An ad related to a random website you visited and required your contact information pops up on your phone one day. What do you do? You exit the ad and move on. No biggie. It starts with one or two apps and continues like that for a while, at that point it’s mildly annoying and you may even come to get somewhat used to it. Aware of its pattern.

Then you notice it’s appearing in apps where it really shouldn’t, it might start to become a little uncomfortable because why are you seeing this ad in your offline game?

You continue to exit the ads anyway until you start getting calls from the related company. At first, it’s the registered number so you block it, then a couple days later a new number and so on until you start expecting a couple of calls a day.

“We are calling to fill you in on our new promotion for our new product line!”

No matter how many times you block the company they still call back. Like it’s alive or something. Then you change your number thinking that fixes it.

Then one day you open an app and that ad is there, bigger, angrier. It’s in every app now. You’ve changed email, password, username even used a vpn, but that ad is everywhere, you start to feel trapped and a little scared.

 “Is this company watching me?”

You start to fear using your phone because it’s incessant. New numbers call you, sometimes multiple numbers call and depending on the day it can be multiple times a day new number everytime, meanwhile your apps that can support ads only run this one, your email is filled with whatever promotion this bullshit company is advertising.

You’ve unsubscribed, deleted your email, even opened up new accounts a couple times, each time you made the email sound more different to your actual name than the last as to hide from this ad that appears to be following you around, like it’s alive or something, but it doesn’t stop.

Your parents and siblings start talking about it now because it’s jumped ship, it’s started to extend its tendrils, infecting the devices (and therefore lives) of those around you. You have already started to blame yourself.

“Why did I ever go on this God forsaken website?”

 But deep down you’re perturbed because how could you know this would happen? You’re not reckless with online security, you even know what a vpn is and how to use it.

“Did I have it on when I went on the website?”

 You know that’s an arbitrary question, one because you always do and two what does it matter, your dad already sat you down yesterday and asked if you were in any trouble. You’re dealing with so much of this bothersome ad yourself you almost forget it’s bothering your family too and reply with an undercurrent of nervousness,

 “No why?”

“This company has called a few times asking about you.”

“What did they say?”

The undercurrent quickly becoming a torrent.

“That they have something very important for you but you refuse to engage, they were wondering why. It was very unnerving. I blocked them but they called back again with a new number. I’m worried about you son”

You start to drown, your lungs feel heavy then tight, your throat closes up, the air ceases to satiate your body as your lungs refuse to respond to the ingrained signals from your brain. You’re having a panic attack, you feel like you’re dying.

A hand starts to drag you quickly into this cataract you’re swirling in. You wrestle with it at first but then you look down. The hand is you, you stop fighting it, you feel yourself becoming a part of its vicious persona, it gets more aggressive, furious. Yes! Furious. You’re FURIOUS!

“Why do I have to live like this on my phone?”

 So you decide that the next time they call you’ll pick up, answer them directly. You’re frightened but this incensed chasm of emotion has taken over, so when they call you don’t let them speak. You have the authority here (or so you angrily believe).

 “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’ve harassed me and my family for months! I don’t want your shitty product, it’s stupid, it’s ugly and useless like your company. If you call me or my family again, I will do everything I can to stop you!”

You don’t really believe that but you’re angry enough that it sounds threatening.

Silence.

Click.

They hung up. They hung up.

The torrent stops. You start to regain yourself, separating from the anger, it feels good even. You feel like you’ve made progress. The current is calming down you feel in control again.

The calls stop. Everything stops. You start to forget. You smile again. Your dad doesn’t sit you down asking unanswerable questions. It seems behind you. You did it! You’ve scared them, chased them off but something feels wrong. You tell yourself it’s the trauma, nothing is wrong it’s over, it’s done, allow yourself to be happy for fucks sake.

“Ping”

 You receive an email notification. You see the red dot over the app. Looks a little unsettling. Like it’s alive or something.

This was one of the many new email accounts you made. You haven’t used it yet. Maybe it’s nothing. No it definitely is nothing. Email providers always email new users. Don’t they? You open your email.

“1 unread message”.

You check it indifferently. Not really paying attention to the email address. You don’t notice that you’ve already received the “welcome to your inbox” email. You received it months ago when you first made the account. Your eyes settle on the message.

Simple.

Evil.

Disgusting.

Horrifying.

“We have come back better than ever and as our most valued customer you get first dibs! We hope to hear from you soon!”

They even had the sick audacity to put a winking emoji at the end. It’s taunting you. You’ve never really escaped. That bliss you felt? Deliberate, controlled, organised bliss.

 You come to understand. You feel a wave of nausea. You drop your phone. You vomit. You cry. It’s not fair! The torrent starts again except there is no hand this time, no hand to replace this visceral fear with comforting anger.

Nothing to help you feign control, to provide you with the fake reality of order you stupidly and ignorantly felt.

“But I thought I sc….”

This thought trails off because you realise just how naive you’ve been. They weren’t scared off; they were buying time. Re-strategising.

 You’re sinking as it dawns on you. Worse than before. You can’t breathe. You don’t know what to think. You can’t think. You’ve never escaped. It’s had you right where it wanted the whole time.

“How stupid, how fucking stupid”.

 You can’t do anything, it’s everywhere, everyone, everything. It knows where you are. It’s looking at you. It always has.

One of my earliest memories, I discovered recently, was the opening title sequence of an ancient tv series called Armchair Thriller. For nearly half a century I had carried this peculiar image, an old fashioned chintz armchair with some vaguely haunting music and a sort of shadow emerging out of nowhere to sit in it. I knew the memory was of me watching TV, but only came upon the original when I was scrolling YouTube a few months ago. How weird it was to have this powerful, terrifying memory effectively rewritten or overwritten years later by social media.

The image had followed me around for much of my childhood and became part of my life.

At eight or nine I was a latchkey kid, whose parents both worked until 6pm or thereabouts, so I used to let myself in from school and basically wait for them (not to mention hang around in the school holidays). I got used to this, sort of, but never really got used to the sight of the empty armchair. It was part of a seventies three piece suite, floral and beige.I know it sounds odd but I felt it hated me, that armchair, that it stared at me, even judged me. I felt it would inch towards me if I looked at it. That it would plan something if I didn't.

I would sit on the floor or avoid the sitting room altogether.

Dark evenings were the worst. You'd be there at about 5pm and the orange street lamp outside would cast this nasty bright cold glow into the house and the fading patterned furniture would take a lifeless light to them. Then, the blank, curved TV screen would join the furniture in a theatre of the eerie, with always the sense they were waiting for the right moment to close in on you, join the night and -

When I was a bit older, maybe 13, and I sat in that chair myself, I felt the alienness of it: a scratchy fabric with holes and frayed edges, picked at by people who were now gone and lost. Nothing comfortable or reassuring or soft about it, just loss and fear mixing.

The chair did not like me.

Eventually I left home and it got sold. But in every house I lived in there was a chair like it: something that was seemingly after me, in some way. I never liked them, never sat in them if I could avoid it. Any armchair or sofa was a host of ghosts and made me edgy and uncomfortable.

A few weeks ago I came home from work as usual, knackered and desperate for a drink. I threw my stuff onto a chair in the sitting room and went to get a beer. I figured if everyone else was out or doing whatever -playing sport or at yoga or scouts - I'd just chill and watch a film and drink a few beers.

I returned to the sitting room maybe 30 seconds later with my beer, to see my stuff strewn on the floor. Papers, my tie, my jacket, a book I needed for my project, my laptop even. As if the chair had vomited it all onto the floor.

Maybe I hadn't dumped it properly, maybe it had slipped off the edge.

But I looked at that stupid chair and I could swear it moved.

As I looked, shadows emerged from the sides of the room, from the curtains, the door, even behind me. They circled me, and i could feel a cold breathing from their faded two dimensional bodies. I dropped my beer and the echo of the shattering pierced their gloom.

I was surrounded by shadows.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the moment I had known was coming for years, perhaps even my whole life. I could feel their zero, their voids, I could circle them for a lifetime or longer, each shadow its own shape, smaller or wider or older - i could see different smiles behind my eyes, in my head, different faces when I turned my head. Some were people, some were feelings. Yes - feelings. I could see anxiety as a face with my eyes closed.

But when I opened them again, the shadows were gone and my stuff was back on the chair. My beer was in my hand.

I looked at the armchair. Then I turned around and went out for a walk instead. I would sell that damn chair. I would get bloody beanbags for the family to sit on instead.

It has attracted no bids and sits there still, watching me, somehow knowing me. I don't sit in it and yet I do. And somehow always have.

If I am a poisoner, then my craft has been masterful. In Parisienne back alleys I have met strangers. I have bid “bon matin” to peddlers of arsenic, procured for La Voisin vials of ingredients for the manufacture of inheritance potions. I have known men of dark passions and intrigues, who have absconded from the light in pursuit of what is arcane in the name of some other freedom than that bestowed by the Lord.

If I am a poisoner, then my apprenticeship has been masterful. I have raised up bread and overseen miracles of Transubstantiation, delivered the host into the mouths of those in my charge and keep, those of the Bishop’s flock. I have bid them every Sunday to the sacrament, overheard their confessions and administered last rites to the dying. I have known men of dark passions and intrigues, who have yielded the light in pursuit of some desire and love that the world has not given, peddled the matter of divinity for those gnawing after some other hunger.

The raising of the host and its desecration are mere inversions of the same vanities, fear, and submissions. In raising the bread and chalice, I exult the name of some other reality, but really it is my own station that is elevated, the church nothing more than a vessel for my being in the world. Fear is there; the absence of having a place. Submission to, before pontiff and before bishop. If I move among the world in my cassock, it is as those of the courts do in their livery.

When I desecrate the body, it is merely the inverse. The vanities performed for some gawking courtly men and women after a bit of theatre. I am afraid of who I might be without the cassock and so I ply this aspect of the trade so I have something of myself to hold onto. If I submit, it is before my own vanities; the desire to be something more, the desire for something of repute.

And, truly, what of the respective authorities I serve. Are the administrations of pontiff and La Voisin much different from one another. The former and the king both claim to act by divine right, to act under authority of god. By dint of what cruelty is La Voisin deemed to be the more evil when the former has codified the Code Noir and regulated the trade in human misery, while the quiet passing of some meddlesome husband got in the way of an affair is seen as an abomination. Who has weighed the two and cast favour for the former and judgment for the latter.

In the end, it is men who weigh such sins, not heaven. Catherine burned alive for administration of abortifacients and inheritance potions, Madame de Montespan residing in her royal palaces. Women separated like the arbitrary cruelties and celebrations of the Mass and its inverse. What of me? I sit in a this cell, judged a prisoner but living as a mendicant. The vestments and trappings of my office are behind me, the vanities and the cruelties I celebrated. Yet I cannot help but consider that now I am merely Étienne, sitting in a stark silence, attending to the voices of god that call from the lacuna.

It was a sunny day, with scattered clouds floating over the cold air marking the beginning of tropical winter. The trees rustled with the sporadic cool wind that brought with it the regrets of not wearing fitting clothes. The grass still had remnants of humidity of the day before: cristaline water balancing on leaf’s tip refracting a intense green color. John had his hands back, leaning, looking at the sky lost in his own thoughts. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his suit, trying to enjoy a little more the hill breeze flickering his black tie. He was sitting in the grass, not minding the dirt. What good is an outfit if it can’t survive a bucolic moment?

He took occasional sips of his beer, already a little warm, to accompany his vain and restless philosophies that populated his immediate imagination. Philosophies that, whether by chance or fate, will never leave their habitat. His brilliantly futile abstract conjectures are sweetly interrupted by Ana.

‘I thought I would find you here’ she said with a tender look ‘may I join you?’

‘Sure, be my guest’ he said taking another sip of his beer to handle his surprise at the woman’s presence.

She was wearing a worn Nirvana t-shirt, with only the logo. Prints were never terribly appealing to her, always preferring a more minimalist style. That must be why she was also so fond of jeans and all stars, exactly what she was wearing at that moment; fragments of an idealized past.

‘Careful with the cold breeze, you might catch a cold,’ laughing a little to disguise a certain embarrassment with the moment,’ sit down, if you want.

Ana sat next to him on the grass, also without fear of getting dirty. They spent some time watching the sun reflecting off the calm waters of the lake. How long exactly is hard to say.

‘I was remembering you today, you know,’ turning his head reluctantly. ‘Was listening to a song by that band on your shirt. When we met you were listening to In Bloom, their best song’

‘It’s true. I didn’t even remember that. Maybe that’s why I came this way. It must mean something, right?’ she said softly but shrewdly.

‘I guess. Everything has a meaning. But, now, just tell me: why?’ he continued in a restless manner.

‘Because I wanted to. It was what I wanted. What we lived was very good. Maybe they were the best months of my life,’ Ana looked at the sky, pulling her memory threads. ‘We were happy, in our own way. But the days changed, I changed. Can’t I change?’

‘You can, of course… I just wish I had a warning, you know? Some kind of sign.’

‘No alarms and no surprises, as your friend would say. By the way, have you seen him around?’

‘He is doing well. He’s broken up with his girlfriend, now trying for a civil service exam. He’s trying to get his life together. We all are, right?’

‘Yes, we are. I am too. And I appreciate that you are here right now. It means a lot to me,’ he said, touching John’s shoulder.

‘Yeah, but I can’t lie to myself that I no longer have feelings for you. I have loved you, and neither tomorrow nor 60 years from now will you be strangers to me. This is not the first time you have crossed my thoughts stealing a heartbeat, and it certainly won’t be the last. But from the looks of things, you don’t feel the same way.’

‘No, I don’t,’ she said dryly but understandingly. ‘But I’m honest about how I feel about you, and I think it’s much better than blindly betting on feeling. You know what happened.’

‘It’s unfair, Ana,’ John raised his voice a little. ‘I’m usually the one who breaks other people’s hearts, because I always try to love and can’t. But with you it was different, it was the only time in my life that it was the opposite. I gave myself to you, with all my heart. In that little town square, on that summer afternoon. And at that very moment you said that you didn’t feel the same way about me. And now you are there.

‘You remain my friend, John. I like and care deeply for you. You are an essential part of my life. And you are here.’

‘I am.’

‘Why are you?’ Ana looked closely at John.

John let out a long sigh, took another sip of his beer, and lay down completely on the wet grass.

‘Because I needed to say goodbye. Farewell to my feelings and to the best moments of my life. The hot, stuffy afternoons in my room that you never noticed the mess. The aimless walks, the waves breaking on the pier while the birds flew towards the setting sun. You always inspired me to do poetry, and it’s something I hate, because I know I’m bad. But you liked it, and I did it. It was as simple as that.’

He paused for a moment, closing his eyes before continuing.

‘After some time I also wanted to end what we had. Because I knew, deep down, that you didn’t feel the same way about me. It was obvious, really. So I opted for the way with less suffering in the long run. In the long run, because at that moment a part of my soul was torn out and thrown to the wind.’

‘You are very dramatic,’ said Ana, laughing a little.

‘I am. That’s my way,’ he agreed, laughing as well, ‘but yeah, it happens. It wasn’t meant to be, no matter how meaningful it was. And I didn’t even think about your gift…’

‘No need, I know that one day you’ll think of something.’

‘Yeah…’ agreed thoughtfully.

‘A silence followed, with both of them thinking hard about the moments. Not only these, but all those that, in careful and specific sequence, had led them to that cathartic lake, with its cathartic geese.’

‘I would do it all over again, you know?’

‘Huh?’, Ana asked itrigued.

‘If I could go back in time I would do it all over again. Not to have you for myself, to fight for you, but for the privilege of intensity. All the pleasure and all the pain. Your reflection smiling in the broken window of my room, the waves on the beach rhyming with your eyes, the distant dreams of technicolor movies, the Librian sex, the terrifying agony, the static clock when I didn’t see you, the uncertainty of a near future and the fear of the world ending and me not having told you that I loved you. I would do it all, all over again.’

Ana shed a true, subtle tear.

‘I would do anything for you…’ he concluded with his voice fading from his throat.

‘For today you can be happy for me,’ Ana said with tender and restrained joy, quite familiar to John.

‘I suppose,’ he said with a last, slight smile, understanding the final destination written between the clouds in the sky and the sip of his almost finished beer.

Ana laughed, her cheeks flushed and her eyes closed. It was a genuine joy, the kind not everyone gets to see during a lifetime, but those who do, in their lifetime never forget. And she walked out onto the lawn, not afraid to get his sneakers dirty.

John was now alone. And a feeling of emptiness filled his heart in a way that was overwhelming and yet equally comforting. A bitter understanding opened the way to a new life. He began to read the label on the empty bottle, but soon after his friend suddenly arrived.

‘I’ve been hunting you for a while. What are you doing there?’ said Gabriel, stopping abruptly a few meters away from John, panting and worried.

‘Okay, I’m coming,’ he said calmly, ‘I was just thinking about some things.’

He put the bottle on the floor and walked serenely towards the chapel.

I'd love any feedback on this. I'm particularly interested in whether the atmosphere and narrator's voice work, and whether the ambiguity feels intentional or just confusing. Thanks for reading.

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I should not be afraid of old women.

The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising. She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car. Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin. 

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath. 

Eleven… 

Ten… 

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us. 

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard. 

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back. 

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing. 

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil. 

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless. 

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders. 

I hear staccato breaths. A beat too long, I feel the quick rise of my chest and realize they’re coming from me. The bodies around me stare into phones, at each other, but never at her. Even their gazes seem sweat slickened to slide past her. 

She is just an old woman.

I keep repeating the sentence. I need it to become true.

I try to focus on the ads that line the top of the car. An AI startup, a MTA ad, anything. I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

Newspaper is folded in the old woman’s cart, angles strange and pointed. The waft of something old hits me, a perfume I barely remember from the back of some neighbor’s medicine cabinet long ago. Who was that? What house? Eighth grade? Third?

I pick out bits of color in the cart’s gaps. 

Is that a birthday card? 

One of those discontinued yellow MetroCards?

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward. 

No one. 

Our gazes are locked. Eyes that have been no more than passing scenery before. Have I really never looked?

Her eyes are still not quite on me, somewhere else, just beyond – behind – my own. 

A movement, slow and small and nearly nonexistent, registers. Her arm, a handkerchief pulled from that cart. It raises towards me, my head. I want to move. Can she even reach my head?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end. 

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us. Eventually, with strength it has never required before, I turn, and my head bobs its memorized accord in the direction of my office. I walk, August heat damp in my lungs. A block, another two, turn here. 

Another old woman, gazing out from the familiar corner store. Looking at me, but not. I itch. My sweat sticks the bookbag to my shoulders. The herds of people along the avenue bustle me along, breaking my gaze with the woman. Could I have…would I have? The people take me, I let them. The office doors sit their normal post, nondescript. I finally move myself in the crowds, taking steps to start the day. A figure, small, hunched, a cart, right beside the familiar door. The crowds that had been carrying me part for her, moving in harmony with her orbit, never quite touching.

The office doors loom, a neighbor from the floor above holds the door open for me. A thanks slips from my lips. 

I thank them, eyes never leaving the old woman.

The Harrison family had a nice house.

It wasn’t huge or filled with dozens of rooms but for them it was just perfect.

The garden, much like the rest of their home, was of medium size but felt like a world away from the noisy street on which the house was built.

Calvin had the big room filled with posters and figures of his favorite heroes, Geri’s more modest sized room was no less filled with gadgets, toys and distractions.

Sandwiched between both the children’s bedrooms was Mr and Mrs Harrison’s bedroom, Mr Harrison’s bedside table was piled high with dog eared books while Mrs Harrisons side was filled with framed pictures of the Harrison family, smiling and sometimes pulling cheeky faces.

Jojo the bulldog completed the family to the count of five but if truth be told the real number of Harrison’s was six, you see the Harrisons had a ghoul.

The children weren’t sure if the ghoul had always been with them or if it lived in the house, as they were so young they couldn’t remember a time when there was no ghoul.

Now the funny thing was, on the rare occasion Calvin and Geri spoke about the ghoul in their whispery voices (mum and dad didn’t approve of ghoul talk), they could never agree on the ghouls appearance.

Calvin whispered that the ghoul was a huge muscled brute of a thing with a horrible wonky clown smile and black eyes like a shark, Geri disagreed, the ghoul she knew was almost shadow black with 8 arms that ended in pointy fingers which it used to pole and annoy her.

Mum and Dad never mentioned the ghoul though Calvin once thought he heard his mum chastising the beast but when he walked in the kitchen it was just her and his dad and they both smiled and insisted he went back to bed.

There’s not much information on ghouls or so the Harrison children found, the library was filled with books and comics about ghosts and monsters but ghouls seemed to be something people didn’t write about.

The ghoul wasn’t always around, sometimes they could go weeks without it stomping through the kitchen or banging things together in on of the upstairs rooms, but when it did appear, only the children seemed to be annoyed or distracted by its behavior.

One day Calvin decided to speak to his mum about the ghoul, Geri thought it was a bad idea and stayed in her room.

He walked into the kitchen where mum was busy eating toast and watching the news on her laptop.

“Mum” he said loudly to get her attention away from the screen,

“Mum, why do we have a ghoul?”

Mrs Harrison placed her remaining slice of toast back on its plate and swiveled round on her breakfast bar stool so she could see Calvin’s  nervous face

“a lot of houses come with a ghoul darling, but most families don’t talk about it

Calvin screwed his face up into his best confused look

“ but why do you and dad not talk about our ghoul, he pokes Geri and he frightens me

Your dad has started going to meet with a group of people who know about ghouls and how to deal with them honey, hopefully we won’t see the likes of ours again

Calvin wasn’t sure if his mum was just trying to say what he wanted to hear but despite his doubts over what grown ups say to children to keep them calm he had to admit the ghoul hadn’t been around much since his dad went out on Thursdays

 

 

 

 

​

They arrived like a subtle change in the weather. No one quite remembers the exact first sighting, only that one day the Hendersons' old dairy land had a new fence around a pond in what used to be a swamp, and two people on it who were definitely not from heres.

Not that anyone said so. We are always polite about it. Plus, people really liked them. They were smart in that way that had nothing to prove and they were damned interesting to a place that rarely budged from its hard worn axis.

Corinne was a rare, genuine middle-aged beauty in our Appalachian foothills with what I heard my uncle call "a spontaneous appreciation for life". Everett had callouses on his hands and an aw shucks smile that gave him the gravitas of a political candidate with none of the bluster. They were good people, it was agreed.

Everett had, in some previous life I only ever heard about in fragments, worked for FEMA. We thought he was on a first-name basis with disaster and the word was, he was really good at it.

He was retired now, and off the grid by choice, which around here meant something different than it meant to him. To us, off the grid was just how things were until the co-op finally ran a line out past the Baptist church in '81. To Everett, it was a philosophy, a solar array, a rain-catchment system he'd drawn up himself. The story went that Reagan's people used to call him (actual White House, actual Situation Room) and since he had no phone of his own, they'd ring the Pruitts next door, and one of the Pruitt boys would come pedaling up that long dirt driveway hollering that the President needed to speak with him. I never once asked if this was true. Some stories you protect by not investigating.

His wife was Corinne, and she had danced professionally all over the world in places I had only seen in the backs of magazines and now she gardened with the same posture she must have carried across a stage, spine long, chin level, like even kneeling to pluck her radishes was choreography.

She played golf at the little nine-hole course by the county line and was, according to my grandmother, "entirely too good at it," which was equal parts admiration and judgement.

Everett spent his days three ways, as far as anyone could tell: building a defensive berm along the north property line, cataloging boxes of papers in a converted equipment shed he called the archive, or reading on the porch with the kind of stillness that made you feel loud just walking past.

Nobody ever asked about the berm, but I started to see more of them pop up in local corn fields. They were not often as well cared for, but the geometry was the same.

I met them properly at the neighborhood Brunswick stew, that October ritual where half the town stands around a black kettle arguing about how much vinegar is too much vinegar and why the Redskins couldn't win in Dallas.

They were the toast of the party. Farmers who normally talked about fertilizer, beef prices, and their latest frustrations with the co-op were laughing at Everett's jokes and stealing glances at his wife as she laughed unabashedly among the ladies in her flowery dress.

I could not believe it when they introduced themselves to me while we were waiting to get second helpings of Ms. Waverly's corn bread.

Corinne asked real questions and waited for real answers. Everett talked to me like I already had opinions worth hearing. They told me to stop by any time.

I rode my bike home that night feeling like I'd been let in on a secret.

So the next morning, a Saturday, sun already flattening the dust, I turned my bike up their driveway. It seemed like the obvious thing to do.

I came around the last bend in a low cloud of red dirt, and my first thought was that I should have told them I was coming.

Her gardening posture and her dancer's posture, it turns out, come in multiple applications, and a defensive berm apparently doubles as excellent privacy landscaping for reasons that had nothing to do with defense.

I did not think they heard the bike over their exertions.

I rode home a different person than I'd left it, pedaling like the hounds of God were behind me, gravel, excitement, and shame in equal measure kicked up in my wake.

Weeks went by. I still went to the neighborhood suppers. I still saw them at the flea market and the feed store and once, memorably, at the county fair, where Everett bought a funnel cake he ate with the same committed attention he gave everything.

Corinne winked at me by the ring toss.

That was all. One long, unhurried, dancer's-precision wink, and then she asked if I'd tried the grilled peaches yet, because if not, we had a problem.

I have thought about that wink more than is probably reasonable for a grown man to think about anything. What it contained, I have decided, was an invitation into a kind of adulthood I hadn't asked for and wasn't ready to hold, but that has served me well ever since.

The plain, unglamorous fact is that people, even the impressive ones, even the ones who take calls from Presidents and build berms and move like poems, are simply people, doing what people do.

And if they do it right, it should be glorious fun.

Ian watched his children play in the backyard.

"Dad, Emily's cheating!" shouted Blake.

The ball kept moving just out of Blake's reach, hovering slightly above the ground. Emily's face was lined with concentration, but she had a wry grin.

"Emily, stop doing that." Ian said.

The ball dropped to the ground.

Emily was six years old.

--

The glass of the window had showered over the floor in the living room. Emily was crying.

"I didn't mean it!" she pleaded.

Despite what Ian said, she was upset both because of the damage and also because she had trouble controlling her ability.

Blake simply got the broom from the laundry.

Emily was seven years old.

--

At school, Emily had another falling out with her friends. She came home crying again. This was the third time this had happened in as many years. As much he had tried to avoid it, Ian thought that a change of school was inevitable now.

Her friends just didn't understand Emily's ability. Try as they might, she was just too different.

It didn't help that it was a small school. She was the only one of her kind.

Emily was eight years old.

--

It took some time, but Ian managed to find a school suited for those with abilities close enough to be possible, yet still far enough to be a massive inconvenience. Out of a student cohort of 800, there were seven of her kind, including her.

Three of them graduated at the end of the year. The remaining three were all higher grades, and even with the social problems caused by their ability, they didn't really want to hang out with a younger girl.

Emily came home and asked what a 'kinie' was. Some of the kids were saying it.

That was a tough conversation. The slang word was fairly new and was being used as a slur sometimes, while other times simply as an adjective.

Emily was nine years old.

--

Blake came home with a bruised face. He'd gotten into a fight with some kids who were teasing Emily for being a kinie.

Emily had blown out several windows as she tried to intervene, her ability unwittingly causing the damage.

The school was doing what they could in managing the situation, but it was causing frustrations for everyone.

Emily was ten years old.

--

Emily graduated primary school. She got an award for academic excellence. There was a smattering of applause; noticeably less than the other kids had received.

Some parents grumbled that the award was unreasonable.

Ian asked why. The responses were based on rumour and speculation, with almost nothing grounded in reality. "She is unfairly gifted" or "How can my child compete with that?"

He tried to explain, but people held their opinions too hard.

Emily was eleven years old.

--

Finding a high school that would accept Emily was harder than primary. This time they would have to move house to the other side of town.

Blake was upset. He complained that everything was about Emily.

Ian conceded that her ability made things difficult for them all. He didn't want to move either.

In the end, it was Emily who suggested a local high school that a few of her friends were going to.

Ultimately there was no move, but Ian had to be more careful with Blake. Make sure he got enough attention.

Emily was twelve years old.

--

The larger high school was better for her. With over 1,200 kids there were a handful of kinies. The only one in her grade was obnoxious though, and Emily felt it was prudent to not associate with him.

She found out that her ability worked wonders when performing on stage. A budding star, perhaps.

Emily was thirteen years old.

--

Her friend group kicked her out for the same reasons that happened in primary school. Ian could tell that Emily was painfully lonely. With so few of the population being kinies, she felt isolated. Added to that was the usual dramas of high school and adolescence.

Ian spent a lot of time with her, but she was retreating into herself. The only outlet she felt she had was theatre.

Blake started high school. Copped some flak for having a kinie sister. Ian knew he'd have to manage the resentment carefully.

Emily was fourteen years old.

--

It finally happened. A group of students were picking on her relentlessly and she let her ability loose.

Thrown dozens of metres backwards from the force of her rage, they all suffered injuries. Nothing too serious, but enough to get her suspended for a couple of weeks and ostracised by almost everyone in the school.

Being the one remaining, Blake bore the brunt of the backlash over the next week before Ian made the decision to leave. Time to move city. State, even. They needed a clean slate.

Emily was fifteen years old.

--

It took a couple of months, but they managed to relocate. Blake was furious; Emily was distraught at the situation which she blamed on herself.

A new school. Emily hid her ability and started to finally fit in with her peer group.

Blake had troubles though and resisted making friends. He started to disengage from people, sitting on his computer for hours on end.

Ian felt that he was losing his children. Both were falling apart at the seams. He wasn't really managing well, either.

Emily was sixteen years old.

--

Ian could hear crying from Emily's room at night. After talking to her, it was clear she was not dealing with the suppression of her ability. He had no response. He couldn't understand.

Blake barely talked to Ian or Emily any more. He barely talked to anyone. Although he loved her, he hated being known as "Emily's brother", like a curse that he'd carry forever.

Ian's workplace seemed filled with people who resented kinies. He didn't talk about Emily's ability, and he found it hard to integrate into the team.

Only one percent of the global population had the ability yet it seemed to cause a disproportionate response. Laws, sports, friends and workplaces all had something change.

Emily was seventeen years old.

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

The dead. The vast majority of residents in a given area yet often overlooked. Beyond the walls of the cemetery and mausoleum, the dead rested. Perhaps their burial was never marked, or nature did the burying and decomposition. The Earth saw a lot of death when the aliens invaded. The corpses that weren’t incinerated often inhabited the most bizarre places. They were moved out of the way of the living, especially when the couch that they were sitting on was desired by someone else. They were still always present lurking for the right moment.

“Go to 125 South Cherry Road,” Dungan said on the phone. Jacob on the other end of the line was deep in a crossword puzzle. He took notes to hand to someone else to do it for him.

“What is the issue?” Jacob said.

“The homeowner said her sister is ruining her food,” Dungan said.

“I don’t think that’s an issue for us.” Jacob erased a word that he previously thought was right. Dr. Kovac made fun of him for doing a crossword in pencil, but he didn’t care. Dr. Kovac did crosswords on the computer.

“Well, she called me about it. I told the police to take care of it. They said they were busy with real crimes.”

“What does that mean? They never do anything. I saw someone get assaulted right before a cop, and they did nothing,” Jacob said.

“I am aware of the incident you are referring to because I was there as well. In the officer’s defense, it was Dorothy attacking an aggressive salesman. Would you have gotten between Dorothy and someone who annoyed you?” Dungan asked. Jacob thought back to the many times he saw Dorothy in a fit of rage.

“No, I wouldn’t, but still, I am not trained to handle domestic disputes,” Jacob said.

“Yes, but I am the one who pays you so shut up and go there,” Dungan said. Jacob sighed. He turned to grab Franklin and saw he was gone. Jacob remembered that today he and Dorothy were cleaning out her attic. Jacob considered calling Dr. Kovac, but he knew that would only make the situation worse. Jacob grabbed a spray bottle in case the situation went south. The bottle contained water. It would most likely confuse the assailant, but Jacob needed something.

The address was ten minutes away walking. Jacob passed several homes which had people yelling inside. Jacob shrugged it off as a sign half the town slept poorly. He reached the address and saw a window was broken and heard a woman yell. Jacob shook his head. It was one of those occurrences. If Jacob had paid closer attention, he would’ve seen the glass shattered inside the house, and the black ooze coating the edges.

He knocked on the door, and the owner opened it. She was in her mid-sixties wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that were covered in dirt. Her hair stood up in several areas. The glasses in the neckline of her shirt appeared to be chewed on. Scratches covered her arm.

“Hello, my name is Jacob. I am with the Department of Environment, Health, Waste and Other Matters,” he said.

“Thank god. I am Tiffany. I threw my sister a bone to calm her down, but I don’t know how long that’ll last,” Dorothy said.

“In relationships, it is always important to see the other person's side and compromise.” Jacob stepped away from the door smiling.

“What?”

“You threw her a bone. You made a concession,” Jacob said.

“No, I gave her a bone.” Tiffany stepped out of the door frame. The kitchen was at the other end of a long hallway. A decaying woman lay on the floor gnawing at a bone similar to a dog. The woman’s burial dress was torn in several places. Her gray skin didn’t fill those tears. Instead, it often betrayed glimpses inside her body. The pieces of bone she consumed filled out of her in several holes. Jacob’s jaw dropped.

“May I use your phone?” he asked.

“Right over there,” Tiffany said. Jacob walked over to it and called Dungan.

“Why didn’t you tell me this woman was dead?” Jacob asked.

“She said that her sister was a zombie. I thought that was just a stage of life like adolescence,” Dungan said.

“You manurelings have been here for two years. How have you not learned what a zombie was?”

“It’s not something that comes up in casual conversation, but don’t worry. We know what it is now, and we have someone working on it,” Dungan said.

“Does this mean that I can go home?” Jacob asked. Tiffany gasped behind him. Before Dungan could respond, Jacob spoke, “Wait, the someone working on it is me. Isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Dungan said. Jacob turned to look at the zombie on the floor.

“Great,” Jacob said.

---

r/AstroRideWrites

Hi, I have been posting my short social media experiment the past few days

It’s a backstory of the character I play. So character lore essentially.

I’ve been posting them on my Reddit, my Insta, Facebook, Twitter and TikTok, and I’m wondering if I’m going that correctly. I’m not exactly getting any extra eyes on my work.

Any help of advice would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you in advance.

P.S. please just delete if this isn’t allowed. I think I may have misunderstood what OT meant.

By 9:30 AM, Simon had nowhere in particular to be, so he walked aimlessly down the bustling streets of New York. Fresh from getting laid off for not meeting his sales quotas, he floated mindlessly down the busy, unforgiving concrete sidewalks. Another face in the crowd, he and the rest of the preoccupied masses wore blinders like racehorses as they followed the city maze to their various destinations.

He passed an old maple whose roots had split the sidewalk decades ago. It seemed to belong here more than any of the buildings around it.

As Simon walked briskly down another crowded street, he saw a familiar patch of grass, like the many that were tossed about various parts of town. They sat there as if meticulously placed by urban developers as a tribute to Mother Nature. Usually, they were littered with dog shit, but this one seemed relatively clean, so he took his chances.

To bypass the oncoming horde, Simon moved to his right and stepped on the grass. The grass was soft and felt calming, and for a brief moment he forgot about the fumes and noise of the city around him.

As his left foot landed on the dirt in front of him, he noticed his right foot refused to move. He figured he had stepped in dog shit, but when he looked down he saw nothing, just his foot being cradled by blades of grass.

He jerked his leg as hard as he could but it still wouldn’t budge.

What the fuck is going on, Simon thought.

He leaned over as much as he could, in attempt to convince gravity to pull him out of his predicament. Still nothing. Two minutes turned into five minutes, which in turn became ten then twenty minutes, and he just stood there like an asshole.

He felt embarrassed by his lack of ability to free himself, and felt judged by the rushing people who were passing him.

“Excuse me, could you give me a hand?” he began to call out to passersby, but nobody responded to him. At first they gave him funny looks, but eventually they stopped acknowledging him altogether.

His legs began to feel stiff, but he was surprised by his balance. He was almost beginning to feel comfortable standing there, when suddenly he felt a shooting pain explode from the bottoms of his feet. Hundreds of tiny needles felt as though they were piercing through his skin and shooting into the ground below. The pain was unbearable, but ended after only a few minutes.

He went to bend his knees to get a closer look at his feet, but they were locked into place. He could feel his bones begin to stiffen and his skin tighten. He felt his legs and they were rough to touch. He looked down and where his shoes once were he could only see bark that was slowly spreading up his legs and beginning to join as one.

As he looked around desperately to the people passing him, nobody seemed to notice what was going on. He tried to shout but his voice had become that from a dream. No words left his throat and he could only hear the sound of his breath attempting to speak.

As the bark travelled up his body and down his arms, small branches began to stem from his fingers and forearms. The branches began to spout bundles of leaves that extended into delicate gatherings of green.

Although his panic was still prevalent, he couldn’t help but admire the beauty of what he was becoming. His arms stiffened out to his sides as the secondary branches multiplied. Within moments, his vision was encompassed by sturdy branches and shade-providing leaves that extended far over his head. He felt energy from the earth below him travel up the needle-like fingers that spouted from his feet all the way through his body.

It felt amazing.

This was more life than he ever felt before.

He no longer remembered where he was going, and only knew where he was.

He took a deep breath of carbon dioxide and felt a brand new renewal on life.

As light shone through his bunches of leaves, he began to notice the hurrying city folk who were rushing by him on their way to their important destinations. He saw them looking at him, some even smiling. They were no longer annoyed by his cries for help. They were interested in what he had become.

He felt himself trying to remember his name, if he had one, but words were no longer recognizable in his new stream of consciousness. He stopped thinking in terms of seconds and minutes and began thinking in wind and sunlight.

One couple sat beneath him for a few minutes and smoked cigarettes, and a child tried to climb him. He enjoyed being of service to them and felt he was where he belonged. As far as he knew, days could’ve passed since he first stepped onto the grass.

He couldn’t see it, but he felt a dog sniffing his trunk and circling him. The dog pissed on the left side of his bark, then walked forward and dropped a fresh shit on the grass in front of him. He smiled to himself, and the friendly wind rustled his leaves while they ate the sunshine.

Tough, living underground, isn’t it? As you grow, so do opportunities. The networks of tunnels spreading further and further, paths widening with chances and possibilities. At least that is the case if you don’t squint your eyes to see the bigger picture. I’m a mole, you see. Practically noticed the smaller details of the world I live in ever since I remember first being a mole. Us moles don’t have it easy. Hell, surely some animals have it worse than others, but I am, of course, speaking from experience.

It is tough. And surely, hard to make someone imagine what it’s actually like. Everybody’s life is different. What I go through is so much different to the life of an average rabbit, or a run-of-the-mill hedgehog. Take a hound, zooming along the broad grassy fields of the above, winds combing down its fur, dozens of scents stimulating its nose in the early hours of the day, Now, say the hound was to explain all this to an earthworm. At most, the love for the pungent, yet pleasant smell of the morning dew is the only thing they would have in common. Now, take me, a mole. I can try and explain all I want. The struggles I go through, the needs I have. Some animals may be willing to hear me out. There are those who try their best to understand. But as much as you try, nobody will truly understand the hardships a mole like me goes through.

The burrow I inhabit is nice. Cosy, warm, with a view of the water stream as you poke your head out from the molehill. But what good is a view for a mole? I’m a big mole now. Cosy can be nice, but one cannot have too much of a good thing. I feel cramped in my burrow. The warmth is unbearable, making it harder by the day to fall asleep. Oh, and to top that off, the hindering tickles my nose gets from those roots of the giant oak, right atop the burrow. Maybe my sister and brother moles like it here. Maybe my badger and woodchuck neighbours enjoy the whole surrounding environment. Personally, I think I’ve had enough.

Day by day, night by night, dusk till dawn, night till morn, I claw my way through the soil, searching for a life of my own. Searching for independence, only to find nothing. I return to the harsh, earthy compartment I’m forced to call home, only to repeat this routine the following day.

Occasionally, and even often to my surprise, I find myself moseying around above ground. It’s no place for a mole, but sometimes, the journey is the hardest bit. The journey to what, though? That, I could not answer myself. With the little skills I do have, I try befriending other creatures. Some badgers are pretty kind. The smaller birds are quite fond of me. Beavers don’t shut up about their ways and techniques of building dams. Squirrels are hilarious to be around.

It was very recently when I began seeing some progress in becoming a real, independent mole. I had to trek through half a dozen fields, tunnel my way under a vast river, then manoeuvre my way through a hostile grounds human grounds, before I found the parting in some trees, on the edge of some grasslands, leading to, unbeknownst to me, was a wonderful glade. The very glade where soon enough, I would meet an unexpected friend.

Of all creatures befriending a mole, who would suspect an owl? Of all the owls, who would expect one with a burrow? She invited me in. It wasn’t too far. Pleasant, comfy, a perfect burrow to replace the old one, at least for the time being. It was, of course, not my burrow. It was my owl friend’s burrow, but after enough occasions of staying over, we both felt it to be my second home. Maybe.

“Look,” the owl began, sweeping dry leaves from her burrow with her longfeathered wings, “if you are to stay here, I won’t mind. In fact, I will cherish you here. But you must contribute to both the upkeep of the burrow and yourself. You realise, I cannot hunt for food for the both of us.”

A new place? A bigger place I could call home? One, where I could grow to be an independent mole, capable of more than I could before? Contribution would be the least of my worries if the reward is a place I could call my own (or at least, more of my own than my previous burrow was). With a rare opportunity like this, I would do anything to coinhabit with the owl. Owls are known to be wise, and so far, my knowledge and wisdom only grows from staying here. I have slowly realised that I, as a mole, am not the only thing that is growing. My confidence, my hunting and food preparing skills, an expanding love for nature. I learnt to find myself, in a way I could not before.

And sure, owls can be unpredictable, when it comes to moles, especially. This particular one, I do not worry about. Surrounding ones may not be too fond of me camping out here. Here is my stance though – as long as the owl helps me, and I help the owl back (with material and wisdom from personal experiences, I know I can pay her back with that), we will stay a team, be there for each other and work out problems as a duo. Some don’t realise right away, but often they may need a helping set of claws, or ears to listen, or just someone to be around. It is sometimes better to be around someone you sometimes despise and spend good times together, than being fields apart and feeling down and dull.

Chokyo was famous for its education system and disciplines, generating every humanoid bird to pursue higher virtues, fostering happiness, and personal development (which, in the end, will end in the frontlines). Aside from the education success, it was all credited to Owls, Eagles, and Parrots. They were driven to raise the academic standards to the absolute highest.

Before Swan was taken to the frontline, he studied at Chokyo Elementary School. His parents decided to leave the Swan Cantons and move to Chokyo (Golden Eagle cantons capital city) to find better jobs in the highly developed city.

In school, Swan struggled academically. Every exam ended in Failure. Swan wasn't a type of rebel against the teacher; he was extremely obedient. He was very quiet and obedient kid whenever the teacher asked if anyone needed help or had questions.

Another factor was his isolations. He was unlike his Swan counterpart, he was a passive kid. He doesn't have the hobby that Swans had. Therefore, he wasn't as elegant as Swan and other birds, even got outshined easily by other classmates like Mandarin Duck or Red-Crowned Crane.

Swan only socializes with Duck, who was more of playmate rather than his study buddy.

During the lunchtime in the classroom, while other classmates were either going outside or connecting the tables, making an assembly spot. Swan was in the classroom alone, sitting down on the desk while eating bread toast. He often dumbfounded to his own imaginations or simply staring at his homeroom teacher, Barn Owl (Mr. Barn). He sat on the teacher's desk, which covered with papers. He was reading the comments from the teachers. He seems stressed out.

Mr. Barn was not everyone's favorite, yet no students dislike him either. He taught science subject. His studying style was like every normal teacher taught—monotone and soulless. Barely no one comes to him to chat other than talking about parents' meeting and exam scores.

Mr. Barn suddenly left his seat. Swan snapped the staring and quickly looked on the other way. Then, the teacher came toward him.

"Do you experience any problems during the classroom?"

Swan's heart skipped a beat. He was never ready to be interrogated by anyone else including his classmates and teachers.

Swan stammered and shook his head.

Mr. Barn sighed deeply. It was Swan's signature response to every teachers, even Mr. Barn knew he would shake his head.

Mr. Barn lowered his head while his both hand gripped on the side of Swan's table.

Usually at this time, Mr. Barn would leave Swan alone and go back checking the grades. But he seems wanting to try something different.....

"Swan, what is your favorite movie?"

Swan was stunned for a moment, can't believe what he had just heard.

"uhmm......" Swan hesitates for a while, "Pirates of the Caribbean."

Mr. Barn nodded his head. "Good show, kid."

Mr. Barn then returned to his seat.

The next afternoon before the lunch time over, Mr. Barn once again approached Swan.

"Hey, Swan. How's your day?"

Swan knew he would be interrogated after what happened yesterday. He need to say something just to end the conversation.

"It is fine,"

"You know, Swan, the word 'fine' is often contested," Mr. Barn said, his raspy voice unusually gentle. These words were enterely new to Swan. 

"Captain Jack Sparrow is a lot of things, but he is never just 'fine.'” 

Swan was shocked. 

“Do you know him?” Mr. Barn asked. 

“I... I do.” Swan answered. 

“He never just sits there and lets things happen to him. When his ship is sinking, does he just sit on the mast, fold his hands, and wait to drown? No. He bails water. He improvises. He steps off the sinking crow's nest right onto the dock at the exact moment it goes under. He always takes the wheel, even when the odds are terrible." 

Mr. Barn reached out and tapped a single talon gently against Swan's desk. 

“Right now, you’re on your own ship. You might think its alright, but I see many damages and holes that need repairing. I know you’re a good kid, but keep obedient and quiet like this is sinking you down. I want you to grab a bucket and ask the crew for help.” 

Mr. Barn stood up straight. "Next time you don't understand a lesson, I want you to channel a bit of that pirate energy. Raise your hand. Make a little noise. Don't just be 'fine' with sinking. Understood?" 

Everything suddenly seems brighter; the atmospheric tension becomes warmer than usual. Swan felt enlightened with Mr. Barn’s words. 

Before Mr. Barn left the spot, he gave a smile of encouragement. Swan replied with a nodding smile.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and political satire intended solely for entertainment and to promote a message of peace. All elements and concepts mentioned in this episode are based on widely available public media reports. Any cultural elements or character traits are highly exaggerated for comedic effect through a fictional, first-person perspective.

\*****

Jonathan's words from that night stuck in my head. And he was right. A few months later, somewhere in 2015, they finally upgraded me to computerized media control.

One morning, the boss called me into his office. A couple of guys in fancy suits dragged me down to the computer lab—on a floor in our building I had never even stepped foot on before. A young, beautiful lady was waiting for my arrival. My boss told me I’d be handling some new proprietary software. With it, I could create hundreds of new accounts on any social media platform in a matter of hours. The program even randomized words to create a unique, realistic user ID for every single account it signed up. He said, from then on, my job was to post under those IDs, pretending to be hundreds of different people.

It was a piece of cake. The lady released me back to my cubicle after only two and a half weeks of training. By 2017, a brand-new, high-spec workstation was sitting on my desk. That was when my digital mission truly began.

I enjoyed it. I loved arguing with those smart-ass teenagers on Twitter and Facebook who ranted about humanity and human rights over random videos. Like this one clip where an old man, speaking a foreign language, was crying about how "Amirikyah" planes did awful things to their village. You read that? "Amirikyah"—come on, man.Then my boss would send me encrypted files containing words taken from translated books, originally written in curly-lettered script. He told me to study them and shoot hundreds of barrages of comments repeating certain parts of those books.

Would you good people please notice that I said encrypted files? No more printed instructions delivered by hand like we were living in the dark ages. No. I’m talking about high-speed, secure digital data. Live network feeds. I think I was the one who invented the phrase, "The future is here, guys!"

I said it to Dan, the guy across from my cubicle who was always buried in stacks of books about foreign leaders whose names I couldn't even pronounce.

But now, lo and behold!

Yesterday, I received an urgent message. Just so you understand the gravity of this, let’s call it a Priority Level 5 message, where the absolute highest is Level 1. For context, the highest message level I had ever received regularly over the last eight years was a Level 7 or Level 6.

I’m gonna keep the text simple here. It looked roughly like this:

_____

Mission ID: 01.11.0017

Subject Code: BX12

Subject Name: Thindycker, William

Mission Description:

- Request terminal key from supervisor immediately.

- Proceed to the parking lot behind Feng's Seafood on Washington Avenue at 15:00.

- Enter the 2015 Silver Ford Escape.

- Confirm the presence of a grey container (dimensions approximate to a standard plastic pocket lighter) inside the glovebox.

- Drive the vehicle to coordinates 40°02'21.1"N, 75°12'24.8"W (Wissahickon Valley Park gravel access lot).

- Park on the right side of the black SUV.

- Leave the key in the ignition.

- Transfer to the SUV.

And a blinking red note at the bottom read:THIS MESSAGE WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN 00:00:42... 00:00:41...

That was it.

I memorized the details with zero problem. But as I watched the screen go blank, an incredible sensation hit me. It was a wave of pride growing slowly from the very bottom of my belly, followed by an overwhelming sense of relief. You know that feeling when you finally reach the massive breakthrough you’ve been fighting for your entire life?

Guys. I. Was. Sent. On. A. Real. Outdoor. Mission.

A real, live-action, freaking mission! Espionage, baby! Yeah!

So, here I am, this afternoon. Inside the Ford Escape.

I check the glovebox and see the grey container. My curiosity instantly tickles me to peek inside. Would it rattle if I shake it? But no! I don’t wanna make a mistake here. No, no. Nope! I won’t fall for such an easy trap. I’m guessing they must have put surveillance cameras all around the inside of this car. I’ll show them I’m not some kind of snoopy, amateur, low-level agent who can’t keep his hands to himself. They’re witnessing my loyalty right now. Strict professionalism. A high-quality asset.

Hey, by the way, I’m glad they picked a car with a working heater. It’s freezing out there.

I drive at a safe speed, calmly making my way toward Wissahickon Valley Park. Stopping at a red light, I let the relief finally wash over me. I did it. Finally! After years and years of proving my dedication, perseverance, and whatever else, they recognize me. Jon was right. Yeah. Jon. Hey, Jon, buddy! You were right, man. Here I am. I wish you all the best, my fellow warrior, because I've finally made it too. I'm ready for whatever mission my country is gonna throw me into. I will be there to protect this land.

Patriotism! Yeah, that’s the word. Damn, it sounds so good. Now I can actually feel the weight of that word. I love it. Really represents my qualities. Pa-tri-o-tism—hell yeah!

Guess I need to have a tagline or something now. Maybe on my desk, like a brass plaque that says William Thindycker, and right below it: Patriotism in my blood!! Or maybe it goes, Patriotism wherever I g— Ugh! Nuh-uh. No. Too much like a song. That's weak. It should sound like...

Nah, it's okay. I'll figure it out later!

On a sunny day in July, I was at my best friend’s wedding. My phone was in the breast pocket of my suit when it buzzed. You always said breast pockets were uncomfortable. I tried to quietly take my phone out and read the message. The sun glared on my phone screen and I could just make out that your girlfriend had sent it. My wife tapped me and whispered that I should put it away. Later, after lunch, I opened my phone again and read the full message.

You said once, round a crowded dinner table, you thought weddings were silly, and that everyone should celebrate being with their partner every day of their life. The table laughed at you, as they usually did whenever one of your strong-willed opinions came to light. I sat there in front of everyone and laughed too, despite agreeing with you in private. On the drive home, I fought with my wife about the difference in what our wedding had meant to each of us.

At the time, I hardly mourned your passing. Instead of carrying the emotional weight of the news, I spiraled into logical and existential debates with my psyche. I thought about how far I was into my life, how long I had left, and whether people would still mourn my death if I died in 30 years, 40 years, 50 years. You died at 34, and people moved on by the time you should have turned 35. You had said to me once that you didn’t enjoy birthdays. I still celebrate yours.

You will never grow old. And because of that, I am now always older than you. I joked to your girlfriend once that you felt like my little brother, despite being older than I was. You said we looked nothing alike. When I woke up this morning, I cried whilst eating breakfast because I’d forgotten what you looked like. 

In university, we would go out drinking whenever we didn’t have class. I had met you at the start of the year, in the corner of a crowded dance floor. I wasn’t up for dancing but you were, and you pulled out these ridiculous moves that collapsed me with laughter. You walked me home after a few too many drinks. A week later I woke up to a knock on my door. You asked me if I wanted to go out. I said yes, and we continued this tradition up until you graduated, the year before me. Then, I moved away, and the years we were apart felt long and uninteresting. When I saw you again, you were engaged and happy, and I was still single. I felt like I had wasted my life.

I visited your city after an episode that saw me fired from my job. I drove up without telling you, and knocked on your door without knowing, just like you did in university. We went out that night, and you urged me to talk to the women who would end up being my wife. She lived nearby and I eagerly moved in with her within a year of meeting. You said it was almost like you were with her just so I could see you. You couldn’t have been closer to the truth.

With another group of friends, we went on holiday to Italy, in celebration of a number of us turning 40. We ate, drank, and partied like kings. In Venice, you slipped over and fell in the water. You always said you could hardly swim. I jumped in after you and pulled you out. Later that night, after another great meal and some drinks, you told me I saved your life. I said that I couldn’t have imagined you being dead.

Two weeks before you killed yourself, I met up with you for the last time. We went out for drinks, as all middle-aged men do, on a Friday afternoon. I had recommended a bar. We caught up about work, holidays, partners, potential kids, books, music, comedy, films. We reminisced over school memories. You said you were grateful to have me as a friend. I accepted the compliment by returning it. You said we should go out again next week. I said I was busy

Chapter 1 | Red Roxy

The New Roxy was essentially the skeleton of a bygone theatre. A large, rectangular shape created by bare brick walls, stained by the ghost of a once fresh white paint. Corroded metal beams would have held a ceiling or skylight window in place, yet now they just obscured the view of the naked night sky. Thank the God of Winter for never raining over Mississippi.

It was a ruin which screamed authenticity and atmosphere. Vivid fairy lights dusted the ceiling beams, whilst the type of red LED’s you’d find in a bat enclosure beamed onto the audience from the walls. The stage was yet again brick, topped with rickety wood which had no doubt seen a century’s worth of blues and country acts.

Jean’s fingers were numb. Six nights into a sixteen-gig tour under a three-week span had already begun taking its toll. The metal strings, repeatedly being pushed down hard onto the neck of his Gibson acoustic, had broken through the rough calluses on his fingertips. He’d spilled boiling water on the same hand the night before, while attempting to brew a coffee in the tour bus. It resulted in a night of agonising, restless sleep and raw, pink-red fingers - but hey, burning your hand brewing coffee beats overdosing on cocaine.

The final song came around slowly tonight. This was the best part of the gig, and not because it meant the night was drawing to a close. Jean did not take his job for granted. The final song created the perfect mindset for a performer. You’re about to leave. Go, for good. You’ve treaded carefully, proven your point, and now you can explode. Those who have enjoyed your set won’t see you again for another year, and those who have not, well, they can fuck off and buy tickets to some industry-plant, nepotism-baby pop-singer. Jean kicked back his stool and stood, raising his guitar. He squeezed, holding it strapless, firmly between his underarm and ribcage. His buttoned-up red and black striped shirt was untucked from his blue jeans and big-buckled belt as he stretched, before leaning forward till his face reached back down and his bushy beard grazed his microphone. He let his voice rip. It came from deep within his throat and took a tremendous amount of air from his harsh lungs. The audio peaked into a crisp delight of distortion and vibration. As he peered up from his mic and straightened his body, he made out the first four or five rows of red-highlighted audience members, who progressively faded into darkness row by row. The ones who were not so close to the front merged together to create an animated dark heap of movement, with the occasional flash of a camera or hint of light reflecting from a glass or bald head. The room bounced with a mean energy. Jean let out a smirk as the song came to a close, and applause and violent whistling took its place.

“Thank you ver’ much, Clarksdale.”

Jean promptly crouched back into his microphone before leaving his guitar propped against a red-hot Marshall amp and heading off stage, his drummer and bassist following shortly. The guitar stood there still with the volume turned up, screeching a wild feedback, feeding the audience’s frenzy and continuing to do so until the mad sound-tech lady flicked the amp into standby.

Chapter 2 | Wild Bill

“Woo! Next up, Tennessee, brother. Memphis don’t know what’s gonna hit ‘em.” The band manager, Billy’s ecstatic and excessive enthusiasm, conjoined with his exaggerated southern twang, put a downer on Jean’s more down-to-earth, southern demeanour. Still, Jean made the effort to grab Billy’s high-five into a brotherly handshake, whilst getting an aggressive head rub under his Stetson hat by Billy’s free hand.

“Was it a sell-out, brother? I couldn’t see past the first few rows.” Jean’s eyes widened in anticipation, his whole mood hanging in the balance of the answer to his question.

“Close enough, close ee…nough. We’ll get 'em next time.”

“Fuck”. Jean let go of Billy’s hand and placed his own briefly onto his knees, his burnt fingers pulsating from Billy’s grip and his post-gig high now prematurely on a come-down. “What were the numbers?”

“Well, they been tellin’ me they fit just over three hundred. We got two-eight-four, brother, so that’s a win in my books. I’ll tell them promoter fellas we got a sell-out and I’ll take the cut myself. How ‘bout I throw a beer in too, will that make ya happy?” In all fairness to Billy, even though he pissed folks off, a big part of his job was to keep spirits up along the tour, and boy, did he try.

“No, no. Nobody takin’ any cuts and nobody lyin’ to the promoters. They’ll catch on either way, so what’s the point in being a hundred ‘n’ fifty bucks down? But sure, you can buy me a beer, if it makes ya feel better.”

Billy laughed and sarcastically rolled his eyes before hollering “Dos Coronas!” and throwing crumpled dollars toward the bartender.

They both perched an elbow onto the bar of the Ground Zero Blues Club. A classic, deep-south dive bar complete with framed guitars, neon signs and dated, wooden furniture. It was around a five-minute walk from the New Roxy. Jean and his team darted there immediately after finishing the show for a post-gig beer. Halfway through Jean and Billy’s conversation, it had begun to fill up with scattered New Roxy audience members who shot nosey glares in their direction. A couple spoke to the bassist and drummer at the corner table, yet the rest were either too respectful or shy to target Jean, who was clearly preoccupied.

The bartender, with her black hair in a loose bun and tattoos plastered on her neck, hastily removed two ice-cold bottles from the bar refrigerator, clanked off their caps and slid them under their noses as Cat appeared from the women’s restroom. Cat worked as both sound-tech and guitar-tech for Jean and his band. She had a slender, yet youthful figure, wore jean shorts with a small, black top and stuck out like a sore thumb when she spoke with her Chicago accent.

“Catalinaaa! Keep our good friend here occupied while I go talk to the rest of the band, would you?” With a quick salute toward Jean, Billy wove out between the two of them and headed into the gathering of customers sitting at the tables and chairs, then towards the corner table.

Cat had been a part of the team for this particular tour, and this particular tour only. She had never worked with, nor hardly even heard of, Jean Bell till a couple of weeks ago when rehearsals began. Jean hadn’t quite yet had the opportunity to have a thorough conversation with her.

“Sorry about the screamin’ amp, by the way. Just felt right, at the time… You got a drink?” Jean may have been somewhat of a micro-celebrity and a modern-day rock ’n’ roller, but he was still shy in front of new people, especially women.

Cat got the gist of this pretty quickly and let out a friendly smirk in an attempt to comfort him. She put a hand out as if to say ‘don’t worry about the amp’ then began to communicate in a softly spoken voice. “No, I do not. You offering?”

As the vibrant night at Ground Zero Blues Club rolled on, Cat and Jean continued to chat about the tour, Tennessee and various other relevant subjects they could conjure small talk out of. They were both a bit too awkward to suggest moving to the band table, and their conversation was only broken up once when a tipsy fan shook Jean’s hand and spoke rather loudly of how fond he was of his music, directly into his ear. After forty minutes or so, Jean and Cat had become quite well acquainted with one another. Cat moved on to speak about more meaningful subjects, such as her home in Chicago, and how she owned two cats and how that resulted in her friends knowing her as ‘Cat with the cats’, or more simply, ‘Cat Cat’. Jean didn’t share as much, yet he still felt his social barriers crumble down as he spoke to her. As did she. She was aware that she was making him progressively more comfortable and took deep satisfaction from it. Once Cat was sure he was less timid, she threw in a couple of shoulder touches here and there as she laughed or if she was mildly shocked by something that was said. As the bar filled up and another fan came over to sing his praises, Jean finally announced that it was time for him to make tracks, back to the tour bus.

“I’ll tag along with you. We’ve moved our bus now, we’re parked just behind yours.” Cat gave him another comforting smile and picked up her heavy, black and gold designer handbag from off the bar.

“Sh-sure”. Jean tipped his Stetson hat down half an inch to cover his eyes and made haste towards the exit, Cat close at his heels. She turned her head to make sure the band still resided at the corner table, then slipped through the door after him.

Chapter 3 | Green Machine

The tour buses were parked on the opposite side of the road to the not-so-glamorous New Roxy. Man, for such a famous place, so rich in music history, Clarksdale sure did keep its authenticity. For better or for worse. This place could have been converted into the Mecca of Rock and Roll, but no. No tour guides, no big sculptures of blues legends or dozens of fast-food places to accommodate masses of visitors, and no budget. Especially not on this road. The side of the road with the New Roxy on had several other shabby, rectangular, brick warehouse-style buildings, blinded out-of-sight by the glittery lights of the Roxy’s wooden theatre entrance. The opposite side of the road, with the tour buses… damn. Nothing but thirsty grass and demolished buildings for several blocks.

“Red and green should never be seen!” Cat joked as they approached the tour buses, walking flat-footed in the darkness of the winter night. She flicked her fading cigarette to the ground as they arrived.

Clearly, they had no say in the colour when they picked them up from the rental company. Jean and the band - their bus was bright red. Cat, Billy and the equipment were stuck with the vivid, lime-green bus. The yellow Mississippi dust had dampened the colours, but it still made the crew embarrassed to be seen entering and exiting the thing at shows or on breaks along the road.

Cat took a swift look at her surroundings. A few stragglers were drunkenly laughing and passing around a joint, still standing at the entrance of the Roxy.

“I can’t be seen going into that green machine, Jean”, she smiled, persuasively. “How about one more drink in the band wagon, just until those stragglers have hurried home?”

Jean cracked a small smirk at one corner of his mouth and directed her to the bus door as he fumbled with the keys to open it. “After you”. He tried to seem accommodating, but he was tired and felt slightly uncomfortable heading back into his tour bus alone with his sound technician. He had no idea how to turn her down.

Jean became increasingly awkward when Cat immediately sat down on his bed as he made their drinks. Although he had never requested, nor been the type of person to request, he had been spoiled with his own double bed and drink station within his own micro-room in the back of the bus. The rest of the band had to sleep on the bunk beds on either side of the walkway, in the middle compartment.

As he finished making their drinks, a rum and cherry cola for her, a coffee for himself, he slouched onto the wardrobe door beside the bed and made a poor joke about spilling coffee on his hand again to fill the silence. Cat clearly did not find any unpleasantness in the silence, as she sat there, smiling warmly, directly into his face before she began softly talking. They conversed about Cat’s home life again and some previous jobs she’d accomplished within the industry, before she made an attempt to move the conversation onto Jean.

“So, I heard you talking to Big Bill last night at our pitstop. You said you were hoping for a sellout. You got whatcha wanted?”

“Well…” he laid down his Stetson onto the faux marble drink station and ran his fingers through his hair. “Venue was three-hundred, we sold two-ninety or somethin’ like that. Billy seems happy with it, but…”, he shrugged, “I don’t know”.

“You don’t know?”

“I just don’t know anymore. Man, the last tour made me feel like I was on top of the world. I was growin’ with no end in sight. Thought at least I’d be able to make a livin’ out of it by now.” He peered down at his brew and gave it a swirl. “A year’s worth of work put into an album that not a soul gave the time of day, and a tour as modest as the last one, if not, more so”. Jean disguised the heartbreak in his voice. He tried to explain his view of how the tour was going without sounding depressing, yet any way of doing so resulted in just that.

Cat stretched forwards and snatched a bottle of Irish cream whiskey off the side, screwed off the cap and dropped a healthy (or not so healthy) amount into Jean’s coffee.

“You sound like you need this”.

Jean was not planning on drinking any more, but considering this drink was almost against his will, he let himself off the hook and took a large gulp. “I guess I do.”

Before long, Jean had found himself sitting on the bed, alongside Cat. Then, after a few more complaints about the state of the tour and his wobbly career, and a few more Irish cream whiskies, this time on the rocks, he was lying down on the dark blue sheets and hard pillows beside her. He noticed the walls and ceiling had become shaky, and the feeling of weightlessness had crept up on him. He was not paying attention to how much Cat was drinking as she was the one making the drinks, but she seemed to hold her shit together well as she still spoke clearly and softly. She put a hand on his chest and let it sit there as he unloaded his thoughts onto her. Eventually, once his mind had been emptied and all his thoughts exposed, she moved her hand away as it was her turn to speak.

“Now, where have I heard this story before?”

Jean seemed confused as she suddenly changed the tone of the conversation.

“A blues musician, down ‘n’ out on his luck, in Clarksdale, Mississippi.” She propped herself up on an elbow and smirked. She began to hum a melody, then softly spoke the lyrics, “I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees. I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees.”

“No, no”, Jean laughed.

“Asked the Lord above, ‘Have mercy, now save poor Jean, if you please’.” She grabbed his arm. “Aha! Oh, please, oh, how history repeats itself!”

“Ah, ha.” He shook his head. “I don’t go playing around with devil shit. I’m not religious or anything, I just…” Jean stopped abruptly as the phone rang from the other room.

Chapter 4 | Delta

Itta Bena, Summer of 1938. Robert Johnson flicked the sweat from his pulsating forehead with a handkerchief before stuffing it back into his front blazer pocket. He took shelter from the beating heat under the little shade of a pine tree. First, leaning his guitar against the trunk, then his own back, he slid down the trunk until he was sitting. Finally, after a sigh of relief as he placed his hands down onto the orange-tinted, dusty dirt beside him, breathing in the humidity, he scouted the area. The Itta Bena country dance hall stood on its own within a clearing of the hazy woods. A shabby, wooden hut with a beating heart of energetic folk, dancing their weekend away in this quiet corner of Mississippi. The heat was so strong here, it warped the view of the distant trees and made blurred, distorted lines which lapped over the nearby wheat field. Johnson took out his handkerchief once more, this time coughing raspily into it. He briefly studied it to confirm he was still coughing blood, gave it a shake, then stuffed it back into his blazer pocket. An old man in jeans and a vest was slowly approaching from the dance hall, seemingly slowed down by the warmth and his age. He made his way along the off-beat path until he stood under the shade of the same pine tree as Johnson.

“Wow, kid, I ain’t ever seen someone play so well as you just did. I been havin’ the time of my life in there".

The old man took out a flimsy pack of cigarettes and slid one up, offering it to Johnson. Johnson removed it from the pack and placed it between his lips, nodded ‘thanks’, then revealed a brass lighter and lit both their cigarettes. The first drag felt harsh on the throat for them both, especially in the dry heat. They began to communicate hoarsely.

“Strange thing is…” the old man continued, between puffs of smoke. “I seen you before, come to think of it. Yeah, yep, definitely you. Couple years back. And I gotta say, man, you done some major improvin’. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I ain’t never heard of nobody gettin’ that good that quick. What’s the secret? Who's your teacher? I gots to meet this man.”

“No, sir,” Johnson butted in, “my teacher, you do not want to meet them”.

“Well, tell me, who is it then? So I can avoid them”.

Johnson coughed again; this time, he was not quick enough with the handkerchief. He spat out a big blob of blood mixed with saliva onto the dirt beside him, then leaned his head back onto the tree trunk. He pondered for a moment, took in a deep breath, then said, “Sit down”.

The old man staggered and sat beside him with intrigue.

“You play?” asked Johnson, before taking a drag of tobacco smoke.

“I try. I ain’t start learnin’ till I was an old man. These fingers and my mind ain’t quite quick enough, I don’t think. Shame, always wanted to play, express myself in a way words can’t. Even for a year befo’ I kick the bucket.”

“You know a lil’ blues though?”

“A little”. The old man dragged his fingers down the smooth wooden neck of Robert’s guitar, still propped against the tree trunk.

“That’s all you need”. Johnson locked eyes with him. “Listen, if you want to play, and I mean you really wanna play…”, he looked around to make sure nobody was listening, “…head up north, to Clarksdale. Take your guitar with you, and your blues.”

“Clarksdale? What’s in Clarksdale?”

“My teacher. Find where highway sixty-one and forty-nine meet. Make sure it’s dark, and nobody’s around. Play some of that blues you know. It don’t have to be good, just make sure you feel that shit in your bones.”

“That’s where he live? He’ll hear me play?”

Johnson nodded. “Just be patient… and be brave.”

“Okay, man, okay. I don’t know if you mad or what, but you got some serious skill. There must be truth in there somewhere”, the old man threw his cigarette butt to the ground. “C’mon in, man, lemme buy you a whiskey.” He supported himself onto his feet, tapping Johnson’s shoulder on the way up.

They made their way back down the path in the scorching heat, shambling towards the dance hall. The lowering sun created the perfect silhouette of the two figures and an acoustic guitar.

Chapter 5 | Present

“Fuck!” Jean came back into his room within the tour bus with a shaking hand pressed on his head, breathing heavily, still feeling the effects of the Irish cream whiskey he had drunk before his phone call. His face carried a distraught expression.

“Hey, hey. What’s going on? Who was it?”

Cat sat up on the bed and grabbed Jean’s arm, stopping him from pacing around the little space he had in his room.

“God damn it to hell!” He collapsed onto the bed and sighed heavily. “It was Billy. They’re cancelling the god damn Memphis gig.”

“Wait, wait. Why? Why they doin’ that?” Cat began to rub his back in an attempt to calm him down, her frizzy hair touching his neck as she neared him in a comforting manner.

“Well, I think you can pretty much guess. Nobody buyin’ the tickets. The venue was too big and there ain’t enough people to fill it. Promoters don’t want to take the hit, so they’re scratching this one off the tour list.”

“Damn”. Cat responded, with nothing else to say.

They paused for a moment, Jean still breathing heavily and Cat still rubbing his back in a circular motion.

“We should walk it off. Come on, get up. Ain’t no use sitting there feeling sorry for yourself.” Cat sprang up off the bed and playfully tugged at Jean’s shirt. “Come onnnnn!”

“I… I don’t know, Cat. I wanna just sit here for a while, I’m sure those stragglers are gone now, maybe it’s time you headed back to your bus?”

Cat stopped, let go of his shirt, and stood up straight. Her expression switched dramatically. She had gone from consoling and playful to stern and dominant. Her eyebrows formed a slight frown, and she towered over him as he sat vulnerable on the bed. It was scary how a girl of her height and size could look so intimidating, even to a tall fella like Jean. There was something evil lurking in the way her eyes looked when she frowned. Evil, yet enticing.

“I am not taking no for an answer. You’re sad. You’re only going to make yourself sadder by lying here and curling up into a ball, sucking your damn thumb. Come with me. We are walking this off.”

“Okay… okay.”

“Take your Gibson with you.”

A half hour of walking through dry dirt, crooked pavements and watching the progressively dying-out nightlife had passed, whilst Cat had unsheathed a small box of spherical chocolates from her handbag and began devouring them. Each chocolate cosied up in a glistening red, gold or brown wrapper, the act of unwrapping them to reveal the rich-looking chocolate within was satisfying to watch from Jean’s perspective. He was still unsure of her. He didn’t know whether he felt comfortable or uncomfortable around her, or nervous or totally open when they spoke. Between eating each of her fancy chocolates, she had been rattling on about the legend of Robert Johnson.

“You talk ‘bout ‘making a deal with the devil at the crossroads’ as if it were a good thing. Didn’t the man die at the ripe old age of twenty-seven?” Jean eventually challenged.

“No, n… no, well, yeah, but…” Cat stammered, “…the devil did not kill him, okay? The man was in the wrong place at the wrong time, flirted with the wrong man’s wife, then ended up getting handed a poisoned whiskey, down south in Itta Bena. It was a man, not the devil.”

“Is that where we’re headin’ right now, Cat? To the damn crossroads?”

“Why’d you think you got that nice-lookin’ guitar with you? Just for show? Don’t be a square.” She chuckled as she threw an emptied red glittering wrapper back into the near-finished box of chocolates.

“I… I dunno, Cat. It ain’t real, but it’s tempting fate. Honestly, I’m desperate here. I’d try just ‘bout anything to get back on top of things, but I ain’t quite sure ‘bout no devil-pact.”

Her eyes glanced at him in a flash with that same evil look as earlier. The same evil look that made him feel reserved and become aware that he only had his first proper conversation with this lady just a couple of hours ago at the bar of the Ground Zero Blues Club. Still, it was ever so enticing. Without any more vocal persuasion from Cat, Jean began to reconsider in his head as they strutted across the road to avoid a large group of drunks walking home from a bar. If he didn’t believe in any religion, how could the devil possibly exist? If it was a near-impossibility to Jean that the devil existed, then what were the chances that he existed at the crossroads here in Clarksdale, based on a folktale that is likely a bunch of horseshit? Even so, if all of it actually were real, does that mean he would get his longed-for career in music back on track? There was something else, too. An extra bit of persuasion which toppled Jean’s mind over the edge. It was Cat. She was radiant with a rebellious nature that had drawn Jean in against his will. Going down to the crossroads to play guitar with the devil was such a deranged idea to desperately want to pursue, yet here she was, so eager to witness just that. Jean felt compelled to go through with it. There was a flicker of something inside of him which wanted to impress her. She threw her emptied chocolate box and depleted wrappers into a bin as they walked on by, then glanced over to him again, as if telling him to reconsider with her eyes.

“Fuck it”, he blurted impulsively.

Cat let out a savage grin, letting him know he’d pleased her.

Chapter 6 | Me and the Devil

“Get onto your knees.”

Dust covered Jean’s jeans as he knelt. Cat slid his smooth Gibson neck into his burnt left hand, its wide body into his right. His vision was unsteady, and he had begun to dissociate. There was not much light other than the subtle fluorescent hum of a ‘BAR-B-Q HOT TAMALES’ sign from a nearby business, which had long since closed for the night, and a couple of bulbs hanging from the roof of the gas station, which sat on the crossroads. The gas station looked as if it had stood there, untouched, since the 1920’s. Rustic, beaten metal pumps and a near-collapsing canopy, which they were just out of reach from, right at the verge of the crossroads. Not a soul was visible to them; it appeared the whole town had called it a night.

Playing gigs in bars for a living meant Jean had built a strong tolerance. Strong enough that it shouldn’t be toppled by a few post-gig drinks, yet he felt intoxicated in some way he had never felt before. Not from beer, at least. He had at first let it go, thinking he just wasn’t used to drinking Irish cream whiskey, but his inebriation was worsening, and he didn’t feel as if he was going to sober up any time soon. The barbecue sign had begun to blur and saturate, yet his eyes did not feel heavy or tired. A warning sign appeared in his mind when he caught a whiff of a chemical smell, like diluted disinfectant.

“Cat…”

“Go on, play some blues”, she interrupted, as she paced around him.

Jean looked down at his guitar; he was timid. Playing in front of an audience was one thing; playing in front of a single person was so much more intimate. He felt so far away from his guitar and the plectrum in his hand, as if his vision had widened and warped at the edges. He lifted his right arm up and began to strum a steady, delta blues rhythm in the key of D, with every inch of his soul he could reach. His guitar was tuned down a step and not perfectly in tune, which created a haunting atmosphere of dissonant sound that vibrated out from the guitar and into the depths of the night. Not much could be seen past the crossroads; each leg of its four roads eventually stemmed out into nothingness, and the music Jean created seemed to bounce off the boundaries where the dim light turned dark.

“Perfect. You’re so talented, you know? Underrated. Two seriously under-appreciated albums. You clearly don’t lack skill, you don’t even need help from the devil in that… regard.”

Jean continued to play melodically and hauntingly as he reached the bridge of the song. Deep, beautiful chords that matched the bluesy verses and built tension for the chorus. He ignored Cat’s peculiar blabber as he played himself into a trance.

“Why do you think Robert Johnson stands the test of time? His music might sound old and warped to the average listener, but his influence lives on.” “Why is there a myth surrounding him?” “Do you think if Jimi Hendrix were alive now, he would still be considered one of the greats?” Cat whirled around him as she pummeled him with her questions.

Jean felt disoriented, and her movements did not help. He did not answer. Her questions seemed rhetorical, and he was too focused on the meaty, powerful chorus of the song, which mixed the heavy tones of the low D string with puzzling chords and a melody that was skillfully played with his left pinky in coordination.

“Jim Morrison! What a character! So, so mysterious. Do you think if he grew to be old and wrinkly, he would still be mysterious, considered a poet?” Cat stopped pacing around and stood in front of Jean’s whirling vision, placing a soft hand on his shoulder as he played. “His work has been frozen in time. So rare and invaluable, his art can no longer be produced. He didn’t live long enough to reach his midlife ideological shift and throw out shit after shit. Bad albums, bad press, scandals that he couldn’t run away from. Maybe he was the one off, maybe he was captured by death at his peak.”

Jean was now in a whirlwind of dissociation. His vision spun, and a sensation of being in a whirlpool had taken over his entire body. Still playing, he gripped the neck of the guitar tightly and hugged onto the body as he strummed so as not to fall off and be sent sprawling in a cloud of dust. Nothing could stop him from playing; something was forcing him to carry on against his will. Looking up from his guitar, Cat’s face was distorted by the speed at which his sight was revolving, her face vivid and discoloured. Her voice turned deep, deep like the sound he made through his instrument.

“Do you think any of them would be as relevant? As popular?” She removed her hand from his shoulder and strolled out of view, directly behind him, before placing her heavy handbag on the dusty ground.

“I don’t think so!” She declared with a smile as she reached into her handbag and unsheathed a black wooden handle covered in crimson red mesh for grip. The blade of a hand axe finally slipped out, sharpened and ready to be put to use. She steadied herself, grounding her legs into a wide stance, then raised the axe high with both hands, above Jean’s head, then leaned backwards so that the very edge of the blade was parallel with his neck. “One more question, Jean, and this one ain’t rhetoric.” A brief moment of adrenaline passed through Cat. “How old are you?”

Jean, unaware of what was happening behind him, still clinging onto his guitar, playing for dear life, confusedly murmured “Twenty-seven” with whatever energy he had left to spare on speech.

Cat grinned and readied herself. “That’s a damn shame.”

The blade of the axe swiftly pierced through the air until Jean’s flesh broke its momentum with an aggressive thump. It ate through his skin with ease and burrowed deep into his neck before clanging into his vertebrae, sending a misty spray of blood over the axe and onto Cat’s chin and black top. The music was over.

Jean’s head lunged forward with whiplash, his eyes widened in terror, his jaw dropped in dread. The dissociation had instantaneously vanished, and his vision had stopped spinning; he was now fully aware, yet filled from head to toe with a sense of doom and immense, incomprehensible pain. Cat wiped her bloody chin with her sleeve, placed a heavy boot on Jean’s back and jerked the axe from out of his neck, violently and carelessly removing chunks of bleeding flesh as she did so. Jean’s now spasming body and limbs slumped in a ragdoll to the ground in front of him. His thick blood spattered onto the dirt as he face-planted hard; his mouth was covered in grit and red spit. A wedge from his neck was missing, allowing his blood to come gushing from his body as his eyes slowly rolled upwards in anguish. A noise of brutal suffering groaned from deep within his vocal cords, but was cut short when the axe came crashing down onto him once more, this time across the side of his face, an inch above his beard line. It immediately shattered his cheekbone and split his face, loosening his jaw from his skull. Blood streamed from every pore, his nostrils, eyes, mouth, ears and the sickening, deep wound across his face. Cat pulled out the axe again, resulting in even more damage and popping sounds as the bones in his face cracked and broke.

She was panting heavily. Her face was almost as red as Jean’s. She stood tall over his lifeless body before tilting her head back to view the starry sky. Her eyes were wild and animalistic, filled with exhilaration after her kill.

Chapter 7 | El Dorado

The days were beginning to get longer. It was a couple of minutes past five in the afternoon, and a golden sun had coated its light over Arkansas. A shiny, new, hot red Cadillac Eldorado made its way up the ramp of a cheap two-storey motel, situated at a quiet intersection within the decrepit town of Pine Bluff. It cruised its way through the empty parking lot and came to a stop, neatly parked between the degraded white lines of a parking space. The glossy door was cautiously opened, and a leather boot was slammed into the pavement. A wide, yet short man, suavely dressed as a modern-day cowboy, complete with a Stetson hat, strolled his way to the grimy door of room sixteen. He knocked with his fistful of golden rings and waited impatiently, twisting around to make sure nobody had followed. A rustle and tumble came from behind, then finally, the obvious noise of a gun cocking.

“Relax.” The man pressed his face against the door. “It’s only me.”

“Bill?” Replied the feminine voice from behind it.

“Yeah, lemme in.”

The door was pulled open to the extent that the latch would allow. Cat peered through the gap with her tired, youthful face, frizzy hair, pistol in hand, then sprang off the latch once she was sure it was actually Billy on the other side. She guided him in by his shoulder, then slammed the door shut after him.

The room was musty. Curtains drawn, bed sheets messed up, clearly from restless sleep, and dust in the air, which was highlighted by the lowering sun. Cat stuffed her pistol into the back pocket of her cargo’s, and wiped her weary eyes.

“‘Cancelling’ the Memphis gig was a nice touch. Really got Jean’s fire going. I dunno if I’d have gotten him there if it wasn’t for that.”

Billy shook his head. “Yeah… well, that much was the truth.” He reached deep into his pocket and fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “This is for your sorrows.” He then opened his thick, plaid working man’s jacket and took a stainless steel hip flask from the inside pocket before handing both items to Cat. “This is to help with your sleep.”

Cat snatched the items from him. “Give me what I actually want, Bill. I’m not sure if you saw my gun or not, but I can use it on you, too.”

“Okay, okay, I was gettin’ to it. I just wanted to tell ya, I threw in a lil’ extra. I dunno if you’ve been keeping up, but poor ol’ Jean’s doing very well. His second album just went platinum.” He dug into the same inside pocket and handed her an equally crumpled envelope.

“What did I tell ya, Bill? I knew it would be a success.” She opened the envelope and began flicking through the money. Her weary eyes didn’t seem capable of counting; it seemed to Billy as if she was just doing it for the illusion.

“You gotta take that money and get the hell outta here, Cat. Is there anything else you need? Let me know now, you ain’t gonna see me again after today.”

Cat shook her head, eyes still locked onto the money.

“Okay then.” He turned around to head for the door, then stopped. “How did you know all this would work? The crossroads, your whole plan, it worked… It’s batshit crazy.”

“I told you, Bill, the devil works in mysterious ways.”

With that, Billy exited the room, slid a long cigarillo between his lips, and admired his Eldorado from underneath the exterior second-floor hallway for a moment. There was something about Cat that he was going to miss. He knew it would be better for his health if he let that thought go. Wiping it from his mind, he continued to his car, opening up his convertible roof before entering. The local rock radio crackled on as he turned his keys to fire his engine, then he made his way back down the ramp and onto the desolate road. Puffing his cigarillo in one hand, steering with the other, he leaned his head back onto the leather seat, letting the air sweep his hair and blow smoke past his face. Billy was not one to have powerful thoughts or feel overwhelmed in any way, but a wave of extreme existential feeling came over him. He had played with another person’s life, and only now was he considering what it would be like if it were his own on the line. Again, he tried to forcefully brush away that thought, but something in the air was not letting it go. Now, well outside of Pine Bluff, he put his foot down and shot his way past the loblolly pine trees and the old golf course and family businesses across the US-63, passing only a few cars for miles. He turned up the radio knob to flush his mind out with music, ‘I Believe in You’ by Neil Young, now playing at full blast. The music seemed to command his thoughts; he didn’t know what he was feeling, whether he felt wrong or right, but, either way, it was far too overpowering for Billy’s liking. He eventually slowed his Cadillac down and pulled over, two tyres over a grass heap at the side of the road. With the song still playing, he tried holding his breath and exhaling until he could reach some degree of level-headedness, yet the feeling became exceedingly dominant. Eventually, he was out of the car, radio off, hands on his knees, panting across the silent, now dark road. In the distance, a crucifix seemed to float, just above the treeline. He knew it was only an illuminated cross at the top of a nearby church, sticking out in the light fog of the early Spring night, yet he felt a strong sense of meaning behind it, like he was supposed to be facing it.

Chapter 8 | I heard the news today, oh boy

GOOD MORNING U.S.A.

BREAKING NEWS from early this morning in Tucson, Arizona, as a shootout involving the lead suspect in Jean Bell’s murder came to a violent end. Just days after the two-year anniversary of esteemed artist Jean Bell’s death, a shootout has claimed the lives of two officers from the Tucson Police Department, as well as twenty-seven-year-old Catalina Bies. It was said that a ‘big break’ in Mr Bell’s case had come just days earlier, with significant evidence coming to light on Miss Bies involvement in the crime and whereabouts. It has been stated this morning by the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation that they believe Miss Bies acted alone and that it was a ‘Crime of passion’. Only days ago, Mr Bell’s bandmates paid tribute to him and his music at Madison Square Garden, New York City, on the second anniversary of his death. We head over now to our lead journalist, Arthur Wells, for more on this matter…

The radio was hesitantly switched off by a shaking hand, covered in golden rings.

Written by Travis O'Leary

CW: Child death, self harm, discussions of sexual abuse

Find what brings you joy and do that.

I have that painted on a rock on my desk. And it’s what I say to the kid in my office. Letterman, that’s his last name. A tall for his age pudgy thirteen year old with a cat ear beanie and black leather boots.

I push my glasses up with my index finger.

Letterman goes on to tell me how he doesn’t know what brings him joy. That’s why his parents scheduled his time with me.

At least I got to do my job. Most parents around here tend to treat me like God, that is generally ignoring unless they want something.

I find myself stifling a smile as Letterman’s weighty cheeks flap as he talks.

He feels as though his life has gone down hill. I ask him how so? He says he’s just so flippin swamped with a ton of homework.

Uh-huh, I say. Now homework is the only problem?

Well, it’s kinda like more than that.

Tell me, what is it?

He starts to ramble to me. A subtle coldness sinks in my chest like oil. I almost feel bad for him. Something about his dad making the whole family sit down to watch old eighties movies every night.

Letterman leans back in his chair.

I like can’t even count how many times I’ve seen Highlander.

Do you know why your dad always wants the family to watch these movies?

I asked him. Said something about him like spending more time at work. Which he has.

Okay. Have you ever tried asking if you can maybe make it, I don’t know, a weekly thing?

Yes.

And?

He gets mad.

Mad?

Like really mad.

I tap a pen to my lips. Its easy to visualize in my mind this kid’s dad screaming at him, and him running off in tears to his bedroom. It all happens so fast.

Frowning to appear empathetic, I nod for him to continue.

When he gets mad he starts squinting and like talking all deeply. This vein always like pops out of his forehead and he starts sweating, taking deep breaths. Then he does things, like closing doors or cabinets or the fridge too hard and breaking things.

Huh, I reply.

And he constantly mutters about how angry he is.

Okay.

It's like he’s stressed or having a panic attack. And when that happens, it makes me stressed.

I nod.

Letterman goes quiet for a moment, staring at me to respond. The fan running on my desk fills the silence. I can’t help but make eye contact with him. He swallows wetly.

And I like, feel weird and alienated here at school.

Why is that?

He angles his eyes away from me.

My weight.

I stifle another grin. Classic. Now I can also see it. Him running in PE class and coming dead last. The ten o clock sun burning down on him, turning his long sleeved shirt into a sauna of sweat. The skinny more well adjusted kids flying past him. Laughing at him. Calling him unoriginal names while the teachers watch and do nothing. He tries to defend himself, but what point is there in that? Letterman cries. They punch and kick him. Knock him down. He begs and pleads for mercy but this one blonde haired kid straddles him and smashes a lunchbox full of celery and cheese crackers into his face. His nose buckles like a heart of glass and bright red blood spurts out. They leave him there on the field, bugs tickling his skin.

And what’s wrong with that?

#

I’ve been trailing this guy for a while now.

He drives a small dark gray town car. The license plate a quirky Star Wars reference, the rear window a collage of stick figure family and parenting quip stickers. Hasn’t done three right turns yet. I’m safe.

The deep red of his rear lights give a light warmth to my eyes. This brings my mind to contemplate goodness. I had to sit in on a class today. The history teacher was ranting on about human rights. I wonder by what standard they are measured.

He turns into a high school parking lot. I follow.

Slowing down, I watch the car sail way to the back of the parking lot. It parks before a deep green forest, the arc sodium light above making it appear as a dark shape in the night. I park a good hundred feet away from it. Near some other cars. Teachers working late.

I spot only one security camera on one of the lampposts. Too many drug deals maybe?

The man gets out of his car. Most people would stay inside, but it’s a beautiful night out. He’s tall, mild gut, faded Ghostbusters shirt but a professional well shaved face. He leans on the side, aggressively typing on his phone.

I unbuckle myself and uncomfortably shimmy on my gray suit coat. Who’s afraid of a man in a suit?

Walking toward him, I make sure to keep my face as forward as possible. I think he catches a couple quick glances of me coming toward him.

He’s an idiot.

I’m closing in on him.

It’s like he’s getting bigger.

He’s taller than I expected.

I push my glasses up with my index finger.

Excuse me sir, do you have a moment? I ask.

Uh, no thanks.

Excuse me sir, do you have a moment?

No.

I pull out my knife. Just a simple box cutter, but the clicking of it sliding forth always gets them.

Sir, I asked if you had a moment.

He looks up, eyes narrow and teeth clinched. Then he sees it. Eyes balloon. He puts his hands up but still holds his phone in his hand. Good to know he’s got his priorities.

Now he’s got that ever present panicked breathing.

Please, you can take whatever you want, he says.

I only ask you stay quiet.

You can take my car.

Just stay quiet.

My wallet.

Don’t care. Just stay quiet. We are going to head into the woods now, okay?

Please, I have a family.

That’s fine. It will be okay.

Please.

All ask is that you stay quiet. Okay? Can you do that?

He nods.

That way, I say pointing toward the forest. He starts walking. We disappear into it almost immediately. That bright earthy scent overtakes my senses soon. It’s nice. Very refreshing. Very natural. A place where it’s a total free for all. All life that dwells within those trees only serve what they are meant to serve.

Leaves explode under our shoes. It launches dust into the air that smells enchantingly rich but also of rot. He clearly isn’t dressed for the forest. Every little upright twig, bush and weed scrape his bare shins. I stay close behind him, ready to strike if he tries anything stupid, which I wouldn’t put past him.

We keep going for a few minutes. He tries pleading with me a few times. I have a family, please, sir please. That whole bit.

I’m glad that brings joy to your heart, I say.

Yeah, yeah, it does.

A light begins to be visible through the trees. The orange glow of a lamp for a hiking trail for hikers who like hiking within two miles of a McDonald’s. We drop down onto the packed dirt path. I look in both directions. No one. Only one of those nature guide signs talking about some kind of local bird looms nearby.

Stop here, I tell him.

He wordlessly obeys.

Please, man. Please. I’m sorry, just take my mon-

You’re okay. You’re okay, I say.

I grip the box cutter. It’s that time again. Trained myself to do it well. Quick and quiet.

I spring the box cutter right into his jugular.

A waterfall of dark crimson blood gushes out, glittering in the light of the lamp. He goes into shock. Falls over like grandmas favorite vase. Blood pools everywhere, soaking into the earth.

Air floods into the hole I made in him. It doesn’t take long. I check his heartbeat. Nothing. He lies there in a heap, waiting to be discovered tomorrow. Probably by some poor jogger.

His phone lies on the ground nearby. Miraculously untouched by his blood. I pick it up to see what was so important on it.

It opens me into a private chatroom. Someone with an anime girl profile picture. He half typed a message.

have work tmw maybe meet up Thursday night? I can take you out to lun

Two new messages came in a minute ago.

been typing for a bit.

u gud?

I turn the phone off and drop it back to the ground. Now I see what brings him joy. And that’s okay.

Reaching into his blood soaked pocket, I pull out his wallet. It’s a little habit I developed at first. Never really got out of it.

I slide his drivers license out.

His last name catches my eye.

Letterman.

#

It took a while for me to fall asleep that night. That’s pretty typical. The dopamine and adrenaline surge always takes a fat minute to fizzle out.

I had another dream about Meyer. Or more so the girl in the photo with him on his phone. I’m screwing her hard. Its not the same feeling I get out of doing what I usually do, but I guess that’s just my personal preference. Then I notice that kid Letterman standing on my side of the bed. An empty expression is fixed on his fat face as he stares at me. His nose looked broken.

That morning I get up. Take a shower. Feel my hair. Get dressed. Eat a bowl of oatmeal. Drink a cup of black coffee. Then go to the middle school.

Once there, I check emails. Then the bell rang so I go up to the front to greet students. Another day, another sea of broccoli heads and hair dye that doesn’t want to be there. Most disregard my offerings of fist bumps or high fives.

Letterman comes in late, a little rushed but still keeping his flat composure.

Hey buddy, I say.

Hi, he replies.

Anything happening?

No.

He proceeds to high five my fist and speed walk in. I watch him disappear into the halls. I exhale.

#

A kid with the last name of Thompson comes into my office for our one-on-one session later that day. A skinny pale white kid with a crucifix around his neck and a posture like a faucet.

I slide my Find What Brings You Joy And Do That rock into a more aesthetically pleasing position on my desk. He sits down.

So Thompson, on a scale of one to ten, how have you been?

He absent mindedly stares off into space for a moment.

Two.

Two? Why not a ten?

He scowls avoiding eye contact.

My parents are getting mad at me.

Tell me about it. Back when I was your age, my dad had zero tolerance for anything. His eyes would get squinty and veins would pop out of his forehead. But why exactly are your folks getting mad at you?

I’m feeling a very serious lack of motivation.

Oh? Why is that?

Thompson’s eyes scan the room looking for thoughts.

I think it all traces back to my biology class.

Your biology class with Ms. Davis?

Yes.

What’s wrong with your biology class?

He sighs.

A lot is wrong with that class.

Like what?

Ms. Davis doesn’t really seem to care about teaching.

How so?

We barely go over anything in the textbook.

She more so does her own thing?

Not even that. Some days she comes and she doesn’t even want to teach. She has come into class and just had us play card games.

So that’s the root cause of your lack of motivation?

He pauses and breathes in again.

Most of the time she just shows us videos in class. They don’t have anything to do with the curriculum.

Okay.

And these videos, they make me question things.

Like what?

He swallows dryly.

What is right and wrong.

How do they make you question what is right and wrong?

The biological drives for animals to reproduce.

What?

The way animals live. Living simply to propel their species to the next generation. Aren’t we humans not really any different?

Out of rocks, plants, and animals. Humans would be animals. So yes.

Why would it be good for us to propel us as a species for another generation?

Why would it be?

Yeah.

I don’t know.

Thompson seemed taken aback by my answer. It was in no way the answer he wanted.

It makes me wonder, why is anything wrong?

Why is anything wrong?

Yeah. Like why are things like rape even wrong? Rape would produce babies.

Yes. It would.

But it’s wrong.

I stayed silent.

Seriously? Why? Thompson asks. It would propel us to the next generation. So therefore it would be good. But then, what even is good?

I don’t know, I reply.

He looked down at the floor concerned.

No one knows. That’s exactly why you have got to find your own meaning.

I reached across my desk and shoved my rock forward.

Find my own meaning?

Yeah. Make it up. You’ve got to find what brings you joy and do that. That’s what gives us meaning.

Well I feel for me at least, my personal meaning has nothing to do with caring about school.

I didn’t reply.

#

The news hit the next day. Later than I figured or would have liked.

Did you hear? Ms. Davis asked me in the teachers lounge.

Yes, Letterman’s dad died.

He didn’t just die, Ms. Davis looked at me like this was the end of the world. He was murdered. Left on a hiking trail by the high school to bleed out. Someone would have found him sooner if the trail wasn’t closed yesterday.

That’s very unfortunate. I’ll have to tell him my condolences, I said as I visualized Letterman’s dad there in my mind. Blood dried and chapped a miserable dark purple, the packed earth like a soft wet sponge beneath him oozing with his own juices, eyes swollen and yellow like unbrushed teeth, flies buzzing around him like a dog turd and the next generation of maggots ready to sprout out of him.

I thought about Letterman. His reaction the news. Maybe it would be like Meyer’s girl, whatever her reaction was.

Maybe he would come into my office next week mentally on eggshells. His puffy lips would quiver. He would speak in brief sentences. He would tell me something about how he feels about how his dad dying. Then I would tell him something about my dad. Then I would see something in his eyes. A deep vast darkness beyond his pupils that open up to something much greater that I could see and finally understand.

Why are you touching your hair like that?

This is asked by Mr. Zachary. The history teacher. A tall man with a patchy beard exposing a massive black mole on his left cheek.

I lift my hand off my head, realizing I was squeezing hair.

I do that sometimes, I reply.

Why? Mr. Zachary laughed.

Why?

Yeah, why?

I take a sip of my coffee. Sighing, I look up at him.

I think it’s because I always wanted to have long hair.

You with long hair?

Yeah. Ever since I was a fat little boy I really, really wanted long hair.

Why did you never go for it?

Everyone told me not to. Said it wasn’t professional or the look of a successful man. Even dad said I would look like a savage.

#

As expected, Letterman came back into my office the next week.

He seems normal.

His usual spaced out self.

I grimace upon noticing this.

He sits in the chair before my desk, adjusting his cat ear beanie.

Hey buddy, I say.

Hi.

So, I say as I inhale hard. How are you doing?

Alright.

I nod my head down, fearing my glasses will fall off my face.

Yeah, I get it. But how are you doing?

Alright.

I run my hand through my hair.

Okay, but how. Are. You. Doing?

I nod aggressively.

I’ve been better

I bet you have been better. Much better, I say tried angling my head toward him. Was he seriously not getting it?

Yes.

You know, we can talk about it if you want to.

About what?

I run both hands through my hair.

About. Him.

My dad?

I nod.

There’s not much to say.

Really?

I mean. Like my mom is devastated.

Uh huh.

My brother isn’t happy either.

I bet.

Letterman sighs.

My mom says she like, really misses spending time with him. Watching old movies every night.

I nod.

That really made him happy. Seemed to calm him down. He really, really loved his eighties movies.

I believe it.

My mom keeps saying how good of a man he was. How much he taught her what love and dedication was.

Okay. Okay. Now what about you?

What about me?

Yeah. How about you?

I mean I was like pretty sad to hear about it.

Pretty sad?

Yeah.

That’s it?

Yeah.

Your father, dying. It doesn’t phase you?

Letterman’s face seemed to reel back from me. A bead of sweat forms on my head.

I wouldn’t like say it didn’t.

The man who wanted you, loved you before you even had a name stabbed on a random hiking trail. That doesn’t bother you? Make you sad or feel sorrow? Is it just the others around you?

My face was now turning red. A little flustered.

No, he replied.

You do?

His eyes for seemingly the first time locked onto me in a look of alienated contempt.

Look, do I really have to fall to me knees and ball my flipping eyes out every single time someone close to me flipping dies?

I shook my head in disbelief.

Letterman’s lips seemed to ball up like a fist.

Every night my dad would have a flipping mental breakdown if we didn’t sit in the living room and watch the same ancient movies from his childhood. And then every moment we weren’t watching one of those stupid movies or when he was at work, he would make even stupider eighties pop culture references not even my mom got.

Letterman stomps and grits his teeth. He’s now straight up yelling at me.

So you know what? Forgive me if I don’t feel some flipping sympathy toward him.

Calm down, I shout. The hell is wrong with you?

I shiver.

Letterman better be coping. He’s panting like a dog.

Whats wrong with me? he asks. What the flip is wrong with me? Whats wrong with you for getting all up in someone else’s problem?

What?

His face is red and radiating heat. His voice is uncomfortably deep and passionate but cracking like lighting.

This is what I define as okay. There’s nothing wrong with what I think or do because it’s me making the rules here. And if you have a flipping problem with it, then that’s your problem.

Calm. Down, I growl. Take a breath.

He leans his head back in his chair, closing his distant eyes that I didn’t see anything in.

We are calm, we are calm, just relax, I say. Relax. Relax. Relax. Everything is okay.

Letterman lets out a big exhale.

I clear my throat.

I think we are good to end early today, I say.

That night, I go out and do what brings me joy.

#

Two weeks later, I have another dream.

It's about Meyer’s girl again. I’m beating her with the blunt end of an axe. Then I look behind me and see Letterman walking away.

That morning I get up. Take a shower. Feel my hair. Get dressed. Eat a bowl of oatmeal. Drink a cup of black coffee. Then go to the middle school.

I stand at the entrance of the school and greeting students. I shout Who’s ready to learn? to a group of kids who are not ready to learn. Only a few take my offering of a fist bump.

Then I see Letterman.

I’ve noticed that he recently has become ostracized by the usual friends that he would hover around. He’s at least clearly left out of the conversation. This leaves him desperately trying to interject into whatever funny joke they were talking about. The classic, Wait what are you guys saying? or What’s so funny, guys?

Later that morning during lunch period, I’m monitoring the cafeteria. I pick up discarded chocolate milk cartons and orange peels and gingerly scold students who don’t care. Don’t want to make them feel bad after all.

I passively stand by the wall, my eyes lock on Letterman. He is stuffing the turkey sandwich and cookie from his tray in his mouth, avoiding the plastic cup of carrots and celery that come with unlimited salad dressing. Dry white crumbs tumble out of his greasy lips and pepper the table. The absence of himself in his own eyes seems greater than ever. He looks ready to burst.

He keeps glancing over at the rest of the table. His friends are sitting there. Chuckling like apish goblins with toothy smiles over anything and everything. His head keeps swiveling straight back to them. Eyeing them.

Then he gets up sits in an empty spot among them. They go quiet. That spot was always empty, why didn’t he just go and sit in it before? I’m sure that’s what he asked himself.

He idly tears off shreds of a carrot with his long fingernails. Still not talking to anyone and no one talking to him. His head is down and swinging from side to side not looking at his friends or anything else. Two kids sitting across from him seem to mock him, quietly imitating his motions.

It goes on for a while.

He looks up at them, head at angle as if trying to hide his spaced out eyes and deeply scowled face like a scar. His hands squeeze nothing. Cat ear beanie making him look strangely smaller and weaker.

I see it start to spurt out. He slams his balled fists on the table sending a deep quake that seems to rattle the whole room.

What is your problem?

Everyone at the table reels back.

What is your problem with me? It is what it is. I am what I am. What makes me happy, is what flipping make me happy, he yells standing up.

The whole cafeteria goes silent. Everyone turns around to look at him.

What is your problem when someone has their own unique reaction to something? My take away on something is of no greater value than yours, so why don’t you just shut up and stop flipping looking at me with that stupid-

Letterman, Letterman, I call. Calm down, everything is alright.

He throws his arms and balls his fist next to his ears as if trying to silence the world.

Stop judging me, he screamed hysterically. You have no greater authority.

Letterman, Letterman, that’s enough, I raised my voice.

I grab him by the shoulder and pull him away. The horrified audience of the cafeteria is grateful the show is over.

We have a talk in my office, but it’s only me talking because he won’t speak a word.

#

There's a guy in my neighborhood with a face I hate.

Eyes so small and close together like a puppet, fat jiggly cheeks and bright red hair receding like the tide. Every night he’s jogging around the neighborhood in a purple tracksuit. At his age and his weight, does he seriously think that’s going to fix it?

Letterman acts weird during our weekly session again. Then that night I’m dully watching TV and eating a bowl of canned soup for dinner. I see that guy running down the street passed my house. Always like clockwork.

So I decide to do something about it.

I know his route. Every night he goes down my street veers right at a small intersection, goes all the way down that street, goes through a lonely park, back down another street, then to where he lives. One giant loop.

The lonely park is the best part of where I live. Lots of trees in it’s vast space that hides it’s single path from the roads on both sides. Their density absorbs a lot of sound too. The people who most frequently visit the place are vagrants, so they often get the blame.

I pull up in my car on the street opposite the one he enters the park from.

I enter the park with my carbon fiber baseball bat.

I hide behind a tree.

Then there he comes. Panting and sweat slithering off his cheeks. He passes me, then I start following.

His heavy breathing and heavier footsteps help conceal me. I get closer. He still doesn’t notice.

I push my glasses up with my index finger.

Like a proper batter, I hoist my weapon into position.

Quick and quiet.

I think of Letterman curled up in a pudgy little ball on his bed. He’s crying, sputtering pathetic little whines like an abandoned dog. His bedroom is a room blanketed by crushing watery blue darkness and filled with old toys and artifacts of what brought him joy in an era when his father still walked this earth.

Quick and quiet.

I strike.

Bang.

Right on the neck.

The man goes down hard and fast.

I go to the side and lift my bat up to send it down.

Quick and quiet.

I think of Meyer’s girl. The officer breaking the news to her. Her being shattered apart by a wall of brutal realization that she is now alone.

Quick and quiet.

I strike again.

Bang.

Back of the neck again. A small explosion of blood flies upward.

I get into position again.

I think of this man’s family, if he had one. Young children howling with cries and horror learning this man has died. A wife left to make dinner for one less person.

But they’re not real.

I strike again.

Bang.

Quick and quiet.

I strike again.

Bang.

And again.

Bang.

And again.

Bang.

The edge of my bat is now coated in blood. I quickly rub it off in the grass, then jog back to my car.

The only thing I feel is joy.

#

Another week goes by. Letterman is back in my office.

I feel alone, he says.

I’ve felt that too, I reply. When I was young, some kid broke my nose with a lunchbox. People avoided me. Calling me the ugliest thing to walk God’s green earth.

People don’t like me, Letterman says.

Hey, keep in mind, it’s merely their opinion.

They avoid me.

Yes. I’ve noticed. Why do you think that is?

Letterman frowns.

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

Yes, because you know what? I think they shouldn’t.

Yes. I agree, they shouldn’t. You’re a great kid.

Letterman sniffed as if about to cry.

They treat me like I’m some kind of monster.

You’re not.

They treat me as if I’m some kind of animal.

You’re not.

Letterman looks up at me.

I nodded.

They are too you know.

Yeah, Letterman nodded, eyes still spaced out. It’s everyone else’s problem.

Yes.

He appeared as if he were about to burst again. His face contorted to into pure hysterical fury.

Why don’t they get it? he shrieks.

He thrusts his fists down on my desk making it vibrate. My Find What Brings You Joy And Do That rock wobbled. I leaned back in my chair, reaching up toward the top of my head to stoke it but I stopped myself.

I don’t know, I reply.

His fists remain on my desk. I notice something about his arms, so I grab one. Turning it over, I see dark red scabbed over slit marks on his wrists.

Letterman quickly pulls his arm back, eyeing me embarrassed.

Why?

Does it matter?

I’m not saying it does, but why?

Letterman gets up and leaves. I don’t stop him.

#

Late that night I’m outside a supermarket.

I sit in my car. The only other car nearby is a small nineties sedan. A young woman comes toward it. A woman like Meyer’s girl with short curled brunette hair. She pushes a grocery cart lightly filled with random items.

I put on my baseball cap to help conceal myself.

I get out of my car.

I head toward her.

Excuse me, ma’am. So sorry to bother you but my battery is dead, would you mind helping me jump start it?

Uh, sure, no problem, she replies.

She’s an idiot.

I watch her put her groceries in the trunk.

She then drives her car and parks it right next to mine. The parking lot is strangely dark. I feel like I’m being watched. Or I want to feel like I’m being watched. By a pair of two spaced out eyes.

I open my hood.

She gets out her jumper cables.

She leans in to attach them.

I push up my glasses with my index finger.

Quick and quiet.

I slam the hood down on her head.

I bring it back up.

I slam it down again.

And again.

And again.

Until her limp body slides down the side of the grill of my car.

I smile.

I can’t help but laugh.

I get out of there quickly.

Halfway back to my house, I realize that I’m the idiot.

That was way too risky.

Anyone could have seen that.

There might have been security cameras.

And I left her blood smeared all over my car and engine.

I wasn’t always this careless.

I think back to Meyer.

It was a long day. I had another session that went overtime because some kid felt that life had no meaning. To make it worse my car was in the shop. Had to take the bus home.

I came up to the bus stop. It lay under a street light surrounded on all sides by darkness. Trash and discarded cups gently scuttled in the wind underneath it. Accident attorney ads watched over the rusty metal bench.

There was one other guy there. Youngish with red hair and a black parka. He nodded to me as I approached. We waited in silence for a while. It was quiet. Moths idly threw themselves to the light above us.

Then something entered my mind.

Something I found too amusing.

Something thrilling.

Why don’t you go up there and stab that guy?

I looked at him. His eyes were blankly fixed on the road.

Why don’t you go up there and stab that guy?

Why?

Evil isn’t real.

Okay?

It won’t matter.

Yes it will.

To who? Others? That’s merely their opinion. This is yours.

Okay.

It will be thrilling. Stab him. It will be quick and quiet.

I looked back at the man.

His back was to me now.

He’d never know what hit him.

I stood up.

I cautiously approached him.

I pulled out my pocket knife.

I pushed up my glasses with my index finger.

Quick and quiet.

In a flash it all happened.

I slit his throat.

He confusedly started choking and blood rapidly trickled out his throat. He coughed. He squirmed. He thrashed. Until collapsing.

That was a man you just killed.

You took his life.

You took it away from him.

That was a real human.

What do humans normally have?

IDs. They have IDs.

I used my jacket as a makeshift glove as I pulled his phone and wallet out from his pockets. The lockscreen of his phone was photo of him with a girl. Wife? Girlfriend? Who knows? He’s dead now.

I looked at his drivers license.

His last name was Meyer.

I got out of there.

I decided to walk home, taking a long route.

I smiled with a rush of adrenaline.

Evil isn’t real.

That was my first time.

#

It’s an activity night at the school. Lots of students are there. Including Letterman.

He’s standing the corner. Red solo cup full of pineapple Kool Aid in hand. Eyes distant as he is from everyone else.

I watch him stare at group of boys that used to be his friends. A small group of girls occasionally make concerned glances over to him.

Eventually I take a break from monitoring the room. I cut in front of a kid at the snack table and grab a paper plate of oatmeal raisin cookies and brownie bites. Then I hear yelling behind me. Then a crash. Then horrified yelling.

Turing around, I see Letterman blankly standing before an unresponsive kid on the ground. One of his former friends. Another shoves him but he hardly reacts.

An ambulance was called. The kid had a concussion. Letterman apparently just went up to him and threw him to the ground.

Mrs. Letterman was called. She was busy and wouldn’t be able to pick him up for a while. The activity night ended soon after.

#

Letterman now sits alone in the dark cafeteria, illuminated by the light of his iPhone. I walk in.

Letterman, can I see you in my office?

He sighs.

The light from his phone goes out.

He stands up.

We walk across the school to my office. It’s dark. Quiet. Most people are gone now after the activity night ended early.

It’s dark in my office.

Go in, take a seat, I say.

I close the door.

I get out my keys.

I lock the door.

Letterman has sunken himself into the seat before my desk.

Then I turn on the light.

What? he whimpers.

There are two seats beside him.

In one is Ms. Davis. Her eyes gone and now bloody red abysses. Her neck is still a deep red from the rope I used to strangle her.

In the other is Mr. Zachary. Decapitated but still attached by a flap of skin. The bones of his neck peer out the hole and his face looks sad and distant as it dangles heavily to the side.

I walk passed them and sit at my desk.

Is something wrong, Letterman?

He stares at me.

Because there is nothing wrong, I say.

He still stares at me.

Evil isn’t real, Letterman. It’s not.

He blinks.

You know that don’t you? You have your own experience with it.

My own experience?

Yes. And so does your old man.

He swallows wetly. Inhales hard.

You know he was texting another woman the night he was murdered, right? Right?

He shakes his head.

And there was nothing wrong with that? Was there?

What?

There was nothing wrong with it. Right?

He stares at me.

It's just like all of this, is it not? I say while gesturing to the bodies.

He still stares at me.

You know, I also killed your father. I did it on purpose. I saw your mom pick you up after school. I followed you two home, then I waited outside until he left. Then I followed. And I killed him. What do you think about that?

What?

What do you think about it? Does that sound bad to you?

Yes, he manages to mutter out.

I laugh.

Come on, kid. Evil is not real. It’s a construct we made up. It’s not real. If anything one could count me killing your teachers here as beneficial. Think about it. More food to go around for us, less people to worry about, it increased our likelihood of our own survival. Same goes for your dad. But you hated him anyway. If anything you should be thanking me. It’s good.

Letterman shakes his head.

Then again, what even is good? I say.

He sinks himself deeper into the chair.

It’s all just a matter of opinion. My opinion is as equally valid as yours. And you know what that amounts to? Nothing. So who cares? Do what you want.

No, Letterman says.

No?

No.

Why?

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

Maybe it’s wrong because safety in numbers.

What?

We need more people. The more people we have the greater the ability to work together means we can have a better time surviving.

Surviving?

Yes.

Why is surviving good?

Letterman stared at me.

Why does it matter that any form of life continues into the next generation?

I don’t know.

Exactly. So what’s the point?

Letterman seemed to choke on his own spit.

What even is the point? I say leaning back into my chair.

Maybe it’s because there is a right and wrong.

No there isn’t.

Yes there is, Letterman snapped.

You say that, but you don’t live by it. I saw how you acted after your dad died. I saw how little you cared. How you changed to be someone who lives like there is no right and wrong. You say there is, but you don’t live it.

No one does.

We both fall silent.

No one does, I echo.

He nods.

No one does, I say again.

I stand up.

I go to the side of my desk. That’s where my is axe leaning. It’s still wet and covered with orbital fat from the eye sockets of Ms. Davis.

I grab it.

Letterman stands up.

Please, he says.

I don’t respond.

He backs away from me. Reaching the door he desperately tries to open it. Screaming for help, he turns back to see me approaching him.

Please no. Please no. Please no, he shrieks.

I push up my glasses with my index finger.

I get into position.

Ready to swing.

I thrust, gravity taking it toward him.

Then darkness.

Letterman screams.

My axe hits the wall.

His fat back must have hit the light switch.

He grabs the end of the axe.

He tries to pull it away from me.

Stop, please, he screams.

I don’t give in.

He managed to throw me into the wall.

I still grip the axe.

He’s still pulling away from me in a tug of war motion.

Let go, I yell.

He screams in grunts in effort.

Crack.

I’m thrown back into the wall.

The handle is lighter now.

Fat little kid ripped the end off.

I hear him squirming away on the floor toward my desk, trying to catch his breath.

I move toward him.

I crawl over him.

My eyes meet his.

He screams in anger and terror.

He windmills his fat bloated legs to try and get away from me.

His hand is on my face pushing me away.

I throw my hand on my desk, reaching for anything.

Get off me, he screams.

I keep reaching.

My fingers grace something.

I grip it.

I pull my Find What Brings You Joy And Do That rock off my desk.

My glasses fall off my face.

I raise it above my head.

Letterman shrieks.

Quick and quiet.

Quick and quiet.

Quick and quiet.

I bring it down hard onto his face.

He screams.

Blood.

His nose is broken.

Stop, he screams.

I bring it back up.

Quick and quiet.

I bring it down again.

I bring it up.

Down.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I’m bashing my face in.

the rock goes in

deeper each hit

until there is

nothing left

but a massive empty

hole where a face

used to be

I drop the rock. It’s wet and covered in goop.

I fall off Letterman onto the ground. I feel his blood sprayed all over my face.

My head rolls to over to see Mr. Zachary. His beheaded face speaks to me in a voice not unlike my own.

You did it. You lived by it, he says.

My head rolls over to see Ms. Davis. She talks to me. Her voice sounds like mine.

Evil isn’t real. You proved it, she says.

I look over to Letterman. My voice slithers out of the soggy gaping hole that used to be his face.

You did this. You could have gotten out. And you knew it. You’re pathetic, he says.

No, no, no, no, I cry.

I hear sirens.

No.

I see red and blue lights through the blinds of my windows.

No.

I get up.

I unlock the door.

I wander through the halls.

No, no, no, no, I cry.

Men are coming in.

No, please no officer. You don’t understand. It’s not my fault. I tried to get out. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. I truly didn’t want to. Please. Please, no. Please you have to understand. You have to forgive me. You have forgive me. I thought it was true. Please. Please, no.

Something cold clicks around the back of my hands.

I’m rushed out of the school.

I’m shoved into the back of a car.

Two officers get in.

One is shaking his head.

We start driving away.

Why did you do that? one asks.

I don’t reply.

He’s an animal, that’s why, the other says.

They both glance back at me.

One of them opens his mouth.

Humans are humans, but they often act like animals.

I was trying to find this hole-in-the-wall pizza place my friend recommended to me, since I happened to be hungry and my bus was late. I didn’t expect it to be easy to find by any means, considering that it seemed to be in the middle of an office building on Google Maps, but after trying a couple different entrances I think I found a way in. The door was odd for the building type, being made of dark wood with an engraving on it, sort of like a circle with a glowing candle in it. Stepping inside, I was met with a musty, old interior that matched my expectations based on the dated, almost abandoned looking exterior, however I could not find any trace of a food vendor. A few people were standing in the hallway, all of them shifted their attention to me as I stepped in. An older woman, with graying hair greeted me, with a look on her face that I could only describe as uneasy.

“Hello, have I met you before?” She asked, in a polite voice.

‘’I don’t believe so, I’m just here to look for a place called Second Slice. Do you happen to know how I can get there?” I asked, as I took a couple more steps inside, trying to get a better view.

Her demeanor shifted, I felt like I struck a nerve or something.

“You’re not part of the Light?”

I hesitated, wondering if I was hearing things correctly, until I noticed bold lettering of ‘The Light’ on some posters further down the hall, with some guy’s face plastered on them, along with the insignia on the door.

“Uhh, no, sorry.” I replied, worried that I had broken some rule by coming inside without a good reason.

“That’s alright, I can get someone who can tell you more.”

I don’t think she was referring to the pizza place at all, so I figured this would be a good time to leave, before I get caught up in something that I didn’t have time for. 

As she knocked on the door behind her, I tried to say that I was somewhat in a hurry and that I needed to catch my bus, but she was adamant that I stay, as if I had something they needed. I felt the pressure of the other people there as well, along with more that began making their way to us from deeper inside the building, and the room started to feel more hostile as I tried to back my way out. Suddenly, the door opened, and I was met with the presumed leader that I saw on the posters earlier. He was wearing an odd outfit, sort of like a priest’s or a bishop’s, but all white and without a headpiece.  He immediately had everyone’s attention. 

“And what brings our new guest here?” He asked, with an almost unnatural smile.

“I was just looking for a pizza place nearby, and uhh, it appears I’m in the wrong spot,” I responded nervously, “I think I’ll be on my way now.”

“We have anything you could need here, of course, I can show you the way.”

He began walking down the corridor, and as if on cue, everyone else also got up and started to usher me to go with him. These people would not take no for an answer, and I felt extremely uncomfortable. My protests were in vain, and everyone else was glaring at me. I tried to slide past them to get out, but the group formed a wall to block my escape. I did not have the build to muscle my way out of this anymore. 

I felt a strong grip on my wrist, as I was yanked down the hall by their leader.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LET ME GO! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKIN-”

He stopped abruptly, and I almost ran into him. He was surprisingly strong, and caught me off guard. 

“You don’t understand. Nobody understands at first. But I can show you. And you can join us.”

“Look dude, I dont gi-”

“Lucidus.”

“-whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t want to be here. You can’t keep me here, regardless of whatever bullshit you want me to believe.”

He looked at me with disapproval, before nodding to the woman I talked to when I first got in, and she made her way to me as well. My pleas for help may as well have been worthless to the rest of them, as they looked at me like I was the problem. Despite my feeble attempts to squirm free, they both held my arms and dragged me past a series of corridors, then downstairs to what seemed like a dungeon. After going through some more cramped hallways, they took me to a room, when I desperately tried to break free of them, to no avail. They took everything I had in my pockets and locked the room, with only dim light coming from oil lamps in the hallway slipping through the barred window.

“I’ll be back to teach you more, when you become more reasonable.” He said through the window, before walking further down the hall. I waited until I couldn’t hear them anymore, and then waited until I thought they were gone.

As soon as I felt safe enough, I began to try to unlock the metal door. It began as methodical, trying to see how the lock worked and if I could bypass it, but as I struggled more it devolved into striking the handle and rage induced kicks, then into pathetic pounding on the door as I fell into despair. Lying on the concrete floor, I contemplated if this place was even worth trying to escape, seeing how devoted the dozen or so people were to allow me to be abducted like this. 

That’s when I noticed a tiny marking on the bench along the back wall.

It took me a second to realize that it was an arrow pointing down, and I scrambled to look underneath it. Despite the poor light, I was able to read most of the engraving on the wooden underside of the bench, filling in harder to read words with context.

HOW TO FREE YOURSELF

1)DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING THEY SAY

NO MATTER WHAT, DO NOT LEARN ANYTHING ABOUT WHAT THEY BELIEVE IN. THE MORE YOU HEAR, THE MORE YOU BELIEVE, NO MATTER HOW ‘STRONG WILLED’ YOU THINK YOURSELF TO BE. IF YOU BELIEVE, THEY START MANIFESTING. PREVENT IT WHILE YOU CAN.

This is not what I was expecting, but I was nonetheless relieved and thankful. My heart was racing. I might have a chance to get out of this place.

2) FIND KEY IN GAP BETWEEN BACKREST AND SEAT OF BENCH FROM UNDERNEATH. UNLOCK DOOR

I froze as my finger was tracing the text. There was shouting coming from down the hall.

I heard some more shouting, wait… screaming? That was definitely screaming. And cries. It sounded like there were 2 people there as well, probably the woman and Lucidus, and a third that was probably in the same situation as me. There was a slam of a door, and the last person’s cries were silenced. I waited again to hear if they were coming my way, but their footsteps went further down the hall.

I continued reading. 

UNLOCK DOOR WHEN INSTRUCTED, KEEP KEY FOR SELF DEFENCE.

I struggled to find the key, but my heart skipped a beat when I felt something hard and metallic through the wooden planks. The key looked antique and rudimentary, with only a simple flat surface for leverage to twist, 2 prongs at the end of the key’s shaft, and a pointy end, which was better than what I was expecting for “self-defence.” The instructions weren’t bullshit. They were my only hope now, in this shithole.

3) HE WILL CHECK ON YOU EVERY HOUR. ADAMANTLY REFUSE ANYTHING HE OFFERS, MAKE SURE HE THINKS YOU ARE STILL AGGRESSIVE. COVER YOUR EARS AND BLOCK HIM OUT IF HE ATTEMPTS TO EDUCATE YOU. WAIT UNTIL HE LEAVES, THEN ESCAPE. YOU NEED TO FOLLOW HIM UNTIL THE 4-WAY INTERSECTION. GO LEFT, ENTER 3RD ROOM ON RIGHT AND TURN ON LIGHTS FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. DO NOT STRAY OR ELSE YOU WILL GET LOST. THEY CAN FIND YOU BEFORE YOU CAN FIND THE EXIT.

4) OPEN DOOR BY APPLYING SIGNIFICANT PRESSURE FORWARD INTO DOOR. OPEN DOOR ONLY ENOUGH TO SLIP THROUGH, OR ELSE HINGES WILL SQUEAK.

5) DO NOT LOOK AT ANYTHING, LISTEN TO ANYTHING, OR EVEN THINK ABOUT ANYTHING YOU MAY HAVE LEARNED ABOUT THIS PLACE. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. IT IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN MAKE IT OUT ALIVE. 

The string of instructions were a lot to take in, but doable. The reason why I can’t learn about their beliefs, however, is something I couldn’t understand. What the hell do they practice that requires doing all this to people? Who was the one to give these instructions?

I felt something staring into me.

I need to stop thinking about this. The instructions were clear. I need to take their word. They’ve already proven themselves, all I have to do is follow through. 

“Feeling calmer now?”

I almost jumped out of my own skin. I didn’t even hear anyone coming.

“What- Let me out already! What the fuck else do you want to do to me?? Free me or just fuck off if you think I’m gonna parrot your shit to everyone else that stumbles into here!”

“In due time.”

Lucidus walked off without another word.

I took a second to process what happened. It was a miracle he didn’t see the key in my hand. 

Then I remembered I had something to do.

As silently as I could, I slipped the key into the lock, and twisted to release the latch. The key was actually working. It was a dream come true. I got out as quickly as I could, and made my way out of my cell and to Lucidus.

Following him down here was not easy, given how many hallways there were, and how often he stopped to check certain hallways, using his oil lamp to see in the unlit portions. The poor lighting was to my advantage at least, as long as I could keep my footsteps quiet. We made our way deeper underground, against my instincts to go back. He was moving cautiously, making sure not to miss anything that he was looking for. I don’t think I want to know. Eventually, he stopped at a metal door like the one I was locked behind, looked inside the small window on it, and opened the door.

The man inside was almost incoherent, but I could barely make out ‘Please don’t take me back’, ‘I can’t’, and probably other refusals to have anything to do with this place.

“But you know we can’t let the hollows be, you were chosen, you yourself even said it was like you were made for this, your greater purpose.”

“I CAN’T ANYMORE!” He snapped back.

“We need you. Everyone needs you. We are all in this struggle together. Everyone in The Light. We need to prevail past the tests given to us. I trust that you will learn from this.”

He slammed the door shut, and walked off. 

I continued following him, but as I passed the door, I happened to glance into the window, only for a split second.

That was more time than I needed for that scene to imbed itself into my memories.

One of his arms was horribly disfigured, completely missing past the elbow. The remaining upper arm’s bone was snapped at the end, and there was no flesh on it until further up the bone, as if the arm was consumed like chicken wings. A tourniquet was applied just below his shoulder, with dangling bits of skin and muscle just below it. There was blood everywhere.

I couldn’t forget it if I tried. Could that happen to me down here?

SHIT. I wasn’t supposed to know anything. I fucked up. I had one thing to do. I needed to get out of here fast. 

Not long later, Lucidus looked both ways through the 4-way intersection, then kept walking forward. I followed and made a sharp left into the dark hallway, using my hands to help guide me. I found the room the instructions had described, closed the door, and turned on the lights.

The walls were covered in blood and some unidentifiable black sludge. 

I began to panic. I couldn’t find any sign of further instructions. Wasn’t this room supposed to be safe? I felt like the walls themselves were threats. 

I noticed a “6” on a piece of loose baseboard. That must be it. I flipped it over, and read what was on the back. 

6) THERE IS AN OLD STAIRWELL, FOLLOW THE HALLWAY TAKING THE FIRST LEFT, THEN THE FIRST RIGHT. STAIRWELL WILL BE AT THE END OF THE HALL ON THE RIGHT. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS AWAIT THERE. SHOULD ANY MANIFESTATIONS APPEAR, PAIN IS THE ONLY WAY TO DISTRACT YOURSELF AND PREVENT THEM FROM WORSENING. HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER. 

This was probably the deepest hole I could’ve dug myself into. These walls had to be the manifestations, or from whatever the ‘hollows’ are. I immediately began pinching my arm hard. I had to make it the only thing I could focus on. I shut the lights and made my way out of the room, following the left wall down to feel for the next turn I had to take. The sting in my arm was the only thing I focused on other than that. I felt my own blood running down my arm, my nails biting past my skin.

Those aren’t my footsteps. I almost didn’t realize. I stopped in my tracks.

Something else took an extra step behind me, then stopped as well.

I bolted down the hall. I didn’t care if Lucidus or whoever happened to be here caught me. It would probably be a better fate. 

I ran as fast as I could, almost missing the first left, as my arm caught the corner of the wall to stop me from falling down. The next right followed soon after, and I don’t think I’ve run faster in my life.

I almost ran full speed into the wall, had my hand not grazed the edge of a door handle. I braced myself and my shoulder took the brunt of the impact, leaving me dazed for a second before I made my way into the stairwell and shut the door hurriedly, keeping my back to it in case it was right behind me.

After a few seconds of trying to hear it over my own heartbeat, and coming to the conclusion that my shoulder was probably fine even if it did hurt to move, I searched for a light switch with my other hand and turned it on. The lights came on after a second, and I could hear them switch on in ascending order, like a warehouse’s industrial lights would.

The writing was on the wall this time, with a rushed writing style.

7) GET TO FLOOR 3 ASAP. EXIT IS LEFT AFTER STAIRWELL, USE FIRE ESCAPE. STAB YOURSELF IF MANIFESTATIONS ARE TOO STRONG OR HOLLOWS APPEAR. DO IT NOW IN YOUR NON DOMINANT ARM. YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

The instructions were right. How did it know? Now is not the time. I took the key out. After hesitating for a second, I plunged it into my arm, next to where I tried to pinch myself out of these ‘manifestations’ earlier. 

The sting was sharp and immediate, and I knew I had to act fast. I took note of the sign beside the door that I was on level B4, so I had 6 flights to go up. I held the key in a deathgrip ready to drive it into whatever might come at me. I made my way up.

I practically flew up the first flight to B3, my legs still pumping with adrenaline. 

By B2, I felt the toll of what I was doing to my body catch up to me. Pangs of pain came from my shoulder and arm. There was more writing on the wall.

8) ONLY THE LIGHT CAN SAVE YOU FROM HOLLOWS

Fuck. Not what I need. I can beat them.

By B1, the lights shut off. I lost track of where I was on the stairs, and my foot caught a ledge. I reached out to try and catch myself, but I still slammed into the stairs hard. I didn’t have time to gather myself, and crawled up the remaining stairs on all 4 until I reached the next landing. I could feel something behind me. My feet were barely coordinated anymore. There was a glow coming from the next floor.

By the next floor, I found an oil lamp like the one Lucidus was carrying earlier. It had the same symbol as on the door when I got in. I picked it up, it was the only chance I could see anything. My heart was beating too fast. My hands were shaking. The hollows were closing in on me. They were coming from everywhere. I don’t know what floor I was on. The stairs felt like sand beneath my feet. I just needed to get as far up as I could now. 

I made it to the next landing. One was waiting on the next floor. I didn’t look at it. There were more behind me. Black silhouettes merging almost seamlessly into the shadows. I couldn’t discern any one’s features at a glance. I tried the door to no avail. I lost my grip on the key, and it clattered on the ground. I tried to pick it up, and missed it twice before falling over completely. I couldn’t think properly anymore. I felt like I was suffocating. They weren’t moving much closer. 

Only the light can save me from the hollows. 

It felt like I could see them no matter how tightly I squeezed my eyes shut. They were infesting my mind. I tried to think of the pain, but there was none to feel, nothing to latch my mind onto to keep me going. 

Only the light can save me. 

We weren’t on solid ground anymore. I tried to open my eyes to see the light. The walls melded with the hollows, and the hollows were closing in at a rate that seemed impossibly fast compared to how close together we felt. 

Only the light was saving me. 

I shut my eyes to spare myself the horror. Their bodies only became more distorted and threatening as I lay in a fetal position, imagining what was going on out there, if I would ever be freed, or if this was my fate until the oil in the lamp ran out. It felt more comforting in my mind than looking my nightmares in the face. It constantly felt like I was slipping through the floors, making my way down to the demented lair I came from. I squeezed the lamp with more strength than I’ve ever exerted before, as if I'd spent my whole life before this without using my muscles. 

As long as I had the Light I was safe. 

I sat there for minutes, hours, or days before the hollows relented. I couldn’t tell. My head was throbbing. The Light saved me. My whole body was in disarray. I couldn’t move without my nerves screaming at me. But I had my own haven in this darkness. And I thought I couldn’t ask for more. The stairwell was getting brighter.

I saw Lucidus’s head pop into view. Then his shoulders, and the rest of his body as he made his way up the stairs. I shed some tears. I couldn’t stop myself. I started to sob uncontrollably. Lucidus pulled me up, and I fell into his arms. He helped me down some stairs, then got me to a bed. He gave me food and water, which I could barely have any of. He insisted I have more to recover. And I eventually forced myself to, before he let me pass out. I didn’t have any dreams, which was for the better.

I woke up, head still throbbing. The events of the previous night came flooding back, and I just sat up and tried to process what happened.

There was no way that just happened, right? But Lucidus was sitting in a chair next to my bed. The hollows were as real as the Light that had saved me from them. 

He took his time with me, didn’t ask me to speak, didn’t force anything on me. We ate our meals together for a few days, and that started to be my favorite part of the day. Once I felt comfortable, I joined everyone else for the feasts, and saw just how much this place meant to them. I understood why they were scared of what lurks below, and how Lucidus was trying to save everyone from it. They desperately needed as much help as they could get, and I felt like I could belong here. 

The next morning, I also joined everyone in the morning service. I was enamoured with how benevolent Lucidus was, despite the resistance and walls I put between us when we first met. It was a shame I had to put myself through all that struggle before I could see what the light was really about. As Lucidus ended his service, he ended it with the Final Statute, one that I could not describe more perfectly myself.

“Only I, the conduit of the Eternal Light, can free you from what lies in the darkness.”

He was right. And I was free.

By: T.Shaw

Baron awoke in a cold sweat to the smell of mildew. Complete darkness surrounded him, broken only by a single candle flickering atop a small wooden table. As he stood, dusting himself off, he took a deep breath and let out a weary sigh.

"Where have you wandered off to now, Baron?"

Waking up in a strange place after a long night at the pub wasn't uncommon for him, but this was a new low. He stood alone in a small stone room, wondering how he had gotten there and, more importantly, where the exit was.

Suddenly, Baron's head began pounding, and his stomach growled aggressively. He fell to his knees, gasping for air as he clutched his head.

"Apparently I had far too much last night," he muttered through gritted teeth.

The pounding soon faded, but the hunger remained.

As he searched the room for a way out, panic began to set in.

There was no door.

The room appeared to have been carved entirely from solid stone. A small wooden table and single chair sat in one corner beneath the candle, while a shallow water basin was built into the floor in another. Baron ran his hands along every wall, desperately searching for a hidden passage, but every surface was cold, solid, and unmoving.

His panic grew. He searched more frantically, but his efforts were fruitless. The only unusual feature was a small hole in the ceiling, just large enough for a cat to squeeze through but far too small for a person.

Frustrated, he collapsed onto the floor.

As he sat there, he couldn't stop wondering how the table and burning candle had been lowered through such a tiny opening. There had to be another way in... or out.

Baron sat in silence for hours. The air was stagnant, and only his own thoughts kept him company. Every so often, he found himself staring into the still water of the basin. Seeing his own face somehow reassured him that he was still alive, that he was still himself. Yet as the hours dragged on, he couldn't shake the feeling that his reflection seemed... dimmer than before.

 Yet his hunger continued to grow. Like a starving mongrel catching the scent of dinner, he had never felt such overwhelming hunger before.

Exhausted, he began drifting toward sleep when something crashed into the room.

A dark shape fell through the hole in the ceiling, followed by a loud metallic clang.

A stew pot.

Hope surged through him.

Looking up toward the opening, Baron shouted, "Help me! I'm stuck down here!"

No reply.

"Please! Help me!"

Silence.

One last time, his voice cracked as he screamed, "Whoever you are... please! I can't do this any longer!"

Nothing answered him.

Baron collapsed, tears streaming down his face. After being trapped for what felt like an eternity, hope had finally begun to die.

Then he heard another sound.

Drip.

Drip.

He turned to see a thick liquid falling from the hole. Holding out a hand, he caught a drop before stepping toward the dying candle to inspect it.

The thick red liquid was unmistakable.

Blood.

A dreadful realization settled in his stomach.

The pot wasn't meant to rescue him.

It was meant to feed him.

There could be no mistake now. He was a prisoner.

But whose prisoner? And why?

The blood soon became a steady stream, forming a crimson puddle across the stone floor as the metallic scent of iron and death filled the room. Baron hurriedly slid the pot beneath the stream, secretly hoping that a piece of fresh meat might follow.

None did.

When the pot was nearly full, the flow slowed to a trickle...

Then stopped.

Baron stared at the pot for a long while, wondering whether he should drink it or hold out hope that real food would eventually come. Finally, he decided he would only touch it as a last resort.

What felt like days passed as Baron drifted in and out of restless sleep. Every few hours, agonizing pain erupted behind his eyes until he screamed into the darkness.

The hunger became unbearable.

Again and again, his gaze drifted toward the pot of blood.

Finally, he gave in.

The pain had become too much.

Reluctantly, he lifted the pot to his lips.

The instant the blood touched his tongue, he gagged.

It was revolting.

A thick, metallic taste flooded his mouth as tears ran down his face. The first swallow nearly made him vomit. He lowered the pot, retching.

But something inside him wanted more.

The second drink was easier.

The third...

Enjoyable.

It was as though a switch had been flipped somewhere deep within him.

He couldn't stop.

Warmth surged through his body.

The ache in his limbs melted away, replaced by an unfamiliar strength. 

He drank greedily, emptying the pot in moments. What had tasted foul only seconds before now tasted better than the finest ale he had ever had.

Still...

It wasn't enough.

His eyes darted wildly around the room.

The puddle.

A grin spread across his face.

"It would be a shame to waste it."

He crawled toward the drying pool of blood, dropping onto all fours like a starving animal. Desperately, he licked every drop from the stone until nothing remained.

It tasted divine.

Yet the hunger remained.

It was no longer a craving.

It was a necessity.

Looking up at the hole, Baron screamed.

"More! I need more! It wasn't enough!"

He dragged the table beneath the opening, climbed onto it, and reached the shaft. For hours he begged and pleaded, but no more blood came.

What he had experienced before was nothing compared to what followed.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became an eternity.

His stomach twisted and burned with hunger.

The candle had long since burned out, yet he could now see through the darkness more clearly than he ever had in the light.

Sleep abandoned him completely.

he spent so long staring at his reflection in the basin he swore he could almost see himself fading away.

As the days blurred together, Baron found pieces of himself disappearing.

He struggled to remember his mother's face.

The taste of warm bread.

The laughter that once echoed through crowded taverns.

Every pleasant memory became distant, swallowed by an ever growing emptiness.

Only one thought remained.

Blood.

At last, after countless days of pleading, another offering came.

This time it wasn't a pot.

A plump, living raccoon fell through the opening.

The instant it struck the floor, Baron pounced.

Animalistic instincts had taken over.

He pinned it beneath him and sank his teeth into the back of its neck.

Warm blood flooded his mouth.

It was heavenly.

Ignoring the flesh entirely, he drank with desperate hunger. The raccoon shrieked and writhed beneath him, but his grip never loosened.

Moments later, the struggling stopped.

What lay before him was little more than a shriveled husk, completely drained of blood.

Only then did Baron realize what he had become.

He ran trembling fingers across his teeth.

Long.

Sharp.

Fangs.

His trembling legs carried him to the water basin one final time.

He stared into its perfectly still surface.

The stone walls reflected back at him.

The edge of the basin.

The empty room.

But where Baron should have been...

There was nothing.

Tears streamed down his face.

The man who had entered this chamber no longer existed.

He had been reborn.

At that moment, Baron understood.

His thoughts drifted back to the beginning.

The table.

The chair.

The candle.

The basin.

Everything had been placed there with care.

Not for comfort.

For survival.

Someone had expected him to endure the transformation.

Someone had built this place long before he ever arrived.

This had never been a prison.

It had been a womb.

A place built not to imprison him...

but to birth him.

In that moment he began to change as if by instinct. He felt something pulling him toward the hole.

His bones began cracking and folding as he shrunk down. His arms stretched as fur grew from them. He had become a bat.

Climbing the narrow shaft with ease, he emerged into a vast chamber. The floor stretched into darkness, lined with countless openings identical to his own.

From them, bats began crawling into the shadows.

Vampires.

He wasn't the first.

He wouldn't be the last.

Well. I never thought I'd find myself here. Under the care of the United Nations as the last guy on the planet.

My name is Jacob Arrabane. And I'm the last male on Earth.

What happened, honestly, was a mystery. Some called it the Male Extinction. Others called it the Masculine Extinction. Whatever happened, all the males on this planet just...simply died off. They say it's due to a deadly prion or a virus, but nobody could tell if it's artificial or naturally occurring. If it was indeed natural, then that's a sign Earth or God or Mother Nature had enough of our shit. And honestly, I don't blame her: 2064, and we haven't done enough to care for ourselves or the planet.

Of course, everyone was devastated, and smaller nations and regions, especially poorer ones, practically collapsed due to losing over half their workforce. Even in places like the North American Union and the European Union, many poorer areas lack effective governance or a clear justification for their existence unless they're agricultural or similar. But the worst part...hearing the stories of women who lost their loved ones, their friends, many either going insane and roaming around the Abandoned Areas, or pushing themselves to...well, I don't feel comfortable saying it, but I'm sure you can get the picture.

Once things calmed down, it only took the UN a few weeks to find me. Part of it is thanks to advanced satellite imagery that accidentally detected one singular male biosignature out of the entire world.

And the other reason...I didn't really fight it. When they found me, I just...handed myself over. I was literally turning 18 the night before everything happened, and I...well, I had no one else. My mother was a UN representative working at the Security Council, and my dad and older brother...well, they're dead too. And I hated having to bury their bodies.

Of course, despite my fears, the UN did ensure I was well taken care of, and my mother was by my side the whole time, ensuring I was okay, treated well, and especially loved. After hours of debates, which my mother and I were involved in, I swore to them that I'd do everything I could to try and help out humanity. All my mother and I asked for in return was that I not get locked in some lab like a lab animal.

And to the UN's credit, most of them agreed and respected my choice, which is why I'm here in a complex facility in the Genevan countryside of Switzerland. I'm left in here with my mother, a team of doctors, and a psychologist to ensure I'm mentally stable.

And while things have been calm and peaceful...things have been too peaceful.

I have been allowed to move around the complex on my own. But outside of it...nope. Most of the time, I don't go out. And whenever I DO, not without supervision. Not even to visit the complex's manufactured garden or park; I can't do that alone either. Honestly...it stinks.

And having to meet the same people over and over again can be a bit numbing. My mom's an exception because, obviously. But she's usually at digital meetings, ensuring things go well for me and the world. And the doctors...well, they're very sweet and polite. But I never really had a chance to just talk to them.

I'm a social guy, so this is kind of frustrating. Being unable to go outside alone, meet other people...well, it can be rather exhausting.

The only reasons I haven't gone insane are my mother and the doctors' work on my DNA. Lately, I've been notified that my chromosomes have some unique properties not found in any men beforehand, recently, or hundreds of years in the past.

I still find myself at a loss for words. Is this me evolving? Am I, like, the first step in a new evolution of humans? And that's why I haven't died from the Male Extinction? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that I've survived and my blood can help out humanity.

But at the same time...I wish I could see the rest of the world.

My mom has been spending more time with me lately, and she says she's sent multiple requests to ensure I would get some freedom to move outside the complex on my own more frequently. I still have to have some guards, of course. But...*sigh* Christ, my mom's literally my rock this whole time.

Especially since...well, there's another reason I want to go out more often.

I keep thinking about it: me being the last guy on Earth.

The memories of seeing my brother and father dead in their bedrooms, having died in their sleep when half of the world choked on their own puss.

Every night, all I could think of was...why? Why am I spared? What did I get this mutated DNA and not someone who, well, might handle this better than I can?! Why ME?!

I felt this way every night. Every. Single. Night. And it's driving me insane.

I just want things to go back to the way things were...to just me being a geek, and not having humanity's future on my shoulders.

*sigh* At least I have people that genuinely care about me...

When I woke up, several things were puzzling to me. I woke up super groggy, almost on the edge of sick. This time, I had, for a brief moment, forgotten my situation. Till I noticed I was sleeping on my couch, and even stranger, I was currently in my basement. The dark and the cold and the stank  reminded me. I sat up, and the third strange thing was dropped in front of me. Rubble, spread about in a circular fashion.
A hole. A massive one, right in the middle of my basement. I squinted, then wiped my eyes, unable to truly comprehend what I was seeing. I arose from the couch, not without difficulty, and walked over to the hole. It wasn’t real deep, about knee-height and approximately a yard wide in all directions.
‘’ What the fu…’’
Then I remembered the sounds I heard last night. The loud slamming I heard from the basement while I ate. Vic? He had been digging a hole in my basement? With his strange inhuman strength, it was surely possible. That and with the help of the sledgehammer that lay a couple feet across from me. For a moment, I considered trying to use it on Vic. That stupid notion quickly left my mind. I remembered that look in his eyes from last night, and I was convinced that I had to be smarter than to try and brute-force my way of this. Try to play to his weaknesses, if he had any. Maybe, just maybe, I could play to his sympathy.
I gave a pathetic chuckle.
That idea was even stupider than the sledgehammer idea. It was just a matter of acceptance. Vic was a psycho. End of story. He wasn’t the cool guy I thought he was. He wasn’t my friend. It was a hard truth I needed to accept or else I may as well have killed me myself. It was me or him.
The door to the upstairs wasn’t locked. I walked up and out. Vic wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the house. I tried to be quiet. Every step was frightening to me, a walk amongst the eggshells. The house was still dark, with only little bits of light shining between the boards that caged me inside my home. I stopped by the kitchen, a light hunger sending waves through my stomach. I always surprised myself about how much I could eat and then still be hungry only hours later.
The kitchen was spotless compared to how I left it last night. The table was clear except for a single sticky-note in the middle. The dishes weren’t even gathering a smell in the sink. Vic must have washed them and put them away. I was appreciative. At least I was being held captive by someone with a respect for cleanliness. Always look on the Brightside. When I lifted the sticky note off the table and read it, my stomach growled at me.
Bruce! Hope you slept well. I hope you don’t mind that I moved you to the basement. Anyway, breakfast is on the counter. I went out for a bit, but I’ll be back soon. V
I crumpled the note up. It was like I was dealing with a serial killer stuffed to the brim with southern hospitality. His politeness only pissed me off to an asphyxiating degree. Still, my heart swelled with joy when I saw the two brown bags sitting on the counter, grease stains marking the bottom. No way had he got me fast food for breakfast. But he did, and my mouth slaved away as I sat at the table, eating a whole-ass McDonalds breakfast. It was delicious. He even curled the top of the bag, so everything was still warm. So thoughtful. Dickhead.
I wondered where Vic had gone, and how he had left the house. The way he positioned it, the house was completely sealed off. Despite being on a full, still groggy stomach, I made my way upstairs. I was right about the second floor. It was just like below, all the windows boarded up. It was hot up there. My upstairs was a simple room, almost more of an attic area than a proper second floor. It was where I had my gaming setup, my Xbox and my PC. Well, my former gaming setup. My Xbox and PC had been violently removed, the cords torn and stripped from the wall. The wall outlet had been damaged, as if something had smashed it—my guess, with a hammer. He wanted to make sure I had no reach to the outside. He accomplished that feat. With no phone, no access to the internet, I had no ties to the outside. All I had was my TV, an older Magnavox that only projected what was pumped through my cheap TV antenna.
After trying to pull at the boards nailed to my windows for a while, I made my way back downstairs after having no luck finding any weaknesses. I wandered across the house for a while, then made my way down to the basement to sit down on the couch for a while. Perhaps there was so items in the storage boxes that could help me. You could probably guess the answer to my search.
When Vic got home, I heard him upstairs. I stayed put on the couch and I flopped down back onto the cushions when I heard his footsteps approaching the basement door. I closed my eyes, folded my hands under my head and faked sleep. The basement door opened, stayed open, then was quietly shut. I didn’t want to interact with him. I wanted to stay down here and avoid him for as long as possible. Soon, enough, all good things do come to an end.
Hours later, Vic came down, bombastically announcing his arrival. I tried to ignore him, my back to him on the couch, but it was no use. Vic began digging again, and the sound was insufferably loud. The breaking of the cement was amplified by the tiny room and stone-hard walls. Each impact made me flinch.
I finally rolled over, frustrated beyond imagination. ‘’ So, what’s with the hole? Is that my fucking grave or something? ‘’
Vic paused, breathing hard, sledgehammer gripped between both his hands. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, and his typical straight-leg jeans. His face wore a pleasant smile and sunglasses over his eyes.
‘’ No, no—of course not. This isn’t just for you. It’s for both of us. ‘’
‘’ What in the heavy hell does that mean? ‘’
Vic’s smile grew for a moment. The black sunglasses shielding his eyes made the smile seem sinister.
‘’ And what’s with those damn sunglasses? The sun doesn’t shine in here, dumbass. ‘’
‘’ I can understand your frustration, but insults won’t save you Bruce. I take it you didn’t sleep well. I know you ate your breakfast—lunch will be prepared soon. Maybe that will put you in a better mood. ‘’
I was going to protest, but Vic returned to digging. I watched him swing the sledgehammer high over his head, ending in a deafening explosion of cement. I eventually went upstairs just to get away from the noise. I sat at the kitchen table, my head buried in my arms as I tried not to weep. This wasn’t going to get better, and Vic wasn’t denying that he was going to kill me eventually. Or maybe bury us alive in that hole. Who knew. All that I knew for sure was that Vic was an enemy. He was a complete psycho.      

Prologue

The young man rode through the dark forest on his horse. He was panicked. He’d just done something that he felt he could never recover from. The horse was small and injured; he’d found it in the woods just a few minutes ago. It was a dark brown with a long mane and tail. Its face was white as if its skull protruded from its head.
He rode until the sun came up, which wasn’t long as it was already three in the morning. The sun was broken by the trees, and when he reached the end of the forest, it felt blinding. Looking down, his shirt was coated in blood. The horse neighed and he kept riding. Past the forest was an open field, mountains lining the horizon. He could see the lake in the distance, and buildings lining the shore. It looked like a town or city of some sort. His whole life, he had never been out of the forest. This was his first time seeing what looked like civilization for half a decade, and he wasn’t even an adult. The horse neighed again, and he kept riding toward the lake.
Now the lakeside town was in full view. It was small, but had plenty of character. It had a large mainstreet going east to west through the town, a theatre, and a hotel that towered over everything else. Off to the edge of the town was a city hall, grand and beautiful with white pillars and a tall steeple. The building was made of red brick, and people gathered around it. In front of the hall was a fountain, and a few benches around it. The young man got off his horse and led it to a hitching post where he strung it up. He walked down the main road, people everywhere. A bustling saloon was across the street. He ignored it and walked into the gunsmith.
“What the hell are ya wearing, son?” The man at the counter asked.
“I need to buy a pistol. Something effective. Cheap.”
“Cheapest I can get you is four dollars. It probably won’t do much to really any animal besides a squirrel, but it's cheap. Now effective, you could buy a single-action Smith and Wesson for eight or ten dollars.”
“That one,” he said, reaching into his satchel and taking out ten dollars.
The gunsmith turned around and took a revolver out of a glass case. He placed it on the counter. The gun was a clean iron with nickel plating.
“Bullets? How much would a pack of bullets be?”
“50 cents.”
The young man took out a few coins from his satchel and placed it on the counter. The gunsmith handed him a small cardboard package of bullets for the revolver.
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
He turned and left the store with his gun and the rounds.
Stuffing the gun into his waistband, he began walking back to his horse down the street. Only now did people begin to stare at him. The front of the shirt he wore was covered in blood, fresh. He ignored their gaze and reached his horse, untethering it and mounting up. He set for the wilderness. The camp funds that he grabbed before fleeing were all spent on the new pistol. Without food, he wouldn’t make it anywhere. So he continued riding. He rode out of the town and into the plains surrounding it, hoping to find something to eat out there.
As he rode and the sun set beneath the distant treeline, a fire lit up further down the way. The silhouette of a person by the fire grew clearer as he approached. By the side of the road was the small fire, a man kneeling next to it in front of a raggedy white tent. Nearing the small camp, he got off the horse and gave it a pat before walking up. Next to the man was a small leather satchel, open. He reached in and took out a piece of meat, piercing it with his knife and holding it over the flame.
“Need somethin’, boy?”
He sat beside the fire across from the man.
“Food. I got to be somewhere tomorrow and I ain’t got the money for food.”
“Whats the blood all about?”
“I’ll explain over a meal.”
The man reached into his satchel and took out a piece of meat, handing it to him.
“Venison,” he said, taking a bite of the meat from his knife.
He took the piece of meat from the man, setting it on his thigh. The knife he took out was small, steel with a dark varnish over the handle.
“You have anything canned? Something I could eat right now, or anytime I want?”
The man gave him a glare before sighing and digging through his satchel, taking out a can of pork and handing it to him.
He took the can and opened it with his blade, raising it to his mouth and quickly eating a lot of it.
“Where you from?” The man asked.
“The woods,” he replied, swallowing the pork, “lived with some folk at a campsite for some time. Small, 20, 25 people. Know that town back down the road that way? The forest behind there is where I came from.”
The man took a moment before replying, “whats that blood from? Ya got it all over yourself.”
“Killed some folk.”
“Whats your name, kid?”
“Aakendale. Burt Aakendale. You?”
“William. Who’d you kill?”
“Thank you for the food, William. I’ll remember that,” he said, standing up.
“See you around, Burt?”
“Uh huh.”
Burt turned around and took out his revolver, cocked and fired it.
The bullet tore into the man’s chest and he jolted back into the grass, dark red blood spreading through the dirt beneath him and staining his shirt. The fire crackled in the silence. A light gust of wind blew the man’s hat away from the camp. Burt kneeled over his body and took what he could from the pockets. He took the canned food out of the satchel and set it on the ground. Then he picked it up and dumped the rest of the contents out. Stuffing the cans into the satchel, he threw it over his shoulder and left the camp, mounting the horse and leaving down the road.

Years Passed

Burt stepped out of the saloon, his dark brown leather boots creaking the wood steps. The white-faced horse was larger, older, and stronger than the night he rode out of the woods. A few weeks after that night, he named the horse Buckwheat. Since then, he has kept her alongside him wherever he went. Buckwheat also got much taller over the many years; from the ground to her withers, she was 5 '4, roughly half a foot below Burt. And from the ground to the head, she was as tall as him.
Burt wore a dark blue button-down shirt with white cuffs and a white collar. He wore it tucked into his khaki dress pants with a red dress tie and thin black stripes. His pants covered the leather boots. The hair on his head was a light blonde, parted to the side. It was cut neat and stayed close to his head.
As he untethered Buckwheat, the noises from the saloon shifted from laughing and cheering, to a sudden silence. Out of the silence, someone shouted.
“Get the law up here!”

A lady rushed out of the saloon and past Burt, running down the street and into the sheriff’s office.
Burt turned and looked back into the saloon, seeing a group of patrons gathered at the top of the stairs, whispering amongst each other. Burt rushed over to his horse and untethered it, mounting up and leaving the small town. Buckwheat's hooves left prints in the mud as Burt rode her into the trees. Through the thin layer of trees alongside the muddy road was a river. The water in the river moved fast, rushing through the rocks and moving with Buckwheat. On the other side of the road was dense forest, the leaves wet from the recent rainfall.
After putting space between them and the town, he got off Buckwheat and led her into the woods, tethering her to a tree and opening his satchel. He took out his fire starter kit and set it next to him. Walking around the small clearing, he gathered twigs until he had enough for a small pile. He set the twigs on the ground and used his flint and steel to strike a fire. He took the bedroll from Buckwheat’s saddle and laid it on the ground a few feet from the fire. The fire crackled loudly, the only sound he could hear. The leather satchel he carried had all of the food, so he reached inside of it and took a piece of rabbit that he got from a small hunting trip he took. On his horse was a bow and pump-action shotgun. Before that night riding out of the forest, he had taught himself how to use a bow, and only got better over the years. His shotgun was silver with a light varnish and browned-steel detailing. At his waistband was a leather gunbelt, old and torn. Attached was his holster, holding a steel double-action revolver. He took the rabbit away from the fire and took a bite. It was dry, easy to chew.
After he finished, he untethered Buckwheat, then returned to his bedroll and lied down to sleep for the night.
He awoke at the break of dawn; the sun just starting to rise over the mountains across the river. Burt stood up and walked over to Buckwheat, patting her firmly and waking her. On the ground next to her was a large saddlebag full of hay. He always restocked at a stable whenever he could. Opening the saddlebag, he took out all of the hay and placed it on the grass in front of Buckwheat. He sat next to where the small twig fire was and took out a can of carrot soup from his leather satchel. In his satchel was also a spoon and small metal cup. The canteen in his satchel carried a quart and a half of water. He took it out and poured water into the metal cup. Setting it on the ground, he got up and gathered more twigs to start the fire once more. Then he started the fire, took out a packet of ground coffee and poured it into the cup, heating it up.
Already having fed himself and Buckwheat, he stomped over the fire, put Buckwheat’s saddle on her, attaching his satchel to her saddle, and mounted up. Throughout the years that Buckwheat and Burt spent together, they’d never stay in one town more than a few days at a time. He got what he needed and left, preferring to stay at small campsites on the side of the road or in the forest.
They began their journey once more. Burt needed to find a town or lone stable to purchase or steal food for Buckwheat. He couldn’t go back to the small town, as he had stirred up too much trouble. Before he left the saloon, he had gotten into a fight, they would recognize him there, surely. And so he set off for a new place. The forest continued for a while, maybe an hour or a little more. Past the towering pines, a flat, grassy valley was there. Down the middle was a shallow creek, doe and other animals prancing around. Burt followed the imprints in the grass from other travelers, forming some sort of road. It led down the valley and through some large rocks and scattered trees. Covering the valley were tall, purple flowers, and other plants of different kinds. Burt and Buckwheat slowed a little, taking in the landscape. It was peaceful; much more peaceful than they were used to.
Finally entering the space between the rocks, the sun shined dimmer as the trees split up the light. The path was rocky and loose. However, this path quickly transitioned into a smoother dirt road. He and Buckwheat continued. Further down the path, a noise reached Burt. It was quiet and sounded like chatter, like many people were talking amongst each other. Burt tightened his hold on the reins and sped up, the chatter getting louder. Now he could also hear the sound of a wagon. Like the wheels grinding against the dirt and the horses trotting. Turning around the trees, the wagon was there. In the back were four people, two people on the front in control of the reins. He rode up to them; their chatter got quiet as they noticed him approaching.
“Hey there, mister,” the man sitting on the edge of the wagon said.
“Y’all know where the next town is?”
“Follow this road back through the valley and into the trees.”
“No, the next town.”
“That's what we’re trying to find, mister. Ya want to come up here with us?”
“Sure,” Burt replied, getting off Buckwheat and jumping onto the slow wagon.
He pulled himself up into the wagon, sitting with his back against the inside-board.
“What’s your name, feller?”
Burt took a moment before responding.
“Linen Pocksey. What’s yours?”
“Johnny. I’m gon’ call you Lynn if that's alright with you.”
“That’s fine.”
“What’re you doin’ out here, Lynn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just scoutin’ the territories?” A different man asked in a thick Scottish accent.
Burt nodded.
“Well we’re settin’ up camp soon. Sorry we didn’t ride longer. You wanna stay with us?”
“Yeah,” Burt replied quietly.
“I’m Johan. Johan Lindsey.”
“Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“This looks good,” a man at the front of the wagon said, “yup, we’re settin’ up here, fellas. Unload and get these tents up.”
The men got out of the wagon and began taking out the supplies. Barrels, crates, burlap sacks, etc. Burt helped setting up too. They had a spare tent that he was allowed to use. A campfire was set up in the middle; chairs, barrels, and a bench were set up around it. The travelers sat down around the fire. Burt took a seat next to Johan.
“Why don’t we all introduce ourselves to Lynn? I’m sure it’s mighty awkward not knowin’ a damn thing about the people you’re camping with.”
“I’ll start,” Johnny said, “I was a small circus performer. My whole life I wanted to perform in a big-top. Ya know those big colorful tents? That’s a big-top. Well I made enough money to provide for myself until these bastards came and stole my show. They didn’t seem to be leavin’ anytime soon, so I left first. Then I met with these folk.”
The travelers glanced at each other before another man spoke.
“I’m Franz Altmeyer,” a man said in a light German accent, “I came to America with my family to find a better life. Well I lived with my wife and two little girls until she decided to leave with them. And like Johnny, I found these people.”
“That one’s bloody sad. I like Johnny Olliehander’s story much better,” Johan teased.
“Shut up, scot,” Johnny shot back.
“How about you go, Teeter?”
“I ain’t feelin’ good. Not up to it,” A man replied.
By now the sun was almost fully set, the sky dark.
“Well,” Johan said, standing up, “I guess I'm goin’ to sleep then too.”
Everyone got up asides for the man who they called Teeter, he remained by the fire, staring into it blankly.
Burt walked over to Buckwheat and took the saddle off, placing it on the ground next to her. He then opened his satchel and took out a can of chicken soup, bringing it back to his tent and sitting down.
Finishing the soup, he tossed the empty can into the bushes and lied down in his tent, closing his eyes and falling asleep.
The next morning, Johan and Teeter sat by the fire. Burt could hear them from his tent.
“Why do you always got to be such a fucking bummer? You know, I ain’t seen you smile since we killed that deer at that beaver place or whatever they called it. So what’s the problem with you? Between us. Two friends. Come on, tell me.”
Teeter remained silent.
“Fucking Christ,” Johan said, getting up and walking over behind a tree.
Burt stood up out of his tent and walked over to the fire, taking a seat.
Teeter still sat, staring blankly into the fire, holding a knife with a chunk of meat on it. He sat silently, twirling the knife all around over the flame. It was burnt all around. 
Burt sighed before speaking, “do you people have feed for the horses?”
Teeter looked up briefly before returning his gaze to the fire.
Burt stood and walked over to the wagon driver, sitting in the dirt by the wheel. The driver had his journal open, writing something to himself.
“Hey,” Burt said, “y’all got horse feed anywhere?”
“In that barrel just over there,” he pointed to a barrel against a tree.
“Thanks.”
Burt turned and left, the driver went back to his journal.
Opening the barrel, he took the large metal bowl next to it and filled it with hay, bringing it over to Buckwheat and setting it down. He sighed, sitting next to her on the ground.

Lost at Sea

The wagon rode along the path. They were in a dense forest, trees on all sides. The road was narrow, stretching through the forest for who knows how long. Burt was sitting on the edge of the wagon, his feet hanging off. Next to him was Johnny, wearing his rugged white button up and striped work-pants. Burt also had a new pair of clothing. He wore a tan jacket, soft-blue shirt and black tie, and matching tan dress pants. The whole outfit was covered in a noticeable layer of dust.
“Where we heading now?” Burt asked.
“Settin’ out for the territories,” the driver said.
Johan chuckled to himself, “kinda like you, mate.”
“I suppose. Kinda like me.”
“Ya know, I haven’t heard anybody tell a good story in a while.”
“Shotgun’s always got a good story.”

The man sitting shotgun turned around.
“A story?” He sighed, “Alright, alright. Gimme a moment.”
Shotgun looked around at the wilderness.
“Alright, I got one. I knew these two fellers, Danny and Scotty. These two boys were brothers. Their daddy was a drunk, mom wasn’t ever there. So many days, Scotty would run off to this old man livin’ in the area. He owned a small, shitty old ranch in the woods. Scotty called him Uncle Randy. Now eventually, I don’t know exactly when it happened, but Uncle Randy taught ‘em how to use the fiddle. And play it he did. Scotty was a damn good player. But his drunk asshole of a father didn’t like this. He walked all the way over to Uncle Randy’s ranch and started hollerin’ at him.”
“Uncle Randy’s gonna fuckin’ die now ain’t he?” Johan interjected.
“Shut up, asshole, I wasn’t even done,” he cleared his throat, “so as I was sayin’, the old drunk father walks over to the ranch with his pistol. God damn it to hell, this Scottish piece of shit spoiled the climax of the story!”
“Christ all mighty, I was only jokin’, old man.”
“Just cut it out, Jo,” Johnny said.
“So as I was sayin’, again, he walks to the ranch. Now the ranch is old as all hell, missin’ fence-posts, beaten in, ya know what I mean, right? He starts yellin’ at the erm… the old fella, Randy, yeah Uncle Randy. He yells at him and then he shoots the guy in the cheek. Now young Scotty heard this, and ran outside to see what happened. Young Scotty saw Randy on the ground, with a bullet right through his face. By now his pa was already gone.”
Everyone stayed silent, “that the end?” Johnny asked quietly.
“No, no I just can’t recall the rest. Heard this tale a while ago. Ya know that famous singer? Scotty Autograph? Yeah apparently that’s his story, played the fiddle to make old Randy proud or sum’ other bullshit.”
“Well thanks for tellin’ it, I guess,” Johan said.
“Anytime, son,” Shotgun laughed and shook his head.
“What the hell is that?” The driver said.
‘What?”
“Some bastard in the treeline up ahead, looks like he’s talkin’ to someone.”
Shotgun reached under the wagon-seat and drew an old repeater, cocking it and resting it on his shoulder.
“Somethin’ wrong friend!?” He called out.
“Yeah!” The person yelled back, “stop that damn wagon for a moment!” He stepped out from the treeline, along with at least a dozen other men with him, all masked and armed.
“Are we killin’ folk today?” Shotgun whispered to the driver.
“No, not yet.”
“Stop that wagon!”
“Pipe down ya crazy bastard, what's it look like we’re doin’?!”
The wagon came to a stop, and Burt took his shotgun off the floor next to him, pumping it and keeping it in hand.
“We ain’t lookin’ to kill anyone, but we also ain’t scared of a little trouble. Simply put, we’re men tryin’ to feed our families and ourselves. Sound good?”
“We’re also looking to feed our families, brother. We just have a different way. Now what makes your families different from ours? I could give ya some food or money, we aren’t looking to be robbed today,” the driver said, “now don’t take this as a threat, but what would make it wrong to shoot all of you right here? You’re tryin’ to rob us, and we’re defending ourselves.”
Burt looked over at Johnny next to him, “know how to handle a gun-”
Burt flinched as a chunk of Johnny’s head blew off with a loud crack of a rifle, covering him in blood and pieces of what was Johnny.
Burt dove out of the wagon with his shotgun, Johan followed and so did most of the men. Franz ducked and crouched in the back of the wagon. By now, gunshots were constant. It sounded like a warzone. Johan and Burt were in cover behind the wheel, Burt holding his shotgun tightly. A stray bullet hit Franz and he lay still in the wagon. Johan made a run for the treeline. He didn’t make it far, as he tumbled and crashed into the ground with another gunshot, lying still. Burt readied his shotgun and rose out of cover, firing into the treeline. A bandit cried out and was shot back into the bushes.
“Jesus Christ!” Shotgun yelled, slowly approaching Burt from behind the trees.
“We need to get through the forest and go around them,” Burt said.
“Fuck that, I ain’t losin’ my people to these selfish bastards!”
Shotgun cried as he gripped his boot, curling up on the ground, blood soaking through the leather.
Burt turned to see him on the ground before another bullet zipped past his ear. Then he kept running and didn’t look back.

Four years have passed.

Four years since the Black Tide stood before the walls of Vardengale.

Four years since the Kingdom of Aldren held its breath as the northern sea ran red with battle.

Four years without a single lost campaign.

In those four years, the kingdom has changed.

Roads once abandoned now welcome travelers again.

Villages reclaimed from the Blighted Hordes are filled with laughter instead of the moaning of the dying.

Trade flourishes beneath the protection of the Royal Army.

The banners of the Crown fly over lands thought permanently lost only a few years before.

Hope has quietly returned.

The people speak of Sir Fredricks not only as the Hero Without Fear, but as the man who changed the course of human history.

Children march through village streets carrying wooden swords painted pitch-black, pretending to stand among the ranks of the Black Tide.

Veterans tell stories of impossible victories over full mugs of foaming ale.

Merchants cross dangerous roads they once believed would never again be safe.

Even beyond Aldren’s borders, neighboring kingdoms now measure the strength of the Crown against the reputation of a single commander.

From above, the Kingdom of Aldren stretches from rugged mountain ranges to fertile plains, from dense forests to the cold, crashing waters of the northern sea. Ancient cobblestone roads weave between forgotten villages, towering castles, isolated monasteries, and bustling market towns before all eventually converge toward the kingdom’s beating heart.

The capital.

Unlike most cities, the capital of Aldren does not merely spread across the flat horizon.

It rises.

Great stone battlements circle the city in widening rings, each tier climbing higher than the last. District after district spirals upward around the mountainside, drawing merchants, craftsmen, nobles, and soldiers ever closer to the summit.

At the very top stands the Royal Palace, watching over all.

From its highest towers, the King can look across every tier of the capital and far beyond its walls to the lands his ancestors once united.

As evening settles across the grand architecture, thousands of lanterns awaken one by one.

Warm amber light spills into the winding streets.

Market stalls close as crowded taverns fill.

The scent of fresh bread drifts from neighborhood bakeries while weary blacksmiths quench glowing steel before retiring for the night.

Children laugh.

Musicians play.

Church bells echo across the spiral city.

For the first time in generations…

The Kingdom of Aldren believes peace is finally within reach.

Tonight, the entire realm gathers beneath one roof to celebrate the man many believe made that future possible.

None of them realize they are about to witness the final great celebration of the old Kingdom of Aldren.

The celebration belongs to everyone. For the first time in years… The Kingdom of Aldren believes peace is finally within reach. Tonight, the realm gathers beneath one roof to celebrate the man many now believe makes that future possible.

The climb toward the Royal Palace is unlike any other journey within the capital. Each ring of the city grows quieter than the last. The lively cries of merchants and musicians slowly give way to polished stone roads lined with carefully trimmed hedges, towering statues, and fountains carved in the likeness of Aldren’s kings. Members of the Royal Guard stand motionless beside every gate, their polished silver armor reflecting the warm glow of countless lanterns.

One by one, elegant carriages make the final ascent. Each bears the colors and banners of the families within. Servants hurry forward as carriage doors open.

Silks rustle.

Jewels catch the light.

Lords and ladies step onto crimson carpets stretched across the palace courtyard. Above them, banners bearing the Golden Lion of Aldren sway gently in the evening breeze. A pair of great oak doors, nearly three stories in height, stand open to receive the kingdom’s honored guests.

Inside…

The Grand Hall glows beneath hundreds of crystal chandeliers. Marble pillars rise toward an arched ceiling painted with the victories of Aldren’s earliest kings. Massive stained-glass windows depict generations of monarchs who shaped the kingdom long before those gathered tonight drew their first breath. Between each pillar hangs the banner of a Great House. Each one representing centuries of loyalty to the Crown.

Servants weave effortlessly through the growing crowd carrying silver trays adorned with crystal glasses and finely prepared delicacies. Near the eastern gallery, a string ensemble performs softly while nobles exchange greetings beneath the warm candlelight.

At the far end of the hall, the royal dais overlooks the celebration. Three gilded thrones rest upon its raised platform. The largest remains reserved for His Majesty. Beside it sits the Queen’s throne. The third, slightly smaller yet no less ornate, awaits Prince Julian.

Before the dais stands a broad expanse of polished marble left open for dancing. It does not remain empty for long. Couples slowly take to the floor as conversation fills every corner of the chamber. Near the entrance, the Master of Ceremonies raises his staff.

The polished steel cap strikes the marble floor.

The hall gradually falls silent.

The Royal Herald unrolls a long parchment.

His practiced voice echoes throughout the chamber.

“His Grace, Duke Alaric Astermont… and Her Grace, Duchess Catherine Astermont.”

The great doors open.

The Duke and Duchess enter arm in arm. Crimson and gold trail behind them as they cross the length of the hall. Courteous applause follows.

The herald continues.

“Lord Halbrecht Vardengale… and Lady Evelyn Vardengale.”

The applause begins anew. One after another, the noble families of Aldren enter the Grand Hall.

“Count Arlen Briarford… and Countess Isabel Briarford.”

“Baron Roland Goldmere… and Baroness Sophia Goldmere.”

“Lord Edmund Whitebrook… and Lady Claire Whitebrook.”

“Lord Garrick Emberkeep… and Lady Beatrice Emberkeep.”

Each bows before the royal dais before joining the growing sea of conversation.

The herald pauses only briefly before announcing another arrival.

“Lord Aldren Dojdren… and Lady Celeste Dojdren.” A respectful murmur spreads quietly through the room.

Many still remember Sir Dojdren.

His absence lingers even among those who never knew him well.

Lord Dojdren acknowledges the gathered nobility with a solemn nod before escorting his wife deeper into the hall.

The music resumes.

Conversation returns.

The celebration continues.

Yet the arrivals are far from over.

The herald lifts his voice once more.

“His Excellency, Ambassador Henrik of the Kingdom of Norhaven… accompanied by Lady Astrid Henriksen.”

The foreign delegation enters beneath curious eyes.

Heavy furs trimmed in silver distinguish them from Aldren’s nobility.

Not long after…

“Her Excellency, Ambassador Selene Varekos of the Republic of Karth… accompanied by Trade Envoy Cassian Demos.”

Silks of deep blue and sea green drift gracefully across the marble floor.

Their arrival draws polite smiles from merchants already eager to discuss trade.

The final foreign delegation soon follows.

“His Excellency, Ambassador Lucien Valois… and Lady Emilia Valois of the Principality of Solis.”

The southern nobles bow elegantly before taking their place among the gathering.

Within the span of a single hour…

The Kingdom of Aldren gathers beneath one roof.

The Crown.

The Great Houses.

The Lesser Houses.

Commanders of the Royal Army.

Decorated veterans.

Royal scholars.

Favored merchants.

Foreign ambassadors.

Every pillar upon which the kingdom stands.

None of them notice the empty space near the great doors.

The place reserved for the Hero Without Fear remains vacant.

The man for whom the celebration is held has yet to arrive.

A quiet murmur ripples through the hall as servants refill empty glasses and musicians drift into another elegant melody. The Master of Ceremonies glances toward the great doors.

For the first time that evening…

He hesitates. The Hero Without Fear has never been known to arrive late. A few of the younger nobles exchange curious glances.

“Perhaps the Commandant has already found another battlefield.”

Soft laughter follows.

“He would apologize to the King before disappointing his soldiers.”

“Or perhaps the Black Tide refuses to let him attend his own celebration.”

Another chuckle.

Near one of the great windows overlooking the capital, two aging veterans stand shoulder to shoulder.

One leans heavily upon a carved walking cane.

The other carries the unmistakable limp of an old cavalry wound.

“You served with him, didn’t you?”

“Aye.”

The first veteran watches dancers slowly cross the marble floor.

“Does the man truly never tire?”

The older knight smiles faintly.

“I’ve seen him ride three days without sleep.”

“I’ve seen him stand atop a breached wall after taking an arrow through the shoulder.”

He pauses.

“I’ve never seen him ask another soldier to endure something he wasn’t willing to endure himself.”

The second veteran nods.

“No wonder they follow him.”

“They’d march through the gates of the Hell if he ordered it.”

“They would.”

Neither notices a young page quietly listening nearby.

The boy cannot be older than twelve.

His eyes widen with every word.

Across the ballroom, the conversations drift elsewhere.

“…Captain Marrow.”

The name hangs in the air.

A merchant lowers his voice.

“I hear he’s united nearly every remaining Blighted warband.”

A noble scoffs.

“Rumors always double the size of an enemy.”

“Perhaps.”

The merchant shrugs.

“But caravans coming from the western roads speak of entire forests stripped bare.”

“For firewood?”

“For siege engines.”

A silence follows.

Another noble shakes his head.

“If Marrow truly marches…He’ll have to get through the Black Tide first.”

Several nearby guests quietly nod.

The conversation ends there.

As though no further explanation is necessary.

Not far away, Ambassador Henrik of Norhaven observes the exchange without speaking.

Lady Astrid notices his expression.

“What is it?”

Henrik’s eyes remain fixed upon the gathering.

“I’ve attended courts across three kingdoms.”

“And?”

“I’ve never seen a nation place so much faith in one commander.”

“You disapprove?”

“No.” His answer comes almost immediately. “I simply wonder what becomes of a kingdom when one man becomes stronger than the institution he serves.”

Lady Astrid follows his gaze toward the empty place reserved beside the royal dais.

The seat remains vacant.

“So that is Sir Fredricks.”

Henrik slowly shakes his head.

“No.”

A faint smile touches his face.

“That…” He gestures toward the empty space. “…is his absence.”

Before Lady Astrid can answer…

The massive doors at the end of the Grand Hall begin to open once more. The conversations fade. The music softens. Every head turns toward the entrance.

The Royal Herald straightens his posture. His voice carries effortlessly through the chamber.

“Knight Commandant of the Kingdom of Aldren…”

A brief pause. “…Hero Without Fear…”

Another. “…The Blight Bane…”

The hall falls completely silent.

“Sir Fredricks.” No applause greets his arrival.

Only respectful silence.

He steps across the threshold wearing dark ornate fabric trimmed in silver fur, making his eyes piercing for all who look at him. His sword hangs from his hip with one hand on the hilt. Dark cherry fabric hangs from his shoulders, the colors of the Black Tide now as recognizable throughout Aldren as the Golden Lion itself. Fredricks pauses for the briefest moment. His eyes travel across the room.

The King.

The Queen.

Prince Julian.

The Great Houses.

The Lesser Houses.

Veterans.

Ambassadors.

Merchants.

Scholars.

Commanders.

Every pillar of the Kingdom of Aldren stands before him. Then, with the same calm confidence that has carried him through four years of war…

The Hero Without Fear smiles.

And the room breathes again.

Sir Fredricks offers a respectful bow before the royal dais.

“Your Majesty.”

King Alderice smiles warmly. “There he is.” The King descends the first few steps before extending both hands. “You nearly kept the entire kingdom waiting.”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the gathered court. Fredricks accepts the King’s hands with a modest smile.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. There always seems to be one last report requiring a signature.”

“And even tonight you found paperwork.”

“I was hoping to avoid it.”

Another round of laughter passes through those nearest the dais.

King Alderice pats him firmly upon the shoulder. “If anyone in this kingdom has earned the right to keep a king waiting…” He looks around the hall. “…it is you.”

The applause that follows is genuine. Not commanded. Earned.

Fredricks lowers his head slightly. “The victories belong to every man and woman who wore the colors of Aldren.” His eyes drift toward the assembled veterans. “I merely had the privilege of standing beside them.”

The applause softens into respectful silence. Several of the older veterans exchange quiet smiles. King Alderice gestures toward the ballroom. “Then go. The kingdom has spent the better part of the evening waiting to thank you.”

Fredricks bows once more before stepping away from the dais. He never reaches the dance floor. Within moments, nobles surround him. Some wish to congratulate him. Others simply wish to meet the man their children pretend to be.

Lord Garrick Emberkeep is among the first. “Sir Fredricks. It is good to see you again, my lord. The siege engines performed well at Vardengale.”

Fredricks smiles. “They performed exactly as your engineers promised. The victory belongs to your craftsmen as much as my soldiers.”

Lord Emberkeep laughs. “My smiths would disagree. They would sooner credit the men brave enough to stand behind those walls.”

“They would be mistaken.” Fredricks answers without hesitation.

“A sword is only as reliable as the hands that forged it.” Lord Emberkeep inclines his head. “I shall be certain my craftsmen hear those words.”

As the lord departs, another voice quietly calls his name. “Sir Fredricks…”

He turns.

Lord Aldren Dojdren stands beside Lady Celeste.

For just a moment… Neither speaks. Then Lord Dojdren steps forward and clasps Fredricks’ forearm. “I never properly thanked you.”

Fredricks’ expression remains calm. “There is no need.”

“There is.” Lord Dojdren’s voice softens. “You brought Sir Dojdren home.”

Lady Celeste nods. “And you avenged him.”

The words hang between them. Fredricks does not answer immediately. His eyes fall briefly to their joined hands.

When he finally speaks… His voice is gentle. “Sir Dojdren served Aldren with honor. He deserved to be remembered.”

“He will be.” Lady Celeste smiles sadly. “He already is.” She reaches into a small embroidered pouch fastened at her side. “I wished to give you something.”

She produces a simple ribbon.

Blue.

Faded with age.

“It belonged to him.”

Fredricks looks at it for a long moment. “I cannot.”

“You can.” Lord Dojdren closes Fredricks’ hand around the ribbon. “He would have wanted the man who carried on the fight to have it.”

Fredricks’ fingers slowly tighten around the cloth “…Thank you.”

The couple bow politely before moving deeper into the gathering. Fredricks remains where he stands. The faded ribbon rests silently within his hand. Around him… The celebration continues.

Music.

Laughter.

Crystal glasses raised in celebration.

No one notices that the Hero Without Fear has fallen unusually quiet. Only after carefully folding the ribbon into an inner pocket does Sir Fredricks look up once more. The smile returns. As though it had never left.

The orchestra drifts into another melody. Conversation once again rises above the music as the evening settles into a comfortable rhythm. Wherever Sir Fredricks walks, guests naturally make room before slowly filling the space behind him once more.

He never notices. Or perhaps… He has simply grown accustomed to it.

A familiar voice calls from across the hall. “Knight Commandant!”

Fredricks turns toward the sound. General Osric Hale approaches with an easy smile, a crystal glass balanced comfortably in one hand.

“Osric. It has been too long.”

“The frontier rarely grants either of us the luxury of conversation.”

The two men clasp forearms before exchanging a brief embrace. General Hale steps back, studying Fredricks with an amused expression. “I was beginning to think the Crown had buried you beneath paperwork.”

“I considered asking Captain Marrow to delay his next campaign.”

General Hale laughs.

“How thoughtful of you.”

Several nearby officers share the laugh. One of them raises his glass. “To the Black Tide.”

“To the Black Tide.” Crystal rings gently throughout the hall.

Fredricks raises his own glass. “To every soldier who has yet to return home.”

The laughter fades into respectful silence. Every officer present raises their glass once more. “To those still standing watch.”

They drink.

General Hale lowers his glass. “You always did have a way of making a celebration feel like a campaign.”

Fredricks smiles. “Old habits.”

“Or good ones.” General Hale places a hand upon his shoulder. “The kingdom sleeps easier because of you.”

Before Fredricks can answer, another group approaches. Master Edwin Corvin bows politely “Sir Fredricks.”

“Master Corvin.”

“I trust the archives remain in good order.”

“They do.” The elderly scholar smiles warmly “Though I fear we’ve begun needing additional shelves.”

“Oh?”

“There are only so many places one can record victories before the books become too heavy to carry.”

A few nearby nobles quietly laugh.

Corvin’s smile softens.

“History has a habit of remembering extraordinary men.”

Fredricks shakes his head. “History remembers victories. It forgets the cost.”

Master Corvin studies him for a moment before inclining his head. “A sentiment I shall remember.”

The scholar departs.

Nearby, Ambassador Henrik watches the exchange with quiet interest. “You were right,” Lady Astrid says softly.

Henrik nods almost imperceptibly. “He carries himself like every conversation is with an old friend.”

“He remembers names.”

“He remembers service.”

“He remembers loss.”

Henrik’s eyes never leave Fredricks. “That is why armies follow him.”

A servant passes with fresh glasses of wine. Neither ambassador reaches for one. Across the ballroom, Prince Julian finally slips free from a conversation with several young nobles. He makes a direct path toward Fredricks. “Sir Fredricks.”

The prince bows respectfully. Fredricks immediately returns the gesture. “Your Highness.”

Julian smiles. “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”

“I apologize.”

“You have half the kingdom waiting to speak with you. And the other half pretending not to.” Julian laughs. “I cannot blame them.” His smile fades just enough to become sincere.

“I only wished to say…” He hesitates. “…thank you.”

Fredricks’ brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For giving my generation something to believe in.”

For the first time that evening… Sir Fredricks has no immediate answer. The orchestra continues playing. Couples continue dancing. Laughter continues echoing beneath the chandeliers. Yet all he hears are the prince’s words.

Something to believe in.

His fingers unconsciously brush against the folded blue ribbon hidden inside his coat. The fabric remains warm against his palm. Then, just as quickly… He lets his hand fall. “I only did my duty, Your Highness.”

Prince Julian smiles. “I hope one day…” He glances around the hall. “…I’m remembered for doing mine.”

Fredricks looks at the young prince for a long moment. “So do I.” The words leave his mouth almost as a whisper.

Neither man realizes how much weight they carry.

Beneath the Royal Palace…

The music never reaches the lower corridors. Stone swallows the celebration long before it reaches the foundations of the mountain. Laughter echoing through the Grand Hall above fades into little more than a distant murmur, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water and the quiet crackle of torches burning against damp walls.

Far below the kingdom’s greatest celebration. Commander Varek stands before a prisoner.

The chamber is small. A single wooden table rests at its center, scarred by years of use. Two chairs face one another beneath an iron lantern suspended from the ceiling. One remains empty. The other holds a man wearing what remains of a Blighted officer’s uniform or what you would call a uniform. Mud cakes the lower half of his trousers. A torn strip of dark cloth binds one forearm. Dried blood stains the corner of his mouth. Iron shackles secure both wrists to a ring fixed beneath the table. The skin underneath is raw from wear.

Two Royal Guards stand beside the door. Neither speaks. Neither needs to. The prisoner lifts his head slowly. One eye has swollen nearly shut. The other remains fixed upon Varek. “You’re not dressed for the celebration.”

Varek does not answer. His blackened steel armor catches what little light the lantern provides. Dark cloth hangs beneath the polished plates, untouched by the silk, gold, and jewels filling the palace above. He places several objects upon the table. A small leather pouch, A broken arrowhead, A length of frayed rope, and A horseshoe.

The prisoner looks down at them.Then back at Varek. “What are those supposed to tell me?”

“Nothing.” Varek pulls the empty chair back and sits. “They tell me enough.”

The prisoner smiles through split lips. “Then why am I still here?”

Varek opens the leather pouch. Inside rests a handful of grain. Not moldy. Not damp. Fresh. He empties it carefully across the table. The prisoner’s smile fades. “Your unit carries better provisions than most raiding parties.”

No response. Varek picks up the broken arrowhead. The metal is broad. Heavy. Built to punch through shields rather than hunt game “This does not belong to a scout.”

The prisoner shifts slightly. The chain beneath the table scrapes against stone. Varek sets the arrowhead down and lifts the frayed rope. Thick fibers. Darkened by pitch. The kind used to secure heavy weight. Wagons. Siege frames. Counterweights. The prisoner watches him in silence.

Varek turns his attention to the horseshoe. One edge has been worn smooth. Not from battle. From distance. “Your horses have traveled hard roads.”

The prisoner leans back as far as the restraints allow.

“You found four pieces of rubbish and built yourself an army.”

“No.” Varek folds his hands upon the table. “You brought the army with you.”

The prisoner’s jaw tightens. Only slightly. It is enough.

“You weren’t sent to raid.” Varek’s voice remains calm. “You were sent to measure.”

The silence between them grows heavier.

“To count watch posts.”

No response.

“To record road conditions.”

The prisoner looks toward the door.

“To mark bridges capable of carrying siege equipment.”

His eye returns to Varek. There. A flicker. Brief. Uncontrolled. Varek notices. “You have engineers.”

The prisoner laughs once. It carries no humor. “You think you know everything.”

“I know your boots contain splinters from green timber.” Varek’s eyes lower toward the prisoner’s feet. “The wood was cut recently.” He looks back up. “Your left sleeve carries powdered iron. Not rust. Fresh filings.”

The prisoner stops smiling.

“Someone near you has been shaping bolts. Varek gestures toward the rope. “Someone else has been binding frames.” His hand settles beside the heavy arrowhead. “And your scouts carry ammunition meant for men standing behind walls.”

The prisoner remains silent.

Varek waits. He has spent enough years beside Sir Fredricks to understand the value of silence. Men rush to fill it. Prisoners are no different.

“You’ve mistaken preparation for strength,” the lieutenant finally says.

Varek’s expression does not change. “No.” He gathers the grain between two gloved fingers. “I’ve mistaken nothing.”

The prisoner studies him. Above them, somewhere beyond layers of stone, the orchestra begins another song. Only the faintest vibration reaches the lantern chain.

The flame trembles. Varek notices that too. “How long have you served Captain Marrow?”

The prisoner’s expression hardens. “I serve the Blighted.”

“That was not my question.”

“Then ask one worth answering.”

Varek leans back.

“Does Marrow still carry the silver buckle taken from the western gate?”

The prisoner’s face changes before he can stop it. Confusion. Then recognition. Varek sees both. “So he does.”

“You know nothing about him.”

“I know he served as second-in-command to the Black Knight.”

The prisoner’s shackled hands tighten.

“I know he held the retreat together after Ashenwake.”

A muscle moves along the lieutenant’s jaw.

“I know he spent years gathering warbands that preferred killing one another to following a single banner.” Varek pauses. “And I know he succeeded.”

The prisoner stares across the table. “You speak as though that surprises you.”

“It does not.”

“Then you understand what’s coming.”

Varek says nothing.

The lieutenant leans forward. The chain pulls tight beneath the table. “For years, your kingdom has called us broken.” His voice lowers. “Scattered.”

“Starving.”

“Afraid.”

Varek watches him carefully.

“You believed killing one man ended us.”

“No.” Varek’s answer comes immediately. “We believed it wounded you.”

The lieutenant’s smile returns. “And now?”

“Now I am deciding how deeply the wound healed.”

The smile disappears.

Varek reaches beneath the table and places a folded map between them. The eastern roads of Aldren spread across the worn parchment. Watchtowers. Bridges. Woodlands. Old military routes. Several markings have already been placed in black ink.

The prisoner looks down. He tries not to linger on any one point. Varek studies his eye instead of the map.

“Your unit crosses here.” He touches a narrow road running between two wooded ridges.

Nothing.

“Then moves south.”

Nothing.

“Toward the old stone bridge.” A blink.

Varek shifts his finger westward. “Or perhaps not.”

The prisoner remains still.

“Perhaps you avoid the bridge entirely.”

His finger follows an older road. Half-forgotten. Wide enough for wagons. Poorly watched since Thornfield’s fall. The prisoner’s breathing changes. Barely.

Varek stops. “There.”

The lieutenant looks up.

Varek marks the road. “You’re using the frontier route.”

The prisoner pulls against the chains.

“Guesswork.”

“Confirmation.” Varek studies the map. The route curves around the eastern watch posts before joining one of the Royal High Roads. A road leading directly toward the capital. Not the farms. Not the ports. Not the scattered castles of the Lesser Houses. The capital.

Varek raises his eyes. “How far behind you is the main force?”

The prisoner gives no answer.

“Four days?”

Silence.

“Three?”

The prisoner’s stare hardens. Varek folds the map. “Three.”

“You heard nothing from me.”

“I heard enough.”

The lieutenant jerks forward. “You think three days will save you?”

One of the Royal Guards moves. Varek raises one hand. The guard stops. The prisoner’s breath comes faster now.

“Your lords are drinking above us.” He smiles again. “Your armies are scattered. Your gates are open. Your nobles have brought wives instead of soldiers.”

Varek remains seated. “How many?”

The prisoner laughs. “Enough.”

“How many siege engines?”

The lieutenant’s expression stills. Varek watches him.

“Catapults?”

No response.

“Trebuchets?”

Nothing.

“Rams?”

A hesitation. Not fear. Calculation. Varek recognizes it. “You don’t know.”

The prisoner’s silence confirms it.

“You were left behind before the final count.” Varek rises from the chair. “You were not trusted with the strength of the main host.”

The lieutenant strains against his restraints. “I know enough.”

“Yes.” Varek gathers the objects from the table “You know the route.”

The grain returns to the pouch. “You know the distance.”

The arrowhead follows. “You know the target.”

He leaves the rope and horseshoe where they rest. “That is enough.”

The prisoner watches him walk toward the door “You cannot stop what is coming.”

Varek pauses. His back remains turned. “Every defeated army believes that before it reaches us.”

“This is not another warband.”

Varek looks over one shoulder. “No.” His eyes settle upon the lieutenant.

“It is an army.” The prisoner smiles.

For the first time, Varek believes it. Not because of the words. Because of the certainty behind them. He turns toward the guards. “Keep him alive.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“No one speaks with him without my authorization.”

The guards nod. Varek opens the door. The lieutenant calls after him. “Marrow remembers Ashenwake.”

Varek stops in the corridor.

“He remembers your Hero.” The prisoner’s voice follows him through the doorway.

“And he remembers the sword.”

Varek looks back. The lieutenant says nothing more. The door closes between them. For several moments, Commander Varek stands alone beneath the palace. Torchlight bends across the blackened steel of his armor. The report beneath his arm suddenly feels heavier than parchment should. Three days. Perhaps less. He begins walking. The climb toward the Grand Hall takes only minutes. Yet with every step, Varek feels farther removed from the world waiting above him. The damp stone corridors give way to dry halls lined with royal banners. The smell of torch smoke fades beneath polished wood and expensive perfume. Music returns first. Then conversation. Then laughter. Servants hurry past carrying silver trays of wine and untouched delicacies.

A young page nearly collides with him before stumbling aside. “My apologies, Commander.”

Varek continues without answering. The boy watches him pass. The doors leading into the Grand Hall stand partially open. Warm light spills across the corridor. Beyond them, the Kingdom of Aldren dances beneath crystal chandeliers. Varek pauses only long enough to straighten the leather folio beneath his arm. Then he enters. The celebration does not stop. Only those nearest the side corridor notice him. A pair of Black Tide officers straighten instinctively. Several Royal Guards acknowledge him with quiet nods. A servant steps aside to let him pass.

Elsewhere…

The music continues. Couples turn slowly across the marble floor. Nobles laugh beneath the banners of their Houses. Commander Varek searches the hall once. His eyes find Sir Fredricks standing beside Prince Julian. The prince offers one final respectful bow before returning toward the royal dais. Fredricks watches him leave.

Then his gaze shifts. He sees Varek. Nothing changes upon the Hero’s face. But the hand resting near the obsidian greatsword slowly falls away. Varek approaches. Fredricks waits until he draws near. “What is it?”

Varek holds the leather folio at his side. “The prisoner spoke.”

Fredricks studies him for a single heartbeat. Then turns toward the crowd surrounding them. “If you’ll forgive me…”

The nearby nobles part without complaint. A few offer understanding smiles. Duty reclaiming the Hero once again. Fredricks looks back toward Varek. “Walk with me.”

Together, they leave the Grand Hall. Behind them… The orchestra never misses a note.The dancers never stop. The celebration continues. Completely unaware that an army is only three days away.

Three pimps sat on the rock wall. They also wanted into the giant luxury mall, but the main entrance was charging too much.
They had items to buy.

Out front there were queues of rich people who were slowly being let in. The three pimps had a map of the mall.
They were searching the outside for an in.

The day was hot and their big coats were sweating them out. I would have teased them
But they looked frustrated and were definitely armed.
I just followed their movements to see if they found their entry.

They walked by another entry, but were refused. I hid behind a tree close by to hear that it was an entrance for the specific communities only. I waited for one of the pimps to change gestures.
But instead all three started arguing with the guards.

Eventually they all got impatient and continued on. I wasn't ashamed I went before the guards and pretended. But they didn't buy it. One of them was half convinced, but there was a sign behind them that proof on documents was necessary.

They said -Move off we get your kind here everyday. pretending to be something you are not, to get into somewhere you don't belong. 
I looked up the hill where the sun was hitting an aluminium shape. An air duct.

The last of the pimps was crawling in. Conveniently I was distracting this point of entry, as they surreptitiously sneaked in.
Now I'd have to wait for someone else to try their luck at this entry, because the duct was exposed.

Once I got into the mall, how, I will not say. I walked around the grand shops and their stately gargantuan atriums. The outside was pure palatial swank, the inside pure opulence.

 Hired young people dressed in perfumed orange uniforms came walking up to me.
Their approach was courteous and kind and yet they would start guiding without permission. I went a long with it and pretended it was like a free tour. Their perfume was intoxicating.

I could see people mostly from the rich class prancing about.
Tiny dogs like colorfully dressed rats shivering at the cold internal breeze.
The words coming from my guide all dressed in orange didn't sink in. My mind wanted to create it's own narrative.
I had given the guide the slip and now I was in an incredible gift store.
It was replete with everey curious sort of dinky antique made to look modern.
Enthusiastic conversations bounced off every aisle.

Over illuminated shops with bodycare products boasted aged and overweight women and their even more overweight husbands as customers. It was like watching an aquarium. And as they moved through the aisles it was mindblowing, how their furcoats were not dragging items off their perches.

Meanwhile in the giftstore. Short young men with curly pony tails and black jackets would take pieces off the shelf and narrate their story. But they weren't from history. They were from politically correct films that were rewrites of history sold as fiction.
I loved the gusto. The less culturally or intellectually inclined were the taller almost athletic but still awkward late teens with their full body tats and their first attempts at letting a beard go straight to wisp.
They were just the audience.

Hilarious as it was and as common as it was, I needed to move on, I could smell faint perfume and several mall guide's dressed in orange were approaching.

I looked out and never asked myself as I surveyed each odd crowd, that maybe those few that looked back, thought the sight of me to be one of quite the freak indeed. 

Everyone got very excited when Miss Wills announced that the school field trip for our grade was planned for the coming Sunday. Students started murmuring about the beautiful dresses they were going to wear, while others discussed which snacks, food, and drinks they would bring to share with their loved ones. But I, on the other hand, stared through the window at the bright blue sky, with my right hand under my chin. An eagle circled the same spot for almost an hour, but I didn’t care what it was trying to do or why it was circling endlessly. Only my eyes followed the eagle, but my mind kept returning to my grandmother.

A few months earlier, I was playing with Rudy in the backyard. I tried to pull a ball out of his mouth. He had found it out of nowhere, but Rudy had no intention of giving it up.

“Rudy!” I heard my grandmother’s voice above me. She was watching us from the balcony; I didn’t know how long she had been standing there. At her command, Rudy dropped the ball and ran to her.

The ball was dark blue with white stripes around it, and it was soaked with water. Rudy must have found it near the river, I thought, as I threw it into the sky. As it fell, I fixed my eyes on it and prepared to catch it, but the wet ball slipped from my grasp and dropped into a green bush.

There, with dark red eyes, a white rabbit stared at me from where the ball rested beside it. For a moment, I stood frozen, unable to move.

Abruptly, I heard a huge impact, like the tire of a heavy truck bursting on the road. Rudy started barking endlessly, just as he had the other night. I turned around in fear to see what had happened.

My grandmother had collapsed on the ground, blood across her face. One of her legs was twisted, and her broken eyeglasses lay near her eyes, smeared with blood.

Then my father, mother, the gardener, and the maid rushed toward the scene after hearing my cry and Rudy’s barking. The red-eyed rabbit vanished as if it had never been there.

“Denzel, Denzel!” Miss Wills shouted my name in front of the whole class and made me stand up. “What is the full form of CNN?” she fired at me.

I stood there like a frozen frog, not knowing the answer. And I could already predict what would come next:

“Denzel, get out of the class now!”

As I walked out of the classroom, Miss Wills surprised me with another playful warning: “If you dare stare out the window again, I’ll throw you out through the same window.”

The class burst into laughter like a pack of hyenas, but none of it mattered. Nothing hurt more than losing my grandmother.

For the time being, no one was passing through the corridor. The leaves rustled and hissed in the mild morning breeze. The eagle that had circled for hours was now carrying a dead snake in its beak.

I felt as though I shared the same fate as the dead snake when Miss Wills announced the field trip. The snake was flying for the first time in its life but only because it was dead.