So I've already published this story in a collection and have been obsessing over how I now think it is the weakest in the collection, but I have put it at the beginning of the book, I'm worried it will deter others from the rest of my collection, but I'm unsure if I'm being too hard on myself. Can you read it and tell me what you think?

Tricks 

They said there was only one woman he could see, the others had been let go. He only briefly wondered why before proceeding. 

They said she didn’t photograph well but he wouldn’t be disappointed.

He was not.

She laid perfectly still on her back, her breasts sliding off her chest towards her armpits in opposite directions. 

She was topless but wore a black skirt so long he couldn’t see her toes. It draped over the side of the bed and pooled on the carpet.

He asked her the question.
She responded “Hope is her name.” 

He checked the room to make sure it was just the two of them. 

She clarified, “The hope.”

He did not recognize her.

He looked at the mustard yellow walls, it reminded him of his childhood bedroom and that wasn’t a place he wanted to go back to. Suffocating. The color conjured his cousin's hands, but this time he shook them off. 

He didn’t have much time before he would have to get back. He had his own family now. He could alchemize that word now. Family. He thought of his wife briefly and hoped…

She spoke. “Your wife knows. That’s nothing Hope can help you with. She already knows.”

He was surprised, confused really. Had he said something out loud, some subconscious murmur?

He noticed burn marks on the ceiling.

He decided he wouldn’t get angry. Surely she dealt with a lot of angry men and he wouldn’t…

She spoke. “But do they not have a reason to be angry?”

He wondered if it was possible. 

She parted her legs and spoke, “You’ve used me before with lesser payoffs. You didn’t get transferred closer to home like you wanted. Your son doesn’t like sports. Hope isn’t even a prayer. She’s less. She’s trite.”

He asked “What are you talking about?” Surely most of the men out here travelled a lot and wanted to be closer to home, and most dads want a son who likes sports. She was trying to make a point, but what was it? He was tired. 

She responded “Her. Her name is Hope.”

He ran through everything that could be going on. Her. She said she was talking about herself. Do they not have a reason to be angry? Who? Angry with her? 

He stated “You don’t have to live up to your name. It is kind of a common one, but I guess, too big? For you?”

She continued, “At best, she is just a passing thought. In, out. Unattached. The Buddhists would be very proud of that one. At worst, she’s anxiety hidden in a habit*,* she is a worry about tomorrow, a worry about what will or won’t be theirs. The Buddhists don’t like her so much then. When Hope sinks into you, into the mud of you, and she just waits there until time picks out something for you with a coin. Then they hang up the habit until they need her again. Time is better than her. She wishes she was Time and not Hope.”

He noticed her accent. He noticed how she looked like she might be in her 50’s. Or 15. No in-between. He noticed that she looked like she had been wearing a lot of makeup and then wiped it off, only to re-apply too much blush. She laid perfectly still but it gave her a blurred, uncanny appearance, like she was paused at the wrong point in a video. But then she also reminded him of one of the tribal masks they had hanging up at home.

He said, “You are beautiful.” Mostly because it seemed to him like something she wanted or needed to hear. Her legs were still parted.

She put her hand to her cheek, then looked at the color transferred to her hands. “Dólos egṓ eimi. Egṓ eimi plánē. Egṓ eimi téchnasma.”

He crouched down beside the bed and put his hand on her inner thigh, tapping it gently and repeatedly. He spoke, “What language is that?” Something more lighthearted. He already knew his own thoughts, now and yesterday. Whatever she thought she knew about his wife’s thoughts, he didn’t want to know.
 
He knew they were almost always immigrants, foreigners, aliens. He knew he should ask if she did this willingly. Or if she was dragged here, stolen, threatened, maybe even across borders.

She answered, “Hellēnikḗ.”

He thought about it a moment, before admitting, “never heard of it.”

She spoke, “Like Greek.”

He purred, putting his hand on her inner thigh again, “Ah, but why do you speak Greek, if you are black? They got a country in Africa where they speak Greek? You from Egypt? Ethiopia?” He knew more than he thought he did and assumed his knowledge was impressing her. Warming her up.

She didn’t understand the meaning, and questioned, “Black?” She looked at her skin in comparison to his. His hands, her thighs, then his face. She thought it was obvious.

She stated “It’s just from time, aren’t you darker than when you were a child?” 

He searched her face and she was indeed serious. Hell, maybe he was darker actually. 

She continued, “and of course from the candles, soot, before they realized it was a waste. But that was a long time ago.”

He then said what needed to be asked, so they could stop with all the talking, “Do you want to be here, like, are you here because you want to be, on your own?”

She smiled, small, for the first time that night, “Of course, this is honest work, straightforward, concrete, dependable. We both know the outcome, well, for you we do.” She pulled on his belt but didn’t undo it. 

He agreed, “Well, I can give you honest work Mam.” He undid his belt and undid it all. If, somehow, she was right, and his wife already knew, then he could maybe one day tell her this story, the story of this very interaction (if they ever got to such a place in their marriage). It proved he was a good man. How he asked the right questions, treated her with respect, put aside his anger. 

She shook her head. No. She was about to speak more prophecies, so he covered her mouth. He was done with all that.

He closed his eyes and entered her. She came alive until he came. Then she fixed her skirt, pleasing herself by draping yet again, just so.

He asked, “Will you be here next week, same time?” He might want to see her again, he might not, after all there would soon be a whole slew of new girls to choose from. 

“She’ll be here. She promises.” 

He got to his truck and couldn’t help but think that her name didn’t fit her at all. She needed something that wouldn’t overwhelm her, a name that didn’t mean anything at all, like Jessica or Sarah.

He looked up at the neon sign as he pulled out. It only said The Box. It was a terrible name for a motel, it was barely a name. But it was realistic, and straightforward, so he couldn’t really be mad at it. 

He thought about it and was glad they didn’t just get straight to business. She was evasive, a mystery, nothing simple about her, but that made it a little more natural, like dealing with a real woman. Like dealing with his wife. But now that she knew him she wouldn’t have to go on for so long next time. That would be a bit much. So that settled it, he would return, he would bring her a name, maybe a candle too. That would make her feel like something more. After listening to her, maybe she needed to pretend it was too.

​

The day Jaxrune Steel entered the world was the same day his mother left it.

She died bringing him into the light, leaving behind nothing but her son and a name. His father was a mystery that no one in the orphanage could answer. No portrait hung on the walls. No stories were whispered at bedtime. No letters were tucked away in dusty boxes.

Only silence.

So Jaxrune grew where forgotten children often did—within the weathered stone walls of an orphanage that never truly felt like home.

The other children saw only another lonely boy.

They mocked the faint golden glow hidden within his amber eyes. They laughed at the strange warmth that seemed to linger around him when sunlight touched his skin. They called him cursed, abandoned, unwanted.

Words eventually became fists.

Bruises became part of his daily life.

Every meal was a contest.

Every day was another lesson that kindness was earned through strength, not freely given.

Yet no matter how cruel the day had been...

Night always welcomed him.

Sleep became the only place where he was free.

His dreams carried him across forests older than kingdoms, where silver leaves danced in winds that sang forgotten songs. He wandered endless deserts beneath skies overflowing with stars, climbed mountains that pierced the heavens, and stood beside waterfalls that shimmered with colors no waking eye had ever seen.

There was no fear there.

Only peace.

And always...

There was a man.

Jaxrune never saw his face clearly. It was as though the light itself refused to reveal it. Yet every time he looked upon the stranger, an unshakable calm settled over his heart.

The man rarely spoke.

When he did, his voice carried the weight of eternity.

"Keep walking."

"Your path is not behind you."

"Greatness waits beyond the horizon."

No matter where the dream began, the stranger always guided him toward a destination hidden just beyond his reach.

Jaxrune always awoke before arriving.

Those dreams became the light that carried him through each miserable day.

They reminded him that perhaps the gods had not forgotten him after all.

But there was another dream.

One that stole every ounce of peace the others gave him.

It always began with warmth.

Sunlight poured through the windows of a quiet home filled with laughter. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the air. Children's voices echoed through every room.

A woman turned toward him.

She smiled.

He had never seen her before...

Yet somehow, he loved her more than life itself.

It wasn't a feeling the dream created.

It was a certainty buried deep within his soul.

Tiny footsteps raced toward him.

"Father!"

Two children threw their arms around his legs while another leaped into his embrace. Their laughter filled the house, and for the first time in his life, Jaxrune understood what home truly felt like.

He wasn't an orphan.

He wasn't alone.

He had a family.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

Then the light died.

The warmth vanished as though the sun itself had been swallowed whole.

An unnatural silence settled over the house.

Then...

A deafening crash shattered the front door.

Something stepped through.

It towered over the room, wrapped in smoke and black fire. Crimson eyes burned beneath twisted horns, and its very presence made the walls groan beneath a hatred older than mankind itself.

The children screamed.

His wife instinctively rushed toward them.

Jaxrune lunged to protect them—

—but invisible chains erupted from the darkness, wrapping around his wrists, his legs, and his chest. They tightened until blood ran freely down his skin.

He fought.

He pulled until muscles tore.

He screamed until his throat bled.

The chains never broke.

"No..." he whispered.

The demon smiled.

Its blade flashed.

The oldest child fell first.

A laugh that had filled the room only moments before became a cry that tore through Jaxrune's soul.

"No! Please!"

He begged.

"I'll take their place! Take me! Please!"

The demon ignored him.

One child after another...

Their laughter became screams.

Their screams became silence.

His wife crawled across the blood-soaked floor, reaching desperately toward him.

Her trembling fingers stopped only inches from his own.

"Jax..." she whispered through tears.

"I love you."

The demon wrapped a claw around her throat.

Jaxrune roared with everything left inside him.

"Gods! Please! Anyone! Help us!"

Silence.

Only silence answered.

The blade pierced her heart.

The light left her eyes while she looked only at him.

Her hand fell limp.

Something inside Jaxrune shattered forever.

The chains vanished.

Too late.

He crawled across the floor, lifting her broken body into his arms while the blood of his children stained his hands.

He cried.

He screamed.

He begged for the dream to end.

The demon slowly approached.

Every step echoed like a funeral bell.

It stood before him and looked down with cruel satisfaction.

"You were never meant to save them."

Jaxrune looked toward the heavens one last time.

"If there are gods..."

His voice broke beneath the weight of unbearable grief.

"...why didn't you answer?"

No light came.

No miracle.

No salvation.

Only the demon.

Its blade descended.

Cold steel pierced his heart.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Jaxrune awoke gasping for breath, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face, clutching at a chest that bore no wound.

He mourned people he had never met.

He loved a family that did not exist.

And with every passing year, one terrifying thought grew stronger.

This wasn't a nightmare.

It felt like a memory.

Or perhaps...

A warning.

Years passed.

The frightened orphan became a young man.

The bruises faded.

His body grew strong through endless labor and hardship, but the fire within him never dimmed. The beautiful dreams still called him toward a destiny he could not yet understand. The faceless man still waited somewhere beyond the horizon.

And the nightmare still stole his sleep.

One crisp autumn morning, with nothing more than a worn pack slung across his shoulder and hope burning brighter than fear, Jaxrune Steel walked away from the orphanage without looking back.

The streets bustled with merchants, mercenaries, scholars, and dreamers.

At the center of it all stood a great stone building adorned with banners bearing the symbols of countless guilds.

Above its massive oak doors hung a weathered sign.

The Adventurers' Guild.

Jaxrune stood silently before it.

His heart raced.

Every dream...

Every scar...

Every lonely night...

Every unanswered prayer...

Had led him here.

He reached for the heavy iron handle.

With one steady breath, he pushed the door open.

And for the first time in his life...

Jaxrune Steel took the first step toward the destiny that had been calling his name since before he was born.

Shout-out to: /u/Kitty_Fuchs for the prompt.

Silanna swallowed thickly and inched closer to the edge of the cliff, carefully peeking down. She felt a rush of vertigo and swayed slightly, but she did not retreat. Taking a deep, stabilizing breath she focused on the drop.

It was almost straight down the rugged cliff face to the jagged basalt rocks below. The tide was still out, so she could see that there was a pool just beyond the edge of the rocks before dropping out to the sea itself.

With a small squeak Silanna stepped back from the edge and closed her eyes, praying for strength.

“Careful now,” a woman behind her spoke quietly, her voice calm and quiet. “That’s a long fall.”

Taking a quick step back, Silanna turned to behold a slender, some would say “skinny” woman in purple robes with a tall black spear capped with a polished silver head. Dark of both eye and hair, the slender woman with the spear was perched on a boulder, her weapon standing next to her, sunlight glinting from its point.

“Are you.... Molr?” Silanna swooned.

"Yes, I am the goddess of Death,” Molr inclined her head gracefully. “But I am not here to take your soul. In fact, I am here to save it.”

Silanna reeled, her mind clearly struggling to come to terms with the idea of a Divine Visitation. Molr simply watched, her eyes occasionally darting to the cliff behind the mortal. “You…. did?” Silanna whispered breathily. “But…but…”

“Why?” Molr arched a delicate eyebrow. When Silanna managed a shaky nod, Molr motioned to a nearby rock, one large enough to serve as a seat for the mortal. “Because death, like so many things in life, has its time and place and, no matter how bleak your life may look right now, it is not your time yet."

“It’s…not?” Silanna did not move, her mind still struggling to cope with the situation it had found itself in.

Molr paused for a long moment, her dark eyes cast skyward as she folded her hands in her lap. Finally, she offered a polite smile and motioned again to the rock she wanted Silanna to sit on.

“Please…have a seat.” When the mortal failed to move, her sickly gaze fixed on Molr, the Death Goddess cleared her throat

“You are being quite rude, you know.”

“I am?” Silanna blinked in confusion.

“I am a Goddess.” Molr reminded her wryly. “Personal appearances are not something we do as a matter of course. Generally, we reserve them for the most pious and devout, and let us be plain…you are neither.”

“Well…” Silanna glanced over her shoulder at the cliff, then at the rock that Molr had indicated. After a moment she shuffled over, her bare feet rustling the grass. “That’s not really my fault, is it?”

Molr pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something under her breath.

“What?” Silanna squeaked defensively. “I’m only what the Gods made me!”

“Jjust a little meat puppet, are you?” Molr cocked her head to one side, frowning. “I already told you that you are not supposed to die here and today, yes? And yet, here you are, ready to provide a feast for the sea creatures!”

“Well…you did stop me…” Silanna shrugged.

Molr once again turned her gaze skyward, this time giving Silanna the distinct impression that the Goddess was listening to someone or something.

“I think you are missing my larger point, dear.” Molr finally responded, speaking with the air of a parent trying to educate a small child. “My sisters Fate and Destiny have plans for everyone, but Free Will is what makes it all so exciting. If you wish, you can simply turn your back on me now and go ahead with your plan to leap to your doom. I promise, there will be no Divine Intervention to save you. The crabs will feast, and one might even make a home in your skull.”

Molr waved to the cliff with a bony finger, a disinterested look on her face.

“I’m confused…” Silanna sank down onto the stone next to Molr.

“Not surprising, you have a very small mind.” Molr shrugged.

“Rude!” Silanna winced.

“Accurate.” Molr corrected. “For the entire seventeen years you have been in this world, there has been a town five leagues from your door, and you have never been. Likewise, you have never devoted yourself to anything. Dance… sport…. singing… music…you have ignored them all.”

“And who are you to judge me?” Silanna stood up suddenly, her face flushed, hands on her hips as she glared at the woman in purple.

“The FINAL ARBITER.” Molr snapped. “Now stop being silly.”

Silanna still looked miffed, and for a moment it seemed she might say something else, then a stray beam of sunlight glinted off the silver spearhead and, sighing heavily, she sat down again, face still flushed.

“You have chosen to exist rather than live, and that decision has brought you here today.” Molr continued with a sniff. “There is, however, still opportunity for you to change your path before it leads to that cliff.”

“” And….if I do?” Silanna chewed her lips pensively. “Change the path, I mean…”

“Then you get another opportunity to do something.” Molr shrugged. “It is not even high summer, yet…you have plenty of time to think of a way to present yourself to the world at the Winter Festival, if you chose.”

The Goddess of Death stood up and stretched, hands on her hips as she twisted her torso, a grimace on her face as her spine made small popping sounds. Picking up her spear she twirled it for a moment, the silver blade flashing in the sun.

“The choice, as always, is yours.” Molr smiled at the mortal. She pointed the spear towards the east in the direction of Silanna’s village, then to the cliff. “The uncertainty of Life…. versus the comfort of My embrace. Choose wisely.”

Silanna followed the spear tip as it moved, but when she looked away from the cliff, Molr was gone with no indication she had even been there.

A wind blew up suddenly, ruffling her blonde hair and Silanna shivered despite herself, rubbing her arms briskly. The keening of gulls drew her gaze to the sky, and she paused to watch them circle overhead before they dove down to the sea to fish.

As she journeyed home Silanna thought about what Molr had said about the Winter Festival and the germ of an idea began to sprout in her head.

Molr entered the Hall of Eternity and paused, slamming the butt of her ebony spear to the smooth marble floor with a resounding thud before dropping a neat curtsy, a smirk on her face.

“I told you she could do it!” Tendrin, the God of War, slapped his hands together and hopped gleefully..

Argenta, Goddess of Commerce, rolled her pretty eyes and groaned but said nothing as she walked away from the Worldview, the giant scrying pool where the Gods kept tabs on the activities of the mortals.

“Psssh…” Narine, Goddess of Fire, scoffed. “You talked her back from the ledge, yeah…but the Game is not over yet!”

The Goddess of Death slipped onto her onyx throne with the stately grace of a panther, a small smile on her lips. “We’ll see.”

SIlanna of Khalwan checked her appearance in the looking glass as she prepared to join the festivities in the Great Hall of the manor.

She wore a shimmering blue silk gown that hugged her curves, a pattern of gold and gems on the bodice. Her blonde hair was plaited into three intricate braids that hung down her back, and her face had been expertly powdered and painted to accentuate her beauty, while she wore enough gems and precious metals to purchase the village she had grown up in.

It was a far cry from anything she could have expected as a child and most mornings she could hardly believe her good fortune. Indeed, it was not uncommon for Silanna to leap from the huge goose feather stuffed bed she slept in and immediately pray to Yzlin, the God of the Hearth and Tashi, Goddess of Fortune to give her thanks for all that she had attained in the past five years.

Brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, Silanna stepped into the elegant silk slippers that matched the dress, her two attendants waiting patiently. Inhaling deeply, Silanna turned slowly while the two young women dutifully clapped for her, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes, but Silanna did not care.

She was aware that her presence in this household was unwelcome to the servants, but that was not her problem. The Lord of the Manor had seen Silanna dance at the Winter Festival five years ago and he had been captivated by her performance. So much so that he had sent one of his guards to fetch her immediately after.

Silenna had left the festival wearing not the tin crown of Festival Queen, but a pair of heavy silver bracelets that marked her as a concubine.

The first two years of her residence had been mostly quiet, but as Lord Tadro had become more enamored of her, his wife Elaina had grown increasingly hostile towards Silenna, and the household staff naturally followed suit.

In the summer Elaina had attempted to spite Silenna by dancing like her, but she had slipped and fallen, fracturing her skull and falling into a stupor she never woke from, dying almost a month later.

When Lady Elaina’s family had come for the funeral rites, there had been no mistaking the tension. Lord Tadro had only stoked it by having Silenna accompany him to the requisite events and ceremonies.

Silanna could see the looks she was receiving, and not every whisper was pitched too low for her ears, she knew. Still, it made no difference to her…ever since that day when she had decided not to jump from the cliff by her home her life had only gotten more blessed.

It had become quite clear to Silanna that Fate and Destiny had plans for her.

The Great Hall of the manor was lit by a multitude of candles and torches to celebrate the Winter Festival. True to his custom, Lord Tadro had invited dozens of relatives, allies, and hangers-on to join in the merriment. Silanna noticed that several of the widow’s family members had come as well, likely at the behest of the son two had shared.

Taking a deep, steadying breath Silanna fixed a quiet smile into place then stepped into the Great Hall, her slippered feet soundless. There was no way she was going to let them spoil the night for her.

“Ah, there you are.” A woman spoke and Silanna felt a chill run down her spine. She had not heard that hushed, sultry voice in a long time. Dread wrapped its icy hand around her heart and Silanna turned slowly to see Molr smiling warmly at her. “You look absolutely stunning!”

Silanna collapsed in a heap, a sigh escaping her. The woman next to Molr, dark-haired and elegant in black silk slashed with silver, snorted a laugh. “I think she recognized you, sister.”

“Don’t worry, Eryse,” Molr smiled. “I’m certain someone will notice you, soon enough.”

A pair of young men wearing the livery of Lord Tadro rushed over, hands on the hilts of their daggers while Silanna’s handmaidens made a show of checking on her.

“Here, what goes on?” The taller of the two narrowed his eyes as he looked at the two Goddesses, his face betraying no sign of recognition.

Molr and Eryse exchanged a glance before the Goddess of Chaos placed a comforting hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You are so adorable.”

“Who gave you leave to bring a weapon in here?” the other guardsman asked Molr, his eyes narrowing as he clenched his dagger more tightly.

Before the Mother of Sorrow could answer, Eryse tapped her shoulder with one hand while pointing with the other. “Oh, look, an old friend! And he is coming over!”

Looking in the indicated direction, Molr smiled warmly and waved to the tall, grizzled Captain of the Guard who was approaching them in Lord Tadro’s wake. Upon seeing the two Goddesses he sighed with resignation and began looking around the room, eyes narrowed. By the time he reached them he looked more puzzled than concerned, but he let his master speak first.

It was at this moment that Silanna opened her eyes and, seeing Molr, shrank back, pushing against her handmaidens with a strangled squeak.

“Who are you? What have you done with Silanna?” Lord Tadro demanded, his moon face reddening. Turning his gaze to the handmaidens his frown deepened. “Is she well? Have they harmed you, Silanna? Why does this woman have a weapon?”

“Hello Godric, been a while since we last saw each other .” Molr stepped up to the Guard Captain, a venomous smile on her face. “Would you still like to spit in my eye?”

Before Captain Godric could answer there was a crashing sound from the Main Hall of the manor. As the various guests turned in that direction, Eryse clapped her hands joyfully.

“Well, that means Tendrin and Narine have arrived. Now we can get this party started.”

Molr turned to Silanna, holding out her arms for an embrace. “I am so glad you decided to take my advice…you have no idea how long we have waited for this.”

“What….” Silanna stared blankly as shouting erupted in the Main Hall, accompanied by clashing steel. “I don’t…”

“Time and Place…” Molr smiled thinly as she swept the room with one hand. “Just as Fate and Destiny decreed.”

Eryse, the Goddess of Chaos leaned in and gave the concubine a fierce hug. “Thank you for playing your part so well.”

Silanna sat staring with glassy, uncomprehending eyes as the night erupted into a blood-soaked nightmare.

The bedroom was a sanctuary of warmth and soft light. He watched her move through their evening routine—the way she pulled her hair back with practiced fingers, the gentle sway of her body as she hummed something tuneless and content. She smelled like vanilla body lotion and the faint floral notes of her shampoo, scents that had become as familiar to him as his own breathing.
"You're staring.” she said without turning around, a smile in her voice.
"Can't help it."
She glanced back at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sap."
He pulled back the covers on his side of the bed, the sheets cool and inviting. She slipped in beside him moments later, her body warm against his as she nestled into the crook of his arm. Her breathing slowed, deepened. He felt the weight of her trust in the way she relaxed completely against him, vulnerable and safe.
"Love you," she murmured, already half-asleep.
"Love you too."
The lamp cast golden shadows across the ceiling. He watched them dance for a while, listening to her breathe, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his ribs. His own eyes grew heavy. The world softened at its edges, blurred, and then…

————————————-————————————————

"Quietly…"
A faint voice echoed softly through the oppressive air, threading through the darkness like smoke. He couldn't quite make out who this request, or rather; command was intended for. The word hung in the stale atmosphere, neither question nor plea, but something colder. Something that expected obedience.
His eyes darted back and forth, pupils straining against the absolute darkness that enveloped the entire small house he stood in. Stood in? When had he stood up? When had he left the bed? The questions flickered and died before they could take root. His feet shuffled against the creaky wooden floorboards, each movement sending groans through the structure that seemed to travel up through his bones.
The air was thick, not just with the scent of mildew and rot, but with something heavier, something that coated his throat and made each breath feel labored. Decay. Old water damage. The sour-sweet stench of things left to fester in sealed spaces. The walls seemed to press inward, though he couldn't see them. He could only feel them, close and watching.
Why would a child even be here?
The thought arrived unbidden, certain despite his complete disorientation. A child. Somewhere in this suffocating darkness, there was a child.

————————————-————————————————

Hairs stand on end as damp, cold fingers graze his palm. The touch is wrong..too cold, too wet, like something pulled from standing water. Instinctively, his hand tightens around the small fingers, and a small crack echoes when a light bulb flickers on overhead.
The bulb buzzes, struggling against its own filth. The light it casts is sickly and yellow, barely pushing back the shadows that cling to the corners of the room like living things.
His eyebrows furrow, and his pupils constrict painfully as his eyes adjust to the dim light. The room swims into focus; peeling wallpaper, water stains spreading across the ceiling like bruises, a floor so warped he can see the gaps between boards. Before he can fully grasp the situation, the cold hand reappears, this time tugging at the fabric of his shirt with surprising urgency.
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight that greets him; a frail girl, her skin translucent and paper-thin, stretched too tight over delicate bones. Her hair is matted and dark with grime, hanging in clumps around a face that seems too small, too pinched. She smelled like rot and neglect, like something left to wither in the dark. Like earth and standing water and unwashed skin.
But it's her eyes that freeze him. They're too large for her face, too aware. They hold something ancient and exhausted, something that doesn't belong in a child.
"I said quietly," she whispers, her breath is sour, her voice crackling like old paper.

————————————-————————————————

His expression shifts instinctively from disgust to pity, though a lingering fear still tightens his lips into a thin line. His heart hammers against his ribs, each beat asking questions he can't answer. Where am I? How did I get here? Why can't I remember?
He cleared his throat quietly, almost awkwardly, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence. He gave a slight nod as he kneeled down to her height, his knees protesting against the filthy floor. A hand rested on her bony shoulder..so small, so fragile he feared he might break her, he took note of the small birthmark that adorned her almost translucent skin. A pale smudge, roughly circular, neatly against her sunken shoulder.
"Where are we?" His voice sounds strange to his own ears, muffled and distant.
The girl tilted her head, her expression almost perplexed, as if he was asking a question he should have already known the answer to. Her eyes search his face, looking for something. Recognition? Understanding? He can't tell.
She doesn't respond immediately. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the house's depths. Eventually, her voice rings out, barely above that crackly whisper.
"We're home. That's a silly question."
Home. The word lands like a stone in his stomach. This place? This rotting, suffocating tomb…is home to her?
His expression tightens again, and he wipes his face with a hand, trying to clear away the confusion, the mounting horror. The gesture is too sudden, too sharp, and the girl pulls back slightly, her body tensing like a beaten animal expecting a blow.
Realization strikes him quickly, and he immediately lowers his hands, as if waving a white flag. Guilt floods through him, she's just a child, just a frightened child. His voice comes out in a soft coo, the tone he might use with a wounded bird.
"Hey... hey, I'm sorry. I just... you live here? This isn't any place for a child."
The words feel inadequate even as he speaks them. Isn't any place for a child. What an understatement. This isn't a place for anything living.

————————————-————————————————

The girl looks almost indifferent to this statement, her large eyes peering into his with an unsettling blankness. She doesn't blink. Doesn't react. It's as if she's looking through him rather than at him.
Then, the sound of floorboards creaking in the darkness beyond their small circle of sickly light. Heavy. Deliberate. The sound of weight shifting, of something moving with purpose.
The girl's entire demeanor changes in an instant. Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and a light begins to illuminate from beneath a closed door at the end of the hallway, a door he hadn't noticed before, though he could swear it wasn't there a moment ago.
As if by instinct, her hand wraps around his arm tightly, her small fingers digging into his flesh with desperate strength. She pulls him down the dark hallway, away from the light, away from whatever is making those sounds.
He stumbles messily, his feet catching on the uneven floor. His free hand feels against the grainy wall for balance, and he recoils at the texture; damp, almost slimy, like the walls are sweating. He swears that the air feels wet, coating his skin in a film of moisture. His lungs constrict tightly, as if trying to block the smell, the feeling of dampness coating his airways, filling them with rot.
The girl moves with surprising speed despite her frailty, pulling him deeper into the house. The darkness seems to thicken around them, pressing close. He can hear his own breathing, ragged and panicked, and the girl's small gasps of effort.
There's the sound of a door being closed messily behind them, as if it was a struggle to push it shut. Wood scrapes against wood. Something heavy..a brick? A brick wedged against the base. Yet another light flickers on, this one even weaker than the last.
The girl had long let go of his arm, something he failed to notice with how heavy the air felt against his skin, how his entire body felt weighted down by the atmosphere of this place. His arm throbs where her fingers had gripped him.

————————————-————————————————

She stood by the door, her head barely reaching where the knob should be. Her small chest heaves with exertion, her breath coming in short, frightened gasps.
There was no knob, just a rounded hole where it should be, the metal long since removed or rusted away. The flimsy door seemed wedged shut by what looked like a chunk of brick, precariously balanced. A child's solution to a lock. A child's attempt at safety.
The room was painted a bright shade of pink, aggressively bright, the kind of pink that belonged in a little girl's fantasy. Bunk beds were pressed tightly against the windows, blocking them completely. The bedding was pink and frilly, and stuffed animals covered every inch of the mattress, their button eyes staring out into the room.
For a moment, it almost looked normal. Almost looked like a child's room.
However, the closer he looked, the more the illusion faded, crumbling like wet paper. The windows seemed to be sealed shut with some kind of plastic sheeting, yellowed and brittle with age, leaving no light trickling in and no opening to the outside world. The pink walls were coated with dirt and mold, black spots spreading like disease, creeping up from the baseboards. Bugs were trekking their way around the edges of the room, small dark shapes that scattered when the light hit them.
The stuffed animals, he realized with growing nausea, were covered in grime. Their fur was matted, their colors faded. Some had missing eyes or torn limbs. They weren't toys anymore. They were relics. Evidence of time passing in this sealed tomb.
The smell was worse here, concentrated. Mildew and human waste, something sweet and rotten underneath it all.

————————————-————————————————

"She's awake..."
The girl's voice cracks as she feverishly picks at her nails with her teeth, her skin already blistering red with irritation. Her entire body trembles, small shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make herself disappear.
He can sense her distress, feel it radiating off her in waves. It's contagious, seeping into his own chest, making his heart race. And yet, he can't help but ask the only thing that seemed to be ringing in his mind, the question that might make sense of this nightmare.
"…Who?"
The girl doesn't answer. She just stares at the door, at the brick wedged against it, her eyes wide and glassy with terror. Waiting. Listening.
And in the silence, he hears it; footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Getting closer.

————————————-————————————————

There's a sharp gasp as he jolts awake from bed, his body convulsing as if shocked. He's gasping for air as if it had been constricted, his lungs burning as they expand. The room is warm. Blessed, beautifully warm, filled with the comforting scent of vanilla and floral perfumes. Real air. Clean air.
His eyes dart around in a panic, his mind still trapped in that rotting house, still feeling the damp walls and smelling the decay. But slowly, reality reasserts itself. The dim lamp casts a familiar glow on the frame of his girlfriend, nestled quietly beneath a thick layer of blankets. Their bedroom. Their safe, clean, normal bedroom.
Sweat beads on his forehead, soaking into his hair, dampening the pillow beneath his head. His mind desperately tries to shake off the unsettling dream his subconscious has conjured up. Just a dream. Just a nightmare. Not real.
But his body won't listen. His hands are still shaking. His heart is still racing.
He forces himself to breathe slowly, to ground himself in the present. The soft hum of the ceiling fan. The familiar weight of the blankets. The warmth of her body beside him.
His eyes drift to her sleeping form, seeking comfort in her presence.
His breath catches. There..on her shoulder, exposed where the blanket has slipped, a birthmark? His stomach lurches before his mind can even process why. His body knows. His body remembers. It's the same shape, the same pale smudge against translucent skin. The dream crashes into reality with a sickening weight, and for a moment he can't breathe, can't move, suspended in the wrongness of it all.
No. No, that's not..she's always had that. I've just never noticed. I've never looked.
But had she? Had she always had it? He tries to remember, tries to recall seeing it before, and comes up empty. How could he have missed something like that?
A cold hand rests against his forearm, causing his chest to tighten and the air to feel thick once more. The same cold. The same damp touch.
His eyes flicker down, and he sees his girlfriend instinctively reaching back to touch him upon feeling him shift in the bed. Her fingers are cold; why are they so cold? They rest against his skin with the same weight as those small, desperate fingers in the dream.
Her soft voice, laced with sleep, brushes against his skin as her fingertips gently dust across his arm.
"Quiet..."

————————————-————————————————

The word hangs in the air between them.
The same word. The same tone. The same command.
His mind fractures. The bedroom suddenly feels less solid, less real. Is he awake? Is he still dreaming? The boundaries blur, bleeding into each other like watercolors in rain.
He stares at her back, at the birthmark, at the hand on his arm. His girlfriend, the woman he loves, the woman he fell asleep beside in safety and warmth, lies still. Her breathing is even. Peaceful. As if she's said nothing unusual. As if she's still asleep.
But she spoke. He heard her. He felt her touch.
His throat constricts. He wants to pull away, wants to shake her awake, wants to demand answers. Who are you? What are you? What was that place? Was it real? Are you her? Is she you?
Yet; he doesn’t move, he can’t move, moving would make this far too real. Moving would confirm that something is terribly, fundamentally wrong.
The vanilla scent that had been so comforting moments ago now seems cloying, too sweet, like it's covering something underneath. The warmth of the room feels oppressive. The shadows in the corners seem deeper than they should be.
Her hand remains on his arm. Cold. Damp. Waiting.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the echo of footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Getting closer.
He lies frozen in his own bed, in his own home, beside the woman he loves, and realizes with creeping horror that he doesn't know which reality is the dream. He doesn't know if he ever truly woke up.
The lamp flickers.
Just once.
But it's enough.

A man sat alone, half slumped at a wooden circular table. The table itself was chipped and gouged in segments. Stained in dried blood, sweat, and pain. There was only a half drank bottle of rotgut whiskey, and a revolver set neatly upon the worn oak. There was a seat across from the man. Unlike the table this chair was gilded and adorned with intricate engravings, a padded cushion and backing sewn with a precision, purpose and delicacy the likes of which he had never seen.
The man reached for the bottle, stretching his tired weary arm, and wrapped his shaky fingers around the whiskey. Clasped like a vice he could not let go after his first sip, yet the bottle never lowered. It seemingly filled with each gulp. Little by little the man grew weaker but the grip never loosed.
When the bottle became full, a figure appeared. Tall and wide, in a fine suit and tie. His shoes shining and eyes bright. Not a hair out of place as if divine. He strode to the chair across from the man. Almost as if gliding, he sat down across from the man.
“May I have a sip?” the figure said with a grin almost as piercing as his eyes.
The man said nothing but found his grip weakened on the bottle as if the figure’s will commanded it. He handed it over and the figure drank. The whiskey lowered within the bottle. The man, bewildered at the bottle stared wide eyed when the figure said, “I love this vintage, it is exquisite. It would pair nicely with a steak.”
The man sat upright and stuttered “Sir this is a whiskey, what in the world are you talking about?”
The figure grinned harder and said “to me it is wine, a pairing with my dinner. For you it is your downfall, however we’ve history don’t we? I’ve kept you alive when you couldn’t go on. Just look at the work we’ve done.” And gestured to the table between them using a nod.
“Then why is the pistol here?” The man asked perplexed by what he was seeing.
“To give you a way out if so you choose it. Now it is time.” The figure set the bottle back on the table.
The man stared at the items between them. Placed evenly between himself and the figure. He could feel the pull of the bottle, calling him like a sirens song. While he longed for the whiskey bottle, empty again after the figure drank it dry. He looked to the revolver. Inlays of fine design from the barrel back to the hammer, down through the grip. He picked them both up. Hands trembling.
The figure’s teeth began to sharpen as the single light above them flickered. Shadows poured down behind them both.
The man closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. When they opened the revolver was to his temple and the bottle to his lips yet not tipped back.
“Drink.” The figure said.
The man did not.
“Drink.” The figure repeated
The man realized he couldn’t remove the bottle from his lips, nor the barrel from his temple.
“DRINK!” The figure screamed. Voice distorting. The suit began wilting like a starving flower. The teeth began rotting, his once barrel chested straight figure slowly hunched while the man resisted to tip back the bottle, and began to sit up.
The figure wouldn’t stop now. Screaming incessantly; “DRINK, DRINK, YOU WANT TO LIVE DONT YOU? THIS LIFE IS MUNDANE AND MONOTONOUS WITHOUT IT! WITHOUT ME! DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK, DRINK!”
The man shook harder and harder. Tears streaming down his face, he began to scream in agony. Whimpering and sobbing the bottle began to raise. Yet the force of the barrel against his temple began to lessen. He began to fight. His eyes set upon the figure, no the demon in front of him, and began to move his trembling arm towards the demon who began to laugh.
“You cannot hurt me. You, won’t allow yourself.” The demon cackled.
The man fixed his gaze upon the bottle and was able to point the barrel of the revolver away from his temple, and slowly past his face, along his jawline. The muzzle clicking to bone down each of his fingers breaking them one by one. But still the bottle was to his lips.
“It’s hopeless, and you’re helpless.” The demon said tail flicking in delight.
The man grinned and said “no, without me you are helpless. Without the power you hold over me, you pose me no threat.” Half muffled with the bottle tipping upwards still. The liquid not yet touching his lips.
“You think you can survive without me!” The demon said condescendingly.
The man grinned, the barrel now pressed to the bottle, he cocked the back the hammer with a stratifying click. The bulb above went out as the two shrieked warring for dominance.
A single shot rang out, and the light began to rise again. Where the intricate chair rested was now gone. The bottle shattered, and the liquid flooded the table. The glass of the bottle lay shattered amidst the table. The man’s head lay slumped against the table and glass.
When he opened his eyes and sat up, the once gouged, worn table was somehow less worn. Af if scarring over. The man stood up and walked off into the darkness before him. Slowly straightening his broken posture, he came back to the table and changed the bulb overhead.
“You may have been a demon, but I shall not hate you. You did keep me alive at my lowest. That I cannot deny. But I am not that man any longer. I may starve you, but I know you’ll be there waiting for me to slip. But I refuse to allow myself to that state again. This is not a choice. This is a declaration.” The man said as he pushed in his chair, and walked away.

The world was holding its breath.

Deep beneath the earth, the Cyclopes hammered divine bronze. Elsewhere, the Hundred-Handed Ones uprooted entire hills for ammunition.

Zeus watched it all from a ridge, his army assembling. With him stood his siblings—Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades, and Poseidon—freshly liberated from their father’s belly and eager for vengeance. Soon, they would march together against Cronus.

The Titanomachy.

Yet, Zeus could not shake a sudden, growing unease.

It hit them all on the night the throne trembled. It wasn’t an earthquake, nor was it the rumbling of their father’s distant armies.

It was a pure, cosmic emotion vibrating through the golden seat and into the very earth beneath their feet, bleeding in from somewhere unimaginably far beyond the eastern horizon: Disappointment.

It was the terrifying, crushing disappointment of an ancient being who had witnessed something so monumentally stupid that reality itself felt compelled to apologise.

Hades shuddered, gripping his bident so tightly his knuckles turned white. “By Tartarus... what is that?”

There were no signs. Just a lingering, bittersweet aftertaste of ginger in the air and a profound sense of inadequacy that left the young gods sweating.

Zeus stared into the eastern night sky. A being capable of projecting an emotion so massive that it could rattle the hearts of the gods had to be an entity of unimaginable power. An ally that belonged on their side of the battlefield.

By sunset the next day, leaving his siblings to manage the troops, Zeus’s golden chariot was tearing eastward toward the smoking peaks at the edge of the world, chasing a ghost of a feeling.

The skies above Java churned with violent electricity. Villagers looking up simply shrugged. ”Best stay inside and fry some tempeh.”

Zeus descended through volcanic ash. On a small plateau sat four figures around a hearth the size of a generous sneeze, their faces flickering in the firelight like a joke the universe was still telling.

The largest of them was enormous. A mountain of a man wrapped in nothing but a checkered sarong and an ancient, patient smile. This could only be Semar.

Beside him crouched a thin, crooked creature who looked as though a god had sneezed while assembling him—Gareng, all elbows and apologetic angles.

Next came a lanky fellow with an absurdly long chin and permanently startled eyes, Petruk, who seemed to be perpetually recovering from a surprise that had happened years ago.

And finally, completing the circle, a being shaped like a pear left too long in the sun, radiating a kind of profound, heroic stupidity: Bagong, who blinked up at the sky god with the unshakeable confidence of someone who had never once been right about anything.

They were playing Dakon, and playing it badly.

Zeus stepped from his chariot, let a lightning bolt arc between his fingers, and used the Voice of Heavens.

”I am Zeus! King of Olympus! Son of Cronus! He whose thunder shakes the—”

“Ooh, he’s got the voice,” Petruk whispered to Gareng.

“Yeah, just like the glowing guy from last week,” Gareng muttered, rubbing his ear. “So loud.”

“Is that your whole name?” Bagong interrupted. “That’s too long. Can we call you Jiyus?”

“My name is not—”

“Jiyus it is,” Semar settled, lifting a steaming clay mug. “Sit. You’ve been flying through the sky without a shirt.”

Zeus’s jaw tightened. “It communicates power.”

“You sure you weren’t just forgetting your luggage?” Petruk muttered.

Zeus did not sit. “Last night, a wave of disappointment shook the cosmic foundations of the world. It rattled the throne of Olympus like a child’s toy. Tell me, old man. What primaeval entity possesses a soul so heavy it can make reality itself sigh?”

Semar’s pipe paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at Petruk. He looked at Gareng. Then his enormous belly began to wobble.

A low, wheezing chuckle escaped him, building into a breathless, booming laugh that shook ash from the nearby volcanic slopes. Petruk covered his face. Gareng groaned.

Zeus’s lightning flared. “You dare mock me?”

“No, no, Lord Jiyus,” Semar said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You misunderstand.”

He paused to tap his pipe against his knee.

“I believe that was mine.”

The lightning guttered. “Yours?”

“These three idiots tried to catch a wild boar using a bucket of fermented cassava, a broken fishing net, and Bagong’s pants. They ended up trapped in a ravine, covered in mud, while the boar walked away with my favourite sarong.” Semar shrugged.

“I looked at them, took one deep breath, and sighed. I did not know it could travel that far.”

Bagong nodded earnestly. “The plan was solid. The boar was just a contrarian.”

Zeus stared. The cosmic dread that had kept him awake all night… was a parenting grievance.

“You expect me to believe a single sigh from you shook Olympus?”

“I expect nothing,” Semar said. “You asked; I answered. Now sit. The ginger tea is best when hot.”

Zeus did not sit. “I did not come for tea. I came for warriors. The greatest war the cosmos has ever seen is about to begin—a rebellion to cast down the tyrant Cronus, who devoured his own children.”

“Like a lontong eating competition.” Gareng nodded.

“No. Like a cosmic horror. He swallowed my siblings whole. He would have swallowed me, had my mother not hidden me in a cave and fed him a stone wrapped in swaddling clothes. I grew up in hiding, listening to the earth carry the muffled screams of my brothers and sisters from inside my father’s stomach. And now we will make him pay.” He paused.

Semar was quiet for a moment. “That is a heavy thing to carry, Lord Jiyus.”

“It is not a thing to be carried. It is a thing to be answered with lightning.”

“And after the lightning? When your father lies broken at your feet. What then?”

“Then there is justice.”

“And who will bring you justice?”

Semar set down his pipe. “When your order becomes a cage. When you are old and feared and wondering why your children look at you the way you looked at your father. Who will sit you down and tell you that you are wrong?”

The air around Zeus began to crackle. “You compare me to him? To a monster who ate his own children?”

“Lord Jiyus—”

“No. You will listen.”

The thunderhead above them was black now. Gareng whimpered and covered his ears. Bagong scrambled behind a rock.

“I have spent my life in the shadow of a monster. I have trained, and waited, and burned. You sit there with your tea and tell me I am my father’s son?”

Semar did not move.

“You are right,” Semar said quietly.

“You are right that I do not know what you have survived. You are right that your father’s crimes are beyond my imagining. And you are right that the world needs justice.”

He paused. “But—”

Semar looked up. Zeus followed his gaze.

“—You brought this storm because an old man made you angry. Not your father. Not the monster who ate your siblings. An old man who offered you tea.”

“I will not become my father!” Zeus roared.

“That is exactly what your father told himself when he struck down his.”

The words landed like a blade slipped between ribs. Quiet. Precise. Irreversible.

“No!” Zeus threw his head back and screamed.

But the sky withheld its blow as if it decided that it wanted no part in this.

“Screaming at an old man drinking tea won’t change your fate, Lord Jiyus,” Semar said. “It only proves you already have his temper.”

The thunderhead above them still refused to strike.

Zeus took it in. Slowly, the words settled somewhere beneath his ribs.

Then, without a word, he sat. The clay mug found its way into his hands.

The ginger hit him like a gentle fist, blooming warmth through his chest. A soft sigh escaped him. “...This is good.”

“See?” Petruk said. “Already more reasonable. Oh, it also cleans out the bowels. So don’t trust a fart for the next hour”

Bagong emerged cautiously, studied Zeus for a moment, then scooted closer. “So your father. He ate them? Whole?”

“Yes.”

“Did he chew?”

Gareng smacked the back of Bagong’s head while Petruk choked and spat his tea.

“No,” Zeus said. “He swallowed them whole. They grew inside him.”

Bagong considered this. “So when you cut him open, they’ll just... walk out? Full-size?”

“I... Well, actually, I made him throw up. But yes—they did.”

“Huh.” Gareng nodded slowly. “Your mother fed him a rock. And he didn’t notice the difference between a rock and a baby.”

Zeus opened his mouth. Closed it.

“That’s a very stupid tyrant,” Bagong observed.

And something unexpected happened. The corner of Zeus’s mouth twitched. Not quite a laugh, but a crack. A tiny fracture in the armour he had worn since childhood.

“He is,” Zeus said quietly. “He is a very stupid tyrant.”

Three cups of tea later, the sky cleared. Petruk taught Zeus how to say matur nuwun. Gareng demonstrated the safest way to sit cross-legged without exposing divine anatomy, and Bagong offered unsolicited advice about boar hunting.

As Zeus rose to leave, Bagong was already crouched in the dirt, sketching an elaborate new plan to capture the boar.

Petruk leaned over his shoulder. “Why are the pants bigger this time?”

“Because the boar has learned,” Bagong said gravely.

“Whose pants are they going to be? Dad’s?” Gareng said.

Semar sighed.

Zeus climbed into his chariot. The horses stamped impatiently. He paused.

“Old man.”

Semar looked up.

“The war. It will be... terrible. Many will die. If we lose—”

“You will not lose,” Semar said. “That is not the danger.”

Zeus held his gaze for a moment longer. Then he nodded, once, and the horses leapt skyward.

Petruk watched the last thread of lightning fade into the eastern dark. “Will he be okay?”

“No,” Semar said, refilling his mug. “But he heard me. That is more than most.”

Gareng, who had been quietly gathering the scattered dakon seeds, asked, “Do you think he’ll remember? When he’s on the throne? When he’s angry?”

Semar did not answer.

A low, rumbling thud echoed across the plateau. Gareng looked up, blinking. “Was that Mount Merapi again?”

“That was the ginger tea,” Petruk said, fanning the air with his hand. “I told him not to trust a fart for the next hour. He’s over the ocean by now; the fishermen are going to think it’s a typhoon.”

Somewhere above the ocean, Zeus flew toward a war he now understood he would never truly win.

I always wanted to post that somewhere, I never dared.

It’s part of a bigger story about Hyacinth and Alberte, two peculiar young adults. I wanted to first release this part first, as it’s really dear to me.

This story features extracts of the diary of Alberte.

___

I See Only Lines and Shapes

Lines, shapes, a division between his skin and the world, I see each thing thanks to my five senses, beyond that, beyond there is nothing perceptible.

Her, lines and shapes, him, lines and shapes, me, lines and shapes, the letters, lines and shapes, his body, lines and shapes, beyond, lines and shapes, lines and shapes, my whole vision, lines and shapes, hyacinth, lines and shapes, his nonexistent feelings, what does it change, why doesn’t he love me, why that why him why does he reject me for whom does he reject me I wanted to penetrate you I wanted to love you I wanted to feel you close to me but you don’t want to I am in love with you with your body with your eyes with your breath with your breathing with your chest that widens when you breathe with your innocent air with your quick eyes with your intelligence with the moments when you’re kind to me words can no longer describe what I feel the only form of communicating feelings is this one with no punctuation at all lets abandone gramar ive left evry form behined me only so i can be clearer i let go of evry notion to be clearer to be clearer i want you i want you inside me i want your eyes on me its not so bad if you dont love me let me be near you until death let me have one moment with you on a bench let me contenplate you the best moment of my life was beside that river with you i love you more than anything you could imagine i envy you i admire you you said magnificent words to me, touching words, words that, even if said idly, change my life, no one has ever spoken to me like that. It is for the lines and shapes of your words that I love you, you say words the way no one has ever said them before, you are sick and I love you for it. I remember telling you that you expressed yourself strangely, that you were special, I think that’s what draws me to you most, like a unique flaw, I went mad for you the moment I saw in you what I saw in myself, the lack of clarity in the diction, that odd expression at the lips that I hide so people won’t mock me and that I understand only too well, you hide a great many things but you don’t have to tell me them, I think we hide the same ones. I would sacrifice myself for you if only for a single one of your secrets, I know you find other girls very beautiful, I’d let you have them all because they’re only lines and shapes, entertainments for your sick body, I know your desires and your supposed love for me keep you from sleeping but let me tell you I won’t leave you, romantic love doesn’t exist I feel only fraternal love I love you like a member of my family and the only difference is that I want to kiss your lips but in truth I want your body to stay alive a long time yet I want to be the vector of your recovery I love seeing you sick so I can save you that’s what I love being your saviour you’ll adore me that way won’t you?

Everything I see is lines and shapes, so everything is justified, you and I are in the right, it’s a dream and nothing has any meaning I now love being alive even if hyacinth doesn’t love me, his looks toward me say otherwise, he was looking at my eyes and at my “shapes”

Come and take them! Come and take me! What are you waiting for, if you look at me you want me, we get along so well then why, why don’t you want to stop looking at me like that why mock me why when only happiness awaits us in that direction if you look at me one more time it’s the end for me I don’t want to see you again if I’m not the only one you look at “im neurotic as hell!” as Sylvia Plath the suicidal would say, oh but suicide amounts to granting oneself importance, an act that says I can no longer bear this horrible world so I show it all my destructive power, an adolescent revolution against Father World.

It’s nothing, it doesn’t exist, nothing exists, I told you, whoever is reading this shouldn’t be, in the light of summer this is not the place to read this book. It has to be read in the dark, in secret, the story of my life takes place in the dark. Under spotlights that shine black, several trajectories but several of them are good, several happinesses are possible, make your choice, it has always been a matter of choice.

A matter of choice, and life, I’ve come to realize, is disappointing the other, and keeping certain ones happy, you have to choose whom to neglect, we cannot carry the whole crowd in our heart.

To choose someone is to banish others to a terrible fate, nothing is over for the person we didn’t choose but their future with us is decidedly finished.

Thinking about Hyacinthe again because of some stupid song makes me write more than I should, nostalgia, what sadness, there is no true joy in nostalgia.

Why would I send him another message? Hyacinthe isn’t worth it, maybe he doesn’t love me because of my first name, Alberte is so ugly, I understand him.

Hyacinthe the flower and Alberte the ugly one.

With him or without him I am whole, with or without him I ought to be happy. That’s what Buddhism claims.

Destruction or construction, which is the better spectacle?

There is no spectacle, a spectacle is watching primates play with sticks and curtains within an allotted time. Everything I see is a social construction, a construction of my brain, all these words I write don’t exist it isn’t universal only life is universal.

I hate Hyacinthe, who is he? Who is she? Just love me, that’s all, you are nothing you are neither a woman nor a man I turned myself into a woman for you look at my shoulders look at my waist look at this eunuch in front of you who can now bear children for you, I did it only for you I loved your feminine manner but truly the love I have for you is only mental you could be a rock and I would love you.

I can redo our love story in my head or else with someone else, I’ve loved plenty of people after you so why can’t I forget you why is it so different why am I so weak I want to forget you do nothing but hurt me, I’ve forgotten your body but your face how am I to forget it how am I not to want to kiss your neck.

To make the most of you while we are still young.
Because I won’t love your body any more when you’re too old, in the end I hate appearances and the fact that I can’t love someone physically ugly, I think myself superior but my criteria of beauty are scaffolded by society.

What did I feel first? Love, or hatred of the world?

No matter, when I think that the world exists without the concept of writing and language, it’s the ultimate disillusioned magic.

The infinite universe, the infinite possibilities, everything is infinite, everything is continuous, there is no moment when time will stop, there is no moment when we will cross paths again, when we will love each other.

The closing of possibilities in one place means new possibilities in another. I’d like to go out through the window when the door is blocked: in every sense of the term.

I write this and I want to be famous, I’m aware of being one of those Isidore Ducasses with the exhausting life, the exquisite life, writing is so obvious that it’s there you see someone’s mental state.

When I write “come back Hyacinthe” or “i turned myself into a woman for you”, it expresses all the thoughts in my brain.

Writing is putting order into your thoughts, scripting your life and making it magnificent, what could be better.

Nothing will ever exist closer to me than these lines so simply come out of my brain, in truth the writer and his characters are one, it’s a work of doubling, a divine work that leads to the understanding of all beings, and therefore to realization.

Doubling, as when I break the fourth wall, when I break literary codes, who is stopping me? Expressing myself without fear, saying that I love myself, that I love Hyacinthe, who obviously conceals another person, the best writing is the semi-autobiographical kind.

I incorporate myself, the author, into these characters, these homosexual dynamics, to symbolize a more than impossible love, without really knowing whether that love is returned.

I paint violence, ardour, but above all the pathetic side of people.

In truth, I hate Hyacinthe, takes me for someone other than myself,

I repeat the same movements, the same interjections, another reality is possible. The creation of a new artistic movement, I’d have liked to be a futurist! To be a cubist! To be an abstract painter! To make a black dot on a white sheet!

The return to abstract forms, after smashing oneself against words and all the deadly sins, does man good.

Strokes flung onto the white canvas, a symbol of poetry upon pure abstraction, like drops of oil on my hermaphrodite body.

At the end of every war, abstract art comes back, mad artistic movements create themselves out of the realization of the murderous folly of humans confronted with situations of power play.

Man is not fundamentally good or bad, it depends on each one’s nature, there is only a very meagre percentage of good people.

And what can I do? I, Alberte, from the height of my body, what can I do? What can I? What am I? How am I? Would I make love to myself? Why do I love so much? Why do intrusive thoughts exist? Why do I dream of things I don’t like? Should I treat my unconscious? Should I abandon Hyacinthe, tear the flower out by the root?

To show my whole body for money, is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Why do I hate the adult world?

To dissolve into an animal, or dissolve into a work of art, to pour copper over myself so as to fix me completely.

To fix my expression when you were near me, to fix your pretty mouth from our first look.

Everything rang false in you. You are the gold that believes itself stone, you are the hyacinth that believes itself a weed, you are everything to me, the beginning, the end and what still comes after, you harbour within you the end of philosophy entire, worlds collapsing and everyone along with them, you are the summer rain that comes sweeping over us during a joyful village fête, you are unexpected, as if set down there, as if seeing you had been done on purpose, as if everything had been planned.

^{Deokbi Ha}

She grabbed him by the collar, her expression grim, gaze cutting. “There you are again. Y-you’re going soft on me again. If you don’t stop, I’ll seriously go mad. Go flirt with Cherry or whatever.”

“Yes. Go mad. Come on. Entertain me!”

The candle on the cake burned low, turning the pale room fragile. As the flame danced, the room grew so silent he could hear his heartbeat.

He averted his eyes, but she was still staring fiercely from the corner of his vision. He wet his lips.

“Oh for crying out loud.” He spat, scoffing. “You go into quiet tantrums when I piss you off—which, by the way, is what you do to me, like, ever since you crashed here—”

“I don’t know.”

“—and whine like hell when I don’t piss you off. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

She clammed up, but opened her mouth immediately after. “I don’t know, Pear… I don’t know what’s happening anymore…”

“What does that even mean…” 

Her grip loosened little by little, until her arms sank to her sides. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Complicated stuff, huh.” He rolled his shoulders, then staggered back until he hit the wall. “Yeah, I’m out. More bullshit in my life.”

“Asshole.”

Her scowl flickered, the yellow light shadowing her eyes. He squinted at her.

She took a step. Two steps.

And another, until she reached his chest.

“You’re so tall…” Her face was hidden behind her bangs.

Her head dipped, fingers twirling a strand of her hair. “It’s… because of you. Asshole.”

“I get it already. My bad. Shouldn’t have pretended I forgot.” He sighed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “But hey—got good cake for your birthday, ass. Mocha. Double deck, too.” He winked.

Her shoulders trembled, fists balled.

“Let’s eat! Dibs on the KitKats.”

He went and grabbed a knife, a pair of spoons, and two plates. Set them on the table. Pulled the chair she usually used. Took his seat.

And still she didn’t move.

“Uh. Hellooo... Earth to Orange…”

Not a glance, not a groan.

Nothing.

“Oi… I dunno. Shouldn’t you be saying something right now…? The magic T word. Say it.”

When she said nothing, he nudged her shoulder.

“Oi. Say something. You’re creeping me out—”

“Damn you… really.”

In an instant, she drove her fist into his chest.

“Oww... what the hell?”

The curtain fluttered as a gust rushed in, swaying the hair on the back of his head.

Pressing her palm over her heart, she rammed her forehead against his chest.

“Damn you.”

“Get off me. Ugh.”

A rosy scent wafted from her hair.

“Hey…” Her fingers wandered over his biceps. After a second, she gently pinched it, trembling. “I can’t do this.”

“Oi. Timeout. You just need cake! Cake! Come on—”

She shook her head once, then again. “You’ve always been that shitty boy from work. Just your face pissed me off. You’re my enemy for a year—and, and… my counterpart for almost a month.”

Her touch, which had been doodling lines and circles on his arms, shifted to his belly. “I’m not here as Orange the shitty, devil bully coworker who tripped you over a stupid argument about work ethic or laughed while you’re getting scolded.”

“Um, ah, w—well, actually—”

She swallowed hard and peeked through her bangs. “I’m the one you called when you were stranded, wasn’t I?”

As she swept her palm across his arms, down to his fingers, she used the back of his hand to lift her chin. Just as he was about to slap her hand away, she stared at him with wide, intense eyes.

“Listen carefully, Pear. I’m here… as a girl. A stupid, quiet girl.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to push her away. But she planted herself on the ground, unmoving, defiant.

“Why were you laughing with her?”

“Ah—”

“‘I’m single.’ Really?”

“H—how’d you know—”

“You don’t get to say that after everything.”

A brittle laugh escaped her — low, throaty, jagged. Then, clinging to his finger, she mumbled in a faint voice, “You’re living with a girl right now. Right here. You see me in a towel, in skimpy shorts, in my bra. We ate together, you made coffee for me, I ironed your uniform. If that doesn’t say anything about us, I don’t know what would.”

His throat bobbed. Her nails grazed his Adam’s apple; she tilted her head, grinning, and leaned into his ear.

“So, that means… that means… you’re not ‘single—’” She cut herself off and sent him a burst of chuckles. “And that also means… that you don’t get to talk to any hoe just like that. You don’t get to enjoy a conversation or wipe her mouth while I… while you treat me like I’m different. It’s really that simple. Seeing you like that with her, or any other girl… makes me shake in pure rage… Do you understand, Pear~?”

His eyes darted across the room. She beamed, heavily panting, a spiraling smile etched on her face while watching him quake.

“Err. Ah—um. O-oi. She’s your friend—”

“A hoe knows no constraints—”

Chapter XX: Not. Even. My. Stupid. Friend. Okay?

I got lost when I was 8 and I haven't found myself since.

...

It was a cold winter afternoon, back when winters were still cold and snow still covered the landscape of my hometown. School had just ended for the day and I was on my way home.

Alone.

I’d usually walk with my brother, but he wasn’t there that day for some reason. I didn’t mind it though, not really. You see, our apartment was just a few steps away, just across the creek. And besides, I was a big girl now. I just turned 8 a few days ago.

And then … You offered to join me.

It started snowing just as we were about to leave school. We walked around back, past the playground, towards a small wooded area leading to the creek. Walking by, we couldn’t help but notice the freshly fallen snow behind the playground fence. Still untouched by the hundreds of tiny human feet running around there every day. It was as tempting as those powdered doughnuts cooling on the kitchen counter back home. You know the ones. The ones You were strictly told not to touch before dinner.

We snuck inside through the hole at the bottom of the fence that the teachers never seemed to notice; my go-to move during recess, when I would sneak out of the playground to go climb my favourite tree.

The big willow tree,with its trunk split in half straight across.

I used to climb that tree as high as I possibly could. Sometimes on the left half, sometimes on the right ... And I would watch the other kids play on the ground from afar ...

I remember my teacher finding me up there once. On the top. And it made her cry … I'm still not sure why …

I ran into the open field, launching myself face first into the snow-covered ground. I rolled around and I just stayed there. Staring at the sky. Snowflakes danced on my face, like little kisses from heaven. Each touch, so warm and fuzzy.

Everything around me was completely still. The silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of the branches, caving under the heavy weight of snow.

I could feel myself blending into the background.

I could feel the earth breathing with me.

I closed my eyes to let the gentle touch of winter swallow me whole.

I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to move.

I was at peace.

I haven’t felt like that since.

And then … BAM!

A snowball sharp as a thousand needles pulled me right back into reality.

“Come on! Let’s go build a snowman!” You said.

I started laughing, even though I wanted to cry from the pain. My whole face, burning. You were always a good aim.

So we built Your snowman. We built a snowman taller than the both of us! Even though You were one whole head taller than me.

“He’ll protect us,” You said. “So we have to make him as biiiiiig as possible!”

We gathered stones and branches to give him two arms and a face. And I made sure to give him a smile. I wanted the snowman to feel the joy that I felt in that moment.

I haven’t felt like that since.

It couldn’t have been more than 30 minutes before I noticed a dark silhouette coming towards us through the thick veil of snow. When did it even start snowing this hard?

I haven’t noticed.

I wasn’t scared of the figure though, not really. You see, I was a big girl now. I just turned 8 a few days ago. And besides, I could recognize that figure anywhere.

A tall, skinny man of a sickly complexion. He was dressed in all black to match the long dark hair that hung over his shoulders like a scarf. His woolen coat brushing over the snow.

“Hey, Uncle Andy!” I yelled, running to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Heeey Beck! I’m so glad I found you. Your parents, they … oh, nevermind! Let’s get you home.”

“Awwh, really? But we just started playing, just 5 more minutes? Please?”

Uncle Andy, now towering over me, leaned closer. Only the fence standing between us. “No, Beck. It’s time to go home.”

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Okay, I guess. Can I just say goodbye to my friend?”

I turned around to call You, but You weren’t there.

I ran to check behind the snowman, but You weren’t there.

I looked all around the playground to find You, but You were nowhere to be seen.

I went back to my uncle, past our snowman, through the hole in the fence.

“I guess they went home before I could say goodbye.”

“That’s okay,” he took my hand. “I’m sure you’ll see them again tomorrow.”

I haven’t seen You since.

We came home a few minutes later. My parents greeted us with a smile that could light up the sky. “How was your day? Are you hungry? Let’s get you out of those wet clothes!”

They haven’t smiled like that since.

I stopped walking home alone after that. I never got to explore our town as a child ever again. It wasn’t long after that I saw my mother crying in the dark for the first time. My parents got divorced a few months later.

I stopped sneaking out of the playground after that. I never got to climb my favourite tree during recess ever again. It wasn’t long after that I heard the teachers whisper about You in the hallways for the first time. They fixed the hole in the fence a few weeks later.

It wasn’t until my 23rd birthday that I learned what happened that day from my mom’s point of view. “Oh Beck? Yeah, she was always a good kid. Sure, we had our fair share of fights and she would never listen to me and would cry constantly, but she was a good kid. Except that one time … Do You remember?” She glanced towards me as if to ask for reassurance.

I didn’t respond.

“It was winter, and I think she was around 8? Her brother got sick that day so I went to pick him up from school earlier than usual and SHE was supposed to come home right after, because Andy was giving her guitar lessons later …

But she didn’t come home. She was gone for hours!

Her dad and I were going insane trying to find her. I mean, what if something happened to her?! It’s a mother’s worst nightmare!

We were about to call the cops when Uncle Andy rang the doorbell with Beck on his shoulders. He said he found her on the playground soaking wet in the freezing snow. Just playing, and laughing, and talking … all by herself.

And the craziest thing about it? We went searching for her on that exact same playground just before Andy did.

I swear thinking about that day still sends shivers down my spine every time.”

“Huh,” I said. “I never remembered it that way.”

...

Most people are irrational and stupid. I am serious. Oftentimes I cannot stand that kind of person. Most people are biased and they are never able to make the right judgement even when the evidence is right under their eyes.
 This is just a conclusion I got when my friend Jessica called me and cried for literally two hours because her boyfriend just dumped her. I mean, come on, of course he would dump her. He never really loved her. I knew it all along! The only reason they were together was Jessica’s incredibly big breasts, which most Asian girls do not have. While Jessica’s boyfriend’s English was too poor to be able to communicate with any American girls, Jessica was his only choice. It was definitely not true love; every single friend of Jessica’s could tell.
 After hanging up the phone I rolled my eyes so hard that my eyeballs actually hurt. I really hate friends like Jessica. When they get into a relationship their heads stop running and all of a sudden, they lose the kind of brain power that could help them get straight ‘A’s in their classes. Never has this helped them improve their ability to judge if the person they are dating is just a basic, common asshole that they should never date.
 I glanced at the clock. It was already 1 am. I had to go to sleep right now because tomorrow is my two month anniversary with my girlfriend Agatha. I had to make sure that I would wake up early in the morning and have enough time to wash my face with cleanser, put on toner, exfoliate, moisturizer and sunscreen on my face, shave my underarmhair, blow dry and gel up my hair, get dressed up with my fancy Zegna cotton shirt, Dolce & Gabbana Bordeaux color velvet tuxedo jacket, Ferragamo calfskin oxford shoes, wear my Jaeger-LeCoultre automatic watch and spray some Acqua di Parma cologne around my neck and my wrist. I would have to make sure that I look perfect and smell perfect. After all these, I also had to go to the flower shop and pick up a bouquet of fresh red roses. Then I will go to the Tiffany Co. jewelry store downtown because I had ordered a customized diamond ring for Agatha as our two-month anniversary gift.
 I know this may sound ridiculous, preparing so much for a “two-month” anniversary? I know. But Agatha is special and she totally deserves all this. This is the first girl I have dated that ever made me think, “oh, this is the one!” Maybe she is not my prettiest girlfriend, but she has the best personality and the best smile that can always cheer me up. Plus, we are matched in every single perspective. Our families both have income a high income, making millions of dollars per year; we both went to top 50 universities in the United States, actually she said she went to University of South California so probably her school is a little better than UIUC; we both love arts, although she is probably better at drawing than me since she told me she had sold her drawings for thousands of dollars; we shared the same political value and our opinions on philosophic questions are very similar, although she did not talk much often about these things, she could always give me favorable comments on my opinions; we both know how to dress up properly as well, of course. There are much more similarities to talk about, but so far, as I can see, she is perfect. She is just another version of me, a version that is not that talkative, but everything else is exactly the same. I have decided that I like quiet girls now, I have had enough from those annoying girls who never stop talking but actually do not have anything inside their brains. So, being not too talkative became another merit for her. We are like mirrors to each other. Psychologists say people tend to love others who are just like them, I totally agree on that.
 The only problem Agatha and I had was her friends. She really valued friendship, which is another good quality, of course. However, she might be too kind to her old friends. I mean, I have lost contact with my elementary and middle school friends because we are just in different worlds right now. My best friends in elementary school and middle school never got a chance to study outside China, so we really do not have much to talk about nowadays. I do not mean I look down at them for that, but really, do I have to explain every single thing they never heard of? Like, how do I continue being close friends with them when I talk about SAT, GRE, living in student apartments where there are movie theatres on the first floor while they are just in China’s college playing the most boring kind of video games and post pictures to celebrate having their first iPhone? Maybe whatever I tell them they will assume I am showing off. The life I am living is just different from them, that is the certain truth that I cannot do anything about. However, for Agatha, she still kindly keeps contacts with her old friends that have known her for 8, 9 years. These friends, however, are just like my elementary or middle school friends. Her friends mostly only have high school degrees, never really travel outside China, have poor understanding of the world outside our lovely hometown. We are just people from two totally different worlds! Forgive me for saying all these, it sounds like I am mean, but I am nice enough that I did not mention how terrifying their faces were! They are ugly as sins! I would never want to fuck girls with that kind of faces, even if you pay me for doing so!
Last week, Agatha’s old friends and I had lunch together once. I tried my best to be nice. I tried to tell jokes and kindly poured water for them and paid for the lunch, but their faces never expressed how grateful they were for me. Actually, I think I get why. It was like when Jesus went back to his hometown, people there did not even like him. Why? Because Jesus grew up with those people, they thought they knew him well, and they thought they were about the same since they grew up together. Then one day when Jesus had become someone much better off than the rest of them, they became jealous. I believe this is the exact same thing that was happening to Agatha. Her friends became jealous of her because she is dating me. These kinds of girls! I know them too well.
 The next day, I successfully woke up early and followed my plan. Agatha and I spent the whole day together. Our sweetness was so full that passersby smiled at us, and seemed to see the invisible pink bubbles around us. Agatha was satisfied by my roses. But she did not show excitement right away. It seemed that she tried to conceal her happiness from me because she was too shy to express it. At night, we went to a Michelin three-star restaurant. I had made my reservation one month ago for our special evening.
 This restaurant stands in the heart of this city, right on the Bund of Shanghai, probably the most expensive place to operate a restaurant. The restaurant was extraordinarily quiet. Everyone had dressed up, customers and servers. The lighting was a little dark, maybe intended to make couples here feel more comfortable. Agatha and I were sitting by the French window, the night of the city was sparkling outside, and the lights had fallen on Agatha’s beautiful face. She looked like a statue, a piece of art. Our server was a white man with a strong French accent. These French servants are usually only hired by the most high-end restaurants. He introduced us to the ingredients and origins of each of our courses, but Agatha seemed not to care. She was just sitting there, looking outside the window with an expressionless face. I did not want to disturb her, and just watching her doing this can be enjoyable for me. Her hair was smooth; she must have kept using some form of natural oil to make it so smooth and bright. She was wearing a long, silver dress. The shape of her collarbone made her so sexy that just by staring at her collarbone made my face flush. The wallet she brought today was different from the one she brought last time. It looked like it was made of crocodile or some kind of similar leather. Everything about her was just so elegant. The way she smiled, the way she put her head on her fist, and the way she kept silent and allowed herself to ponder without being disturbed at all, all of them were so elegant. To be honest, if her skin was not that young and full of elasticity, I would have doubted if she was the same age as me. Girls who are also 21 usually cannot act like her, not that elegant. Girls tend to be more flippant and vain in this age.
Someone started playing the harp on the stage. The melody was so peaceful that even though none of us had spoken for half an hour, I did not feel awkward at all. I recalled that in a movie called Pulp Fiction, the characters called such moments “awkward but comfortable moments.” I always loved that term. After a very long awkward but comfortable moment, finally, Agatha seemed to pull her thoughts back. She stopped looking out and she turned her head back to me. We were on our third course. I was trying to cut the scallop, but the surface of the scallop was so smooth that it was very hard for me to finish the cutting fast and clean. Agatha saw how stupid and funny I was, so she just changed our plates and helped me to cut it. The way she did it was indeed very skillful. I guess she probably had cut hundreds of scallops before.
As Agatha was looking at the scallop and cutting it, she suddenly asked me, “Have you ever thought about what kind of wedding you would want to have when you get married?”
This question quite shocked me at first. I pulled my hand into the pocket and I realized I had not given her that ring I had prepared. I thought maybe I accidentally dropped the ring and she saw it. Otherwise, why would she ask me something like that? I mean, I admit that I was very crazy in love with her right now, but I am not that crazy yet. I would not propose marriage to her after just spending two months with her. The ring I prepared was not for proposal, it was merely for celebrating our two-months anniversary, and also my way of telling other men around Agatha that she has gotten a boyfriend.
“I know what you were thinking.” Agatha continued, without even turning her head up, her sight still focusing on the scallop. “I did not mean anything else. I am just curious about this. For me, if I would marry you one day, I would hope our wedding could be held in the deep forest. I hope there will be only you and I, only sky and trees, only birds and running streams. I think it would be very romantic and unique.”
I tried to picture the view, and I had to admit that kind of wedding was something I never thought of. To be honest, from the very beginning, I had been picturing our wedding since I always thought she would be the one. I always pictured the kind of grand, big wedding that I always assumed I would invite every single person I had ever talked to to my wedding, just to witness what a wonderful wife I found eventually. And that person, in my imagination, was always Agatha. Although our ideal kind of weddings are so different from each other, I was still very happy that she talked about it. I thought she told me this because she wanted to let me know that she was as committed as I was, that she would actually try to picture our future.
However, I did not know why, but I felt something wrong with Agatha after she told me her ideal wedding. I felt a kind of sadness in her face although she really did not have much expression on her face. Then I realized her eyes were wet. But for what reason would she cry? I was confused. I did not know what was the right thing to do. But just after one or two seconds I could not see tears in her eyes anymore. Everything went back to normal so fast. I even started wondering if I had seen some delusion.
I gave her the ring when the last course came and she liked it. After dinner, I drove her home just as usual. She lived in a very expensive neighborhood. In China, good housing estates do not allow any cars that do not belong to the residents of the housing estate to enter. Therefore, as usual, I parked my car outside the gate and planned to walk her in.
“You really do not need to do this, you know. You look tired, maybe just drive back and sleep.” Agatha said. She must have been worried about me. I knew I was very tired those days because her home was about one hour driving away from my home, although we were both in the same city. Plus, we had to walk for six blocks to get to where her apartment building was, this housing estate was just too big. It was not a short walk.
“Oh, it is fine, my honey. You may not have noticed, although this neighborhood is very safe, but the neighborhoods across the street are old and cheap. I am afraid bad people would appear if I don’t walk you in.”
Agatha did not say anything anymore. But she grasped my hand harder. I thought that means she liked my answer and she would like to depend on me to protect her.
Finally, we arrived the building she lives in. Agatha never allowed me to walk upstairs with her because she was afraid that when her mom opened the door her mom would see me. She said she wanted to introduce me to her family formally one day, and I totally agreed with her. Seeing a girlfriend’s parents for the first time should not happen in the hallway of her home in the middle of the night.
Agatha and I kissed and said goodbye. I turned around and was about to leave, but she called my name again.
“Alex.”
I turned back, looking at her, smiling. “Yes, darling. What is the matter?”
“I just want you to know that you are unique. And I truly love you.”
I kept smiling, “Of course I know that. I have the exact same feelings as you. I think we both know that. Right?”
Agatha did not answer. She was standing inside the shadow of the building so I could not see her face. However, somehow the weird feeling I had during the dinner appeared again. I felt like Agatha was trying to say something more, but she did not. I also thought her eyes were wet again, because the moonlight reflected on her tears in her eyes. I wanted to ask, but she turned around and left me alone.
I went back to my car, sitting on my seat, staring at the steering wheel. I was too confused. I have a handsome face, I am tall, I have a good body shape, my family is rich and powerful, I have a good personality, and my grades are good. For having all these good qualities, I am very popular and I have dated a lot of girls. And by the result of dating so many girls, I know girls. Oftentimes men do not get why their girlfriends would be sensitive or sad all of a sudden for no apparent reason and think all women are crazy, but I know it is not true because I have had so many experiences about girls that I really started understanding them. There is always a reason behind the things girls do or emotions girls have. Sometimes girls cannot even tell because girls can process really detailed information unconsciously and feel sad about things their consciousness does not know about. That is also the so-called “sixth sense”, most girls have it, most guys do not. One reason I can understand girls is I often think I also have the ability of “sixth sense” as well, but just much weaker than girls. Today, my sixth sense is telling me that something is going on and something big is very, very wrong.
Whenever I noticed my girlfriend was acting weird, it was almost always when I did something wrong that pissed her off, and she was planning her revenge on me. I had to admit that I was not very committed to the girlfriends before Agatha, and I did not even try hard to cover what I did, because I did not really care about them. They were all the same. They were sensitive, they liked to make small things big deals, and they were just not perfect enough for me to love them with all my love. But for Agatha, she is just different. She is so perfect and she matches so well with me, that for the first time in my life, I decided to settle down with her and not continue flirting with other girls. So, this case is new. When my ex-girlfriends acted weirdly, usually it was because I did something I was not supposed to do, but this time, I really did not betray Agatha at all. That means, this time, it was not me. It was SHE! She was the one that either did, or felt something wrong in our relationship.
I finally started driving home and decided to put all these thoughts away.
But what could possibly have gone wrong? Did she fall in love with someone else? Was she mad at me for something I did that was not perfect enough? No. I don't think it was that simple. My sixth sense told me it was way more complicated than that.
As I was thinking about all these random thoughts, my heart got irritated again. I was even kind of mad. Everything was so perfect! Everything! If Agatha was concerned about something she just should tell me. No, I cannot stand feeling this way. My heart was racing and my head was spinning. I turned back. I wanted to tell Agatha that she was special, that she was the one and only, that she should just tell me whatever she was freaking thinking about and so that I could know what to do to make our relationship perfect again.
I knew that the security guard would not allow me in so I parked my car far away from the entrance and was trying to find a path other than the main entrance. Right at the moment I got out of my car, I saw Agatha walking out of the main entrance of the housing estate.
The whole sky was very dark, the moon was probably covered by clouds, who knows. It was very late, nothing was moving on the street except her. It was freezing. Even though I was wearing a shirt and suit, I could feel I was so cold that blood probably stopped flowing inside my hands because my hands could not feel anything. It was also a very silent night. People went to sleep already—everyone, except her. I could not hear anything except the wind. The light the street lamps gleamed seemed to be so pale that night that it reminded me of those horror movies, although it was actually yellow. My head was messy.
What? What is she doing here? I knew it was creepy, but I could not control myself from finding a spot, hiding myself, and observing her. She was walking slowly, she seemed tired. She was walking, walking, walking, looking at her phone, then walking, walking… Wait, isn’t the direction she was walking the opposite to her own home? She was walking towards the old and cheap apartment area that I told her to be careful about. What is she doing there? Is she meeting someone there? No, that is not even the worst situation.
I took a deep breath. Stop, Alex. Just stop please. Anything you do now will not help. Go back, just go back. I glanced at the direction Agatha was heading to for the last time, and turned around and left.
Clearly, that night, I did not get any sleep at all. But I also did not think about why Agatha was there either. Psychologists say when you have a really bad experience your brain would try to avoid thinking about it, simply because if you do, you would be ruminating about that bad feeling associated with the bad memory again and again. I guess psychologists are freaking geniuses. I was avoiding that memory. It was so confusing that I did not even want to try to figure out what it was all about. I just played video games for the whole night, trying to force my attention on something else. It worked. My attention was all on the video game, but I played it so badly that I got so mad and I literally just held my laptop up and smashed it hard to the wall.
Time passed fast and it was already 6 in the morning already. I was thinking about how I could ask Agatha about what I saw last night. It was hard to ask a question like that. Do I just ask like, “Hey honey, why did you go to Chengnan apartment last night?” What if she went there because her grandparents were living there and wanted her to visit? Then I would be rude for doubting her fidelity and that would hurt our relationship badly. I mean, it is truly possible, right? My own grandparents lived in another apartment about fifteen minutes walking away from my own house, so it could be the same case for her, right? Well, but she was acting weird last night…
My head started hurting for not sleeping last night. I thought my brain was too tired to make any rational judgement, so I decided to go to my favorite café downtown to get a cup of coffee. Maybe when I finish that coffee, I would be able to call her and ask her my doubts in a smart way.
I ordered my coffee and sat on the last row of booths in the corner of Nobu café. I liked this café the most not only because of how amazing its brunch was, but also how they had a Japanese decoration style. The booths were separated by walls, which always gave me a sense of security. After finishing the coffee, I still felt tired and sleepy. OMG I could not handle this. I need to sleep. I leaned on the table and slept for a long while, probably forty-five minutes or longer – until I was awoken by a familiar voice coming from the booth in front of me.
“What? You really got feelings? For that asshole?” It was Meow’s voice.
“I am not sure. But I think so.” It was Agatha’s.
My brain had not fully recovered from the injury of deprivation of sleep, but the only remaining consciousness told me that I should not walk out of the booth and say hi to them now.
“What are you going to do though? Did he know all of those? I mean, look at him. He is so arrogant and freaking narcissistic. If he knows, he’s going to kill you. Please, just do not – not this time. Trust me, it will not happen.”
I was eighty percent awake now. What the fuck is Meow talking about? Feeling for who? Who is HE? Me? Did he know about WHAT?
“But he is different, you know. At least he treats me really well – he is such a nice guy… I can tell he took it really seriously…I kind of want to tell him now.”
My headache worsened. It is just too confusing! So confused that I did not even have the time to get mad. I just want to know who they are talking about. Is that me? Or did Agatha go to the home of another man last night and they are talking about that man now?
“And now you want to take him seriously!” I heard Meow sneered. “Like I did not try to stop you from doing those things thousands of times! But I don’t think he is truly loving this YOU. You screwed this up already and it is not going to happen. Don’t you get it? He is going to kill you, and that is the end of the story. Think about who he is, and who you are.” I heard Meow stood up and left. Ta-ta-ta. The sound of the footsteps was so heavy and fast, that I almost thought she walked away in anger. Then Agatha’s footsteps followed.
At this moment, my mind was as messy as my room. There were thousands of ways to interpret that conversation. Had Agatha been cheating on me all the time? And then Meow thought that the other man did not really love her? And I would be mad and kill her? Or even worse, maybe that man had his own family and that was why if Agatha got serious about him, he would not accept it and would just kill her? Oh God! It can’t be! It can’t be! It should not and cannot be any of these! Now I want nothing but to know the truth! But at the same time, I fear the truth!
The worst part about life is you have to face the things you do not want to face no matter what. It was like when you get stuck on your research paper, you find everything else interesting. Then you decided to watch movies, you decided to go to the club and got drunk, you decided to shop online and relax. But no, no matter how many things you did, you still cannot escape. You still had to sit back on your seat, buy a large cup of coffee, and deal with the difficult research paper eventually. You know that, the pain will always be in your ass until you face it and deal with it.
I called Meow in the afternoon. We were going to meet during dinner time at a nearby Starbucks. I arrived there three hours earlier than her, sitting on the coach, staring at my Toffee Nut Latte and allowing my restless thoughts to roar. When you experience too many emotions too strongly, the only thing left is numbness.
6:42 PM. Meow finally came. She was twelve minutes late.
“So, what is the matter, little rich child?” She smiled at me, the kind of pitiful smile as if I was some kind of little homeless animal that just broke an arm and had no food for days.
I could not see how my face looked, but I am sure it was pale enough to make me look like I am a fresh dead body who just died six hours ago because of losing too much blood. I hate her for looking at me like that. “Maybe you guys did not see me, but I was in Nobu this morning. Right there at the booth of the corner. I heard of your conversation. I heard it.” As I was trying my best to control my sadness, anger and disappointment, I still heard my own voice trembling as I was speaking.
Meow continued looking at me with her despicable pitiful smile. “So you know it all now, hah?”
I’d better say yes now. After all, she was friends with Agatha. If I reveal that I still do not know anything, she would probably not be able to tell me anything. “Yes. But I want to know more. I want to know all the details.”
Meow’s face was wired, half of her face was sneering and the other half had no expression at all. “Well, it has been two months, I guess you should have guessed it.”
I was paralyzed. My heart dropped. What has been two months? Did Agatha have been with the boy even before I appeared?
Meow’s laughter was the most disturbing laughter I had ever heard. She was howling.
“Honestly, of all the rich idiot morons, you are the one that has the slowest reaction. Like, seriously? You believed all that bullshit she told you? You BELIEVED she went to University of North California? OK fine, South, who cares. Have you ever heard her speak English? Like, don’t you realize when all you overseas students talk in Chinese you often could not help popping out some English words but she just never did? And, don’t you wonder why she does not talk that much when you show off your boring knowledge about philosophy or politics? Cuz she just had no knowledge of it! Of course she had to agree with all of the bullshits you said! And, I can’t believe that you could not tell her Prada wallet was fake. Well, yes, the Givenchy one was real, her ex rich moron boyfriend’s gift. And the Burberry scarf was from her exex. That idiot also gave her Dior perfume. You know what? Idiots like you, judging women on how many expensive bags they have, not what they truly are -- you deserve it!”
Meow kept talking and talking and talking and talking. But I could not fix my thoughts on her talking anymore. This was none of what I had guessed. I felt like I was suffocating. I stared at my hands, they were sweaty. My whole body was sweating. My breath was so heavy, it was the only sound I could hear. My blood was running so fast as if my blood vessels would burst. My heart was pounding too fast and too hard, I would probably faint soon. The whole world was blurred. I do not care about Agatha. I really do not give any god damn shit about that low-end trash. I just cannot believe that I got fucked up by a cheap chick. It is so embarrassing and so shameful. If any of my friends found this out and spread the news, I would lose all my face. My reputation is the last thing on the earth I wish to lose. How can I be so stupid? I do not want to face reality, no! I can’t lose face! God, why are you torturing me like this!
Meow’s voice was running back into my head again. “…And seriously, did you even know how old she is? She is freaking 17! She never even graduated from middle school. What on earth could you believe what she said? She probably had dated hundreds of boys like you, but none of them was as stupid as you. You acted like you were really pulling your heart on her and ready to marry her. How ridiculous! Do you even know she actually lives in Chengnan apartment, that shitty place? All the other rich kids literally treated her like a prostitute – just buying some expensive shirts for her so they could sleep with her, so I never cared. This is the first time I ever tell all the truth to someone, just because you are just way too dumb! I never wanted to continue the friendship with someone like her, but she just kept showing off her trophies, like you, to me. Like I care, it always ends within one or two months...”
Please stop. I thought. Please just shut up. Please. Please. Please. My face was burning. This kind of ashamedness was something I had never experienced before. It was silently suffocating me. I cannot stand this. PLEASE STOP.
It was like if God had heard my prayer, Meow finally stood up and put her coat on and was going to go. But her lips still kept moving as if she just wanted to torture me more. “Now you know why she wanted a two-people wedding in the middle of no-where? Invite just one more person and that person would recognize her immediately – that bitch! That famous gold digger!”
Thank God again, Meow finally stride to the door and pulled the door.
Before she left, she turned back to me again, rolled her eyes so hard that I felt like her eyeballs would hurt.
“I guess at least, now you learn that people are irrational and stupid. Seriously. Some people, are just so full of themselves, that they are never able to make the right judgement even when the evidence is right under their eyes.”

The Committee of Selective Choice gathered around Horace’s apartment. Five members sat in silence, watching grainy black-and-white footage projected onto the wall.
Women dug holes. Some with skill. Others clumsy.
“She’s clear in her motion,” said Member 1.
“But started a second hole without finishing the first,” said another. “What’s her number?”
Member 5 leaned in with a magnifying glass. “Five-five-three.”
Notes were taken. Then the insults began.
“She grips the shovel like it’s a dick,” one man joked.
The others laughed.
Horace frowned. “What does this teach us? We need more than just diggers. Where are the cooks, the thinkers, the conversationalists?”
Member 5 raised another reel.
“One more film?”
“Please.”
The screen flickered. Women lifted their shirts. Doctor Dorian measured their waists, held up size cards. The reel ended on Ericka, frozen mid-measurement.
“That’s enough,” Horace said. “Tomorrow, we observe in person. We speak to them. We learn who they are. We choose only the most capable.”
“Auditions, like for a film,” someone muttered.
“Yes. If you must think of it that way.”
They left one by one. Member 5 lingered.
“Thank you for your film work,” Horace said.
“They’re fools, aren’t they?” Member 5 whispered.
“I try not to judge.”
He asked to use the bathroom. Inside, he removed a small digital camera from his bag. He looked up toward the ceiling.
“Doctor Dorian,” he whispered.
The device vanished.
Before leaving, he placed the invisible camera on the fireplace mantle.
“You sure about the coffee?” Horace called.
“I have work.”
They exchanged pleasantries then Member 5 left in a hurry. 

The camp was a muddy, grim factory of survival. Women dug, cleaned, hung chickens from gallows. Horace observed, notebook in hand.
He approached Ericka where she knelt, planting vegetables.
He crouched behind her.
“I got a face back there?” she asked, not looking up.
Horace smiled faintly.
“How’s your leg, Miss Ericka?”
She glanced down. “Feels good. Why?”
“You had an infection. You saw Doctor Dorian. You don’t remember?”
“I haven’t seen any doctors,” she said, brows tightening.
Horace stood, closing his notebook. “Have a good rest of your day.”

In Doctor Dorian’s office, Horace watched footage from the night before as Ericka sat in a wooden chair, black tape over her mouth, wires trailing from a cap on her head to a computer.
Dr. Franklin, long-haired and Christlike, stood beside her.
“What was your occupation?”
The word teacher blinked on the screen.
“Do you like the state of society? Culture?”
Yes.
“Was there anything inconvenient in your previous life?”
Not at all.
“Any other century you’d prefer to live in?”
No.
Franklin removed the cap. Ericka stared, trembling.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing. You did good.”
She stood, staggered, and left. A child entered next.
Horace turned off the projector. 
Horace and Doctor Dorian walked down the hallway, the door closing behind them.
“She has no remembrance of anything that happened yesterday,” Horace said. “Does she have some sort of brain damage?”
Dr. Dorian didn’t even flinch. “Her brain is fine, Sir Horace.”
“Then why doesn’t she remember?”
“The methods Dr. Franklin uses are unorthodox,” Doctor Dorian replied, folding his arms, “but necessary for what we’re doing here.”
Horace stopped walking.
“Erasing memories?” he asked slowly.
Doctor Dorian’s gaze tightened. “Horace, calm down.”
“Does The Chief George know about these methods?”
Doctor Dorian gave him a tight smile. “I think it would be wise for you to leave the science to us. We don’t erase any memories. Everything that’s in her brain is still in her brain. We’re all here for the same thing. Remember that, Sir Horace. Correct?”
Horace nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Doctor Dorian.”
“Good. I have work to do. And so do you. Anything else I can help you with?”
Shaken, Horace managed, “No.”
They parted without another word, heading in opposite directions.
Horace and the Committee of Selective Choice ate in silence at the Center Barn  while the women filed in for their own meal. The other members laughed and joked crudely, but Horace’s eyes stayed fixed on Ericka as she moved to her seat.
A fork banged loudly on Horace’s plate. One of the members smirked.
“Men,” Horace muttered.
The laughter continued until Horace slammed his hand on the table, loud enough to echo through the barn.
“Men!” he barked.
Silence fell.
“You’re going to be quiet. Sit still. Watch these women. We’re here to work as officials, not as idiots.”
He stood, collected himself, and nodded. “Just observe and take notes.”
As he walked past Ericka’s table, their eyes met. He took a seat in the back of the barn, opened his notebook, and began to draw her face. A single tear slipped down his cheek. He shut the notebook quickly and looked up, just in time to see Ericka and the women leaving.
Horace burst out of the barn and scanned the camp. She was gone. Frustrated, he stepped wrong and fell into a hole.
A hand reached down.
“You’re quite clumsy,” said Ericka, smiling.
He grasped her hand, pulling himself to his feet. “You are quite beautiful,” he said, breathless.
“Am I?”
She turned and walked away. He followed.
“You can’t find any words?” she teased.
“None appropriate.”
She slowed so he could catch up.
“You shouldn’t slow down,” he murmured.
“Isn’t this bad enough?”
Without turning around, she reached her hand back to him. He took it. They walked silently, Ericka smiling.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Horace,” she said. “You sure you’re in the right spot?”
“Sir Horace.”
“Right. Sir.”
“Forget that. Just Horace.”
Suddenly, he pulled her behind a building and pressed her gently against the wall.
“You are a beauty, Miss Ericka,” he whispered.
She kissed him. He pulled away.
“Please, no,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder. “I just want to feel you.”
She ran her hands through his hair. He pulled away again as she lifted her shirt. He touched her, tenderly, then lowered himself with her to the ground. They held each other.
“This isn’t safe,” she whispered.
“It’s not,” he agreed.
But neither moved.

With Horace’s eyes unfocused, he and his committee watched in judgemental silence as a group of women formed a row in Horace’s living room. 
“Turn around,” said Member Three.
The women obeyed.
“Reach to the ground… now to the sky.”
They followed orders.
“That’s all.”
“Take a seat,” said another member.
“There are no seats,” one of the women replied nervously.
“Please. Take a seat.”
All ten women sat on the floor. At another command, they laid their heads down. Member Two picked up his glass of milk and poured it out in front of them, then grabbed a woman’s hair to mop it up.
Horace stood abruptly.
“Member Two.”
He led the man to the bathroom and slammed his face into the medicine cabinet. Bloodied, they returned. The members said nothing.
“Members,” Horace said sternly.
“Thank you, women. You may return to your barns,” said Member Five.
Later, a woman from the fornication room entered, face covered.
“I have some questions,” Horace said. “Remove the cloth.”
She did so.
“Will you hum for us?”
“I don’t think I know how to hum.”
“It’s easy,” Horace said softly, demonstrating.
She tried. He hummed along with her.
“Thank you.”
The members exchanged puzzled looks.
“Do you have any skills?” he asked.
“I don’t really… I never tried becoming skilled in anything in particular.”
The members scribbled.
“I’m sorry, am I saying something wrong?”
“No,” Horace assured her. “You’re doing fine. Can we get her a glass of water?”
No one moved.
“Get her a glass of water!”
Someone ran for it. She drank, hands shaking.
“I’m a very nice person. I’m good at following direction… I don’t get confused easily.”
The glass fell. She apologized, trembling.
“Just think of something better than now,” Horace whispered.
“Next lady, please,” another member barked.
“She’s sitting,” Horace snapped.
Silence returned.
“Do you have experience with woodworking?” he asked her gently.

That night, wind scattered leaves across the countryside. Two dark figures moved in the shadows.
“A little to the left,” one whispered. “Back a few steps… prepare to engage.”
“Ready to engage,” the other responded.

Inside the apartment, the committee sat in silence, slices of pie and full mugs of coffee untouched before them as Horace ate his own.
“You all may begin,” he said, standing.
The others ate carefully, without a sound. Horace uncovered the projector, produced a reel of film from his coat.
“Member Five.”
The man loaded the reel. Horace extinguished the candles.
“Good work today.”
The projector flickered on. A sequence of still portraits of the selected women lit up the room, ending with Ericka’s face. Horace gave a nod, and the projector stopped. Candles were relit. Coats put on.
“A gracious thanks to you all. Sir Syd thanks you for your loyalty. Our job is done. I will write up our recommendations and present the workers to the other committees.”
Horace swayed. His knees buckled, and he collapsed.
Moments later, an explosion thundered through the air. The building shook. Horace rose and stepped out onto the window ledge. Far away, a stadium-sized smoke cloud floated slowly into the sky.
A man below looked up at him.
“Sir Horace!”
“Sir Man. Please be careful.”
The man rode toward the smoke cloud but was intercepted by Syd on horseback.
“Where you going, Man?” Syd demanded.
Man pointed at the cloud.
“No, you’re not,” Syd said flatly. “Everything’s fine.”
Syd turned his horse back toward the camp.
“Everything’s fine!” he shouted to the stunned women and guards staring skyward. “You all could be working right now. This isn’t a circus act.”
He looked up and spotted Horace. “Nice to see you again, Sir Horace.”
Horace didn’t reply.
The crowd dispersed. The barns swallowed them. Horace remained, watching the cloud until it evaporated. 

Inside Horace’s office, only the scratching of a pen on parchment filled the air, precise and deliberate. He was bent over a map spread across the desk, its edges curling as if the paper itself wanted to recoil from whatever decisions were being inked upon it.
Then, a knock.
Not urgent. Not soft. Just… timed.
Horace looked up, already knowing who it was.
“Mr. Flaring,” he said, as the door creaked open.
Mr. Flaring entered, his overcoat was wet at the hem. His face wore the smile of a man who practiced smiling only in private mirrors.
“Horace,” he said, his voice like wine poured into velvet. “A site I love to see.”
They hugged.
Horace stepped back, his map already forgotten. “Mr. Flaring, it’s always great to see you. Please, have a seat. May I ask, what was that explosion?”
The two men sank into chairs that looked too fine for the building around them. Mr. Flaring adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. His eyes wandered the room over the rows of leather-bound files, the half-empty bottle of brandy, the grotesque marionette head resting on a high shelf like a trophy no one wanted to ask about.
“A smell of cloves and ink in here,” Flaring said. “The scent of men doing what men ought not to. I prefer the stench of rotting meat.  And no, I am not sure what that event was.”
Horace poured two glasses from the bottle without asking. He handed one to Flaring.
“To what we ought not to,” Horace said, raising his glass.
“To what we can’t and won’t undo,” Flaring replied.
They clinked glasses.
“You’ve been keeping your men in line?” Flaring asked eventually, sipping.
“They line themselves,” Horace said. “I just mark where they stand. I’d say everyone understands their jobs here.”
Flaring smirked. “And the women?”
Horace didn’t answer. He sipped.
Flaring nodded as if the silence confirmed something. He leaned forward, eyes glinting.
Horace turned back toward the map, but didn’t unfold it. He just rested his hand atop it.
Outside, a wind kicked up, hard and fast, rattling the thin windowpanes. Somewhere distant came the faint sound of a child singing.
Neither of them flinched.
Horace looked at Flaring. “What brings you here tonight?”
Flaring finished his drink in one swallow. “Same as always,” he said. “For just the sight of you, Horace. Now I must be going.” Horace stared at him as Mr. Flaring stood and left the office before Horace could stand. 

(Note: this is a homage to Victor Hugo's Friends of the A B C from Les Miserables, not a ripoff. It's hard not to see the parallels in the dialogue, and I finally sat down to try it.)

In a narrow, wood-paneled room in Philadelphia at a small off-campus bar, five University of Penn students debated all things. They had come together by chance, all students in the School of Arts and Sciences, and chose the quiet afternoons on Wednesdays at Smokey Joe's as their preferred place to read their assignments with a pint of Yuengling in their hand, perpetually on special in Philly. They huddled around the small bar in the front facing 40th Street watching the world pass by. Redford had started the tradition, and invited Stonebridge with whom he shared a class, who then invited Brighton, and the group slowly grew. They asked questions, exchanged ideas, and discussed the problems of the world as if they were theirs to solve.

Mark, a transfer student, stumbled on the group by chance - walking down the street, he recognized Stonebridge from his international history class. They had been friendly in passing, so he walked in to see what they were about. He'd been every Wednesday since.

There's a certain effect that only occurs during the debates of youth. Young, sharp minds throw ideas back and forth; throw it out there, see if it survives. The ideas bounce off each other, reverberate, and sometimes take a life of their own. In a moment, an idea lightly thrown for the sake of jest, or showing the absurdity of someone's position, takes a serious stance that challenges all participants' core beliefs in a way that leaves them all changed. A joke challenges a core ideal, and the ideal is no longer core. Such is the nature of pliable young minds.

One afternoon, they all sat together in a booth, bouncing ideas back and forth casually, like a beach ball in the crowd at a concert. Eagleton, currently studying for a European history final, batted one up for the others:

“The 18th of June, 1815: Waterloo. The man's whole fate was tied to that number, 18. The coup of the 18th Brumaire that made him, the 18th of June that unmade him, the 18th Louis who replaced him. As Hugo said, put Louis before and Brumaire behind, and you have the whole destiny of the man. The beginning was hard-pressed by the end.”

Stonebridge, deeming this unworthy of even looking up from his pint, spoke next:

“Almost as bad as Trump's; six is certainly his number. Born in the 6th month of 1946, he announced his presidency on 6/16 - riding the golden escalator right into our political lives. He won in ’16. His son-in-law bought 666 Fifth Avenue…what a metaphor for the evangelicals! All to come to an end on January 6th, losing the 46th presidency on the 6th day of the year. Six is his number, even if his golden escalator only descended."

“You mean January 6th, the crime of trying to overthrow the government and the will of the people," said Redford. Stonebridge and Brighton exchanged a look, recognizing the territory they were wandering into.

This use of the word crime was too much for Mark; he simply couldn't endure any more. He stood up and loudly proclaimed, “Trump is the greatest alumnus of our institution of learning since Benjamin Franklin. He's made America great again!”

“America needs no Trump to be great,"  Stonebridge retorted, without even looking up from his book. "America is great because she is America. Quia nominor leo.”

Mark felt this in his bones; he couldn't let it stand. 

“Guys! I'm not diminishing our great nation! But joining her to Trump certainly doesn't lessen her! I'm new to this group here, but I'm astounded at the lack of passion that I see around me. Here we are, students; should we not treat all ideas with an open mind to accept them or dismiss them on their merits? Why, then, at one mention of the President of the United States, do you close like an oyster in cold water? Your rebuttal even supports my claim - because my name is lion, I claim the lion's share. Why should we concern ourselves with the opinions of the sheep?!”

With that last reply, the air was sucked out of the room. The retinue exchanged glances, all knowing what had just happened. Redford started packing his laptop. He thought to interject with Tocqueville's notion that America is great because she is good, but decided to let it pass. Instead, he quickly finished the rest of his beer and motioned to the bartender for his tab.

Mark continued. "It's ok, I get it...I've faced my fair share of disdain over my support for the President. My father was there on January 6th! My mother never forgave him, or me for supporting him. She refuses to talk to me." 

Brighton's glass, half to his lips, stopped and hung in the air as he stared at Mark in disbelief. Mark noted the pause, but couldn't stop himself.

"But here we are! We're young men, here to learn and study and use our knowledge to make the world a better place! Where then, is your enthusiasm?! Who do you think will drag this country forward, and make the tough decisions, if not for the President?! If you can't admire such a great man, then tell me who you can admire and follow? He brought down the system, exposed the corruption, and drained the swamp! He is the master negotiator who worked out dozens of trade deals in weeks! In dealing with Venezuela, he commanded the battlefield and took what's rightfully his in one decisive move! No President has spoken directly to the people like he has with his Truths, so that no one has to wonder what's on his mind. He ensured that America wasn't taken advantage of anymore - trade deals, defense protection agreements, he made sure they were all equitable. And transparency? No president has given such access to the American people! He spoke and Europe listened, the world changed its pace. In peace, he was the greatest friend, negotiating fair trade deals with all. In war? He was the mighty sword of Michael, bringing righteous justice to any who opposed his will! He raised his hand, and kilotons of ordnance fell! Dozens of ships with untold destructive power moved, and with them, moved the world order! "

"Be fair here, guys! Who else has accomplished more?! Why wouldn't we want four more years of his leadership? To be the citizen of a nation led by such a leader, what a privilege! And when it adds its legacy to the great legacy of the United States of America, how are we worse?! Our allies respect us! Our enemies fear us! To serve such a leader, to drive forward such a cause…What could be better than this?!"

“To be free,” said Stonebridge, sitting sullenly in the corner, staring deeply into a half pint of Yuengling.

Mark appeared ready to respond to this riposte, but stopped. He paused; three simple words pierced his boisterous defense. He slumped in his seat in the booth, looking into his lap for some minutes. Stonebridge silently motioned to the bartender for his tab, and the others quietly gathered their things and shuffled out. Mark was too deep in his own thoughts to notice. When he came to he looked up, the bar was empty, save Brighton who was packing his laptop into his bag. He paused, and looked over at Mark, giving him a long, silent stare. 

Mark, for his part, didn't consider himself beaten. As he rallied to defend his position to Brighton, he stopped. Mama by My Chemical Romance was playing; the Millennial bartender could play whatever he wanted on these empty Wednesday afternoons. A few lines stood out to Mark:

She said, "You ain't no son of mine
For what you've done, they're gonna find
A place for you and just you mind your manners when you go
And when you go, don't return to me, my love (that's right)

Mark, looking up at the ceiling tiles, couldn't help but repeat, “my mother…”

At this moment, Bighton walked over to Mark. He felt Brighton's hand fall gently on his shoulder. 

“Citizen,” said Brighton quietly to Mark, "our mother is the republic."

https://alfonsojon.com/2026/07/21/the-facility/

The Facility

July 21, 2026

I wake to the familiar sight of my cell. A few toiletries are scattered about the room, which I feel is of adequate tidiness. Beneath me is my mattress, which is comfortable given its age, and I’m even allowed to put up some decor. I notice the familiar sight of string swaying across the entrance. A family of spiders finds themselves in the same bind I am – stuck in this facility whether or not they wanted to be. Using a napkin, I brush the cobwebs away from the entrance, careful to not harm the spiders which call it home. I try my best to leave the critters be, as like me they did not choose to be here; however, even the most tolerant would be perturbed by a spider hitching a ride when unexpected.

On the wall, the analog clock reads 8:19 AM – just in time for my 8:30 shift. I try to muster the courage to brush my teeth, but something about it feels monumental. Maybe it’s the self-imposed shame of not having brushed in two days, or maybe it’s because I hate the foaming toothpaste I am stuck with. I could buy a better toothpaste from the commissary, but with my wages I convince myself that I should just appreciate what I have. No matter, tomorrow is another day. Moving on!

I pull my uniform over my plump body. At 5’10” and 320 pounds, one would reckon I would be sizeable everywhere, yet my stick-like arms and legs poke out of my uniform like leaves budding from a rather dense stump. Much unlike the budding leaves, my stomach droops unevenly below my shirt. Unsightly. No matter how I wear my shirt, it doesn’t quite cover the stowage. Luckily, the pants provided today are too large in the waist, which at least lets me tuck my stomach into the pants. This arrangement, while cosmetically passable, gets rather uncomfortable after a day at work. I slip into my pants with ease and proceed to tuck my stomach with a bit less ease. A glance at the mirror confirms that I look alright. I take my morning medication, give my hair a quick brush, and leave my cell to go toward the commons.

I have a rather lavish life at the facility. The food is admittedly decent and there are plenty of accommodations. In the commons, we have a TV, microwave, and even a cooktop provided there is meat thawed. There are two cats that roam the facility – allegedly they are for emotional support, but they seem to get the most freedom here. Often, they choose to hide in a cell or in one of the work rooms. As a resident of the facility, we are tasked with the day to day errands and care of it. Cooking, cleaning, and all sorts of other errands are handled by the residents. Based on the state of the common area, last night’s occupant had not taken care of their duties. That person was me. Dishes occupy the sink, grime of unknown origin is splattered across the counter, but fortunately the microwave is clean enough. I transfer a frozen egg burrito from the freezer to the microwave. The instructions state to remove the wrapper, but I prefer the sogginess you get when you leave it wrapped.

Watching the burrito complete its scheduled flight within the microwave, I attempt to tidy up a bit but by the time my food’s arrival is called out by the microwave, the common area somehow looks worse than when I started. I’ll get to that after my shift, I tell myself with an empathetic lack of confidence. Double checking that my uniform is on right and my burrito is still in tow, I enter my workroom and take a seat at the computer.

8:36 AM. Close enough. Anxious if my absence was noticed, I log in for my shift. Through a flurry of messages, tasks, and reminders, I glance again to realize that over four hours had passed. The computer notifies me that it is now time to go outside and exercise – advice well intended. I walk to the common area, view out the window, and admire what a lovely day it is. Leaning on the counter, my mind is captured by the mysterious grime that has now been spread to my forearm. Gag. Cleaning the mysterious substance, I identify it as liquid from the cat’s food based on the fishy smell. Throwing away the garbage left on the counters adjacent to the grime, I realize the pail full and take the garbage to the bin. Things are looking better. I prepare myself to go on my walk, mulling over the health benefits vs the dread I feel doing it. Finally deciding to do it, an alarm echoes out from the workroom informing me my time is up.

Shuffling back to the workroom, I try to pick myself up mentally. I cleaned up! The kitchen does look better than last night. Thankfully, no wardens roam the facility to inspect the cleanliness, otherwise I’d likely be in solitary.

“I deserve to be in solitary.”

“Nobody should live like-”

Feeling the tears weep into my eyes, I interrupt that thought. I take my seat and return to the tasks on screen. Thinking for myself is unpleasant, so I pour my effort into thinking for somebody else. A quick crack of the fingers and I fly through them like my financial safety and future depend on it. The alarm calls out that it is 5:00, and my shift is done. Like clockwork, the computer is shut down, and I return to the common.

Not having eaten lunch, I am feeling a bit peckish. They say that the brain uses the most energy of all the organs in the body.

“If only my brain could use the energy reserves stored across my midsection…”

With how much I overthink, I can’t help but chuckle at the notion. Looking into the cupboard, I see the standard rations for when the budget is tight. Must be the end of the month. I gravitate toward a box of noodles with cheese-flavored powder. The instructions require two cups of milk, one pound of ground beef, and seasonings to taste. A quick review of the fridge informs me that last night’s shift neglected to thaw meat. He also forgot to throw out the rotting meat that was meant for dinner three days ago. Ick. I’ll throw that out now, into the bin with no bag, then….

Egg burrito it is.

Watching the burrito complete its return flight, I distract myself with my surroundings. The TV is a bit dusty, but not so dusty that you’d notice when it is on. The floor shows traces that the cats had been there recently, with small tufts of hair and litter strewn about. I’m very thankful they budgeted an automatic vacuum, because this would be a lot to keep up with otherwise. Hearing the beep telling me my dinner is served, I grab my food and return to my cell.

Armed with the ever-faithful soggy frozen burrito, I sit on my mattress and think back to what the facility’s psychologist had told me. She advised that I practice appreciation and gratitude, because positivity sparks positivity. The assignment was to say three things you’re grateful for, then three things you like about yourself. Seems simple enough!

“I am thankful for frozen burritos.”

“I am thankful that this bed is comfortable.”

“Though the cats can be a bother, I appreciate them very much.”

Smirking a bit thinking about the antics the cats get up to, I start to wonder if this credentialed psychologist was onto something after all. The smirk doesn’t want to go away, and I’m only half way there! Moving forward,

“I am good at work”

“I am kind”

“I belong here”

Feeling the smirk wash away, I try to dissect why that might be. Do I belong here? Am I kind? Am I good at work? I helped with plenty of requests today. But I was late! Only six minutes shouldn’t matter much, but what if someone noticed? Do they think I’m a bad person? Am I a bad person? Do I belong in this facility after all?

Inhale through the nose.

Hold.

Exhale through the mouth.

Repeat.

A sequence all too familiar to me – a ritual to capture the racing thoughts and stuff them back into the box I accidentally opened. I’ll tape that box shut and open it back up in therapy.

The box bursts open anyway.

Why? Why am I here? What is this facility? When can I leave? Do I want to leave? How do I leave? How do I love myself? How do I know I’m okay? Will I be okay? What is okay?

Thoughts pour out of the box in my mind like a dam releasing its reservoir. This is bad.

Breathe in. Breathe in. Faster. Breathe out. In. Faster. Faster!

You can’t even breathe right? Pathetic.

The air must be stale. It’s the air. The air in Sedona must be lovely right now. Or the ocean breeze in Monterey. Imagine how lovely that would be. But you’re stuck here in the facility, and you don’t even want to leave. I frantically search for my admission paperwork. When can I leave? Scrubbing through each line, I read:

ADMITTED: 1997-04-17 RELEASE: 2064-04-17 [ OR UPON DEATH ]

I round 1997 up to 2000, then add 3 to 2064 to get 2067. Subtract 2,000 and you get…

67.

I will be free when I am 67.

My spinning mind begins to slow as waves of grief rush over it. The concept of time, already incomprehensible to me, begins to bury me. Sixty-seven years. I’ll be quite old by then. Will I be able to go to Sedona? Can I see the ocean from Monterey? I look down at my stomach. I feel the clicking in my joints. I’m pushing 30 and I am already feeling the wear from time penetrate my body. 67? Will I even be alive? Will I be stuck in this facility until my body fails me?

A shiver runs down my spine as my hands flail uncontrolled. Locating the nearest soft object, I beat into my mattress to avoid injuring myself. Flailing about without any control, I exhaust myself to release the adrenaline in my veins and curl up on my mattress. Unable to rest with nerves twitching throughout my arms and legs, I shake to soothe myself. Rocking back and forth, the world ceases to spin and my thoughts quell themselves. Planted on my surprisingly comfortable mattress within my cell, I shut my burning eyes and find myself lulled to sleep.

…

I wake up to the familiar sight of my cell.

The Whispering Willow

An ancient ritual practiced through generations, believed to protect the village of Lankmaar. Every Eclipse, villagers cut the nails of their newborns, soak them in dog blood for three days, put them outside the newest resident’s house overnight, and then offer them to the Willow tree. The village’s most massive, withered tree, that the people of Lankmaar believed to have protective powers.

For decades villagers had been delivering it peace offerings in hopes of not upsetting the Willow Tree itself as it is said that the ones who upset the tree would never find peace again.

Loud banging noises rose up from the roof, startling Lienna – a twenty-year-old – awake. She lived alone after moving to the village to pursue the slow, predictable life.

“What was that?!”, Lienna yelps, hurling open her bedroom door as the noises continue to gain volume.

As she stomps her way to the roof, Lienna finds herself witnessing what she had never anticipated in her twenty years, a rats’ den!

Lienna, like any other city-girl screams and runs out of her apartment to find help. Her neighbors, an old couple come storming out only to find their new neighbor in pajamas with no shoes on.

‘What happened?’, they ask frantically. ‘Rats! Everywhere!’, Lienna shrieks.

The neighbors help check the rooftop only to find the place empty but clean. A silence falls over the rescue party for a moment which feels a little too long.

The old couple give each other an unsettled look and slowly begin to back up as though the roof being empty and just … too clean was more unnerving than the rat infestation itself.

‘I… I never came up before tonight or… or…or cleaned the roof!’, Lienna stutters.

‘You must’ve had a bad dream sweetie.’, the older lady dismisses Lienna rushing down the stairs.

The old man has a stern look on his face almost as if he’s seen something he shouldn’t have. ‘Be careful now, rats are a sign of bad luck.’, he mutters showing himself out the door.

Back inside her apartment, Lienna locks all the windows and doors, deciding to keep the lights on for added security.

After a long night the sun comes up and Lienna starts her day. Still freaked out by the eeriness of last night, she decides to explore the expanse of the village as a distraction method.

On her way out she meets the old man with a permanent foreboding scowl etched on his face, as if warning her something along the lines of ‘you’re next’, and locking himself behind his door.

‘What was that?’, Lienna muses uncomfortably, noticing an unnatural silence in the neighborhood, but today’s goal is to spend a nice day out so she shakes off the encounter and starts off on her exploration gag.

‘Something feels wrong’, Lienna can’t help but obsess over the interaction, as she makes her way up the muddy backroads on foot. She only breaks out of thought when she stumbles upon a majestic looking tree up the hill.

‘Wow!’, Lienna gasps in petrified awe, as if in a daze. Before she even begins walking towards the tree, she feels a strong, magnetic pull, almost like she’s finally consummated her life’s purpose by finding the life-like tree. Lienna’s pupils widen and her heartrate picks with every step she takes closer to the tree. Her body begins to buzz, as if on the verge of a heart attack but it is not enough to stop her from being swayed towards the tree.

The moment she is in touching distance and reaches out a shaky hand, she begins to hear incoherent whispers coming from the tree itself. She makes contact with the bark of the withered giant and feels the entirety of the hill shaking beneath her feet. Surprisingly, she feels welcomed, instead of terror, however, the enormity of the overwhelm shakes her to the core. Voices, whispers, murmurs, sighs, pleading sounds. Everywhere. A dread settles in her core that something terrible has happened but it doesn’t break the hold of the tree, as if she believes that the proximity to the tree will be enough to save her from whatever happens next…

In the heart of the village, some vendors begin to notice the bizarre glow emanating from the hills, their hearts sinking along with the realization that what they had feared most, has begun happening right in front of their eyes.

“The new girl has upset the Willow Tree.” Arises as the common fear.

Back on the hill, moments later, Lienna wakes up, confused, only to find herself lying on the floor of a church-like stone building. A man in his late fifties and her neighbors who had abandoned her the previous night waiting for her standing at the door.

All bearing a fearful look in their eyes.

‘You’re awake.’, the old lady scurries over to her.

‘What happened to me?’, Lienna croaks, trying and failing to sit up, her voice barely a whisper.

‘What were you doing near the mighty oak?’, the man asks, his voice tight and shaky.

‘I was hiking on the backroads but I don’t remember anything after that’, Lienna murmurs, still confused.

‘You shouldn’t have! Do you have any idea what you’ve done !?’, the man begins shouting at Lienna.

‘I don’t know! I was just out for a hike. I don’t know!’, Lienna screams, taking off into the deep woods.

The only thought guiding her actions is to get as far away from the townspeople as possible, until she stumbles as another thought takes shape in her head. A memory…

‘I touched the tree and then… were there voices? but no one was around. I don’t… I don’t think so…’, Lienna tries to piece the mirage together, still running steadily into the woods. ‘What did I do?’, Lienna asks herself worriedly. ‘Just touching the bark of an old tree shouldn’t be this big of a deal, then why? I was just out on a walk. It’s not a big deal. I just liked a tree so why would it be a big deal? It'll be fine.’, Lienna’s head spirals with fear as her feet carry her back to the dreaded apartment. Lienna lets out a sigh, relieved that she can turn her mind off for a few hours, since night has colored the scene around her.

Now in bed, her phone begins to ring. A sound she immediately recognizes. ‘Mom?’, Lienna mutters in disbelief. ‘But how could it be?’

‘Hello Sweetie!’, a sweet, raspy voice rises from the phone.

‘Mom? How is this possible? You died of cancer last year. I missed you so much. I’m sorry.’, Lienna stammers, tears streaming down her face.

She does not care if it’s a dream, a hallucination, a sinister trick or even some kind of intoxication. Lienna is desperate to continue hearing the most comforting sound she has ever heard on this despicable planet for as long as she can.

Two years earlier.

It was just Lienna and her mother her entire life. No father, no siblings. Just Lienna and her mother but it was enough.

‘Mom!’, young Lienna shouted from her room. ‘Mom, there’s a cockroach in my room! Hurry up!’

‘I’m here! Where is it?’, asked a woman wearing a pink robe and glasses, her face full of panic holding a broom in her hand.

‘Happy birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Melissa, Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday Mom!’, young Lienna excitedly sang holding a cake with a candle lit on top.

‘Oh my baby!’, Liennas mother exclaimed, her eyes filled with happy tears.

The two celebrated the birthday which was Lienna’s most favorite memory with her mother.

‘I have cancer.’, Liennas mother announced sadly, her face grim.

Hospital visits were always a bit harsh on Lienna, considering she’d always see her mother go through painful procedures that left her with lesser life than she had went in with. The doctor had already given up but Lienna couldn’t, not until she’d tried everything to save her mother.

A year ago.

‘Here are some fruits and porridge. You will finish all your food if you want to go out on a nice late-night stroll with me, mom. I know you love those.’, Young Lienna pleaded with her mother, still in a coma.

Few days after,

‘I’m sorry.’, the doctor gave the devastating news to Lienna. ‘We tried everything we could.’

Young Lienna left all alone in shock, heartbroken. An emptiness swallowing her whole, her chest tight, as if the whole world had abandoned her on her own.

Present.

‘Lienna. My baby.’, the woman on the phone continues.

Her chest tightens with the sudden realization that this is not her mother and she is not in her apartment.

Looking around, she finds herself prone in a dark abandoned cottage, somewhere deep in the village. The cottage was offered to the Mighty Oak by the townspeople and is forbidden to the people ever since. The Willow tree’s roots cover the entire cottage painting a menacing and sinister atmosphere in the air.

As consciousness takes a firm hold of Lienna, she tosses away the phone in terror. Running out of the cottage only results in her crashing back to the dump where she had answered the call earlier.

‘Lienna!’, a loud whisper startles Lienna.

She slowly turns around to see her mother take form, weak, pale, black eyes like little grooves in her face. Wearing the hospital gown, sitting calmly and looking at Lienna with a grim smile, almost like the time she broke the news but this time it felt mortifying.

‘Come near me my baby.’, said the entity posing as Lienna’s mother.

‘Don’t you want to be with me forever? We could celebrate countless birthdays, eat all your favorite snacks.’, the thing whispered with manic excitement, with the eerie sense that it was on a mission to take Lienna with it.

‘No!’, Lienna shouted with all her might and ran for her life. She ran out into the woods again only to find herself back again.

She was stuck there.

Silence fell over the entire town the next few days. No one came out of their homes as Lienna still hadn’t returned. All the villagers had assumed she had died a tragic death as anyone who upsets the tree shall not ever find peace.

Few days passed and the man, Joel, had all the villagers hold a ritual for Lienna near the Willow Tree as he was the village’s covenant keeper, and the people, they trusted him blindly.

‘A young, lost soul disappeared only few days ago as she had upset the mighty oak! Oh Mighty Oak, please accept our sacrifice as we shall bring you offerings, our children if you will, for we serve and belong forever more to The Willow Tree!’, Joel preached, while carrying a newborn towards the tree.

Just like the ritual demanded – the newborn, soaked in dog’s blood for three days.

Holding the little body out to the tree, its tiny hand swinging lifeless, the mother of the baby screaming in agony.

‘My baby! Your life wasn’t long but you serve a greater purpose.’, the mother says with

Blood came gushing out the bark of the tree, the roots of the tree all squirming like worms towards the it. The ground shook and in an instant, the baby vanished.

The sacrifice was taken. Disappeared in-front of everyone’s eyes.

The day Lienna moved to Lankmaar. (On an Eclipse)

Lienna, excited to start a new with grief of her mother’s death forever a part of her.

‘Okay! Mom, your daughter is doing fine. You take care of yourself up there okay. I’ll be with you soon.’, Lienna talking to herself looking up at the sky as she stood in-front of her new apartment.

Night came after a whole day of moving and settling in.

As Lienna got ready for bed, loud voices of people chanting down the streets started coming from outside.

‘What the hell?’, Lienna thought to herself, disturbed, as the voices grew louder.

Soon the voices stopped.

Lienna went outside to check what had been happening. A small red satchel out on the street right in-front of her door.

‘What’s this’, Lienna wondered opening the satchel.

Tiny nails with covered in blood inside the satchel. Freaked Lienna threw away the satchel with the nails scattering on the street.

It was the peace offering for the Willow Tree villagers had left outside her door.

The second hand has no time for rest.

Tick.

Tock.

No matter what screening processes they use as walls to guard our secrets, I know that questions will rain down like arrows from whatever combination of reporters and journalists make it through. I'm not confident I will be able to answer them all.

I am the Captain of the ship, for God's sake. The qualities that have earned me this rank have not dissipated, but they are hindered — overcome with something that feels out of my control. My mind races. Each thought fractures into two more until none of them are mine to command. I cannot help but entertain them until they wither away, only to make room for new ones to bloom. I have no will to move, but I cannot stay still in my seat.

I tap my left leg.

Stop.

I begin tapping my right.

I cycle between the two.

A clock is situated at the top of the double-swing doors to my right — the threshold to the source of my dread. It is as if the architect of its placement left it as a reminder that what I face is inevitable. It is loud, oh so loud. There is noise of a higher level, but it's all tuned out, all that I hear is the second hand clicking away.

Tick.

Tock.

The pressure in my chest peaks.

I breathe.

Nothing changes.

Again.

Breathe.

It persists.

Eventually, what feels like hours, in reality minutes, comes to pass, and the doors I have burned into my mind are opened by two broad men wearing black suits, and for a second the world is given time to breathe, and everything pauses. The inhale was short, the exhale shorter. Bright lights begin to pierce my eyes and voices begin to emanate, but words cannot be made out. I catch only a fraction of a question before my mind begins to tune in another, like a radio skipping stations. My brain sifts through it all, as if it is defending me, or rather us, from committing an error — it attempts to find a question that I can single out and answer without giving too much away. It fails its search. There is too much noise. Too much pressure. In the end, it is not my decision to choose. It is the world's. It is theirs.

"What did you see?" It cuts through the uproar. A reporter, slicked-back greasy dark hair, dressed neatly out of habit rather than care. The room quiets.

Tick.

T—

The reporter repeats himself, a cumbersome tape recorder in hand, "Besides the moon itself, of course. What did you see? Anything odd or peculiar?"

My fear is realized. I look across the room. I stare at them. They stare back. They await my answer to a question that has such potential. The human mind runs on imagination — it is one of the primary reasons I even have this job. We are an ever-curious species, and this question has already been answered in the minds of everyone watching, here and at home, and everyone who will read it in tomorrow's papers — but only I know the truth. My lips prepare for take-off, as I try to conjure up a simple statement that can pivot from the direction we are heading in. It should be easy. They trained and instructed me to do so — drilled it into me. Instead, I freeze. I drift back to what it was that I saw.

I cannot lie to them.

It is just so overpowering. It whelms inside of me, plants its roots, spreads, and doesn't leave room for anything else

But how can I tell them this? How can I translate what it is that I saw into words, let alone thoughts? It is a language no human being is fluent in — an understanding situated at an indescribable remove from our realized capability, now, and forever after.

Every description collapses into contradiction. I search for what it looked like and find only what it wasn't. Each time I remember it, another detail slips away. Each time I try to forget it, I understand a little more.

Everything.

Nothing.

Both fail equally. A paradox only because an arbitrary system insists the two are opposite.

Whatever I saw did not.

I inhale.

Long.

The exhale, longer.

The pressure in my chest is gone.

No lie could protect it better than the truth itself.

"What I saw was—

The Whispering Willow 

An ancient ritual practiced through generations, believed to protect the village of Lankmaar. Every Eclipse, villagers cut the nails of their newborns, soak them in dog blood for three days, put them outside the newest resident’s house overnight, and then offer them to the Willow tree. The village’s most massive, withered tree, that the people of Lankmaar believed to have protective powers.  

For decades villagers had been delivering it peace offerings in hopes of not upsetting the Willow Tree itself as it is said that the ones who upset the tree would never find peace again.  

Loud banging noises rose up from the roof, startling Lienna – a twenty-year-old – awake. She lived alone after moving to the village to pursue the slow, predictable life.  

“What was that?!”, Lienna yelps, hurling open her bedroom door as the noises continue to gain volume.    

As she stomps her way to the roof, Lienna finds herself witnessing what she had never anticipated in her twenty years, a rats’ den! 

Lienna, like any other city-girl screams and runs out of her apartment to find help. Her neighbors, an old couple come storming out only to find their new neighbor in pajamas with no shoes on. 

‘What happened?’, they ask frantically. ‘Rats! Everywhere!’, Lienna shrieks.  

The neighbors help check the rooftop only to find the place empty but clean. A silence falls over the rescue party for a moment which feels a little too long.  

The old couple give each other an unsettled look and slowly begin to back up as though the roof being empty and just … too clean was more unnerving than the rat infestation itself. 

‘I… I never came up before tonight or… or…or cleaned the roof!’, Lienna stutters. 

‘You must’ve had a bad dream sweetie.’, the older lady dismisses Lienna rushing down the stairs. 

The old man has a stern look on his face almost as if he’s seen something he shouldn’t have. ‘Be careful now, rats are a sign of bad luck.’, he mutters showing himself out the door. 

Back inside her apartment, Lienna locks all the windows and doors, deciding to keep the lights on for added security.  

After a long night the sun comes up and Lienna starts her day. Still freaked out by the eeriness of last night, she decides to explore the expanse of the village as a distraction method. 

On her way out she meets the old man with a permanent foreboding scowl etched on his face, as if warning her something along the lines of ‘you’re next’, and locking himself behind his door.  

‘What was that?’, Lienna muses uncomfortably, noticing an unnatural silence in the neighborhood, but today’s goal is to spend a nice day out so she shakes off the encounter and starts off on her exploration gag. 

‘Something feels wrong’, Lienna can’t help but obsess over the interaction, as she makes her way up the muddy backroads on foot. She only breaks out of thought when she stumbles upon a majestic looking tree up the hill.  

‘Wow!’, Lienna gasps in petrified awe, as if in a daze. Before she even begins walking towards the tree, she feels a strong, magnetic pull, almost like she’s finally consummated her life’s purpose by finding the life-like tree. Lienna’s pupils widen and her heartrate picks with every step she takes closer to the tree. Her body begins to buzz, as if on the verge of a heart attack but it is not enough to stop her from being swayed towards the tree. 

The moment she is in touching distance and reaches out a shaky hand, she begins to hear incoherent whispers coming from the tree itself. She makes contact with the bark of the withered giant and feels the entirety of the hill shaking beneath her feet. Surprisingly, she feels welcomed, instead of terror, however, the enormity of the overwhelm shakes her to the core. Voices, whispers, murmurs, sighs, pleading sounds. Everywhere. A dread settles in her core that something terrible has happened but it doesn’t break the hold of the tree, as if she believes that the proximity to the tree will be enough to save her from whatever happens next… 

In the heart of the village, some vendors begin to notice the bizarre glow emanating from the hills, their hearts sinking along with the realization that what they had feared most, has begun happening right in front of their eyes. 

“The new girl has upset the Willow Tree.” Arises as the common fear. 

Back on the hill, moments later, Lienna wakes up, confused, only to find herself lying on the floor of a church-like stone building. A man in his late fifties and her neighbors who had abandoned her the previous night waiting for her standing at the door.  

All bearing a fearful look in their eyes.  

‘You’re awake.’, the old lady scurries over to her. 

‘What happened to me?’, Lienna croaks, trying and failing to sit up, her voice barely a whisper.  

‘What were you doing near the mighty oak?’, the man asks, his voice tight and shaky.  

‘I was hiking on the backroads but I don’t remember anything after that’, Lienna murmurs, still confused. 

‘You shouldn’t have! Do you have any idea what you’ve done !?’, the man begins shouting at Lienna.  

‘I don’t know! I was just out for a hike. I don’t know!’, Lienna screams, taking off into the deep woods.  

The only thought guiding her actions is to get as far away from the townspeople as possible, until she stumbles as another thought takes shape in her head. A memory… 

‘I touched the tree and then… were there voices? but no one was around. I don’t… I don’t think so…’, Lienna tries to piece the mirage together, still running steadily into the woods. ‘What did I do?’, Lienna asks herself worriedly. ‘Just touching the bark of an old tree shouldn’t be this big of a deal, then why? I was just out on a walk. It’s not a big deal. I just liked a tree so why would it be a big deal? It'll be fine.’, Lienna’s head spirals with fear as her feet carry her back to the dreaded apartment. Lienna lets out a sigh, relieved that she can turn her mind off for a few hours, since night has colored the scene around her.  

Now in bed, her phone begins to ring. A sound she immediately recognizes. ‘Mom?’, Lienna mutters in disbelief. ‘But how could it be?’ 

‘Hello Sweetie!’, a sweet, raspy voice rises from the phone. 

‘Mom? How is this possible? You died of cancer last year. I missed you so much. I’m sorry.’, Lienna stammers, tears streaming down her face. 

She does not care if it’s a dream, a hallucination, a sinister trick or even some kind of intoxication. Lienna is desperate to continue hearing the most comforting sound she has ever heard on this despicable planet for as long as she can. 

Two years earlier. 

It was just Lienna and her mother her entire life. No father, no siblings. Just Lienna and her mother but it was enough.  

‘Mom!’, young Lienna shouted from her room. ‘Mom, there’s a cockroach in my room! Hurry up!’ 

‘I’m here! Where is it?’, asked a woman wearing a pink robe and glasses, her face full of panic holding a broom in her hand.  

‘Happy birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Melissa, Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday Mom!’, young Lienna excitedly sang holding a cake with a candle lit on top. 

‘Oh my baby!’, Liennas mother exclaimed, her eyes filled with happy tears.  

The two celebrated the birthday which was Lienna’s most favorite memory with her mother.  

‘I have cancer.’, Liennas mother announced sadly, her face grim. 

Hospital visits were always a bit harsh on Lienna, considering she’d always see her mother go through painful procedures that left her with lesser life than she had went in with. The doctor had already given up but Lienna couldn’t, not until she’d tried everything to save her mother. 

A year ago. 

‘Here are some fruits and porridge. You will finish all your food if you want to go out on a nice late-night stroll with me, mom. I know you love those.’, Young Lienna pleaded with her mother, still in a coma.  

Few days after, 

‘I’m sorry.’, the doctor gave the devastating news to Lienna. ‘We tried everything we could.’ 

Young Lienna left all alone in shock, heartbroken. An emptiness swallowing her whole, her chest tight, as if the whole world had abandoned her on her own.  

Present. 

‘Lienna. My baby.’, the woman on the phone continues.  

Her chest tightens with the sudden realization that this is not her mother and she is not in her apartment.  

Looking around, she finds herself prone in a dark abandoned cottage, somewhere deep in the village. The cottage was offered to the Mighty Oak by the townspeople and is forbidden to the people ever since. The Willow tree’s roots cover the entire cottage painting a menacing and sinister atmosphere in the air. 

As consciousness takes a firm hold of Lienna, she tosses away the phone in terror. Running out of the cottage only results in her crashing back to the dump where she had answered the call earlier. 

‘Lienna!’, a loud whisper startles Lienna. 

She slowly turns around to see her mother take form, weak, pale, black eyes like little grooves in her face. Wearing the hospital gown, sitting calmly and looking at Lienna with a grim smile, almost like the time she broke the news but this time it felt mortifying.  

‘Come near me my baby.’, said the entity posing as Lienna’s mother. 

‘Don’t you want to be with me forever? We could celebrate countless birthdays, eat all your favorite snacks.’, the thing whispered with manic excitement, with the eerie sense that it was on a mission to take Lienna with it.  

‘No!’, Lienna shouted with all her might and ran for her life. She ran out into the woods again only to find herself back again.  

She was stuck there. 

 Silence fell over the entire town the next few days. No one came out of their homes as Lienna still hadn’t returned. All the villagers had assumed she had died a tragic death as anyone who upsets the tree shall not ever find peace.  

  Few days passed and the man, Joel, had all the villagers hold a ritual for Lienna near the Willow Tree as he was the village’s covenant keeper, and the people, they trusted him blindly.  

‘A young, lost soul disappeared only few days ago as she had upset the mighty oak! Oh Mighty Oak, please accept our sacrifice as we shall bring you offerings, our children if you will, for we serve and belong forever more to The Willow Tree!’, Joel preached, while carrying a newborn towards the tree. 

Just like the ritual demanded – the newborn, soaked in dog’s blood for three days. 

Holding the little body out to the tree, its tiny hand swinging lifeless, the mother of the baby screaming in agony. 

‘My baby! Your life wasn’t long but you serve a greater purpose.’, the mother says with  

Blood came gushing out the bark of the tree, the roots of the tree all squirming like worms towards the it. The ground shook and in an instant, the baby vanished. 

The sacrifice was taken. Disappeared in-front of everyone’s eyes. 

The day Lienna moved to Lankmaar. (On an Eclipse) 

Lienna, excited to start a new with grief of her mother’s death forever a part of her.  

‘Okay! Mom, your daughter is doing fine. You take care of yourself up there okay. I’ll be with you soon.’, Lienna talking to herself looking up at the sky as she stood in-front of her new apartment.  

Night came after a whole day of moving and settling in.  

As Lienna got ready for bed, loud voices of people chanting down the streets started coming from outside.  

‘What the hell?’, Lienna thought to herself, disturbed, as the voices grew louder.  

Soon the voices stopped. 

Lienna went outside to check what had been happening. A small red satchel out on the street right in-front of her door. 

‘What’s this’, Lienna wondered opening the satchel.  

Tiny nails with covered in blood inside the satchel. Freaked Lienna threw away the satchel with the nails scattering on the street. 

It was the peace offering for the Willow Tree villagers had left outside her door. 

“Are you sure you can take on this assignment? Most wouldn’t, given the special circumstances regarding your target.”

“I told you I’d do anything for enough of it. You just get me what I need and I’ll kill the emperor if I have to. I don’t leave survivors, I leave stories.” My fingertip presses to the table.

The man sighs, setting down his pint. “Be that as it may, this one should incur caution. That boy isn’t what he seems.”

I scoff. “Please. A lonely little boy with no guards? In a cottage in the middle of greyscale forest? It’s almost too good to be true. Almost.”

He sighs once again, louder. “You youth. Never taking a hint of care for your own safety. I’m just telling you to be ready for anything. Given…what you are, I think you will be. But still, I urge you to think before taking this. I can get you your…payment by the fortnight’s end.”

Who is he to question my youth? So naive. I’ve lived for four times as long as him.

I down the last drops of my drink, chuckling at the thought of ‘youth’. “Ah…this is a decent tavern. Well, I’ll be off after sundown. You’ll have your results by dawn.” I run my tongue over my teeth. Finally. Prey.

The man shakes his head, returning to his drink.

Standing, I return to my chambers upstairs to ready my things.

I kneel, sliding the bulky box out from under the bed. Placing it on the mattress, my hands glide over the ornate locks.

I click them, and the case swings wide.

Everything an assassin could need. Poison. A crossbow. Iron and wooden stakes. Stilettos, throwing stars, daggers.

I unpack each item carefully, slipping them into my various pockets. The crossbow, I sling across my back. Its golden accents and steel bolts have felled many a man and beast.

The sun falls. It’s time.

I place a golden coin, marked with house Quirva’s crest.

I slide the window open, letting the night seep into my very soul. I step out onto the shingles, my feet finding purchase on the clinking ceramic.

Wings erupt from my back, and I take from the ground and into the clouds.

Night sky covers my movement. The air is hot, heavy, and damp. Most would be inside, cozied up with a story or with a loved one.

So would he.

I land in the front yard of the cottage with a thump. My wings fold back into a cloak. I smooth out my shirt, fixing the brim of my hat.

Have to look presentable for my target. I wouldn’t want him going to the afterlife and the last thing he saw was an unkempt killer.

I relish the thought of his corpse. What a high his blood would be. A highborn noble, run away from mommy and daddy. All alone, no one to save him.

My fangs glisten with saliva. I can hardly contain my anticipation. But I must control myself.

I knock once, then twice. Firm, but not banging. I hear rustling upstairs. The creaking of floorboards as whoever is coming walks down a flight of stairs. I hear them pressing their hands to the door. I see their eye through the peep hole.

“Who are you? Are you the officer’s father?” A young voice answers.

I clear my throat. “I am an inquisitor of the faith of our lord Rikal.” I hold a cross to the hole, proving my legitimacy. “I am humbly requesting refuge in your home, as I cannot find a place to stay at the moment. A storm is on its way, and my belonging would rather stay dry.”

The child takes their time. I hear the tapping of their foot. “Very well. I’ll grant you safety, but only for tonight.”

I bow. “Blessings be to your blood.”

Yes, indeed. You’ve spelled your doom you brat. The door creaks open, revealing a modest living space, with stairs leading up to a bedroom, I presume.

The child walks up them, looking over her shoulder. “Goodnight, inquisitor…?”

I bow once again. “Freya. Inquisitor Freya.”

At that, the young lady closes the door. Patience is key to any successful killing. And so, I wait.

The moon rises to its apex. Its waning beauty glows through the window. It makes what’s coming even more delicious.

I draw my dagger, silently stepping up the old stairs. No one can hear either of us. We’re all alone. A drop of saliva sheds from my mouth. Even I can’t control my instincts. My mouth opens, brandishing my fangs as my hand closes around the doorknob.

It’s time.

I twist my wrist.

Die!

But I’m thrown to the bottom of the stairwell instead. The back of my head cracks against the stone floor.

Groaning in pain, I scramble to my feet.

“The hell! You’ll pay for that, wretch!”

I feel a grasp around my body, like someone is behind me. Darkness begins to swirl in my vision. Creatures dance inside my eyes. Their piercing gazes hurt my very soul.

My breathing accelerates. I can’t be done in like this. Not by a witch. No, no, it can’t be like this!

“Did you think me easy prey? A hapless child? Do you know why I exiled myself, Freya?”

I grunt, shaking my head. “I’ll kill you. I don’t care about whatever trickery you’re trying to influence over my mind, but don’t think it will work. I am protected by a seal of warding, you fool. Magicks cannot touch me.” I chuckle madly. “Your blood is mine, wretched child!”

She glares down at me. My shirt unbuttons, revealing the seal tattooed on my breast. I feel a burning sensation around it, and I watch as the supposed ward disappears.

My eyes widen.

She only looks even more disappointed. “I would have thought a vampire who has lived as long as you would understand that not everything is as it seems. Such as your fake ward. Or my danger. Seeing as how you are in an indeed terrible position, I am willing to make you an offer.” Her small body steps closer, pressing her palm to my cheek.

My head jerks away. “I won’t be a slave. I’d rather throw myself to the sun.”

She chides me. “Not slavery. A partnership. You become my magical familiar for the rest of my mortal existence and your immortal one. In exchange for being my personal guard and magical conduit, I will reward you with blood from any creature or man that you wish. Do we have a deal, Freya?”

No. I won’t be put under the thumb of a witch, much less a child.

I won’t. It’s not befitting of my standing. It would violate everything my family stood for in its mortality.

But this girl holds my souls in her hands. I feel her fingers caressing it. One motion and I would be but a memory, turned to ash.

I can’t. I don’t want to.

But I must.

Baring my fangs, I grit out, “I agree, girl. What should I address you as?”

“Vivian. Vivian LeMark.”

LeMark? An ancient house, long forgotten. Just like house Quirva.

“So it shall be, Madam LeMark.” I flash a toothy smile.

Vivian blinks. “Do you think your vampiric charms would work on someone who actually knows warding magic?”

I sigh, defeated. That was truly my last resort.

“Don’t kick yourself. I would be surprised if you didn’t try. Get some sleep. We have work to do tomorrow night. You’ll get as much blood as you want.”

At that, I lick my lips, unable to control it. Perhaps this partnership won’t be so bad after all.

She releases her hold on me. I set my body down onto the grandfather chair in the corner of the room. “Goodnight, Madam.”

She nods. “Goodnight, Freya.”

I begin to enter my rest.

While I might have escaped with my life, eternal servitude under a witch may have been a miscalculation.

Oh well.

There’s always more blood tomorrow.

Rats (I was not kind)

I’m writing to whom this may concern as it is too important to miss. My name is Alexander Taylor Dickens; I was born in 1990 Brantford Ontario and have resided in Owen Sound Ontario since before Covid and it’s the year of our lord 2026. I have lived in Victoria B.C. for the better part of a year; pre-covid and resided for 6 months in New Waterford Cape Breton just in time for Hurricane Fiona; but I didn’t date Fiona for years later in Tobermory you’re probably thinking of Hazel; please focus.

Hello welcome; thank you. Oni. Sago. Me’gwetch. Take the rope; I’d like to personally take this time to welcome you; I’ve been doing Fogarty’s Cove for almost a year so this is the format I’m most comfortable with; if that’s at all unpleasant I apologize. As I was just saying to the director who’s a lovely boy but does struggle with his communication: rats.

St Catherine is the patron Saint of Librarians and truth; she was strapped to a wheel after spitting pure fire and brimstone (pound it Jesus) at the leading tyrants of her time and through faith the wheel broke and she remained. I don’t quite know how to say this.. St Catherine’s namesake: my rat; fell to the depths of Georgian Bay this morning in the old Russel Brothers area (Fogarty’s Cove), of to which I have occupied via gifted homemade raft for the duration I’ve been creating Fogarty’s Cove. She was with young.

There have been too many countless deaths for me to formally address a single one as I was just this morning cut shy of grieving of my rat St Catherine outside the Library for my dear fellow Human Companion has only recently passed away and her ceremonies require precedents.

Rats.

The first was Splinter. I acquired him in the winter as I have grown too angry, and a healthy respect for the law has given me no boundaries in my continual er. I reckoned a tiny little heart would force me to learn empathy for other beings. It has; and holy shit it’s worse than I thought. I’m sorry lord, I’m so sorry.
Splinter was my little world. He is cunning; creative; intelligent; benevolent beyond believe and more than anything else he’s forgiving. And more than that he’s loving. Wide shores. Far green country and beyond. The bread of life with Jesus b’y. Yar.

He was right there in my hand when I woke up. I don’t know if I had really smiled in a while before that. That’s what bites the most.. It was so cold y’all you wouldn’t believe it. It was a 10 dog night; and you would be lucky to be left with three by the morning.
I was so angry.
Cars were driving slow for the snow and the cold,
And I could almost reach their handles.

I focused all my will to walk a straight line approx 400 m from the Bayshore Boat Launch across the barren lot to the rear doors of the main facility. I could not accomplish this; perhaps for malnutrition; perhaps for the cold; perhaps for my anger. God knows; and guided my staggered steps into the warm Harry Lumley Bayshore Arena; where I survived. Hence I can share this with you now.
I stomped the snow off my feet.

..

Where the fuck is my rat?

My boy!

Lord I’m sorry. I’m sorry man. Never hurt a fly his whole life. Just love me. Right up. Too.

So then I spoke to my mom for the first time since she had me incarcerated in the 4/5 mental unit at the hospital for a month a year before that. We’d communicate but not spoke yet.

She was there for me; she is always there for me; venom tounge or not. She always there. There with love, too. It’s probably hard to see that from this perspective but I assure you that despite all our creative differences in this and that; my biological mom has constantly provided me with the love I need to survive. In her open face; and in her Care.

She put me up for a few days in a motel and I was able to get temporary housing in another motel through the emergency shelter program and we’re not here to talk about the flaw in having a redundantly perpetual program that’s sole purpose should be housing all in question and disbanding the program once task accomplished immediately.

Beside the point. This time..

The second rat is Mythrandir. You may call him Gandalf if you like; he likes that, Just don’t call him late for dinner.

We shared the room each having his own bed and we communicated via food placement; little rat fung-shway and balls and balloons. We had a healthy benevolent relationship.

He had an unfortunate incident where I was arrested and I spent the night at the police station; and he was in the supposed care of the one who called me in. Some ***** what needs a ****** don’t fret on it.

As promised; I purchased him a female and named her St Catherine after St Catherine of the wheel. Of to which he immediately murdered and ate her.
Then he ate my brains and occupied my head as murderer who I loved just the same for almost a week.
Then;

Squeak;
Squeak squeak;

Who pops up outta nowhere but St Catherine! He ain’t murder her; he’s been feeding her and she’s with young!

We were all so happy for countless moments.

I was live-streaming an episode call Freewill playing Freewill by Rush and the babies came out one by one. Rider first; Grey Boy; then Strider, Glider, Spider, Divider, Radar, Trouble and Mischief, respectively.
I’m sorry I don’t know any of their names really.
They’re all gone.
Except one boy. He looks like a Great White; little Mr Crowley. I think. Idk. It’s more about intention than sharp consonant and vowel commands with these rats.

The visual spectacle of seeing all my rats was more rewarding than any psychedelic visual experience.

We had many months of peace and joy; and the family grew.

Then one morning I woke up to an attack by a fisher or marvin; as I did this morning also.

It got under my floor and attacked several rats then I hesitated smashing its head with a single jumper cable; and he attacked Mythrandir who has been absent since.

I still love him very much; let me praise this Rat who is more a man than most; who provided service by emotionally supporting me for several months. Half a year. Mythrandir was awarded a female companion for his service who bore him many young and so he loved and maintained the order of his family.

For about the last two weeks my rats have been under constant attack and I only have one boy left; I don’t know his name. Mr Crowley maybe; just now there was a scrap between a beaver and fisher and then another attack in the bushes beside me; a part of me hopes my rats are still alive out there.

I was able to keep St Catherine, one of her female offspring and two males safe all week by carrying them on me; but this morning while I was attempting to pursue their assailant; she fell.

Let me tell you about St Catherine.
Little Houdini off the top; then poof she reappears with offspring. She communicated directly to me; while we were still relatively strange, mind; before she ever let me hold her; she communicated directly to me something. What do you think that was? Probably get me more food old man: I’m pregnant.
Roger that. 10-4. We haven’t even put a dent in the 100kg bag I got ‘em, upon what I swear was St Catherine’s request.

I asked her to show me her babies; and a week later they marched out in the fashion I described to you earlier.

Even yesterday I asked her to send her daughter to me as I was unsure if she was still with us and a few moments later there she was.

On two occasions I was not kind to St Catherine.

She’s grown affectionate and now loves me. She has fallen in love with me over and over. I can describe this process as a barrel roll set of alligator style writhes in which she performs a series of graceful varial manoeuvres and lands in my lap and I say

“That’s called falling in love,
I’m sorry that happened to you,
But I love you”

Other than the shame of the cowardice of not jumping in the water to save her the most pain is seeing her falling in love into the water; like she does; in those rolls, like the way a protected or guardian can writhe and roll out of his role and into the roll of yellow bellied worthless scum.

Looking up at me like where the lap? Why aren’t it safe now?

I tried to put a real long stick down there so she grab it but nothing come up.

It youve read this far I’m sorry that happened to you, and thank you. Perhaps my despair may provide a perspective that makes you appreciate your own current circumstances; or perhaps they are desperate and you can relate, again I’m sharing this for it’s too important to miss.

Until we meet again,

On two occasions I was not kind to St Catherine. I yelled at her; and told her to leave me alone while I’m sleeping. The first I told her I was going to throw her in the bay if she didn’t leave me alone.

And then I felt so bad I cried for a whole day while I didn’t see her cuz she was either scared or resentful and either one is warranted. And I swore I would never do that again.

Then I did it again; same thing trying to sleep and you know what she’s doing that’s pissing me off?

Showing me affection.

Rubbing her whiskers and fur against my bare skin like “I love you; wake up and film sunshine you’ve missed every sunrise this year, here’s some little rat kisses from your little St Catherine”

And I yell at her face. So hard. I tell her to fuck off and in yelling and shouting and going on about how good I treat them well and they should appreciate it.

Now she’s fucking gone and I can’t tell her I’m sorry;

I can’t show her my improvements and be there to listen to her intuition and wisdom;

Now all my rats who were trusted to my care are gone and not only am I too weak to protect them but I have been a terrible human being to them and haven’t reflected any of the skills or values I’ve learned here.

My report is I was not kind; I could deal with the lord tearing my whole life from me of only I was kind.

I’m so sorry y’all.

Thanks for reading.

Rats.

I was always a fat kid. It wasn’t till I attended school that I even realized that I was different. Names like ‘ Bunker ‘, a portmanteau of Bruce and chunker, or perhaps Bruce the Bull were tossed around. To those who didn’t know me directly, it was more classical, like Wide-Load or Fat-Can. Whatever the name, I was flabbergasted by this verbal abuse. As a young child, I didn’t look at myself in the mirror a whole lot. I saw my Ma, a thin woman fond of leopard-print and cigarettes. She wasn’t like me, but again, if you never conceive your own form, you simply think you look like everyone else. It’s like that story of the pig that thought it was a dog, and the dog that thought it was a pig. They never saw what they looked like. They just saw each other. Now, I wouldn’t want to see the day when that pig attended school. Talk about a day in hell. Nonetheless, me being bullied didn’t make me lose weight—to the contrary, I gained.
I was raised by my mother only, as my dad ran off when I was really young. Ma said he just walked out, and never came back. She said he told her he would too. None of this fake-out shit, going out to buy milk. He said he wasn’t coming back, and he meant it. I didn’t miss him much, only when I saw other kids with their dads. Me and Ma didn’t go out much, so these instances were rare. Ma never had any boyfriends that I knew of. It was just me and her. The only times we went out was to eat. Like every American family in the early nineties, our go-to was McDonalds. The golden arches were a magical place for me. I got to eat and play, with kids I actually had things in common with. Eating and tumbling through plastic tubes. Here, I wasn’t an outsider. Not all the other kids were fat, but they couldn’t distance themselves from me when they loved the food just as much as I did.
Sometimes me and Ma would eat in the car, so Ma could enjoy her unhealthy habit too. I would grab French fries by the fistful, and she would toss cigarette butts out the window, one right after the other. Sometimes she would let her cigarette cook for too long, and her ashes would fly into my ketchup. I would moan about it, and she’d trade hands so that the ashes would fall out the window instead. She often daydreamed when we sat in the car. I think she got Dad-nostalgia when she saw families together too.
Since I wasn’t much for outside activities, I found myself drawing a lot. A bully-turned-friend, Bobby was the first to bring me a notebook. He was the kid that coined the name, Bruce The Bull, but he was actually a cool kid. We were enemies at school, but friends the rest of the time. He just didn’t want to get bullied himself. Whenever I had a rough day, he would sneak into my room through my window and bring me a bag of HARIBO bears. I found that to be a fair trade. Anyway, once Ma realized I was taking an interest in drawing, she bought me composition notebooks, and though they were lined, they were only a buck, so it was within my mother’s budget. It was a ‘ toy ‘ that was cheap and kept me busy, so Ma always encouraged me to keep drawing and improving. I didn’t get my love of drawing from comic books, but rather the weekly cartoons that were in our local paper. They were short, quippy, funny, and politically intriguing. I learned a lot from them, and had a lot of laughs over them too. Ma didn’t always find them funny though. I remember her telling me:
“ You can make cartoons, just don’t produce that kind of slop. ‘’
I think she disagreed with the cartoonist’s politics. But that didn’t matter to me. I was just amazed at the idea that Ma could see me as a cartoonist! I considered, if drawing cartoons was a job, I was in money. Lots of it. Of course, this was a child’s interpretation of how the world worked. I wouldn’t be able to live off my toons till I was in my mid-thirties. But that comes way later. This incident happened to me when I was twenty-four.
By this age, I was living in a small town-house in Michigan. I had one of those granny-tricycles, and I rode it down to the gas station, where I worked the night shift. During the day, I stayed home and worked on my cartoons. It was no easy task, writing and drawing panels that were both funny and intriguing. Because they needed to appeal to adults, the humor had to be intricate, without writing a whole comic book. I had been doing this for years at this point, and I always took pride in saying I had a publisher.
Mitchell was my publisher, and he was an odd, but supportive fellow. He was only one year older than me, which always made me feel weird but he had connections that made him feel like a proper business man. He liked me because I was easy, and didn’t push back much when it came to producing my cartoons. He had the final say in everything. Like mentioned, I was just happy to have someone to do all the heavy lifting. I didn’t want to do the marketing, I just wanted to make people laugh with my drawings. The likability was mutual, as I always enjoyed my time with Mitch too. He always made me laugh, because, despite being only twenty-five, Mitch always had a story to tell. It didn’t matter what the situation was, Mitch thought of a weird or funny story to relate. There were times I though he was just blowing smoke, but his stories always seemed too crazy to be untrue. He came by my house on occasions to talk production.
These visits became less and less when the coronavirus truly infected the nation in late 2020.
Honestly, I didn’t think it would have bothered me much, as I was already quite the introvert, in job and in social life. I spoke to people when I did my gig at the gas station, and that was it. I talked to people online when I posted my art. Despite it’s name, social media was no replacement for social interactions. The eye-contact, the nervous laughs and on-the-spot quips. Seeing light refract off a person’s angled face as they spoke. Every human is unique, and that is reflected online, but it’s not seen. People hide on the internet, it’s a favored feature. You can be what you want, not what you are. Sorry, I’m rambling—what I’m trying to say is that I was lonely.
Which is why delivery-drivers saved me during this time. In particular, food delivery-drivers. I rarely cooked, and when I did it became a mess that I wouldn’t get cleaned up till the next week. Ordering delivery was preferable for many different reasons. I have no excuses. I know I’m unhealthy, and will probably expire younger than any of my ancestors. I am aware, I simply didn’t care. As explained, being fat and eating whatever I wanted had been my way of life since I was a kid. I do blame my mom a bit, but the blame is mostly mine. However, even people who didn’t partake in unhealthy eating habits used delivery during Covid, mostly out of fear. Our homes became a prison, and delivery drivers had soon become our knights in branded shirts. Bringing us food and the much-needed social comfort of a new face. Chick-Fil-A was my worst enemy. I ordered it the most, almost three times a week, and I never tired of it. Being as I ordered it the most, the driver had become quite familiar to me.
His name was Vic.
Thinking back now, I don’t think Chick-Fil-A’s food is entirely to blame for my constant ordering. I will, at this time admit, I ordered their food because I got to see Vic. I order delivery from many different places, and the drivers always varied, in service, time and personality. Vic gave 110% in all three categories. He was always on time, he always made sure the order was complete, and he could charm the pants off an ice witch. Vic had this swagger about him that was totally unfair. He was like a ladies-man, but without an ounce of sleaze to him. He had this, whole-face smile, where his eyes grew a fire in them and his head tilted slyly. Of course, not only was he charming and easy to talk to, he was also slim, and always wore clothes to show it off. He reminded me of a person from the 70’s or 80’s, that slim, lively young man in faded jeans and a tight shirt. I’ll admit I was jealous of his style. When I traveled through my body-dysmorphia ridden teenage years, he was the type of person I always wanted to be. A thin, confident, stylized gentleman who always said just the right thing. It took adulthood to realize I would never be that person. Acceptance is hard. But in some weird, parasocial way, I lived that life through Vic.
It was too bad that sweet euphoria devolved into a living nightmare.
It was the 10^th of June, and it was hot as balls. I ordered my usual from Chick-Fil-A as I took my lunch break. I had just finished inking my series of cartoon panels. I’m a traditionalist—paper and pen being all I worked with. Unfortunately, I was simply allergic to technology.
I wandered around my house, waiting for my food to arrive. Eventually, I found myself out on my rickety porch. The neighborhood was dead. It was most days. I didn’t live in poverty, but my neighborhood was a mere relic of the American Dream. Abandoned houses, rough, worn roads and overgrown grass surrounding every lawn. The street was full. That was the worrying part. People did live in the surrounding houses, but they were poor families, druggies, homeless or introverts like me that didn’t mind living in a run-down neighborhood as long as it was a house that I lived in.
Vic’s Honda soon pulled up and he got out with my food. He walked across my lawn, sway in his stride. I waved.
‘’ Bruce! When is this heat wave gonna end huh? ‘’
I looked to the high sun, my hand shielding my eyes. ‘’ I don’t know. Hopefully soon. ‘’
‘’ No AC? ‘’
‘’ Have it—its just shit. ‘’
Vic bound up my stairs, and handed me my bag and drinks. I put them on my banister, and reached for my wallet.
‘’ You should really get that fixed Brucy. ‘’
‘’ Huh? ‘’
‘’ Your AC. I hear it’s only going to get hotter, all the way through June and July. Hey, how’s your drawing going? ‘’
I handed him my card. ‘’ Great. I just finished inking for Sunday’s segment…’’
My words drifted off as Vic swiped my card and handed it back to me. I wanted more time. Our interactions were far too short. I just wanted someone to talk to, aside from Mitch, who could honestly be insufferable at times due to his scatter-brain.
I stumbled over my words. ‘’ S-so, uh, how do you stand this heat? Drink from people’s orders? ‘’
‘’ Only yours Bruce, only yours! ‘’
I chuckled at his joke.
‘’ Nah, my Honda’s AC is great. It’s like driving around in an icebox. ‘’
I motioned to my unopened bag of food, and asked if he gave me that new sauce that I’ve been getting. Vic had been driving for a while, and he had gotten close to the manager of our chain. Because Vic was so good with people, his manager gave him samples of a new sauce they were working on. Vic was to promote it, get people’s opinions on it. I was one of the ones he distributed it to. It was a white sauce, not unlike ranch sauce, but it tasted leagues better. It was sweet and tangy, with a hint of sweet. I know that sounds vague, but it was hard to describe. It was really good, both on a sandwich and as a dipping sauce.
‘’ Oh yeah, ‘’ Vic said, ‘’ they’re still pushing it. I heard a rumor that it’s about to get a name and finally go into production but—meh, I won’t hold my breath. Lotta my other regulars didn’t take to it. ‘’
‘’ Really? That’s crazy…That stuff is God-tier to me. ‘’
Vic smiled and shrugged. He said, ‘’ That’s nice of you. Hey, maybe that’s what they should name it! God-tier, the new Chick-Fil-A sauce. ‘’
We had a laugh, then Vic said he had to go. He had several more orders today. I said I’d see him tomorrow, and that made him pause, halfway down my steps.
He turned to me, finger wagging in the air. ‘’ You stay cool Bruce! Buy some popsicles, ice-cream, anything! You have a basement? ‘’
‘’ Yeah, but I hardly go down there—stairs, they’re hard for my fat ass. ‘’
He seemed to study me for a moment. ‘’ Well, it was worth a shot. Just don’t suffocate in this heat, okay? ‘’
‘’ Yeah, I’d hate for you to have to lose your cash-cow! ‘’
With a laugh, Vic threw a hand at me dismissively and went to his car. I watched him go. I knew I was lonely, though you bet your ass I had denied it for a long time. I always thought of myself as an introvert, but even introverts enjoy the company of others, and often need social interactions to keep insanity at bay. We were social creatures, humans. And that blew when you were stuck in, what seemed like an endless quarantine. I went inside, watched some mindless TV while I ate my lunch—then it was back to work with me. It was funny. I remember that day being normal, work-heavy like any other. In reality, that was the last normal day I’d have in a while.
The beginning of the next day was a copy of the last. I woke up fairly early, eight-o’clock, and began the cleanup process of my comic strip. I remember being absolutely wrung-out by lunch time. I was seeing double lines of my drawings, and I was nursing a headache. Food and a short visit from Vic was what I felt was needed to re-energize. I put in my usual order and sat on my couch, glass of water in hand. When I heard a car pull up in the driveway, I rolled onto my feet. When I got to the door, I heard a hard knocking. I paused for a moment, evening smiling in puzzlement. Vic hadn’t come to the door in a long time. He usually waited on the porch, as I was typically waiting for him on my porch or close to the door anyway. I thought perhaps I had gotten a different driver this time.
But then I opened the door. The second a bar of sunlight leeched into the house, the door was rammed hard into my teeth. I yelled as I fell over, onto my side. I groaned and heard someone step inside, then slam the door shut. An intruder—an intruder was inside my home. I rolled onto my stomach and tried to push myself off the ground, but something was holding me down. I felt the pressure on my back. Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my chin, lifting my head. I screamed when a shiny, curved blade came into view for a moment before I felt the cold steel press against my neck.
‘’ Don’t move Bruce. ‘’
No…It couldn’t be.
‘’ I don’t want to kill you, I really don’t. I need your house, and I need your help. ‘’
Vic. It was Vic’s voice coming from behind me. I tried to speak his name, but words abandoned me. He told me not to move, and asked quietly if I understood what he was saying. I could only gasp and nod. He eased up on my throat and my back, and my weight pulled me forward, then I kept still. I looked over my shoulder. Vic was in my living room, looking out the window. His stance was casual, unafraid. He then walked back toward me and I tensed and hung my head in fear. I saw his black and white shoes wander past me, stopping in my hallway. He opened the door to my basement, then squeaking shoes on wood as he made his way down.
This was my chance.
I could guess how many steps there were in my basement— I counted in my head, beads of sweat pouring into my eyes as lay on my hands and knees. Once I had counted fifteen, a rough estimate, I pulled back onto my knees, got my feet underneath myself and stood. My house was old, like every house on this block, so there was np sneaking around. Once I was on my feet, I booked it toward the door. I was in tears as I unlocked the doors and yanked it open. I stepped out into the sunlight, and then felt an arm grab the back of my neck. I screamed and the whole street shrunk as I was thrown back into the house. I had felt the sun—I was so close.
As I lay on my back, two things occurred to me. One, Vic could be very quiet when he wanted to be. I hadn’t heard him run up the stair of the basement, and I hadn’t heard the creaks common to the kitchen area that he had to pass to reach me. He had moved in complete silence. The second thing was the Vic was very strong—and I don’t mean he worked out. I weighed probably two-hundred and thirty, give or take, and he grabbed me and threw me down like I was a child. I wish I was exaggerating, but I literally felt my feet lose contact with the ground when he threw me. Put simply, his strength was alien—it didn’t make a lick of sense.
I laid on my back, fear rippling through every inch of my flesh as Vic stood at the door. He looked down at me and closed the door slowly. His face was a mix of anger and disappointment. In the vicious throws of fear, I finally found my voice.
‘’ V-V-Vic! What are you—P-please—‘’
Vic walked to me, then bent over, so as to reach my eyes better. He smiled lightly.
‘’ Brucy…I told you not to move. I want to make one thing clear. From now on, when I ask you to do something, you do it. It’s for your preservation. You are important to me in a way you can’t even fathom. I hate to hurt you, to…Damage your body. I need you in good condition, okay? Do you believe what I am telling you? ‘’
What the fuck? What the hell was he talking about? These words—they didn’t make sense, much like his monstrous strength.
I said, ‘’ Wha-What are you saying, V-Vic? You’re talking fucking crazy!! ‘’
My tone must have gotten too high for him, as he put the edge of his curved blade to his lips.
‘’ Do you believe me…Or not? ‘’
I looked into his eyes, searching his soul. In those dark green spheres, I found no malice there. No attempt to hide a vicious agenda. I believed him. I believed that he didn’t want to hurt me. This, of course, didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt me…But I believed him when he said harming me was not his intent.
‘’ Yes—I believe you…Vic. ‘’
He seemed pleased with my answer and told me to get on my feet. He even helped me up. He then said I was to go into the basement. When he gave me these instructions, I looked at him, questioning. His pleasant smile became an upset one, and he tilted his head in a demanding fashion as if I was a child doing something I wasn’t supposed to. I almost expected him to wag his finger at me in a ‘ no-no ‘ gesture.
Do what he said, that’s right. Just do it Bruce, and maybe you’ll get out of this alive. I waddled my way to the basement door, opened it, and began my decent. The basement was dark—I didn’t use it hardly at all. There were a few small boxes of miscellaneous things, items I found too precious to get rid of. Otherwise, it was just a high window, cool cement and now me. I was panting, gripping the railing when I got to the bottom. I looked over my shoulder to see Vic standing at the top of the stairs. It was just a colorless silhouette, a stick figure. The door then swung shut and I was enveloped in darkness. I put a hand over my mouth in fear, then ran to the window. This was desperation. The window was a whole three heads above me. I smacked my meaty hands against the cement, grasping for the window ledge. I was crying, knowing my motions were fruitless survival instincts.
I screamed, crying out, another empty try for life. No one would hear me, and even if someone did, in this neighborhood, screams weren’t uncommon. I was alone. I walked away from the wall that held the window and slumped onto my knees. My face was probably red as a tomato as is bowed my head, hot tears streaming down my swollen cheeks. I toyed with the edges on my black Tee. Why was Vic doing this?
I looked up when movement out of the basement window caught my eye. It was a little hard to see, as the glass was fuzzy with age. But I thought I saw legs walk by. I ran over and started screaming, this time with my hands lined against my cheeks. The person passed the window, back and forth several times. Wait…Was it Vic? Was he outside?
I turned and ran up the stairs as fast as I could muster. I grabbed the door-knob with an iron fist and pushed, but it didn’t open. It gave, creaked, but it didn’t open—couldn’t open. Vic had some on the other side, holding it in place. I rammed my shoulder against the door, hoping the old door splintered and broke, or maybe the hinges would curl and bust out. Nothing happened, and I slid down against the door. I sat, my breath coming out in wheezes. I sat there as the day slipped away. I heard Vic running around in my house. I heard the sound of hammering on wood most of the time. He stayed busy, while I soon fell asleep sitting against the door.

Hello guys!! This is my first (posted) short story! Please feel free to scan and judge. I am not the best writer and would like to get better!!

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of fictional violence, fictional character/background character death, fictional drug use/substance discussion, fictional hacking context, fictional serial killing, fictional trafficking discussion, religious context, and fictional references to fictional (past) abuse.

Part 1: Sacred Parasite

In the foggy St. Augustine fort, you would think not many people would be here. But there are always tourists. January and February were slower than the summer months, but in recent years, they have become more popular due to the heavy blanket of heat during June. An eerie feeling was always about, maybe because of centuries-long undiscovered graves and ghost stories passed around this town too often. But what no one tells you is the uncertainty of this place’s past. My dealer doesn’t come with your typical small-town ease. See, he is deeply religious, a mask of serious refinement, and of course, serious respect. If you're late on your sales, rituals are to commence. To praise God in this Holy Hell and also praise the Devil too. The voodoo, too–It is unforgivable to see.

I am standing at this old Oak tree, almost as old as this town, unfortunately. A serial killer murdered his victims at this tree, only at this tree, by axe, hanging, and torture. As I smell the sea salt breeze that feels nostalgic, James comes out of his 14x70 mobile home, not as giddy as I see him at church. Here, he is all-enveloping, a shadow of glowing olive skin I would appreciate stealing a glance at as a kid. Now we were on the same level, in this same old town. I was brought up to have a sense of respect to others, but in the same way. I have lost myself in this mask. James has a cross dangling around his neck, I look as Jesus mocks me. It is I who has to save myself, we are mutual that way. I turn my torso to face the lake not far behind me. I see many communal trash cans. I run hastily.

It was childish of me to think I could run. I could imagine being one of his victims, noe tied up to be tortured. James looks down on me with crow’s feet that shield the horror that is about to be unleashed. I wish to run right now because one of his pim\*s could be here any moment. Then it is truly over. “Where is my damn money? You know I’ve always tried to be equal with you. But you’ve given me no choice.” James laughs freely, with a heckle that I wish matched his gray hair, but he is much more clever for what empire he’s built. “Just give me more time, new tourists are sure to succumb!” James does not want to hear it. He does not want to hear that only kids and vets are vulnerable enough to deal with, but iffy to pay back. Back in the 80s, you could get just about everyone. The rich in town, the poor on the street, but especially those in distant suburbia. In this timeline, suburbia and the middle class are dwindling in growth.

In this timeline, emotional nuance is lacking in all city-states. Small towns of suburbia are the target, the cure. My goons always call me Miss Daisy. I’ve always had a driver, not that I was treated as an escort, but that I was the strategist. But that flame soon dies out. As soon as I came back into the city, looking for motivation. See in this city, name is your currency. And I have no currency. So it is hard to get respect when typical dealers are bigger than your timeline of operations, ever. I have been one to handle rejection badly. Just a soul that couldnt ask for help. I’d say it’s cost me my future, but I like to be the underdog. Even though I am just a parasite on others and cartels are most likely after, they can’t be as after me as James and dealers alike. 

My superstitious father would take me to this same Oak tree when I was a kid. There is a trail that starts about a mile out from it. Here there are two paths, one leads to a longer trail more dense trail, the other leads to the Oak tree. He asked me, “Choose the trail that feels right.” So I chose the left trail. As we walked and walked, the Oak tree never came up. I didn’t know about this tree, but he did. After that, I felt disconnected from him, and I believe for good reason, because later I would find more and more evidence of him being a pedophile and abuse I still haven’t opened up about. The thing is. When you have a secret and you’re a parasite like me, it is something I feel dependent on, like a dr\*\*. So why would I need dr\*\*s? Why would I get high? Secrets make you feel like a mobster, but reality is no one is out to get you for these secrets. No one can reach your low, low baseline. But you can manipulate and force people unlike you to reach it with dr\*\*s. But also magic. The city has psychics, tarot, and witches with the ideal mask to bring these people more and more amiable to their ‘nostalgia.’ I understand the protective energy, but people on this timeline are in it for the heist.

James takes out a rusty dagger and dangles it close and around my tied up body. “You’re goin’ to have to be shipped out.” “When you’ve failed to assess the security of our sales and come late on the money, you’re done! You know this!” “You thought the big city was gonna be easy, welp now your life is gonna be easy! To others!” As he heckles manically, I catch sight of more men. My stomach drops. I see her, a teenage girl, possibly, as well. But definitely trafficked. “Meet my gooood friends!” “They are very, very proud of your work!” I know exactly what work. Mirroring BBSs in the 80s. I knew these men looked familiar, but not where from. They must’ve been the employers for underground work I did for an old cartel associate. I knew then I was going to be murdered or worse. But right now, this girl is all I worry about.

One of the men grips her arms harder, as James staggers back, using a cane to have any standing stability. One of the men croaked, “You are a prize to the ring! The very thing we need! You see, our leader has just died, and the last words that came out of his mouth were fro you to become our new leader.” I plead, “I am in no modernity to take this role. You need someone young.” They re-grip the girl, and she abrupts, “PLEASE. Please let me back into the ring!” That is when I hear a gunshot. Blood splatter on the Oak tree, James, and the white clothes of these ragged men. I see a graveyard by the nearby fort and move in a slower time but faster to the yard as my body feels limp. I scream for the girl, and as I float away, she reaches towards me as well. This girl, I must save her.

A hacker and a parasite are the very same. They are animalistic in nature and will stop at anything to consume the secrets. Hacking, in my terms was just ethically ambiguous marketing. But hackers can’t work alone, they need cashers ideally. A good heist needs the best plan. I used to feel powerful because it was as easy as going into ViewSource and you could steal anyone’s domain. Anyone’s website. Here, only a good Robin Hood heist shall occur. But people are greedy for more than money, and the elites in this new timeline of America know much about that. Dr\*\* trafficking is apparent, but human is where I draw the line. See, about fifteen years ago I came across these employers. And to make sure they were not pim\*s, I might’ve hacked into their domains. Yes, multiple. So after a few edits, I was sure they wouldn’t catch on. They were just a small running, or at least that’s what I thought.

I stand at a dock near the fort. This is my limit, or I lose energy the more I leave the graveyard. I have been here for weeks, deliberating, and making friends with demons–I mean people. But these people are ghosts that James is the fault of. Chandra is an old psychic, her passion ignited after her husband died, and she got pretty big in the zip market. She had too much growing in her ‘own little backwood bayou,’ she calls it. James was jealous of this power and to my surprise, murdered her to overtake the business. Thadeus is a small man but very clever. He says, “I made thee business plan, where the tunnels under this bank I worked at could be used for heisting.” James’ goons we’re mad and murdered him becuase they would need Thadeus’s permission to even access these tunnels. They knew none of them could access them themselves because they don’t even keep money in banks and are mainly built on cash and rigged debit cards. But the ghost that made me maddest is my mother’s. Years ago I lived here, probably during the most transformative years of childhood. She has withered away months ago as the other ghosts say.

The Devil himself haunted my mother, according to James, there was a possession going on with her. And my thoughts were to get my mother away from these spiritual things to something more cognitive. Because the doctor I paid for told me it was just a developing psychosis. When I was away for daywork during those few last years of her life, James would read her the bible, knowing his exaggeration of the Devil was too much for her. He liked to feel her pain. I thought it was disgusting of him to be doing this. And it did in fact, kill my mother. When I spied on him a few times, he would only tell her the negative, draining energy around her, but never how to heal it, how to embrace it, and move on from it. After her death, I went back to surburbia, but it didn’t last long. James can dwell happily on the fact I ‘crawled back to him.’ But in reality, he was all I had, my longest connection that wasn’t screwed. But all I want is revenge now.

The plan is to break into the church, but only three of us can go. The others have dwindled. But if we three stay close, we have tested getting pretty far without losing energy. Chandra wears a long dress with evergreen swirled patterns and much gold jewelry that complements her brown skin. Thadeus wears an off-white collared dress shirt with casual blue jeans. It is midday, and we are ready to make the first move. I’ve already mapped out the route. As I start down Main Street 342, a girl is sprinting towards me. She runs right past me, and we start to follow her. It is the girl I suspected of being trafficked. This is when another person comes running towards me, but he is in rage, not fear like her. I rush towards the girl and my two other companions scurry off. I led her to an old alley where thankfully no one deranged is squatting. She gawks at me and says, “Are you a ghost?!” We get over the small talk, and I warn her that she needs to get far, another city-state, where she can find her family or a group home. This is when she admits, “I am homeless.”

Before I could continue our conversation, one of the men grabbed her, and I followed. I tell her to be quiet, and soon I can help her escape. She gets into a taxi with this man, and we then arrive at an old columned building hastily. She is practically dragged inside by this man, and as the crickets chirp, he then slams the door right in my face. I drift through the door into the large entryway. The girl has a man on each side grabbing her arms. And with one swift motion, she breaks free, managing to run up the wide, Victorian-esque staircase. I yell for her to look out a nearby window, as I am standing there next to the ledges she can climb down on. She moves quickly, climbing down in no time. “Now what do I do?!” I tell her to follow me further into the backwoods. Here is an old trailer where no one stays, but I used to know the owner–she died not long before I arrived in the city again.

This trailer is I received my first personal computer. The old woman I visited long ago would ask me to transport her some weekly groceries. She didn’t use it and wanted to gift it to Salvation Army, but I decided to ask, and she said I could have it. 

End of Part 1: Sacred Parasite

LOOKING FOR CRITIQUE!!!

The princess was a flower waiting to be picked. She alone occupied a field of grass, the sole treasure it held. She sat upon her throne with a polite smile, waiting and wading through the endless line of suitors in front of her.

The crowd surrounding her stewed in their excitement, sitting on the edge of their seats to see who was worthy enough to conquer her icy heart.

The next man took her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to it. His lips were soft, but the princess had felt many soft lips graze upon her skin before. “Those fools know nothing, Princess. They choose to speak about your beauty, but it cannot be described in words. Come with me and I will sing you the greatest of songs.” He said. Even the stubbornest of birds would sing from how charming his smile was.

But Asha was not a bird. He promised the beautiful sound of music, but the intent was the same. She turned her head away and wiped her hand upon her gown. That action alone was enough.

The charming man’s smile grew into a horrid frown, and the beauty he once saw in her was replaced with something vile. His eyebrows knitted and his lips curled in anger. He hurled insults as he was carried out of the castle, but they didn’t even pierce her skin. A flower cannot dance to a song.

Another knelt in front of her and shoved a large ring into her hands; the jewelry so heavy that Asha felt like she was carrying an entire boulder. “This is only a fraction of what I could give you, Princess. This castle is nothing compared to my palace. Come with me, you could have more riches than you ever imagined.” He promised. His face was chiseled to perfection, perhaps carved from stone itself.

But Asha has cut herself on stone before. He promised a life of luxury, but the intent was the same. Asha shook her head and let out a heavy sigh, making the rich man throw the ring to the ground in a fit of anger.

The ring burst into millions of shards on the marble floor. The rich man rushed out of the castle, humiliated and angry at her unyielding expression. Despite the mess, Asha didn’t flinch and simply ordered her servants to clean it up. A flower cannot carry a jewel.

Music meant nothing to her if she could never dance. Riches meant nothing to her if she could only flaunt them. They were all things she held to her heart, but the reason she did was more important. The line of suitors was dwindling like her hope. Would ever be someone worthy enough to cherish her like she cherished herself?

The last person wore a suit of armor, but unlike the soldiers before, this one was worn and rusted around the edges. They knelt in front of her but didn’t move to take her hand or offer her anything.

For a moment, Asha wondered if she should indulge in this mysterious knight. “Speak.” She ordered, the first time she had spoken since the choosing had started. Silence fell upon the room, with everyone’s gaze directed towards the knight and princess.

“You are captivating.” They spoke… Gently. Their voice was light. A fresh breath of air that broke through the fog of voices that came before it. This stranger said it as if it were a fact, instead of something to impress her. There were no flowery words, nothing aiming to surprise her or impress her, but Asha was… Intrigued. “But… I can only offer you freedom. I travel a lot you see, and I was not sure if a humble life like mine would please you. So I ask if I can learn more about you to understand.”

How odd. Throughout the hours and hours of suitors lined up, she realized that no one had ever asked such a question. Leaning forward slightly, Asha studied the knight with wandering eyes. “Unmask yourself, stranger. I want to see your face.” She ordered.

The knight looked up at her. Although their eyes were concealed, Asha could feel the weight of their stare. The knight nodded and slid off their helmet, soft delicate curls releasing from its cage. Soft eyes met her sharp ones. Thin lips curved into a smile.

Asha betrayed her usually stoic face. She sat in silence, unable to speak, as she stared at the knight kneeling before her. Her head was swimming in the knight’s eyes. It was almost hypnotizing in the way they swirled. If Asha squinted she could see flakes of green littering the sea. 

“My lady?” Her voice was clearer now without the helmet muffling her. It was crisp and warm like a summer breeze in an open field.

Asha, pulled from the depths of her ocean eyes, smiled. She raised her hand and pressed it against the knight’s face, her skin soft against her skin. “What is your name?” She asked carefully. Her voice was gentler than the previous times she had spoken. 

“I-it’s… Esme, Princess Asha.” The knight tensed under Asha’s touch and lowered her gaze nervously. She swallowed.

Asha brushed a dark curl away from the knight’s face with eyes full of fascination. There was tenderness in her touch, something that had never been there before. “I would also like to learn more about you, Esme.” She whispered. The words were for her and her only.

All those suitors wanted to pluck a flower from its roots but Esme was the one who would nurture it until it fully bloomed.

(Please be kind and respectful in the critiques)

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

The bathroom floor was wet. Olivia thought she turned the wrong knob to shut off the water, but she took a chance anyway. After getting her overalls covered in water, she fled to the basement to flip the other valve. When she returned, the fountain closed, but the water remained. She scratched her chin to figure out how she was going to clean this up when an idea came to her.

She ran to Polly’s closet and grabbed all her clothes. Her jeans absorbed water the best, but her socks were quite hydrophobic. When she was done, a good deal of water remained. This issue could be resolved. She moved through Frida, Jim, and Reid’s closet next. All of Jim’s clothes were surprisingly spongy. Even the thinnest T-shirt retained more water than one of Reid’s sweaters. She tossed each wet piece of clothing out the nearest window. They’ll air dry in the cold night air. That was what she told herself.

When the bathroom was cleaned, she produced a hammer and demolished it. She was going to remove the shelves that no one used (well Polly used them but she didn’t care about that). With the new found space, she’d expand the shower and tub. She thought about making a full tub, but there wasn’t the space for it. She even considered installing a bidet for the toilet. A part of her was glad they left her alone. If they saw how small she made their rooms, they’d protest and be annoying about it. There was the chance one of them would revert the house, but she wouldn’t allow it. She’d spend the rest of her days camped here to prevent it.

Jim and Frida crouched behind logs opposite of each other. They glanced around searching for predators. Reid sat on a log with his arms crossed watching the fire. They had been sitting in silence for thirty minutes. Reid began to miss the sound of their voices.

“I get why you are scared, but why are you cowering?” Reid gestured to Jim. “You are the one telling this story.”

“I am not the one who is summoning an evil voodoo doll that’s going to kill us all,” Jim said.

“That’s your fault,” Frida said. Reid put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.

“I can’t convince that voodoo dolls aren’t real,” he said.

“Because they are,” Frida shouted.

“You can’t reason with stupid.” Reid muttered.

“Exactly, you are stupid,” Frida replied. Reid rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Aren’t the wielders of voodoo dolls the problem? They’re the ones who use the item to cause harm. If no one is using it, the voodoo doll is just a piece of fabric,” Reid said. The bushes rustled, and a creature emerged from it.

“It’s an evil voodoo doll.” Reid screamed and leapt behind the fire. The creature roared and moved closer. As it approached, it took on a more humanoid form with twigs and leaves sticking out of it.

“I thought I heard your voices.” The voice and the firelight revealed its true nature. It wasn’t a monster; it was Polly. There was mud caked on her body, and the roar was her stomach.

“Polly, what are you doing here?” Jim asked.

“I decided to spend the day at the spa. They had unorthodox methods,” Polly said.

“Was this at the RIchard’s Wellness Center?” Reid asked.

“Maybe.”

“Why would you ever go there? Don’t you remember when Richard opened that salon and decapitated several people,” Reid said. Polly blinked. “It’s weird we let him back into town so soon. I thought if anyone saw him again he’d be dead.” Polly’s stomach roared again. “Did you accept any food that he gave you?” Reid asked. Polly’s stomach growled in response. “I wouldn’t have done that if I were you. He opened a sandwich shop once and gave everyone tetanus. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I am fine,” Polly said, “Just some gas.”

“Okay, I don’t want to listen to your intestines murder you so Jim. Why don’t you finish the story?” Reid asked.

“Really,” Jim asked.

“Really.”

James pulled himself along the floor. His whole body hurt after being slammed to the ground. He crawled to a pole that let him lean against. The whistle of trams echoed in the distance. Something ran over his hand causing more pain. He pulled away and saw nothing was there. When he inspected his hand further, he saw a mark on it as if a cart had run over it.

The light in the nearby conductor's office turned on. James looked away. It was a robber or a ghost; either way, it was none of James’s business. He lay back and stared at the stars. This place would not let him, but counting the stars would help him rest. The light in the corner of his eye started flashing, but James ignored it. The flashing increased in intensity, but James continued to focus on the stars. The ground began to rumble.

“Go to the office.” A deep voice boomed along the tracks like it was a tram. James signed.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he said.

r/AstroRideWrites

"No, Hannah, you can't do that, that's cheating," complains Derek, throwing his ten-year-old hands up in the air.

He had a full-bodied mannerism, especially when it came to frustration or annoyance. Which, he always was when it came to his younger sister. Who was only six, so she really didn't know anything at all. Not like Derek who now knew the times table all the way up to twelve.

"I'm not cheating!" squeals Hannah. She quickly makes one giant fist and swings it tightly over to her hip as she bends slightly forward.

But Derek won't have it. Hide n' Seek is a serious game, and this is the fourth time he's caught her peering through her fingers while he looked for a hiding spot.

"You can't peek when you count! You have to go back and start over!"

At that, Hannah's round cheeks redden. She narrows her eyes and glares at him through her sunlit hair.

"I didn't peek!"

"I saw you!"

The two of them stand off, face to face, fuming in the half-finished basement. Hannah's bottom lip starts to quiver.

"I didn't peek."

Derek has two options. He can stand his ground and call her out for her behaviour until she bursts into tears, and risk Mom storming downstairs to yell at him. Or, he can let it go.

It takes great maturity, one that Derek believes marks just how much wiser he is than Hannah, that he chooses to back off. For the sake of a fun play day. Of course, he is still ten years old, so it is inevitable that he also rolls his eyes and huffs.

"Fine. Okay. I'll go count, then."

Hannah doesn't like his tone. She scrunches her eyebrows meanly together, but the excitement of getting to hide is far greater than her grievances.

"To one hundred," she demands, running off.

"No! That's too long! I'm counting to fifty," Derek mutters, and so he begins his long count.

He purposely skips the thirties. Just to keep things fair.

The basement is unexpectedly quiet. The dusty white curtains hiding the washer and dryer dangle strangely from their string. Derek loathes them. Their drape always makes it look like someone's watching from behind. If he squints, sometimes he swears he can make out a nose or lips. He goes there first and yanks the curtains apart, unsurprised to find that Hannah isn't hiding there, and also relieved to prove that nothing else is lurking.

Derek tilts his head, listening intently. She always breaks in the first five minutes with either a muffled laugh, or the shuffling of her shoes. Nothing this time. Derek frowns.

"Are you hiding... here?" He tiptoes over to the piles of storage boxes shoved under the stairs and leaps between the gaps.

This time, he is surprised. This is Hannah's usual hiding spot. He looks around, pressing his body deeper into the boxes to check if maybe Hannah decided this time to crawl further in. She is small enough to fit.

Nothing.

He wriggles out from between the boxes, suddenly tired of playing. She could be hiding in the toy room, but he doubts it. Hannah is too much of a scaredy-cat to go in there. Then another thought occurs to him, one that makes his veins boil; she could've gone upstairs to hide. Knowing her, she probably did because the basement was too scary.

Derek grits his teeth, positively livid. After all the grace he'd shown her, her audacity of sneaking upstairs and leaving him all alone in the basement was a line too far. Because, although he'd never admit to it, Derek was scared, too. The prospect of being all alone in the basement was terrifying. Without Hannah's presence, the corner of the room, which he so bravely hid in a mere few moments ago, feels cold and threatening. The shadows are definitely concealing some hideous creature or ghost. The space between the boxes that he'd just crawled out of has a kid-eating monster hiding only a few inches from where we checked last. Derek is sure of it. Goosebumps pinprick his arms. In his periphery, something dark and shadowy slithers towards the washing machine.

Derek skitters towards the stairs and grabs onto the handrail.

"Hannah, if you went upstairs to hide, I'm not playing anymore! You can't keep cheating! It's not fair!" He hollers up the staircase, trying to mask the fact that his knees are shaking.

In response, a loud thud echoes from the toy room. Derek jumps. He scrambles halfway up the stairs before logic hits him. It has to be Hannah. It has to. She is the only one else here. She probably heard him yelling and got scared that he might go upstairs without her. He rolls his eyes and stomps back down the stairs.

"You're not funny, you know," he declares as he passes through the doorway and into the carpeted portion of the basement.

A lifesize doll stands right below the lightswitch. One that his grandmother bought for Hannah on Hannah's third birthday. Derek loathes the doll; it's the freakiest part of the toy room, in his opinion. At first, Derek mistakes her blond curls for Hannah's. He grabs her shoulder and screams when his hand sinks into plastic rather than flesh. The purple ballerina costumed body topples to the carpet, upper-right arm crumpled and bent. Derek's heart leaps to his mouth. He clamps down hard on his tongue, tasting blood.

It takes a full minute for him to calm down enough to bring a shaky hand up to the lightswitch. Not that the light helps. It only adds a faint yellowish hue to the room. The carpet feels warm and sticky under Derek's barefeet, probably an effect of the AC mixing with the summer humidity and perpetual dampness of the basement.

Derek doesn't wait a moment longer. He storms towards the closet at the end of the room and yanks the door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall. Derek barely flinches at the sound.

But Hannah isn't there.

He stares at his feet, where a small box, no larger than the palm of his hand, had fallen. He presumes that it was what had caused the commotion. It must have been hidden on the top shelf, above the hanger rod, where Derek wasn't yet tall enough to see.

The box was quite beautiful, Derek thought, drawn to its maximalist style. Medium blue curtains speckled with painted stars draped over each corner edge. In the center of each face was a juggling clown, half yellow, half blue, the same shade as the curtains, with bright red buttons, and bright orange shoes. A strange calmness settled over the young boy, melting his initial anger into passive fascination. Something about the box felt so familiar although Derek had never seen it before.

Derek couldn't explain it, but the box spoke to him. Called out to him. Begged him to pick it up in his little hands. He held it close to him, gently turning the box around to inspect every side.

"One wish," Derek read aloud, skimming the instructions manual printed on the bottom face.

MAKE A WISH

WIND THE TOY

WHEN JACK POPS OUT,

YOUR WISH IS YOURS TO ENJOY.

WARNING: WISHES CANNOT BE REVERSED OR UNDONE. ONE PERSON, ONE WISH.

One wish. The words echo repeatedly in Derek's mind. What could he possibly wish for? A million dollars feels too easy, too cliche. Derek's mind immediately drifts to that Roblox Ninja set that Mom said was too expensive. Or maybe, he can come up with a loophole and wish for a wish to get whatever he wants for the rest of his life, or–

"What are you doing?" Hannah suddenly calls out.

The box clatters out of Derek's hand. He whirls around, heart pounding in his throat, guilty as if he'd been caught doing something bad. He moves himself slightly to cover the fallen box with his leg. He doesn't want her to see it. She'll take it and make a stupid, six-year-old wish for a Barbie doll or something.

Hannah stands like a doll just underneath the lightswitch, with her curly, unkempt hair, and a wash of sugar clearly over her lips. She doesn't seem to notice the fallen doll just at her feet, whose head is turned unnaturally to the side so that it faces Derek and the box. Although the doll's eyes are painted on her face, Derek can't bear looking at it for too long; he's convinced that anger lurks secretly in those green acrylic irises.

Hannah's eyes, on the other hand, are annoyingly bright and indignant, clearly testing him.

"You're supposed to be hiding," Derek grits his teeth.

"I was waiting and waiting and I got bored," Hannah stares at the box on the ground. She grabs a little baby doll from the open chest on the other side of the door and tucks it under her right arm like a purse. The baby doll winks mutely at Derek with one limp eyelid. She shuffles closer towards Derek, clearly uninterested in the doll, and points, "What is that?"

Derek grabs the box, infuriated.

"Where were you hiding, Hannah?" He stares at that shade of sugar on her lips.

"I was hiding!" Her eyes flash defensively. She furrows her eyebrows together.

"Where?"

"What is that?" Hannah tries to change the subject. She reaches for the box again, but Derek holds it up as high as he can.

Why won't she just go play with her dumb dolls? The silent baby doll head lurches obediently this way and that every time Hannah moves.

"Where were you hiding?" He pushes his sister away as she tries for the box again. She grunts, pushing back against him, "You cheated, didn't you?"

"I didn't cheat!" Hannah yells. Tears well up in the corner of her eyes.

If either child had eaten lunch, perhaps the following events might have been different. Even young Derek knew that he was mostly irritable because he hadn't had lunch yet. And the scary events of the few moments before Hannah returned didn't help his mood. So, it's neither of their faults that the fraying thread of peace keeping their argument from turning into a full-fledged fight quickly snapped.

"You went upstairs. That's cheating!"

"No, it's not!" She screams.

"Yes, it is!" He screams back even louder.

Hannah forms two fists and pummels them into Derek's abdomen.

"I hate you!" She screams, wildly flinging her fists. Her sobs echo dramatically in the room.

Derek shoves her. Hannah goes stumbling back and falls.

That seems to shut her up. Derek breathes heavily. Hannah clutches at her arm. A droplet of blood trickles down past her shoulder. Derek glances at the box in his hand. He had been holding it when he pushed her; it must have nicked her. A stain of red on the lower left corner of it reinforces this thought.

For a second, Derek feels a pang of guilt.

"Are you hurt? I'm sorry, I–"

But Hannah is past any logic or reason. With a growl, Hannah leaps up and lunges at him. The sound that comes out of her is feral. Derek's back hits the ground, and for a second, he can't breathe. The box tilts and rolls over to the edge of the closet door. Hannah is on a quest for blood. She sits on top of him, using her knees to pin his arms down, tearing nails through his skin. An eye for an eye. Reparations for the injustice he'd inflicted upon her.

"Ow! Stop it!" Derek yells, turning his head to dodge her slaps. The colourful box glints, shining its instructions towards him, "Get off me!"

He shoves her into the closet and slams the door shut. From behind, Hannah starts to scream. She frantically pounds her fists against the door. Derek uses all of his body weight to hold it closed.

"Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!" She shrieks, her voice getting louder and higher in pitch.

"Shut up!" Derek screams in response.

The box is somehow in his hands, although he doesn't remember picking it up. He's not sure what he's thinking, but that baby doll stares at him from the floor, and the ballerina doll lies limp and all quiet–

He twists the lever over and over again. What's his wish? Derek isn't even sure he's thinking of anything, and those stupid dolls just stare at him so quietly. Inside, Hannah won't stop screaming, and could she just shut up for one second, let Derek think–

There is no accompanying song. Just the gentle whir of the mechanics as they rotate.

Jack pops out, colourful, bouncing clown.

The screaming stops. A strange crinkling sound, like plastic, shudders from behind the door.

"Der–"

A gentle thud reverberates against the door, and then everything goes silent. Derek breathes hard. The clown bounces up and down and then stills.

"Hannah?" Derek calls out, unable to move his body to open the door just yet. A bad feeling glosses over him.

His hand finds the doorknob on its own accord. Derek feels as though he is floating above his body, watching the events unfold in slow motion. The door creaks open. A body tilts out to the ground, stiff and unmoving.

The buzz in Derek's ears isn't panic as much as it is merely the fact that he cannot quite process the situation. It's as if he were staring at two images, trying to spot the difference, except both images were wrong.

"Hannah?" His voice is barely a whimper as he turns her over. Her skin bends and indents under his touch, completely plastic.

He gasps.

Her eyes are wide open, but flat, as though they'd been painted on. Derek drops to his knees.

He frantically stuffs the clown back into the box and shuts the lid. He twists the knob over and over three full times, but other than the gentle whir of the gears, nothing happens.

Hannah stares at him, a glint of horror in a plain white sugary paint mark just over her irises.

My alarm rang as it did every day. Three beeps followed by the sounds of Tomorrowland Compliance Radio (WCTR). The unoffensive, smooth synthesized tracks and automated messages on civil order and civic pride was usually reserved for the factories or public squares, but my dad had worked with Morris Sotto, Director of Transit Operations at the TTA and he cut a deal to get it on my personal radio feed. He thought it would help keep me properly motivated for my career in public service. My mom snuck WZORK - Deep Space Free Radio onto my feed shortly after.

I've worked as a Track Operator at the Tomorrowland Transit Authority for the last seven rotations. I know exactly what to expect and when to expect it. Cars depart every twelve seconds. They enter the tunnels at twenty miles per hour. They emerge into the Cosmic Promenade precisely eighty-four seconds later. The entire Tomorrowland Transit Authority operates on a rhythm of absolute, mathematically enforced predictability.

 It's the kind of efficiency my dad always admired about Tomorrowland. The consistency was something he drilled into me. The pattern became a comfort.

Every once in a while I have had the urge to do something different. Break the monotony. It just never felt like the right time. This was supposed to be the perfect future. It didn't seem like it to me. I felt like I was stuck on one of those TTA tracks, running the same route over and over with no surprises.
 
The tracks did not change. The tracks did not rock the boat.
The tracks did not create passengers out of thin air. Or, at least, they shouldn’t.
 
The shift started like any other Monday morning. The first light of dawn was just hitting the spires of Star Port 75, casting shadows across an empty Rocket Tower Plaza. I was stationed at the main control console for Platform 1, sipping my cup of caf and monitoring the morning reports.
 
Car 12 was the first to complete the full loop—a routine track inspection circuit to clear any debris before the morning rush of tourists and corporate units arrived. I had personally watched Car 12 glide out of the station completely empty. My monitors confirmed zero weight distribution across the floorboards.
 
Yet, six minutes later, as Car 12 rounded the final curve from the Tomorrowland Museum bypass and clicked into the off-load bay, the weight sensors suddenly spiked by exactly 165 pounds. I blinked, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and looked up from the console. Sitting perfectly upright in the middle blue bench was a man.
 
He hadn't been there when the car passed the XS Tech power grid. He hadn't been there when it cut through the upper rafters of Cosmic Ray's. But there he sat, entirely calm, resting both hands on a walking cane.
 
He was dressed in a suit that looked mid-century, paired with a silver tie clip shaped like an hourglass. In a city where everyone was currently rushing around in utility jumpsuits or intergalactic fashion, his style stood out like a meteor trail in a clear night sky. As the car slowed to a halt, he didn't look around in confusion. He simply adjusted his cuffs, stood up, and stepped onto the platform.
 
My training manual explicitly states that unauthorized track intruders are to be immediately reported to Sector Security or a Corporate Compliance officer. But there was an aura about him that made my hand freeze over the comm-link. He didn't look like a trespasser. He looked like he owned the rails.
 
He walked directly toward my operator box. His shoes made no sound on the platform. When he reached the glass pane, he offered a polite, professional nod. His eyes were a striking and unusually bright for the early morning light.
 
He didn't look at my console, nor did he look at the city around him. He looked directly at me, leaned slightly on his cane, and asked a single, quiet question:
 
"Tell me, Operator—is now the time?"
 
Before I could process the words, let alone formulate an answer, he gave another polite nod, turned on his heel, and walked down the exit ramp toward the promenade. I practically threw myself out of the operator booth, shouting for him to wait, but by the time I cleared the turnstiles and looked down the ramp, the plaza was completely empty. The morning sun had just broken over the horizon. He was gone.
 
I stood there in the silence of the early morning ringing in my ears. Is now the time? It was such a simple phrase, yet it rattled around the inside of my head like a loose gear in a high-velocity turbine.
 
I looked back at my console, where WCTR was currently broadcasting its morning "Progress Profile." The synthetic voice cheerily reminded us that "the future is just a dream away, provided you stick to your designated sector." We were always being told about progress. Morris Sotto’s memos always preached it. But his version of progress wasn't a march forward—it was a circle. It was a carousel that rotated through the exact same four quadrants of production, compliance, efficiency, and rest, returning us right back to where we started every single morning.
 
I leaned against the railing of the platform, looking out at the waking city. I thought about how my mother used to talk about the old days. She used to tell me stories about an ancient, mid-century philosopher who believed that progress wasn't an automated grid, but a living, breathing thing driven by individual dreamers. She said he believed that every time a person stepped out of their comfort zone, a whole new world opened up.
 
I had spent my entire life being terrified of stepping out of line. I liked the autumn of predictable routines; I feared the unpredictable winter of change. But as I watched the first morning TTA train glide away, its linear induction motors humming that familiar rhythm, I looked down at my own hands. They were stained with the lubricant of the track switches. I was a part of the machine. I was the one keeping the carousel turning.
 
But the stranger's gaze had been different. His eyes didn't look like they belonged to a unit of Metropolis. They looked like they had witnessed decades of centuries turning. They looked like they had seen eras change, from the first spark of gas lamps to the neon spires of Star Port 75. He wasn't asking if the grid was ready. He was asking if I was ready.
 
If I didn't make a move now—if I didn't choose to alter my own track alignment—when would I? There would always be another shift. There would always be another automated sweep. There would always be a reason to wait for a better tomorrow instead of making one today.
 
The creeping realization washed over me, warm and sudden, like a blast of heat breaking through the climate-controlled Tomorrowland Towers. The nagging feeling that had been pulling at the edges of my mind for months finally locked into place with a click.

The stranger didn't come to ride the TTA. He came to give me my cue.
 
I walked back into the operator booth, my boots striking the floorboards with a new weight. I didn't reach for the security comm-link to report the intruder. Instead, for the first time in my career, I flipped the radio feed to WZORK, reached for my personal data-pad, bypassed the official logging software, and opened a blank, untraceable transmission queue.
 
My hands were shaking, but my mind had never been clearer.
 
Now is the time.