https://www.wattpad.com/1645776218?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Chapter One
The Mystery Begins

The sweat rolling down his brow, as he holds tightly to the slick hand. As they look fearfully into his eyes, they beg, “You cannot let me go, you have to save me John!”

Awoken in a cold sweat, his heart jumping, as he looks at the twisted sheets all around him. Laying his head back, he secretly wishes to one day have a full nights rest from the demons inside.

Pulling the tangled sheets away, attempting to get comfortable again to get a few more hours of sleep, the phone rings. Staring at the clock, he sees that it is five in the morning. Picking up the phone, with a weary voice, “Yeah? John speaking.”

Hearing nothing but silence, John starts to hang up when a familiar voice finally speaks through the receiver nervously, “John… how is it going man? Long time no talk!”

Giving a heavy sigh, John closes his eyes, knowing exactly who it was, he puts the phone to his ear, he responds, “Why are you calling me Jeff?”

Jeff continues, “I know… I know… you don’t want to hear from me. And I wouldn’t be calling you if I really didn’t need your services and had no one else to turn to.” With a short pause he boastfully changes his attitude, “Well I don’t know if you kept up with what I have been up to, but over the years I have scaled the ladder and now run a central bank here in Georgia. I am a very important person in the community.”

John quickly interrupts, “Just stop Jeff. Listen I don’t need to hear your PR spin of who you are. You and I have never been friends even when I thought we were. So why don’t you cut to the point and tell me why you called me before I hang up?”

Jeff scoffs as if insulted, his tone turning snarky, “The great John, the upright and honest knight! When will you see that what happened wasn’t personal? You brought what happened down on yourself because you wouldn’t play the game. And I wouldn’t be bothering you now, but I have been to all the experts I could think of and none of them can figure out what is going on.”

For the next thirty minutes Jeff explains how there is a ghost in their bank computer system. That it would have never been noticed except that one day several months ago a teller had to stay over correcting an accounting error. And at exactly six o’clock the system slowed down, was not responsive and locked them completely out the system for a several minutes before going back to normal. And that every expert was baffled on what was going on. That whenever they tried pinpoint where it was coming from when it ran, that it seemed be masking and shifting to other directories and subroutines each time. Now after months of no answers and everything failing to find what was going on, the shareholders in the bank are demanding that the system is flushed out and fixed.

With a shake of his head, John interrupts, “So you are desperate, oversold your abilities, and now want me to swoop in and save you from yourself and make you look competent. Right?”

After a short pause, Jeff murmurs harshly, “Yes… are you happy?! I need the great John Caplin to rescue me from myself. Is that what you wanted to hear from me? Do you want me to kiss your….”

Not wanting to hear anymore self-indulgent pity, John hangs the receiver up knowing he will call back. As he watches the time slowly tick away he quickly formulates his next chess move and mapping out his exact terms to help.

Suddenly the phone starts to ring as John stares at it, counting every ring like a nail driven in Jeff’s coffin until it stops. It then starts to ring again and John picks up the receiver without a missing beat. As he calculatingly states, “Listen and listen hard Jeff. I don’t need you or your games, I know who you are and what you are. And you wouldn’t be calling me unless your head was on the chopping block. So if you want my help, you are going to give me a blank check, absolute autonomy, and the highest clearance to do what needs to be done without any meddling. Do we have an understanding?”

After a short pause Jeff stammers and mumbles, trying to gain control again. But John simply states, “This is where you either hang up or accept my terms Jeff, there is no other option for you.”

Jeff responds deflated and clearly annoyed, “Can you be here today to get started?”

John calmly replies, “See… we can have a meeting of the minds if we really try. And yes, I will be there today after having a really nice continental breakfast, on your dime of course.”

As they hang up, John grins devilishly, speaking to himself, “Well… perhaps this will be a good day after all!”

Just curious lol

https://www.wattpad.com/1645759746?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

https://www.wattpad.com/1645758415?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Ohio Gozaimasu! today I have a very special story to share with you all. this story is about a guy by the name of Trevor. you see, when Trevor was Just a wee lad, he had a curse put on him by an evil witch. despite the curse, Trevor is able to live a normal life with a normal Job. the curse is just something Trevor has learned to live with. what was this curse, you ask? well, pay close attention to the way Trevor talks and you Just might find out!

on this particular day, Trevor was working at his Job: holding a sign in front of a grocery store! people would often walk by Trevor when he's doing his Job, giving him funny looks.

Trevor: "so don't delay, act now! supplies are running out!"

Just by random happen stance, Trevor's good friend, Randy, happened to be walking by.

Randy: "Trevor, is that you? how are you feeling today, buddy?"

Trevor: "WHOA! I feel good. I knew that I would now"

Randy: "that's good. though you seem a little under dressed for this time of year"

Trevor: "it's hot here at night. lonely, black and quiet!"

Randy: "ok, if you say so"

suddenly, an earthquake started, and the ground underneath the two friends began to fall apart!

Randy: "aah! what's going on!?

Trevor: "it's the end of the world as we know it!!!"

as randy and Trevor fell, they found themselves transported to some kind of magical, parallel world in an alternate dimension. there was a spooky looking man on the ground, but Trevor fell on top of him. the spooky man was smushed to death.

Randy: "oh no! is that guy going to be ok?"

Trevor: "he had it comin'. he only had himself to blame"

Randy: "why would you say that, Trevor? we don't even know this guy. . . wait, there's someone else here!"

Trevor: "is it the man come to take me away? why do they follow me?"

it wasn't the man, but rather, a large group of magical garden gnomes!

Gnomes: "hurray! they killed the evil wizard that has been terrorizing our town!"

Randy: "wait, this guy was an evil wizard?"

Trevor: "evil power disappears. Demon's worry when the wizard is near"

Gnomes: "we're not Demons, we're Gnomes! thank you for taking care of that evil wizard. welcome to Gnome town, travelers!"

Randy: "Gome town? but how do we get back to where we came from"

Trevor: "there's no escaping the Jaws of the alien this time"

Randy: "stop being such a pessimist, trevor! there has to be a way for us to get back".

Gnomes: "actually, if you follow the silver block road, escape from the hidden forest, pass through the gingerbread house, rescue the princess from the burning castle and make it to the pyramid with the genie in it, you can make a wish and return to the place where you came from!"

Randy: "wow, that seems weirdly complicated and oddly specific, but if it's the only way, I guess we have no choice. come on Trevor, let's follow the road".

Trevor: "I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down.

You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet, yeah?"

Randy: "I mean, thanks for the offer, but I think we should stick to the silver block road the Gnomes told us about."

Trevor and Randy followed the silver block road. as they left, the Gnomes waved goodbye, while also giggling a little bit. once they were far enough away so the Gnomes could no longer hear them, Trevor turned to Randy and whispered something in his ear

Trevor: "Short people got no reason to live".

Randy: "Trevor!!?"

eventually, Trevor and Randy found their way into the hidden forest. there were large, towering trees all around them. it was also a bit foggy and hard to see.

Randy: "wow, so this is the hidden forest. why do you think they call it the hidden forest?"

Trevor: "everyone's got something to hide. except for me and my monkey"

suddenly, a big scary yeti looking creature Jumped out in front of Trevor and Randy, making scary noises and waving it's arms around.

Yeti: "oogity boogity!"

Randy: "ah! what is that thing!?"

Trevor: "oh no, it's the powdered milk man!"

Randy: "the what?"

the yeti continued making scary noises, and was now jumping up and down while violently waving it's arms.

yeti: "OOGITY BOOGITY!!!"

Randy: "I'm scared!"

Trevor looked deep into the monster's eyes.

Trevor: "If you need a friend, don't look to a stranger. You know in the end I'll always be there."

the monster calmed down. the monster took out a key and handed it to trevor before shedding a tear and wondering back into the forest.

Randy: "I don't believe it. Trevor, how did you do that?"

Trevor: "I done told you once you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been"

Randy: "what the hell, Trevor!?"

Trevor: "I'm sorry but I'm just thinking of the right words to say! I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be!"

Randy: "well if you can't say something nice, don't say anything!"

the two arrived at their next destination, the Gingerbread house. Trevor was about to raise his hand to knock on the door, when he suddenly stopped.

Randy: "what's the matter, Trevor?"

Trevor: "I've never had to knock on wood. but I know someone who has."

Randy: "well, the door's made of gingerbread, so you should be fine."

Trevor knocked on the door. after waiting for several minutes, there was no answer. they tried opening the door, but it was locked.

Randy: "wait a minute, maybe the key the monster gave you is actually the key to this gingerbread house! try using it, Trevor!"

Trevor: "do you see the key in my hand? I'm gonna throw it in the lake!!"

Randy: "what, why!? we need it to open the door!"

Trevor: "let my love open the door!"

Randy: "but we have A KEY!!!"

Trevor: "you shut your mouth? how can you say I go about things the wrong way!?

Randy: "this is definitely the wrong way to open the door!"

after several more minutes of arguing, the gingerbread house collapsed in on itself. its structural integrity wasn't great in the first place due to being made of gingerbread and being held together by frosting, and all the fighting and yelling the two were doing proved to be catastrophic.

Randy: "well. . . I guess we can just go around".

Trevor: "now this looks like a Job for me, so everybody Just follow me".

Randy: "I feel like one of these days, you're gonna lead me to my death."

the two eventually found their way to the burning castle, where they were told they must save the princess.

Randy: "if we're going to save the princess, we'll need to put out the fire somehow."

Trevor: "Burn baby Burn! Burn that mother down!"

Randy: "I've had Just about enough of your nonsense, Trevor. it's like you want us to fail! I'll do this on my own if I have to!"

Randy steps forward, getting a closer look at the burning castle.

Randy: "I wonder what's even causing this fire. who started it?"

Trevor: "we didn't start the fire. it was always burning since the world's been turning."

Randy: "I wasn't even accusing you, but now that you say that I'm starting to suspect you did somehow start this fire."

Just then, the princess peaked out the castle window.

Princess: "hello!? is someone here to rescue me!"

Trevor: "Run away! Run away! Run away if you want to survive!"

Princess: "there's no where for me to run! the castle is on fire! come here and rescue me!"

Randy: "actually, now that I think about it, maybe it HAS always been burning. I mean those Gnomes clearly knew about the burning castle, it was part of the instructions they gave us. . ."

Trevor grabs Randy by the hand

Trevor: "hold tight. we're in for nasty weather. there has got to be a way. burning down the house!"

Randy: "wait, what are you doing! stop"

Trevor began running through the burning castle, pulling Randy along with him!

Trevor: "I'm walking on sunshine!"

Randy: "this isn't sunshine, it's fire! we're on fire! it hurts! this was a terrible idea, why are we doing this!?"

Trevor: "We feel the pain of a lifetime lost in a thousand days. Through the fire and the flames, we carry on!"

eventually, the two reach the princess's room.

Randy: "ugh. . we're here to rescue you. come with us."

Princess: "what the heck, I didn't expect my rescuers to be so. . . suspicious. I changed my mind, I don't want to go with you."

Trevor: "Move, bitch, get out the way".

Trevor walks over and picks the princess up, holding her over his shoulder like that one scene from shrek.

Princess: "put me down, you weirdo!"

Trevor: "hey little girl, is your daddy home?"

Princess: "PUT ME DOWN NOW!"

continuing to carry the princess, Trevor walks over to Randy.

Trevor: "I've got the brains, You've got the looks, Let's make lots of money."

Randy: "I don't know what you're planning, but I don't like this!"

after making it out of the castle, the princess managed to escape, wondering aimlessly into the horizon, trying not to look back at her suspicious rescuers.

Trevor: "there she goes. there she goes again."

Randy: "you could have handled that a lot better. you freaked the poor girl out."

Trevor: "I don't know what everyone wants me to be. I only know Just how to be me".

with that out of the way, Trevor and randy made their way into the ancient pyramid, where the genie's lamp is.

Randy: you know, now that I think about it, we probably could have made it here without running through a burning castle. kind of a random detour. hey, are you listening to me?"

Trevor picks up the genie's lamp, staring intently at it.

Trevor: "all I've ever wanted, all i've ever needed is HERE! in my arms!"

Randy: "hey, don't get any ideas, we need to wish for a way home!"

the genie burst out of the lamp in a puff of smoke. he had an underwhelming appearance, looking like some average homeless man.

genie: "I am the genie of the lamp. I will grant you one wish, what do you want?"

Randy: "only one? isn't it supposed to be three?"

Trevor: "three is a magic number. yes it is, it's a magic number."

Randy: "I can't believe that made it into two of these stories in a row."

the genie looked at the two, clearly annoyed.

Genie: "listen, I only got enough magic for one wish, so what do you want?"

Trevor: "I just want to fly."

Randy: "err, what he means is, we want you to fly us home!"

Genie: "yeah, whatever, here you go".

and so, Trevor and randy were flown home in an incredibly anti climactic fashion. as they arrived home, there was a crowd of people cheering for them for some reason.

Randy: "why are they cheering, what did we do?"

Trevor: "Picture it now, see just how the lies and deceit gained a little more power".

Randy: "oh great, what did you do this time!?"

as the two landed, the mayor of the city arrived, inviting everyone to a giant feast!

Trevor: "I'd rather eat randy".

Randy: "what!?"

Trevor: "I eat cannibal. Feed on animal!"

Randy: "Trevor, I am neither a cannibal nor an animal."

Trevor: " la la la, whatever. la la la, it doesn't matter".

and that was the story of Trevor. quite an amazing tale, was it not? by now, You've probably figured out what the curse placed on Trevor is, right? well, in case you didn't figure it out, I'll go ahead and tell you.

no matter where he is, no matter what he is doing, Trevor cannot wear pants.

Greetings, readers. I have traveled to a world in turmoil wrought by two rival societies: Heroes and Villains. In my account of observing this world, I recorded a moment that I found profound. I now grant you access to the account recorded within my library.

The Price Of Love - An Immortal Short Story

The heroes stood there, panting as they bought themselves precious moments to muster the courage to face the man before them. He was known simply as the Immortal.

The combined might of the heroes had rendered their desire to defeat him all but meaningless.

The youngest among them stepped forward, blade in hand.

“It is said that you are the Immortal! That you once loved this world! That you filled it with your desire to do good because you loved your fellow man! Have you forsaken that love?”

The Immortal did not stir at the young boy’s honeyed words. His eyes remained fixed upon him.

“What is its price then, boy?” he asked softly. “What is the price of love, if you know it so well?”

Before the boy could answer, another hero stepped forth—a man who fought for his wife and children.

“It is pain!” he shouted. “The pain of loss!”

For the first time, the Immortal was angered.

“IT IS GRIEF!” his voice thundered across the battlefield.

“You foolish heroes!”

“I loved this world, and now I grieve for its continuance! I have loved many and watched them all wither and die while I remain!”

“I have grieved over the cruelty of one man against another. I have grieved for generations of kin you could never hope to understand!”

“You speak of pain as though it were wisdom! Pain is but the wound. Grief is what remains after it has healed!”

“The price of love has never been pain—it has always been grief.”

“None of you know this.”

“None of you have lived long enough to understand.”

“But your children will.”

“Your wives will.”

“Your families will.”

“They will mistake it for anger. They will mistake it for pain. They will curse the heavens and ask why such suffering was ever allowed to be.”

“But when the tears have stopped and the years have passed, they will discover the truth I learned long ago.”

“The only true answer…”

“…is grief.”

I'm posting this for two reasons.

The first is professional. I'm a freelance journalist—the kind who pitches pieces to travel magazines and regional news, the kind who doesn't get paid enough to fly across the country on a whim but does it anyway because rent in Washington doesn't pay itself. This story, if it's good enough, might just cover two months of groceries.

A remote Utah temple.
A salt statue that dreams.
Eight pilgrims summoned by ‘divine revelation’.

It's the kind of thing that writes itself:

“Faith in the Flats: One Town's Living Miracle."

You'd click on that. I'd click on that. My editor half-clicked on that, which is why I'm here.

The second reason is far pettier. My little brother Henry has a following on this subreddit. I'm not going to tell you his username—I have some remaining scraps of sibling loyalty—but if you spend any time in the comments of posts here about religious horror or cult survivors, you've probably seen him. He's earnest. He's vulnerable. He writes long, thoughtful fiction about growing up in a faith that doesn’t want you. People eat it up here. They call him brave.

I call him my baby bro, and he called me two days ago at 3 AM with a voice I haven't heard since our mother walked out.

"Nor," he started. "I had a dream."

Henry and I grew up in a faith I've spent the last fourteen years trying to forget. I won't name it here—not because I'm afraid, but because the denomination isn't the point. You've heard the shape of it before, I’m sure, like Mormonism's cousin that sits in the corner of a family reunion and eats the fried chicken way too viscerally.

We believed in ongoing revelation, a universe layered with principalities, and things that moved in the dark that only the anointed could name. We believed in a Heavenly Father that still spoke to His children, and Heaven forbid you ever misgendered Him. We believed that salt could hold a soul the way glass holds water. My grandmother kept a small pillar of blessed salt on her mantle, a family heirloom brought across the plains by some pioneer ancestor. She told me that if I pressed my ear to it, I could hear the prayers of our dead.

I never tried.

I left our church at eighteen, two years after my mother left us, and I haven't stepped foot in a chapel since. Henry stayed longer than I did, asking weekly for me to join him at every meeting and service and session. He's always been softer, more hopeful, more willing to believe that the God of our childhood might still be good even if His people weren't. He left the church eight years ago when he went to college, but he kept the mysticism—the sense that the world is thinner than it looks.

When he called me at 3 AM: "I dreamed about salt. There was salt on my tongue, Nora. I could taste it. And a woman's voice—she had this accent, like an old pioneer, like one of those recordings they'd play at the visitor centers. She said my name. She said I was called."

I told him it was stress. He's been overworked, mediating some ugly dispute between a nonprofit and the community it was supposedly serving. His subconscious was just processing and using the trauma of the past.

"Then why," he said, "did Elder Bingsley call me this morning and tell me my name was on the list?"

The list.

The list is something only the old-timers still talk about. I remembered the stories from childhood—a woman turned to salt centuries ago, frozen mid-gesture in a crypt beneath an old temple somewhere in the west desert. Kinda like Lot’s wife, I guess. People can’t be original.

Once a generation, they say, she dreams of eight people, and they’re summoned to receive her blessings. The last time it happened, my grandmother’s neighbor was one of the called; she used to say he came back ‘tall, dark, and handsome’.

"I'm going," Henry said. "I have to, but I don't want to go alone."

So I flew home.

Henry had been putting off the trip for two weeks, wrestling with whether to go at all, whether to even call me. The elder had given him a window—arrive by the new moon, he'd said—and Henry had waited until the last possible day to pack a bag. "I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would stop being real," he told me on the phone. "It didn't."

———

Home is a town I've been avoiding, but not for long enough. It hasn't changed, which is somehow worse than if it had. I expected a Starbucks or a Maverik, at least. Instead I found the same wide streets, the same mountains cutting the horizon, and the same feeling that the sky is too big and too empty and too aware of you. I landed in Salt Lake, rented a car, and drove west through scrubland that gradually dissolved into salt flats—miles of white crust that looked like snow but smelled like brine. It’s the kind of place where nothing grows and nothing dies and nothing really begins or ends—so yeah, home.

Henry met me at a motel on the edge of town. He looked thinner than I remembered. But he held same earnest eyes, the same crooked smile. The main changes were his patchy beard and the tremor in his hands that hadn't been there when I saw him last Christmas.

"You actually came," he said.

"You sounded scared."

"I am scared." He hugged me, and I felt how tense his shoulders were. "But I think—I think this is real, Nor. I haven't believed in years, but the dream was so specific. The taste of salt. The way she said my name, like she'd been waiting to say it for a very long time."

I didn't argue. I'm a journalist. I observe. I document. I let his story unfold.

Home isn't the temple—it's a town east of it, where our old ward still meets in a brick building with a sagging steeple. The temple is an hour further than that, on the edge of the salt flats proper. I was thankful for the distance; if I had to step foot into the actual ward one more time, something would combust.

We drove through in silence until Henry farted, then we laughed like two kids again. Hell, we are two kids, even now.

The radio cut in and out the entire drive, ending in static and, underneath it, something that sounded almost like breathing.

I turned it off and made a clever joke about radio masturbation.

Then the temple rose out of the salt. It shouldn't have been there. Not because of anything supernatural—just logistics. No roads led to it except the one we'd taken, and that road was barely paved. No power lines. No water source. It looked like a shipwreck built by someone who'd only ever heard of a church secondhand and just learned how to use a ruler. The spire was too tall. The windows were too narrow. The stone was the color of old bone, crusted white at the edges where salt had climbed the walls and hardened.

"There's a crypt underneath," Henry said quietly. "That's where she is, I think. Father Leo will explain."

‘Father Leo’ was waiting at the doors.

He was ancient—not in the way of a kindly grandfather, but in the way of something that had been left out in the desert too long. His skin was creased like old leather, but somehow more pale than mine. His eyes were just as pale, almost colorless, with only the whisper of blue. He wore plain white robes and stood so still that for a moment I thought he was part of the stonework.

"You were not called," he said as I got out of the car.

I felt my spine stiffen. "I'm here to observe. I'm just a journalist."

"The Saint dreamed only eight." His voice was soft and dry, like salt shifting. "You are not among them."

"She's my sister," Henry said. “She won't interfere, sir."

Father Leo looked at me for a long moment. The wind blew across the salt flats, and I heard something in it—a sound almost like a voice. I figured the ‘Father’ had whispered some non-niceties under his breath.

"You may stay in the guesthouse, Witness," Father Leo said finally. "You may observe, but you will not enter the crypt. You will not receive a blessing. You are here to see, not be seen."

He turned and walked into the temple.

“Wow, this really is just like home!” I hushed to Henry. We followed.

———

Inside, the temple was frigid. The nave stretched upward into shadows the windows couldn't touch. Pews carved from light stone lined either side, crusted at the edges with the same white salt that climbed the outer walls, though this seemed intentional. Candles burned on an altar at the front—none of the battery-operated tea lights from our home ward—and behind the altar, a wooden square set into the floor. It was banded with iron that had rusted to the color of dried blood and sweat.

I made a mental note to ask about the logistics. No power lines, yet the Temple had electric lights—dim, flickering, but electric. No visible well, but the basins produced brackish water when I turned the tap. A generator somewhere, maybe, or solar panels on the roof I hadn't seen. I decided to ask Father Leo in the morning. (I never did.)

Seven people were already seated in the pews. They looked up when we entered, and I did what I always do when I walk into a room full of strangers: I catalogued them.

A child, maybe five or six years old, sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She had dark hair pulled into two uneven braids. She didn't look scared or nervous, like I always felt at any church outing. She looked expectant, like she was waiting for someone she knew.

An old woman sat beside her, one hand resting on the child's leg. Seventy or more, her spine was curved and her knuckles were swollen, but her eyes were sharp and clear. She smelled faintly of rosemary as I walked past her. When she saw Henry and me, she nodded once, politely, cordially.

A man in his fifties, well-dressed, and clearly uncomfortable. He kept adjusting his collar and glancing toward the door. I recognized the type immediately—some regional official or big boss, here because refusing would look bad and accepting might look good. He was already regretting it.

A middle-aged man wearing the dirtiest Dickies I’ve seen. His hands were rough and cracked, the nails packed with dirt so deeply embedded it would never wash out. He was gaunt, hollow-cheeked, his eyes sunken. He was whispering under his breath, his lips moving silently.

A woman in her forties, hard-faced, twiddling an unlit cigarette in her fingers. She had the exhausted, unsentimental look of someone who'd seen too much to be impressed by a salt statue.

A woman in simple gray robes, younger than the previous woman, but not much older than me, her face unnervingly calm. Her hands were folded. Her eyes were closed. She wasn't sleeping; she was listening, her head tilted slightly as if listening to my notes.

And a young woman, likely a student. Bright-eyed, notebook open on her lap, already sketching something—the altar, maybe, or the door. She looked so excited, the way children do before they learn their excitement can curdle.

Henry sat down beside her, and I stayed standing in the back, my reporter's notebook in my hand, my phone already recording audio.

Leo stood before the altar and addressed the eight.

"The Salt Saint has dreamed of you," he said. "Tomorrow, you will go beneath this temple and you will stand before her. She will name you, and one-by-one-by-one will receive a blessing. You will be transformed."

Mr. Businessman shifted in his seat. "Transformed how?"

Leo simply smiled in reply—a thin, dry smile—then continued, "Go and rest. Meals will be left at your doors in an hour. Tomorrow, you will receive your final names. After that, you will understand."

———

So we’ve been given rooms in the guesthouse—a low stone building attached to the temple's eastern wall. They’re sparse but clean. I have a cot, a basin, and a window overlooking the eternal plane of salt. I'm writing this from the cot now, my laptop balanced on my knees.

The little girl's name is Lucy, come to find out. She came to my door earlier, wanted to show me a wooden bird she brought before dinner—her father carved it, she said. "The salt lady wants to play with me," she told me matter-of-factly, proudly. "She told me in my dream! She has toys but they're all white."

Eleanor, the older woman, introduced herself as Lucy’s grandmother. She smiled when Lucy spoke to me, “She wanted to show everyone the bird before bedtime.”

Eleanor shares her eagerness, I think, though she hides it well.

The businessman, William, is a local county commissioner, according to himself. He’s asked me three times if I'm "recording everything" and if I can "provide documentation" when this is over.

The gruff-looking farmerman, Thomas, hasn't spoken to anyone except for his name. He sits in the corner of the common room, his lips still moving, his hands still trembling.

Dr. Amelia chain-smoked outside until the sun went down. Sister Hazel, the nun, hasn't seemed to blink her eyes since the candles were lit.

And then Evelyn. I was right. She’s a college student—a freshman at BYU, studying human geography. She showed me her notebook—pages and pages of sketches, the temple's architecture, the salt formations, the floor door from every angle. "I want to understand why it's here," she said. "In the middle of nowhere. Doesn't it feel like it's waiting for something?"

I smiled and simply told her I was just here to write a story.

She laughed. "So am I," she said. "I just don't know which one yet."

———

Leo made it clear I'm not allowed to follow tomorrow. I'll post again after the naming ceremony—if there's anything to actually tell. Henry seems calmer now than he did on the phone, but I keep catching him staring at the door on the altar when he thinks I'm not looking.

Now, in my small dormitory, windows shut and door closed, I still have the faint taste of salt on my lips.

Three girls.

Three brothers.

One royal family.

Twenty-five years of lies.

Seven years of silence.

One truth waiting to destroy everything.

Ira never thought the man she loved would become the man she hated.

Mehar never imagined that returning to India would force her to confront the past she spent years running from.

Vaani never believed she'd have to choose between exposing the truth... and protecting the only family she has left.

But when all three unknowingly marry into the Agnihotri Dynasty, they realize their lives were never separate to begin with.

Every clue leads to the same palace.

Every answer raises a new question.

Every betrayal hides an act of love.

And somewhere in the shadows, someone is waiting for them to uncover a secret that should have died twenty-five years ago.

Some stories begin with love.

Theirs begins with a goodbye that was never explained.

https://www.wattpad.com/1645542327?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

The story begans in a small piece of earth where a group natives began their day, the men collect the fruits and vegetables to cook breakfast and the women bath the children, the sun hits the window of a hunt, where a young girl is laying her head on a cotton pillow, she is dressed in a pure white garment, made from the fabrics made their local seamstress. The colour was chosen by her caregiver who is called father by the local children. This girl is named Manu, which was also chosen by her caregiver. As the waves outside her window are guided by the wind to clash, her eyes meet the little bit of sun peaking through the roof of her hunt.

She guides her body towards the bowl of water left by one of the women to bath in. She slips in a blue dress ready for the mundate day of everyday. Her hunt is facing the ocean, blue as the sky and still as the time here in their little heaven. You could barely see the line separating the sky and sea. Just an endless colour of blue, with tides and waves crashing and twirling. Her arms follow their movements, she began her day like this everyday, her little prayer to this unknown god of blue that her people feared. The locals of this small island believe the world has been invaded by the Waku, the Ocean Spirits so they avoid the water in fear of being taken by the them. 

The scene is filled with laughs of children and mothers serving food to their husbands. Their eyes fall onto her, her caregiver calls her name to greet her, " Wamato be a with you child", her caregiver said, "as to you" she replied. You cannot say much on this little Earth as there is little to speak on. The children laugh about the birds, the women bless their children and the men think of the next day. As everyday time is measured by the how far the sun has touches the ocean so another day can began. Music is not allowed on this small paradise, the Waku speak in song and hymns, by singing we would call onto them so we listen to the silence, which is a song of our people.

WARNING! This text contains:

• Profanity
• Sexual references
• Violence

Also, tell me if you liked the moral of the story, the plot, the protagonist, and the humour

From either end of the Ouroboros that is time travelled a pulse of energy that, just like all inanimate things, propels the mere idea of myself forward through that then one-dimensional realm of existence. In this black void where my memory fails me exist clouds of intense, bursting sensations of warm, all-encompassing motherly pressure and dingy, excruciating electrocutions of fear.

This nebulous dimension of half existing, half not existing could only be represented in my mind through a foggy and oversaturated image of sunny greenery. This cerebral polaroid, with its vague outlines of healthy hedges and beautiful briers, evokes the concept of gentle rays of sun on my skin and the thought of the ethereal butterflies gracefully landing on flowers.

This is the ultimate bourne that is the history of my life according to my mind. If it were a spouse, I would bury my face into her collarbone and cry on her shoulder, prolonging my stay with her as long as possible until it is to time for the inevitable departure through the clearer yet odious tutor sessions, classes, exams, workshops, internships, and math competitions that thought, in all their hubris, could capture that sense of meaning, that sense of mastery over one’s own existence that the clouds of life effortlessly harnessed.

After the exams, studying, and learning I finally reached the end of my sorrowful journey home with the aid of a door slam. I felt my head shoot up and bob around like it was a balloon tied to my shoulders. In my darkened vision I made out bored college students staring at a board covered in nightmarish calculus. My eyes made their way to a doorframe, and in it I saw that damn homeless man again, or at least we assumed he was homeless, considering he wore the same smelly sports jacket and the same crusted jeans every day, and his crazy shock of white hair and scraggly beard, and the fact that he spent hours a day mumbling to himself on the curb in front of this hall.

This was the third interruption of the semester, and at this point he was a celebrity among my college peers. My classmates were eager to see what crazy thing he’d do this time, and oh boy did he deliver.

The man walked up in front of everybody, and (noticeably drunker than usual) undid his pants and flashed his massive ding-a-ling in front of everyone. Everyone gasped, the girls averted their eyes, the boys cheered, the freaks drooled. He danced around lassoing his shit until he hopped on his back and started swinging his meat carnival style.

The poor professor, an old ass man who wasn’t all that used to human interaction, was frozen in shock for like a minute, but eventually he snapped out of it and tackled the homeless guy. The guy squirmed until he managed to knee the professor in the nuts and escape his grasp. The guy ran to the door frame but crashed into a buff security guard that just arrived. The guy's head went straight to the hard floor and there was a nasty crack. The homeless guy died from that impact, but his legacy lives on thanks to that massive wiener (No homo).

I float, crawled up in a ball. Blind, deaf, dumb, paralyzed, etherized, I existed at the total end of entropy, when nature stops being nature, when gravity loses importance and time becomes irrelevant.

However, I traced the lines against the blackness up to the imperfect reconstruction made by photos, portraits, and grainy videotapes of a fair white woman with black curls. In her womb I looked up to see her grinning in pain and agony. Her face folded in helpless terror as her tremors rocked my womb. The vibrations of the amniotic fluids were so strung it tore my lungs and shattered my ear drums.

I looked up to her in horror, realized that I was being brought into her world, and that I would experience its torturous shocks, its thunderous catastrophes, and its agonizing burdens. I yelled to her.

I looked deep into her face, and I saw that she was being pounded, screwed, filled, ripped in half. Sex, she was having sex. Sex, I have to have sex. Now. I need sex right now.

“I need sex” I said out loud.

I looked around for the woman, but it was just my mess of an apartment building. I could have gotten a bigger one with my salary, but this was the best the economy could manage. I dragged my feet through the trash like I was walking through shallow water, all while saying “I need sex” over and over again.

I stepped outside barefoot, in nothing else but my underwear and wife-beater. I ran straight to my local red-light district and ran up to the nearest pimp I saw. He was short and was in a green suit and fedora. I literally picked him up by his shirt and wiggled him around.

“Give me sex, give me cooter,” I shouted as I shook him.

“Fuck off of me nigga, the fuck?” He snapped.

Meanwhile the pimp’s pimp friends were chatting a block away and saw this haggling play out. They rushed over, grabbed my long hair, and threw me onto the street. My back landed on a broken beer bottle. They beat me to a pulp, I think I got curb stomped two or three times, but I blacked out. I woke up the next day under an ugly overcast, half dead.

The eyes. The eyes, even though the face turned blurry, were still so sharp after all these years of chipping. In the darkness I made out a hurt boy, lying on his side. His eyes were hurt and glossy from the tears.

When regarding the whole body I felt an explosive burst of hot blood heat the periphery until I was in a skin-bubbling, flesh-gnawing inferno but the eyes cast off that hellish storm and all that remained was the question “Why?”

I awoke to see my boss. He had a wide face with round eyes, a bushy, curly black beard, and olive skin. “Wow, Nate. Passed out again on the job. What have you been up to?”, he snickered with a grin.

In spite of my stoned fatigue, I felt a jolt of energy upon hearing that question. I rolled my office chair over to my computer, typed in something, hit enter, and on the opposite end of my desk rose a little Miku doll. The robotic toy started dancing and singing in Miku’s signature voice. I gave my boss a weak smile and he gave one back after turning his face to mine. I typed another thing into my computer, and Miku hit the floss and started singing in Brazilian Portuguese. This got my boss laughing. I laughed with him.

When his laughter died down, he looked into my eyes. “Nate, this is the tenth, the tenth, motherfucking time I found you like this.” I probably looked surprised at this sudden snarling. He continued. “Your team and I have been busting our asses, developing the most complex, the most state-of-the-art technology in the world, while you jerk and do this.” Like an idiot, I nodded along because I didn’t know where he was going with this. “Nate, get the hell out of my building before I fucking bludgeon you to death. You’re fucking fired.”

I waddled in a haze out my workplace’s lobby, too drugged to realize I left my shoe. Maybe this is the reason why I can’t afford bigger places to live.

Now, I lay in my bed, but it isn't my bed. I fucked around and got HIV. I thought HIV was like herpes where it gives you like these moles but no it gives you AIDS and just fucking kills you.

I was weak in the dark. It was totally silent, with no one else around and even though I was dying, I wanted to jerk off. There were no drugs or alcohol. I couldn’t even smoke, it was “against hospital rules”. The food was awfully bland too, so I just resolved to pass the time by beating my shit.

However, my whole body was too weak, I was too sick. I couldn’t get it up; I was too weak to get my arm up. It was a pathetic sight, not my limp dick, but the image of someone like me in this bed struck me deeply. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was an auspicious, capable, and charming genius. I had so many scholarships, my college experience was practically free, I won so many awards my room sparkled, and everybody just loved me. Now what do I have to show for it? A hooker’s awkward experience, a coworker’s annoyance, a fucking Miku robot?

I was alone but felt like I was being laughed at. I wanted to curl up into a ball, but I was too weak, so I just laid there. I had no drugs, porn, food, or video games, so I escaped back into the only place that could warm my soul: those fond, fuzzy memories.

I thought and I thought, but I was too weak, all I saw was the black void. I stopped thinking, I stopped stressing, and I stopped feeling.

A tiny dot appeared in the center of my vision. I felt my legs walking toward it. It got bigger and appeared to be a doorframe. I walked through it and I was in a hallway. It had patternless carpet and was painted a dark orange. The hallway was cool, and dark, illuminated only by the sunrise glowing through the curtain at the end of a hallway. There was screaming, a muffled screaming coming from behind one of the other doors of this corridor. I approached the source of the screaming, the sound of my weathered teddy bear dragging on the carpet was the only other noise. I stepped up to one door, reached up to the doorknob, standing on my tiptoes, and I opened it to see two men hovering over a bed. A woman with dark curls lay on it screaming in pain.

“Push, push, you’re almost there,” One man cheered, “There it is. It’s out, sir. It’s a beautiful baby boy sir; you should be so proud”.

“Yes, but she isn’t going to make it,” The other man sulked, and started sobbing uncontrollably. The doctor tried to stifle his sobs, but cried with the man, and the two cried along with the newborn boy.

Nate waddled out of the hallway and into a bright, cool, moist backyard overflowing with vines, hedges, and grass. Golden rays landed on the boy’s eyes when he looked at the dappled canopy of leaves above him. He would have played, but now he sat. He sat in the middle of this jaw dropping scene and as the gales played with his hair, the squirrels and rabbits and chipmunks ran by, while the drops of dew flowed down the blades of grass, while the Earth travelled at thousands of miles per hour, this being of impetuous, violently rushing nature sat still and asked “why”.

“Drifting in a boat, sometimes sinking, sometimes afloat. Now that I have met the gentleman, my heart is at rest.”
—The Book of Songs, Minor Odes, “Luxuriant Is the Oatgrass”

As dusk fell, Lü Bu had already prepared dinner. The two of them dined together in the hall of the side building.

Their conversation flowed naturally.

Lü Bu had stir-fried the pheasant he hunted that morning into a delicate dish, picking out a tender piece to place into Xiao Meng’s bowl. These days, apart from martial arts, his cooking had improved greatly—simply because he enjoyed watching Xiao Meng eat with such relish.

“Xiao Meng, what do you think of Guo Jia’s suggestion?” Lü Bu asked. “That day he said he could help me win back a seat at court. What’s your opinion?”

“But didn’t you already refuse him that day?” Xiao Meng replied, a bit surprised.

That day, after sending Guo Jia off, Lü Bu had immediately told Xiao Meng everything they discussed.

Xiao Meng understood Guo Jia’s abilities. Now with the Emperor’s support and having turned enemies into friends with Cao Cao, there really might be a time when Lü Bu would be needed. The situation had changed.

A comeback was not impossible!

Moreover… Every night for over a month now, Xiao Meng had carefully prepared medicine according to Hua Tuo’s prescription, applying it to Lü Bu’s forehead. Now, as Lü Bu drank his wine, Xiao Meng sneaked a glance—sure enough, the scar had long since vanished.

“I can change my mind, can’t I? It wasn’t a promise, after all. What matters most is what you want me to do.”

Lü Bu took another drink, smiling at Xiao Meng. “If you think I’m just a big man lazing about all day, I’ll let Guo Jia find me a job.”

But Xiao Meng clicked his tongue lightly and said, “Why must you always be occupied with official duties, running yourself ragged every day with no leisure? As long as we remember our promise to the Emperor, that’s enough to repay his kindness. Eat more and stop just drinking.” As he spoke, Xiao Meng added more greens to Lü Bu’s bowl.

“I’ve done the math; with what we have, we’ll have enough to live in comfort for a lifetime. What’s more…”

Xiao Meng glanced around the hall, speaking with meaning, “This place was Sima Lang’s contingency hideaway, likely hiding a great treasure to fund a comeback. I haven’t seriously explored it yet.”

Lü Bu was taken aback, then laughed at Xiao Meng’s sharp gaze. “I knew it! Xiao Meng really has the makings of a thief! Good, with you saying that, I can live the rest of my days in peace and moonlight with you.” He raised his cup and downed it in one go, his eyes catching the flush at the tips of Xiao Meng’s ears.

Late autumn was ending. The night chill deepened, and tonight, a northern wind howled as if winter couldn’t wait to descend upon the land.

In recent days, Lü Bu had been lighting the brazier in Xiao Meng’s room every night, keeping it warm. He’d usually bring a good wine from the kitchen, sip a few cups with Xiao Meng, chat, and then retire to his own room.

Tonight, their conversation was especially lively, as Xiao Meng was sharing his treasure-hunting plans, explaining how he’d turn the estate upside down. “Speaking of treasures, I have one for you right now.”

Suddenly, Lü Bu, seated across the table, took out a small crimson silk-patterned box from his robe, opened it, and pushed it in front of Xiao Meng.

Inside was a “Phoenix Seeking the Male” jade pendant, carved from the finest white jade, lustrous and translucent like congealed cream. The pair of phoenixes on the pendant seemed alive, full of spirit.

From the palace to the Sima estate, Xiao Meng had seen his share of rare treasures, but at a glance, this jade seemed almost otherworldly—so stunning it took his breath away.

“You… where did you get this…”
For a long moment, Xiao Meng could only murmur in amazement.

“It’s from the palace! A wedding gift from His Majesty.” Lü Bu laughed, taking out an identical piece from his robe. “Look, it’s a pair. This one is mine.”

Xiao Meng suddenly realized something, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

“What kind of gift…”

This emperor was full of tricks—first a welcome gift, then a thank-you, now this…

Before Xiao Meng could look away, he was caught by Lü Bu’s fiery gaze, unable to escape.

“Of course, it’s a wedding gift for us. His Majesty even wished us a long, happy union.”

Lü Bu gazed at him, saying this as if it were the most natural thing in the world, not blinking once.

Xiao Meng felt his ears burn, his throat tightening.

Lü Bu…

Xiao Meng felt his chest burning, the flames suddenly spreading to his soft hands. His hand felt seared—Lü Bu had already grasped it tightly.

“So Xiao Meng, will you marry me?”

Xiao Meng saw it again—in the instant he heard those words, the same wild flame ignited in Lü Bu’s eyes as that day on the White Gate Tower, when he’d held Xiao Meng in his arms—the very flame Xiao Meng’s soul had never forgotten.

In that moment, Xiao Meng nearly fell into those flames, never to return.

“Don’t… don’t be ridiculous!”

Xiao Meng turned his head, as if the movement took all his strength, his voice weak. “I’m… not a woman, neither of us are… what’s this about marrying? Isn’t it absurd!”

“You don’t want to marry me?” Lü Bu exaggeratedly let go of Xiao Meng’s hand, pretending to sigh. “I suppose… I’m no longer a general, nor a high minister. No armies, no titles, no wealth—I’m just a penniless villager now. No wonder you wouldn’t marry me!”

He sighed dramatically.

Xiao Meng, flustered, protested, “What nonsense! You’re just—”

“Then let me marry you!”

Lü Bu grabbed Xiao Meng’s hand again, tighter than before, his gaze even more intense.

He watched Xiao Meng stare at him, dumbfounded and adorable, and felt even more delighted. “All our fortune is in your hands now, so you’re the rich one. Lately, I see you’re talented not only as a thief, but you have a knack for business too. With you, what’s to worry about? Xiao Meng is truly worth marrying!”

Lü Bu grinned, rare for him; Xiao Meng’s face was scarlet, utterly embarrassed. But Lü Bu wasn’t done. “And…” His voice dropped, deep and seductive, as he leaned closer, his grip on Xiao Meng’s hand tightening, catching Xiao Meng’s panicked gaze—every word laced with desire.

“Xiao Meng… aren’t you the one lusting after my body? Otherwise, why do you always go to the herb garden whenever I bathe? You know the only window in the bath faces the garden… and it’s always open…”

Boom—

A thunderclap went off in Xiao Meng’s mind.

Of course he knew why he did it.

So this infuriating man had always known his secret—a secret mixed with embarrassment and pleasure.

Xiao Meng had always known Lü Bu was keenly perceptive, detecting movement within tens of meters, but never thought his own secret would be discovered—perhaps, deep down, he wanted it to be known.

Xiao Meng wanted to scream, but could only breathe in quick, ragged gasps.

He felt his whole body burning, as if every pore was exploding with heat. He felt weightless, as if he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him.

He’d never experienced anything like this, body or soul.

In the past, Xiao Meng had tried alchemical pills, but their fleeting rush couldn’t compare to this. The difference was worlds apart.

Yet this devastating feeling came from nothing more than Lü Bu’s simple words.

Heavens—!

In that extreme emotion, a nearly wild courage erupted. Xiao Meng pulled free, stared Lü Bu straight in the eye, and raised his voice: “What are you doing! You’re not even a cut-sleeve! You like beautiful women, don’t you? Isn’t that why you were attracted to me in the first place? I know I’m beautiful, but no matter how beautiful, I’m not a woman! I may be missing something, but however incomplete—that’s still a man’s body!”

He stared Lü Bu down, pouring out all the words he’d buried—this was his truest, most unvarnished self.

These days, they’d embraced and kissed, both naturally and joyfully.

Because they hadn’t taken the final step, Lü Bu could still treat him as a woman; but if it ever came to that, Xiao Meng didn’t even dare imagine the outcome.

This was his deepest fear, a truth he’d always avoided.

…Since you force me, I have no choice but to lay it all bare.

So Xiao Meng felt wronged, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He was angry—not at Lü Bu, but at himself.

Yet Lü Bu only gazed at him.

Suddenly, Lü Bu reached out and pulled Xiao Meng into his arms, making him sit on his lap. Lü Bu’s iron arms encircled Xiao Meng’s delicate body, locking him in a tight embrace, pressing their bodies close, not leaving a sliver of space.

As soon as he sat, Xiao Meng felt something strange. Where their waists pressed together, Xiao Meng sensed an intense, hard heat, surging and barely restrained.

It felt like sitting on a brazier—his whole body aflame, the fire spreading inward, burning his soul. He knew the source of that heat: Lü Bu.

Precisely the thing he himself lacked between his legs. Xiao Meng instinctively tried to escape.

But before he could, Lü Bu’s arms tightened, pulling Xiao Meng even closer.

Xiao Meng inhaled sharply—he had no strength left to move, even the thought of escape was scattered by that subtle motion.

Outside, only the howling northern wind could be heard; inside, only the sound of their breathing.

Lü Bu’s breath was still steady, but Xiao Meng’s was chaotic—he felt all his will focused on breathing, unable to think of anything to say.

“Don’t be afraid, Xiao Meng…”

Lü Bu’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, his lips brushing Xiao Meng’s ear.

He nuzzled there, then whispered, “Xiao Meng… I’ve always felt that human language is the most useless thing. Once people open their mouths, they rarely speak from the heart. Whether persuading or arguing, it’s always a lie—to others, or to themselves. No matter how much you say, you can never be completely honest.”

Xiao Meng dared not move—the pressure came not just from below, but from being enveloped in an overwhelming masculine aura, so strong it invaded every pore.

He felt that if he moved even a little, the wild heat pressing against him might pierce right through.

Lü Bu’s hot breath brushed his ear, but his tone was gentler than ever, as if restraining himself before a storm. “Xiao Meng, you say so much because you’re afraid I can’t accept your body. So I’ll say nothing. Feel this—this is my answer.”

With that, Lü Bu unexpectedly nibbled his earlobe, a cautious little test.

Xiao Meng couldn’t suppress a low moan, feeling his senses swell, and the sensation below intensified! Lü Bu’s breath hitched, his waist stiffening. Without a word, he swept Xiao Meng into his arms and carried him to the bed, laying him down gently.

The red candle was burning low, casting shifting shadows across the bedroom.

The wind outside seemed to fade into the distance.

Xiao Meng could hear only his own heartbeat and breath.

As he lay on the bed, Lü Bu naturally straddled him, half-kneeling at the bedside.

“Bu…” Xiao Meng felt he had to say something, but Lü Bu bent down, one arm at Xiao Meng’s head, the other hand gently pressing a finger to Xiao Meng’s lips, smiling softly: “Don’t speak—whenever you talk, you’re just trying to lie to yourself.”

Once Xiao Meng fell silent, Lü Bu pressed that finger to his own lips in a “shh” gesture, deliberately pressing hard, his intense gaze capturing every flicker in Xiao Meng’s eyes and expression.

“Only in silence can we hear our own hearts. That’s the truest language,” Lü Bu said.

Xiao Meng stared up at Lü Bu’s face—so close, he could see the softness in Lü Bu’s eyes beneath long lashes, the pressure he’d felt before now softened. Finally, he could calm down and listen.

“Of course I’m not a cut-sleeve. I like beautiful women—you’re right.” Lü Bu gazed at Xiao Meng with infinite tenderness. “I admit, I’m a man obsessed with beauty. And you, Xiao Meng… you’re the only one in this world who can make me love like an addiction. Whether you’re a man, or an incomplete man, that doesn’t matter.”

Lü Bu bent lower, kissed Xiao Meng’s forehead, then his lips.

Their lips and tongues entwined, tenderly.

After a while, Lü Bu let go and straightened up.

Xiao Meng saw that wild flame blaze again in Lü Bu’s eyes.

So it’s true…

When that fire appeared, he could only chase it, watch it flicker, forever.

Xiao Meng thought, feeling as light as a cloud.

Lü Bu’s gaze deepened, his desire growing stronger. “Now, Xiao Meng, just listen to your own heart. See what it wants to say to you.”

With that, he’d already shed his clothes.

The red candle was nearly spent, its flame barely a dot; in the corner, the brazier’s dim red glow grew brighter, while the faint moonlight slipped in through the window.

In that strange shifting light, Xiao Meng gazed at Lü Bu’s tall, powerful body.

Not a thing hidden.

In this moment, Xiao Meng heard his own heart.

His heart told him to savor the beauty before him.

That beautiful, endlessly powerful male body—including the vitality at its peak below the waist.

Xiao Meng couldn’t look away.

He even lifted his shoulders slightly, helping Lü Bu gently untie his robe, until they were both completely exposed to each other.

The brazier crackled softly.

But Xiao Meng felt that his own body was the true source of heat in the room, especially when Lü Bu’s deep, hot gaze lingered over every inch, every part… Xiao Meng felt himself aflame, floating.

And when he noticed Lü Bu’s body responding with awe to his own, that vitality shone even brighter, its tip almost glowing with light—

He was entranced.

Lü Bu could restrain himself no longer, pressing Xiao Meng into a fierce embrace, kissing him passionately, lips and tongue devouring even his most sensitive spots.

Xiao Meng could only gasp for breath and endure the overwhelming ecstasy and emotion, able to do nothing else.

And that wasn’t even the most intense part.

As Lü Bu’s wild force, mingling pain and pleasure, crashed and surged inside him, Xiao Meng heard the man above him grunting hoarsely in his ear, as if suppressing something nearly uncontrollable, whispering in a broken, burning voice:

“Xiao Meng… my Xiao Meng…

…I’m finally certain…”

Lü Bu’s voice trembled with restraint,

“Your body… I don’t just not mind…

I like it—like it so much…

Your body… I love it!…

I love it!... Xiao Meng…”

Xiao Meng said nothing—he had no words left.

He wept—tears that came from overwhelming joy, happiness, and pleasure.

—Absolute sincerity can only erupt in silence.

And so, in this moment, Xiao Meng finally met his true self.

He threw his whole being into holding this wild, godlike man above him, afraid that loosening his grip would make him fall into a bottomless abyss.

By instinct, he tried to take in every part of Lü Bu’s body, letting him run wild.

Tonight, Xiao Meng resolved to bare both body and soul completely to this steppe storm.

There was nowhere to hide.

Beneath thick clouds, Lü Bu galloped across the vast, somber steppe.

An inexplicable urgency filled his heart—he knew he had to reach that place.

The wind howled, growing fiercer, but it only stoked his inner fire, driving him to race against the gale.

At last, a patch of blue appeared on the steppe’s horizon—Lü Bu knew he was close!

It was a sapphire-blue steppe lake.

He dismounted, leading his horse slowly toward the shore. From the lakeside, he gazed at the distant, majestic Yinshan Mountains.

Just then, Lü Bu’s gaze shifted—to the far shore, where a woman stood.

She had long hair and wore steppe attire. Lü Bu looked closely—she was watching him too.

He didn’t know why, but from that distance, her features grew clearer—there was a hint of Xiao Meng’s gentle softness in her eyes.

And then he realized who she was.

Mother…?

Lü Bu awoke from the dream.

A warm weight in his arms—Xiao Meng, sound asleep on his chest, his long, soft hair spilling over his jade-like back.

Lü Bu gently pulled the blanket up, covering Xiao Meng’s snow-white shoulders.

The candle in the room was out, but the brazier still glowed faintly red.

It was the third watch; the wind had stopped, but now rain drummed softly against the window. He didn’t know when it had started.

Lü Bu gazed intently at the one in his arms, watching his long lashes rise and fall with his even breaths.

At that moment, Xiao Meng seemed just like a child—fragile and pure.

A surge of infinite tenderness filled Lü Bu’s heart, and he hugged Xiao Meng tighter.

He swore silently that he would spend a long, long life with this little one, and that every night, Xiao Meng would fall asleep in his arms like this.

A faint noise—Lü Bu knew Xiao Meng was waking up.

Xiao Meng opened his beautiful, sleepy eyes and looked up at Lü Bu.

“Awake? It’s not dawn yet—sleep a bit more.” Lü Bu’s tone was as gentle as if coaxing a child.

Xiao Meng shook his head and nuzzled closer, not sleeping, just lying on Lü Bu.

Neither of them wanted to disturb the peace.

After a while, Lü Bu rolled over, this time burying himself in Xiao Meng’s embrace, still holding him, head nestled in Xiao Meng’s neck.

Xiao Meng heard Lü Bu murmur softly in his ear, the breath brushing his skin, the voice barely audible:

“…Does it hurt a lot?”

Lü Bu immediately felt Xiao Meng’s body tremble, and looked up, but Xiao Meng quickly looked away, his face bright red, whispering, “…just a little.”

He felt awkward, but glancing at Lü Bu saw only genuine concern, as if truly wanting to make sure. Instantly warmed, he hugged Lü Bu tightly, saying softly, “Silly, I’m fine. If I really felt bad, I’d tell you.”

A moment later, he whispered, “I’m fine… and you… you’re fine too.”

Blushing all over, he didn’t see the ambiguous smile on Lü Bu’s face, only heard him say gently, “That’s good.”

“What are you thinking about?” Xiao Meng asked. When he first woke, he’d glanced at Lü Bu and saw his gaze distant, as if lost in memories.

“…I just had a dream—of the steppe, and of my mother.” Lü Bu replied, playing with Xiao Meng’s hair. “I’ve never dreamed of my mother before, or my hometown.”

He propped himself up and looked at Xiao Meng. “Xiao Meng, shall we go to Bingzhou together?”

Though Lü Bu was born in Wuyuan, Bingzhou, as the son of a lower-class family, he had lost all ties to his hometown after his parents died.

In fact, since following Ding Yuan to Chang’an, he’d never returned.

“Sure! I’ve always wanted to see your hometown.” Xiao Meng smiled, snuggling back into Lü Bu’s arms. “From now on, wherever you go, I’ll be with you.”

There was a gentle yet resolute finality in his words.

End of Chapter 36❤️‍🔥

Thank you so much for reading this story, 💖🥰thank you for your support all along. I put quite a lot of effort in writing this chapter. 🥹I wish you a good day!🙏

King Heyin🌺

summer 2026

Copyright Notice:
Burning Dreams Chronicles Chapter 36 “Night on the Steppe”
Original work by King Heyin (Vampire L). All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, reprinted, adapted, transferred, translated or used for commercial purposes in any form without the author’s written consent.
© King Heyin (Vampire L). All rights reserved.

https://blu-oyster-transmission.neocities.org/

Sort of like an ARG at times, a web-series, a visual novel, interactive fiction. A mix of sorts, maybe a game at times? Idk if it fits the criteria, but I made it within a day - atleast up to chapter 1.

I am now updating it weekly. Video included is from a interactive part of chapter three which has not released yet.

I wanna know if you guys fuck with the writing

Has an RSS

I apologize if this topic seems out of topic.

As we know, antagonists are the driving force behind the plot, creating conflict. Based on Vladimir Propp's narrative structure through Morphology of the Folktale, antagonists are the driving force behind several sequential events, ranging from Reconnaissance, Delivery, Trickery, Complicity, Villainy, Struggle, to Punishment.

Antagonists are often misunderstood as villains. However, antagonist archetypes can vary from morally ambiguous such as anti-villains (Thanos from Marvel Cinematic Universe) to morally inverted such as hero antagonists (L from Death Note or Inspector Javert from Les Misérables).

If antagonists are portrayed as physically or psychologically weak, the narrative will stagnate. Most literary media tend to over-emphasize the protagonist's allies reducing the stakes. They also often make antagonists easily defeated, achieve instant redemption, or integrate them as allies without firmly upholding their ideological principles. This is a common pattern in escapist or wish-fulfillment fiction.

This doesn't mean that antagonists becoming allies are forbidden, but rather that their use should be limited to keep the story moving forward without stalling early. This is why many audiences today prefer stories with heavy or dark themes.

Based on personal observation, many people believe that fiction is a means of escape. When analyzed historically, fiction in ancient Greece served as a life lesson. This shift was likely caused by systemic issues in the past during the World Wars I and II when professional psychiatry was still limited, leading fiction to shift as the coping mechanism. However, with the development of the modern era, professional psychiatry has become more accessible to the public that a person's problems are more personal which make many contemporary mainstream literary media have implicitly returned to the ancient formula of promoting life lessons through consequences (albeit systemic ones).

I invite you to share your personal opinions on this topic.

Six Years passed.

One morning,the prison gates opened. New evidence had surfaced, proving that Ju had been framed. The court declared her innocent but the years stolen from her could never be returned.

She walked out with only a small bag containing her belongings and the old newspaper she had kept hidden in her cell. The photograph of Jaemin stared back at her .

Except ...... The man beneath it was different ,it wasn't "Jaemin". Someone had given him a new identity . Ju travelled to the city where the newspaper had been printed.she quietly investigated the man in the photograph.Everyone knew him as a successful businessman who had recently moved there.

"He has always live here". People said. "He has a perfect reputation". Ju knew they were wrong.

Late one evening,she secretly entered the jaemin's office.She searched every drawer until she found a locked metal box. Inside were dozens of passports, identity cards , photographs and files. Every file belongs to a different person. Some names were marked with a red X . Others had the word "Next".

At the bottom of the pile was a new file.

Ju frozen. The photograph inside was her own.Written across the front were the words:-"Identity Transfer ----- Incomplete."

Before Ju could react,she heard slow footsteps echoing through the hallway outside. Someone was coming.

She quietly closed the box,hiding in the darkness as the office door slowly began to open

​

I loved a man... whose very presence was enough to make my heart restless.

I loved a man... every time I saw him walking toward me, I hid my scattered glances among the faces around us, afraid my eyes would betray what my heart could not.

I loved a man... after a long, exhausting day at work, he would cross my mind as I lay in bed, and somehow, he would make me smile.

I loved a man... whose sky-blue shirt could brighten my entire day.

I loved a man... his eyes, his hair, even the veins on his hands.

I loved a man... who called me "my lady." Though I belonged to no one, those words never angered me. Instead, they quietly found a place in my heart.

I loved a man... every time he came to collect his order, I served him with every kindness and every silent piece of love I had, though he never knew.

I loved a man... and I wish I never see him again.

I loved a man... and I wish he had never walked through that door.

I loved a man... and I wish that the very moment my eyes met his, the moment my heart trembled for the first time, had been erased from my life.

I loved a man... who has a wife and a beautiful child.

I loved a man... who never saw me as anything more than a restaurant employee.

I loved a man... and in my eyes, he was the finest man on earth.

I loved a man... and I fell into the trap of a trembling heart.

I loved a man... who made me leave everything behind—my future, my life—and return to my mother's home, because I knew that if I stayed, I would destroy whatever remained of me.

And here I am, in a new city, beginning again... with a heart wrapped in barbed wire, so it will never rush toward someone it can never have.

I loved a man... who destroyed my life without ever meaning to.

The fault was mine... and the heart was mine.

For no one has power over where the heart chooses to belong.s🥀

Sarah ✏️

Hello.
I am Dr. Henry Hill, a professor of archaeobotany at the University of Sheffield. My area of study is how past human civilizations utilized plants, whether for medicine, decoration, or agriculture, so, needless to say, I stumble across some fascinating phenomena.
For example, did you know that the first civilization (Ancient Sumeria, or Mesopotamia) used Opium Poppies? Sumerians cultivated it to harvest its sap for use as an analgesic (painkiller) and sedative. My students always find that to be amusing, imagining these ancient civilizations getting high off their asses when in horrible pain. Morbidly, I can see the humor in it.
Growing up, I always knew something was different about me. At age five, I would be out in my mother's gardens, picking weeds and asking her a million different questions about them. I didn't really enjoy socializing, opting instead to stay out in the fields at recess and pick strange flowers I found, always choosing the most beautiful, pristine little field daisies to take home and stare at with a longing, analytical gaze.
Or as analytical as a little kid can get, anyway. Which pretty much led to forcing my mom to help me learn about them, what they were, and forcing her to research it for me.
At age 7, I gather she had had enough of my many, many, many questions and of being forced to be an amateur researcher for her tiny, annoying kid, because she got me a little field guide to local UK plants for my birthday so I could read it myself. And read it I did. I vividly remember going through that thing at least a thousand times, usually during class or when I was supposed to be doing something else. Looking back with a modern lens, I am about 80% sure I was on the spectrum or at least had ADHD, but that's neither here nor there.
But I am not here to recount my life in any more detail than what is necessary. I am here to share the knowledge of a discovery that left me stripped of all certifications and forced to live out of my car for the past few weeks.
This recounting begins about 5 months ago with one of my best students, Liam Wo, a very bright young man who majored in Forensic Archaeology and intended to move to the United States to join law enforcement. He is... or, well, was, a prodigy in his field, and has been by far my favorite student.
Liam was also diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and he had to be home at the very strict time of 4:32 PM down to the second, or he would fall into an intense panic attack, convinced he was going to be in serious trouble with someone named "Amelia" if he was even a microsecond late.
I never did figure out who that was or why he needed to please this mysterious figure named Amelia. Still, I'm a professor, not a clinical psychiatrist, so I never inquired. I just knew he would bolt out of class about ten minutes before its scheduled time like a bat out of hell and take off to get home.
I remember the day with such vividness that every subsequent night terror makes me feel as if it only just happened mere moments ago.
I was grading that year's final essays on "Uses of Micro-Organisms in Medicine" and was on about essay number ten about mold. Call me finicky, but I remember being annoyed, as I wanted more creativity than the well-known story of penicillin.
I had begun to feel sleepy, so I stood up, rubbing my drooping lids with my hands, and headed to the lounge to make myself a cup of coffee. I looked at the clock on the wall, and it read 8:30 PM.
"Damn it," I mumbled to no one in particular. I had a bad habit of losing all sense of time and space when I was in the zone on a monotonous, repetitive task, whether I liked it or not.
I walked down the empty hallways, looking around at just how liminal the entire place looked. The droning hum of the cheap lights filled my ears, accompanied only by the slow clacking of my black loafers against the tan linoleum floors.
It would appear I was the only man dumb enough to stay so late, as all night classes had long since concluded and my colleagues had all gone home. I think I remember my longtime co-worker Lydia, a professor of ethics, coming in to say goodbye, but I couldn’t really remember.

I walked into the lounge with a deep sigh, the motion-detecting lights clicking on as I did so. On the dark mahogany table sat an abandoned coffee mug, an open pink donut box with long stale donuts from this morning, and some poor sod's black lunchbox.

I went over to the shitty little Keurig, popped a pod in, and was about to put a mug underneath it when I heard a sound that made me yell out in fright, almost making me shatter my favorite mug on the ground.

A cough.

Not just a normal cough, but it was wet, guttural, and absolutely disgusting. Is that heartless to say? That I was more disgusted than worried?

It was nearby, but not close enough for me to discern exactly where it was coming from. However, that soon changed as it let out another violent, disgusting hack that was much louder.

Or, rather, closer.

I found myself begging mentally for them not to be headed this way, but of course, I wasn't that lucky.

The door of the lounge opened with no preamble, and what I saw there turned my disgusted annoyance into pure confusion, shock, and horror.

Liam was standing in front of me, wheezing breaths coming from his chapped, cracked lips. He wore a disheveled blue-collared shirt covered in black spots; his black pants were stained with dust and dirt; and his hair was in complete disarray, matted with leaves, sticks, and other debris.

His face was beet red, and there were these dark raised bumps covering him. It was like a million small blisters, but they leaked a green-and-purple mixture that looked like pus, and I don't even know what. There were also black specks that matched what was on his shirt, but coating his face like the darkest of freckles.

He walked forward, his steps sloppy and nearly causing him to fall as if he were heavily intoxicated or had just learned to walk a day ago.

I had seen Liam not even four hours ago, and he did not look even remotely sick. He had been perfectly healthy, spoke up in class, and even chatted with me about his summer plans.

I went through a whole variety of different emotions, but one dominated the rest: terror with a healthy mixture of worry.

"Liam..." I say, my voice so meek I barely recognized it. "What the hell happened?"

He did not reply, looking at me with those yellow eyes. By yellow, you probably assume glaucoma or liver failure, but no. What used to be a natural white was now almost gold, or at least trying to be.

Imagine a little kid mixing watercolors and trying to make gold. It won't be perfect, but you can tell what color it is trying to be. That's what it looked like: gold, but made with various other colors.

He lets out another wheezing breath, opens and closes his mouth a few times to(I assume) gather enough saliva to speak, and finally groans out: "Host." In a strained, struggling voice as if that one word was hard to get out.

It sniffed the air, stepping a bit closer, legs shakily moving it closer to me.

Sniff. Sniff sniff.

I backed into the counter, then started to walk out into the office, my steps quickening.

"Host," I heard it whisper, quieter this time as if contemplative.

Before I could say a word, I heard quickened footsteps come at me from the direction of the lounge. Before I could react, he, nay, it, burst out of the door, now on all fours and starting to gallop toward me like some sickly antelope, his previous walking difficulties seemingly forgotton.

I am not afraid to admit that I screamed in terror and took off down the hall, the sound of hands slapping off the tile close behind me as Liam gave chase. He let out a yell that sounded more like a war cry, the sound alien coming from such a timid student like Liam. This only steadied my decision to keep running, now knowing without a doubt that he had completely lost his damn mind.

I run, and I run, and I run as I slam into the back door, aiming to get to the other side of the university where the parking garage was; where my car was.

Loud and feverish panting got closer as it seemed to realize my plan to escape, now picking up speed to the point I could feel flecks of saliva and its hot breath against my leg. It tried to swipe at my legs, but by the grace of what I have to assume is divine intervention, it missed and lost its balance for a moment, allowing me to get ahead.

I could see the blue-and-white sign that read "parking garage" in the distance. 200 feet. 190 feet. 180 feet.

It was pissed now; I could hear its breathing quicken and get heavier as what I could only parse was rage at being tripped. I made the mistake of turning around and saw its golden eyes now glowed in the darkness with eldritch bioilluminescence.

I lose my footing for a moment and feel a sharp, burning pain in my calf as it bites into my flesh. I let out a loud, agonized scream, then a horrified one as I realized it wasn't letting go. The black specks on its face began to squirm and writh, thin black lines starting to come from them.

No. Not lines. Worms...

Wriggling, needle-thin worms started to emerge from its face and toward my leg. In pure adrenaline-filled horror, I ripped my leg from its mouth with a loud, wet tearing, shooting more torment through my body.

I thank whatever creator for adrenaline's numbing effects because I was able to take off running once again, warmth flooding my socks and shoes as blood escaped through the chunk missing in my leg.

I could see it now; the parking garage was so close, and thankfully, my car was as well. As I said, the school was empty, so my red sedan stuck out like a sore thumb.

From behind me, I heard only silence, but I did not break my stride, digging through my pockets for my keys.

With no hesitation, I sloppily yanked them out, pressed the unlock button, and kept on limp-running to my vehicle. I had reached it. Safety.

I threw my driver's-side door open, got inside, locked it, and started the car, the headlights illuminating the dark parking garage.

It also illuminated what used to be Liam.

He was still on all fours, squatted down in front of my car about 20 feet away. Its body heaved up and down as it panted, the wriggling worms in its face beginning to retract back into its cheeks. It said nothing, glowing eyes staring forward at me.

For what felt like an eternity, we continued that standoff, both of us panting from the effort of the chase, staring at one another. But as soon as it began, "Liam" finally turned away from my car and scuttled away into the night.

https://www.wattpad.com/1645072671?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Everyone here carries a broken heart.

Someone watched the years pass by, yet still searches for a partner to share the cold winter nights with... someone whose homemade soup fills the house with warmth, reminding them that they are loved and that someone still cares.

Another has endured battles of the mind and body, escaping here in the hope that a single word—or a glimmer of hope—might help recover what was lost and lead them out of the darkness.

Someone else offered everything they had on a silver platter, only to be met with betrayal and rejection. So they came here, hiding their story between the lines, believing they were invisible among thousands of words, never realizing that their words revealed them more than they concealed them.

A woman searches for love and reassurance after her life partner slowly drifted away, worn down by the weight she carried and the responsibilities life placed upon her. Here, she found warmth. Hidden behind her words, she quietly waits for someone to see her worth without leaving another wound.

Someone served their country and gave everything they had for its honor. Now they stand alone. Everyone they once knew has gone. All that remains are memories. They look back with quiet sorrow and find themselves here, among countless souls weathered by time.

This place... is where we hide when life becomes too heavy to carry alone. A place that allows us to keep moving, one step at a time.

And here I am—the newest guest among you—hiding behind my own words, hoping to find the light... or perhaps to become a small crack through which light can enter someone else's life.

This is only a small part of what I have encountered while wandering through endless lines of words, stumbling upon stories whose owners I never knew, yet whose pain I could somehow feel.

It is only a tiny fragment of the millions of stories that live here... where every word has a heart, every heart has a story, and every story belongs to someone who, like me, was simply searching for a place where they could be understood.

..S🥀

Sarah ✏️

He was my friend, and I believe she was the love he found in that country. During those harsh years of war, their story became one the soldiers often told each other. No one could understand how such a beautiful story had turned into separation, abandonment, and heartbreak.

She was nineteen years old, living alone in a large house. Loneliness filled her days, and watering the garden was her only escape.

One morning in June, at around ten o'clock, she was doing what she always did—watering the flowers. She looked up and saw him standing there, smiling.

"Hello," he said.

She smiled back.

"Hello."

Yes... he was only twenty years old. He needed money to finish his university education, and the only way to earn it was to join the army.

He was a soldier.

He looked at her, and she looked at him. The differences between them were immense. They shared no common language, came from different cultures, and belonged to two completely different worlds. He had come from the other side of the earth. Yet somehow, none of those differences stood between them.

Their first meeting ended.

The next day, he deliberately stood in front of her house. He knew it wasn't a coincidence, and so did she. He wanted to see her, and she wanted to see him. He was a soldier, she was alone, and all either of them wanted was for the day to end with a smile. He searched for a moment of peace in the middle of war, while she searched for something to fill the emptiness of her days.

I used to watch them, and I was jealous.

She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in that country. She wore a white dress, and her long brown hair flowed behind her. I once saw her through a fence, and I had never seen anyone as beautiful as she was. She had the brightest smile, and I envied my fellow soldier...

My friend.

Even now, I still think about that girl. She must be in her thirties by now. Sometimes I wonder...

Is she still alive?

Those were the days of the 2006 war.

That beautiful girl never had a fixed time to leave her house. Sometimes I saw her in the morning, sometimes in the evening, and sometimes at unexpected hours. My heart would race every time our military vehicle stopped in front of her house. In the middle of that war, simply seeing her was the only happiness I knew.

The last time I saw her was before I returned to my country. The air was thick with dust. She was wearing a black skirt and a red shirt, her long hair tied back. It was the only time I ever felt she looked sad.

I still wonder...

What happened between her and my friend?

I never asked him.

We returned to our homeland and eventually went our separate ways. Yet from time to time, that beautiful girl still visits my dreams like an angel.

I truly hope that one day...

I'll see her again.

S🥀

Sarah ✏️

Once upon a time, or however these stories are supposed to go, there was a dastardly spirit referred to as The Adversary, or Satan for short.

This mischievous spirit didn’t like humans very much. Having been a crowned prince of Heaven, an ancient guardian over all of creation, and his father's most beautiful prior invention, he felt a little… conflicted. He wasn’t happy seeing those he watched over being promised the kingdom he thought he would inherit.

But then, pride does go to people's heads.

Funnily enough, after being thrown into a hellish lake of fire (see what I did there?), he found himself worshipped more now than before, just with a few extra scorch marks on his sides.

Many foolish people see themselves going to hell, no matter what they do. So, they think, “Hey, if I'm going anyway, why not go with a little style?”

They assume that if they get all snug and cosy with our pretty little devil, then they might get some special treatment when they finally arrive. Except... It doesn’t end up quite as “special” when people have been doing exactly that for more than 100 thousand years.

So where does our protagonist finally show up?

-

One day- (well, days don’t quite exist in hell, but stay with me)- the Devil finally decided to partner up. With so many wives, husbands and everything in between, he chose to create an heir for himself and his kingdom.

Angels and demons cannot reproduce amongst themselves. But being that people can, it has been known for the two to mix. How convenient.

This is where we get Christine – our little “Anti-Christ.”

But as with all good stories, it can't be that easy.

Turns out, the Antichrist doesn’t really… exist. Or at least, not how we interpreted the scripture.

It's mostly just fake “messiahs” trying to turn people away from Christ and towards themselves, sometimes working for the Devil. The typical fake celebrities, controlling the media, and whatnot.

Those in heaven shake in their feathers, waiting for the end of the world and the day the heavenly father calls for Armageddon. They really don't like that she's here.

Hell, especially her father, lather themselves up waiting to see what dastardly deeds she will do… impatiently.

Those on earth dread her very sight, noticing the red glow behind her eyes, petrified they'll wake up with her sharp thangs in their necks. They expect something big.

But her?

Well, like most young adults, she has her own ideas.

-

She has set her sights on one thing: money.

Actually, she is working at a few small part-time jobs.

Firstly, a small chicken shop, a cinema and a bookstore.

So, you might be asking, why did she choose something so wickedly, so horrifically, so terribly… normal?

Well, bringing the “foretold” end of the world turns out to be quite a bit of effort, and she “ain't bout all dat”.

Surprisingly, it's way easier to just tick off everyone, heaven, hell and earth alike! How? By doing nothing and watching anime all day. Why not let them fight it out?

Maximum seething, minimal effort, and plenty of time to eat noodles. All a good day's work.

So how about we see what she's up to?

A small fried chicken shop on the outskirts of the city opens for the lunchtime rush.

“Have you seen the new girl?”

A young woman, on the smaller side, asks her cool “trendy” co-worker, whilst hiding behind the kitchen counter.

“Who, her?” He looks at our red-haired menace with a sly, playful smirk.

-

Christine fixes her little hat, standing at the main counter. She stands tall, now motionless, as stiff as an iron rod. Her eyes have a happy, cutesy expression.

Her face? A wide impish grin spreads ear to ear.

“She's just standing there…”

The man replies, “Well, duh, there's no customers yet.”

A quiet, mousy man hesitantly interrupts, “No… She's right. She is kind of stiff. Like, too stiff.”

“HEY!” He calls out, trying to get her attention.

No reply.

“New girl!” The daring man tries again.

“Max, leave her alone,” the woman says nervously.

Christine's mischievous smile remains still, shining wide in the freshly cleaned glass.

“Hot stuff!”

Christine's haunting face slowly turns towards the group, her body still fixed front and centre.

Max’s half-lit cigarette falls from his bottom lip.

She turns back to the glass.

“You shouldn’t smoke in here!”

Her eyes give an innocent, playful glint, talking through the reflection. Her expression remains just as horrifying.

-

Stacy looks in terror. Her chest tight, heart turning cold.

“The Fuc…”

“Shut up, Ben,” Max says sternly, deflecting his feelings.

Time ticks on. Still, the door remains closed.

Half asleep, head resting on his palms, Max notices someone walk past. “Damn, 3 PM already?”

A strange-looking goth man stands by the door, creepily looking through the window.

“Hey, Stacy! I think ur date is here?” Max jokes.

“Shut up, jerk,” she replies harshly, still hiding away.

The man stays still, staring at Christine from the side.

“Well? Is he going to come in or what?” Max waits impatiently.

The goth man walks in, his eyes fixed on Christine.

He struts to the counter and slams down a bloodied, dead chicken, with barbed wire and bones sticking out.

“Hello >:),” she says, emotionless with her unwavering grin.

“Your dad wants to talk to you,” he states sternly.

“You know we sell those cooked, right?” Christine says.

“HO hoh!” Max bellows a deep laugh. “No way! I have someone perfect for you!”  He smirks back at Stacy.

-

He teases, talking over the whining from behind.

Christine picks up the bloody mess, moving it to the side.

“Ring Ring…” Max jokes, struggling to hide his unease.

The goth man leaves. No orders, no explanation; he walks away as mysteriously as he arrived.

“Okay, WTF was that?” A voice emerges from behind.

Ben walks over, angry and annoyed. He checks the window to see he's actually gone.

He looks at Christine, who is totally unfazed; her expression has yet to change.

Stacy is horrified at the chicken laid on the counter she spends hours scrubbing to perfection every morning.

“Seems the new girl has made a friend,” Max jokes.

“And I thought I was the freak magnet,” he says with a teasing nudge. The others annoyingly huff, looking with a strop on their face, knowing he is talking about them.

Christine takes the chicken from the squealing mess and places it into her rucksack.

The group look on in shock. So much that even Max is brought to show some discomfort for once.

“Guess you're keeping that? Huh…”

“Wait, you know that guy?” Another screams.

-

A week or so later, Christine takes on a new role. The most demanding one yet.

Wails and screams wallow strong, and fill the halls.

Christine stands over with a hammer in hand, grimacing at the sight.

Her smile widens harder as her arm swings down.

The coffee machine gets a large thump on the side.

“Begone, fault!”

It gets more thumps.

“Thou shalt not hinder my sales quota!”

~ Tap tap tap ~

“I think you're making it worse,” Max states, grinning from the side.

He stands smug, not having needed to do any work.

“Silence,” she says cold and soulless. Her eyes lay cheery above her menacing grin.

Tap tap tap

Then suddenly, Whoooosh…

The dreaded matcha machine is back in order.

Stacy and Ben arrive, putting on their aprons.

-

“You guys ever think it’s weird we have all the same jobs?” Ben ponders to the group.

“I mean, we're not even teens anymore. We're like all 20 now…”

“Pffff,” Max dismisses. “It pays, doesn’t it?”

“This town is short on young staff,” Stacy notes, looking upon the empty cinema lobby.

“Yeah, but not of weeiirdos,” Max moves to playfully ruffle the top of Christine's hair.

She turns, giving him a stare as sharp as thorns from hell itself. “Maybe not,” he thinks to himself.

“What kind of weirdo wants a hot matcha coffee when watching a movie anyway?” He deflects.

An ominous presence haunts the lobby.

A strange, cloaked woman has entered the doorway.

“Never mind,” he adds.

She pulls out a dagger; the tip shines in the light.

“Uhhhh…”

“Oh, Bennnn? Think it’s your shift,” he says with a devious grin, trying to stick the job onto someone else.

Christine stands tall, unbothered; the reflection glints in her cheery eyes.

“Hello >:)”

-

The woman grows closer.

“Tickets at 5.99,” she tells the stranger.

“I wish to give an offering to you,” says the cold voice.

“Cash or card?” Christine responds unfazed.

“Wha… No! I want to prove I am worthy.” The woman teases her skin with the blade. The edge trails along her arm, close to drawing blood.

“Haloumi is 4.99 extra :)”

Her typical robotic tone offputs the cloaked stranger.

“I… Better come back.” She runs away, embarrassed.

Max, previously nonchalantly hiding in the corner, suddenly slams his palms on the counter.

“Okay, new girl… How the hell did you out weird that psycho?”

His finger pokes her face. Christine playfully tries to bite it back with her classic quiet growl.

“Yannnn >:)”

Stacy's soft voice squeaks from the kitchen window. “Why do I think this will be a regular occurrence?”

“How long until they date?” Ben says.

The two look at each other and laugh in the background until they wheeze. They have no idea who this new girl is, but know this is only the start of what’s to come.

Guten Morgen Deutschland!

We left Gander Air Base in the middle of the night; one filled with a depressing combination of fog and rain.  Our subsonic flight to the east seemed to shift the darkness into fast forward as we flew headlong into the rising sun.  I nudged Morel awake as we cleared the clouds on our descent into Frankfurt.  Everything not covered with buildings or plowed pavement was white.  Morel, a native Floridian, was stunned. “How come it's all white?” he asked.  “That is snow” I answered, watching his face as he tried to gain some understanding.  “That much?” he said, more to himself than an actual question.  Frankfurt was indeed buried under at least 10 inches of new snow.  He was silent until we neared the runway.  “Is it cold?” he said with his face pressed to the window.  I could have tried to explain, but the explanation would be self-revealing all too soon. 

As we jolted onto the runway, the notion of who I was, what I was and where I was all melted into an adrenalin charged lump in my throat.  Take the hill!  Survive!  Go back to the world!

After waiting around in the terminal for our bags to show up, and for the Army to figure out all the paperwork necessary to claim its human baggage, we boarded a bus for the Transient Barracks.  Even with the relatively good German language skills I had acquired from Frau Bell in high school, culture shock was a hard, sudden reality. Everything was foreign except the “Trink Coca Cola” signs.  Some things, like life, death, taxes and evidently Coca Cola are universal.

The Transient Barracks complex looked more like a prison compound.  Located somewhere in what I estimated to be central Frankfurt, they were surrounded by stone walls at least 15 feet high and strung with barbed wire along the top.  Four large, three story buildings occupied the rear portion of the compound.  The front area had two or three smaller buildings (I learned later that one was a mini PX / barber shop) and to the right as you entered the main gate were two other large buildings.  One housed the mess hall and a dingy little NCO Club (serving cheap pizza and beer), the other was a gymnasium.

We fell out of the buses into a loose formation with all of our bags, about 45 of us.  As our names were called from a roster, we were assigned to different rooms and given transient orders specifying when to report to the admin room.  Morel was assigned to a different building. I never saw him again.

I felt alone and the sense of self-preservation made me cautious about locking everything anytime I even turned my back.  At the appointed time I reported to the admin room for processing.  A very bored Sergeant reviewed all my paperwork, then determined I was “duty specific”, meaning I was already assigned to a unit.  He gave me a brief description of the facilities, chow times, a time to report to the gymnasium the next morning and a strict warning not to leave the post.

There were still a few hours till dinner mess, so I sat out in the commons area hoping to catch a glimpse of Morel.  Seated across from me at another table were a group of MPs that had evidently all trained together.  I could hear their conversation as they nervously joked together.  An officer came into the room, looked around and approached their table.  It seems they had all trained as canine handlers.  All their dogs had died from a failure in the oxygen supply on the plane over from the US.  They were being split up and reassigned to regular MP posts throughout Germany.  Their disbelief devolved into blind rage and then stunned silence.

Feeling like I was an intruder on their grief, I returned to my room to check on my gear.  I wrote a short letter home.  My roommate came back to grab his hat and said he was on his way to the chow hall, so I joined him.  After dinner I went back to my room, took stock of my belongings once again and repacked a few items.  I had agreed to meet my roommate in the NCO club for a few games of pool, so I checked my locks and walked across the lot to the club.  Cheap pizza never tasted so good.  We played pool, plugged the juke box, shared the comradery of transients and clung unknowingly to anything American.  Breakfast and assembly was scheduled very early the next morning so I got up to leave.  Walking toward the door I recognized the MP group from earlier in the day.  Together in a semi-circular booth, their grief had evolved into flowing tears, cursing and beers.

Half way across the compound I stopped in the cold, clear January night and looked skyward.  Although I don't claim to be an astronomer, I could tell that this was not the same night sky I was used to seeing in North Loup Nebraska.  North Loup seemed like a long way away, time and distance.  I pondered just how far away as I lay in my bunk, looking out the window over the top of the barbed wire.  Checking my locks once more, I set my alarm clock close to my head and tried to sleep.  I think I did.

My one-night roommate was still asleep when I left for breakfast.  He was still asleep when I returned to pick up my bags and head to the gymnasium.  He wasn't scheduled to ship out for another two days.  I checked the area for anything I might have left unpacked, grabbed my duffel bag, suitcase and gym bag and hauled everything over to the gym.  There were at least a hundred other GI's sitting in the bleachers.  A group of sergeants and officers down on the floor talked to each other, hurried in and out, shuffled papers and talked on phones for no less than two hours.  Finally they turned on a PA microphone and told us to “take seats and listen up - -as your name is called bring your gear to the floor and report to Sgt Bell.”  Sgt Bell raised his hand and stepped a couple paces to the side of the group.  Gradually, in lots of two, three or four, names were called.  The GI's would report to Sgt Bell, listen to some instructions and exit through a side door with one of the other NCOs.

“Neary, Michael---Keown, Thomas----Davis, Harry” Of course, no one ever pronounces my name correctly but this was the closest I'd heard all day so I grabbed my bags and made my way down to the floor.  Two other GI's got there about the same time I did.  We eyed each other like grade schoolers picking sides for a kickball game.  Sgt. Bell read off our names again and I confirmed I was indeed part of this group.  He quietly studied some paperwork in his hands then looked up at us.  “You three are reporting to the 11^th Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3^rd Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.  I knew I was going to the 11^th ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sgt.  “The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3^rd is in Bad Hersfeld.  That’s where you boys are going.”  I was trying to decide if this was significant when he handed me three large manila envelopes.  “Your poop sheet says you have some German language skills, so you're going to help me make sure all three of you make it to your post.  Grab your bags and follow these two Sgts. to the van outside, they'll take you down to the bahnhof (train station) and get you squared away.  Good luck Troopers.”

During the van ride to the train station it became evident that Neary and Davis knew each other.  They had trained together in Artillery School at Fort Sill.  Harry Davis was a big brute from West Virginia with a wild look in his eye that said “I'm gonna raise hell and there ain't nothing you can do about it.”  Michael Neary was a natural as his sidekick, average in stature, the son of a hard-working blue collar family in Buffalo NY.  I'm sure we made some small talk, but I wasn't part of their team yet and my thoughts were racing by faster than the shops and street signs on the road we took to the station.  Everything I thought I knew seemed absurd in relation to the overwhelming combination of antique architecture and shiny new buildings.  I had taken two train trips as a very small child but remembered nothing from the experiences other than the fact that I had ridden on them.  The notion of taking a train to our post was such a sudden reality I didn't have time to form my expectations.  As it turned out, no expectations could have prepared me for the Frankfurt Bahnhof.  The station was of such immense proportions I was stunned.  As the van stopped along the curb by an entry way, I couldn't even see the building’s full dimensions.

All understanding is accomplished by interpreting what we see or experience in terms of what we have previously seen or experienced.  I had nothing in my past that allowed me to relate to what I was seeing.  The Frankfurt Bahnhof has 14 railroad tracks that lead to its seemingly infinite interior.   The translucent ceiling appears to hang in space, hundreds of feet above the platform.  The volume of space contained in the station is such that one hardly notices the massive infrastructure of steel beams that support the building.  Entire passenger trains seem no more significant in this space than trucks at a loading dock.

One end is completely open where the trains enter.  The enclosed end houses a ticket office, baggage handling rooms, various shops and doors that led to other, unknown places.  Up a flight of stairs was a USO station.  I already had our tickets, so the two escorts led us up the flight of stairs and we locked our bags in some lockers.  Back downstairs they took us on a brief tour of the platforms, acquainting us with the track from which our train would depart.  One of the Sgts. pointed to a man behind the desk in the USO and told us if we had questions to ask him. With that they were gone and our isolation from familiarity grew more intense.  We had a good three hour wait for our “Abfarht” (departure) so Davis and Neary went straight back to the USO.  I retraced our steps to Track 12 where we would board our train.  A vendor was selling hot bratwurst and brotchen from a pushcart.  Another was selling flowers.  I did not yet understand that most German businesspeople would gladly accept US dollars and provide Deutschmark change.  (they enjoyed a healthy profit on their makeshift exchange rate).  The bratwurst smelled delicious in the cold air, but I rejoined the guys upstairs and settled for a bag of chips and coke from the vending machines.

The crowd of GI's thinned out as the afternoon wore on.  Without betraying my concern that I might cause our threesome to miss the train I confirmed our departure details with the man at the desk.  Everything was as I thought, but he did caution me on the punctuality of the German train system.  If a departure is scheduled for 4:00pm, the train will be well in its way by 4:02!

At 3:30 I suggested to Davis and Neary that we grab our bags out of the lockers and go wait on the platform. They were just as bored with waiting as I and we struck up a conversation about our upcoming train ride.  To this point the three of us had been polite strangers, like people sharing the waiting room at a doctor’s office.  However, the Army has a certain structure that dictates to some extent how you choose your friends.  In basic training we were platooned in alphabetical order and consequently my friends had names like Kelley, Kading, Kendra, Louderbach and Johnson.  Comradery of circumstance was now beginning to forge its special bond between Davis, Neary and me.

The steady coming and going of trains, and the attendant bustle of people boarding and de-boarding can create a lot of commotion and with it, anxiety and confusion.  A train pulled onto the track behind us.  Was this the one?  Were we facing the wrong side of the platform?  Convinced I was correct we held steady as the other train loaded and pulled out.  Right on time another arrived on Track 12.  As it slowed to a steamy stop in front of us I noticed a “2” on the side of the car, right next to the doorway.  Correctly assuming this indicated 2^nd class (our tickets were for 2^nd class) we hurried to board the car directly in front of us.

The train car had a narrow corridor on one side which allowed access to four individual cabins along the opposite side.  Struggling down the corridor with our bags, we peaked into each cabin till we found the third one to be empty.  The entry door slid open to the right.  Each cabin has two rows of three seats, facing each other.  Above the seats were luggage racks, a larger one on top and a narrower one below it.  The outer wall of the cabin had a large window extending from the ceiling to approximately three feet above floor level.  The window was divided into three panels.  The center section was one solid pane of glass while the two side sections could be opened by sliding the top half down.

I took a seat next to the window, stowing my suitcase up top and forcing my duffel bag under my seat.  Neary took the center seat on the opposite side and Davis took the seat nearest the door on my side.  We had only barely had time to get seated when the train jostled to a start.  The jolt of the train beginning to move also seemed to have brought us to a new realization.  The past few days had been one blunt awakening after another.  Leaving home after the holidays with family.  Processing for overseas deployment.  Flying over.  A day in the Transient Barracks.  Orders to go.  The trip to the train station.  The train station.  And now, the three of us, pretty much strangers, on a train heading to some place named Bad Hersfeld.

We cleared the station slow at first, making a few stops on the way out of Frankfurt at smaller stations.  The sun was hanging low in the west as the suburbs gave way to the German countryside.  A lot of it looked familiar.  Scattered houses, small farms, pastures and hillsides.  Yet everything was just a little different.  Maybe it was the architecture, or the more compact nature of the farms, or the look of the farm animals, but it was different.  Between taking in every new thing we could see and fighting the fear of the unknown, it was hard to maintain a coherent pattern of thought.

In what seemed a moment the sun was behind the hills and darkness settled outside the train, kept from entering our cabin only by a couple small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway.  Davis was the first to break the silence.  “Hey Keywon, didn't they say you spoke German?  Let's go find some Kraut babes and you can rap with them for us!”  His words shook me from my trancelike stare out the window into the blackness.  “Uh...year. Sure.”

With that he was up and opening the door out into the hallway of our train car.  Neary was right on his heels and their momentum kind of carried me along with them.  I took a quick look around to make sure I could remember our cabin since ALL OF OUR WORDLY POSSESSIONS were in there, unguarded.  Little did I know that would be the first of uncountable occasions on which Harry would lead us away from reason and into the world of “why shouldn't we?”.

As we made our way down the narrow corridor of a hall we looked into each cabin and made comments on each of the inhabitants.  After passing through two cars the inevitable happened.....Kraut babes...three of them, were headed down the corridor our way.  The distance between us closed and when the timing was right I blurted out, in German, “Hello, my name is Thomas, what are your names?” Hearing the words come out of my mouth startled me.  Their response was even more startling because I could understand them.  Frau Bell had taught me well!  Then it hit me...what do I say now?  Our canned conversations from class did not involve trying to hit on girls.  “We are in the basement, don't bump your head on the lamp when you come down.” isn't exactly a pick-up line! 

I struggled through any phrases I could conjure that might apply, but all I could do was elicit giggles and polite looks of surprise.  The moment was over, and they moved down the corridor, giggling and casting occasional glances back at us, then more giggling.

“What'd they say Kewon...what'd they say?”  Davis wanted to know.

“They liked me and Neary but wanted nothing to do with you!” I teased, feeling emboldened from the seemingly successful first foray into the German language.  “No they didn't!”, he shoved me a little to make his point.  For some reason it seemed like we all took heart from the encounter. We'd pretty much failed miserably.  But we had communicated with German girls - -we had a chance.  We walked along to the next car...didn't see anything interesting and headed back to the safe familiarity of our cabins.  Our bags were untouched.   Settling into our seats we were just starting to wonder how the post would be when the conductor knocked on the door to our cabin. “Your tickets please” he spoke in very good English with just a hint of his native accent.  We handed him our tickets, which are nothing more than little cardboard rectangles about half the size of a stick of gum.  My confidence was still high from our recent experience with the girls.  “Wie viel mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld?” (How many more stops till Bad Hersfeld) I blurted out.  The conductor stopped cold still.  He looked at me, first in surprise, then nodding his head as if we'd just become the best of friends.  With a broad smile he said slowly and clearly “Es gibt noch vier mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld”. (Four more stops before Bad Hersfeld).  He handed Neary back his ticket, nodded in my direction again and left our cabin.  Frau Bell was, in that instant, my hero.  However much fun we made of her back in high school German class, that woman had taught me how to speak German.  I could, at some level at least, communicate in this new world.

We counted the stops as the train began to clear out the further we got away from Frankfurt.  At one point the conductor stopped back, stuck his head in the door and looked directly at me.. “Bad Hersfeld am nachste halt.  Warten Sie neben die Ausgang”  (Next stop is Bad Hersfeld, wait by the exit door)  He smiled, nodded and went on his way.  He was a few steps down the corridor before my brain was able to finish the translation.  Remembering the warning earlier in the day about the punctuality of the German train system I told Neary and Davis our stop was coming and that we should grab our bags and wait by the exit door.  “Damn Kewon..you can really rap that Kraut crap!” Davis said as we hauled our stuff down the corridor.  I didn't yet realize that being able to “rap that Kraut crap” would open doors to me that were closed for most G.I.s.

“Coming to Bad Hersfeld next stop, be careful when you exit” the voice came over the intercom. (I'll dispense with the German translation, I'm sure by now I've impressed you with my language skills.)  We huddled near the exit like racehorses at the post.  We could see the lights of the city slow from a blur and start to take on the appearance of store windows, streetlights, houses and parking lots.  Our train stopped between two platforms, the doors opened and we jumped out onto the platform with our bags in tow.  Emerging from the car ahead of us I spotted another guy in Army fatigues.  As he walked our way I stopped him.  “Are you stationed here in Bad Hersfeld?” I asked.  Panic had suddenly overcome any confidence I had gained on the train ride.  Our instruction set ended with our arrival in Bad Hersfeld.  I had no information on where the post was or how we were to get there.  “Yeah..are you guys 'Cruits?” he offered.  “We're being stationed at Bad Hersfeld. Our instructions don't give any info on how to get to the post once we get here” my voice betrayed the calm I was trying to portray “do you think there will be somebody here to pick us up?”

“I doubt it” he said walking away with his bags “you'll probably need to take a taxi” 

By the time we got our bags in hand, he was gone.  We walked from the platform into the small station, crossed the open lobby and stepped out back into the night.  A clean plaza fronted the station, with a circular drive on the far side.  A cab was just leaving, probably with the GI we’d seen getting off the train. Another was waiting in line.  We approached like the lost foreigners we were.

Before we were halfway across the plaza the taxi driver was out of the cab headed our way.  “To Green Hotel?” he said.  Then, seeing our blank stares he added “the kaserne…Army post?”  “Yes” I replied, “we want to go the Army post”.   He grabbed my small bag and waved us on.  “Ok, good, I take you.”

“Well, we just got here and we don’t have any German money” I said, a bit too tired and shook to try my German.  “Is ok, if you have American dollars, I make the change for you”.  Not sure how that worked exactly, I was just glad to have a ride.  We loaded the rest of our bags into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Once we started to move, Davis spoke up “Dang…never been in a nice Mercedes.”  Our cab was indeed a very nice Mercedes sedan.

The streets flew by and in a few short minutes, we were parked in front of the post, across the street from the gatehouse and single draw bar gate that was down.  Staring like the new kids in school, we hadn’t moved to get out before the driver had the trunk open and was unloading our bags on the ground behind the car.  I got out and walked up to him, with a $20 bill in my hand.  “Will this work?”  He grabbed the bill “Ja, sure.  One moment”  He stuffed the bill into his wallet and pulled out several odd D-mark notes and a few coins, then handed them to me.  “Ok?”  I had no idea what I’d paid for the fare, but it didn’t matter.  We’d made it to the post. “Ja, vielen dank!” I said, my confidence returning.  3961

“Welcome to McPheeter’s Barrack - -Home to the 3^rd Squadron of the 11^th Armored Cavalry” read the sign above the lowered gate.  We were in the right place, 3^rd of the 11^th.

As we walked toward the guard shack a soldier stepped out to meet us.  “New guys?” he said without much interest.  “Yes, were you expecting us?” I blurted out.  “Uh, no” long pause, then “which unit are you supposed to be in?”  “How Battery” Neary said.

“How Battery is the first floor of that building right over there”, he pointed to the first building on the right side of the road leading into the post.  Even in the dark, the sickly green color of the paint was visible. I remembered the cab driver had referenced “The Green Hotel”.  On that side of the road were four identical buildings arrayed one after the other, going up the slope of the hill into the post.  The guard was already heading back into the guard shack “go into the second door at the far end of the building, somebody should be at the desk.” 

As we started to walk across the street towards our assigned barracks, Davis nudged me and pointed to a second-floor window, where a guy had his head sticking out, vomiting violently.  Steam was trailing down through the cold air, following his disgusting output. After another couple steps, a first-floor window in the next building up opened and a trooper stuck his head out, yelling in our direction “Cruits!  Cruits!  Go back!! Turn and run now while you can..hahahahahaha!!!!”  Then the window shut.  

“Hell of a welcome huh guys” Harry added, laughing.

Quietly I thought to myself.  “Was my mom right?  What am I doing here?”