but I couldn’t help it. There was too much wrapped up between the laces of his glove.

 The tension on the field was palpable. The air felt thick with electricity from the gathering storm. Something was coming. I could feel it. 

Chapman stared down the new batter, this time a huge behemoth of a man. Their catcher. He had strutted up to the plate with the swagger Latin players were famous for, the kind that could only make Chapman even more angry. The pitcher’s brow furrowed even deeper, his face unable to mask his fury and desperation. He wiped the sweat from his brow again, his body tense. The crowd seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable climax. 

By this point I had thrown away all journalistic integrity, I was a kid again, swept away by the beautiful game. Despite my best efforts, I was a fan. A fanatic. Hoping against hope that this would be the moment where Carl Chapman, the Okie legend who had clawed his way back to baseball after the war, would finally leave Guadalcanal behind and reclaim his waning glory.

Chapman wound himself up, a motion was almost beautiful despite his injury. As he threw the ball I could see the hitch in his delivery, a tell of the toll the game had taken on him. The throw shot from his arm like a bullet, straight towards home plate, but something wasn’t right.

A fastball. The ball flew towards the plate. Right down the middle. The batter swung and made contact. The crack of it was deafening, resonating like a gunshot across the stadium. Instantly, we all knew what had happened.

I watched as the ball soared higher and higher across the field and into the stands behind the field. The crowd gasped all at once, exhaling all the hope they had been holding in their chests the seconds before. We all watched on. Helpless.

The outfielders stood in their positions, motionless. The moment seemed to drag on forever, taunting all of us as the batter threw his bat into the air in celebration before walking to first base, then to second. The Planteros celebrated from their dugout, their cheers piercing through the silence in the stands.

A walk off homerun. The game was over.

 Meanwhile on the mound I watched Carl stand as a broken man with his arm hanging uselessly at his side. His shoulder finally broken beyond repair. I could see the fire that once burned in his eyes, the anger, the rage, and the hate, flicker out, replaced by tired apathy. I knew that his dreams had shattered with the swing of that bat, splintering against the painful reality of his broken body.

 I packed my notebook away, its pages filled with noted and half-formed thoughts. I looked back to the field and saw Chapman walk slowly to the dugout, taking in what we all knew was the last outing of a tragic career. He had been bigger than life itself. Now he seemed small, vulnerable even. A mortal.

The clouds finally opened up as I walked down the street towards the exit. The rain began to fall from the sky, and I thought about the crops surrounding the stadium. They needed the rain. So did the bluegrass.

As I stepped into the elements, I felt a sense of closure wash over me, mixed with the scent of wet earth. Summer would soon come to an end, and another pitcher chasing the same dreams, the same folly, would take Chapman’s place. I thought about how many dreams must be buried under the dirt of the pitcher’s mound, and whether or not Carl would be remembered at all. But for now, the grass would continue to grow in the outfields of Salinas, California, and that was enough. 

He had long since forgotten his first name, that crude sound scratched into the throat by ancestors whose voices echoed through the savannas. They had called him something, surely, back in the time when the first bold feet left the cradle of their kind and scattered across the vast, virgin world. But names were fleeting, and he had borne so many since then: Nahash in the lands of Eden, Ka-tset in the red hills of the Anasazi, Paulus in the shadow of Rome’s seven hills.

He had seen kingdoms rise like summer storms and fall just as suddenly, their ruins left to rot beneath the march of time. Empires etched into stone faded, yet he endured. He was a shadow in the annals of history, ever-present but never named. A ghost walking among the living, immune to the wounds that felled kings and unyielding to the diseases that devoured empires. The years clung to him like morning dew, cold and unshaken.

In the years most men die, his flesh had betrayed him. It stopped its decay, halting time’s inexorable grip. At first, he thought it a blessing. He fought beside Ramses at Kadesh, the Pharaoh’s golden chariot blazing under the Syrian sun, and his wounds knit themselves as if by magic. He stood at the temple steps in Jerusalem as a man was nailed to wood, the ground shaking as if God Himself had looked down in fury. He whispered riddles into the ears of conquerors and prophets, nudging the course of men as one might steer a plow through soft earth.

But there was no blessing in eternity, only the hollowing of centuries. He wore faces like masks, slipping into the skins of those who could not fathom his endurance. A merchant in Samarkand. A priest in Milan. A scholar in Al-Andalus. Always moving, always shedding his past before suspicion could fasten its claws upon him.

When the stars became reachable, he marveled as humanity tore itself from the dirt and ascended into the black. Yet, as they sailed the void, they changed. They grew taller, their spindly limbs stretched by artificial worlds. Their faces became alien, their skin iridescent in ways no sunlight could explain. He remained as he had always been: a relic of ancient flesh and blood, tethered to a form that had long since ceased to represent humanity.

For centuries, he wandered the ruins of Earth, left behind like forgotten scaffolding after the great cathedral had been built. His kindred, those few who remained with faces like his, were no more than bones beneath the ground. The cities were overgrown, and the wind whispered through broken spires. He spoke to no one, saw no one. The loneliness was an ache that no time could dull.

It was in the five thousandth year of his solitude that they found him.

He was in what had once been Tokyo, now a lattice of silver trees and glassy lakes. His fire burned low, its smoke curling into the heavens, and he stared into its heart as if the flame might answer the question that had gnawed at him for millennia: why?

The sound of footsteps startled him, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. He turned, and they stood before him—a creature with a face that was not a face. It had no eyes, yet he felt its gaze pierce him. Its form shimmered, translucent and tall, a being sculpted by evolution’s long patience in the void.

“You are old,” it said, the voice a symphony of tones, like wind chimes and whispers.

“I am the first,” he replied, his voice rough from disuse.

“And the last.” The creature tilted its head, studying him. “You are a story forgotten by your own kind.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I remember them all.”

For hours, they spoke, the immortal relic and the being that had surpassed him. He told it of Sumer’s ziggurats and the bloodied sands of Hastings, of Newton’s revelations and the burning fields of Stalingrad. In turn, it spoke of stars he had never seen, of civilizations so vast that they spanned entire galaxies.

When the dawn broke, pale and strange, the creature stood. “You do not belong here, old one,” it said. “But your story deserves to be remembered.”

He looked at the fire, now embers. “Then take me where I might be forgotten no more.”

And so they left the Earth, the last man borne away into the heavens, his tale no longer bound to the soil where it had begun.

CW: A child dies in my short story, and another one died before it started.

Children were often told a tale, inside the forest separating the towns of Faywood and Gloomoor, there lay a Guardian. It was said they could grant any request, but at a price.

A young boy named Rein entered the forest. He had a clear goal, bring his brother, Wren, back from the dead. Wren had given his life for Rein just a week earlier so he felt he only had one option, to seek out the guardian.

He walked for hours as shadows deepened and the forest grew silent. Then, when he had almost given up all hope of finding the Guardian, he saw a light. It was tiny, barely visible, but Rein decided to follow it with a childish curiosity. He followed the light for some time, and it grew, until finally, it took on the shape of a human being.

Rein knew that this was the Guardian and without hesitation, he requested, "Please bring my brother back to life."

"Every life taken must be exchanged for a life yet to live," the Guardian explained, expanding into a towering figure casting light upon their dark surroundings. But Rein only looked at him, head tilted in confusion.

"Somebody must die for your brother to live. Are you ready to make that sacrifice?" they continued.

"Then take my life." Rein answered, "Wren saved me, so please, bring him back in my place." He believed he understood the sacrifice he was about to make.

"Very well then. When you're ready, take my hand," the Guardian explained, reaching out a hand that seemed almost human.

As Rein reached out visions filled his mind. He saw his studio, sunlight streaming in through the window onto his paintings, children playing by his side and a beautiful figure standing nearby watching over him with love in their gaze. Days and years he would never get to experience, but he lived it all without his brother. Yet as the faces lingered, his best friend, his future lover, his children, his resolve wavered.

"Take my hand now, or the forest will claim whoever you love the most," the Guardian warned.

Though doubt flickered inside Rein, he firmly grasped the Guardian's hand. Rein felt an instant warmth spread through him, comforting and almost welcoming. As soon as it appeared it was replaced by the most biting cold that stole his breath. More flashes of a life unlived came before his eyes, but he didn't regret his decision.

And finally, after seven seconds of numbing coldness, Rein was gone. In his place stood Wren, his breath misting the air. There was no sound, the entire forest went silent as Wren stood there, wrapping him in a cold and dark blanket.

The moment the Guardian summoned him, Wren understood what his brother had done. Grief and gratitude twisted inside his heart, but he clenched his jaw. With quiet determination, he vowed to live his life to the fullest and find a way to bring his brother back from the Guardian's grasp. It was the least he could do.

And with that, he ran back home to tell his parents of the sacrifice. Though he would not stay, there was work to be done. He resolved to join the alchemist's guild, where he hoped to find the answers.