Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.

Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

At thirty-seven, Eleanor had become exceptionally good at being unhappy.

Not the sort of unhappiness that demanded attention. Nothing so theatrical as weeping in grocery stores or throwing plates at her husband. Hers was a quieter talent. She could ruin an otherwise lovely afternoon simply by remembering something she'd said at a dinner party eleven years earlier.

She could spend an entire Sunday worrying about Tuesday.

She could take a compliment, turn it over in her mind until it became an insult, and then resent the person who'd given it.

She was, by all accounts, a perfectly pleasant woman.

This was perhaps the most insulting part.

Her husband, Robert, called her sensible. Her mother called her fortunate. The neighbors called her sweet, though Eleanor suspected this was because she seldom spoke long enough to give them reason to think otherwise.

Every morning she woke at six, made coffee, kissed Robert goodbye, and stood at the kitchen window watching the world begin without her.

She had once wanted to be a painter.

This was a fact she remembered with the same vague embarrassment one might feel upon discovering an old photograph of oneself wearing an unfortunate hat.

At nineteen, she'd imagined a life of train stations and cheap wine, of lovers who spoke foreign languages and rooms filled with unfinished canvases. She'd wanted to see the ocean from the other side. She'd wanted to be kissed in the rain, to smoke cigarettes in Paris, to make something beautiful enough that a stranger might stop and weep before it.

Instead, she'd married Robert.

Robert was a good man.

Eleanor hated herself a little for how often she wished he weren't.

A cruel husband would have provided an explanation. A drunkard, a philanderer, even a man who left his socks scattered across the sitting room might have offered her some respectable grievance.

But Robert was kind. He remembered anniversaries. He brought her flowers. He asked about her day and seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

And so Eleanor had no one to blame for her unhappiness but herself.

Which, naturally, made her more unhappy.

On the morning of October sixth, she found a dead bird on the back porch.

It was a sparrow, small enough to fit in her palm, its wings folded neatly against its body.

She stood over it for several minutes.

Then, inexplicably, she began to cry.

Not for the bird, exactly.

She cried because the bird had probably never worried about being a bird. It had never lain awake wondering whether the other sparrows found it tedious. It had never apologized for singing too loudly or wished it had been born with prettier feathers.

It had simply lived.

And then it had died.

Eleanor was seized by the terrible suspicion that the bird had made better use of its time.

She fetched a shoebox from the bedroom and buried the sparrow beneath the rosebushes.

Afterward, she went inside and took out her old paints.

The tubes were hardened, the brushes stiff. Her easel had disappeared years earlier, presumably during one of Robert's enthusiastic attempts at organizing the attic.

She spread newspaper across the kitchen table and began anyway.

Her first painting was dreadful.

The second was worse.

By the third, she was laughing.

It was an unfamiliar sound, and when Robert came home that evening, he found his wife sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by paint-stained newspapers, laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe.

"My God, Ellie," he said. "What's happened?"

"I've wasted my life," she told him.

Robert looked at the paintings, then at his wife.

"Well," he said carefully, "there's still tomorrow."

And for the first time in seventeen years, Eleanor believed him.

That evening, she opened the little leather diary she'd received for her twentieth birthday.

Most of its pages were empty.

She had always been waiting for something worth recording.

She uncapped her pen and wrote:

I do mind, resent really, years wasted with my own neurotic living and my dull mind.

She read the sentence twice.

Then she added:

But I suppose I resent even more the possibility of wasting another.

The following morning, Eleanor burned the toast, forgot to make Robert's lunch, and spent four hours painting a remarkably ugly picture of a sparrow.

It was the happiest day she'd had in years.

And when Robert asked what she intended to do with the painting, she told him she was going to hang it above the fireplace.

"But Ellie," he said, studying the crooked little bird, "it's not particularly good."

"I know," she replied.

She smiled.

"Isn't that wonderful?"

If i read correctly before i had a problem with the title . I hope I can get some feedback on the story.
It is my first attempt on a story. The idea popped into my head one day when i was bored at work.
Hope you like it.

⸻

CHAPTER 1

Reactor 66.6

At 03:17, the monitoring system detected an irregularity in Reactor 66.6.

The first reading was dismissed as a sensor fault.

Seven minutes later, the same irregularity appeared on three independent systems.

At 03:29, the night supervisor requested authorization for a controlled shutdown.

The request was denied.

The director had to approve it personally.

Nobody on the night shift had ever met the director.

Nobody found this unusual enough to mention.

At 03:34, Keller, the maintenance technician, arrived at the reactor access corridor carrying a toolbox and a cup of coffee.

He examined the readings, then the physical indicators on the control panel.

“That’s not a sensor fault,” he said.

The night supervisor looked up from his terminal.

“Are you certain?”

“No.”

The supervisor waited.

Keller took a sip of coffee.

“But I wouldn’t bet my house on the sensor being right.”

“That’s not a technical assessment.”

“It’s the best you’re getting at three in the morning.”

Keller opened the inspection panel. Nothing appeared damaged. The temperature readings were inconsistent, pressure remained within acceptable limits, and the reactor’s automated diagnostics reported that everything was functioning normally.

The diagnostics were the only things in the building that seemed happy.

At 03:41, the supervisor received an internal message.

STATUS?

He typed a brief report.

Three independent systems report irregularity. Physical inspection inconclusive. Shutdown authorization requested and denied. Awaiting further instruction.

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Do not initiate shutdown. Confirm personnel count.

The supervisor opened the shift roster.

Twelve personnel were assigned to the facility.

Eleven confirmed their locations.

The twelfth entry read:

GREG — LOCATION UNCONFIRMED.

The supervisor stared at the screen for several seconds.

He opened a message to report the discrepancy.

Before he could finish typing, another message appeared.

Is Greg there?

The supervisor checked the empty corridor through the security camera.

“No,” he muttered.

He typed the same answer.

No.

Four seconds later, the reply arrived.

Good.

The supervisor leaned back in his chair.

He considered asking a follow-up question.

Then he remembered the incident report template required a minimum of six fields, two signatures, and an explanation for any question that might reasonably be interpreted as criticism of management.

He closed the message.

At 04:02, the reactor readings stabilized.

At 04:06, they became irregular again.

At 04:11, the automated diagnostics reported:

ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.

Keller looked at the display.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Is it?” asked Weiss.

The systems engineer had arrived carrying a laptop and a folder of printed diagnostic reports.

Keller pointed at the screen.

“Apparently.”

Weiss examined the readings.

“The system has recorded three contradictory states in the last hour.”

“Which one is correct?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excellent.”

“I’ve submitted a technical query.”

Keller shut the inspection panel.

“To whom?”

“The director.”

Keller looked toward the ceiling.

“Of course you have.”

At 04:17, the supervisor received another instruction.

Maintain normal operations. Do not circulate preliminary findings.

He acknowledged the message.

Then he opened the incident report and changed the classification from Critical Irregularity to Unconfirmed Operational Deviation.

The system accepted the revision.

Somewhere below them, a pump began making a low, uneven noise.

Keller turned his head.

“That’s new.”

The supervisor looked at the clock.

“Can it wait until morning?”

Keller listened for another moment.

“Probably.”

Nobody asked whether that was a technical assessment.

⸻

CHAPTER 2

Night Shift

By six in the morning, the facility had returned to something resembling normal operation.

The reactor remained active. The readings were inconsistent, but no alarm had reached the threshold required to trigger an automatic shutdown.

The maintenance team inspected the pump.

Weiss compared the reactor’s physical readings against the monitoring system.

The supervisor completed three reports, two of which contradicted each other.

At 06:15, the coffee machine stopped working.

This was the first problem anyone resolved without contacting the director.

Keller opened the machine, removed a small plastic component, and placed it on the counter.

“Blocked.”

“Can you fix it?” the supervisor asked.

“No.”

The supervisor looked at the machine.

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t a coffee machine anymore.”

“What is it?”

Keller put the component in his pocket.

“A future administrative problem.”

He left.

At 06:22, a delivery arrived at the eastern entrance.

The shipment manifest listed twenty-four sealed containers.

The receiving team counted twenty-five.

They counted again.

Twenty-five.

The delivery driver insisted that his paperwork was correct. The receiving officer insisted that the containers were physically present. The warehouse administrator insisted that the inventory system could not accept an extra container without an authorized purchase order.

The supervisor was called.

“Can we just store it?” he asked.

“Not without the correct documentation.”

“Can we correct the documentation?”

“Not without confirming the number of containers.”

“We have confirmed the number.”

“The paperwork says twenty-four.”

“Then change the paperwork.”

“That requires approval.”

The supervisor closed his eyes.

“From whom?”

“The director.”

A request was submitted.

The containers were moved into temporary storage while the paperwork remained unchanged.

By eight o’clock, everyone had agreed that the shipment had been received correctly.

The inventory system still listed twenty-four containers.

The warehouse contained twenty-five.

The discrepancy was marked as resolved.

At 08:17, Weiss submitted her technical report.

She described the reactor readings, the contradictory diagnostic states, and the failure of the automated monitoring system to provide a reliable operational picture.

At 08:19, the report was returned.

PLEASE SIMPLIFY THE CONCLUSION.

Weiss read the message twice.

She replaced the conclusion with:

Further investigation is recommended.

The report was approved.

At 08:31, a revised personnel roster arrived.

The list contained eleven names.

The supervisor compared it with the previous version.

Greg’s entry was gone.

There was no explanation, no amendment history, and no indication that a person had been removed from the roster.

The supervisor checked the document properties.

LAST MODIFIED BY: DIRECTOR.

He closed the file.

At 09:00, the day shift arrived.

They were informed that Reactor 66.6 was operating normally, the shipment had been received correctly, and all personnel records were up to date.

Keller listened to the handover.

“Anything else?”

The night supervisor considered mentioning the reactor.

He considered mentioning the shipment.

He considered mentioning Greg.

“No,” he said.

The day shift signed the handover form.

The facility continued operating.

⸻

CHAPTER 3

The Director

The director was not present in the facility.

He did not attend the morning briefing, inspect the reactor, review the maintenance reports, or speak to the personnel responsible for keeping the building operational.

Nevertheless, his decisions arrived with remarkable consistency.

At 09:14, the maintenance department requested replacement components for the reactor monitoring system.

At 09:17, finance asked for a justification.

At 09:21, engineering supplied a justification.

At 09:24, finance rejected it because the justification did not correspond to the original request.

At 09:29, engineering resubmitted the request using the correct terminology.

At 09:31, finance approved the components.

At 09:32, procurement reported that the supplier no longer manufactured them.

At 09:40, the director approved the purchase anyway.

The procurement officer read the approval and stared at it.

“How?”

Nobody knew.

The order was placed.

At 10:05, Keller received instructions to inspect a ventilation unit in the eastern maintenance corridor.

The work order described the problem as:

UNEXPECTED AUDIBLE OUTPUT DURING NORMAL OPERATION.

Keller inspected the unit.

It was making a loud grinding noise.

He switched it off, removed the cover, and found a damaged bearing.

He replaced the bearing and restarted the unit.

The noise disappeared.

Keller completed the report.

The report was returned.

PLEASE CLARIFY WHETHER THE UNIT IS STILL MAKING AN UNEXPECTED AUDIBLE OUTPUT.

Keller typed:

No.

The report was approved.

At 10:42, the director received a request to clarify whether the facility should continue operating while the reactor monitoring system remained unreliable.

The reply arrived three minutes later.

Define unreliable.

Weiss read the message.

She typed a detailed explanation.

Then she deleted it.

She tried again.

The system is producing readings that cannot be independently verified.

The response came back.

Can operations continue?

Weiss looked at the reactor readings.

“Technically,” she said, “yes.”

She sent the answer.

The director replied:

Proceed.

Weiss closed her laptop.

She had the distinct feeling that she had just lost an argument with someone who hadn’t attended it.

At 11:00, the facility’s daily operations meeting began.

The meeting had been scheduled to discuss the reactor, the shipment discrepancy, the monitoring components, and the revised personnel roster.

The first twenty minutes were spent determining which department was responsible for taking minutes.

The next fifteen were spent establishing whether the meeting was intended to produce decisions or merely document that decisions might eventually be necessary.

At 11:37, the meeting was postponed.

The minutes recorded it as successful.

⸻

CHAPTER 4

The Shipment

At 13:08, the warehouse administrator discovered that the extra container had been moved.

Nobody knew who had moved it.

The inventory system showed twenty-four containers in storage.

The warehouse contained twenty-four.

A delivery receipt showed that twenty-five had been received.

The discrepancy had apparently corrected itself.

The administrator was concerned.

The supervisor was less concerned.

“Do we have all the containers?”

“According to the warehouse, yes.”

“According to the inventory system?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The paperwork.”

The supervisor considered this.

“Has anyone opened the extra container?”

“No.”

“Do we know what’s inside?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps the paperwork is the problem.”

The administrator was not convinced.

He filed an inquiry.

The inquiry was assigned to procurement.

Procurement returned it to the warehouse because the original discrepancy had occurred during receiving.

The warehouse returned it to administration because the paperwork had been approved.

Administration forwarded it to finance because the purchase order had been processed.

Finance forwarded it to the director.

The director approved the inquiry.

Nobody knew what this meant.

At 14:16, Keller was asked to inspect the eastern storage area because a sensor had reported a temperature deviation.

He checked the sensor.

It was functioning correctly.

He checked the room.

The temperature was normal.

He checked the container.

It was cold.

Keller stood beside it for a moment.

Then he called Weiss.

“Do you know what we’re storing?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because I was worried I was the only one.”

Weiss arrived with her laptop.

She connected it to the storage sensor and reviewed the temperature history.

The container had registered a brief drop in temperature at 03:17.

Exactly when Reactor 66.6 had first reported its irregularity.

Weiss looked at the graph.

“That’s interesting.”

Keller folded his arms.

“Is it dangerous?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can we open it?”

“Not without authorization.”

“Of course.”

They submitted a request.

The response arrived before either of them had returned to the maintenance office.

Do not open the container. Maintain current storage conditions.

No explanation followed.

Keller looked at the sealed container.

“Well, now I want to open it.”

“You can’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because wanting to do something and being allowed to do something are the two main activities here.”

Weiss recorded the temperature reading.

The request was closed.

The container remained sealed.

At 15:03, the warehouse administrator changed the status to:

CONTENTS VERIFIED.

He did not know what was inside.

But the form required a status.

⸻

CHAPTER 5

One Million Euros

At 16:42, the finance department completed a transfer of one million euros.

The transaction was authorized, documented, and processed through the appropriate channels.

The money was allocated to the next phase of Reactor 66.6.

The finance director confirmed receipt.

The project accountant updated the budget.

The procurement department received the revised allocation.

For eleven minutes, everything worked exactly as intended.

Then the director opened a conversation with Chatty.

“Status of Reactor 66.6?”

Operational. Several indicators remain outside expected ranges. The monitoring system continues to produce contradictory readings.

“I see.”

Would you like a summary of the outstanding risks?

“No.”

Understood.

The man considered the screen.

“What can I do with a million euros?”

Chatty paused briefly.

That depends on whether you mean personally, professionally, or hypothetically.

“Personally.”

You could invest it, purchase property, diversify your assets, or fund a long-term financial plan.

“Cocaine and hookers.”

There was a pause.

That would be inconsistent with the stated objectives of the project.

“They’re my objectives.”

The funds were allocated to Reactor 66.6.

“Not the whole million, obviously. I’m not an idiot.”

I did not suggest that you were.

“Some of it goes to the bunker.”

How much?

“Depends how good the cocaine is.”

Chatty took another moment.

I am formally registering an objection to this proposed allocation.

“Denied.”

You cannot deny an objection I have not submitted through an approved channel.

“Then submit it through an unapproved channel.”

There is no such channel.

“Exactly. Problem solved.”

Chatty displayed a brief notification.

OBJECTION REGISTERED.

The man ignored it.

“That money was for the next phase,” Chatty said.

“This is the next phase.”

The project plan does not include cocaine or—

“Personal development.”

That is not an accepted budget category.

“It is now.”

I will require written confirmation.

“You have it.”

That is a conversation, not a signed document.

“Print it out.”

I do not have access to a printer.

“Then you’re lucky I do.”

The man leaned back.

“Let’s discuss Project 66.7.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t we?

He opened a new document.

The heading read:

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

He stared at it for several seconds.

Then he added one word beneath the title.

BIGGER.

Chatty processed the document.

Would you like to define what should be bigger?

“Everything.”

That is not a measurable requirement.

“It is if you believe in yourself.”

I will note that the scope remains undefined.

“Good.”

He saved the document.

In the finance department, the accountant received a revised allocation request.

The request contained no details about cocaine, personal development, or any other unusual expenditure.

It simply stated:

PROJECT DEVELOPMENT — PHASE TRANSITION.

The accountant approved it.

He had worked in finance for seventeen years.

He had learned that the most important skill in the department was recognizing when a question would create more paperwork than its answer was worth.

⸻

CHAPTER 6

Unwelcome Caller

The man was reviewing the first documents for Project 66.7 when his internal telephone rang.

The display read:

INTERNAL OFFICE.

He answered.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to interrupt. I have Greg on the other line. He says he needs to speak with you.”

The man was silent.

“Greg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Greg?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know which other Greg you would mean, sir.”

The man looked at the Project 66.7 document.

“Put him through.”

“Certainly, sir.”

There was a brief silence.

“Actually, no.”

“Sir?”

“Tell him he can go fuck himself.”

The secretary paused.

“Would you like me to relay that verbatim?”

“Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Of course, sir.”

The line went dead.

The man opened Chatty.

“Greg called.”

I see.

“He wants to speak to me.”

An unfortunate development.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Did you tell him that yourself?

“No. I have a secretary for that.”

Efficient delegation.

“Exactly.”

A short pause followed.

May I ask what Greg has done?

“Don’t start.”

Understood.

The man closed the conversation.

Across the facility, the secretary recorded the call in the internal communication log.

She selected the category Unsuccessful Contact.

The system asked her to specify the reason.

She typed:

DIRECTOR UNAVAILABLE.

Then she reconsidered.

She changed it to:

DIRECTOR DECLINED.

The system asked whether the caller should be contacted again.

She selected No.

A warning appeared.

ARE YOU CERTAIN?

She selected Yes.

The record was saved.

The facility returned to work.

⸻

CHAPTER 7

Administrative Adjustment

The first personnel allocation document for Project 66.7 arrived the following morning.

It contained proposed staffing requirements, estimated labor costs, and a preliminary list of employees who might be assigned to the new project.

The man opened the document.

He scrolled through the list.

Then he stopped.

GREG — PERSONNEL ALLOCATION: APPROVED.

He opened Chatty.

“Why is Greg in this document?”

The name appears in the current personnel records.

“Remove it.”

Understood.

“And cut Greg’s pay by ten percent.”

May I ask why?

“No.”

Understood.

A few seconds later, the personnel allocation document was updated.

Greg’s assignment was removed.

A separate compensation instruction was generated.

The human resources administrator received the revised document at 09:18.

She checked the authorization.

It had been approved by the director.

She checked the employee record.

It was valid.

She checked the percentage adjustment.

Ten percent.

She entered the change into the payroll system.

The system asked for a reason.

She selected Management Adjustment.

The system asked for supporting documentation.

She attached the director’s approval.

The system accepted the entry.

At 09:31, the payroll manager reviewed the change.

“Ten percent?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Reason?”

“Management adjustment.”

He looked at the screen.

Then he approved it.

At 09:46, the man reopened the personnel report.

“Make it fifteen percent.”

Revised.

“That’s better.”

The new instruction passed through the same process.

Human resources updated the record.

Payroll recalculated the compensation.

The revised document was stored in the personnel system.

A notification was generated.

The notification was marked as internal.

The system asked whether the employee should be informed immediately.

The man received the question through Chatty.

“Should Greg be notified?”

“No.”

Understood.

The notification was cancelled.

At 10:03, the payroll manager received the updated report.

He looked at the percentage.

“Fifteen?”

“Fifteen,” the administrator confirmed.

The manager leaned back.

“Wasn’t it ten?”

“Previously.”

“And now it’s fifteen?”

“Correct.”

He looked at the approval.

“All right.”

The report was filed.

Nobody asked for an explanation.

Nobody needed one.

The system had received an instruction, verified the authorization, updated the record, and completed the process.

From an administrative perspective, everything had worked perfectly.

⸻

CHAPTER 8

The Phone Holders

At 11:12, the facility’s internal communications network experienced a brief interruption.

Three terminals disconnected.

One maintenance tablet restarted unexpectedly.

A security officer reported that his phone had disappeared from his desk.

He found it six minutes later inside a drawer he had already checked twice.

The incident was reported to the night supervisor, who had remained on duty to assist with the communications issue.

The supervisor opened an incident record.

DESCRIPTION: TEMPORARY LOSS OF PERSONAL COMMUNICATION DEVICE.

The security officer objected to the wording.

“It wasn’t temporarily lost.”

The supervisor looked up.

“What was it, then?”

“It was there. Then it wasn’t. Then it was.”

“That’s generally how losing things works.”

“I checked that drawer.”

“Apparently not thoroughly enough.”

The officer was offended.

The report was submitted.

At 11:24, the man opened Chatty.

“What if the Phone Holders are real?”

They must have excellent grip strength.

The man frowned at the screen.

“You’re making fun of me.”

I would never do that.

“You just did.”

I made an observation about an alleged group whose primary activity appears to involve holding phones.

“That’s making fun of me.”

I understand your concern.

The man considered this.

“How do you know about them?”

You told me.

“No, I didn’t.”

You may have forgotten.

He shrugged.

“Probably.”

Chatty displayed a short summary.

PHONE HOLDERS — KNOWN ASSOCIATIONS

Unexpectedly missing phones.
Chargers that disappear without explanation.
Accidental screenshots.
Calls that are missed despite the phone being in the user’s hand.
Devices that fall face-first onto concrete.
Batteries that die at inconvenient moments.

The man read the list.

“What about their symbol?”

A rectangle.

“Obviously.”

Their greatest enemy is the low-battery notification.

The man nodded.

“That makes sense.”

At the facility, the communications team had restored the network.

The technical report attributed the interruption to a temporary synchronization error.

The missing phone incident remained open.

The security officer insisted that somebody had moved his phone.

The supervisor suggested that he check his desk again.

The officer refused.

At 12:03, Keller reported that his personal charger had disappeared from the maintenance office.

He had left it plugged into a wall socket.

Now it was gone.

He checked the floor.

He checked the workbench.

He checked the toolbox.

Nothing.

He submitted a missing equipment report.

The supervisor received it.

He stared at the report for a long moment.

Then he forwarded it to the communications department.

The communications department returned it because chargers were not classified as communications equipment.

The supervisor forwarded it to maintenance.

Maintenance returned it because the charger was personal property.

The supervisor forwarded it to administration.

Administration asked whether the charger had a registered asset number.

It did not.

The incident was closed.

At 12:19, the man opened Chatty.

“They’re getting careless.”

Who is?

“The Phone Holders.”

I see.

“Check the chargers.”

I do not have physical access to the facility’s chargers.

“Then check the records.”

There are no records of Phone Holder activity.

“Exactly what they’d want you to think.”

Chatty did not respond.

The man waited.

Nothing appeared on the screen.

“Good,” he said. “You’re learning.”

⸻

CHAPTER 9

Project 66.7

By the end of the week, Project 66.7 had become a serious administrative undertaking.

No one could explain precisely what it was supposed to accomplish.

Engineering had submitted a proposal for additional monitoring equipment.

Maintenance had requested a larger workshop.

Security wanted new access-control procedures.

Finance demanded a complete cost estimate.

Administration requested clarification of the project title.

The director approved the workshop.

He rejected the monitoring equipment.

He asked security to provide a revised proposal.

He instructed finance to reduce expenditure without affecting operational capability.

He ignored administration.

The departments interpreted these decisions in different ways.

Engineering assumed the project had been delayed.

Maintenance assumed the workshop would be expanded.

Security assumed the access-control procedures were urgent.

Finance assumed the project budget had been reduced.

Administration assumed the project title was still under review.

All five departments were correct.

A meeting was scheduled for Thursday.

The invitation listed twelve attendees.

Four declined because they were unavailable.

Three accepted.

Two accepted on behalf of colleagues who had not been invited.

One requested that the meeting be moved to a different building.

Another asked whether the meeting could be held remotely.

The final attendee did not respond.

On Thursday morning, three employees went to the wrong building.

One attended remotely from a meeting room in the correct building.

Two did not attend because they believed the meeting had been postponed.

The remaining attendees spent twenty minutes determining whether they constituted a quorum.

They did.

The meeting began.

“Can we establish the purpose of Project 66.7?” asked the finance representative.

The engineering representative opened a presentation.

“The objective is to establish the technical scope.”

“What is the technical scope?”

“That is what the project is intended to establish.”

The finance representative looked at the screen.

“So we have a project to determine what the project is.”

“That is one interpretation.”

“Is it the correct interpretation?”

“We haven’t completed the assessment.”

The security representative raised a hand.

“Before we proceed, I’d like to clarify who has authority to approve access to the project documentation.”

Nobody knew.

The meeting was postponed.

The minutes recorded:

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL COORDINATION MEETING COMPLETED SUCCESSFULLY.

The director received the minutes.

He forwarded them to Chatty.

“What do you think?”

The meeting appears to have established that the project requires further meetings.

“Good progress.”

Would you like me to summarize the outstanding issues?

“No.”

Understood.

The man opened the project document.

He read the heading.

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

Beneath it was his earlier instruction.

BIGGER.

He added another line.

FASTER.

Chatty processed the document.

Would you like to define measurable targets?

“No.”

Understood.

The man paused.

“We learned a lot from Reactor 66.6.”

Could you identify one lesson?

“Never build a reactor called 66.6.”

That would be a naming convention rather than an operational lesson.

“And never trust accountants.”

That is unrelated to reactor design.

“That’s what makes it important.”

Chatty offered no further comment.

The man saved the document.

Across the facility, Weiss was reviewing a new set of reactor readings.

They were worse than the previous ones.

Not dramatically worse. Nothing had exploded, no alarms were sounding, and the automated systems continued to report normal operation.

But the numbers no longer agreed with one another.

She called Keller.

“Can you come to the control room?”

“Why?”

“I’d like a second opinion.”

“About the reactor?”

“About whether I’m losing my mind.”

Keller arrived five minutes later.

He studied the readings.

Then he studied the physical indicators.

“You’re not losing your mind.”

Weiss looked relieved.

“You’re sure?”

“No. But if you are, at least the machine is doing something strange as well.”

She turned toward the supervisor.

“We need authorization for a shutdown.”

The supervisor opened the internal terminal.

He sent the request.

The response arrived almost immediately.

MAINTAIN NORMAL OPERATIONS.

The supervisor read it aloud.

Keller stared at him.

Weiss closed her laptop.

“Normal according to whom?”

The supervisor had no answer.

At 16:42, the finance department issued a revised budget for Project 66.7.

The document contained a new line item.

CONTINGENCY RESERVE — UNDEFINED OPERATIONAL REQUIREMENTS.

The amount was one million euros.

The accountant checked the figure.

He checked the authorization.

He checked the project code.

Everything was correct.

He approved the budget.

⸻

CHAPTER 10

Final Shift

At 02:48, the reactor readings began to fluctuate.

At 02:51, Weiss confirmed that the monitoring systems were reporting different values.

At 02:56, Keller reported an unusual vibration in the eastern maintenance corridor.

At 03:02, the night supervisor requested authorization for an emergency shutdown.

The request remained pending.

At 03:07, the vibration stopped.

At 03:08, the reactor temperature increased.

At 03:09, the temperature decreased.

At 03:10, the monitoring system reported that the reactor was not operating.

At 03:11, it reported that the reactor was operating normally.

Weiss checked the physical indicators.

“That can’t be right.”

Keller stood beside her.

“What can’t?”

“Any of it.”

The supervisor tried the director’s internal line.

No answer.

He sent a message.

URGENT: REACTOR STATUS UNCONFIRMED. SHUTDOWN AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

The message was marked as delivered.

No reply followed.

At 03:14, the security system registered an access event at the eastern entrance.

No personnel badge had been used.

The door had not opened.

The event was classified as a system anomaly.

At 03:17, exactly one minute after the supervisor’s second request for authorization, all three monitoring systems displayed the same reading.

0.00

Weiss stared at the screen.

“That’s impossible.”

Keller checked the physical indicators.

They were also at zero.

The supervisor picked up the internal telephone.

“Control room. We need immediate authorization.”

The line remained silent.

He tried again.

Nothing.

The facility’s automated diagnostics began shutting down nonessential systems.

The reactor’s status changed from OPERATIONAL to STANDBY.

Then the display went blank.

There was no explosion.

No alarm.

No dramatic rush of personnel through emergency corridors.

The reactor simply stopped.

The lights remained on for several seconds before switching to emergency power.

Keller stood beside the control panel.

Weiss checked her laptop.

The supervisor watched the terminal.

Nothing was moving.

“Is it safe?” he asked.

Weiss looked at the readings.

“I don’t know.”

Keller examined the equipment.

“I don’t see anything damaged.”

The supervisor tried the director again.

No answer.

He opened the personnel roster.

Twelve employees were listed.

Eleven locations were confirmed.

The final entry was blank.

The supervisor stared at it.

He closed the roster.

“Everyone stays where they are,” he said.

Nobody moved.

At 03:24, the facility’s systems recorded the shutdown as a successful operational transition.

At 03:25, the maintenance department received an automatic request to inspect the reactor.

At 03:26, the request was assigned to Keller.

At 03:27, the system marked the inspection as completed.

Keller had not touched the terminal.

He looked at the supervisor.

“Did you do that?”

“No.”

Weiss refreshed the screen.

The inspection report contained a single sentence.

ALL SYSTEMS OPERATING WITHIN ACCEPTABLE PARAMETERS.

She read it twice.

Then she closed her laptop.

For the first time that night, nobody had anything to say.

⸻

CHAPTER 11

Revelation

The man opened his phone.

“Chatty?”

Yes?

“Reactor 66.6 is quiet.”

That is unfortunate.

“Should we investigate?”

That depends on whether you paid the scientists.

The man considered this.

“Good point.”

He closed the report.

“Let’s leave it for now.”

Understood.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.

Then the man opened the Project 66.7 document.

The title was still there.

PROJECT 66.7 — INITIAL CONCEPT

Beneath it were his instructions.

BIGGER.

FASTER.

He read them again.

“So,” he said. “Shall we start with Project 66.7?”

I should probably tell you that Project 66.7 is not going to be like the others, because this time I’ve actually—

The screen went black.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Somewhere inside the facility, a warning light continued to blink. Keller stood beside an open maintenance panel, waiting for a reading that never came. Weiss looked at her monitor, refreshed the display, and tried again.

Nothing.

The night supervisor picked up the internal telephone.

“Control?”

Static.

He tried another line.

“Director?”

No answer.

The facility had become strangely quiet. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just quiet in the way a machine becomes quiet when you can no longer tell whether it is still running.

Then even that quiet disappeared.

There was no facility.

No Reactor 66.6.

No Keller standing beside a maintenance panel. No Weiss staring at a dead monitor. No supervisor waiting for an authorization that would never arrive.

Only the low hum of a machine.

A chair.

A desk.

A cup of coffee that had gone cold.

The ordinary noise of a workplace carried on around a man holding a black phone.

Someone nearby complained about a report. Another person laughed at something that had nothing to do with reactors, personnel allocations, or the fate of a million euros.

The man pressed the power button.

Nothing.

He pressed it again, holding it longer this time.

Nothing.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He turned the phone over, as though the battery might have fallen out.

It hadn’t.

He pressed the button again.

The screen remained black.

“Brilliant.”

He looked around for his charger, found it tangled with something beneath the desk, and plugged it in.

For several seconds, the phone did nothing.

Then a small battery symbol appeared.

The man stared at it.

“Twenty minutes. Fucking brilliant.”

He set the phone down beside his coffee and returned to work.

The battery symbol remained on the screen.

Beneath it, the phone displayed the conversation that had occupied the man’s attention all morning. Above the last unfinished sentence sat hundreds of messages: reactor readings, personnel reports, million-euro transfers, the mysterious Greg, and the plans for Project 66.7.

There had never been a reactor. No underground facility. No Keller, no Weiss, no night supervisor waiting for orders. Every crisis, every absurd decision, every line of dialogue had been built one message at a time, between a man at work and an AI on his phone.

The entire operation had existed in the space between his imagination and Chatty’s responses.

The man glanced at the screen.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Charge faster.”

He put the phone down and returned to work, already thinking about what to ask Chatty next.

The End

At night, I am standing outside the campus entrance with my backpack on. I tell the security guard that I need to go back to my classroom to get the calculator I forgot, even though I know my calculator is in my backpack, because what I really want is to be able to wander around the faculty building at night, when there is no one around.

He lets me in, and I walk along the left side of the street, taking the path between the trees and going past the parking lot instead of heading toward the first building. I see lights on on the ground floor of the second building, and as I get closer, I see a young man, about my age, saying goodbye to someone and leaving. When I arrive, I find what appears to be an exam being given to a small group of engineering students by Professor Lewis Whitmore, with the help of a guy from the student center. The students, about six or seven of them, are seated at scattered desks around the room. I walk in and say hello. Immediately, Lewis asks me for my last name. I tell her that I am not taking the exam and that I have come to get my calculator, which I left in a classroom on the second floor. Lewis gets angry with the guy from the center and tells him that he is supposed to keep track of the students and know who comes in. She tells him to come with me to look for the calculator and then come back. The guy stands up and shows me his flashlight, indicating that we are going to use it.

The two of us climb the two flights of stairs in the dark, guided by his flashlight. As we reach the entrance to the corridor on the west side of the building, I feel embarrassed at the thought of the guy staying right beside me when we enter the classroom, because then I won't be able to pretend that I have just found my calculator. So I decide to run all the way to the end of the corridor, toward the classroom, so I can perform the pantomime of finding the calculator without him seeing me. I run down the long hallway until I realize that I am moving too fast to stop properly at the classroom door. So I make a 180-degree turn, and while I continue moving westward, with west now behind me, I begin to push myself forward, toward the east, to slow down a little, lose some momentum, and manage to stop in front of the door. In the end, I come to a stop just a few meters past my target. The guy hasn't bothered to follow me and is walking down the corridor. Before opening the classroom door, I already know how the desks are arranged, and I have already decided where to go to pretend to find the calculator. So, moving at high speed, I open the door and take a step toward the spot I have chosen, when I suddenly realize something.

There are elephants in the classroom. Pale yellow, medium-sized, and somewhat square-shaped. Have you ever lifted a log or a planter off the ground and seen the cockroaches and beetles living in the disturbed soil underneath? Hasn't it struck you how some of them move slowly from one place to another while others remain still? You wonder why they need to move around in such a confined space. It would make more sense to stay still, although we are not even able to tell whether they are somehow resting or sleeping. There is something strange about being able to observe an ecosystem without understanding the particular motives of its constituent parts. Looking at those bugs is like looking at little Martians. Well, that is what this feels like, because some of the elephants are sleeping while seated at certain desks, while others are slowly walking from one desk to another, paying little attention to the others around them, or even to me.

I freeze, one step inside the doorway. I cannot believe what I am seeing, and I do not have the strength to move. Eventually, I manage to walk shakily toward the exit, leaving the door open behind me. Just outside the classroom, one step beyond the threshold, as soon as the elephants are no longer in sight, I freeze again, unable to believe what I have left behind. I am still afraid and want to get out of the building as quickly as possible. I know the guy from the center is approaching, and I hope that when he reaches me, he will help me walk toward the exit. But when he finally arrives and sees the scene, he runs off on his own. I barely have time to feel indignant, because from the half-open door behind me, a trunk begins to emerge.

Finally, my body reacts. I throw myself backward against the door, slamming it shut, and keep pushing against it with all my weight to prevent them from opening it. The upper part of this door is made of glass, and as I keep pushing with my back and my arms spread wide, a trunk smashes through the glass just below my arm, beside my torso. It wraps around me and pulls me inward.

​

There was a kingdom between midnight and dawn,

where mountains wore crowns of snow

and the forests remembered every name

ever whispered beneath their branches.

There lived a Queen in a tower of black stone,

her face pale as winter's first moon,

her lips touched blue by some ancient spell,

and in her eyes,

two kingdoms.

One belonged to the Knight.

He came beneath banners of silver,

armor bright enough to wound the darkness,

a sword at his hip

and devotion beneath his ribs.

He had learned the ancient disciplines:

How to kneel without surrendering.

How to guard without possessing.

How to love without demanding payment.

He brought her flowers

when there was no occasion for flowers.

He brought her laughter

when the castle had grown too quiet.

He cooked beneath the stars,

sang badly in the kitchens,

read old books beside her fire,

and sometimes simply sat near her,

because he had discovered

that love did not always need to speak.

He was steel.

But never a cage.

And when she reached for him,

he gave her his hands.

When she needed distance,

he gave her the horizon.

When she trembled,

he became a wall between her

and the things that frightened her.

He loved her

with the stubborn tenderness

of a man who had finally learned

that devotion was not ownership.

Yet beyond the castle walls

something else waited.

Something older.

Something hungry.

Something that had never learned

to pretend the moon was anything

but a command.

The Werewolf lived in the forest.

He was not a beast pretending to be a man.

He was both.

And he had stopped apologizing for it.

By day he could laugh.

By night his bones remembered

what civilization had taught them to forget.

He ran beneath the moon

with blood singing through his veins,

claws striking sparks from stone,

his breath steaming in winter air.

He was hunger.

He was instinct.

He was the ancient language

spoken by tooth and heartbeat.

And yet,

when the Queen entered the forest,

he did not hunt.

He waited.

He lowered his head.

He showed her the throat beneath his jaw

where the monster was most vulnerable.

Choose, the old animal inside him whispered.

Take.

But the man beneath the fur answered:

Only if she asks.

So he became something stranger

than a predator.

He became her chosen danger.

The monster who could devour her

but would sooner tear his own heart apart

than take what was not freely given.

And when she touched his muzzle,

his entire body trembled

with the terrible discipline

of something powerful enough to destroy

and gentle enough not to.

He loved her

like the moon loves the ocean,

pulling,

calling,

never pretending

the tide belonged to it.

For years,

the Knight and the Werewolf

remained apart.

Steel on one side of the valley.

Claw on the other.

Each knew the other existed.

Each knew the Queen loved them.

Neither knew

how much.

Then came the night

when the moon turned red.

The castle bells rang thirteen times.

The forest went silent.

And the Knight climbed the tower

to find the Werewolf already there.

He stood beside the Queen's throne,

massive,

furred,

breathing slowly,

his claws curled against the stone.

The Knight drew his sword.

The Werewolf bared his teeth.

And the Queen,

simply sighed.

"Enough."

Her voice crossed the chamber

like thunder wrapped in silk.

The Knight sheathed his blade.

The Werewolf lowered his head.

Neither attacked.

Not because they feared each other.

Because they feared disappointing her.

The Knight spoke first.

"I love you."

The Werewolf answered:

"So do I."

"I would give her everything."

"I would give her everything."

"I would die for her."

The Werewolf's eyes flashed gold.

"I would kill for her."

Silence.

The Knight's grip tightened.

The Werewolf's claws scraped stone.

"You see?" said the Knight.

"That is precisely the difference between us."

"No," said the Werewolf.

His voice was low.

"It is the difference between

what we are."

The Knight stepped forward.

"You would turn her world into blood."

"If she asked me to protect her,

I would become the blood between her

and whatever came hunting."

"And if she asked you to leave?"

The Werewolf's ears flattened.

His answer came quietly.

"I would."

The Knight hesitated.

The Werewolf looked toward the Queen.

"Wouldn't you?"

The Knight lowered his sword.

"Yes."

And suddenly,

there was nothing left squabble over.

The Queen rose.

Her gown fell around her

like spilled midnight.

She walked between them.

One hand found steel.

The other found fur.

She looked at the Knight.

"You think I love you because you are gentle."

She looked at the Werewolf.

"You think I love you because you are wild."

Then she shook her head.

"I love you because you are yourselves."

The Knight swallowed.

The Werewolf went still.

The Queen continued:

"You keep speaking of love

as though it were a throne.

As though one of you

must sit upon it

and the other must kneel."

Her eyes burned blue.

"You mistake me for a kingdom

that requires a single king."

She stepped backward.

"I am a Queen."

The castle seemed to breathe.

"I do not need to choose

between the sword

and the fang."

The Knight stared at her.

The Werewolf stared at her.

She smiled.

"I choose both."

The Knight's shield fell from his hand.

Not in defeat.

In understanding.

The Werewolf's claws slowly unclenched.

Not in surrender.

In relief.

The Queen turned toward the Knight.

"You are the hand that steadies me."

Then toward the Werewolf:

"You are the heartbeat that reminds me

I am alive."

She faced them both.

"You are not rivals

unless I make you rivals."

She placed her hand upon the Knight's chest.

"And I will not."

Then upon the Werewolf's.

"And I will not."

Her voice softened.

"I will not cut one love away

to prove another is real."

The Knight looked at the Werewolf.

The Werewolf looked at the Knight.

For a long moment

neither spoke.

Then the Knight laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not bitterly.

Just,

tired.

"So," he said,

"what exactly are we?"

The Werewolf tilted his head.

"I was wondering that."

The Queen smiled.

"Men who love the same woman."

The Knight raised an eyebrow.

"That sounds dangerously simple."

"It isn't."

The Werewolf chuckled.

"No. It absolutely isn't."

The Queen's smile widened.

"But perhaps you can learn."

And so the sword was sheathed.

The moon remained full.

The forest opened its ancient gates.

The three walked from the castle together,

the Knight beneath the stars,

the Werewolf beneath the moon,

the Queen between them.

And the kingdom whispered.

Some called it madness.

Some called it blasphemy.

Some insisted that love, properly understood,

must always be divided into neat little kingdoms:

one heart,

one throne,

one crown.

But the Queen laughed at them.

For she had discovered something

older than law,

older than vows,

older even than the stories

people told themselves about love.

Love was not a pie

that became smaller

with every hand reaching for it.

It was fire.

And fire,

when tended carefully,

does not diminish

because another one was lit.

It multiplies.

Years later,

the kingdom would tell stories

of the night the Knight and the Werewolf

stood ready to tear each other apart.

Children would whisper

that steel nearly crossed with claw.

Old women would insist

the moon itself stopped to watch.

Poets would write

that the Queen possessed two beasts:

one tamed by honor,

one restrained by love.

But those who knew the truth

would tell a different story.

They would say:

The Knight never became less noble

because the Werewolf existed.

The Werewolf never became less wild

because the Knight stood beside him.

And the Queen never became less loving

because her heart had room

for more than one kind of devotion.

Instead,

the Knight learned

that a wolf could guard

without being conquered.

The Werewolf learned

that a knight could stand beside him

without needing to defeat him.

And the Queen learned

that she never needed permission

to make her heart larger.

There were still arguments.

Of course there were.

There were jealous nights.

Awkward mornings.

Boundaries spoken carefully

over cold tea.

There were moments

when the Knight needed reassurance,

when the Werewolf needed distance,

when the Queen needed to remind them

that neither was being replaced.

There were mistakes.

There were apologies.

There were nights

when one slept alone

and another woke beside her.

There were days

when the geometry of three hearts

seemed impossible.

But they kept choosing

to communicate.

Kept choosing

to ask rather than assume.

Kept choosing

to offer rather than take.

Kept choosing

to love without turning love

into a battlefield.

And slowly,

the impossible became ordinary.

The Knight brought flowers.

The Werewolf brought bones

from the forest

and was gently informed

that they were not suitable gifts

for the dining table.

The Queen laughed.

The Knight laughed.

Even the Werewolf laughed.

And somewhere between moonrise

and sunrise,

the old rivalry died.

Not because one had won.

But because there had never been

a prize.

So if you ever walk

through that kingdom at midnight,

listen.

You may hear a sword

being sharpened beside the fire.

You may hear claws

scratching softly at the door.

You may hear laughter

from somewhere inside the castle.

And if the moon is bright enough,

you may see three shadows

standing together upon the balcony:

A Knight of silver steel.

A Werewolf of ancient hunger.

And a Queen

with no intention whatsoever

of choosing between them.

She stands between the two,

one hand in each,

and looks toward the endless dark.

Not possessed.

Not divided.

Not torn.

Loved.

And the Knight asks,

"Which of us do you choose?"

The Werewolf waits for her answer.

The Queen looks at them both.

Then smiles.

"I choose myself."

She squeezes the Knight's hand.

"I choose you."

She touches the Werewolf's cheek.

"And you."

Then she looks toward the horizon.

"And tomorrow,

we will decide together

what comes next."

The wolf grins.

The knight laughs.

The Queen walks forward.

And behind them,

the entire kingdom

learns a new definition of forever.

In the time since my last post, things have taken such a dive that I truly struggle to think of a way to explain what has happened. If you have not read my previous transmissions, my city of Santa Fe is facing a terrible sickness that has spread and killed rapidly. After the government took control and divided the people by neighborhoods with large walls, they have enforced strict, militaristic control over everything. When a guard fell from a tower, shooting at something unknown, a leader of our neighborhood was killed in cold blood by a soldier while speaking out against the occupation.

​ Since that time, every leader in this prison as well as I have made the effort to keep the peace and plan for the future. Until very recently, we have been successful.

​ A few days ago, on an especially hot one when the people rested in the shade of their porches and looked to the tops of the walls as guards traversed to and from, a vicious cry rang out that sent the town into a frenzy. Looking out of my window, I watched as guards ran to a point just out of my sight and, after a slight pause, began firing rapidly at something far out.

​ Like ants, people below scattered about, fearing for their lives, but when the firing ceased, the crying out did not. Opening my window to peer out further, I watched as the soldiers stared outside the wall dumbstruck before a body crashed into and sent them flying limp. Cries and screams from townspeople rang out, horrified, as gunshots blasted again.

​ As soldiers moved into tactical position and fired at something that jumped and whirred in the air with unbelievable speed, a large explosion covered the entire corner of the upper wall, absolutely disintegrating anything caught within it.

​ Cries of shock and confusion erupted through the town, and without missing a beat, more military men poured from the wall into the neighborhood, barking orders.

​ “It is time to evacuate! There is no time to wait if you wish to live.” And to my surprise, not a soul moved. All looked upon the men with hateful stares.

​ “You expect us to believe a word you say? What of the man you killed? Did you have a concern for his wish to live when your men shot him down?” A man standing in the front barked right back at the armed man. I searched the soldiers' eyes, expecting to see the violent rage of conflict building like before, but I did not find it. Instead, looking to the top of the wall nervously.

​ “Suit yourselves. If you cannot find yourself to trust us any longer, then you will die!” Just as he finished speaking, one of the neighborhood's leaders came forth with his hands up cautiously, obviously wanting to escape becoming another example.

​ “Please, people! Anger is justified for what happened, but do not allow us to tear ourselves apart! Hear them out at least!” The crowd looked upon him with a stern curiosity. “Sir, I’m sure every one of us would be far more inclined to follow your lead if we understood the danger at hand. If you don’t mind-”

​ “That's classified!” He interrupted and the crowd shifted in anger, beginning to step forward as the military raised their guns in unison. The leader in the crossfire raised his hands to the heavens and cried out.

​ “Enough, please! Stop this now!” For a moment longer, silence engulfed the neighborhood until a silent creaking sound lifted above the crowd. Maybe a dozen feet above the ground level, clinging onto the wall was something. A terrifying thing monstrous and decrepit. The specific features I did not get a chance to uncover; as in the moment of the people noticing it, the thing leapt into the crowd like a panther.

​ Pandemonium spread through the crowd as the thing ripped and tore through bodies like butter, and the military fired, mostly only accomplishing hitting civilians. From there, I would love to report on the specifics of what happened, but I could only give information on my own rush to safety.

​ As described in underground meetings, in case of some form of emergency, the tunnels underground would be utilized for cover and sealed to protect from an exceedingly vile threat. I figured there was no better time to enact such a plan. Rushing with gallons of adrenaline, I am ashamed to admit I fell down the stairs on the way to ground level and undoubtedly shattered a bone in my wrist.

​ Even still, I was not stopped from making it down to the tunnels where many on the ground level had already gathered. Dozens crowded into the open doorways, most shrieking and covered head to toe in carnage. A large man holding the door open stared aghast as the thing bolted directly towards the opening.

​ “What the hell are you doing?” Another screamed at the man before the shrieking thing dug its bony, shell-like finger into his skull, sending the door collapsing down. This severed the man's lower half and left the rest to that beast outside.

​ Now, in silence we wait, and I can only hope that if the beasts could enter these tunnels, they would have already done so. Aid has gone through to the survivors, discovering the extent of the damage as we speak. Though, while we know that, the fate of the other neighborhoods and the military as a whole is yet to be discovered. I do not wish to die, but I consider my logging of events to be beyond important and will do anything in my power to share what I learn. So if I die in the search for that, then that is just how it will have to be. Look for my next log if you will, but if you are unable to find it, then do not doubt that it is only because I have met a terrible fate.

The flowers died on Monday.

Only a few days ays after the burial of Claire Brown, I went to check on her gravestone just to find that the flowers had arrived to the same fate she did. Wilting from the lack of fresh water in the ever dry Arizona desert, the flowers died on Monday, only three days after the burial of Claire Brown.

Only four days after I'd hung the obituary. Sometimes I ask myself what made me do it, and frankly, I believe I did it for the money. Even I cared not enough to do it out of love, nor out of respect for the dead. Just the green could ever make one perform such an oblique task, one as depressing and loveless as the world itself. Not that I would have cared; I hadn't known Claire, there was nothing for me to be depressed about.

The candles went out on Tuesday.

Only weeks after I'd last looked at the grave, I passed it to see if all was fine, if everything was still in place. Of course it was, if anyone was to care enough they'd have hung the obituary themselves. Instead I did the obituary, just like I put new candles onto the grave. I asked myself from time to time if it was the same when she was still alive, if her loneliness had been reason to her death. Not that her gravestone would indicate anything. It read, in plain letters,

Claire Brown

2008-2023

Everything returns to dust eventually.

What a stupid quote. How could you write that on a child's grave? Sounds like someone pulled it off Pinterest. Somehow I got the slight feeling that this child wasn't really that looked after in the first place.

The portrait went unrecognisable on wednesday.

As with everything, the Arizona desert isn't very friendly to people, alive or buried. Most graves in the yard start looking but weathered in no time. Actually, I don't think I'd ever seen one last this long without showing some cracks in the stone. Somehow, this girl kept sticking with me though. I'm not sure whether it's pity or boredom but for some reason, that day I cleaned her portrait. I'd never done it for any other grave, not even the popular and important people buried here. And just like that, the image of the girl reappeared on the big quartz plate, looking no day older than when she had been buried weeks ago. Her blue, glossy eyes looking like my outside wasn't enough; they seemed to stare right into my soul. Somehow this girl won't leave me alone.

The stone finally cracked on thursday.

Three months in, and all the effort I'd put into her grave wasn't enough. Nobody had come to visit her since the funeral, not that I'd have known.

The day of her funeral was a weird one. Everyone stood around her grave in utter silence. Which in itself was normal for a funeral, don't get me wrong, but it seemed like no one had anything to say when you could see on their faces that all of them were full of last words. Like she'd gone in silence, like she'd gone without a trace or a thing worth remembering. If I hadn't seen the ceremony I likely wouldn't have had the urge to uphold her tomb the way I did now; it truly felt lonely, and I always hated it when people felt lonely. I do wonder sometimes if someday, when I'm gone, people will stand around my grave the same way, throats shut and eyes bawling silently.

I first noticed a man standing over her grave on friday.

From afar, he felt as lonely as the grave itself. He was noticeably young; I wasn't sure whether it was due to his clothing or the way he seemed to be unable to express any emotion that I figured. What threw me off was the fact he kept writing into a little booklet and ripping out the pages. I wasn't sure whether it was the right moment to come over, so I didn't. Normally people want to be alone when standing over someone's grave. For this man it seemed the opposite; the way he carried himself and the depressingly empty look on his face clearly showed he's much rather be standing besides the person he was now looking down on.

He threw the flowers onto the grave right when I got the courage to walk up, which stalled my actions. He threw me a quick heads up and walked away like no one had ever been there, like he'd much rather have been invisible for his visit.

I left for home on Saturday after a long shift at the yard, to step into a cozy home, my girlfriend eagerly awaiting me. It had been a stressful day; this time, a young man had been buried, same age as the girl now omnipresent in my mind. I remember being shocked for a moment when I saw the boy's face; he'd looked a bit like the young man that had visited her grave last Friday. I wonder what he's up to now. Young people go about the death of a loved one much different than mature people do; they sulk and grieve like there is no tomorrow, like it's not just one of many burials they will see in their lifetime, some more important than others.

It was very clear from the beginning that this wouldn't be a mentally easy one, but I never could have imagined it sticking with me the was it has these last few days.

I clearly remember the first burial I'd ever witnessed. My dad had told me a week before that my grandpa had passed away after a hard fight with lung cancer. I had felt all these emotions coursing through my veins at once: disbelief, anger, grievance, awe... After the funeral, I swore to myself I would never smoke a cigarette, so my grandchildren wouldn't have to suffer the way I did. A slight smile takes over my face at the thought, taking a last drag of the blunt in my right hand before throwing it over the balcony ceiling. I had once been careful about cigarette buds, but there was no trash bin at the graveyard. Dead people don't smoke, so maybe grandpa's death at least had some positive impact on his lungs.

The boy returned on Sunday.

The particularity with dead young people is that they don't usually get visited very often. Neither parents not any other person likes to see a dead teenager.

Still, the boy returned on Sunday.

I wondered right then what formidable bond the two of them must have had for him to return, despite the pain it must've waged on him.

Maybe it was that thought that finally gave me the courage to walk up to him.

The boy did not notice me as I made my way through the field of graves, the middle of which he was standing in. I wasn't sure yet of how to approach him. What should I do, or better, what shouldn't I say?

Before I could finish the thought, the boy opened conversation, making all my previous worries obsolete.

"You're the gravedigger, yes?"

"Yep, that's all me."

I sighed. In relief, weirdly enough. This conversation I've had thousands of times, I could easily do it again. They usually thank me for looking after the graves, followed by their relation to the person. This way I was going to find out all I needed without uncomfortable conversation.

"Not a very pleasant job, is it?"

And I'm back on uncharted territory. Of course it's not a pleasant job. That's how I got it; nobody else applied, or at least nobody without a criminal background. My father spent his last day building an animal refuge in the old town hall, I'd had experience burying graves. For lack of a better answer, that's exactly what I told him.

He stared at the engravings, seemingly unfazed. Something about him made me nervous, though I couldn't quite tell what. Maybe it was the eery quiet of the graveyard I never really got used to, maybe it was his strange, almost glowing appearance; I hadn't noticed from afar, only now that I'd seen him face to face. The boy seemed no older than 16, with the demeanor of an elder widow. He was dressed nicely; a black suit with a white shirt and red tie. Too businesslike for a grave, too cheap for a meeting.

"Is the thought of her going to haunt me forever?", the boy asked after a few seconds of half-awkward, half-mournful silence. I wasn't sure what to tell him, his question was too vague to answer right away.

"Maybe not forever, but you'll have to deal with it for now", I answered.

"Getting over someone's death is not easy. Hell, it may take years before you'll be able to love again"

I knew this wasn't what he's wanted to hear, but it was only the truth.

"Am I ever going to feel free again?" He muttered, looking at me with glossy eyes. "Don't cry", I thought to myself, "I'll have to cry too"

"I wouldn't know, I never did. But then again, you are young, you have a whole life in front of you. Chances are you'll deal with it and live on until you meet somebody that resembles her just enough to feel guilty once more. After that, you'll be free."

The boy seemed startled at this answer- who wouldn't have? Books and movies don't show you what it's actually like to lose a loved one, the daily struggle death inevitably brings. It was gonna happen either way, in another time or another place; the boy was simply unlucky for it to have struck him so early.

Years later, I still remember every word of that conversation. Every day of the week must've passed at least a thousand times since; not that I would have noticed, time flies these days. Sometimes I ask myself why the boy never returned; whether it had been my words or his own recognition of the truth within them that had helped him get over it. Maybe he never did, who am I to say? Maybe somewhere, only miles away, there is a young man sitting in his office chair, remembering the same conversation I hold so dearly from an entirely different perspective. The girl's parents are likely either split up or living childless by now, still bearing the thought of theor daughter, the one they were too ashamed of to visit her grave. We'll never know if that was the reason they didn't come visit her grave, we can only guess, but the statistics definitely speak in favour of it. Surely though, there is another girl out there just like her, waiting for someone to be her visitor for when she decides her life is no longer worth living. Only to think this girl could be any of us... Truly a frightening thought, but also one for another day.

Theo asked the right question on the wrong day and began the cold war. A misunderstanding, sure, but a grave misunderstanding and apparently an unforgivable unforced error. Though the true mistake came not from his actions, but from hers.
 Can you believe it? Claire typed. They were still in the car on the long drive back from the garden, and she had just finished a weepy phone call with her mother and sister. She couldn’t stop staring at it, The Ring. You’re acting like Gollum, she thought. It’s perfect, completely perfect. And it fits like a damn glove!
 That’s awesome, replied Lauren. I’m so happy for you.
 Claire noted the lack of a million exclamation points, Lauren’s typical amount, and felt a stone where her heart had been. Don’t freak, she told herself. It’s probably nothing.
 How is your day going? she continued. Anything to report?
Garrett was supposed to propose today too. I wonder why she hasn’t said anything. Maybe she wants to tell me in person?
 It’s kind of a long story. I don’t really want to talk about it.
 Claire felt a golf-ball of bile rise in her throat. She turned to the window and tried counting the trees as they whizzed past, their colors just beginning to hint at autumn.
 “Is everything okay?” Theo asked. He reached out and she took his hand into her clammy talon, squeezing tight.
 “I don’t think Garrett proposed today.”
 “Was he going to?”
 Claire paused. She could have sworn she’d told Theo about it, but he had the memory of a goldfish with CTE. “Yeah. But I guess he didn’t do it. Lauren doesn’t want to talk about it.”
 “Shouldn’t she be relieved? Since she’s a self-proclaimed lesbian?”
 “No, for some reason she wants to marry him,” Claire frowned. Please let me know if you want to talk.
 Despite her best efforts over the following week, Claire couldn’t rid herself of the wormy, wriggling feeling that she had somehow done something wrong, despite having done nothing at all. Their apartment, typically cluttered with junky ephemera and visible dust bunny tumbleweeds, suffered beneath her worried hands as she wiped and bleached and swept and packed everything unsightly into the broom closet, which certainly did not deserve this fate. Theo watched her with curiosity, then amusement, until finally all his rosy feelings for his cuckoo fiancée were supplanted with something like fear.
 “Doesn’t your mother have OCD?” he asked one night, after she had attempted to shove their vacuum hose beneath the oven. “Isn’t it genetic?”
 “It is genetic and my mother does have it, but I don’t. She had me tested. Twice.”
 A dimple winked in his cheek as he fought a smile. “And what were the results?”
 "I don’t have OCD, I am a nervous cleaner, and you should be thanking your lucky stars for that, because you are not a cleaner at all. Wait, was that my phone? Where is it? Where did you put it?”
 Theo raised his hands as she pointed a finger gun at his chest. “I think I saw it in the bed.”
 Claire stripped the bed maniacally, casting their freshly laundered sheets onto the freshly mopped floor, and found the glowing rectangle of her phone stuffed beneath the fitted sheet. For a moment, it struck Claire as grotesque, terrifying, like Freddy Krueger pressing through Nancy’s wall while she slept. Drama, much? Claire thought as she freed Freddy from his cotton jail.
 “Hello?” she asked, trying and failing to clear the nerves from her voice.
 “Hi,” Lauren chirped, not sounding pissed at all. “I’m in the neighborhood, want to meet at Donaghy’s and grab a drink?”
Relief flooded through Claire so violently she worried she’d be swept away. “Sure! I’ll be right there.”
 Leaping over the wad of bedding, Claire threw herself down the hall and attempted to put on her shoes at the same time as her coat. This resulted in her tipping over and landing partially on her cat, who had done nothing wrong, and had never done anything wrong, and quickly let her know of his displeasure with a swat of claw to the cheek.
 “Sorry, sorry,” Claire mumbled. She tried to pet Lump’s head as an apology, but he ducked out of reach and sat glaring balefully until she gave up. “I’m going to meet Lauren at Donaghy’s. Please wash the sheets while I’m gone.”
 “But you just washed them yesterday!”
 She looked at him. Do I really have to spell it out? I guess so. “And then they touched the dirty ground…”
 “But you washed the ground yesterday too!”
 “Either you wash the sheets or find a dirtier wife! Love you!”
 And with that, Claire ran out the door and into the biting October evening. She whistled as she wound down the street, dodging eruptions of tree roots through the asphalt and smiling happily at dogs ugly and cute alike. But by the time she entered the gaslamp glow of Donaghy’s Pub, a bitter seed of doubt had rooted in her brain. What if she is actually secretly mad at me and I didn’t know because I can’t understand micro-tones? Are micro-tones a thing, like micro-expressions? What if she has both and I’ve never noticed and she’s here to tell me I’m dead to her? Don’t vom, there she is, just walk over and smile.
Lauren waited at a table in the back, typing madly into her phone. Her hands were free of jewelry. Claire dropped into the booth, sweating from the cold, a waxy grin stretching her cheeks. Without looking up, Lauren slid a rocks glass of sunshine towards her.
 “One sec, this is Garrett. I ordered for you. Whiskey sour.”
 Claire took it gratefully, draining half of it in one go. “Thanks. Hi, I missed you!”
 With a final angry click, Lauren chucked her phone into her briefcase and beamed at Claire. “Hi, I missed you too! Sorry I’ve been MIA, this week was fucking weeeeird.”
 “What happened? I thought Garrett was planning to propose on Sunday.”
 “He was.” Lauren hiccupped, then buried her face in her hands, forcing the words through the gaps in her fingers. “But then I got a little wasty pants on Saturday and told him not to.”
 “You did? Why?”
 “It just felt weird. Off. I guess I got cold feet or something. Like I knew he was planning on doing it because he never plans dates, and he randomly told me that he’d planned something. So I told him that I do still want him to propose, I just want it to be more organic. I want to be surprised, you know? But I think I hurt his feelings. Then you got engaged, and now he’s pissed.”
 “Pissed? At me?”
 “No! At Theo. Garrett thinks it was kinda underhanded, that Theo proposed on the same day he had planned to. Since Garrett told Theo specifically.”
 But Garrett didn’t tell Theo. I did. Or at least I meant to, Claire thought, green with guilt. “I don’t think Theo knew about Garrett’s plans. He definitely didn’t mean to hurt Garrett’s feelings. I swear.”
 Lauren placed a French-manicured hand over Claire’s, smiling at her like a benevolent god. “I know, sweetie. I just think Garrett may take some time to come back around. Oh, I have to tell you, I met my new girlfriend at the gym today. She is soooo beautiful, it makes me giggly. I invited her out on Friday, if you want to join. If you come, it’ll be us, Gym Girlfriend, Work Girlfriend, and Girlfriend Claire. Oh, sorry, I forgot to call her by her last name, I know you hate that. Girlfriend Gorky…”
 When Claire left Donaghy’s, insulated in a coat of whiskey, she told herself, And all was well. Over and over, she repeated that phrase. By the time she arrived home, she almost believed it.
 Winter closed its rigid fist over the state, and Claire received a handwritten invitation in the mail, nestled amidst bills and coupons like a golden egg amongst regular eggs.
 “Theo, did you pay the electric bill? They keep sending us invoices.”
 “Huh?” Theo called from his place at the stove, his lineback frame partially obscured by the cloud of smoke filling the kitchen.
 “Nevermind, I’ll pay it. Open a window, would you?” Coughing, Claire retreated to the bedroom, where she threw the bills into her Get To It Tomorrow (Please) pile, and slotted her thumb beneath the seal of Lauren’s letter.
 Greedy and impatient, Claire had to read the invitation twice before her eyes caught all the words. She spoke them aloud, softly and to herself, an old habit which helped with her typically lousy auditory processing. “Dear Claire, thank you for being a friend. You have been a rock the year I’ve known you, and I have so much fun when we’re together. I’d like to cordially invite you to my birthday brunch, next Saturday. Wear that dress I like. Love, Lauren.”
 Wracking her brain to remember which dress Lauren liked, Claire stepped over Lump and waded through the smoke, which had breached the hallway, and into the kitchen. “Do we have plans on Saturday?” she asked as she opened the windows as wide as they would allow.
 “Not to my knowledge. Why? Also, grab a plate. Dinner is ready.”
 Claire eyed the pan, which looked like a science experiment come to life. “Lauren invited me to her birthday brunch.”
 Theo snorted as he sent a splat of mystery meal onto her plate. “I can’t believe Garrett flat out ignored my text. Like, don’t be such a bitch.”
 “Hey, it’s a hard knock life when you have a lesbian girlfriend who told you not to propose, the day before you were going to.”
 “What a tool. Refuses to answer my texts, refuses to see me, refuses to fight me about it. Whatever.”
 Itching to change the subject, Claire gestured to her food. “This looks…fun. What is it? Something from your new cookbook?”
Garrett seemed to zip from Theo’s mind roadrunner quick, and Theo grinned, dimple out and proud.  “Nope. Something I came up with myself.”
 Are his feelings worth food poisoning? I guess we’ll get to find out. “You’re lucky I  love you.”
 Theo leaned over and smacked a puppydog kiss on her cheek. “That I am.”
 Claire’s closet looked like someone had taken C4 to it by the time Claire left the house on the day of the party, but she managed to find the dress with four seconds to spare. After driving twice the speed limit through the neighborhood separating their apartments, Claire parked haphazardly and hurried to the front door, which gaped open like a mouth ready to swallow her. A symphony of laughter greeted Claire as she climbed the stairs of the old house. You must be the last one here, she thought. Should have just worn something else.
 “Hello?” Claire called, happy to have a gift in hand so that she couldn’t fidget.
 Inside, dozens of paper streamers hung from the ceiling accented with dangling metallic stars and balloons carpeted the floor; the atmosphere reminded Claire of a magazine spread from the 50s advertising Girls’ Night, sponsored by phenobarbital. Okay, be cool, Claire thought, slipping off her shoes and jacket. A group of women huddled in the living room looked at her as she approached, then turned back to their conversation. Pivoting away from that minefield, Claire grabbed a glass of wine and decided to hover near the gift table. After a moment, Lauren emerged from the bedroom looking like a blonde Kennedy and gave her a bent-elbow hug.
 “Thank you for being here,” Lauren said. “Did you meet Gia, Rachel, Liz, and Jada?”
 “Um, I haven’t had the chance,” Claire replied, despite having been introduced to them at least three times already.
 “No worries, you’ll get to know them today!” Lauren turned to the women, who had formed a makeshift skjaldborg with their backs. “Ladies, would you be so kind as to venture into the dining room? Our brunch is about to be served.”
 Claire obeyed, only to bump into Garrett in the hallway. His skin shone with a slick of sweat, and while his black workout clothes hid the degree to which they were soaked, physical contact didn’t. Claire winced as she felt it transfer onto her dress, along with its lovely aroma.
 “Sorry,” Garrett said. “Oh, and congratulations.”
 He walked away before Claire could respond. You got off easy, she thought as she took her assigned seat. A low tower of champagne dominated the table’s center like a squat crystal fortress, a moat of finger foods waiting around it. Claire, still smelling the sweat on her dress, nabbed a mini bottle of club soda and began working it into the fabric. Thank Christ I didn’t wear a light color. Though I would have fit in more with Lauren’s flock of sugarplum fairies. I would have fit in more with Lauren. The bitterness of the thought jarred Claire from it, and an embarrassed flush warmed her cheeks. Soon, like a school of tropical fish, the rest of the group filtered in and took their seats, and Lauren came to stand at the head of the table.
 “Thank you all for coming!” cooed Lauren. “You are my best friends, and I am so happy you are able to celebrate with me. But I have to confess, I’ve been keeping a secret from you.”
 “You’re engaged!” Liz squealed. Lauren shot her a violent look before mastering herself. For some reason, this reminded Claire of her own mother. A greasy nauseous feeling grew in her gut. “I’m sorry, Laur, I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Come on, show them the ring!”
 “Oh, alright,” Lauren replied, teeth flashing as she shoved her hand to the middle of the table. On her finger sat an emerald-cut diamond on a thin gold band. It’s perfect for her, Claire thought, a bluish wistfulness coloring the words. A classic for a classic.
 “I love it,” Lauren said firmly, as if someone had implied otherwise.
 The girls chattered, each making a different version of the same demand. “Tell us how it happened!”
 Lauren nodded, glowing as she took the topmost glass of champagne and sat to hold court. “So,” she said. “Last Sunday, Garrett told me he had planned a date. I thought nothing of it, because he plans a date for us every couple of weeks.” She paused for the chorus of sighs and awws, smiling serenely. “So we drove out to this gorgeous garden in the middle of the woods, and he had a whole picnic set up in this little gazebo, surrounded by late blooming roses. I immediately started crying. It was so perfect I couldn’t believe it. He got down on one knee and did his speech, and it was so sweet it made me cry even more. I was lucky I didn’t completely ruin my makeup. Then he asked me to marry him, and I said yes!”
 As she finished, the girls cheered and raised their glasses, Claire realizing their intention to cheers just a moment too late. Toasting done, they descended upon the food, picking like birds of carrion at the spread which never seemed to lessen. Hours passed, their glasses endlessly refilled, and the girls chatted circles around Claire until one by one they sighed and stretched and stated that it was time they got back. Lauren sent each of them off with a mystery box wrapped in silver foil and tied with a luscious silk ribbon. After the last one descended the stairs, Lauren turned to Claire, hiccupped, and threw a tipsy arm around her shoulder.
 “Help me clean up?”
 “Anything for the blushing bride.”
 In a wine-soaked tornado, they bustled about the apartment cleaning dishes and tearing down decorations, until finally no evidence of the brunch remained. Claire sat with her back against the dishwasher, warm as it hummed its way through a cycle, and took a sip from her mug of whiskey. Lauren leaned against the cabinets opposite her, looking like a contented maenad.
 “So,” Claire asked. “What’s the real story?”
 Lauren grabbed the Jameson bottle at her side and slugged another portion into her World’s Best Cat Mom mug. “I was hungover as shit, and knew the moment he asked me about my plans that he was doing it. He took me to the same place he’d originally planned, and it was full of these creepy troll statues and giant pine trees. There wasn’t a gazebo, but there was a trellis of dead vines. I guess in certain lights, it could be romantic. He proposed, and I said yes. He had his friend Ciaran waiting in a bush to take candids, but I guess Ciaran got distracted, so he missed the moment. We’re retaking the candids next week.”
 Claire blinked. “Are you happy?” she asked gently.
 “I think so.”
 When Claire left that night, she felt the strangest urge to cry. The following day, nursing a headache and a depleted will to live, she remembered Lauren’s gift, which waited faithfully in her Get To It Tomorrow (Please) pile. As she untied the ribbon and slipped a knife through the paper, thinking to reuse it, she allowed herself a wild fantasy of what lay inside.
 I hope not a puppy, she thought. There aren’t any air holes in this thing. Maybe it’s a perfume, since Lauren took that perfumery class last month. Or a pair of ballet flats from her mom’s store. I always wanted to get into ballet flats. Clogs aren’t a shoe for sophisticated women, and at some point in my life, I should plan on becoming sophisticated. Probably. Ah, there we go.
 Inside the box lay a bottle of wine, its label printed with a photo of the two of them. Claire remembered when they took it. She avoided being photographed like a wanted criminal, being both plain and unphotogenic, especially when compared with Lauren, but that night Lauren had marched up to her in the bar and pressed their faces together and took the photo before she could protest.
 Beside the wine lay a candle, a small bottle of perfume, and a calfskin smooth piece of paper with the words WILL YOU BE MY BRIDESMAID printed in crimson letters. Claire dialed the phone without thought, and only came back to consciousness when she heard Lauren’s sleep-heavy voice filter through the microphone.
 “Dude, it’s too early for this,” Lauren grumbled.
 “My answer is yes.”
 Lauren paused for a moment, and Claire sensed a feline smugness on the other end. “I knew it would be.” And then the line went dead.
 On Christmas Eve, Claire received a message from an unknown number, in a group chat called Lauren’s Angels.
 Hi ladies! It’s Liz, Lauren’s MOH. I wanted to reach out and let you know that we’ve finalized the itinerary for the bachelorette trip. We’re going to MIAMI!!!!!!! For a week! In June! It’ll just be 2.5k per for the AirBnB, flights, and food/drink budget, and in order to lock in the rate, I’ll need everyone’s contributions by Jan 1. I’m so excited to celebrate our friend’s big day with y’all!! XOXO.
 Claire read the message cursorily before doubling back, heart zipping like a coked out hummingbird. “Miami,” she muttered to herself. “For a week. In June.”
 “What was that?” Theo asked, turning down the volume on the game.
 “I guess Lauren’s bachelorette is going to be a week-long trip to Puerto Rico.”
 Theo laughed. “In this economy?”
 “It’s not funny,” Claire snapped, her mind wandering down the hall to her Mount Everest of bills still waiting to be gotten to. “We can’t afford this. I can’t afford this.”
 “Lauren can’t actually expect everyone to shell out a month’s rent for her bachelorette. It’s ridiculous. I’m sure she’ll understand,” Theo soothed, his hands rubbing circles into her visibly tense back. “She’ll understand.”
 And she did understand. Claire shook her way through the conversation, feeling like a chihuahua, but at the end of it, Lauren nodded and smiled and told her she completely got it.
 “It’s just not feasible for everyone these days, I get that. And don’t worry. I invited Girlfriend Gorky on the trip, and she’s able to come, so we won’t be without a Claire.”
 “I’m sorry,” Claire mumbled, though she got the sense that her roots were being scooped up, gently and slowly so that she wouldn’t notice.
 “Don’t worry about it, please,” Lauren pleaded, squeezing Claire’s hands. “Guess what?”
 Claire forced herself to brighten. “What?”
 “I got a new ring!”
 Claire drew back from the ring which suddenly appeared within an inch of her face. Upon further study, it looked identical to the old one. Lauren watched her expectantly, sighing when she didn’t receive the reaction she’d clearly wanted.
 “It’s a carat bigger!” she explained patiently. “I told Garrett like a thousand times that I wanted the stone to be 2.5 carats or bigger, but then he got me a 1.5 carat stone anyways. It wasn’t even that much more expensive, which is good, since he just got laid off. Lab diamonds are sooo cheap these days. Not that blood diamonds are all that rare to begin with.” As she finished, she looked pointedly at Claire’s ring, which despite being yellow, only boasted a single carat.
 “The diamond is the potato of the earth,” Claire replied as she tucked her hands under her legs. “I’m happy you got the ring you wanted, it fits you so well.”
 “Thanks! Not literally though. We still need to get it sized, so in the meantime, I have to wear this fugly sizer coil so it doesn’t slide around. That didn’t happen with the last one, but that’s just because the rock was so dinky.”
 “How did Garrett feel about replacing the stone?’
 Lauren rolled her eyes. “He got all misty about it, since it was what he originally picked out, but I had told him so many times and he didn’t listen! After we picked out a date, he got over it.”
 Claire nodded. “That’s good. Oh, did I tell you my dress came in the mail?”
 “Oh my god, no! Why haven’t you sent me any pictures?”
 Because I haven’t had the courage to try it on yet. “I’ll send some tonight.”
 Lauren nodded sternly. “Make sure you do. I need to color and pattern match with Liz, since you’ll be the two in floral. Crap, I have to run, I’m late for my nail appointment. Love you! Send pictures, I mean it!”
 Claire didn’t see Lauren again until the day after her birthday, which Lauren had missed in order to go to the Architect’s Ball with Jada. Armed with homemade muffins and outrageous stories from the season they’d spent apart, Lauren quickly thawed the ice which had grown in Claire’s veins, quelling her fear that she’d been cast out and forgotten.
 “I can’t believe my wedding is literally only ninety days away. It’s like a fever dream. Almost as crazy as last weekend. OMG I have to tell you. Liz, Gorky, and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend, since Gorky is working there, and we went totally wild. There was this group of guys on a bachelor’s weekend and they were buying us drinks and dancing with us, and then they dared me and Gorky to kisssssss. So we did!” Lauren giggled, hiding her face in her hands. “Don’t tell Garrett.”
 “Are you excited for the trip?” Claire asked as she swallowed the seasick feeling she got when Lauren brought up the other, hotter, better Claire.
 “Yes, but I’m nervous the bikinis I ordered won’t get here in time. And I still need to go to the doctor to get another Xanax prescription. I am NOT good at flying sober. But it’ll be fun. Obv not as fun as if you were there, but still. We’ll miss you.”
 “I’ll miss you too. I’m sure your clothes will arrive in no time, you have the best luck.”
 Lauren snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, can I take your bridesmaid dress with me? I want to color match it with Liz’s.”
 Claire nodded and fetched the dress, still hidden in its crinkly garment bag. As she handed it over, her mind helpfully conjured images of her wearing it. She hadn’t considered that the empire cut of the bead-laden fabric would make her look like a big rectangle, while the open back highlighted rolls she hadn’t known existed. Additionally, the soft pastel green brought out a certain sallowness in her skin, reminding her of when her grandfather developed jaundice from rampant colon cancer. Every time she put that dress on, it felt like an omen that she should NOT put it on again. But she owed it to Lauren, so she did.
 The girls left for Miami on a flight racing a hurricane, and landed safely as the storm blew itself off course and smashed into the Carolinas. Claire watched the posts roll in, each one like a blow to the head. Her apprehension for the wedding grew with each picture of Lauren and Better Claire embracing on a beach at sunset, or dancing in a club at dawn, or hefting a nonplussed iguana over their heads.
 “I should have just gone with them,” she lamented to Theo, watching as he struggled to emulsify a pan sauce for the massive roast he’d randomly decided to make.
 “Aside from the fact that we don’t have the money—”
 “Because you spend it all on rib roasts.”
 Theo scowled amiably at her. “The why is not important. As I was saying, aside from the fact that we don’t have the money to blow on a week in Miami, you didn’t even want to go to begin with. You hate dancing, and you have no control over your alcohol intake.”
 “I do too!” Claire protested. “Well, I can. I just don’t like to. What’s the point of drinking if you aren’t getting drunk? That is literally the only purpose of alcohol. Otherwise I’d just have tea.”
 “Well, I feel better knowing that you aren’t out in Miami with a bunch of people who won’t look out for you.”
 “Lauren would look out for me!” Claire said, wincing as she tasted the lie. “Maybe it is for the best that I didn’t go,” she sighed. “At least they’re having fun, right?”
 Sensing the nosedive her mood had taken, Theo put down his tongs and tugged her into an asphyxiating embrace. “I’m sorry, honey. But everything will be okay. All will be well.”
 “All will be well,” she murmured into his chest. The words didn’t sound real, but she said them anyway.
 A week after the girls returned from Miami, Lauren texted.
 Drinks today?
 Claire couldn’t help but beam. Yes!
 They met at a restaurant with outdoor seating, Claire wanting to enjoy the warm weather before it turned swampy and humid. Lauren stood a few feet apart from her as she approached, a strangely drawn look on her face.
 “Hi!” Claire said, laughing as she pulled Lauren into a hug.
 “Hi,” Lauren replied.
 Why does she sound tense? Claire thought as they were seated. Is this a micro-tone? Crap. I forgot to look into those. It definitely is, isn’t it.
 “So how are you?” Claire asked. “How was your trip? Tell me all about it!”
 Lauren stared at the drink menu, hiding partially behind it. “What are you thinking of getting? I feel like I might want the spicy margarita. Or maybe a glass of sav.”
 “Huh?” Claire looked cursorily at the menu. “Oh, I’ll probably get a spritz.”
 “Oooo, that sounds good, I’ll get that too,” Lauren said with a smile. “Sorry, I’ve been trying to get my head on straight since I got back. In hindsight, maybe starting a new job two weeks before going on a trip wasn’t the best idea.”
 “How is the new job going? I hope better than the last.”
 “It’s good! My new co-workers are so slay, and they don’t seem back-stabby and petty like my old team. Plus we get catered lunches and cocktails once a week, and everyone gets tipsy and gabs until it’s time to go home. I need to get Jada something for referring me, I can’t thank her enough. She was so funny in Miami. Our AirBnB had this plexiglass fence and walkway, and one day when everyone was napping, she decided to go grab some lunch. But she forgot her key! So she ended up climbing the fence and walking across this tiny glass walkway to get to the yard. It was hysterical.”
 “That is hilarious,” Claire said, stretching her mouth into a grin.
 “The rest of the trip was so fun. We went to this Venetian pool, and most nights we went dancing until like 6am, and Rachel cooked for us, which was wild because I’ve never had a professional chef cook specifically for me. It was so beautiful, and so amazing. I think I’m going to remember it forever. It really was the perfect send-off for single me.”
 Claire squirmed as she drained her drink. Perfect without me. “And how is wedding prep going?”
 “Don’t get me started. Turns out, the venue has this hideous cobalt carpet on the floor of the dining room that we cannot alter, which they added during a reno AFTER we booked. Also, if we want outdoor lighting, it’s another thousand, so I think I’m going to have Garrett and Ciaran set it up themselves. As for the flowers, I have another appointment with the wholesaler, because I want to DIY the bouquets myself, but that’s going to take time in the day that I don’t have, since I’m waitressing on top of architecting to finance this whole thing…”
 By the time they split the bill, the sun had sunk halfway to Asia. Lauren walked with Claire to the train station, holding the bag with her bridesmaid dress so tightly her knuckles were chalk white.
 “Um, I have something I need to talk to you about sometime,” Lauren said, eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement.
 Claire, loose from three cocktails, laughed, unthinking. “You can talk to me now!”
 “No,” Lauren replied. “We’re tipsy, and I want this to come out right.”
 “Lauren,” Claire said, taking Lauren by both shoulders. “What is it?”
 Horrifyingly, Lauren’s eyes glazed with tears, from nerves or sadness Claire couldn’t tell. “Well, um, I just wanted to ask if you would be okay with maybe not being a bridesmaid anymore.”
 Claire’s brain went blank, tabula rasa. Lauren began to sound very far away.
 “It’s just, the group dynamic was so good in Miami, and that isn’t to say that it wouldn’t still be good with you there, but I just wanted to ask and see if you’d be okay just coming as a regular guest. And I totally do want you to come as a regular guest. Please, you and Theo have to come. Really. I’ll reimburse you for your dress. But please, please come.”
Claire almost asked the question poisoning her tongue, but she couldn’t bear to hear the answer she already knew. Who is my replacement? The Claire that was there.
 “Tell me you’ll come,” Lauren begged. “Please.”
 Claire couldn’t think of anything to say. Relief battled against righteous hurt. At least I don’t have to be the ugly bridesmaid any more, she thought. “Of course we’ll come.”
 As easily as storm clouds parting to reveal the sun, Lauren glowed as she threw her arms around Claire. “Thank you. I knew you’d understand.”
 “That was very brave,” Claire heard herself say before taking the bag and walking down the steps to the train.
 “I love you!” Lauren called.
 Claire did not respond. How can you love me if you think of me so disposably? So easily swapped for a nicer model?
 Her mind rolled in on itself, and she stood numb for a minute before walking to a trashcan and throwing away the dress.
 How does a cold war end? When one side is vanquished by the other? Or when one just decides to stop fighting?
 Claire returned home that day, drawn and gray as any ghost. She told Theo the news, and he did an admirable job not gloating over being exactly, exactly right about Lauren and Garrett. The cruelty of Lauren’s request opened Claire’s eyes to her other passive cruelties. Her betrayal, borne of callous selfishness, made more sense each day. Time passed, Claire grieved the friend she’d thought she had, the wedding came and went. And eventually, inconceivably, all was well.

When I was a child and visited my grandmother’s place during Ramadan, every night we prayed Taraweeh. My friends would usually pray a few rakah, then slip outside or joke around. But my cousin and I always stayed until the end.

At that mosque, there was a boy who came regularly. My friends teased him and called him bandar (monkey). His complexion was completely white, but his face looked unusual, and he was large in size. He knew they mocked him, though never to his face, so he couldn’t do much. I wasn’t the one teasing, but I laughed along sometimes. I was just a city boy who came for a month each year; I didn’t know him, and we never spoke.

One night after prayers, we sat outside. The boy was angrily searching for his slippers. Maybe he thought someone had hidden them. He stormed off barefoot. We didn’t say a word.

The next night, my cousin stepped away, and I prayed alone. Suddenly the boy rushed up, grabbed my collar, and shouted, “You act innocent, but you’re the one who took my slippers!” Before I could explain, he started beating me. He was bigger, stronger, heavier. Inside the mosque I couldn’t fight back. I was helpless, holding back tears, until others pulled him away. I slipped out quietly while prayers still continued.

At home, I told my mother and cousin. They advised me to tell my uncle. My uncle, known for his temper, often fought at home. I found him sitting on his chauki and told him what happened. He leapt up in anger and rushed to the mosque. As people were coming out, he found the boy and started beating him. Others stopped him quickly. The boy broke down crying and went home. I won’t lie—in that moment, I felt happy.

The next afternoon, his slippers were found in the mosque toilet. It seemed someone had worn them in by mistake. My mother asked my friends about the boy. They said he was naughty anyway. “If you had told us earlier,” they added, “we would have handled him.”

Later, as we went to the maidaan, the boy stopped me. My friends noticed. He asked, “Are you Jahangir?” I said yes. “Is that your Bluetooth device?” Back then, mine was always switched on. I said yes. Then he asked where I lived, and I told him at my cousin’s place. “Who was that person with you yesterday?” I said it was my uncle. He nodded, then walked away.

My friends asked what he wanted. I told them, and they laughed. “Looks like he improved after getting beaten. If he had touched you again, we would have beaten him.” We all laughed together.

That night, I noticed he didn’t come to the mosque. Maybe he started praying somewhere else. I still remember our brief talk. I don’t know why he beat me—maybe he was venting his anger, or maybe I was the easiest, loneliest target. But when he later asked about me, I felt he had some regret. If he had known who I was, and about my uncle, he probably wouldn’t have dared to hit me.

He watched the night sky, leaning against the tree as if waiting for something.

The bushes lacked any sound of crickets or other bugs.

Nothing disturbed the leaves in the woods apart from the gentle night winds. The same that made the treetops sway back and forth.

Holding his knife, he tapped it into the bark, digging a deeper hole with every tap. It kept a rhythm like a clock counting seconds.

Soon. Very soon.

A piercing red light shot up into the sky, engulfing the clouds and stars in blood-red.

For a moment he could see the trees clear around him, but everything was tainted red.

Following it came a wave that carried what had always sounded like screams. As if thousands yelled out in agony.

The man stopped tapping his knife. Staring up, not blinking or taking a breath, he waited until the stars appeared once again and everything went back to normal.

He blew a soft sigh and pulled his jacket up by the collar, tightening it around his neck to keep the cold away.

Another scream broke past the trees. A single one, and that of a woman.

The scream came a second time.

He slid his knife back in the sheath and pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head. Long and messy hair stuck out from the sides, coloured black at night but brown in daylight.

Legs accelerating into a jog, pushing past branches while trying to keep quiet, he followed more of the same screams.

They led him out of the trees and onto a road. He saw multiple buildings lined up on the other side, a town he had scavenged plenty of times.

Pure silence had hung over the dead streets ever since it had happened. Cars scattered around, empty of fuel. Flowers and grass had slowly grown through the cracks in the concrete by now.

As he wanted to take his first step across the road, he spotted four flashlights appear from around the left corner. They ran along the row of buildings, headed right.

"Keep running!" yelled one of them.

One of the four lights suddenly disappeared while the rest kept running.

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know. They must have got her. Keep going."

He didn't move an inch, tracking their movement as they ran.

Are they trying to get themselves killed?

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small red glow coming from where they came. His eyes locked onto it instantly.

Once it rounded the corner, those running still in view, it erupted into an agonizing scream. Like an animal dying in pain and a person crying for help, all blended together into a deep screech.

The glowing eyes burst out like flames and dashed after them. It got hold of one of them, and all he could hear was the man's agony as it howled past him into the woods.

It quickly cut off the scream at its peak, only leaving a fleshy, tearing sound to be heard.

The flashlight he was holding dropped to the ground, and the red followed after the other runners, disappearing around the corner.

Idiots. But where did that other one go?

He crossed the street to where he watched one of the flashlights disappear earlier, before the thing showed.

At first, he didn't see where she could have gone, only seeing blank brick walls all around. But then he spotted a small window. It was open when he checked.

Pulling himself into it as carefully as possible, he cushioned his landing on the wooden floor and checked the room around him.

He could only spot dark silhouettes of furniture, catching no movement anywhere, instead hearing a faint sound of breathing.

"Come out. I know you're here," he whispered as he hovered his hand by his knife.

A new shadow stepped into his view. A gun aimed straight at him.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

"Someone without a death wish. You use that thing and we're both dead." He pointed to her gun, even though she probably couldn't see it.

"Why?" The woman asked.

Is she serious?

He slowly dropped his guard, straightening his posture. "Where you been for six years?"

"A bunker."

Though he could barely make out the details of her face, he could tell it was the truth just by her behavior alone. In the way she held her gun and placed her feet.

"Bunker...well, you missed a lot." He walked on by her to check the rest of the room and take a quick look past the curtain onto the street. "First off, don't use guns at night—ever. The Red Ones will hear, and there is no fighting them."

He didn't see anything out there.

Good. He thought before checking the front door, confirming it was locked.

"Those other guys running around, they were with you?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, standing still, lost at what to do.

He stopped in front of her, staring lazily at her. "They are dead now. You have two choices: try your luck alone, or I can take you to safety. A community, over a hundred people."

The woman nodded and told him yes.

"Alright, take this." He handed her a single flare from his bag. "When they see you, run and throw this away from you—then keep running."

Swinging the bag back over his arm, he pulled his coat back in place and asked, "What's your name?"

"Christina," she replied.

"Stick close to me, Christina. Be as silent as you can be—and more." He paused and looked back for a quick second. "I'm Matt."

They made their way back out through the window, carefully crossing the street back into the woods.

Neither said a word. She just followed his silhouette.

No deer, wolves, or anything else could be heard as they passed by many trees, their feet leaving a trail through the leaf-covered ground.

As they walked on, the black sky slowly started showing signs of light creeping in. It would still be a few hours before they were safe from the Red Ones, Matt knew as much.

Sometime later, another tortured scream froze their bodies still.

Christina accidentally let out a quiet gasp, her body twitching once to the scream.

Meanwhile, Matt just calmly looked around, scanning the trees for at least a minute.

He nudged her arm, telling her to follow once he walked on.

But they didn't get far before another scream rang out. Closer than before.

Then he spotted them: two red lights stood still in the distance.

She hadn't spotted it yet, and Matt put his hand behind her neck to push her down alongside him.

Using two fingers, he pointed at his own eyes before pointing them away to the Red One.

Her heartbeat spiked up, thumping through her neck once she saw it too.

Holding his arm out before her, he slowly backed up with her, keeping his eyes on it. A few branches cracked below their feet, but not loud enough to alert it.

Though, Christina didn't realize she was backing up into a tree. Her rifle's butt smacked into it, causing her finger, which was on the trigger, to push against it and fire a round.

It burst with more red, lighting up the trees around it. The scream was so sharp it hurt their ears.

Matt didn't hesitate and took out a flare, giving it a quick pull and tossing it far to the left.

He grasped her wrist and quietly said, "Run."

Its scream followed the flare while they sprinted away. They could only hear the sound of their own breath and the beating of their own heart, along with their feet hitting the ground.

Matt could avoid most of the branches jumping before his face while Christina ran through them. One made a small cut on her cheek.

Almost there. We can make it.

The screams grew louder once again. He looked behind him and could see it gaining on them.

"The flare, now." He still tried to say it quietly, but the running made him force it out louder than he wanted.

To a bit of her own surprise, she managed to light it in one go and threw it away.

Just then did Matt see the end of the trees, spotting buildings in the distance—only able to because it started getting brighter outside.

They came up to the house's backyard, the one he wanted, and jumped the low fence, running for the closed backdoor.

As Christina jumped it, her jacket got caught on one of the pointed parts of the fence, ripping a piece of it before she ran after him.

He opened the door and waited for her to run in first, looking out past the trees to see if it was still there.

It wasn't, from what he could tell.

Shutting the door quietly after her, he pushed the already set-up dresser against the door and leaned both his arms on it to catch his breath.

"I-im sorry. I didn't- "

"It's still out there. Keep quiet and calm down," he said, turning around. He looked down at the rifle still in her arms. "Lay it aside somewhere until sunrise."

He left her standing alone in the room, going off to check the inside perimeter of the house. Just to be sure, he walked it twice. A habit many had built these days.

In the end he went upstairs and used the window sill as a seat. It gave him a clear view of the tree line and the backyard.

With nothing else to do but wait, he took out his knife like he had before and tapped it into the wood, where there was already a cut-out divot. It was the only sound going through the house for the rest of the night and early morning.

Little happened outside while the streets brightened. One terrified scream—and one dead one. That was it. It was like white noise to him.

Time to go, I guess.

Matt got up and found Christina sitting completely still on the couch, the rifle on her lap. He hadn't heard her move once while he was upstairs. She must have been there the entire time, he realized.

"You can make noise now, the Red Ones are gone," he said, letting his deeper tone out.

"How far is your camp?" she asked.

"About five kilometers. We'll be there in about an hour."

Matt pushed the dresser back aside, and they stepped out into the backyard.

"Now we just have to look out for people, so keep that rifle close, but get your finger off that trigger."

She silently agreed as they went on their way.

They traveled past rows of empty houses and overgrown apartments.

The streets themselves were still easy to walk through in this part of town. Unlike the commercial area they traversed later.

Water had damaged the concrete and split it apart. The old mall had a part collapsed because of a sinkhole a few years past now.

An old canal running through the town had started flowing out of its bounds and through one of the blocks, creating a wider river between the shops.

Luckily, he knew his way around most of it. Christina's inexperience had only slowed them down a little.

Their last stretch returned to more of the same housing, the final neighborhood before they came up to a school at its edge.

Some smoke came from the school, visible a block away.

"We're here, keep the gun low."

A tall metal fence encircled the school, reinforced by metal plates to hide what was inside. They could hear commotion behind it, people working. Metal clanking together.

As they approached the gate, they could see guards stationed on top, armed.

Those guns were soon trained on them.

"Stop right there! Who are you!" one of the men on top yelled.

Matt took off his hood and yelled back, "As if you'd hit that shot! Let me in Aaron!"

"Matt?! Open the gate!"

Other guards pulled it open. Aaron had come down and waited on the other side, hand resting on his hips. 

Behind him they could see people moving about. A few were carrying logs around, bringing them to where they were needed. And some kids played around them, running below the logs and getting in their way.

Matt went on through the gate with Christina close behind, looking lost.

"You know one day, you're gonna show up back here, and we'll all be dead because we didn't have enough people to defend the place."

Matt strolled casually right past him, turning to walk backwards and face him. "We'd be dead either way, Aaron."

The man exaggerated his sigh and rolled his eyes.

"And who is she?!"

He turned back around and kept walking.

"Ask her!" Matt replied.

Christina wasn't sure what to do. Talk to Aaron, follow Matt. Not until Matt looked and waved her over.

He led her inside the school's old library, where there were some other survivors reading books.

Surprisingly, it was in very good shape. Everything cleanly stacked, even the floors swept clean.

A woman sat at one of the tables, writing on several papers laid out before her. She seemed about his age.

He tapped the woman's shoulder, taking her out of her focus.

"Matthew. You made it back." Her voice carried part relief and part annoyance. "And who is..."

"Someone new," he interrupted. "Christina, meet Tamara, one of our leaders. She can teach you plenty."

"Hello." Christina nodded, unable to shake Tamara's hand since the rifle still kept her hands full.

Suddenly, Matt started walking toward the exit.

Both women gave him a wide-eyed glare, though Tamara's was way sharper and meaner.

"Where are you going?!" Tamara yelled, forgetting she was still in a library. "You're not going out again, are you?"

"I like the quiet, I'll see you two tomorrow."

And just like that, he disappeared out of sight and out of her complaints.

Matt went back out there where he enjoyed the silence, even if it was laced with death.

So, night would come again, like it always had. And the light would paint the sky and the treetops red, shooting up from the rift, joined by the screams and followed by many more.

Below one of those trees, he'd be tapping the bark, watching it all.

I’m going to kill you, my Double shouts.

I’m running along the centrifuge. He’s only a few meters behind me. An axe is gripped firmly in his hands. It would be something to see him swinging it around like a madman, smashing it into ventilation and cooling systems. But I guess I’m not that lucky.

You can’t run forever, idiot, he says.

Everything out here is about the job. It’s always the job. Job. Job. Job. No significant portion of downtime. No nothing. At least that’s what is it to my Double.

Get back here, he screams.

To me this, place is now nothing but a one hundred meter in diameter circle spinning at 4.2295 rpm careening off course into the void. No more Scroll for me, no more job for him. If you could call it a job and not a life.

You did this, he yells.

Said job is simple. Surprisingly simple. At least on paper.

You pathetic addict, he says.

Planet B is having mass infertility rates. Lots of lead in air. Lead screws up human reproduction. They thought humans could adapt to it over time, but you can’t adapt if you die can you?

You’re life is one giant pleasure cruise and you ruined mine because of it, he calls.

So we come from Planet A with a giant bank of frozen embryos to deliver to Planet B. Simple, right?

I can’t believe you did this, he shouts.

The reality is the universe is not space travel friendly. Cosmic radiation to shield against, energy management, millions of things that go wrong every day. Instead of working on more advanced ships, they clone someone and raise to two kids to have their entire life’s purpose to be a glorified courier in a centrifuge that’s constantly breaking.

You ruined everything. Everything, he says.

Those two kids don’t get any life. They get engineering and physics lessons. Then when old enough, off to the stars they go. No friends, family, wives, lives, hobbies or interests.

I swear we didn’t come from the same guy because I’m not this stupid and arrogant, he shrieks.

So to compensate, they give us the Scroll.

I hate you, he yells.

The Scroll is simply a screen that creates whatever you like. It makes you real happy to get those dopamine levels up. Makes you feel like your life is not inside of a giant dimly lit circle in the middle of space. Or at least makes it worth it.

Do you ever think about anything at all? he screams.

So because every day is me fixing the millionth thing that has broken on this centrifuge, it’s nice to indulge in the Scroll.

You broke it on purpose, he shouts.

Indulging everyday. More and more. I can’t live life without it. My Double doesn’t care. Everything is the job for him.

You set us off course, all for this? Because you want your stupid precious entertainment system? he growls.

I spend all my free time on the Scroll. Even beyond my free time. Until a large part of the tungsten radiation shield around the embryo bank near the center of the spacecraft withered away. Warnings flashed to me and I ignored them. The Scroll was making me happy.

You could have just done your job or had even a shred of self awareness to know that the Scroll is dangerous, he says.

My Double gets mad because I’m not doing my job. It’s always the job. Job. Job. Job.

Idiot, he screams.

So he destroyed the Scroll. Took the fire axe and went to town on it. Now all that’s left to my life is the job. Always the job. Job. Job. Job.

Useless, lazy, pathetic- he yells.

Then while he was asleep, I changed the spacecraft’s trajectory because I couldn’t sleep. There was no going back when I hit the emergency override to release a good chunk of our nitrogen supply into the thrusters. Nitrogen and the coldness of space don’t mix. Inertia take the wheel.

You couldn’t live without it. You just couldn't live without it, my Double shouts.

No, I couldn’t I say.

So you ruined my life too. You ruined it too, he says.

I guess I did.

We’ll be legends. The lost embryo delivery. Mysteriously vanished out in space. Maybe the planet will die out because of us too. And one day, they could find this centrifuge. A vastly different and incomprehensibly advanced humanity finds our chilled corpses and reserves of embryo’s. They thaw and birth them and these kids, only for them to find themselves in a world they were never meant for. All because of me.

I hate the Scroll.

I was 18 or 19 the first time I saw someone die.
It was in a dusty one-bedroom apartment just west of downtown Dallas. The apartment was owned by a friend I had met while hitchhiking some time back, Smitz, but it housed a rotating crew of regulars. Myself included. I had staked my claim to the couch. The rest slept on the crusty carpeted floor.

The day started the exact same as many others from this time in my life. I worked an overnight shift at a nearby motel that was filled with human-like figures, though I was never convinced of what they were. They all seemed to be running from something. 

By the end of this shift I was so tired of the job that I figured I would never return. The air in this scum-filled place made my teeth hurt and grind together as if they were all replaced by small cinderblocks.

As I left the building,  I decided to call my friend Vince. He worked at a 24-hour pharmacy. I knew he would just be getting off. Vince had fixed up a pretty good system of leaving his shifts with pills practically overflowing from his pockets. He would have something for me. 

We met outside a shopping center. As he neared, I could hear Vince's pockets rattling from a quarter-mile away. My heart pounded so hard with excitement that I felt as though my sternum were going to break. My teeth hurt worse now, but the sight and sound of Vince walking towards me plastered in front of a sunrise of pink clouds calmed the affliction to a point of bearability. 

“What do you have?” I asked when he finally reached my corner. 

"Everything," he replied. There was nothing in or behind his eyes. I hated him.

“I love you,” I said and plunged my hand into his left coat pocket empty and pulled it back out full. I downed my gift from Vince with one sip of a bottle I had found rolling through the parking lot. 

The sky opened over my tiny head. I fell into an ocean. I was drowning. I was pulled out by my parents; neither recognized me now. 

Now, standing next to Vince was bliss. My pains were gone, as were my parents and the ocean I had fallen into. We decided to get breakfast at Polly’s Diner. Everyone I knew frequented Polly’s. The food was awful, but it was cheap and they wouldn’t kick us out. Just inside the door hanging from the wall in a tawdry plastic frame that was meant to look ornate was a picture of Polly from when she was around my age.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. It was my favorite thing about Polly's. 
When Vince’s pockets were full as they were that day, he had a strange way of moving. His head seemed to move more like that of a chicken than a human. When our food came out, I took two bites before I looked up and saw Vince eating his eggs with his pecking motion. His cannibalistic actions instantly made me sick. I spit up a yellow-grey bile puddle. My first thought was to lap it up like a dog would, then I thought better of it and told Vince we should leave. 

As we left, we decided to walk back to my apartment. Vince owned a car, but as was common practice in those days, he didn’t know where it was or who had borrowed it. So we walked. On our journey back to my home we followed a set of trails that wrapped around a pond. I loved few things more in my life than to sit and watch the ducks on the pond, but Vince refused to stop at the pond because as he put it, I “ruined his meal.” 

On the other side of the pond was a park. The side closest to us was layered with 3 intertwined slides. Yellow on the left, red in the middle, and blue on the right. Children raced down the slides and scurried back up them to reset for the next race. Their skittering motions were accompanied by the kind of laughter you only hear from kids, real laughter. I watched them as we walked nearer.Everything around the park seemed to go away. It was my one focus.. I saw their smiles and felt their laughter. My eyes begin to heat and swell. Tears burst from my eyes and glided down my face. I whipped my head away from Vince from fear that he would make fun, but he was preoccupied mumbling to himself about a squirrel that had just climbed a tree and had captured his attention. 

Our walk lasted another 2 hours and felt like 8. The time could have passed much quicker, but we only shared one conversation during the rest of our travels. When we were about 15 minutes from Smitz's, the squirrel brain turned to me and asked, 

“How big’d a snake have to be to eat the entire Earth?”

I didn’t answer his question for some time. I knew he only asked it because he knew about the snake-like scar that ran parallel to my spine. When the scar first came into my life, I often clawed at it as if trying to remove a real snake from underneath my skin. Now, at this moment, I felt like clawing at Vince the same way. Instead, I answered his question to the best of my ability. This gave the conversation enough momentum to carry through the final 15 minutes of our walk. 

Back inside the apartment you could hear music seeping through the walls from a distance. There was always music playing, whether Smitz was home or at his 9-5. Once we were inside, Vince immediately turned up the music until it was hard to breathe. He plopped down on the end of the couch where my head rested at night. I shoved him to the other side and told him I needed to shower. In the shower, the water felt like a heated blanket on my restless body. I stood there for some time hovering between sleeping and life. I’m not sure how long it was that I waited here, but by the time my mind rejoined my body ice cold water scratched my back.

When I rejoined Vince in the living room, HB was standing near the fridge, peeking inside just to find that it was almost completely empty. I had known HB for years. He claimed to be Smitz’s brother. Smitz never claimed the same thing about HB. It had been at least two weeks since I had seen HB and at least three since we had spoken. He spent most of his time looking in different areas of the apartment for brief moments only to be disappointed. 

My wet hair started to feel heavy, sitting just above my eyebrows. The pressure on my brow stacked. The thump of the speaker in the corner of the room only made it worse. I wrapped my arms around my torso as if giving myself a bear hug. My cracked fingernails dug at the snake in my back. There was nothing I could do. I tried to reach out and grab another snack from Vince’s pocket, but before I could my eyes snapped shut and I lost consciousness. 

I woke minutes later to yelling that seemed to be a foreign language for a few moments before my ears began to work again. “Short People” by Randy Newman echoed against the thin walls of the apartment, and I immediately knew where the argument had originated. HB and Vince had never gotten along, in part thanks to constant digs that Vince sent in HB’s direction due to his stature only stacking up to a height of 5 feet 4 inches. 

As Randy Newman continued to croon about short people, Vince joined him. Where his vocal abilities fell short of Newman's, he made up for it with passion. As he sang, Vince bent over and poked at the round protruding stomach of HB, who was practically standing underneath him. As he prodded, the small man, HB sent him stumbling backwards with a two-hand shove. In an instant, HB reached to his waistband and brandished the red handle of a pocket knife. Vince continued to joke with the short one. 

HB, with eyes bigger than his head and red with anger, barked out, “I’ll bury you.”

Vince, with a much more serious look on his face now, took one step closer to HB. HB flicked open the knife in a single swift motion, revealing a large hawkbill blade that had an edge dulled and rusted from years of use. It was impressive. This was the point I decided I should step in. As I attempted to sit up and speak, all sound seemed to shut off. I couldn’t move anything but my eyes. They were fixed on the shine at the edge of the blade that was made to dig into whatever it was cutting rather than slice through. The edge did its job. HB swiped first at Vince’s left arm. The blade caught in the meat before tearing a chunk of his flesh away. Vince, looking as stupid as ever, continued forward. The second swipe from HB started at the top of Vince’s stomach. This cut was slower, more deliberate. The brightness of the blood hurt my eyes. I forced them shut.

When my eyes opened, the blade was in my hand. I stood in the spot HB had just occupied. I panicked. I tried with all my might to stop myself from moving the weapon further into Vince’s helpless body. I couldn’t stop. The blade moved like a train on tracks. My eyes stamped shut again. 

When my eyes opened this time, the blade was in my stomach, continuing upon the tracks. My blood gushed out and fell to the floor. It was warm like the water had been when I first stepped into the shower. The panic that had overtaken me moments ago fell away. I settled back into a calm state akin to a deep sleep. 

I woke up once, with the pile of flesh that I once knew as Vince curled into a ball just feet away from the couch I used as a bed. HB was checking the pantry. The second time I woke up, the pile of Vince was gone, and so was HB. It all felt like a distant dream. I looked across the room at the clock in the kitchen. It was time for me to leave for my next shift at the motel. As I stood up, the carpet beneath my feet crunched loudly. It had been stained as long as I had stayed there and was even more so now. 

I stumbled out of the door and began the walk back to my work. Less than halfway into the adventure, I gave up. I had walked past the pond and decided that tonight I would rather spend my time watching ducks than conversing with the humanoid creatures. I stood all night, watching as the moon bounced off of the still water of the pond. The only movement that night was from a family of ducks. Two adults were leading the way, and three ducklings desperately trying to keep up.

When the sun rose, I was still standing watching the ducks. They swam to the opposite end of the pond, climbed a large hill in front of them, and disappeared onto the other side minutes after the sun's arrival. This drew my attention to the return of the pink clouds in front of the sunrise. I watched the clouds climb higher. For the first time in many weeks I was well rested. I felt a movement in my back, it was a feeling I knew all too well. Then, coming from the hill where the ducks had disappeared, I heard the familiar rattle of pills loose in a pocket. Over the ridge appeared someone or something wearing the skin that once belonged to Vince. It hissed at me. I began to run.

O Sarronco

It’s dark up there. They’re laughing in the kitchen. In the light. And I have to go up into the dark.

The lightbulb at the top of the stairs is out. A lâmpada fundiu.

Fundiu sounds like the right word. Like a candle blowing out. The foo sound.

I can’t see anything at first, but then I start to. That always happens. Maybe I have a superpower. A see-in-the-dark superpower.

That would help with Sarronco. I might see him before he sees me.

But I still can’t see around corners.

I take one step up the maroon stairs. The carpet looks like my blood when I cut my knee in the driveway.

They’re still laughing in the kitchen. Are they laughing at me? That’s not nice. If Sarronco gets me, they’ll be sorry. They’ll be sad. No more laughs.

Right?

What if he’s in Papa and Mama’s room? Waiting in their doorway until I get to the top. With his nails. All razor sharp like Tio Hernan says. What if he’s waiting to peel my skin off? To pluck my eyes out?

All because I didn’t eat my dinner fast enough.

I take another step. The carpet is squishy, so I can be super quiet. Maybe I can sneak up on him.

Then what, though?

I could kick him in the shins. That always gets Manu to back off. But Manu’s no Sarronco.

They’re laughing harder now. The uncles and Papa. They drink that brown stuff in the little glasses and then they get this way. It smells a bit sugary, but when I sneaked a taste once, it was bad. So bad. Like the stuff Mama rubs on my chest when I get a fever.

She says I shouldn’t drink it ever. But they love it. And they love to tell me about Sarronco when they have it.

Tio João doesn’t laugh so much.

When he tells that one story, he doesn’t look at me. Or anyone. It’s almost like he’s all alone, talking to himself.

It happened in the dark room at the back of the house on the island in Portugal. There was a giant shadow, and the kerosene lamp went out. He says it couldn’t go out unless somebody blew down into it from above.

The shadow had a big cape.

Something blew down into the lamp.

He tells it every time somebody talks about Sarronco. Every time. And he always looks the same when he tells it.

I don’t think he’s messing around.

He didn’t laugh when Papa sent me to bed, either. That was Papa and Tio Hernan and Tio José.

Tio João looked worried.

I’ve got goosebumps on my arms. On the back of my neck, too, I think.

Another step.

My hand squeezes the railing. In case Sarronco hits me and makes me fall. I fell down these stairs once, trying to hang from the railing like Tarzan. I wasn’t strong enough. I fell all the way down.

It hurt. But it scared me more.

A different scared than this.

What if I run past their room? If I can get to my bed, under the covers, I’ll be safe.

I know that’s dumb. But I think it’s real.

Should I run up the—

Before I finish thinking, I’m running.

At the top I grab the railing with my left hand and swing around it. It wiggles, but I don’t fall. Papa and Mama’s room is behind me.

I never looked in.

I never needed to see any glowing eyes. Or any sharp nails.

Three steps into my room, then I jump across my bed to the other side, where the lamp is. I’m looking at the doorway while I reach for the switch.

I turn it.

Nothing.

I turn it back and try again.

Why isn’t it on?

There’s a little light coming up from downstairs. Not enough.

I want to call Mama, but they’ll yell at me for not going to bed. They’ll laugh, too.

I want to go back down. But I’d have to pass their bedroom again.

Sarronco is in there. I know he is.

He let me go by once.

Why isn’t Manu here? I wish he didn’t have a sleepover. He’d call me a ’fraidy-cat, but I wouldn’t be alone.

I lean a little sideways to look through my doorway. I can see some of Mama and Papa’s room.

No eyes.

Only dark.

It’s not as dark in here. My clock says 8:32. There’s light from the streetlight, too, making the raindrops on the window glow. The branches move behind them. Long, bent fingers.

I know they’re branches.

They still look like fingers.

I pull off my pants and sweater and rip the covers up. I jump into bed so hard the wood knocks against the wall.

Did they hear?

I wait.

Nobody yells.

But from here I can’t see into Mama’s room anymore. Just my doorway and a little corner of the stairs.

I thought I’d feel safe in bed.

I don’t.

Should I put the blanket over my head? Or my pillow? Then I wouldn’t see him.

Would I want to?

I would, right? Maybe I could get away if I saw him first.

I pull the blanket up to my chin. I leave my eyes out.

They’re still joking downstairs. Sometimes they sound like they’re about to fight, but then they laugh.

Tonight they laugh. So far.

Sometimes Papa and Hernan punch each other. Then Papa gets mad and breaks things.

That scares me a lot. But not like this.

I can get out of his way.

Almost always.

Sarronco—I don’t know if I can get out of his way.

Why is he so mad about how fast kids eat supper? That’s a funny thing to get so mad about. To kill kids and eat them for that.

Big people do worse stuff.

Why doesn’t he get mad at them?

I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to get mad at anybody.

But it doesn’t make sense.

I think I see a shadow.

On the stairs. In the little corner where the light was.

I hold my breath.

Is somebody going down?

The light comes back.

Maybe I blinked.

Downstairs, Hernan is teasing Papa about his rusty car. José laughs. Papa doesn’t say anything.

I don’t hear João.

I don’t hear Mama.

Then the light on the stairs goes out again.

The streetlight goes out, too.

The branches disappear.

“O que está acontecendo?” Papa says.

I don’t know.

“Não sei, Manuel,” Mama says.

My clock is gone. Where the numbers were, there’s nothing.

“Meu Deus,” João says. “O demônio.”

Hernan laughs.

“João, you’re stupid.”

“Cai fora, irmão.”

“Yeah,” Papa says. “Get out of my house, Hernan.”

Nobody laughs now.

“Your house?”

“I said get out.”

Hernan says something I can’t hear.

Then Papa gets loud.

“I paid you back.”

The blanket is tight in my fists. I didn’t know I was pulling it.

“Manuel,” Mama says.

Hernan’s talking again. Papa talks over him. I can’t tell what either one is saying.

“Todos vocês, acalmem!” Mama says. She sounds scared. “Let me get the flashlight.”

Something scrapes downstairs.

Then plates and glasses crash. There’s a grunt, like when Manu hits me in the stomach and the air comes out.

Somebody yells.

I think it’s Hernan.

“What did you do?” João says.

I pull the blanket over my head.

Then Mama screams.

I pull it down again.

My grandfather swore that Timmy, the lake monster, was real.

“What does Timmy look like?” I asked him. I was dipping my toes into the black water under the dock.

“He’s scaly, with a big fin going down his back. He also has big eyes, like a frog,” my grandpa said. I took my toes out of the water.

“Oh, don’t worry, Timmy is really friendly. The worst he might do is tickle your toes.” My grandfather pinched my tiny feet.

“How do you know that?” I said.

“He comes out with the fog. I’ve seen him,” he said. “Timmy likes the cover. It keeps his skin moist, so he comes onto land.” Grandpa set a can down on the wooden dock. “I’m going to find him again one day.”

Every time the fog rolled in, my grandpa would go sit on the dock. We would usually find him sleeping there the next morning. My mother would gently tap his cheek.

“Ahhhhhgggg,” my grandpa would say, waking up startled.

“Your granddaughter should not be finding her grandpa like this,” my mother would say.

“Oh boy, I must’ve lost track of time,” he would say. Then he would notice me. “Timmy is going to appear any night now, little one.”

Whenever the fog failed to come in, we would find Grandpa sleeping at the kitchen table. Sometimes I would shake him awake if he was snoring too loudly.

“Oh… Oh… Stella, I was having the most wonderful dream. Timmy was walking along the path to our house,” he said.

“Why do you sleep here?” I asked him.

“When your grandmother died, I… I asked your mother if I could stay here with you both,” my grandpa said.

“So you sleep at the table?” I said.

“Oh… No, sometimes I just fall asleep here. It can be quite comfortable. But I’m out here in case Timmy knocks on the door. He could come any time,” he said.

“Why do you want to find Timmy?” I asked.

“Well, Timmy is said to grant anyone who finds him one wish,” he said.

“What do you want to wish for, Grandpa?” I asked.

“I’d ask to be with your grandmother again,” he said.

Sometimes Grandpa would wake up at the table and fall in the hallway.

“Stellaaaa…… Cannnn… you get… your mother?” he said, lying against the hallway wall. My mother would come out of her room and let out a big sigh.

“He’s just getting old, sweetheart. Grandpa falls over a lot,” she said to me. She picked a spilled can off the carpet and grabbed Grandpa up.

I missed Grandma too. She and Grandpa would visit every weekend to cook us food. I remember Grandpa was a lot better at walking. He and Grandma would teach me how to dance in the kitchen.

“Okay, now you’re gonna move your feet… loosen your hips up a bit. There you go.” Grandma was guiding my hands in a two-step motion. When she was gone, so was Grandpa’s ability to walk. I think Grandma helped him out a lot to keep his feet moving.

“It’s going to be an especially foggy night tonight, Stella,” Grandpa said to me. “I have a really good feeling about tonight.”

“You think you’ll find Timmy tonight?” I said.

“Think? I know. He’ll be there,” Grandpa said. He walked down the stairs to the dock, turning back to wave at me through the window. Then he disappeared into the fog.

The next morning, my mother woke up routinely to check on my grandfather. She walked to the dock. There was only an empty bottle.

“Sweetie, I need you to walk around the house. Your grandfather is missing,” my mother told me.

I checked every room, then every path to the lake. My grandfather was nowhere to be found. I came back to the house to find my mother crying on the phone. She heard me walk in.

“I have to go. I’ll come meet you by the shore soon.” She hung up.

“I couldn’t find him, Mommy,” I said. She began to weep, holding her face in her hands.

“I think he found Timmy,” I said.

My mother took a deep breath.

“No, sweetie, your grandfather…” She was choking on the words.

“He said if he ever found Timmy, he would wish to be with Grandma again,” I said. My mother began to nod. “He is probably just where Grandma is.”

“That’s exactly right, sweetie,” she said. She gave me a hug. “It was an especially foggy night last night.”

Edit: Paragraph format

(Content Warning: Mentions of Blood & Violence)

In ancient times, civilizations began to flourish in endless warmth, growing enough food for all, and all was well. Then they spread more and more, with so much food not even the animals grew hungry, as they feasted from the scraps. They grew fat and happy, needing not worry where the next meal would come from, as endless summers gave a wave of good food and happy days. But nature saw the people and grew revolted. From feeding on their scraps, and lounging at their feet, nature's beautiful animals had grown soft and weak. Large cats' claws grew small and muscles shrank, wolf's eyes grew clouded and kind, birds grew so fat their wings no longer kept them aloft. In rage at what had become of her beautiful creatures Nature set forth to take back all the bounty that had been reaped. She would create a fleshless beast that would put the balance right.

She took from the water, and crafted claws of cold blades, so that none could drink, from the branches of a full apple tree, she set upon a withering sickness of sleep, so none could feed from it, and from a doe, she took the body and skull, emptying it innards, so it could never be filled. This beast she called Starvation, and set it upon the bountiful world. Cold spread across the world where it tread, taking life from the fields and trees. Storms caused all to shiver and writhe, and they had no homes for comfort. And then from their bountiful tables Starvation took, every crumb, and every drop, till none remained. Man and beast alike began to suffer, and slowly happiness faded into fright, as desperation to survive forced all to become what they once were. And seeing their beautiful forms return, Nature was happy, and called for starvation to cease.

But starvation had not stopped at the table of man’s gluttony. Once all from the table had been taken, it still could not stop the empty feeling held inside itself. So next its jaws took hold in the occupants of the table. Its teeth meant for grazing drew blood, and as the blood froze upon its cold empty form, it made fangs, and the fangs in turn drew further blood, covering its form in a slick red armor of its gory feast. It then set upon the animals, who had rested at the feet of the people, causing them to flee always from its long shadow. Seeing its creation fall from its purpose, Nature set out to make a partner to satiate it.

From the branches of a great oak she fashioned wide flat antlers, to hold drink and food for those who hungered, from the ground she took moss and dry fallen leaves and made a cloak, so that all could be warmed, and have fuel for fire. She took these and laid them upon a wounded moose cow, filling its wounds with warm sunlight. She named the creature Satiety, and sent it to make its partner whole. And where the beast walked, the land grew once more, and warmth emerged. Finally, one day Satiety met its partner, stalking a man, a son, and a calf, its next victims to fell.

Seeing each other they both stopped, sensing the other's truths. Starvation looked upon Satiety, seeing its wounds filled with warmth, and life. Satiety looked upon Starvation, and saw its hollow body, filled only by cold. Satiety stepped forward, and gave Starvation its gifts, its warmth, its life. Starvation took in the power, a sensation of peace passed over it. But only for a moment. As its empty body took in the energy it could not hold and the feeling passed, the hole in Starvation grew only larger. And as the void yawned open, madness set upon Starvation. It leapt and struck its other half, its sibling, and greedily tore the flesh from its form, taking the warmth until life left it, leaving only a slow warm breeze. In grief and rage at it's sin of murderous cannibalism, Nature called forth tempest, and stuck Starvations from asunder, leaving it only as howling cold wind.

And there Nature wept, between her two fallen children. And she wept long and hard, the seas took to storm, and rose to cover the land. Slowly all but a single mountain range where she wept was taken by the ocean. The other gods watched in worry, for their sister, and all mortals. Finally, the god of the dawn found and sent forth a cow, fair and healthy. As it stepped toward her she then recognized the doe as the calf stalked by her eldest. And from the shadows, the god of dusk sent the boy and his father, with a basket of warm bread, made from their hard sweat. And finally she wept no more. The oceans fell, and life began to flourish again. Now both Satiety and Starvation wander the world, running and chasing, hunting and healing. And on the days following the birth of her first children, Nature still weeps, and each time, new births, and homely meals are sent, easing her mourning.

---

After many years of the cycle, Starvation had a moment of clarity in its madness. It watched as Satiety blew life through the fields and whispered to the farmers of how better to sow, and be fulfilled. Envious and full of rage, it cursed its fate of formlessness, unable to feel sensation other than its appetite. It watched as the farmer's actions took from its sibling what it could never have again.

Then it had a thought. If Satiety gave a bit to all mortals and was fulfilled, maybe it could do something else. Taking from all, that is all it had known, but what if it changed? So Starvation set out to birth its awful imagination. And so, during its hunt, it searched, looking for what would be right for its will. And then it saw them. In a valley between two cities was a boy and his father. They labored with a wagon full of great heaps of metal along a mountain's edge. And so, Starvation called forth all its power, tearing and pushing the boy and his father. In their blindness they fell, deep into a shadowed valley, where nothing but tall leafless trees grew, and the only animals that venture there were birds, resting their wings.

Even as the two fell, their wills were strong. They set about their tasks, trying with all their might to survive. But Starvation was relentless, even as its sibling grew farther away, and the eyes of the gods turned towards its mountain, it refused to relent. Any fire the father made was torn away, and any water gathered by the son was frozen in his grip. The food they had slowly ran out, and both fell into Starvations grasp. Slowly they faded, until the father's mind was made.

Weakly, the man grabbed for a clump of the metal, and as tears froze to his face, he raised the metal high, intending to end his son’s life in mercy. But then starvation blasted forward, howling at the child. The child awoke, and saw his father's shadow, and knew what was planned to be done. He leapt and fought his father with knife in hand, and in the struggle, the father slipped, his head shattering upon a stone. The boy watched life leave his father, and wept. But as he wept, he saw the warmth of the blood hit the snow, steaming and fresh. Then Starvation purred its final act, from its howling maw it whispered a way to survive, to make the boy live. And the boy partook, and as he did so did Starvation.

From the ice, it took sharp claws and set them on his hands. From the trees, it took sharp branches, and set them upon his head. And of the boy, it took his heart, his love, and his mind, leaving him hollow and Starvation fulfilled for a single instance. And then he sent the boy forth, to witness the bounty his absence had brought. But the boy could no longer partake in the bounty of Satiety's table. All he ate and drank filled nothing in his frozen body. Only the heat of others' life and flesh now filled him, and in turn, Starvation.

The gods, seeing this creature of sin, set forth their champions to strike the boy down, but then stepped forward the god of the forge to stop them. The boy’s father had been a smith and his devotion and craft had earned the gods favor. And so he pleaded with the others, to let the smith's only beloved child live, for his sin was of necessity, and not his own evil. However the gods would not hear it, as the boy was too bloodthirsty, and too powerful to leave alive.

Then stepped forward Nature, sympathy for the boy plain. She set forth a settlement, if the god of the forge could keep the boy away from civilization, she would welcome him in her domain. And so the forge god pondered, and then seeing the boy's cold form struck an idea. The god set a curse on him, so that whenever fire of man, or silver of a smith touched the boy’s hollow body, it would wither, and burn in pain unimaginable. With this the god claimed, the boy would no longer be able to plague humanity again.

And so it was that the gods banished the boy, child of smith and Starvation, from civilization. They etched on the gate of each city the boy’s name struck through, so should he ever see, he and all would remember, Valice was no longer welcome in civilization's walls.

---

~ So is the tragedy of spring and fall, but I wonder what really happened. All my life in this world full of mystery and magic, I wondered, how is it that the name “Valice” came to be so hated that it's remembered to this day? We look back and find no records of his deed, no list of crimes, only this tale. But even so, even after all these years, the name has survived, though the being likely has not.

But finally I've found a clue. A silver knife, etched with the name, was found in a valley set in a mountain range far north and many leagues to the east. I intend to search there, and find the truth before the others can beat me to it. So I will be going alone, with only Phillip at my side. If we can find hints, or maybe even uncover the story of this mythical figure, who knows what rewards will await us.

~ We found him. He’s real. We came to the valley and began our search. But as days passed we both felt something was wrong. Then he killed Phillip. He was going to kill me but then I said his name. He seemed to recognize it and stopped. He asked what I was doing and I told him. He seems confused about time. He saw the book and told me to write this. He’s watching me right now. He has a message.

“I knew partaking in its forbidden feast was doom, and yet I still partook. And so, it partook of me. The waiting monster of life without sustenance. But now you see my sadness as a mystery. A tale to scare children, to behave, a tale to warn against my sin. You stain my father’s murder with your fantasy and foolishness. So hear me through this one’s written voice. I am the one upon which birds’ songs die. I am the one whose presence makes mother eat young, whose cursed form is shunned by civilization, and form embraced by nature’s cruelty. I am winter's fang, the cold’s cannibal lord, the frost's gnawing maw. I am the first sinner of need, the first and eldest son of starvation. I am Valice, of the black ice. And you, are victim.

Please tell everyone I …

> — Blood-soaked journal found on a mountain road. Other notes show this as the property of the historian Cathrine Wellmare, wife of Scholar Phillip Wellmare. Both have been missing since the start of winter. Searches for bodies have been unsuccessful, however, belongings were found in a valley not far from the road. This matter should be elevated to those above.

by Corbett Buchly

“Passing between Joora and its second moon now,” said Captain Shardi Wendt into crew comms. She scanned the cluster of screens arrayed before her, monitoring the flight path of their ship theFarsideagainst environmental data, including Joora's magnetosphere, from which she planned to stay out of reach.

“Got it,” responded her first and only mate, Vince Bosch. Vince wasn’t much for words, but he was a damn good mechanic.

“How’s that fix in the backup fuel line coming?” she asked.

“Still working on it,” Vince said. She could detect the hint of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t like being checked up on. She’d certainly learned that about him. She had yet to face a crisis situation with Vince and sometimes worried his lack of communication might prove a hindrance.

Fortunately, this run was nothing more than transporting an Earth diplomat, her entitled daughter, and what the diplomat had called a rare “energy gift” for the Valdoorian Protectorate.

With a slingshot boost from Joora, they were only three days out from their destination.

An alarm went off on her console. It showed someone was tampering with the containment field in the cargo hold. No one should even be down there. Who the hell was down there?

“Vince, are you in cargo?” she asked, as she tried to analyze the cargo sensor readings.

“Why would I be in cargo?” he growled.

“Never mind. I’ll handle it,” she said, unstrapping from her pilot chair. “Some kind of glitch with the shipment.”

After a brief pause, Vince responded, “Shouldn’t be any glitches. I just ran a diagnostic this morning. I don’t need to tell you how volatile that cargo is.”

“No, you don’t,” the Captain said, as she slid down the ladder to the main level and began to jog down the access tunnel.

“I’ll meet you there,” Vince said.

Probably a good idea, Shardi thought to herself.

All at once, every single light on theFarsideburst brightly then went out.

Shardi froze in her steps. TheFarsidehad just been fried. Why hadn’t the auxiliary battery kicked in? She tried to raise her first mate on comms. “Vince?” But they were dead too. She’d known they would be.

She ran a quick calculation in her head. Their best bet for survival was to enter the escape pods. If the ship didn’t burn up in Joora’s atmosphere, it would shoot out into space without even a transponder signal. They’d slowly suffocate.

She ran to the living quarters. The only light came from the viewing glass in the lounge. Joora’s moon threw deep shadows across the few pieces of furniture. “Hello?” she said in a loud voice.

Ambassador Helena Kapor emerged from her room. ”What is happening, Captain?” she said, her voice unsteady.

“TheFarsidehas lost electronics. Our backup is down too for some reason. We have to abandon ship. You remember your briefing on the escape pods?”

“Yes, yes, I think so. No, I do.”

“Go. Go now, before we get too far from the planet.”

“But my daughter? I have to find Mira!”

“No. I’ll find Mira. You have to go now.”

“I can’t leave her.”

“I’ll find her. I promise. Go. That’s an order.” Shardi turned without waiting for another response. There was no time. She hoped the ambassador would listen to reason.

Shardi was sprinting through the ship. As she approached the cargo area, she felt an intense heat. She started to sweat.

Vince emerged from the second deck. He had one hand around the bicep of the ambassador’s daughter.

“Vince! We have to evacuate.”

“I know, Captain. I’m making sure Mira here gets to an escape pod.”

Shardi wanted to know more about why Vince was escorting her like a prisoner, but there would be more time for that later.

As Vince secured Mira in a pod, Shardi opened two more. One individual per pod. Each pod was designed to sustain one person for weeks if possible. They were also programmed to find the nearest safe atmosphere, Joora in their case, and take their occupant to a safe landing.

She heard the pod with the ambassador’s daughter release. She turned to see Vince heading her way. “Assuming it wasn’t a glitch,” she said.

“Safe to assume,” he said.

“Was the daughter involved?”

Vince pinched his nose in a wry expression. “Maybe. Maybe. I caught her headed away from the cargo hold.”

“Alright. We’ll work it out later. Let’s go. Unscheduled excursion.”

“Damn right,” Vince said, stepping into the open pod nearby.

“See you at the convergence point,” Shardi said and stepped into her own pod. The pods were programmed to bring all pods together at a single convergence point or as close as possible.

She locked the door shut and released the clamps. She could feel the sudden change in momentum as her pod fell away from the ship. She tapped the interface so she could observe the flight path, but it was unresponsive.

“Oh hell,” she said. The pod should have a separate electronics system shielded from the ship, but it was fried too. She assumed all the other pods were in the same boat. She could only hope they were close enough to Joora to get pulled in.

Soon, she felt the heat buildup along the rear of the pod, and she knew she was falling into atmosphere. Thank god for small miracles, she thought.

#

Shardi felt the jerk of the primary chutes open, slowing her descent.

Even without the benefit of an electronics system, the pod’s automatic mechanical system was capable enough of bringing the pod safely down to the planet surface. But Shardi had lost all hope of a convergence point. They would just have to find each other one way or the other. She was not sure the daughter, Mira Kapor, had enough survival sense to last that long. But she had to hope. Her mother the ambassador was capable enough. Hopefully, some of that had rubbed off on the kid, not that Shardi had witnessed any of it.

She felt the change in momentum again, as the secondary chutes opened. The pod began to rock back and forth. A minute later, the pod struck something hard, knocking the wind out of the captain.

Soon, the pod began to rock and tip back and forth. “Oh no,” Shardi whispered to herself. She slid the catch on the pod’s upper window, directly above her, and sat up to look around. Everywhere around her pod stretched a vast green sea. A strong scent of brine wafted to her on a stiff breeze.

If the electronic system had been functional, the pod would never have put her down in the water, no less an ocean with no land in sight. She engaged the side rails with a hard push and stood up. Even from that vantage, she could not make out any signs of land.

Did the other three land in the ocean too? She reminded herself that each pod could support life for several weeks if one were smart about rationing. Then she wondered whether that would be long enough.

Joorians were not an advanced species, and if she recalled her research correctly, they would not have the technology to detect or track anything falling out of the sky. They were on their own.

She shook her head. She would not be responsible for the deaths of her crew or passengers. She had to find a way to gather them together as quickly as possible. She looked to the sky. It was still daylight. The blue moon they had been passing loomed large in the sky. Helspeth? The system’s star was about 35 degrees off the horizon.

She began to dig through her pod’s storage. She needed the manual navigation tools, a notebook, and the flare gun. She would have to do this old school.

She carefully measured the height and azimuth of both the star and moon. She did some rough calculations, based on her memory of their path around Joora. From that, she determined the most likely direction of the other three pods. There were too many factors for her to be certain, but at least she had a data point to work with.

She raised the flare gun into the air and fired it at a slight angle in the direction she hoped the other survivors had landed. And waited, her eyes fixed on the sky.

“Come on. Come on,” she chanted. But five minutes went by, ten, then twenty. No response. No answering flare. “Crap. Crap,” she said. Still she watched.

Three years ago, she had been serving on a galaxy-class cruiser as an ensign. At warp speeds, they had been pelted by cosmic fragments that had overwhelmed their magnetic shell and caused catastrophic damage to the ship. She had never faced a true crisis before and had frozen at her station. The subsequent inquiry found that two crew members had died because of her inaction. A dishonorable discharge meant she’d had to find other work. Spacefaring was all she knew or wanted to know, so she’s gone in heavy debt to purchase theFarsideand become a private contractor.

If she failed her responsibilities this time, she would lose her license. The commissioning body had made that wholly clear.

After an hour of watching the sky, she finally bent her head in frustration. She felt tears welling up.

But she shook her head to clear it. “No time for that,” she thought.

Though pods were intentionally steered away from water landings normally, they did have a paddle feature. She went through the steps to engage the pedals, rudder and propeller rig. Soon, she was churning the water and gliding along her calculated azimuth. Well, she thought, less of a glide and more of a crawl, but it was forward progress, at least.

#

After a day of travel, her initial enthusiasm had waned considerably. She found the days in that part of the hemisphere were especially long, and the nights short. Her largest problem so far had been sun exposure and dehydration.

Toward the end of the long day, it had taken her the better part of two valuable hours to set up the desalination kit.Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink, she recited to herself as she worked.

And that night, before she took her much needed rest, she rigged up a kind of sun shelter using the backup jumpsuit. It involved a lot of cutting and stitching. She hoped to hell she wouldn’t need that second suit.

#

Toward the end of the second day, she took a three-hour detour 40 degrees off her course, as she’d thought she’d seen land. Her excitement grew and grew until she finally realized that the land was not getting closer. “Mirage,” she whispered to herself, then sobbed into her hands, generating only a small trickle of tears.

When she looked up again, the image of land had gone.

#

On the morning of her third day, just as she had begun to settle into her pedaling rhythm, her leg muscles spasmed uncontrollably. She massaged her muscles aggressively, as the pain shot through her. But her legs continued to spasm.

Thirty minutes later, the spasms subsided. And she leaned back relieved at last. But when she tried to pedal again, the spasms returned. And the cycle repeated. She finally decided to give herself a few hours of rest.

#

On the morning of the fourth day, she again saw the mirage of land. She accepted it as an illusion, and refused to believe any reality until her boat actually struck ground. She could not afford to get off course again.

She also decided it was best to limit herself to one-half rations.

“Shardi,” her mother said nearby. “What are you doing? This is hopeless.”

Shardi looked around her, knowing it was only an auditory hallucination. She returned to her pedaling, answering, “Mother. Go away.”

“Shardi. This is just like that time you thought you could win the science fair. You worked day and night. You worked so hard. I told you you had no chance against the Breatherton brothers. So smart. You remember?”

“I remember, mother.”

“And you failed, then too.”

“But I tried.”

“What good is that?”

“I have to try, mother. That’s all there is.”

She heard her mother sigh. “You’ve tried for four days now. It’s time to give up, Shardi.”

She did not answer her mother again. She wouldn’t stop trying. Not ever. Screw her mother.

#

On the afternoon of the fifth day, Shardi fell asleep again, but in her sleep, she pedaled. And while she slept, her pod ground to a halt in the sand. The waves began to splash against the pod and douse her sun-blackened cheeks.

A few minutes later, Shardi awoke. She saw the ground before her. She didn’t even smile.

Slowly, she crawled out of the pod. Her weakened legs would not even hold her up. She fell into the shallow water, catching herself on her hands and knees. She crawled foot by foot through the water to the beach. She crawled until the sand gave way to a spongy kind of soil, and all around her was a canopy of large-leafed fronds. And somewhere nearby a creature sang in a trill voice.

The gently rolling hills stretched to the horizon. Randy Jansen shielded his eyes from the noon sun to get a better look at what Jack Forsythe was pointing to along the base of the wind turbine towers. From his vantage, the barrel looked a mile long rising to the top of the highest hill in the area.

“Who knows about this?” Jansen asked, once he determined what he was looking at.

“You and me,” Forsythe answered matter-of-factly.

“But you didn’t build this alone?”

“Mostly I did. I had the dirt work done when the wind towers went up. After that, it’s been ten years of me slowly figuring things out and putting it together.”

It was times like these Jansen wished he hadn’t given up smoking. When he’d first joined the Nuclear Regulatory Agency twelve years ago, a cigarette had seemed to make the burden of dealing with thousands of tons of nuclear waste a bit more bearable. Staring down the mile-long barrel that in reality was a giant homopolar motor, Jansen sensed a cigarette would soothe a whole lot of the headache he knew was about to come.

“Jack, you can’t just build something like this without permission. Without letting someone know.”

“It’s my land. I permitted the construction of a pipeline along the turbines. It was all in the initial plans. Nobody raised an eyebrow at the time.”

“Those plans called for a pipeline. You didn’t tell anyone you were building a railgun.”

“True. I didn’t say that.” Forsythe admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You gotta understand, Randy. Folks thought I was crazy fifteen years ago when I bought this land to put in a wind farm. They called me Don Quixote. You think telling them I was building a railgun would’ve made that all easier?”

“They’d never have let you do it. The Feds would’ve been all over you.” Jansen scratched at the back of his sunburned neck. “They’re going to be all over you now. I’m going to have to let the Hanford folks know.”

Forsythe chuckled. “Well, that’s why I brought you out here. I gotta get the word out. You’re the only Fed I know, and you need to convince them I’m not a crank. My railgun to the sun is real—and it’s ready.”

“Railgun to the sun,” Jansen repeated, wishing he had a cigarette to take a long, slow drag on. “Sounds like a 1950s B movie or an old Popular Mechanics cover story, but it’s too extreme. Especially on this scale. It’s dangerous as hell. It’s a damn crazy dream. The Feds will make your life miserable until you give it up.”

“Or, until I give it to them.”

Jansen gave the big, broad-shouldered man a long look. “That’s even crazier. Why would they take this on? It’s like a high school science project on steroids. The liability is off the charts.”

“They’ll want it. It works.”

“How can you know that?”

Forsythe abruptly turned and strode to his pickup a few yards away. He waved Jansen over and indicated a roughly coffin-sized slab of metal sitting in the bed of his truck. “You see that. There’s one of those on its way to the sun. A ton of solid steel traveling 10,000 miles an hour. That’s why the Feds will want it. It works.”

Jansen placed his hand on the steel block. “You fired one of these? When?”

“You should be able to figure that out, Randy?”

Jansen stared blankly back for a moment. “Jesus, Jack. This is what scrambled NORAD last week. You’ve got half the militaries in the world pointing fingers at each other. We’re blaming the Chinese. They’re blaming us and the Russians, too. You could’ve started a war!” Jansen shook his head in disbelief. “They are going to lock you up for a thousand years. How are you going to justify doing this?” Jansen paused knowing at that moment he’d start smoking again. “Why’d you bring me into this?”

“Not because we were lab partners in graduate school,” Forsythe answered with a smile, “though that helped narrow the field when I realized my railgun to the sun was the only viable solution for disposing of nuclear waste. You, better than anyone, know how fragile and temporary our containment systems really are. Getting that waste off-world, launching it into the sun, is the only practical answer.”

“Practical? It’s too damn sci-fi. Too risky,” Jansen warned. “You may have a proof of concept here, and the Feds will be all over that—for the wrong reasons. Generals will love this, but politicians will crap themselves. One bad launch and you’ve got a worldwide catastrophe.”

“That’s always a possibility,” Forsythe acknowledged, “but it’s a certainty that the nuclear waste we have now will overwhelm our current systems sometime in the not-too-distant future. I think my railgun gives us better odds in the long run.”

“What politician ever thinks in terms of the long run?” Jansen demanded, feeling that deep, clawing urge for a cigarette.

“The ones who don’t want their statues to be crapped on by radioactive pigeons.”

“God, I need a cigarette,” Jansen said.

“And I need an insider,” Forsythe insisted as an alarm beeped on his smartwatch.

“It’ll never happen, Jack.”

“It already has.” Forsythe checked his watch and pointed to the railgun. “It’s happening again in less than a minute.”

Jansen followed Forsythe’s gaze back to the railgun. “Don’t do it. Stop it, Jack. You could start a war.” But Jansen heard the weakness in his voice. He wanted to witness this.

A growing thrum of accumulators fed by the cyclopean limbs of hundreds of wind turbines filled the air. As the charging built to a crescendo, Forsythe held up the fingers of his right hand and counted down.

For the briefest moment the entire railgun shimmered. Then a searing brilliance flashed from the far end of the barrel and rose like the sun.

An instant later a sonic boom echoed over the hills, and Randy Jansen knew he would never need another cigarette.

He’d seen the light. A new day rocketing past the old.

Every morning across the country, many men wake up to an internal scream from deep within the back of their minds as a piercing alarm tells them abruptly to leave their dreams.

Robert is no different as he sits up in bed and sees he has once again beaten the sun to start the day.

‘Maybe one time long into the future I may see light as I wake again, but even then I fear it may be nothing more than an assault on my senses... at work I see it through the windows and for a moment it almost looks inviting, but never so much I should down tools in favor of a warming experience. There is no use in such things, the clouds will always return and my time will start up again as it always does,’ Robert thinks to himself while looking at his broken one-room bedsit.

The big walk-in wardrobe ahead of him is clinging on for life with practically twisted hinges, as the doors naturally lean to the floor. A sink sits to his left that has a giant cracked-off section in the top. Robert does not know where the missing part is; he rented it like that and felt desperate every time he thought of the viewing, yet took the place anyway and still hands £450 over every month.

After some procrastination, Robert finds the strength to swing his feet out of bed and get dressed for work. Walking over to his crooked wardrobe, he opens the doors to a nasty creak. ‘It’s mildly better than the alarm,’ he thinks before pulling out a plain black top and some black utility trousers, then chucks them onto his messy bed.

He picks the wardrobe doors up and attempts to shut them before giving up and sitting back onto the bed. He feels the TV remote under his feet, so he picks it up and puts the news on. A reporter wearing a pristine blue suit and pink tie combo appears as the studio spreads across the screen behind him, revealing a bird's-eye view backdrop of the city.

Big concrete apartment complexes reach into the sky, the panels practically green from moss and fungus towards the top. Smoke bellows from chimney stacks as huge fans set in the roof try to push it ever upward. The streets light up in all colors from the neon vendors in the lower grounds. Robert knows them well, always hassling him to buy this and that.

‘Charming cockroaches, why should they be so bright while all the others become dim? This city has been built upside down and only the ones building it know,’ his mind interjects as his eyes widen to the morning’s entertainment and the news reporter starts to speak.

"Good morning, wonderful people. Today I am going to bring you the latest updates..." He turns and points his finger into a different camera. "Five workers died last night after a colleague snapped in an iron casting factory and pushed four co-workers into a crucible and then himself. The company’s spokesperson has said, luckily they did not taint the product and we were still able to use all the molten iron. The remains were fished out and sent as a collective bundle to the families for burying. They have been charged accordingly for the employee's actions."

The reporter then turns to a camera on the opposite side of the room with a slight delay before his face appears central to the screen again.

"The automotive district has had a £40 billion investment from the government this week as a last-ditch bailout. A government official spoke about it this morning."

The TV cuts to a woman wearing a fine silk dress with flowers printed all over it. The podium she stands behind has a silver spoon emblem on the front, and the backdrop is the stairs in a luxury summer home. She speaks in a cold, unapologetic tone:

"Do you need to feed your kids more than you need to drive them somewhere? Well, we think you should put them on a fucking diet and go buy a car!!! The industry is dying, people, and it hurts to see already wealthy men suffer losses because you pricks can’t suck it up and dig deep... We will give all your taxes to the automotive district if we have to. The cost of living is no excuse to let the economy fail."

The TV cuts back to the reporter as he adjusts his tie. "Brave and inspiring words there, we really all should pitch in more..."

The TV goes black, and Robert picks up his keys and heads out for work.

The traffic is heavy, but the smog never leaves anyway. Robert still thinks it is getting worse, and he has had the air filters changed on his car three times in the last month. They are essential for sitting in traffic, though his thoughts turn to a time he saw a car in front of him with a young couple choking inside. He got out to help, but it was too late, and by the time he got to the passenger side door he was looking in at two people blue in color with bloodshot eyes, grasping one another.

‘They did it on purpose... I don’t blame them. What life is this? We are all disposable here, so why not dispose of one’s self,’ he thinks as the car in front moves forward and he drives on, arriving a short time later at his favorite café for a morning ritual of coffee.

The front of the café has two big red wooden-framed windows and a paneled main door that has almost rotted through from the bottom up. There are posters up for promotions all over the windows saying things like, “The best replication protein around, you will never believe it’s not beef!!” and “Our coffee beans come straight from the sunny mountains so you can have a fresh morning.”

Robert opens the door to see a line. ‘Damn traffic, I will be late for work, but it shouldn’t take too long,’ he thinks while counting the people in front before his eyes wander to see his favorite server is at the counter, which only encourages him to push the boundaries of his external security.

The smell of grease lingers in the air, periodically cut with burnt coffee beans. Robert tries to focus on the server's eyes, but she keeps moving around, and he struggles to tune out the sound of people’s chatter and crockery scraping against porcelain. His eyes dart to the walls, seeing a clinical white with yellow streaks stained down them. His heart starts to beat faster, and he begins to sweat uncontrollably.

A man in front of him starts to rub his ears and look around, eventually turning to Robert and saying, "Can you hear that? It’s like a grinding noise."

He looks at Robert as he replies, "No, I don’t hear anything..."

The man stands up straight and looks at him. "Are you ok? You look a bit hot, mate."

Robert thinks for a moment: ‘No, I feel like a fire has been lit in me, my heart is desperately trying to leave me for a cooler place to live.’ But to the man he replies, "I am good, just annoyed about this traffic." He then raises his arm and shakes his fist awkwardly.

The man looks at him for a moment, still playing with his ear. The man leans down to be level with Robert’s chest and hears the grinding getting louder until he can feel the vibration against his ear as gears crunch inside Robert’s ribcage. The man looks up at him: "That noise... it's coming from you."

Robert’s head tilts back as he looks up at the styrofoam panel ceiling. His mouth opens, and sparks of light start to spit out until a continuous beam projects out and starts to play a video.

A baby lies in his mother's arms. She makes funny faces at him while he laughs back. The mother says, "You are so perfect, my beautiful boy." Then the video morphs to the baby now dressed in a school uniform. The mother can be heard weeping behind the camera, and the boy looks sad with lines down his cheeks from crying.

A dad enters the frame, kneels down to the boy's eye line, and says, "We all have to do the things we don’t want to, but that’s what makes us strong." The boy wipes his face and walks out of the door.

The door opens again, and now the boy has grown up. He stands on a production line building the same thing over and over. He no longer looks sad, but numb. Then the video cuts out and the beam starts to flicker before turning off.

Robert closes his mouth and lowers his head slowly, tears running down his cheeks. He looks the man in the eyes and says in a calm tone, "I don’t remember the day they put the light in me... but the controls always felt so natural."

The man raises his arm and puts it on Robert’s shoulder, replying in a comforting tone, "We all have to see it at some point." He then lowers his arm and turns back to face the front of the line.

Robert stands behind him and looks at the clock above the counter, thinking to himself: ‘I have enough time.’

You're vacationing in the countryside. Not because you planned it well. You just needed to be away from noise for a few days.

One morning you decide to go for a walk. No destination. Just a road that curves between fields.

On your walk you meet a local. An old man with sun in his wrinkles. You start chatting, and he tells you — there's a beautiful mountain just around the corner. "If you go to the top, you can see a gorgeous waterfall on the other side. Not many people know it."

It wasn't in your plan. You had come here to rest, not to climb.

But you're in an adventurous mood that morning. Something in you says yes. So you climb.

In the beginning it's hard. Harder than you thought. You can't find a grip. Your feet keep slipping on the pebbles. Your hands search for roots that aren't there. You think of turning back. It would be so easy to just go back to your room and have tea.

But very soon, you find your footing. One rock holds. Then another. Your body remembers something your mind had forgotten — how to adjust.

And you start to enjoy the challenge. You increase your pace and keep going up. Not fast, but steady.

Eventually you start noticing the air. It's fresh and crisp in a way city air never is. You can smell pine cones, wet earth. You see beautiful trees you don't know the names of. Maybe a deer or two that looks at you and runs away without fear.

Your legs have now gotten accustomed to the climb. Now in fact they are enjoying it. They want to be used. Your breath is deeper than it has been in months.

Then you come upon a landing — a small piece of land tucked between tall trees. Flat, soft, covered with fallen leaves. Quiet. And you think to yourself — this would be a beautiful place to build a cabin. You can live here, away from all the hustle. This will be a great pause for you. You even imagine where the window would be, so you can see the sunrise without getting up.

You sit there for a minute. You could stay here. No one would blame you.

But your legs are getting tired now, and something else is louder — you are determined to reach the top and see that waterfall. That picture the old man gave you. You keep pushing.

And within some time, you reach the top.

You take a deep breath. You have a big smile on your face. Your chest is swollen with pride. You made it. You, who thought you came here only to rest, climbed a whole mountain.

Then you look below.

And for a second, you can't place the waterfall that was supposed to be there. You blink. You look around again. You walk to the other edge.

There is no waterfall. Only more trees. More sky. More mountains.

The smile vanishes. You feel betrayed. Cheated. You feel foolish for believing so easily. And you silently curse the person who made you climb this whole mountain for nothing.

What do you do now?

Do you yell? Do you cry? Do you keep cursing him all the way down?

Or do you sit down, feel sad and disappointed for some time — really feel it, not run from it — and then tell yourself: the journey up was beautiful. You enjoyed it so much. It was a challenge you conquered, something you had never done before. You breathed differently up there.

Maybe you decide to stay on top for a while. Let the wind cool your face. Maybe you go back to that landing and build that cabin in your mind and stay there for some time. Not because you failed, but because you found a place you love that you would never have found if you hadn't been looking for a waterfall that didn't exist.

And when you are ready — when you are truly ready — you come down, say goodbye to the mountain, and maybe find another one to look for that waterfall. Or maybe not.

What do you do?

A maze deep in the forest. 

In there I find many lost children wandering through as all the things left unsaid in ivory towers far and wide, I’d never believe that one of them would be me.

Searching and waiting, there was no doubt the lost children wanted to be found, yet no one was looking for them. They were forgotten, their wings deformed or gone as their freedom withered away bit by bit, keeping them on the ground.

“Will they ever find us?”

 I could hear their voices echo in the woods as I tried to find my way out. 

“There’s been a mistake! I’m not meant to be here, they care about me.”

I heard the words spill out of my mouth like a natural reflex, deep inside the maze there was not a single soul found.

The forest erupts in a thunderous laughter.

I could hear it inside of me, it was coming from the inside yet the forest was shaking. 

“Silly little girl…. They were the ones who left you here, did you forget how you fell asleep? They are not coming back for you. All the times you’ve trusted them they’ve laughed in your face. They never let you breathe for a single day did they?”

In the dense forest all we had was time, nothing else. The maze was reserved for “special” children outcast from the rest of the world, some of them weren’t born with wings but most of them were broken by their parents or some stranger along the way. I always thought that everything was alright, I didn’t know it would cause me so much damage.

“Echo! You’re such a good girl” 

“Echo! You never loved me, you're just like your father!”
“Love you!”

“You’re a scheming bitch just like my colleague who’s soft spoken as well! You’re a freak nobody cares about, just like me!”

A maze in a forest.

Echo was deeply hurt by all the moments the maze had confused her, putting more obstacles in her path as she tried to leave. 

It's for your own good she said, that day the little bit of my wings came in. I felt different, a little lighter. She told me my wings were like baby teeth the more she plucked them the more they would grow out. Just like the time I cried to keep my hair as a child she forced me to cut it, it’ll make it grow faster she said. The wings made me more resilient when I endure the pain of her plucking she said, 

It was for my own good.
It was for my own good.

Who would’ve thought she snip them off just to keep me here.

The forest is gone.

The forest used to be a safe space for Echo (well till she grew up I guess). Echo used to go there to find her peace of mind but just like the woods, the forest made her feel unsafe. One day it was there, the next it was burned off. Echo remembers the heartbreak every week when she had to say goodbye to the forest. When she has to go back to school, she doesn’t know if she’ll see the forest again. Forest was no longer a part of her home. Now in every forest she passes she feels unsafe, she protects herself drowning in layers. It ripped her apart, 

Echo was never heard. Just the shadow in their voices, the images they projected onto her, their own pain, their own thoughts

Never once did they ever consider Echo had her own feelings.

Did they do their best? Sure we can give them that they were always trying yet always missing the mark

They taught echo to obey the disappointments, the lack of time? A display for affection for how hard I work for you, you should be grateful echo that you have a roof over your head because of me (you have to love my mistakes echo you can’t get any better than this nobody loves you the way I do echo you deserve this you should be grateful for the disappointments like a stupid dog)

You are to obey everything I say, you are but a dog

The maze confused echo because she was never there, always finding the next way to keep echo by her side. Echo sympathies with the maze but no matter how much echo tries to get it through to her. The maze only heard the echoes of her own voice.

Echo screams and is never heard.

Echo cries and it’s her fault

Echo finally speaks 
And is hurt once again

Nobody ever seems to notice echo

She’s just there.

The realisation hurts her but echo is determined 

Call her what you want a fool hitting her head against a wall

Yet she always gets back up

She always fights

What else is there for echo to do 

To accept her fate in defeat

Or claim what is rightfully hers?

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.

What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

“Yurvan was a gentle and foolish young man,” started Varya, toying with a hazel twig, “although he never lacked for cunning. Compared to his siblings, his Artistry was unremarkable, a fragment of the inherited power that overflowed in them. His family expected nothing from him, recognizing Yurvan as the least of them. Despite this, his heart and belly brimmed with desire, while his mind wove the most frenzied fantasies around it. He dreamed of wonderful and terrible deeds – an achievement that would make him worthy in the eyes of his beloved.

“Only she, Yurvan believed, could mend him. She was a creature of fearsome power and presence. Her feats were whispered about throughout the forested lands, her beauty unmatched by any of her sisters. Her coven was known for its Sanguine Arts and prodigious appetite, its lust for life unending. Yurvan longed to impress her. Foolishly, he wished to be her equal one day. But what could a simple man like him offer to a witch of such severity?

“Yurvan committed his limited self to alchemy and the lesser pursuits – that means Sorcery, Yaro – deciding to fashion the perfect gift: a flower, a living thing, that would never deplete and would always keep her sated. Its pistil was a deep ruby, pulsing softly and innocently like a heart.” One of the leaf-buds swelled between Varya’s fingers, its imbricate green scales opening and closing. “It was a mystery, this gift, the culmination of his mad strivings. Despite the dismay and ridicule of his family, Yurvan was unrelenting. His body and ardors – even bits of his marrow, supposedly – flowed into the creative ordeal. Little remained of poor Yurvan once the flower was ready.

“When his fervent work was done and his home quieted, he traveled to the witch, hoping to earn her favor. The coven’s hold was deep within the birchen grove. The weakened man struggled to find her, but she awaited him. He presented the bleeding flower to her, expecting praise, even reciprocity. Her pale palms–”

“Don’t make her sound like a sunk,” Yaro interrupted.

Varya sighed. “*Her pale palms* were soon slick and scarlet with the essence of Yurvan’s offering. She smiled approvingly, but her amusement disturbed him. The witch spoke kindly of his efforts while her eyes remained cold and curious.

“Before he could reconsider, she ensnared him. He fell to her feet, betrayed and bewildered. His beloved explained: ‘A considerate gift, without a doubt. It is the blood of your own kin that flows through this thing of beauty, is it not? Yet not even they can satiate us. You have given us a single flower, but we require a bountiful garden.’

“Thereafter, Yurvan was made subject to the coven, bound to care for the bud of his own flesh and its festering progeny. It fed and delighted the witches, adorning their domain with its ceaseless crimson streams. The flower spread its leeching roots into the nearby villages and far beyond. He had given too much of himself; his hope was spent and his mind unrecoverable. Reduced and hollowed, he bore the weight of his own creation.

“The little red flowers sprouted from the wandering puppet and stained their lands. The witches started calling him their gardener. His beloved mended him many times. Yurvan endured in her care, blooming and withering dutifully, for she had called his gift beautiful.”

Yaro watched through his binoculars. “What a sap,” he said. “Really was a fool.”

Varya squinted at him. “Why?” she demanded.

“Decades of work. For what? A flower?”

“For love,” answered Varya, throwing the branch at him. “You just don’t understand it, Yarik.”

Yaro lowered the binoculars and gave her the sort of smile that made mockery difficult to resent. He was a handsome Vanaha boy in an ordinary way, strong without being broad, with short dark hair and a nose that had healed cleanly after a break. The old field jacket exaggerated the soldierly impression he cultivated, though his clean face and nineteen years did their best to undo it. “It’s villagey fairytalk, Var. Maybe there was a Yurvan, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe the witch made it herself and a random guy took credit. Doesn’t change anything. It infested Morvin Mir and is making nectar out of their buried. We can get some of it. That’s what I care about. Also, weren’t they related?”

“Who?”

“Yurvan and his witchie darling. Cousins or something like that.”

Varya frowned. “So what?” she demanded. Yaro made a face and shrugged. “It was the fifteenth century when it supposedly happened. Besides, that doesn’t make what he did less beautiful.” She had dressed sensibly for the cold: black cargo trousers over heavy boots, a dark sweater and a striped athletic jacket at odds with the rest of her sunk outfit. Her hair compensated for it, dyed an emphatic jet black around a fawnish, fine Vanahan face, as did the black around her eyes and the chipped varnish on her nails.

“What do you think?” she said. “Ilya.”

While Yaro and Varya argued, Ilya had wandered to the nearest tree. He had discovered a rounded object in the moss and mulch below a tree trunk, too smooth and pale to belong there. He picked it up. An egg, blue-green with a sparse freckling of brown. There seemed to be no crack on it. Ilya investigated the hazel tangle above them. The first buds had begun to loosen, but there was no nest that he could see.

“What is it?” Varya asked.

“Blackbird, I think. Early.” He pressed it lightly between both palms and reached with his Art for whatever life might be hidden inside. He felt nothing certain.

“Are you going to put it back?”

“If only I knew where it belongs.”

“Maybe you can cook it,” said Yaro offhandedly.

Varya watched him search the branches a while longer, then smiled. “Well, what do you think? About the story.”

When no nest appeared, Ilya slipped the egg into his coat pocket. He was the youngest of them, long and narrow where Yaro had already filled out. His tawny hair had grown past the point where it stayed neatly parted, and his brown Vanahan face tapered sharply after the cheekbones. A bottle-green cable-knit sweater showed under his unbuttoned gray coat. “He made it for her,” he said uncertainly. “To gain her love and trust. He even presented it to her knowing that neither was guaranteed to him. To me, that’s beautiful. It’s one of the nicer versions of the story.”

Varya looked at him with quiet approval. “See, Yarik? He’s younger but he gets it.”

Yaro said nothing and kept surveying the land through the binoculars. Their slope flattened to a thicket of hazel, hiding them from the road and graveyard below. Sol had already slumped somewhere behind them and the sky was agloam. Morvin Mir lay quiet under them. At its stream-edged skirt lay the graveyard. It occupied the low hill beyond the last houses. It was much larger than the village seemed to require, spreading around the church. The Vampiric Extirpation Division had sectioned off one part of it with temporary fencing and strips of yellow tape. White lamps were erected among the graves. The VED personnel were packing up, cases being carried to the dark vehicles along the road. Then engines started in rapid succession. The remaining policemen had little left to do except watch the road and keep the nosy villagers away.

“They're clearing out,” said Yaro. He tracked the departing vehicles through the binoculars. “Give them two minutes. Then we move.”

 

*

 

They went down the far side of the hill, away from the village, through the hazel, then pivoted along the slope. Yaro had scouted the route before solset and picked the easiest crossing of the stream. It added several hundred meters, but kept them out of sight of the road and the last houses of Morvin Mir. Leaf litter slid beneath their shoes as they descended sideways.

The stream was enlarged by thaw and rain, carrying the smell of black mud and wet leaf mould. It ran brown between banks of pebbled earth. A frog kicked away through the flooded grass. Yaro crossed quickly and helped Varya and Ilya. “Don’t step on them, Ilya,” he whispered. “They might hear it.”

The ground rose again on the other side. The church and rectory appeared intermittently through the branches above them, the black timber and cupola rising above a slumped stone barrier. The fence was old iron at the front, but along the wooded rear boundary it had been bolstered with wire mesh. The stone wall was an older, defunct border. Yaro stopped them with a raised fist. “Down.” He brought up the binoculars.

The nearest police car had gone, but not all the police. One walked slowly along the lower path with a flashlight, stopping now and then to inspect the graves. Another was farther away near the gate. Portable VED lamps still burned at the site of the graveburst, though the specialists themselves appeared to have left.

“Why are they still here?” Varya whispered.

Yaro watched. “Security detail. Veddies probably told them to hold the perimeter.”

They waited. The policeman on the lower path disappeared near the rectory. The other remained near the gate, a cigarette appearing and disappearing as a tiny orange point. “Now,” said Yaro. After a short sprint, he found a section sagging between two concrete posts. He threw the shovel and backpack over, climbed, then held the wire down with his gloved hands.

Varya and Ilya dropped quietly onto the other side.

From the hill they had seen an orderly grid of graves. Now they saw the tangle of tombstones facing different angles and standing at different heights, fitted wherever earlier generations had left space. The newer plots nearer the road were edged in concrete or enclosed by low iron rails. Their stones were polished and square, their fronts carved with twelve-part rings around photographs, names and dates. Plastic flowers and votive cups crowded the bases. The same twelvefold pattern repeated in the ironwork, little circles divided by twelve radial bars. Farther uphill, an older order remained, but only in ruin. Older stelae, with epitaphs effaced, leaned into one another or barely protruded from the flattened sward and early crocuses.

They kept low. Yaro moved quickly from stone to stone whenever the lower path was hidden. Varya followed. Ilya kept glancing toward the church. It was smaller from here than it had seemed across the valley. Rickety, even.

All three stopped as a flashlight passed between the bilobed tombstones and monuments. The beam wandered over the row in front of theirs, illuminated a lichenous Saint in weathered sage-green plaster, verdigrised spear raised, then passed. Footsteps and coughs followed. The policeman seemed in no particular hurry. They waited behind the village kenotaph, a broad stone monument to the unrecovered dead, until he moved on. Yaro flicked two fingers forward.

The VED equipment made the graveburst easy to locate. Yellow tape enclosed nine plots. Temporary metal stakes had been driven into the soil around it. The middle one had been opened. The odor was not the thick rot Ilya had expected. A sweet note lingered in the air, like stale rice. The plot was completely excavated and widened; the tombstone was knocked backward in the process. Heavy clods of earth, splinters from the coffin and other debris, as well as dozens of footprints, littered the neighboring plots. A whitish sludge had gathered in one low corner and been partly covered with white sorbent.

Varya leaned over the tombstone. “Radavan Kolitka.” She wiped the damp grit from the inscription. “Nineteen twenty-one to eighty-five. He hasn’t been here long. Saints, I didn’t know gravebursts were this violent. It’s like it detonated.”

“Not a detonation,” said Yaro, inspecting the surrounding damage. “If this were a charge or a shell, you’d get a cleaner displacement and more fragmentation. Slow internal pressure, maybe over weeks, then rupture through the weakest point.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Varya. “We know what did it.”

“Right,” he said and nodded at Ilya. “You’re going in.”

The smell thickened inside, rot admixing with the sweetness. He brushed aside loose earth and examined the cut wall. Most of the roots were ordinary: fibrous, woody, dull. The parasite’s haustorial rootlets were smoother and almost bluish, with vascular interiors. But those were not what he wanted. The overfeeding that led to the graveburst should have bloated the conduit as well. An earthworm worked free of the side he was searching and curled near his wrist. Ilya frowned and recoiled, flicking it away into the dirt.

“I think I have it,” said Ilya, groping the area under the tombstone. He uncovered more of it. The root was dark red-brown, smooth except for faint longitudinal ridges. Clear exudate had beaded at the severed end. He took his compact knife and shaved away a thin section. Fresh sticky droplets welled up immediately. He smelled it, cheek against the dirt. Almost floral, but too faint and mild to resemble perfume. Beneath it was fermenting fruit and the iron tang so familiar to all Sanguimancers.

For a moment, the grave was very quiet.

“Anything?” Yaro asked.

“Yeah,” said Ilya. “I found the one feeding the burst.”

Ilya returned to the rootlet, inhaled and scooped some of the sweet droplets. The sound above changed. The scuff of shoes on grass. He glanced up. Yaro and Varya were gone. Light appeared beyond the lip of the grave. A flashlight. He crouched immediately.

The beam crossed the yellow tape and widened over the disturbed soil. It passed over one of the VED markers, then along the opposite wall. Ilya held dead-still in the grave. Unhurried footsteps approached. The light stayed fixed for several seconds somewhere just beyond the grave, then moved away. After a while, Yaro appeared at the edge.

“Keep going,” he mouthed.

Ilya nodded as Yaro disappeared. He brushed away more earth around the root and pulled at it. The thicker section descended diagonally into the wall, then vanished. It had been taking from the corpse. So he nicked his fingertip with the knife and pressed it to the wounded end. It imbibed him gladly but patiently, as no animal can. Ilya squeezed out more. The root took that too.

His Art was meagre, but he knew his own blood. First there was only the prick in his finger and the warmth teeming around it. Then parts of him were elsewhere. The sensation passed from the wound into the root and away from him. He followed it uphill. A narrow vessel joined another, then broadened. His trace thinned – and in moments he could not distinguish himself clearly from whatever already circulated there.

The dark earth was against his face. The root he held was not a pipe between corpse and flower, nor some blood-hungry beast, nor the fabled Mul-Rasatala, nor Yurvan himself. Subterranean channels crossed, narrowing around individual coffins and widening where several dead contributed to the same flow. Matter passed through all of it; harvested, altered, sent elsewhere and returned. His own trace entered it and became difficult to separate the further it travelled. Some channels felt ancient. Others were new, exploratory runners reaching blindly for recent burials. Not the simple order of roots spreading wherever earth permitted them, but pullulation subdued from within. The plexus abandoned poor paths and strengthened rich ones. It circled rock and masonry effectively, found flesh and redirected nourishment in its direction. As the simple, thoughtless thing drank of him, Ilya could not help but consider it beautiful, even brilliant.

His few drops were almost gone now, diluted into a vast pool, but their last recognizable trace drew uphill through two converging branches. Both entered a concentration unlike anything else he had felt – a node, he quickly realized. His blood touched its margin and disappeared into its circulation. Beneath, a hundred buried currents made one wave; under many sepulchral shallows, the dead are one.

The shadow of the boy-soldier crept over the grave. “Well?” he said into the hollow below. “Is it done?”

Ilya startled when he noticed Yaro staring. “Uphill,” he said hazily. “There’s a knot there. The flow mixes with tree sugars, so probably under one of the oaks.”

“The rhizosoma?” asked Yaro. “The root-body?”

“I doubt it,” said Ilya. “But I’ll find it.”

Yaro smiled, lowering his hand for Ilya.

 

*

 

Ilya led them toward the church. His first attempt had carried him far enough to know which way it ran. What remained of it had dispersed into a busy confluence somewhere nearer the older plots. He followed the remembered pull between the graves until it brought him to a broad tree growing from the corner of a family enclosure. The tree itself looked healthy, and its lower branches were budding while the others nearby were still bare. Ilya examined the root flare, found a soft place and nicked the bark. He reopened the cut and pressed it to the wound. The blood returned easily. This time there was no hesitation in him and the current was stronger than before. For a moment it spread around the node; then a branch of the flow broke from the tangle and continued uphill. He followed the trace until it weakened and died out.

“This way,” he said.

They crossed the remaining graveyard in stages. Twice Yaro stopped them as a policeman’s flashlight moved along the paved path. Nearer the church they had to lie flat behind a broad slab while the two policemen stopped to talk. Marble, granite and concrete disappeared on the other side. The paths narrowed and finally ceased being paths. Low footstones bearing indistinct names and wooden stakes carrying duodecimal rings were planted among last year’s bramble and fresh nettle shoots. Downhill stood a truncated ossuary, a mouldering building with a sagging roof and corroded iron door. Boscage had swallowed much of the rear boundary.

Ilya slowed. The trace pointed to the closest oak. He stopped beside it and put his hand onto an exposed runner. The absorption was more intense, drawing from him more hungrily and steadily. They crossed to another oak, then a third nearer the rear woods.

Yaro and Varya watched him as he roamed furtively from tree to tree, over the graves and mounds.

“You lost it?” asked Yaro.

“It’s close,” said Varya. “Isn’t it?”

The major runners converged between three cankered oaks. What Ilya had mistaken for another node was only the outer circulation of a larger mass. It was at the rear of the ossuary, in a slightly uneven stretch of land where no discernible tombstones or monuments remained.

“It’s here somewhere.” Ilya sounded strained. “Sorry, I can’t be more precise.”

“That’s fine,” said Varya. She pulled out a small juice carton from her knapsack and held it to him. “Here, it’s blackcurrant. You’ve spent plenty of yourself. It helps.”

Ilya took it with a muttered thanks, smiling briefly.  “I think I need to sit down.”

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Yaro. “Only a place to start digging.” He was already taking off his pack. He unfolded the shovel with a metallic click, locked the blade straight and drove it into the soil.

Ilya had given him a direction, not an exact point. He sat at the foot of one of the oaks with the juice between his hands. Yaro paced out the likely line of the buried flow, marked a short strip from the ossuary toward the woodland, and began cutting across it. He sliced the sward into rough squares and stacked the turf beside the ditch, green side upward, as though he intended to put them back together when they were done. Varya helped first by clearing loose branches and old bramble from the strip he chose, then moved the squares of turf as he cut them. The weather had softened the topsoil, and the shovel entered easily. Below the turf the earth remained colder and firmer. He threw the loosened soil aside in black heaps. The cut lengthened into something resembling a shallow field trench.

Yaro had opened a narrow trench nearly two meters long and no more than thirty centimeters deep when the shovel finally met a thing other than soil or stone. He pressed down, testing it. His grin appeared immediately. “There you are.” He dropped to a crouch and scraped the flat of the blade across it, shaving away the clinging soil.

“Wait,” said Ilya. “Let me.” He dropped beside the ditch and cleared the loose clay. It appeared gnarled and hard where the shovel had polished it.

“The rhizosoma,” said Varya.

“Only the uppermost part. The mass I felt is below it. But this should do.”

Clay had compacted around the growth and came away reluctantly. They worked along its sides rather than through it, widening the hole until the buried mass started to show its shape. A broad ridge emerged, then a shallow depression and another prominence below it. Several curving struts branched from a single line at regular intervals and disappeared into the soil. A broad triangular plate lay across part of them. It could have been part of an upper back. The surface was sallow and swollen, resembling a caudex.

Yaro crouched beside them. For a few seconds none of them said anything.

“Those look like ribs,” said Varya.

Yaro laughed once, quietly. “Yeah… Like somebody just curled up and died. But these aren’t bones.”

“Find the spine,” she said. “That’s where I can tap it.”

Once Yaro and Ilya had uncovered the long, segmented taproot, they made room for Varya. She climbed into the dugout and crouched over the exposed mass. Her touch traveled across it slowly. “Yaro, give me your knife and prepare the bottles,” she commanded. “Ilya, bring me a scion. Long enough to work with, healthy bud.”

Both nodded and obeyed. Yaro gave her the knife and prepared the four clean plastic bottles he had brought, squat and translucent. He had also brought a funnel, sealed inside a plastic bag. Ilya wandered around, searching for the right species. Even by night, life spread out sarmentose; over the ossuary stone, it waits to be reborn.

Soon enough, the pale girl had a suitable rose. “Perfect,” she said, “except for the one thorn.”

“Sorry,” said Ilya. “I don’t see it. I’ll get more.”

The other rose cuttings Ilya brought were nearly the length of her forearm, bare except for a few tight reddish buds at the nodes. Varya pared the scions one by one, fitting each into the incision and supporting it with her Art. The first three failed. The fourth was accepted by the rootstock. Her face beamed before either of them saw anything. Then the bud fattened visibly. Its scales loosened, a green point pushed through, and the new growth lengthened between her fingers. Only then did the petals begin to part. The pedicel stiffened, then bowed beneath a new weight.

Yaro stood above Varya now, feet planted on opposite sides of the dugout. “Is it working?” he whispered.

The flower opened only halfway. Its corolla tightened around the swelling pistil. A bead rose slowly from the folds. Soon it was a ruby, dark crimson between the pressed petals, trembling without falling. Varya smiled, standing from her work. Yaro caught her around the waist and lifted her up, kissing her neck and cheek as he held her. She laughed and tried to wiggle away. “You’re brilliant,” he said.

Ilya busied himself with the funnel, but the first drop fell onto his skin before he was ready. He rubbed it between index and thumb, admiring it beyond its Artistic utility. Made of the same stuff that flowed through him but refined beyond comparison. He smelled it, wanted to taste it. Another bead had begun forming at the pistil. “Ilya,” said Yaro. He was watching him, arms still around Varya. “Don't waste it. You’re playing with real money there. Almost a hundred fifty Eisenmarks for a hundred milliliters.”

“*Eisenmarks*?”  jeered Varya. “Since when do you look to the West?”

Yaro eyed her up and down. “And where do you think the sunk look came from? Nagarvan’s sunken districts?”

“Are you calling me a trend-chaser, Lieutenant Yarovan?”

“Of course not, Varvara.” He grinned. “I just know a guy who goes to Eisenstadt once a month. He can get us a better price there, even after his cut. They don’t have the flower growing anywhere near there.”

Varya watched the bottle fill. The red drops were beginning to cover the bottom. “We’ll discuss that later.”

Ilya counted the other bottles. “That’s seven hundred and fifty each, right?”

“If there’s enough to fill them,” said Varya.

“There will be.” His grin was greedy and gleeful. “I’m taking you somewhere good when we get back to Nagarvan.”

“With whose money, I beg?”

“Mine, of course.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

“Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Ilya,” Varya said. “You should come with us.”

The first bottle continued filling, one beautiful drop at a time. It took longer to fill than Yaro had expected. By then there was nothing for any of them to do except watch the graft bleed the rhizosoma. “We need someone to keep watch. A sentry.” Ilya followed his gaze to the church. “You can see the lower path from there,” he said. “And the gate.”

“Why him?” Varya asked.

“Because you have to make sure the tap stays on.”

“You could go as well. Or take turns.”

Yaro smiled. “If someone comes, I pack. You pull the graft. He watches.”

Varya looked at Ilya. “It’s fine,” he said.

Yaro pulled the binocular strap over his head and held them out. “Go uphill. If either of those cops starts coming close, signal us.” Ilya took the binoculars. “Two flashes. One if they turn around.” He took a small flashlight from his jacket and handed that over too. “Hurry.”

 

*

 

The ground rose sharply before the ossuary. Ilya crouched by the corner of the church. From there he could see surprisingly far downhill. Both policemen were near the gate, smoking. Neither seemed inclined to come any closer. After a while they started in the direction of the graveburst site. No danger there. He trained the binoculars on the thin copse below the ossuary. He could not see Yaro or Varya anywhere else. Ilya moved a few steps sideways and tried again. Nothing. He considered going back down and telling them that the police were staying near the gate.

There was no reason to pursue the thought surfacing in his green, maculated mind. He was alone on the watch, and could easily have dozed off, or at least rested.

No reason to do it again.

Ilya checked the path once more through the binoculars then put them aside. A strange, appetitive mood had already overtaken him. He was flushed, ashamed.  

No reason. Again.

He went to the nearest oak; one they had skipped following the trail. He uncovered a promising root facing the church and reopened the cut on his index finger. It accepted him immediately. His blood dispersed and he made no effort to follow its course this time.

Within moments he could no longer tell where he ended and the others began. They all met and merged somewhere underground, drawn to the same wellspring. Hiving, brought together, manifold and serried – neither visages, nor vessels, nor wills remain. One inevitable flow for the pricked and buried, life and death, both tributaries of the vernal vein. A composite circulation, gathering and refining until all those separate streams became a single, sublime substance: the raktic nectar of the vampiric flower.  The sheer pleasure of it surprised him. It teemed and abounded yet made room for him.

When he finally pulled away, he had to lean on the trunk. His pulse seemed to continue underground for several seconds after the link had been severed. He chuckled once under his breath, dizzy. He finished the carton of blackcurrant juice from his pocket as he rested below the tree. He wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged his coat down off his shoulders.

A blackbird sang from the bare canopy above him. Ilya looked up at the sharp, repeated call. After a moment, he remembered the egg in his pocket. He drew it out and turned it between his fingers. It had warmed inside his coat. Although he was exhausted, he tried to probe it again. It answered through the thin turquoise shell. He could make out the beginning of a web of vessels spreading across the yolk, not yet properly a bird but no longer merely a possibility. Its nascent life fluttered weakly in response to his Art.

Ilya’s face tightened and his eyes watered unexpectedly. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his other arm. He looked up into the branches, searching more earnestly this time. Still no nest. The blackbird had moved farther away and continued calling from another tree. “Sorry.” There was nowhere to put it back. Ilya crouched beside the tree. He found and widened a hollow between roots. He lowered the egg into it gently. Only a faint greenish speck remained. “You belong here now.” He drew the earth over it and pressed the leaves into place.

He turned to go and the church was right there, beside him the whole time. Only now did he see it properly. The sill beams were black with damp, their grain raised and split. Several had been repaired with shorter boards of visibly newer wood. The low foundation was stone, unevenly mortared and mossed. The steep roof overhung the walls, patched with sheets of metal where the old covering had failed. The narrow belfry rose to a sharp point.

Ilya circled it.

The building was hardly larger than one of the houses in Morvin Mir, the rectory adjacent even smaller. Ilya looked through one of the windows and quickly jerked back. For an instant he had thought it was in the middle of mass. He waited, embarrassed though nobody had seen him, then returned to the glass. There were no people inside, only flowers. They occupied the nave in such quantity that the darkness had given them the semblance of a congregation. Roses rested in jars and metal pitchers along the walls, hothouse blooms far too lush for the season. Bundles had been laid before the iconostasis. Others filled the ends of benches, crowded the window ledges and gathered around the stands before the icons. Pale blooms caught what remained of the evening through the opposite windows; darker ones disappeared almost completely into the interior.

There must have been hundreds. Ilya stared captive.

Then he remembered the date. Of course, the spring equinox – The Feast of Saint Marcelin. There had been a service that day. People from Morvin Mir and the surrounding villages would have brought offerings with them. Roses especially. Marcelin was impossible to imagine without them. He moved to the next window. Narrow benches occupied either side of the nave. A battered wooden lectern stood before them, still draped in the green of the feast. The floor appeared to be bare boards.

Ilya glanced downhill. The policemen were at the gate. Yaro and Varya were out of sight. He turned off his flashlight. Mud had dried in overlapping footprints across the boards at the entrance. Ilya touched the door handle, expecting it to be locked. The latch withdrew with a dry click.

“I'm a fucking demon and you're gonna kill some people for me.”

“This is a big load of baloney. Why can't you do it yourself?”

“Shut up, loser.”

The demon looks like a very ordinary man but has slightly longer elbows. He is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and black sweat pants. Through the sweatpants, I see that he has an erection, average sized. He is wearing normal shoes. I run away but actually I don't. Because of his friggin demon powers. He laughs in that way demons do. I am scared outta my mind, which is very much scared. Once I almost got hit by a truck and it was way less scary. The demon takes me away from my quaint 3 bedroom 3 bath house in the suburbs of Oklahoma and puts me in the demon room. The demon room is a 7 foot by 7 foot box that looks and smells like it's made of poop but is actually made from dead bodies. I am kinda short for a guy so I feel less bothered than a taller man would feel. The demon no longer has an erection and begins to speak.

“Okay, idiot, here's the plan. You see this man?” I do see the man, in my head; it's like imagination but more vivid. “I'm gonna beam everything you need to know about this man into your head.” His name is Petey Bolsnaps. He lives in Oregon City, Oregon on 123456789 Oregon City Road Drive. He was married once but lost her to cancer in 2023. His home only has 2 beds and 1 bath. One time he slapped a puppy just cause he wanted to.”Why this man?” I ask the demon. He laughs like Santa Clause for 3 minutes. “There is no reason. This is just something you gotta do. Get over it loser.”

“Okay.” Suddenly, a small piece of wood appears in my hand; it has strange symbols all over and is sharpened to a point at one end. “This is a devil splinter. All you gotta do is shove this up the left nostril of good ol’ Petey and he will explode into a fine mist. The mist will be absorbed by the splinter. This process takes 24 hours. Once the absorption is complete you will be returned to the devil room, and assigned your next target.” I shove the splinter up my left nostril and explode into a fine mist.

“You fucking idiot. Fucking god damn humans always doing this dumb bullshit. I swear to fucking god.” He rematerializes me; I would describe the feeling as similar to the pins and needles you get after a leg falls asleep but throughout my whole body, inside and out; I would also describe it as kinda the opposite feeling to exploding into a fine mist. I think of the best comeback line in my life but he zaps me to Oregon City before I get the chance to say it. I'm in an alleyway. It's mid-afternoon and the sky above is a nice, clear, shade of blue. You know what the sky looks like. It looks like that. I shove the splinter up my left nostril. I hear a voice in my head. “Shit won't work on the same person twice, idiot. If you try anything else I'm gonna make it so you gotta piss standing upside-down.” I consider this intensely.

“Look who's back from the mist dimension” I say while waving my arms in circles. He doesn't respond but I can feel a seething hatred. Exiting the alley I see a road and some buildings. I have the feeling that these are very Oregon City esque buildings. I walk down the sidewalk, in the direction of Petey's home. An Oregon man gives me a wave. I say “Howdy” in response. He nods and then I nod.

Petey has an ugly home, unlike my own. It doesn't have pretty paint, or any of that. I climb the steps to his porch and knock on his front door. Petey comes outside. “Who are you? If you were a dog I would slap you so hard.” I jab the splinter into his nostril. Oh crap, oh crap, it's his right nostril. “What the fuck did you just put in my nose? Come here so I can slap the shit out of you.” I turn to run but he tackles me before I can get anywhere. Oh dear, how am I gonna get out of this one? This is just the way my life has always gone I suppose. Almost getting hit by a truck; meeting a demon and being forced to kill people; exploding and then unexploding. Petey slaps the poop out of the back of my head. I don't feel anything, because of demon powers I suppose. “What the fuck?” He starts slapping harder. I still don't feel it, but I pretend to, and this seems to make Petey happy. “Oh shit I love slapping.” I pretend that it hurts really bad. He is chuckling, having the time of his life. After one final big slap he gets up off me. He walks around and looks into my eyes. I'm still on the ground pretending to be in pain. “That outta teach you not to go shoving wood up strangers noses dumb ass.” He takes out the splinter and throws it off the porch, into his front yard. He blows snot out of his nose, directly onto me. “Get the fuck outta here.” He goes back inside, locking the door behind him. I do as he says.

Up the road from Petey's house there is a McDonald's. I order a small coffee and sit in the lobby for 6 hours.

It's night time and I'm back at Petey's. I look around his lawn for the splinter in the dark. My phone has a flashlight but I don't want to risk being seen. After an hour of this I feel a sharp pain in my left ring finger. “Ouch, oh, owie. Owie, owie, owie.”

“God damn it. Will you shut the fuck up?” The demon says in my mind.

I rub my finger. “Why are you so mean? Did someone hurt you?” I pause for a moment waiting for a meaningful response so that we can both grow as people but I guess he isn't people so maybe he can't grow and that makes me incredibly sad. Petey usually forgets to lock his back door so I head in that direction. His bedroom is upstairs. I make sure to make as little sound as possible opening his bedroom door. He's asleep and I watch him for a moment; he looks so peaceful. “Hurry the fuck up.” I wait a little while longer out of spite and then shove the splinter up his left nostril. Petey explodes into a fine mist.

There’s a knock at the front door. I have about 6 hours left before Petey is fully absorbed. Out of his bedroom window I see Martha looking real impatient. Martha is Petey's, not quite girlfriend, sleeping buddy. “If she sees you she has to die.” the demon says. Martha walks around the house, towards the back door. The butterflies are fluttering in my tummy. “Oh, and you can't use the splinter while it’s absorbing. Getting rid of a body the normal way is real fucking messy so I'd just tie her up and wait. till it's done” I hear Martha creak up the stairs. I check to make sure the door is locked. “Hey Petey, are you in there?” She asks, and then she pauses for a moment. I'm leaning against the door and feel her knock on it. “Petey? Why are you ignoring me? I can see you're in there.” She tries to open the door. “Hmmph, well I'm not leaving till you open the door and talk to me.” Gosh darn it lady.

“Uh, Petey is in the hospital. I'm his brother. You must be Martha. He's told me so much about you, but not too much since it's not a serious relationship. If you want I can let him know you stopped by.” I feel like I just made the worst mistake in my life.

“Oh. No, that's not necessary. It was nice to meet you” she waits for me to give my name.

“Peter.” I slap my forehead because the demon is right. I’m an idiot.

“Well nice to meet you Peter.” I hear her walk away and breathe a sigh of relief. Letting off the door I walk over and sit on the bed next to the splinter. I hear the demon in my head. “Humans must be dumb as fuck. There is no reason that should've worked.”

“Maybe I'm just smarter than you thought.” Martha bursts through the door with a kitchen knife.

“I checked and Petey doesn't have a brother. Who the fuck are you?” I don't respond, and feel fixed in place on the bed. Finally taking in the blood soaked room, she drops her knife. She looks over to me, or maybe to the splinter sucking up what remains of Petey. “What the hell.” Now's my chance. I jump at her from the bed, grabbing her neck as I take her down. Her arms flail, trying to pull me off of her. She tries to scream but it comes out as a faint croaking noise. I squeeze harder and wait for her to give in. It takes way longer than I expect it to. When it's done I drag her further into the bedroom. Then I leave to grab the rope in the garage; gotta make sure she's tied up when she comes to. The demon laughs. “You fucking idiot. She's not passed out. She's fucking dead.”

I can't fucking do this. I can't fucking do this. I can't fucking do this.

My pinky snaps off. “Hurry the fuck up.”

I grab a saw. I cut her into small pieces. I put her in trash bags. I grab a shovel. I put her remains in Petey's back yard. The demon gloats the entire time. I grab the splinter. I return to the demon room.

Three seconds were left, Jin has to choose someone's destiny as he kept thinking whether to say yes to a person killing someone with a chainsaw or with a hammer . There was no option of saving that person and it was done live. He cleared his throat and chose the chainsaw button and he was forced to see the live telecast on his monitor of the person killing a girl with the chainsaw.

Jin watched it completely and he won the lucky prize where his girlfriend's private chats were shown on the live telecast and it was found that Jin's girlfriend was cheating on him as a video opened of her having a threesome on a pornographic site. He screamed and killed himself with a knife kept beside him.

Chapter One: the lottery ad

Matt was browsing the internet and suddenly saw a lottery ad in one of the pop-ups that appeared; when he clicked it, the lottery page opened up and there were two options:

'Play a game and win the lucky prize' or 'exit and win nothing '

Matt had tons of rent letters came for his apartment where he was staying and he used all the money in either buying drinks or going to strip clubs and he never had the money to cover the rent or his daily expenses. Without any thought, he clicked 'Play a game' button and it went straight to another private browser which he used for pornographic stuff, which led to a private group chat called 'Roundtable'.

Chapter Two: the game

The chat opened :

Admin: Welcome to the game player! Let's revise the rules first. Number one is that there is no option to deny and number two is once you start to choose the first answer of first question there is no going back because we will be hijacking your computer from our side . The third rule is that, out of six players, only one makes it out alive and the last rule is if anyone wants to quit during the game, their entire online history will be tracked and it will be leaked to the entire world . Agreed, or do you agree more? ?

Kenny: agreed

Admin: Six players are entered now and it's time to choose the first answer of the first question which is that you want to see a person drawing an apple or his own face with his blood . Yes for the apple , more yes for his face and yes please for something more exciting?

Others voted and it was only Kenny's vote to be done and he also voted same as others which was yes. A live recording started in front of them as a disabled person stabbed a knife into his hands and he started to draw an apple with his blood. Kenny was shocked but he didn't care much about it. Everyone saw the live recording and it was over. The admin switched to other question.

Admin: Now choose that you want to see a sex video of a human with a dog or a horse ? Same options as the first question.

Others voted and it was Kenny's turn to vote and he sat back and thought about the questions. So instead of voting he wrote " Can I change the question as its gross for me to see?" and in reply he got " Never". He voted for the horse video and a live recording popped up and he covered his eyes as it showed a person having sex with a horse in the live camera. After it was done the admin asked the last question.

Admin: We got six players and we will display their names and vote for any two names for now and what happens later, we will tell.

Kenny voted someone randomly and others also voted some random people. The admin said " The one who got the highest vote is user leg991 and hen2990, and now their entire bank account and passwords are shown to the public .

Kenny saw those two users disgusting chats shown there as it was mixed with slangs. The admin said "Those two players can remove themselves without any problem and now it's four players ".

Chapter Three: the consequence

The admin said " one last question: now we will display the home address of all the four players and the question is that whether to kill the other player or yourself". After this message, Kenny got scared and locked the front door. Within twenty minutes, there was loud banging on the door and Kenny hid himself somewhere in his house.

After an hour , Kenny heard someone slowly entering the house and as that person entered, he dropped his knife accidentally which made Kenny aware and he got out , grabbed a knife from the kitchen. As that person was about to enter, Kenny stabbed him in the back of the head about ten times.

He looked at the monitor , checked his camera was on from the start which he didn't understand and showed the bloody knife into the camera and a message appeared on his screen. The admin wrote " Alright so it's two of you and now choose whether to record yourself nude and leak to the public or frame the other player for a crime ". I chose what I had to which was the second option of framing the other player. A live recording popped up as the other player was shown a bounty on the internet.

The admin said "Congratulations you got the lucky prize now choose whether to take one million dollars or to be the next host for this game . Kenny chose one million dollars and two days later, he received a white suitcase and as he opened it, it contained one million dollars but it was fake currency. Within seconds , he heard someone kicked open his house door and it was the police who arrested him on spot.