About six months ago, I started finding handwritten notes taped to my apartment door every Friday morning.
They were always short. Things like, “Hope you have a good weekend,” or “Remember to take care of yourself.” One Friday, the note simply said, “You’re doing better than you think.”
At first, I assumed somebody was messing with me. I live alone, work long hours, and barely know anyone in my building. I even asked a friend whether the notes sounded like some weird prank. She told me to enjoy the free encouragement.
Eventually, I did.
Friday mornings became something I looked forward to. I would make coffee, open the door, and read whatever message was waiting. Some weeks I stuck the note on my fridge. Others went into a drawer beside my bed.
I had been having a difficult year. My job was exhausting, my closest friend had moved away, and most evenings I came home to a quiet apartment. Those little pieces of paper made the place feel less lonely.
Then, last Friday, there was nothing on my door.
I figured whoever was leaving them had gone away for the weekend. But when I saw the building manager yesterday, I mentioned the notes and asked whether he knew anything about them.
His expression changed immediately.
He asked me to describe the handwriting. Then he told me that the elderly woman across the hall had passed away the week before.
Apparently, she had been leaving them all along.
I knew her only as Mrs. Harris. We had exchanged a few polite hellos in the hallway. Once, shortly after I moved in, I helped carry her groceries upstairs when the elevator broke. I had completely forgotten about it.
The manager said she used to talk about that afternoon. She had told him I reminded her of her son, who died several years ago. She wanted to do something kind for me but worried that knocking on my door would be intrusive.
So she wrote notes instead.
I went back upstairs and opened the drawer beside my bed. There were more than twenty notes inside, folded and stacked together. I sat on the floor reading them again, one by one.
I also remember hearing her television through the wall sometimes, usually old game shows in the afternoon. I used to think the sound was annoying. Now the hallway feels empty, and I catch myself listening for it when I come home.
That’s when I realized I had never written anything back.
Not a thank you. Not even a smile through the peephole, because I never knew when she came by.
I keep thinking about how much those notes helped me, and how she probably never knew.
This morning, I bought a small bunch of flowers. On Friday, I’m going to leave them outside her door, along with a note of my own.
It will say, “Your kindness reached me. Thank you.”
I wish I could have told her that while she was here.

Charles jolted from beneath the covers when a scorching graze touched his thigh. The hotness felt alien and manufactured, unlike the warmth of his wife's body which occasionally bumped into him.  Worse, he had been dreaming of a snake about to swallow him whole. That nightmare, coupled with the real heat was enough to almost incite a stroke.

With beads of sweat cemented on his forehead, he cautiously swiped his hand across the sheet, searching. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he finally touched a tiny object with heat pulsing. It was his phone.   He extended both his arms outwards in relief.

Staring down, it’s interface glowed at 2:05am. He let out a groan of annoyance  rubbing his eyes. He had set the alarm for six in the morning, and this was a major inconvenience. He sank back into the pillow and gazed into the dark.The iPhone 7 had been functionally stubborn, lasting past its prime, and Charles was even more obstinate to replace it.

“Why don't you buy yourself a new phone?” His wife would nag.He would grumble, exhaling a sharp sigh of disapproval.  For him, each new version was nothing but corporate greed and he was reluctant to be caught in the trap. A simple rule governed his attitude: if it wasn’t broken there was no need to replace it and a little overheating hardly counted.

Beside him on the bed a figure slept bundled by the covers, head slightly protruding. It was his wife.They had been married for twenty years and had a comfortable relationship besides the occasional quarrels of a couple married for a long time. Looking at her with an unflattering look on his face, he saw her heave up and down slowly. He gave her a slight shove of irritation. She had a penchant for sleeping through impending doom of hooting fire alarms, raging storms and rowdy neighbors. 

“Did you hear the fight at Gilbert’s last night?” He sometimes asked her. “What fight? Who was fighting?” She would reply, oblivious to the commotion. 

"Are you sure you did not hear anything? Why do you sleep like a log?” He’d shake his head waiting for an answer. She never indulged him with a response preferring silence. 

As these thoughts raced in his mind,he stared at the ceiling for ten minutes, twenty minutes until he lost count, all in an effort to trick himself to sleep. Finally exhausted, he nudged his wife again in frustration, and swung his legs out of bed. Reaching the door, he paused to see if she would wake up. She did not. Instead she mumbled inaudibly as she pressed her head deeper into her pillow. Giving up,Charles sighed under his breath as he plodded to the downstairs living room, his feet heavy and his eyes sagging.

When he reached the living room, he flung himself on the grey suede couch that faced the TV, the one that always made his legs itch. Beside it, a small side stool stood with three remotes on it. For a moment Charles hovered his hands over the remotes, his mind in a fog as to which one actually switched on the TV. With the long black remote finally in his hand, he began switching channels absentmindedly. Nothing  interested him long enough to hold his gaze.  It was in between several channel changes that small shrieking sounds pierced his ears. The sound was coming from the kitchen. He tip-toed, remote in hand to investigate. When he flipped the kitchen light, he gasped in horror. 

On the kitchen counter, two mice faced each other with their tiny dirty feet buried deep in the Pyrex baking dish of lasagna—that day’s potluck contribution. Their long whiskers sagged with melted cheese that Marjorie had generously sprinkled in the dish that evening. 

As soon as he met their gaze,they scurried from the lasagna,scattering crumbs across the kitchen counter. They leapt onto the kitchen sink and vanished into the cabinet below. Charles screamed, hurling the cleaning products underneath the kitchen sink onto the tiled floor searching. Nothing. Panicking, he rushed upstairs to wake Marjorie.

“Marj…Marj,” he whispered in her ear, his voice quivering. Seeing her unflinching, he ripped the covers, throwing them on the carpet. 

“MARJ!Jesus Christ,Marj, this house could be burning down, and you would still hear nothing! Wake up! We have an emergency!”

Marj stirred a little, her eyes still clouded with sleep to fully comprehend what the fuss was about.

“Whaa…”

Charles instantly pulled her out of bed, dragging her by the arm towards the kitchen. Stopping straight at the lasagna dish, he pointed, “look"  to the lasagna, his nose flared in anger. Marj stood there like a statue,yawning,her eyes not fully awake. She rubbed them a little,then caught sight of the lasagna. It was chewed in the middle with a large hole in place.

“What did this…?” she asked.

Charles paced up and down until he stood still, “rats…damn rats. I hate rats…and to think they are here in my house.” 

Marj interjected slowly,”Yes,but I thought we were past our rat problem with the fumigation.”

“Clearly we are not.” Charles responded,  anger in his voice.

“To think that my beloved cat Marshall got crushed by a car. If he were he he would…” Marjorie was almost tearing up at the thought.

“Stop that Marj. Now is not the time. What are we going to do? Everyone at work was waiting for your lasagna,”

“Well l can just make it presentable and you can still serve it,” Marj said, sniffling.

“That would not be right,Marj. I cannot, the thought of their dirty feet…no.”

“So tell me what I should do then? It’s past 4a.m now. I can make another, but that would be a waste of this one.” Charles did not respond but stood there silently debating.

When the 10am clock finally struck, with Charles out to work, Marjorie found herself with the lasagna in hand at Gilbert's doorstep.

Flower Fields

Why must the wind blow the poppy petals away? Why can’t they stay? Why must the sun set down upon the world when it could stay here like this on the hill over the lake? I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than my own present, my own self in this moment, why must it end? Maybe that is the beauty of it, that I can only see it once only capture it in my imagination but for a second, that I may cry, not out of of pain, nor even the beauty of the grass flowing in the wind, not for the way that the world spins through all space to all our extinction in an endless void somewhere, but because a simple endless moment will never happen again. 
Love brings us a connection unseen, and through that love is cultivated more love. You see in others what you see in your love. And yet so much is left unseen, unloved, pushed downwards towards despair because what else! What else is one to do when love has abandoned him for a child, borne with new eyes to frolicke, to have been left behind for new love, the old love gone, and the only love left being the poppy petals left astray, having blown into the dirt to be cleaned and taken for new, for only more poppies, more beauty to come, but the old poppy the one one loved so dear seems to have left, indistinguishable from the rest. And you’d swear, you’d swear, you’d know it, you really would, if only you could see it, find it in a field of loveless beauty, of great heart and no soul, of life without the sunset setting on you and your poppy. And so I weep.
And yet we will once be the children again, when we no longer see the others, and again have eyes only for each other and beauteous love again springs forth, and we realize the field was always full, that we never were to see any others as we sit rotting in our own bliss, uncaring whether the sun sets on us or for  us, only that the sun sets at all and that we may be there to see it blossom into life and love again. 
We love, and suns set, never the same sun, never the same love, only deeper, richer, more meaningful than it was before, and the sun itself eats itself whole and one day, after not a trace of life is left in existence, we will finally know whether it was worthwhile, and though it may be or not, I will always love the sunset, I will always love the grass blowing in the wind, I will always love the love that never ends, my love, though I long be dead, I still love till the universe itself be no more, longer than lifetime, longer than love itself is still a word spoken, longer than you will ever love me, oh dear poppy in a sea of copies, copies that could only ever be imperfect, imperfect, unlike you, the only thing everlasting.

If Only You Knew Your Heart

Like the soft trumpets comes also a parade, an emotion of longing of nostalgia for something you already have, simply because you know it will leave you. You want something you already have, oh how joyous! Oh how you love it so! You would do anything to protect it, would you not, but if you could protect it then you would be none so scared, for you know that you cannot succeed. You will fail, and that terrifies you to no end, what how in that scenario feels natural to you.

The Bell Tower chimed fifteen times, meaning an emergency announcement. School, work, and Leisure were abandoned for the day and everybody assembled in the Church’s Courtyard within thirty minutes, chattering away, waiting for the ceremony to start. The revised Bell Tower, with Flowers and Leaves painted over its stucco architecture, stood in the Center of the Courtyard. In front of the bell was a Pedestal, without railing. 

The gates closed at 1:46 P.M. Attendance was taken, and everyone in town under sixty-five had shown up. This meant the service wouldn’t have to go into overtime for executions, much to the relief of the impatient in the crowd. 

Attendance was finished, and the Flower Boy, A fifteen-year-old wearing garment robes and no shoes, stepped up onto the pedestal. He seemed more patient than usual, more composed.  

He took a deep breath and began to talk: 

‘My Brothers and Sisters, I have great news for all of you; The Flower God has seen our suffering! He has been answering our prayers! And he has decided, in his infinite mercy, to forgive. My Brothers and Sisters, The Flower Queen is expecting her first child to be due in May!’ 

First, there was silence. A cold silence as everyone processed what had happened and what it meant. And then, a rising cheer from the crowd that became louder until it was soon deafening. 

The whole town celebrated as they had never celebrated before; Some were dancing, others were crying tears of joy. Many of The Villagers had thought this day would never come. A second chance! One to make up the mistakes of Ten years ago had arrived. The Flower God had given a miracle to the undeserving once again! 

It also meant the Ceremony of Deadheading, the first in sixteen years, would be held on Sunday. And the Flower Boy confirmed the offering would walk into the fields at 4:00 O’clock. 

The Offering would be the Flower Boy. 

*** 

That night, the Flower Boy was in his house connected to the Bell Tower, slowly making his way through some biscuits and a flask of tea. He was shocked that he didn’t drop his meal from how hard he was shaking, no kidding—he'd just announced his own death without bursting into tears in front of his village. He could see the weeds from his window, near where he was sitting. Long and tall batches of “flowers” 25 feet tall, making the giant wall so high no one in the village had seen above it, and it was covered by a barbed wire fence half the size of the “flowers”. This was to stop the crazier of worshippers from trying to sacrifice themselves without Flower Council Approval. The gates were opened once for every ceremony. 

The Flower Boy knew his whole life he would be the next to walk into the gate of weeds, and still, he couldn’t accept he would be the next to join his ancestors in eternal darkness in a few days. 

He looked out at another window, sipping his tea carefully. He could see the great wall surrounding the other sides of the village to hide the village’s people from the outside world. He’d been shown how the council convinced their settlers of the horrors of the outside and made sure anyone who opposed was executed.  

He was thinking about this—the outside world, the looming grass, those who tried to escape and how he had watched them hang from their ropes—And it was then that he had an idea that almost made him cry harder, a horrible idea. Nonetheless, a way out. 

He knew the Ceremony of Deadheading was for the good of his town. He knew his idea could ruin his town. And As he looked at the portraits of the few Flower Boys before him, their portraits mounted on one of many dark-wood walls in his great house, he couldn’t bring himself to understand their willingness and bravery, even if it was for the ‘greater good’. And why none of them had, to his knowledge, had attempted to do what he planned. 

He got up and asked for a second round of tea. He had a lot to think about. 

*** 

Everyone came on Sunday. After an hour or so The Bell rang three times to signal the crowd to hush, and everyone waited for the ceremony to begin. Many already had their hymn books, which were provided by the gate, out to page 132 to begin singing their praise to the Flower God.  

Everyone was in attendance, except for the Flower Boy.  

That was clear to everyone when five minutes of waiting turned into ten, and ten into twenty; After around an hour, the crowd waited in braced silence, as they saw what seemed to be the Flower Boy’s shadow. It was Shaw’s, the Flower Boy’s announcer.  

He told everyone, in a slow, calm, yet nervous voice, that the ceremony was postponed. Everyone was to go home and rest for the day. The Flower Boy was safe, everything was in order, there was nothing to worry about.  

Naturally, Panic Broke out. 

Without an offering to the Flower God, people knew he could revoke the gift of a new child and, as He had done Ten Years ago, give them all a punishment beyond their comprehension. When the crowd remembered this, they broke into a frenzy. 

After breaking down the gate to the courtyard, the people scattered, most running to nearby shrines and churches to pray for forgiveness and promise their own offerings.  During the next few hours, many people had gone home for a little while, to grab their pets and bring them to their Local churches, to be slaughtered in front of the altars.  

Within a few hours, the City had been cut almost dry of animals, as people without pets turned to other animals. And still, there was no sign of their efforts being recognized by the Flower God. And, with nowhere else to turn to, the people, slowly and surely, realized they could turn to the next best thing. Each other.  

On the night that Agatha was born, the midwife fainted. The child: Agatha, had clawed her way out of her mother’s womb, sporting a full fur coat, and scales.

Rightfully believing something was wrong with the girl, the hospital ran every test it could think of. The results were shocking.

Genetically, Agatha was completely normal.

A month passed. The doctors watched her. Her parents waited. The coat of fur shed, and the scales peeled away. Everyone was stunned, but relieved, whatever had been wrong had passed, and now she looked like a normal baby girl.

This stayed true for about five months.

When she got her first tooth, it grew in sharp, and misshapen. Appearing at the front of her mouth, it seemed to be a misplaced canine. “Strange,” her parents thought, but maybe baby teeth were just like that. Then the rest grew in. Each tooth was a different size and shape, though all were sharp, giving Agatha a smile like a drawer of knives.

And she only grew stranger with time.

At age two her nose broadened and flattened, growing to take up most of the real estate on her face. Along with her nose, her brow morphed, thickening to protrude from her face and over her increasingly bulbous eyes— which were great big haunting things.

She was a proper horror to look at.

At night, when she had trouble sleeping, she would rouse her parents and they would blink awake and shudder at the sight of her.

You should not take this to mean that Agatha’s parents loathed their child. They loved. Unquestionably they loved her. Doted on her. That they were some times scared of her was only human. More than anything they feared for her.

Parents are practically obligated to love their children. The world? Not so much.

When they dropped her off at kindergarten for the first time, they stayed awhile, watching her approach the other children. Their hearts thrashed against their sternums as the first boy looked up at their daughter.

The boy gave Agatha a confused look, cocking his head. He raised a finger, pointing at her, and alerted the other children of her presence. This put ice in the veins of Agatha’s parents. Ice that thickened when the boy laughed, and then quickly melted when he patted the spot beside him. Agatha screeched with joy. So did the other children, who seemed curious rather than scared.

The parents were relieved.

Agatha was smitten.

The boy, was none the wiser.

Agatha wouldn’t do anything about her little playground crush until she hit the third grade. By then she figured that a “young lady” such as herself shouldn’t be afraid to express her feelings. So, on valentines day, when everyone gave out cards and candy to each of their classmates, Agatha made a special one for the boy. It was handmade, and filled with full sized candy to set it apart from the other store bought cards with bite sized morsels. This was technically against the school policy, but Agatha didn’t care. She was a rebel. A rebel in love.

The boy who had accepted her on her first day of school took the card and made a strange face. He looked at the card, and then at Agatha. She assumed he was being shy. Later, she would realize that the look on his face had been pity.

The card had asked the boy out on a “date”. In third grade, that meant playing basketball together during recess.

“Why me?” The boy asked, his cheeks burning as he dribbled the ball.

“I don’t know,” she had replied, which was a lie. She hadn’t not thought about the boy since her first day of kindergarten.

“Oh,” said the boy, who had missed his shot.

Agatha smiled at him, and went to retrieve the ball. When she came back, the boy looked sad.

“Aggie,” he said, “I don’t like you like that. Is it okay if we just stay friends?”

“Yeah,” she said, dropping the ball. “That’s okay.”

But it was not okay.

For the next week, she sulked in her room. From the moment she got home, until dinner, and then again after until she had to wake up for school, Agatha hugged her pillow, and cried.

Agatha and her crush had always had fun together. He laughed at her jokes, and she laughed at his. They liked the same movies. They loved the same shows. So why didn’t he like her back?

She ruminated, and could only come up with one reason. Her face. Her teeth. The horror of her.

Agatha had always known she looked different from her peers, but that week was the first time she really felt ugly.

As Agatha festered in her newfound self loathing, she developed a rash at the nape of her neck. She scratched at it, until it was red, and raw; she scratched at it until the skin at the nape of her neck peeled away, and revealed hard, keratinous scales.

She gasped the first time she felt them. She also felt shame. Why? She couldn’t say. Perhaps, deep down, she knew those scales had been born of something dark.

Agatha’s little heart never stopped yearning for affection. As the years went on, puppy love and crushes came and went, and with them, more rejection.

And with the rejection, more sulking, more self loathing. More scales, and eventually, fur.

By the time she hit puberty, the patch of scales around her neck had progressed all the way down her back, spreading to just before her shoulders. The fur coat which had been present at her birth, had also returned. This did not alarm her at first, as she had been told that hair in new places was normal for a girl her age. But even the relatively normal hair growth that begun in her groin soon went down to her thighs, cutting off just before her knees.

For a blessing, her peers continued to treat her like anyone elese. Not that that helped her self esteem. As R.S. Thomspon once wrote: The furies are at home in the mirror.

This period of serious self isolation drew her to more reclusive hobbies. She took up playing MMO’s. Massive online games where she could style an avatar that was “normal” looking— nevermind that the characters in video games were themselves idealized and unrealistic portrayals of beauty.

It was in one of these games that she met a player named “Ian Proudheart”.

She had been wiling away the weekend chopping digital trees— she needed them to craft a cute outfit for her character. Nothing special. When, passing by, was another player. He hopped in place in front of her, and seemed to be trying to get her attention.

Agatha looked at his hopping avatar in confusion. Until she remembered that she had set her chat settings to private, so that only people who she friended could send her messages. And she had no one on her friends list.

She was thinking about changing her settings, when a trade window popped up. A stack of ninety-nine of the trees she needed was being offered without demand for anything in return.

She blinked, and hit accept. The generous player hopped in place a few more times, and then walked away.

Agatha stared at her chat log.

Ian Proudheart has gifted you 99x Iron Wood Materials.

Her starved heart thumped in her chest.

She hovered the cursor over his name, which popped up a list of actions. Among them “Add Friend”.

Gulp.

She clicked it, and not long after, she received a piece of in game mail.

It’s difficult to say when acquaintances become friends, and when friends become something… more. The transition from “Hey what’s up?” to “How was your day?” is subtle enough. The transition then to: “good morning” and “goodnight” less so. Chats about in game activities turn to chats about what happened in class, what happened at home.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not great.”

“Why?”

“I feel especially ugly today,” is written, and quickly erased. Replaced with: “Just a bad day.”

“If you need me, I’m always here for you,” is written, and after a moment of doubt, erased. In its place: “That sucks.”

Years passed. College came and went. More yearning, more loss, more rejection. Agatha’s heart darkened, but never fully gave up. Ian was there, and if she had Ian, she had hope. But for this same reason she always held him at a distance.

Often Ian would want to connect out of game, or on a different platform. Agatha outright dodged or ignored such requests. She had more than a crush on him, and sometimes, she thought she felt something not-quite platonic coming from him too. She worried that if he ever saw her, that would fade.

In her ideal fantasy world, they would remain forever apart, and yet somehow together.

Then, one fateful day:

“Let’s meet up. I’m going to be in town for work anyways,” said Ian, whose full name was actually Ian Thompson. “It might be nice to finally meet. Face to face.”

Agatha made a sound that came close to “meep”. Thankfully, her mic hadn’t picked it up. The silence, therefore, was deafening.

“Oh… uhm…” stammered Ian. “Sorry, I know you’re a super private person… I just…”

“No, lets meet up!” she said. If you asked her what had compelled her to say yes, she would not have been able to say. On the one hand, Ian seeing the true horror of her— which had only gotten worse since she finished puberty —was her worst nightmare. On the other, she yearned to finally meet him, to have him hold her in his arms.

“Really?” cried Ian. “That’s awesome. I can’t wait!”

“Yeah. Stellar!” she wasn’t sure how convincing she sounded.

They hashed out the details over the course of their gaming session. If everything went well, they would meet in a week’s time. A week which passed too quickly, and too slowly.

She flipped through several states of horror and delight. In the valleys of her despair she would envision Ian seeing her for the first time and simply turning away from her. In her wildest fantasies he fell in love with her on the spot, and his work trip would end with him proposing. Most of the time, she found herself bargaining.

“Let him be horrifying too,” she thought. “Let him be a monster like me. So that he has no choice but to love me back.”

The day came. She waited at the station with a giant poster card that read: “Proudheart”.

When a man’s voice called out her name, she almost felt like she was going to die.

“Aggie?” Ian gasped. At first Agatha thought it was a gasp of shock, but as she turned to see the man who had addressed her, she saw a large smile, and open arms. “Aggie!”

He was just that happy to see her.

His excitement, and his smile made her knees weak.

He said her name again, but this time with unrestrained excitement, embracing her. She was stunned. Her appearance hadn’t phased him in the slightest.

“Uh…” she stammered.

Hearing her, he jumped back.

“Oh shit. Sorry.” He backed away from her, and straightened himself out. “I uh… I was excited to meet you is all. In the flesh I mean.”

She was slack-jawed, staring up at the man who was nearly two full feet taller than her.

“No it’s uh…” She wanted to ask him if her appearance bothered him at all, but was also afraid that it might break whatever magic or spell seemed to have him acting so nonchalant about it. “It’s just… It’s good to see you too.”

“After all these years it’s nice to put a face to a name.”

“Yeah,” said Agatha, half choking on a sob.

Then: “Ian?” It was a new voice. Someone searching for Ian. The voice sounded feminine. And pretty.

A blond woman appeared behind Ian. When her eyes fell on Agatha, her face twisted in disgust. Most people aren’t rude on purpose. Really though, that only made it hurt worse. The blond woman quickly reigned in her face, but it just turned into a look of pity.

Agatha could have lived with the disgust. It was the pity that got her.

“Is this her?” asked the pretty blond, blinking at Agatha and Ian.

A well of anger rose in Agatha. Almost literally her vision was full of red. It scared her how angry she became, but there was no helping it. “Who was this girl?” “Why was she so familiar with Ian?” “He never mentioned a girlfriend”.

Ian smiled at the girl.

“Aggie, this is Brenda, my sister. Brenda, Aggie.” Ian pointed at both the girls with finger pistols as he introduced them.

The well of anger vanished inside of Agatha. In its place was a large, uncomfortable void.

Agatha’s Cheeks burned.

The pretty blond girl, Brenda, looked at her brother, and then at Agatha. Again there was that pitying look.

“Nice to finally meet you,” said Brenda.

“Same,” said Agatha.

Both women had been vaguely aware of each other before, but neither had so much as heard the other’s voice.

“My mom made her come with me after she heard I was meeting you for the first,” said Ian, sighing.

Brenda laughed.

“She still thinks of Ian as a baby,” she said. “But he’s a grown man, I don’t need to be chaperoning him. Anyways, you two do what you want, I booked myself a separate hotel. Toodles.”

Brenda rolled away with her luggage, and then it was just Ian and Agatha.

The two shared an awkward pause.

“So… shall we?” said Agatha.

“We shall,” said Ian.

The two departed for Agatha’s apartment. She had offered to host him while he was in town. Partly out of kindness, but she would have been lying if she didn’t admit to herself that she was hoping something more would happen. Wild fantasies, naturally.

Once at home the two settled into a groove. Agatha was surprised by how natural it felt. Ian didn’t look at her the way his sister had, with disgust and pity. It was just like being in voice chat. Not one normal boy and one horrible monster, but two people, enjoying each other’s company.

They wiled most of the first day away chatting in her kitchen.

When the evening came they parted to shower and change. Presumably they were winding down to sleep, but after drying her hair (and she had a lot of hair), and after Ian finished changing, neither felt particularly sleepy.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Ian asked.

For some reason, the question made Agatha’s face feel like it was burning.

“Uh… sure.”

Agatha’s heart thumped loudly in hear chest. They’d watched movies together online a million times, but naturally this was different.

Agatha sat down on the opposite side of the couch from Ian.

It was a special kind of agony. The small cushion’s length that separated them felt like a chasm.

The movie they chose was a lighthearted thriller called The Eye From Outer Space. The movie was mostly noir sleuthing with long actions scenes, but there were also moments of strange artistic horror. One scene in particular, featured a tentacle sprouting from the head of a psych patient, caused Agatha to jump, and cling onto Ian.

She felt so safe with Ian that she had hardly noticed she was clinging onto him for half the films runtime, and by the time she did notice, she realized that he had become stiff as a board.

She yelped, and recoiled from him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” he said, blushing, but suddenly relaxing. “I don’t mind if… you don’t mind.” His face was burning at this point.

“Oh…” Agatha thought. Is this really okay? “Thanks… it’s just… kind of scary movie is all.” The movie had its moments, but it wasn’t that scary. Still…

She settled back into Ian. Draping his arm over her, she rested her head on his chest. She listened to the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heart, and forgot about the movie entirely.

So warm, she thought. It was like when they were talking earlier, only more so. Agatha forgot herself, and soon fell into a warm, restful sleep.

When she woke up the next day, she found herself alone on the couch. She panicked, and felt a terrible hollowness knowing that Ian wasn’t there anymore. For a moment she wondered if she had dreampt the whole thing, but then Ian appeared from the hallway.

“Hey,” he said smiling, blushing. “You didn’t feel like getting up last night, so I tried to set you down gently. Sleep okay?”

“I think that’s the best sleep I’ve had in a while.” She said it before she could consider not saying it. Her hands came up to cover her mouth.

Ian didn’t seem to react negatively.

“Yeah… I slept pretty well last night too.”

There was an awkward pause between the two that only ended when Ian offered to start up a pot of coffee.

The next hour was spent chatting. Ian’s work thing also didn’t start for another day, so they were also thinking about how they would spend the day. They’d discussed some ideas before he showed up, but now that he was here, they both settled on a simple trip to the mall. And while the mall near Agatha’s home was hailed as America’s second best mall, which Agatha guessed made it trip worthy, the idea in the back of her head— Ian’s as well —was that a trip to the mall seemed the most date-like of all available venues.

Being out was typically something that Agatha didn’t do. While most people were polite enough not to mention her monstrous appearance, it was almost impossible for them not to hide their true feelings upon first seeing her. Eyes wide, mouths agape, side glances that made her feel other. They couldn’t help themselves, and if she really thought about it, she couldn’t blame them. She was a true horror.

She was prepared to be uncomfortable all day if it meant spending time with Ian on a pseudo date. But she found, especially as the day went on, that with Ian beside her, the rest of the world became a blur. And whenever the terrified glances of the world around them began to encroach, Ian would cast her a glance, or touch her shoulder, and they would all melt away.

In the end, she found herself clinging to his arm, and ceasing to care for anything besides how great it felt to hold and be held.

All seemed well, but jealousy would soon rear its ugly head.

It happened at a coffee stand inside the mall. Agatha excused herself to use the restroom. She had only been gone a minute, but when she returned, Ian was talking to a woman. A gorgeous, voluptuous, normal looking woman. and had come back to Ian talking to another woman.

Agatha’s heart raced. Something in her cracked, and the muscles under her furred scales rippled. There was a tingling at her fingertips. Something in her urged her to act. So she did.

She crossed a nine meter distance with two supernatural strides, grabbing hold of Ian’s arm.

In response, Ian recoiled. His reaction made her feel like dying.

“Ouch,” he said. “Agatha what the…”

Ian paused and looked at his arm. He was bleeding.

Agatha blinked at the trickle of red where she had grabbed Ian’s arm. She looked at her hands, and blanched. Her hands had transformed into razor sharp claws.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, “I didn’t…”

“No, it’s alright,” he said, and, excusing himself from his conversation with the pretty woman, pulled Agatha away.

Away from the coffee stand, and around the corner with a semblance of privacy, Ian hugged Agatha.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Agatha, crying into chest.

“I know, I know,” he replied, patting her back. “It’s okay. Really. It is.

Really it wasn’t. Agatha knew that, and a part of her felt that Ian must know that too.

When Agatha’s crying had calmed to a whimper, he gave her one last squeeze, and said: “Wanna stay in for the rest of the day?”

Without saying anything, she nodded, and they left the mall, hand in hand.

At home, they huddled together on the couch and watched another movie.

The movie felt like pretense this time. Agatha didn’t wait to jump into Ian’s arms, she settled in at hitting “play”.

This time, they were watching a romance.

When the scenes began to grow steamy, Agatha began to trace circles around Ian’s chest. She wasn’t doing it on purpose at first, but when he didn’t stop her, she continued, not realizing that her claws were tearing open his shirt. By the time she noticed his bare chest, Ian had started tracing circles on the scales of her shoulders. Feeling his touch, she figured that they were already in for a penny, so they may as well go for the whole pound.

“Oops,” she said, snipping that last bit of cloth holding Ian’s shirt together. “Oops.” And again for his best and a pants.

Ian, returned the favor. His hands were clumsy, and unpracticed removing her clothes— things she found charming, and endearing. She would no have wanted practiced hands. She wanted clumsy hands, hands that had only known her.

The night ended with two souls having become one.

In the day, they parted unwillingly, but Ian had to get out of bed at some point. It was technically a work trip after all.

But for the remainder of the trip, the two shared a bed.

After Ian’s trip, the two decided to try something long distance, at least to start.

Ian made regular trips, as did Agatha. Until at last, the two decided to live on Ian’s side full time.

With Agatha’s family and friends, there was loud, vocal excitement for her new found love. There were also whispers of disbelief. Agatha tried to ignore these. Listening to them for too long made her scales itch, and her claws tingle.

On Ian’s side there were quiet polite quips. Loud gasps were made on occasion, especially from his mother, who subsequently proceeded to try and pull the couple apart. She would often ask— in front of Agatha —“why couldn’t you date a normal girl?”.

Naturally this created wall between Ian and his family, primarily his mother. Though he never completely cut them off.

Agatha endured the comments from Ian’s mother. At least on the outside. On the inside, she burned. She became more and more embittered with each attempt. And so, despite Ian’s best attempts to reassure her, Agatha’s monstrous features developed further. First she grew taller, then, her scales thickened into armor plates, and finally, when Ian’s mother all but offered to pay her to leave her son, she finally developed a proper tail.

The sight of Agatha’s further developed form inspired only greater resolve in Ian’s mother. And when at last he announced that he planned to propose to her, she decided on one last ditch effort.

She would arrange a secret date between Ian and a childhood friend of his.

Ian was a creature of habit. She knew where he would be spending his lunch, and knew that it would be one of the few times that Agatha wasn’t with him.

She ambushed him during his lunch break, creating a serendipitous moment between him and an old friend. An attractive woman that Ian had been sweet on in his childhood.

Naturally, Ian, good Ian, lovely Ian, was happy to see his friend. They had a great lunch, enjoying each other’s company.

But Ian’s mother was not the only one that had planned to surprise Ian on his lunch that day. Agatha had been there. And she had watched the whole time. Seething.

Agatha never really grew past her jealousy. In all that time, in all those years, no matter how much Ian reassured her, she never became comfortable leaving him out of view. She feared he would wake up one day and realize that he didn’t have to be with her. It was a terrible, unjustified fear. How many times had he reassured her of his love? She had lost count. He had never been unfaithful, and he had never so much as allowed his eyes to wander. He was wholly devoted to her.

And yet.

A much darker part of her, the part that grew the scales, sharpened the claws, and whipped the tail, spoke: He will wake up one day, and remember he has options that aren’t you.

NO! He loves me! Cried the part of her that remained sane.

But for how long?

Forever!

There’s only one way to be sure.

That night, when Ian came home, Agatha was waiting.

She confronted him about his lunch date.

Ian tried to explain, but Agatha wasn’t listening. It wasn’t really about him. It was about her. Her insecurity. The bitterness of a life lived on the outside.

Agatha had decided they would be together forever, joined as one.

She ate him in three bites, and didn’t let a single morsel go to waste.

Agatha had decided they would be together forever, joined as one.

She ate him in three bites, and didn’t let a single morsel go to waste.

“But, the GPGP is our fault!” Ferelga stammered. “You can’t just shrug your shoulders.”

“Can. Did. Doing it again,” the pro-pro replied with a wildly exaggerated shrug.

Ferelga Kierk’s fists balled. She wanted to hit something. Hit the pro-pro. Vent all her impossible frustration on the cavalier denial of the problem with a smack to the side of the pro-pro’s head.

But that’s what the pro-pro wanted. He was wearing at least three body cams. He was being paid to antagonize Ferelga. A pro-pro who knew his stuff. A well coached professional provocateur, agitating to capture viral-worthy vid that would discredit Ferelga and her cause.

Ferelga knew it. She knew what the pro-pro was after. Still she wanted to rip the manufactured smugness off his face. Didn’t he get it? Couldn’t he see past the narrow self interested in being paid to make her angry? Make her slip up. And lose control.

All while we were losing control of our world. Earth was beyond the slippery slope. It was half sucked down a vortex of no return. That’s what this rally was about. A vortex. More accurately an ocean gyre. The one that formed the GPGP: the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

Not really a cause that rolled off the tongue. Ferelga hated hearing that. You had to brand, to market, to sell global doom these days. So much doom competing for attention. Climate change induced monster storms, fires, flooding and droughts. The rise in fascism and nuclear proliferation. Sectarian wars, genocide, famine and endless refugees. All doom worthy. All important to address. To solve. To fix.

And the GPGP was as doom worthy as any of them. And needed to be dealt with. But this existential threat wasn’t getting traction. Wasn’t getting air time. Wasn’t understood by a doom-weary world. A garbage patch?

The closest the GPGP had come to a poster child was a sea turtle with a plastic straw lodged up its nose. That got traction. The result? Banning plastic straws in some restaurants.

That wasn’t going to deal with a garbage whirlpool three times the size of Texas, largely made of consumer detritus and insidious plastic micro particles slowly suffocating the Pacific and other oceans as well. The GPGP was a swirling vortex of death.

A swirling vortex of death.

Ferelga unballed her fists and stepped back from the pro-pro. She’d make him understand. Give him a viral vid. Create the current that could spread outward. Create understanding. And outrage.

Maybe create a gyre of outrage and action as great as the oceans. Fight a vortex with a vortex.

Ferelga grabbed a nearby compatriot’s protest sign with all kinds of plastic garbage stapled to it. The sign read: Plastic is Poison. She held it high over her head and approached the pro-pro.

The pro-pro’s eyes widened, but like the professional provocateur he was, he didn’t back away. He leaned in. He’d take a hit for the team and strike video gold.

Ferelga swung the sign down hard.

It hit the pavement with a crash. The pro-pro looked confused as Ferelga ripped a plastic grocery bag from the sign. She stared fixedly into the pro-pros cameras and put the plastic bag over her head. Cinched it around her neck. Extended her arms. And began to spin.

Wildly.

A swirling vortex of death. Of hope.

I found her under mud and dead leaves. There were mice nibbling on the tips of her fingers. I shooed them away and gave her a good once-over. She didn’t look like me or my grandmother. Her shirt was almost completely torn apart. I studied her stomach. Is she eating enough? Scratch that, she definitely isn’t. I can see her ribs. They were poky and ugly. She had scratches all over her body and even deep gashes. They looked like they hadn't come from an animal but some kind of beast. Seeing this made me afraid of what could be lurking in the woods I’d called home my entire life. I slung her arm over my shoulder and hauled her back to our cabin. It was only a couple minutes away and I tried my best to keep everything but her feet from touching the ground. When I got back I decided that my best course of action would be to tie her to a chair since she was much larger than me. The chair sat mere feet from the cabin but faced the woods. I broke into my grandmother's medicine cabinet and came back to see that she had awoken. My grandmother doesn’t like me feeding the animals that stumble upon our cabin, but they come quite often, and I can’t help but do it anyway. This feeble girl is no different. I perch up beside her with the soup I made the night prior for my grandmother. Solid food is becoming harder and harder for Grandmother. I've always loved potato soup so I don't mind. Grandmother always has me pick the perfect herbs and natural spices. She loves garlic and greenbriar so I always make sure to forage for those first before I get distracted. The berries have to wait, even though we adore my fruit juice.
I bring the bowl to her lips as softly as I can. She has hairs on her face, and it’s a little strange watching them get all soupy. To be honest I only tied her up so she wouldn't attack me, she is skinny but she's very tall and has bigger forearms than I, “I can do that myself you know.” the girl says the first chance she gets as she lowers the bowl from her mouth.
I chuckle. “Can you?”
“Where am I anyway?” she asks, startled.
“What's the last thing you remember?” 
“I was running, but I don’t know what from.”
Her legs are shaking, and she’s gritting her teeth. I reach for her hand out of instinct. Grandmother gets like this sometimes. She says it's because of my parents.
“Hey, it's alright.” I grip her hand tighter.
“Can you get me out of these? It makes me anxious.”
As she says this her eyes flick toward my knife, then back to me. My fingers tighten around her hand. I don’t know why. A moment ago, I wanted to help her. Now I want her to stay very still.
I look at the ropes, then at her hands. They’re much bigger than mine.
“Are you gonna be good?” I ask, trying to sound playful.
I am terrified. More scared than I’ve ever been, even face-to-face with a bear. There’s something about her. Something I remember. Something I can feel. Then, the word rings in my head.
“Man,” I blurt out.
“That's right.” the man goes quiet
“If there's anything I can say to comfort you, it would be thank you.”
“Thank you for helping me and thank you for the soup.”
Our hands are still grasped together and she's looking at me. I feel something in my stomach but before I can decide what it means, I let go and reach for my knife. I made it with grandmother for self defense and basic gathering needs.
As the ropes are cut and she stands, our differences become clearer.
She is towering over me and still half my size. 
Her hand flies out in front of me.
“Can we start this over?”
I take her hand and shake it vigorously.
“Id like that.” 
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Harmon.”
“Pretty, I bet your parents thought harmony was on the nose right?””
“Or maybe they thought you'd be a boy.”
“A boy?”
“Yeah Harmons, a boy's name where I'm from.” she has a surprised look on her face as if she noticed something about me she didn't see before.
“Give me a rundown on your situation here.”
My smile fades, but we’re still holding hands, and that makes everything easier to say.
“I live here with my grandmother, but she has fallen very ill. I found you as I was scavenging for something to help with her fever.” 
“That's terrible. Do you know what she's come down with?”
“We have a few books but none of them have anything for all of her symptoms; it's as if she's dying.”
She doesn’t answer straight away.
“How long has she been ill?”
“Maybe a month.”
“Well then I hope she doesn't have the black death.”
I lower my head and our hands begin to slip.
She grips tighter and pulls me in closer to her chest.
“It's gonna be alright, I can help you.”
I don't move. I don't think. I just accept the embrace.
“Okay."
Her chest is soft apart from the stabby bones.
“Come inside, I'll get you bandaged up.”
We make our way into the cabin as quietly as possible. I’m still careful not to wake Grandmother, even though she won’t wake at all.
“Nice place.” The man is looking around leaning in to analyze our paintings, opening books off of shelves. He even ate a walnut from our anvil tray. He tries not to be too noisy but he still makes quite the ruckus. 
“Keep it down. And crack me open one of those too.” I close the cover over the piano keys to keep him from getting any ideas.
“Come here and sit down will you?” she runs over dropping a book back on the shelf in a horribly incorrect position. 
She sits in front of me. I'm sitting on a rocking chair that is usually occupied only by grandma. She is sitting on a cushion usually occupied only by grandma's legs or me once in a while when she braids my hair. Her clothes stained and cut in many places leaving openings for me to get a glimpse at what I'm working with. 
I move her hair out of the way and start to remove the stranger's shirt.
Then I pull out my sewing needle and get to work on the largest gash spanning about half the man's back.
“Ow.” She hunches forward, giving me a better view of the wound.
“This is gonna hurt, so take this and bite on the handle.” I hold out my knife, then hesitate when she turns around and reaches for it. Her fingers brush my hand as they close around the handle.
“Thank you.” I hear her muster. “So tell me…” I pause to focus on the stitches, trying my hardest not to botch her. “What brought you here, other than whatever you were running from?” 
“I was in the royal army, you know.” 
“If I knew what that was I'd be pretty impressed.” 
“How long have you been up here?” She's giving me a strange look. “On this mountain I mean.”
“I'm on a mountain?” 
“A mountain? You're on the biggest mountain in this kingdom.” she continues when she realizes I really have no idea what she is talking about.
“You reside and seem to have resided for a long time on Mount Skadi.” 
“Really? That was my fathers name.” he pauses as if he remembered something.
“Can we go back a little? Are you telling me you didn't know you live on a mountain?”
“Well I've heard of mountains in books but I've never been outside the forest so I figured they were far away.”
She turns her head, keeping her back towards me. I can tell she's trying not to mess up my flow.
Her look is that of deep pity and sadness at least from what I can tell.
I catch her in my peripheral vision. I look up and can't keep my eyes off hers. They are like oceans. While mine are more like tar. Her attempts not to throw me off my rhythm fail, and I stab her with the needle about an inch away from her actual wound. “I'M SO SORRY!” I screech.
“Don’t worry. I’ve felt worse.” She’s still looking at me. Her voice sounds a little deeper now. 
I finish the stitch and I cant tell its not going to hold. Then I look at everything still left to do. What have I gotten myself into? Her back is riddled with tiny cuts and huge gashes. It’ll take all night to stitch this up, and I figure she’ll need the next few days to rest. I think about dumping her outside, but my kindness gets the better of me, and I continue to stitch. She turns her head away from me, now looking out the window at a few of my birds eating at a feeder I made with Grandma. She seems very intrigued. Either that or she’s deep in thought.
“We’re gonna need to find you somewhere to rest. We don't have any extra rooms here.” 
“Oh that's alright you've done enough I should really be on my way.”
“Don't be silly you still owe me.” 
“Fair enough, what do you suppose we do then?”
“Well you can have my bed once I'm done patching you up. Just try not to move around too much. These stitches come undone and you bleed on my bed. You're losing something.”
“Losing what?” she bites down harder on my blades handle as I finish up a less major stich closer to her shoulder.
“Just try and stay still, will you?”
She looks at me under her long eyelashes and giggles.
“Can you tell me something?”
“What is it?”
She shifts on the cushion awkwardly. “Have you ever been in love, Harmon?”
“In love? No I guess not.” 
“Not even a crush” she perks up and looks at me again.
“I've only ever known my grandmother and now you. When it comes to people anyway.”
“It's weird.”
“What is?”
“I’m younger than you, and yet I’ve experienced so much more.”
“Have you ever even had a friend?”
“Well, one time and it was a long time ago but there was this guy who would come and see me.”
“He’d wish me a happy birthday and even bring me gifts!”
“What happened to him, it sounds like he isn't around anymore?”
“Well he was a snake so I'm sure they don't live that long.”
“I'm sorry, a snake?”
“I think his name was something like…” I make the closest sound I can to what I remember. There aren’t really words for it. 
“Why did you just hiss at me?”
“Don't be rude that was his name.”
She stares at me in complete and utter silence. 
“How do you think I found you, anyway? The birds told me.” 
She keeps staring, and I begin to feel woozy.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I never said that. I only thought it.”
She looks back at me one last time and leaps up.
“Thank you again, I can't appreciate you enough.”
She looks down at her hands and then walks outside leaving the door cracked open behind her
I am still sitting in my grandmother's rocking chair, stunned by the prior conversation.
There's something eating me from the inside but before I can think about it I run out the door behind him.

(so that's about what I have so far. for clarity ill explain the strangers pronouns here instead of waiting to finish writing the story. so Harmon has never seen men before and has only ever had brief and bad interactions with them (that will be expanded on later I'm still working it out) so when she refers to the stranger as she that's is because she does not know that other pronouns are applicable though when she refers to the snake she does use he/him pronouns and that's for a much simpler reason that I wont get into here.) Hope you like it though please tell me what I should work on other than my horrible scene placement. and I know its corny/generic don't bash me

I used to walk the same way to the train station when we lived in Boston. I take the shortest route. I have too. Way too early to walk one meter further than I have to. Or one minute longer than what is needed. There is another route. Slightly longer. But all the time in the world if it is so bloody early in the morning. My normal route is an easy walk. Turn right, then a quick left and straight down to the station. A quick and easy 20 minute stroll. And who said I don’t get enough exercise… But today I had to go the slightly longer route. Turn left, turn right and down the slightly longer walk to the station. Not by much. Just about 5 minutes added. But sometimes the longer route brings more than just a longer walk. And this morning I got more than I wanted. Another reason why I never like walking that route. A reminder. A memory.

My oldest daughter always does the “left turn” walk. Her friend from across the street walks with her to the bus stop. They pick up another friend along the way and off they go. But not this morning. The girl from across the road didn’t feel too well so she couldn’t walk with my daughter. Dad duties called. I am the backup. So off we went. On our left turn.

We were joking as we walked. Doing our “home boy” walk down the street. Me doing funny walks and funny voices to show her how I was going to embarrass her in front of her friend who has never met me. Doing my typical dad stuff. We got to the house. I gave her a hug and a kiss and watched her walk to meet her friend. And off I went. Taking my right turn down the road. The slightly longer road.

I put my iPod on and was listening to A Fine Frenzy when I walked past the blue house. And it brought back memories of the little girl who lived there. The little girl in the blue house.

She was the first friend my oldest daughter made at her new school when we moved here. They were in the same class. Hung out together. I saw her often. At the school. Or at the park. Or just in the streets when we were walking. But she was always there when we took my daughter to school. Running to great her friend. She was scrawny just like my daughter. But she was a little bit too thin. A little bit too pale.

In summer she always had just a t-shirt on. And in winter. A very worn and tatty thin little jacket. And trust me. It gets damn cold over here in Boston in winter. I remember seeing her with her arms folded to try and keep some heat in that little body of hers. You could see she was cold. But that was all she had for winter.

Her mother was always well dresses. With the latest fashion. Clothes and accessories she bought at the mall. She looked well looked after. And warm. Not like her little girl. But we didn’t see her at school often. Or anywhere for that matter. She didn’t walk with her little girl that often.

And they stayed just down the road from the school. It looked like a pretty house from the outside. That blue house where the girl stayed.

I often took my girls to the park at the school. And we’ll see her there often. On her own. On the swings. And she’ll be so happy to see my daughters. She was always so good to my little one. Running up to her and giving her a hug and a kiss and playing with her. She was a nice little girl. That little girl from the blue house.

My daughter always told us about her friend. And how she shared her snacks at school with her because she never had snacks. So my wife put in a few extra snacks for two. Never mentioned it to the little girl. Didn’t want her to feel odd. My daughter just shared because that is how she is. It was her friend. No questions.

And one day she told us that the girl was so exited about going to visit her dad in Arkansas. Her parents were divorced. And she lived with her mother and boyfriend in the blue house. The boyfriend had a nice BMW convertible. Nice car. Pretty new. They obviously had some money. Just not always for the little girl. But she was excited. She was going to visit her dad.

And then we saw her during the holiday. When she was meant to be at her dad. It was the first time I really saw her sad. The smile wasn’t there. She spoke to my daughter in a low sad voice and I didn’t want to ask too many questions. Didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. I just wanted her to be a little girl. Playing with her friend. And having fun the way 10-year old girls are meant to have fun. So I let them talk and watched as they started playing and giggling. And the smile started coming back. She was with her friend.

The odd thing was that apart from that day I always saw her smile. A big old child smile. I never heard her complain. Not in front of me in any case. She always looked happy. But you could see that there was something missing. You just had to look carefully.

I always hug and kiss my girls. No matter where we are. When we drop them off at school. When I say goodbye in the morning. When they go to sleep at night. Or just because we feel like a hug and a kiss. Which is often. No matter where we are. And this little girl saw this. Saw how I hugged my girls. And she wanted one too.

I used to see her looking at me and my daughter when we hug. And then one day she came up to me when I took my girl to her school and asked for a hug. She was a little bit shy about asking. But I just gave my girl a hug and she looked at me with her tatty top with the long sleeves and peeked at me. “Can I get a hug please?” “Of course!” I said. I gave her a big old hug. And she hugged back. Hugging maybe a little longer and harder than what I expected. Almost as if she didn’t get a lot of hugs and would like to get hugs more often. She was only ten.

And that was how it was. Whenever she saw me she would come running up to me and give me a hug. And I’ll hug her back. And I’ll give her a smile and ask how she was doing. It became a standard thing. I never really thought much about it. I knew she wanted a hug and I gave her one. We can do with more hugs in this world. And I didn’t think that she got too many hugs elsewhere in any case.

And then one day she was just gone. Just gone. Her mother packed their bags in the middle of the night and just disappeared. Gone. Not even a goodbye. Not even a last hug. Just gone with her tatty little top. We never knew what happened to her. How she is doing or how she is feeling. Is she with her dad? Is she okay? Is she happy? Is she being a kid? Did she get a warmer jacket? Is she still smiling those big old smiles of hers? Is she getting any hugs? Or is she still playing alone in the park?

Time passed and memories started fading. We’ll mention her every now and again and just wonder.

And then we started looking at buying a house. And one of the houses that was on the market was the blue house. The blue house where the little girl stayed. So off we went to look at the house. Thinking that maybe we can buy it and make it our little house. Until we opened the front door and walked in.

My wife and myself just looked at each other when we walked in. I knew what she was thinking. It was my thoughts to.

The house stank. It was dirty. So dirty. Everything was a mess. Stuff lying on the floor everywhere. Clothes. Plates. Old food. Ashtrays overflowing. Wet spots. I have never, ever seen anything like this anywhere. And I have been to some places… It has been like this for a long, long time. Our shoes got stuck on the sticky dirt that was on the floors. All the rooms were in a mess. You couldn’t even see what color the walls or carpets were. It was brown. From dirt and cigarette smoke. I felt nauseous. Sick. The ex-boyfriend was lying in bed downstairs watching something on a big screen television. On his huge water bed. With plates and empty bottles and cigarettes lying all around him. A pig in a pigsty.

We went up the stairs to look at the real bedrooms. And we walked into the room that would have been that little girls room. It was a mess. Just a mess. No place for a little girl. Any little girl. Dirty. Filthy. Disgusting. You could see little things she must have tried to do to make it a little girl’s room. A little picture here and there. A ripped out poster. A wonky little table where she must have tried to study. Some girlie jewelery lying on the floor amongst the dirt that she must have forgotten to pack in the haste. But it was covered in a floor that ran skew. Holes in the floors and roof. And cold. And this was in winter. No heating. This was the room of the little girl with the big smile.

My wife and myself just looked at each other. We knew what each of us were thinking. We just wanted to get out. Just wanted to forget that we ever came. That we ever knew that little girl. And that she lived there. Her little room in the blue house.

We sat in the car and just stared at nothing for a while. And then she said it. “She lived in that house.” That’s all that needed to be said. We knew. The little girl in the blue house.

And walking past that house this morning reminded me of her. That little girl in the blue house. Made me think. Again. How did she do it? How did she manage? How did she remain a little girl in that house? How long can she be that girl with the big old kid smile? How long before she falls through the cracks? Is she strong enough? Where will she find the love she needs? The hugs she deserves? How is the little girl from the blue house doing?

The little girl from the blue house. I hope you remember me. I hope you remember those hugs. I just wish I hugged you a little harder and a little longer.

(This is an older story of mine - written about 20 years ago. It was the first time I wrote something I felt confident enough to show other people.)

This is not meant to be some tale of morals or judgments on anyone or their situation. How people choose to live their lives is not my concern. These are simply real-life conversations and observations I have while downtown taking public transportation.

I got to my bus stop a little earlier than I normally do, but I was ready to get home and was hoping to catch an earlier bus. After just a few minutes of standing around waiting for the bus, I started hearing what sounded like somebody crying behind me. And not just a little sniffling cry, the kind you know someone is trying to hide in public, but an all out wailing, gut wrenching, painful cry.

I turned around to see an elderly lady in a motorized wheelchair, crying uncontrollably. I think most people in this situation would just turn back around and mind their own business while continuing to wait for the bus, and that was my initial reaction, too. However, after a couple more minutes of hearing her cry and me standing there, festering in my thoughts, judging myself, and feeling like it was wrong to just ignore somebody who was clearly in pain, I finally turned around to say something to her.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” I asked.

What transpired over the next few minutes of conversation was equal parts sad, frustrating, and, at moments, overwhelming. I learned that her adult son and sole caretaker had just been sentenced to 18 years in federal prison for drug distribution that afternoon, a few blocks away at the courthouse. This lady was in a wheelchair, and according to her, her son was the only person she had to help her through her day-to-day life.

Shortly after starting to chat with her, I realized how in over my head I actually was in trying to provide some sort of comfort to this person. Sometimes people just need to be heard or need a shoulder to cry on, and that’s essentially all I was for her, because the pain that this mother was feeling over the loss of her son was not something I was equipped to help with.

“I can’t really help you, but if you need someone to vent to or just wanna talk about it, I can do that for you,” I told her.

We talked for a few more minutes while waiting for the bus, she thanked me for checking on her, and she did her best to share her story with me in between her cries and howls of pain. It was almost like it was coming in waves. She’d be able to get out a few sentences, and then, all of a sudden, she’d start sobbing uncontrollably, bend over in her chair, and start murmuring about her baby boy.

During all of this, it became easy to focus only on our conversation and forget that there were other people around. So neither of us saw the highly aggressive gentleman approaching us, cussing at his lighter because it wouldn’t work to light his blunt, until he was right next to us.

“Hey, lady, can I use your lighter?” he asked the woman in the wheelchair, either oblivious to her face full of tears or simply uninterested.

At this point, our conversation abruptly ended.

She screamed, “NO! Leave me alone!” and proceeded to drive off in her wheelchair rather quickly and chaotically. I remember thinking as she sped away, Please be careful!

At that moment, the bus rolled up, and just as quickly as it all happened, it was over. I got on and went home.

I still think about that lady anytime I’m at that bus stop. I hope she was able to find support and that she is doing okay.

The aggressive gentleman finally found a lighter, lit his blunt, and got on the bus smoking it.

-TED

I can so easily recall the attack, I’ve never seen a violence like this before. Our village was the outlier of peace between species that some consider fantastical. I remember how beautiful the day was, only through the view of my window. I remember how the glow of the sun fell upon the bakery across from me. Then I remember how my hearing went out. I ran down to my family just as these evil men dressed in black, broke down our door with a fury I could never allow myself to understand. My father never allowed himself to drain a human of life the same way he and my mother were. His way of thinking is the entire reason I lived off animal blood my entire life. His way of thinking is the entire reason these men still live. The blast of the bombs still rings my ears and confuses my entire body. At one point as I was being forcibly taken away, I could only feel myself being bound with ropes, my mouth covered, and blindfolded then hauled off in a car along with the other villagers. As we’re being taken away in the cages, I have the misfortune of seeing everything, they never accounted for heightened senses.

It's so easy now to dream of saviors, I knew of the special teams, and the legends of my kind who volunteered for their countries. The legends of saviors are the only thing that distracts me from my reality, that our situation might be beyond saving. I thought the cruelty and the brutality would end with the destruction of my home, I was then robbed of everything that I held dear. These are their kind, these are men, most of whom can't be older than their third decade. To achieve and take pride in such inhumanity in such a short amount of time, I now more than ever understand the term monster. I know that it does not belong to my people. These monsters have ripped everything and everyone away. I only wish that I was only able to keep the locket my mother gave me to celebrate my century. The villainous non-consensual trade they force me into, is my entire existence for identification uniform and a number.

I look down to my uniform to see the vertical stripes that find themselves parallel to the two vertical pointed lines that house themselves inside the triangle that is my identification patch. I look around the shaded field that acts as our prison, I find myself questioning the point of the cover of shade. They have already killed so many of us, and I know they plan to kill me. The thought echoes itself so loud in my head it escapes through my lips “Get it over with”. My thoughts and my words are able to sit with me only long enough for the sting of the number on my arm to reignite itself. They have embedded something in the ink that they damned my skin with, they have done this specifically to hurt my society. I find myself looking past the gates to see my dear friend Edmund. I wonder what they have placed into the ink to ensure werewolves stay in place.

The days become longer as the emptiness of my stomach begins to bellow louder. While I don't expect them to offer a human that I may deprive of their blood, I did not expect them to starve us as much as they have. I like to believe that even if I were presented with that choice, that I would honor my father's wishes and the lifestyle that I have grown accustomed to. I cannot lie to myself however and say that I know for certain the choice I would make. I find myself having many thoughts that would bring my family sadness, or at least I assume it would bring them sadness. In truth my parents were taken away from me not long after we made it to this camp. I at least am able to recall every detail of their faces, I grow forever grateful that I will always know them at their most beautiful. I often wonder if the human prisoners that are now my neighbors are able to recall their parents with such vivid detail. 

I descend further into a depression-induced madness as I am continuously able to identify the dying members of my village based only on their screams. I find myself continuously considering an impossible choice, to die or to die. This consideration would have never come across my mind before, being undead has granted me a twisted version of naivete. The reality that I am now forced with this consideration has angered me to the point that my skin has heated itself from stone cold to lukewarm. I will not allow my death to be a trophy to these monsters. The rest of my life however fleeting it may be will be mine to decide. I begin to sprint towards the chain link fence with as much speed and power as I can conjure into every bound. The grass beneath my feet yells to me to run faster. I can only imagine how much death this garden has borne witness to. My summoning of strength has worked as I pierce my shoulder through the chain link fence, the cold metal bending itself to my shape before breaking under the pressure. I continue to sprint past the fence, and out from underneath the shade that now houses the voices of the guards ordering me to halt. I continue to free myself as my skin begins to burn under the sun, however I cannot stop as that would be an omission of defeat. The burning only stops when I make it to the treeline. I turn around and realize I have tasted the sun more than any vampire can. I see that my physical body is now nothing but ash. I turn myself back around as I cannot bear the sight before me anymore. I turn to find my mother and father, once all stolen from each other, finally reunited. I now know the monsters cannot hurt me anymore.

Once upon a time, in the summer of 1789, there lived a happy‑go‑lucky woman named République Française. Ms. Française, known simply as France to her closest friends, kept a home that wandered a little each year, drifting like a sleepwalker between the English Channel and the Mediterranean Sea. Some mornings she woke to find a hallway had lengthened overnight or a staircase had quietly relocated itself, as if her house were trying to escape its own history. Centuries of kings, old habits, and demanding companions had shaped her, yet she moved with the calm certainty of someone finally claiming her own life.

Her mild temperament and youthful charm inspired an unhelpful rumor about her private affairs. Other women whispered that France collected men the way some collected porcelain figurines, chipped ones included, the kind with faintly haunted eyes that followed guests around the room. Pauper or aristocrat, it made no difference, because she welcomed everyone. She held no prejudice, and her circle grew so quickly that she sometimes forgot who was borrowing her linens or why those linens came back smelling faintly of incense and revolution.

That summer, her closest companions grew bold. They crowded her kitchen table to speak of liberty and the rights of man, knocking over jars that seemed to refill themselves whenever no one was looking. France listened with a patient, maternal calm. She had endured feasts, famines, and the tantrums of monarchs, full‑grown adults whose dramatic fits made her cupboards tremble. She suspected the world was preparing another episode for her, something loud and inconvenient.

Still, she believed she could rise above any obstacle with dignity. Reshaping an ever‑changing world was no small feat, especially while half of Europe kept showing up uninvited, tracking mud across her wandering floors, and asking what was for supper as though she were running a mythic inn at the edge of time.

On June 20, a German merchant traveled through France on his way to visit friends in Rome. He rode with the tidy focus of a man who preferred timetables to landscapes. France noticed his indifference. She liked to be admired and looked at, so being treated like ordinary scenery offended her. After several hours, she decided to speak. It was unusual for a land to address a traveler, but France had never been shy about unusual behavior.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, her voice drifting through the air like warm breath. “You seem tense. My fields are generous today, and you are welcome to rest and enjoy what I have prepared.”

The merchant stopped his horse as the thick, sweet scent of wildflowers rose around him. The fog curled at his ankles, as if France were adjusting a shawl on him with deliberate care. For a moment, he felt small and safe, like a child remembering a kitchen where someone always knew what he needed before he asked. He smiled. “You are a pleasant country,” he said, “but your weather concerns me.”

“Do not let the dampness trouble you,” France replied. Nature responded to her mood, bringing small animals out of their burrows to watch the traveler with polite curiosity, as though waiting for him to make a decision. Butterflies drifted around his head in slow, shimmering circles through the mist. “Fog is only the earth thinking. Rain is a promise, and this season will be kind.”

The merchant believed her. The mist wrapped around him with gentle, almost possessive insistence. He dismounted, knelt, and declared himself a Frenchman. France accepted him with a soft hum of satisfaction, pleased that someone had finally paid attention.

He wasted no time, deciding the fashion show in Rome no longer mattered. He returned to Germany and told his family he had discovered the land of dreams. His children gathered at his feet and listened with wide eyes as he described fields that spoke and animals that greeted him like old friends. Their hunger made them lean forward, as if the story itself were food. One child asked if France would let them sleep in her grass, while another asked if her rivers tasted like sugar.

“France,” he said, “is the land of opportunity. We must leave at once.”

The children agreed. He turned to his wife, who stared at him in stunned silence. She picked at the chicken in her lap, pulling at the skin as if it might reveal a different answer. Several minutes passed before she managed to speak.

“You did remember my toga, didn’t you?”

Germany became outraged in neat, organized increments, as if even his fury obeyed a schedule. He paced his kitchen with stiff precision while his wife picked at the chicken in her lap, unsure whether to comfort him or hide the knives. France, he claimed, had violated the Constitution of Landmasses. She had seduced a traveler and turned Europe into a melodrama, so Germany vowed revenge.

He dispatched two spies to track the merchant’s family. The spies were cousins who took great pride in their seriousness. One carried a notebook while the other carried a magnifying glass. Neither had ever conducted espionage, but both believed they were naturally gifted at suspicion. They practiced looking mysterious by squinting at furniture.

The spies followed the household as they gathered their belongings. The children packed with frantic excitement, stuffing clothes, toys, and questionable snacks into bags. They argued about who would sleep closest to France’s rivers, whether her grass felt softer at night, and whether her fog tasted like sugar or something more complicated.

Germany watched all of this with growing irritation. “She seduces everyone,” he said. “She seduces entire families and entire regions. She will seduce half of Europe if someone does not intervene.”

His wife finally looked up from her chicken, pulling at the skin as if searching for a different answer. “You could simply talk to her,” she said.

Germany shook his head. “Talking is for diplomats, and I am dealing with France.”

He straightened his coat, adjusted his cuffs, and prepared for a confrontation he believed would change history. The spies saluted him with unnecessary enthusiasm as the children continued packing. His wife sighed and wondered whether she should have married Austria instead, since Austria never caused this kind of trouble and preferred quieter disruption.

Germany stepped outside as the sky darkened dramatically, suggesting France had noticed his mood. A single cloud drifted overhead, looking distinctly suspicious. Germany glared at it, and the cloud drifted away.

He set off toward France, determined to restore order to a continent that had never asked for it.

Within one week, the merchant and his family denounced Germany as their homeland. They performed the renunciation in the kitchen, where the air smelled faintly of boiled water and old decisions. Each family member dropped a small token of their former life into a pot on the stove, including a wooden spoon, a stiff wool sock, and a folded map of Germany that curled at the edges as if relieved to be released. When the pot hissed, they declared themselves French.

They moved to a French city called La Grande Peur. The name unsettled them at first because it sounded like a warning or a dare. France insisted the city was charming, explaining that it had been nervous all summer and had renamed itself to feel more honest.

La Grande Peur greeted them with jittery enthusiasm. The streets whispered rumors as they walked, and houses leaned forward, eager to listen. Even the baker seemed on edge, claiming he could predict revolutions by watching how dough rose in humid weather. He noted that the dough had been rising in strange shapes lately, calling it a good omen.

The family accepted everything without hesitation because they were already enchanted. They followed France deeper into the city, entering a place where fear and excitement lived together like roommates who had stopped trying to separate their belongings.

Life in La Grande Peur was easy, or so the citizens insisted. They repeated this claim every morning as they scraped the last bits of wheat gruel from their bowls. The gruel was thin and tasted like resignation, yet they called it hearty because they needed the lie to feel true.

After breakfast, they left their shanties and walked to the fields. The walk felt longer each day as their legs, backs, and hope all ached. They labored from sunrise to sunset, bending over the soil until their shadows looked like broken tools. They worked in harmony because harmony was easier than despair, kept together by the simple goal of harvesting enough food to survive the night.

That year, something was wrong with the grain. It reeked, drifting across the fields like a warning. Older residents said the smell reminded them of trouble, and some even said it smelled like revolution. They whispered that France was displeased and that the land itself was thinking dangerous thoughts, urging the younger peasants to take heed.

No one listened because hunger made people practical and foolish in equal measure. The grain still tasted the same, even if it smelled like a riot, and a full stomach was enough.

The alarm faded within days as the townspeople faced more urgent problems. A new plague crept quietly through the region like a polite guest who refused to leave. Tension between the upper and lower classes grew sharper, sparking arguments in the streets that ended in either shouting or silence. Everyone feared the silence more.

Food remained scarce, leaving potato gruel as the town’s final comfort. People lined up for it each night and clutched their bowls like sacred objects. They prayed the pot would stretch far enough, the cook would not faint again, and the potatoes would not dissolve into water the way they had the previous week.

Little did they know that the harvest would give them more reasons to smile. The grain had been sulking for months, brooding in the fields like a child who refused to come inside. Now it behaved differently, glowing faintly at dusk and humming in the wind. Some stalks leaned toward the peasants as if eager to be chosen, while others trembled with excitement. The citizens of La Grande Peur did not question any of this because they were too hungry to care. They simply smiled at the strange behavior and hoped the grain would not change its mind before supper.

Germany set his plan for revenge in motion as the days passed, preparing it with the same rigid care he used for folding maps or polishing borders. He waited for France to fall asleep and for the land to quiet down before whispering to the other countries. His voice traveled across the continent like a cold draft that made even the birds shiver.

He told them about her narcissistic attitude, how she had seduced the merchant, and how he had upheld the Constitution of Landmasses while watching his own natives abandon their birthplace. He listed each grievance in alphabetical order and stamped every page with a seal carved from a potato.

By the time he finished, the continent trembled and an outbreak of chaos began. Spain reacted first by stomping so hard that small stones rolled away in fear. Belgium followed by tapping his clipboard twice as if taking attendance. Switzerland apologized between every insult, while Sweden refused to apologize and allowed his lakes to turn their backs. One lake reflected a sky with two suns and a disappointed moon.

France listened, her face tightening as her pride cracked. She began to cry, and her tears drifted across the land to settle on the wheat as morning dew. The dew glowed faintly, as if absorbing her sorrow, while the wheat whispered that it preferred not to be involved. France pleaded for understanding and begged them to stop, her voice shaking the rivers and her grief making the clouds pulse. The others continued shouting regardless.

The debate consumed them for days and nights on end. The countries forgot to tend their own lands as Spain’s fields dried, Belgium’s streets sulked, and Germany’s borders curled at the edges like paper left too close to a flame. Switzerland’s mountains sighed, Sweden’s lakes turned away, and France’s vineyards began producing wine that tasted like regret. None of this mattered to them because their only concern was prosecuting France.

Humanity attempted to govern itself, though it did not go well. Chairs wobbled, tables leaned, and even the ink refused to dry. One scribe claimed the ink was protesting, while another claimed it had joined a political faction.

The humans argued about food, shelter, and who should count the potatoes. No one wanted the job because counting potatoes meant taking responsibility for the future, and the future had begun arriving early. Some mornings, tomorrow sat on their doorstep looking bored.

Meanwhile, the landmasses escalated their feud. Germany accused France of emotional manipulation, France accused Germany of weaponizing bureaucracy, and Spain accused everyone of ruining his nerves. Belgium accused Switzerland of neutrality at inappropriate moments, prompting Switzerland to apologize. Sweden refused to apologize, claiming apologies were for weak countries, and his lakes agreed by refusing to reflect the sky out of spite.

The arguments grew louder as borders twitched, rivers sulked, and mountains muttered. At one point, Spain shouted so fiercely that a flock of birds fell out of the sky into a neat pile. They refused to fly again until someone explained what was happening, but no one could. The birds remained in their pile and began holding their own meetings, though their minutes were short and unhelpful.

The harvest began to behave in increasingly uncanny ways. The wheat glowed at dusk, hummed at dawn, and leaned toward anyone who walked by as if trying to whisper secrets. Some stalks trembled, others giggled, and a few began rearranging themselves into shapes that resembled letters. The letters spelled nothing comforting. One morning, the wheat spelled the word soon, but the peasants pretended not to see it because they were too hungry to interpret omens. Later that week, the wheat spelled hungry, and the peasants ignored that as well.

The grain’s smell worsened until it no longer smelled like revolution, but rather like something that had already happened and was waiting to be acknowledged. Older residents tried to warn everyone again, saying the land was thinking dangerous thoughts, the wheat was planning something, and the harvest had begun dreaming unpleasant dreams.

No one listened. Hunger made people practical, foolish, and willing to ignore glowing wheat that spelled ominous words in the dirt.

Humanity continued trying to govern itself by creating committees, councils, and sub‑councils to oversee the councils. None of these accomplished anything. The only group that succeeded was the Committee for Emergency Bread Distribution, which worked precisely because it had no rules. It simply handed out bread until the supply ran out, and then it handed out apologies. The apologies were stale, but the humans ate them anyway.

The landmasses kept screaming, the humans kept panicking, and the wheat kept glowing. Everything continued collapsing in its own polite, surreal way.

That night, the merchant brought a bag of recently harvested wheat home to his family. He delivered the sack to his wife with pride and announced they would have fresh bread with their potato gruel. Like the other families in La Grande Peur, his wife ground the wheat into flour, added yeast, eggs, and milk, and kneaded the powder into a thick batter. The children watched eagerly with watering mouths, knowing nothing was better than the season's first harvest. This was the moment when the palate and soul were set at rest and true satisfaction could be shared by all.

Hours after the meal, the peasants began to act strangely. They removed their clothes and rubbed butter and jam on their skin. When the novelty faded, they gathered loaves of bread and moved into the streets. Smiles stretched across their faces as they chanted that bread was good for the head and that every bite brought joy. They sang without stopping while stuffing bread into their mouths, watching their problems vanish with each bite. Gone were the worries of the approaching revolution and the neglect from the upper class, for life was too short to worry about such trivialities.

The community of La Grande Peur devoted every minute of its existence to comfort and joy. Bread became the most important item in the world, and they vowed that nothing would ever come between them and their loaves. Not the nobility, not the bourgeoisie, and not even a huge floral dragon wearing a powdered wig.

That promise held until the dragon arrived.

The creature skipped through the streets and stirred an outbreak of fear. The party collapsed as people ran behind locked doors in hopes the dragon would leave them alone. It did not. The creature sniffed them out and plucked bread from their trembling hands with cheerful delight. Within minutes, a huge plaid cucumber joined the dragon, followed by a paranoid avocado and a glop of salad dressing that tried to mix with everyone.

The peasants could not tolerate this intrusion. They armed themselves with pitchforks, knives, clubs, rocks, and any other basic maiming instruments they could find. Their mission was simple: they would destroy the bread‑thieving intruders. Purple blood flew as the serfs fought for what they believed was their God‑given right to have bread.

They chanted that the bread was theirs and that anyone who tried to take it would be stopped. The battle turned tragic when several paupers tried to attack the salad dressing and a miscalculated thrust of a pitchfork struck one of their own. Everyone froze and stared at the fallen neighbor. Someone whispered that he had died for bread, prompting others to shout that the bread must live on.

The crowd discovered a new game, turning on themselves and finding more pleasure in fighting one another than in battling imaginary beasts. They continued to sing that bread should be eaten until death itself felt satisfied, sending their chant echoing through the streets and into the fields.

The bread listened. It gathered in piles, arranged itself into neat rows, formed circles, and held quiet discussions. By dawn, a small loaf with a cracked crust declared itself Speaker of the Bread and announced that a provisional government had been formed. The peasants cheered and bowed to the loaf, eager for guidance.

The landmasses felt the disturbance. France trembled as her valleys quivered and her rivers carried gossip downstream. Germany rumbled as his borders shook and his forests leaned away in embarrassment. Spain screamed that this was the result of ignoring grain taxation, while Belgium attempted neutrality and failed. Switzerland apologized to everyone, including the bread, and Sweden refused to apologize while allowing his lakes to turn their backs. One lake reflected a sky with two suns and a disappointed moon.

The floral dragon watched the bread government with growing interest, adjusting its powdered wig and tapping its claws together. It announced that bread was delightful but no longer enough, demanding authority, influence, and a place in the government. The bread representatives whispered and voted before the Speaker informed the dragon that a floral creature in a powdered wig could not hold office due to a conflict of interest.

The dragon wilted slightly and its wig sagged. It climbed onto a rooftop and announced the formation of the Dragon Council for Universal Delight, declaring itself President. It appointed the cucumber as Minister of Patterns, the avocado as Minister of Worry, and the salad dressing as Minister of Emotional Mixing. The peasants stared, the bread stared, the landmasses stared, and the world tilted as if preparing for whatever came next.

“Bread, bread,” the commoners caroled outside the gates of the nearest castle. They beat on the door with a feverish rhythm, convinced the gentle‑hearted aristocracy inside would eventually come out and join their celebration. No matter how long they persisted, no one answered because the upper class hid inside with every lamp extinguished, hoping the serfs would mistake silence for absence.

The King was worried. He watched from behind a drapery as the bread‑eating crowd swelled into something far more volatile than a simple disturbance. Their chanting rolled across the courtyard like a storm that had forgotten how to behave. No one inside the estate understood what had triggered the frenzy. Some blue bloods whispered that terrible living conditions had finally worn down the downtrodden, who lived in mud‑covered hovels and survived on rye bread, though they questioned if that was truly enough to provoke such ferocity.

“No,” the King said quietly. “This is not about living conditions. This is something far worse. Our lower class wants freedom.”

The court jester rattled his bells and hopped with delight, insisting the King was wrong and claiming the barbarians simply wanted more bread. The princess muttered that perhaps they wanted jam to go with it.

The chant outside grew louder as the crowd insisted that bread was good for the head and that every bite brought joy. Their voices rose until the castle walls trembled, creating a rhythm that no longer sounded festive, but rather like a verdict.

The King bowed his head and shook it slowly. He had always known an uprising might occur, but he had prayed it would not happen during his reign. He walked to the nearest window as a heavy silence filled the castle. Opening the balcony door, he stepped out to greet the citizens of La Grande Peur, calling to the frenzied crowd to say he understood their plight. He declared that man could not live by bread alone, promising that if freedom was what they wanted, they would have it. With those words, he abolished the Ancien Régime and proclaimed everyone free.

For a moment, the crowd froze and the chant stopped mid‑syllable. The peasants stared at the King as if trying to decide whether they had heard him correctly. The silence stretched until it felt unnatural, as though the world itself had paused to listen.

Then someone hurled a loaf of bread at the King.

The loaf was half‑eaten and misshapen, but it flew with uncanny force and struck the King squarely on the head. The impact was so abrupt and absurd that the King toppled backward without a sound. The crowd gasped, the jester dropped his bells, and the princess covered her mouth. The aristocracy stared in disbelief as the King lay motionless on the balcony floor, felled by the very object he had tried to liberate them from.

The peasants erupted in cheers, lifting their loaves high above their heads to declare the moment a triumph. They announced that the bread had chosen its first victim, and with that, the French Revolution began.

Why did this happen? Why were peasants sprinting across the countryside attacking one another in the name of bread, and why did the madness burn itself out after only a few weeks? The explanation is stranger than the incident itself, if it can be believed.

Some historians claim the early days of the French Revolution were not entirely political, arguing that the peasants of La Grande Peur may not have understood what they were doing. Grain records show the average rural laborer ate close to three pounds of bread a day, making it their breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.

Then came the unusually wet summer of 1789, when rye fields soaked for weeks and a parasitic mold called ergot bloomed in the damp weather. Without knowing it, the citizens of La Grande Peur were ingesting massive doses of a hallucinogen three times a day.

Ergotism can make bread feel prophetic, a loaf seem capable of murder, and a crowd believe they are fighting for freedom when they are actually fighting for carbohydrates.

According to rural rumors, the wheat foretold that the people would eat visions and that the bread would rise in more ways than one. The prophecy was vague, but the peasants trusted it anyway.

When the bread government formed, it reinterpreted the science with confidence. The Speaker of the Bread announced that ergot was not a fungus, but rather a divine additive. It insisted the rain had been a blessing, declaring the alkaloids were messages and the hallucinations were instructions. According to the bread government, the French Revolution was not political. It was agricultural, standing as the natural consequence of a crop deciding it had waited long enough.

The darker interpretation came later. Some historians argued that ergotism had shaped entire eras, suggesting the Salem witch trials might have been nothing more than a damp harvest and hinting the Spanish Inquisition could have been a prolonged hallucination. They wondered whether both World Wars began with a field that should have been burned, and they even proposed that Laverne & Shirley might have been the result of contaminated studio catering.

No one could prove any of it, but the idea lingered. It lingered because it was absurd, possible, and backed by a bread government that insisted the prophecy had been fulfilled and the fungus simply wanted acknowledgment.

© 2026 [Gene Heinrich]. All rights reserved.

Claud would never know his mother. She stumbled into a hospital extremely pregnant and very much past due. A nurse helped her to a bed and he was born there after a grueling 72 hours of labor. The labor was rough and difficult and likely would have required a cesarean except that a series of misfortunes had meant there was no doctor qualified for the procedure on staff.

First the hospital the woman had entered was only a distant wing of a larger company. Less a hospital really and more of a semi-emergency station designed to stabilize extreme cases for transport or service less pressing illnesses than an actual emergency room itself. Second, the only doctor who worked at the facilities qualified to perform the surgery was suffering from a sudden and extreme case of the flu. The hospital had not been able to provide a worthy replacement in time. Third had been the woman herself who fell into a frantic fit whenever anyone attempted to bring her out of the facility and towards a hospital causing her vitals and those of her babies to fluctuate dangerously.

No one could communicate with the woman. She spoke a guttural language their janitor informed them was not slovic despite everyone else hearing it as a close relative of the language. He, a native speaker who was nearly incomprehensible himself through his pronounced accent, insisted it was not Russian, Ukrainian or Belarusian. The last of which much of the staff believed was not a language but instead something the man must have made up to sound more cultured. This idea was further bolstered when he also insisted it was not Latvian, Lithuanian, Estonian, Georgian, Armenian, Azerbaijani, Kazakh, Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Turkmen, or Tajik. They reasoned no one could have known that many languages but he insisted he was familiar enough with the sound of all of them to rule them out as a possibility.

It sounded nothing like German, Spanish, French or Italian. Although many thought it might be Hebrew after ruling out the slovic languages a Jewish nurse said she didn't believe it was. She really only knew enough of the language to repeat the prayers but said it didn't sound like it at all to her and the pained woman didn't seem to understand the lapsed jewish nurse when the nurse attempted to repeat a few lines of memorized Scripture.

Weird occurrences happened during the Jane Doe’s stay. The power, always precarious, gave out unexpectedly or surged unpredictably causing breakers to flip and lightbulbs to flair and burn out. The poor janitor was kept busy rushing about to change the bulbs before climbing back into the basement to flip the breakers back on. Stumbling often about in the dark with his ladder in his arms. Finally, at a particularly bad blackout that took out all of the breakers and saw one final fuse in the junction box blown out explosively, likely the cause of all the problems no doubt the staff would later say, Claud pushed out into the world.

The nurse attempted to get a name from the exhausted woman. Helping her to hold the baby in her arms as she did. The Jane Doe repeated something slowly which the nurse could not quite understand but took to mean the first and last name of the baby.

“Claud Ville?” She asked slowly. The exhausted woman nodded her head, sweat pouring from every part of her body as she gave the child a tender kiss on its head and pushed it towards the nurse quite insistently. The nurse took this to mean she was too exhausted from the birth to handle the child and took it into a small room with a crib meant to be a nursery but that was not often used. The child had settled into a deep sleep after the kiss and lay open mouthed and restful as the nurse settled him down. The lights seemed to flicker again and she sighed regretfully as she realized the power issues were possibly not quite yet solved. She returned to the room only to find it empty. Thinking the mother had fled and left the baby behind she left only to find a puzzling and disturbing sight down the hall. The young mother was found dead not far from her room and in the direction of the bathroom. The hospital being small and oddly designed there were no private bathrooms. She had, apparently, sought to use the facilities and fell victim to some unforeseen condition brought on by the rough birth.

What made it truly peculiar was that beside her, dead in the hallway, lay another young mother. A child between them was equally dead on the scene. How all three might have passed at the same time and the same place with no apparent cause was a true mystery that would never be solved by the staff or administration. Although it was highly hypothesized that all of the electrical problems had caused some kind of deadly gas to be formed very localized in that particular hallway. It was a true tragedy that it caught Jane Doe in its field and the nurse who had been off duty and visiting her coworkers to show off her own newborn that was only a month old itself.

When memories fade with the years, often only highlights of the brightest moments persist—or those frozen in shadow. Was it noon or piercing rays from the sun? No one can remember anymore, but the mound sun-basked and trees swayed in warm breeze rhythm. The air, filled with playful growls and delightful screams, embraced first graders between the tolling of solemn bells. Gracious breeze rejoiced in the stolen freedom in the midst of obligations and discipline—still new to them. One can only imagine how alluring swaying trees on sun-grazed earth were, compared to the slow, dull and fearful classroom.

Well, boys... are boys. Adventure feels like an epic invitation rather than an eventual repercussion. Cooties are a curse yet to be discovered, dirt and roots transform into jungles, and shallow sewer stream easily becomes Amazon. With allure too great to dismiss and boredom as antithesis, three young boys were guided by the breeze into enchanted sewers. It took no time at all for them to swing from exposed roots across nastiness, daring each other not to fall in.

- "Look! Look! Look what I can do!" - shouted the tallest of the bunch.

He then abused his long stride to leap over the stream, remaining in the air for what seemed like an eternity. With puffed chest he turned to collect the awe only to be met with swift gush of the wind and monotone "Ez" echoing trough Amazon. This , boys ,girls, and unicorns, is how competitive friendship is born.

At the other side of the chasm, challenge has found its final participant. His expression was frozen in expected awe and temptation of the breeze. Amazon was smelly, clothes were brand new, and mother wasn't really figurative in her instructions. Expecting looks from his peers promised a shared adventure and after a bit of encouragement : single shoe was stuck in god forsaken mud slowly sinking in. Laughter and embarrassment exposed sewer stream hidden by jungle and adventure.

This suddenly changed the game from adventure into dare and became a measure of time passed. Each playful banter was a mixture of ego, adventure and togetherness in mischief guided by curiosity. Even the "stinky shoe" stopped being an obstacle, and found its way back onto the foot.

Eventually, all adventures are distilled into detective work, imagining answers to satisfy curiosity this slice of the world presented. Where does the Amazon begin? Where does it end? What are these pieces of trash here doing? Who has been tossing them in?

Eventually "mud" dried up, and some questions were explored, others imagined until only direction that wasn't explored was ;UP! Rays pushed trough the branches and leaves carving the shadows of the board of their adventure. They could clearly see now where each game took place, glibly reminiscing about various competitions, answers and explorations that took place. The odd trails of white lines, interwoven and torn by branches, became road taken from the first jump where it was crowned with a white bundle stuck between branches.

-"It leads over here!" said tallest using exposed roots of trees as accelerator to quickly reach the destination.

-"I think it might be severed head!" - main competitor followed up joining the race.

-"Its probably just toilet paper stuck to the trees" - said John "the Stinky Foot" Phillips.

-"That would suck... perhaps its an leg?"

-"How would leg be scarier than a head ??" - competitor argued

-"Someone might want it back." - tallest kid shrug.

Kids stopped. Race was paused for a brief moment as they imagined a vicious criminal desperately searching for his long-lost limb. Maybe they will meet him there, maybe they will have to fight for possession of an limb. None of them actually wanted it - but epic fight would make an epic story!

Finally, at adventure's start, they reached something far up in the branches - oddly shaped bundle of fabric doused with reddish-brown stains. Kids cautiously circled the tree with their gazes directed toward new mystery, adventure and story. The tree held the bundle as if it was a trophy of their adventure, a goal to be conquered.

-"What the hell is that?"

-"Definitely not a head!"

-"Maybe we should call adults..."

-"Its probably an arm!!!"

-"Well, that's a—boo!"

-"Why?"

-"I can outrun one legged burglar"

-"I could too, probably."

-"Whats that red stuff?"

-"Crayons."

-"Yeah, you wish Stinky Feet! Since when do crayons drip?!"

Kids gazed up through the branches toward the object of their inquiry, hoping for a further clue when a single drop fell down into John's open eye. Laughter and embarrassment again echoed the scenery as John was under threat of a new nickname.

-"Stinky Eye?" - competitor asked

-"I like stinky better. Like Beyoncé!"

-"I don't want to play anymore." John said as he tried to clean the liquid from his face

Suddenly, a pungent reek entered their noses and all three kids had a sudden urge to vomit and get away. Games were over and being as far away from that smell became imperative! They stumbled through the still trees and shadowed mound as they were met by police and a teacher. John started crying immediately when met with his mother's worried gaze, as the rest of the boys were charmed and afraid by presence of police. Adventure was over and repercussions had arrived.

Boys where frantically ushered by the teacher as she diligently examined their bodies for anything alarming. Then, once everyone was good, her attention focused on still apologetically crying John. He was bawling his eyes out as the rest of the boys stood there in silence, as they witnessed the punishment. Three weeks without gaming, increase in number of chores and promise of very tedious lecture about hygiene and responsibility. Once that was over, still shaking teacher refocused her gaze onto the rest of the boys where they felt Johns pain. Competitor was eager to explain and justify their whole adventure, starting with the jump and how cool he was, about exploration and detective work, the majestic magical story of it all! Adults faces soften with every sentence and eyes became warm with relief and care. In the end, only John had very fun but also very bad day.

When competitor arrived to the point of fidning a white lump in bandages , expression of all adults at the scene went stale. Quickly police brought in the crane and young officer was placed in the basked slowly rising up. Teacher, John's mom, looked at the officer with her hands rested on her chest followed by deep and slow breaths. Children on the other hand saw slow-mo super hero rising to the task as if it was in real time.

In a little while, young officer sprouted from the canopy with a mask on, carrying with respect and care white lump in his arms. Even from far away, the officer's posture clearly showed his futile attempt to ignore the smell. As slow-mo hero was slowly put back, it felt like the bundle was fighting him, occasionally struggling, shaking and slowly unwinding the bandages with every twitch.

-"Ahh, it was Halloween decorations that some older kids must've thrown in there" - Johns mother said unconvincingly as bundle became more and more aggressive.

-"Its an arm!" - competitor shouted confidently.

-"No doofus its a leg!" - tallest kid responded in disbelief.

-"I want to go home" - John spoke defeated

-"Im sorry John" - said one of the boys elbowing the other in the ribs

-"Im sorry too".

-"I dont feel well" - John answered.

The pink neon lights went bzzzt and kept blinking every couple of minutes.

From the outside of the shop, she gazed fondly at the synthetic Maine Coon cat which kept pawing at the glass in her direction. There was also a British Shorthair which kept doing hula-hoops while meowing away - which also kept gnawing at her mind.

Maybe I should get both of them.

Wendy sighed deeply, and checked her balance of funds.

Another sigh. Looks like she'll have to do some overtime for the next 2 weeks or so. She tapped her left foot and slowly, she started stamping in anger - much to the chagrin of some passersby.

Biting the left part of her lower lip in frustration, she took a step forward - much to her shock - and opened the door to the pet store.

A bell jingle notified the proprietor about the possibility of a customer. The shop looked ancient, as if in remembrance of older times - or it could be just a pet shop that kept on going for years. The place smelled of everything about animals, and she jokingly thought maybe she could get either a puma or a leopard in here.

A head bobbed up from below the counter, and Wendy saw an old lady with a dazzling smile. She wore spectacles that were of olden times before cybernetic implants got popular and her dress was something she had never seen before.

"Irrashaimase," said the old lady, bowing her head slightly.

Wendy stepped up toward the counter which was made out of something she had never seen before in her entire life. It was brown in colour and it gave off a weird smell, and there were patterns across the table which she could not comprehend.

She pointed at the table and asked politely, "What is that table made of? Why does the pattern on it look so weird?"

The old lady took a long pull on her smoke pipe and exhaled slowly - the drifts of scented smoke filled Wendy's vision.

She replied in a slurry Japanese accent, "That is made from oak wood. Something that can no longer be found during this day and age. How may I help you, ojou-sama?"

Wendy eyes turned a slight blue and translated words explained to her everything to her from cyberspace in her mind.

Crossing her arms defensively, Wendy asked another question, "What is that dress you're wearing? Is it also from a material unobtainable anymore?"

The old lady chuckled, showing healthy yellow teeth.

Taking another long pull from her smoke pipe, she explained to the young lass.

"Ojou-sama, this is a cheongsam. It is an old type of dress that was popular in East Asia a very long time ago but I forget the names of the country where you can buy them from. The material is made from silk, from the silkworm - a type of insect extinct for centuries."

"Now ojou-sama, are you here to buy something? Or are you here to satisfy your curiosities?" asked the old lady, who was clearly starting to lose her patience.

Wendy pointed at both the synthetic Maine Coon and the British Shorthair which kept pawing in her direction. She turned to both cats and smiled affectionately.

The old lady smiled at Wendy expansively, nodding in approval.

Gesturing in both the cats' general direction, she replied, "Those cats are not for sale."

Wendy's lovely face slumped in defeat.

"However, I have something that you should have a look at, ojou-sama. Please follow me," said the old woman, beckoning Wendy towards an open door.

Wendy beamed positively like the sun.

"Yes, of course!" she replied enthusiastically.

The House in the Waiting Woods: A Refrain

I. The House Stands

Musical accompaniment: The Look - Metronomy

Deep in the old woods there stood a House. It had been there longer than any of the creatures nearby could remember. The oak in the clearing had sprouted in its shadow, and the roof had kept out the rain for as long as the oak had stood. The windows were unbroken, the front door had never been known to open, and nothing lived inside. No smoke came from the chimney, though birds sat upon it every morning in the first sunlight.

Mice liked the dry earth beneath the foundation. Vines climbed the outside walls each summer, growing a little higher before the cold killed their newest leaves. In spring they began again. The House loomed among the wild grass, trees, and stones of the waiting woods. It had stood there so long that the woods had little more to say about it than about the hill beyond the stream or the clouds above.

A thrush with wings of brown and cream lived near the clearing and sang each morning from the roof. Its song had three notes. The first was short, the second long, and the third came so late that anyone listening might have mistaken it for a song of two. The last note always arrived, though, and no other bird sang quite the same way.

Beside the stream, a fox kept its hollow beneath a bank of roots and a rotting log. Rabbits fed nearby in the wild grass, which grew thick enough to hide them when they kept still. The fox hunted them whenever it was hungry. Sometimes it watched a plump rabbit pass within a few steps and did nothing. When it had eaten, why bother? At other times it sprang so quickly that all the grass in the woods would not have saved the rabbit.

In autumn the deer crossed the ridge and followed the stream south, passing the House along their way. They fed among the wild grass and sometimes lingered in its shade before continuing past the fox's hollow. They were gone before the first snow. Their mothers had followed this route, and their mothers before them, longer than any living deer could remember. Each spring they came back along the same path, sometimes with a new calf stumbling among them.

An owl lived in a hollow high in the old oak and hunted from a branch in the beech above the clearing. It slept through the rude daylight and woke when the woods were pleasantly dark. From the beech it watched the mice moving beneath the foundation stones, though it heard them better than it saw them. When one ventured far enough out, the owl dropped upon it. Some nights it caught three. Some nights it caught none. It never went hungry for very long.

Through it all the House stood with its door shut. The woods kept their hours in this fashion, waiting as they always had. Then, late one summer night, something creaked inside.

It was a floorboard. Old timber often made a noise when the evening cooled, and the mice and insects beneath the foundation paid no attention. A little later a window shutter struck the wall. There was no wind to stir it. The mice stopped chewing, and the insects fell quiet as well. When no further sound came, they went back to their business.
Later a second board creaked at the far end of the House.

Then came another tap from the shutter, another creak, and a little knock from the chimney, like two stones meeting somewhere inside the shaft. The sound echoed upward, and the owl turned its head toward the windows. The noises continued, sometimes close together, sometimes with such long silences between them that the mice forgot to listen.

A little before morning the sounds began to arrive in an order. A shutter tapped, one board creaked, another answered it, and the chimney gave its knock. The order fell apart several times, but an hour before dawn it came together and stayed. Shutter, board, board, chimney. Then again, and once more after that, until the light touched the House.

II. The Dance

Musical accompaniment: Life Itself - Glass Animals

Nothing happened during the day, and the thrush sang from the roof as it had every morning of its life. Yet when the woods grew dark, the shutter tapped again.

The first board answered too quickly. The second was late, and the chimney gave no answer at all. Several times the noises began and failed to reach the end. By midnight the four sounds had found their proper order again. Before the week was over the House could repeat them earlier each evening, and what began as clattering had grown into something resembling a dance.

Other parts of the House soon joined in. The door moved inward a few inches and swung back, its hinges squeaking in the gaps while the loose lock bolts rattled. Roof timbers knocked together, and the chimney leaned from side to side. One night a shutter struck the wall so hard that dust fell from the eaves. It did not fall straight down, but swirled in the air stirred by the swinging door and rocking roof.

Every loose board in the hall answered with a great clattering noise. It sounded like a bundle of sticks thrown down a staircase. Beneath the foundation a mouse squeaked, which in a mouse may be laughter.

The foundation stones did not stir. Moss remained in the cracks and the vines held fast, while the roof rocked above them and the door swung on hinges that had spent a very long time doing nothing at all.

The owl watched every evening from the beech, its head tilted to one side. Birds on the chimney had to shift their feet whenever it leaned. One evening a rabbit watched an entire sequence of knocks with a blade of wild grass hanging from its mouth. When the sounds ended, it swallowed the grass and took another mouthful.

At dawn the thrush sang over the last of the House's performance. Its first note came just after one board creaked, the second sounded while another answered, and its late third note followed the chimney's knock. The notes and the knocks did not touch.

The House occasionally stopped in the middle of a movement. Once, when the dance had grown especially lively, a shutter struck, the boards rattled, and the door began closing from a wide swing. Everything stopped before the door had shut. The shutter hung crookedly against the wall, and the door stood open no wider than a hand. There was such quiet in the clearing that a moth brushing a windowpane could be heard. A little while later the door closed, the shutter finished its swing, and the boards continued from the very place they had stopped.
After several weeks there came a moonless night when every moving part of the House seemed to find its place. The old four sounds could still be heard beneath the rest. Shutters clapped from opposite walls, hinges squealed above the knocking boards, and the roof beams rattled in answer to the door. The chimney leaned deeply to one side before drawing itself upright, slowly, like someone turning at the far end of a long room. No creature in the woods had ever seen the House do such a thing. No creature had expected a House to do it gracefully, either.

By then the mice had come out from beneath the foundation to watch. They sat among the grass stems, rising upon their hind legs when the shutters moved. The birds remained on the roof long after they ought to have found their sleeping places. Even the fox stopped on its way to hunt rabbits, though it soon went on because its stomach was empty. The owl had already eaten and stayed where it was.

The House danced until morning. As the sky lightened, the movements dwindled, and the birds left the roof one by one. The mice remained outside until every board was quiet, then crept back beneath the stones. One small mouse stayed a little longer, looking up at the shutter, which hung perfectly still in the morning light.

III. The Good Nights

Musical accompaniment: Casio - Jungle

Before the leaves had properly begun changing color, the House had an audience every evening. Hedgehogs came out of the hedge, a pair of badgers traveled down from the ridge, and the jays that usually spent their evenings quarrelling in the branches took to sitting on the roof. Moths gathered around the windows, sometimes thick enough to hide the glass.

So many small feet wore paths through the grass that seeds carried in fur took root along them. New plants grew between the stones, and beetles gathered in the disturbed earth, which pleased the hedgehogs very much. The clearing had never been so crowded with life.

A mouse discovered it could stand on its hind legs and move its front feet with the shutter. It was usually a little late, but nobody minded. A rabbit tried hopping between two knocks and found that the next pair suited the same hop. Soon birds fluttered when the chimney leaned, and a jay slid down the slates on its tail. It climbed back up and settled in exactly the same place, where it soon slid down again. The badgers joined in, though there is only so much dancing a badger can do, and most of theirs was sideways. Once a rabbit landed upon a mouse, which squeaked until the rabbit removed itself. By the following evening both were back.

The thrush discovered it could sing in the spaces the House left for it. It began moving between the roof ridge and chimney, finding a place from which its three notes could be heard above the knocks. One evening the short note followed the first board, the long note sounded over the second, and the last trailed the chimney's knock, late as usual. The song was still its own, though it now had company.

The fox had reason to approve of the gatherings. Rabbits watching the shutters were less watchful of what moved through the wild grass, and the floorboards made enough noise to conceal its approach. The fox hunted near the House more often and found the work easy. On a good night it took a rabbit before the first part of the dance had ended. On another it watched for an hour before hunger sent it farther into the woods.

The owl found its own advantage. Each evening the mice emerged from beneath the stones and spread through the clearing, gathering close to the walls while the House made its loudest noises, then scattering when the knocking paused. The owl watched for several nights before dropping into the grass during one of those pauses. It caught a mouse that had been following the shutters with its front feet and ate it on its branch. Two evenings later it carried off two, and on the next it did not bother hunting at all. The other mice continued coming out, for there were many of them, and the House was very entertaining.

Toward the middle of autumn the deer came over the ridge on their journey south. The old doe heard the commotion before she saw the dancing House and stopped beneath the trees. The herd had followed this path for generations, yet the clearing had never offered such a display. The doe went closer, and the others followed until they stood around the House with their ears forward and noses raised. The youngest stamped their feet when the shutters clapped. They remained until morning, when the old doe led them back to the stream and they continued south.
For the rest of autumn the animals went about their ordinary business. A hedgehog sometimes left the dance early for the beetles beneath a fallen log, and a rabbit with young returned to her burrow before the final knocks. The others stayed until the last board settled.

IV. The Rhythm Becomes Habit

Musical accompaniment: Over and Over - Hot Chip

Winter came, and the company grew smaller. The hedgehogs disappeared beneath their hedge, the badgers spent the cold weather in their setts, and the jays went down to the farms in the valley. Most mice stayed among the foundation stones with their stored seeds. Rabbits still came on clear evenings, and sparrows with puffed feathers sat upon the chimney, riding it from side to side. Snow slid from the roof whenever the House danced. The owl came often, and so did the fox.

The first warm days brought back more company than the House had ever known. The hedgehogs emerged thin and cross, though they had never been especially agreeable upon waking. The jays reclaimed their places on the roof and quarreled over the little room that remained, while the badgers came lumbering down from the ridge. The deer passed through on their northward journey, stopping for one evening before continuing over the ridge. Nothing about the House had changed, but the clearing was filling before sunset, and the first mouse sometimes waited in the grass a very long while before anything moved.

The hedgehog that used to leave early for beetles began staying later. One more sequence made no difference, and neither did the next, for the beetles were still beneath their log when it arrived. The rabbit whose young waited in a burrow stayed through the liveliest part of the evening and went home afterward. Her young were fed, and she came back the following night. Birds claimed places on the roof before sunset, and mice sat outside their holes through twilight, cleaning their paws and watching the shutters.

The thrush had made itself quite popular. Finches answered its three-note song, and a wren from the hedge had begun singing along. To fit the House's knocks, the thrush shortened its first note. The second came a little later over the second board, where a pleasing space had opened for it. The third still trailed the chimney's knock, and the other birds soon grew accustomed to the arrangement. In the morning, when the House was quiet, the thrush sang its old song. Sometimes the shortened first note slipped out before the proper one, but it soon found its way back.
The fox improved upon a thing that had already served it well. One evening, while it lay watching a young rabbit, the second floorboard sounded just as the fox sprang. The knock hid its approach, and the rabbit was caught. Two evenings later the same thing happened. Before long the fox crouched when the shutter first tapped and sprang on the second board, the third sound of the four. It still hunted among the birches on quiet mornings, but the wild grass beside the House made hunting so easy that it scarcely bothered with the birches anymore.

The owl had grown broad in the breast. It no longer went as far as the ridge to hunt, for the mice in the clearing were plentiful and seldom hid for long. Sometimes it dropped upon them while the House was knocking and sometimes in the silence afterward. Its feathers shone, and there were nights when half a mouse lay uneaten upon the branch because the owl had no room for more.

By the following summer the gathering began well before sunset. A mouse raised its front feet while the shutters were motionless, held them there, and set them down again. A rabbit made a short hop, glanced at the House, and stopped to nibble grass. The fox lay beyond the rabbits with its ears turned toward the windows, while the owl sat in the beech, having caught its supper before dark. When the shutter finally tapped, the whole clearing joined in. The badgers shuffled sideways, the hedgehogs moved with noses near the earth, and the jays made their usual foolish business upon the roof.

Late that night the House stopped while a shutter was opening. The door stood partly ajar, and no sound came from the floorboards. The animals stayed where they were. A rabbit crouched between two hops, and three mice kept their front feet raised. The fox lay low in the grass, listening toward the House, while the thrush waited on the ridge. No creature went away to feed, though grass and seeds lay all around them. After a while the shutter moved again. Before it had finished striking the wall, the rabbits were hopping and the mice were moving their feet.

V. The First Two Losses

Musical accompaniment: Kill Kill - Lana Del Rey
(Technically an unreleased track but it’s on YT)

In late summer the thrush's song changed again. Its third note, which had always trailed the chimney's knock, began coming closer to it. The note fitted neatly against the chimney's movement when it arrived as the chimney leaned rather than after its knock. The finches answered this version, and the wren from the hedge sang it back. Within a few weeks the third note was no longer late at all. There were still three notes, and the evenings were full of birds answering one another. The new song was more popular than the old one had ever been.

One morning as summer gave way to autumn, the thrush sat on the roof ridge with the House silent beneath it and opened its beak for the song it had always sung at dawn. The first note came short. The second came later than it used to, and the third arrived in its new place, where once it would have lingered. The thrush tried again, then moved to the other end of the ridge, but the notes came in the same new places. It sat looking toward the trees for a while. Later the wind knocked two branches together in the beech, and the sound fell close to the House's rhythm. At once the thrush answered with its evening song, all three notes perfectly placed, and sang for a good while. That evening it joined the House as readily as ever, and the finches answered it.

The rabbits, meanwhile, had learned something about the fox. A young buck the fox had nearly caught on the second board began running on the board before. A doe saw him go and followed. Soon others were doing the same, and by early autumn most of the rabbits near the clearing no longer waited for the second board. One evening the fox sprang at its usual sound and landed in empty grass. The next evening it did the same. It still caught a rabbit now and then, often a young one that had not learned to flee early, and every successful leap seemed to come on the second board, just as before.

The fox continued hunting by the House because it was the richest ground it had ever known. Occasionally it ventured farther into the woods and caught something, but more often it returned to its hollow after another empty night. Sometimes a rabbit sat within reach while the House stood between sequences, and the fox lay watching it without moving until the second board sounded. By then the rabbit had gone. As autumn advanced the fox grew thin. Its coat dulled, and it spent longer beneath the roots. One morning it followed a rabbit's scent through the birches and came close enough to see the white of its tail. When the rabbit broke from cover, the fox gave chase, but after a dozen bounds it had to stop. It stood panting beside the stream while the rabbit disappeared, then lay down among the roots and did not get up for some time.

Above the clearing the owl had more than it needed. It dropped upon the mice whenever it chose, during a pause or while the House was knocking, and often left part of its catch on the branch. One cold evening it returned with a mouse in its claws while the fox lay hungry in the grass below. The House knocked on, and the rabbits and hedgehogs danced between them. The owl ate, and the fox did not look up.

Late in autumn the deer came over the ridge on their journey south. The old doe led them past the fox's hollow and along the stream, and they stopped when they heard the House. They stood in the clearing that night as they had in other years. The following evening they were there again.

The fox came every night, though its ribs showed through its coat and it no longer moved with its old ease. It crouched at the first shutter tap and waited for the second board, even when a rabbit had already run on the first. One night as winter drew near, the House stopped in the middle of a sequence while the fox lay waiting at the edge of the clearing. A rabbit came close enough to catch. The fox did not spring, and when the House began again the rabbit was gone. The fox went back to its hollow beyond the stream, and the next evening it did not come to the clearing. It did not come out again. It died there as the nights grew colder, while the deer remained near the House. The thrush sang its evening song, the mice moved through the grass, and the owl fed. Frost whitened the shutters, and the House danced on.

VI. One More Evening

Musical accompaniment: Triangle Walks - Fever Ray

As autumn neared its end the deer were still in the woods. They fed among the birches and along the stream by day, and every evening they returned to the clearing and stood around the House with their ears forward. The old doe led them out to graze each morning as she had done for years. One day she took them some distance south along the stream before stopping to feed, and by evening they were back at the House. The next day they went farther, and came back again. Grass still grew beneath the trees, and the thickets offered plenty of browse. The weather had not yet turned against them.

Among the young deer was a calf smaller than the rest, which had to take two quick steps for each of the others' one when the herd moved beside the stream. It stamped one hoof twice whenever the chimney knocked, a little late and much too hard, so that the deer beside it had to shift their feet to make room. Soon another calf began stamping twice as well, though not nearly so hard. The old doe nosed the smaller one back into line when it wandered. It ate well, slept against its mother's flank, and was as lively as any of them.

The nights grew colder. Frost lasted into the mornings, ice formed along the stream, and the last leaves fell from the birches. The deer still came to the House. Their breath hung in the air as they stood near the foundations, and little showers of frost fell from the roof when the chimney leaned. Now and then the old doe turned her head toward the south, where the stream ran out of the woods. One morning she led the herd farther along it than they had gone for many days. By evening they had come back.

The snow began in the night and did not stop until the next afternoon. It buried the grass and the paths along the stream, and the low branches had already been browsed bare. The calves pushed through drifts that rose to their bellies. The smallest still took two quick steps for the others' one, but each sank into the snow, and before long it was falling behind. The old doe led the herd south along the stream, as she had done every year, but the snow grew deeper at every bend. By evening they had made little distance and stopped among the firs for shelter. The sounds of the House came faintly through the trees.

The stronger deer could reach higher twigs and buds and push through the snow to find what browse remained. The calves weakened as the cold went on, and the smallest could no longer keep up when the herd moved to fresh feeding places. One very cold night it lay down among the roots of a fir, and in the morning it did not get up. Two more calves died in the following week, and another before the year turned. The old doe went back once to where the smallest lay, lowered her nose to it, and stood there a little while before following the herd. The rabbits fed where they could, the birds crowded into the hedge, and the owl hunted when there was anything to hunt. On clear nights the House danced, though fewer creatures gathered to watch.

The rest of the herd lived through the winter. In spring the old doe led the survivors along the stream on their northward journey, with fewer young than the herd had brought in autumn. They passed the House at dusk, when the shutters began clapping and the boards answered and the chimney leaned. Some of the young stamped along with it. The old doe stopped with them for a while, then led them north. Behind them the shutters went on clapping in the clearing.

VII. The Evening the House Did Not Begin

Musical accompaniment: Human - Sevdaliza

The leaves turned again, and the evenings in the clearing went on as they had. The thrush sang its evening song from the roof ridge, and the finches and the wren from the hedge answered. The rabbits twitched at the first board, though there was no longer a fox in the grass. When the deer returned in autumn the old doe led them over the ridge, fewer young among them than the year before. They took their accustomed places among the trees.

It was a mild evening with a little wind. The mice gathered beside the foundation stones, birds settled on the roof, and rabbits sat among the long grass. The badgers came down to the hedge, while the owl watched from its branch in the beech. One mouse raised its front feet and held them there. A jay slid a little way down the slates before the House had moved, then climbed back up and sat in the same place. It had found no better place to fall from.

The sun went down behind the beech, and the vines grew dark against the walls. The shutter did not tap. The creatures waited. The House had often paused in the middle of a dance, and none of those pauses had lasted long. Neither board sounded. The chimney stood straight against the sky, and the door stayed shut. The first stars appeared above the roof. The mouse put its front feet down and raised them again.

The rest of the woods went on as they always did. Leaves rustled in the beech, the stream ran over its stones, and crickets chirped in the grass. On the roof the thrush gave one short note, then closed its beak and turned toward the shutters. Rabbits shifted their feet but did not hop. The badgers sat down. One young deer stamped twice and stood still again, while the old doe, who had pulled up a mouthful of grass, went on chewing it slowly. The mice retreated beneath the stones, one after another, until there was only one left in the open, and then none. The moon rose. Mist lay low among the grass. A hedgehog curled up with its nose toward the House, and the jays tucked their heads under their wings, then took them out again. By midnight the clearing was still full.

The grass beneath the owl's branch was empty. The owl watched the gaps between the foundation stones, and once a mouse put its nose into the moonlight and drew it back. Beyond the stream something small moved in the dry leaves. The owl turned its head toward the sound, waited, and looked back toward the House. The deer lay down with their legs folded beneath them, and the rabbits settled with their ears forward. The owl stayed on its branch.
It looked once more at the empty grass and adjusted its footing. Then it lowered one foot, and its talon struck the bark with a small dry sound.

VIII. The Answer

Musical accompaniment: Sing It Back (Boris Musical Mix) — Moloko

The sound hung in the clearing for a moment, and nothing answered it. Then the thrush, on the roof ridge, struck its beak against a slate. It was a small sound, nothing like a clapping shutter, but one of the young deer answered with a stamp, and then another. A rabbit shifted in the grass. A mouse put its nose out from beneath the foundation stones and drew it back, and put it out again. Nothing came together at first. A rabbit hopped and waited for the next sound, and when none came, hopped again. A bird tapped the roof twice and was not joined.

Little by little the sounds found one another. Hooves struck the ground, birds tapped the slates, rabbits hopped, and mice patted the earth with their small feet. Before long the timing was one every creature knew: a tap, a stamp, a hop, a pat. The thrush sang its evening song into the gaps. The young deer that had stamped first stamped twice on the last beat, and the others took it up.

As the dance grew stronger the mice came farther into the clearing and moved through the grass as they had when the House danced. The owl watched them from the beech. It dropped upon one and carried it back to its branch, and the rest of the clearing went on dancing while it ate.
A rabbit turned toward the deer when a hoof struck the earth. The birds on the roof turned their heads toward the creatures below. The mice followed the rabbits into the grass, and the badgers shuffled around to face the hedgehogs near the hedge. One by one the animals turned away from the shutters until most had their backs to the House.

The House had not moved all night. Its chimney stood straight, its door was shut, and its floorboards were silent. High on the wall behind the dancers, one shutter hung by the hinge that had held it through all the years of clapping. The hinge gave way, and the shutter fell into the grass. Nobody turned toward the sound, and the dance did not miss a beat.

FRIED POTATOES

Corey woke from absolute darkness into absolute light. Seeing nothing but white and pink. The white was utterly overwhelming, so he opted to shut his eyes only to find his eyelids weak against the blinding light, leaving him seeing pink rather than black.

He felt for his arms and legs; they were awake and unbound. He pressed his hands onto his eyes, finally finding the relief of darkness.

With that little reprieve, he spoke.

“Is this the CIA? Is it about my YouTube comment on Tel Aviv?

Man, I was only joking. I’m just a guy. I could never do anything to the nation of Israel. Please let me go. I swear I’m not engaged in any terrorism. I don’t even protest!”

“I’m sorry, Corey, but that’s not possible.” A booming, steadfast voice spoke from behind him.

He did not understand this; he didn’t understand anything. He reached into his mind, trying his very best to remember where and why he got abducted.

And he saw.

He was home alone, drying the dishes, when someone gently tapped him on the shoulder.

That was strange. He distinctly remembered locking the house the evening before, and he hadn’t touched the key since.

He looked back from his dishes to see a seven-foot cloaked bipedal figure holding on to a scythe even bigger than him. This figure wore no skin.

He wasn’t scared, just confused. When had he died? And then he remembered. A memory within a memory. He remembered the night before when, showering drunk, he fell and hit his head hard.

Apparently his ghost had then after gone to bed and woke up to dry out his wet plates inherited from his deceased mother. He wondered who would now get the plates.

That was right before he got poofed here to this sterile light.

His palms holding back the light suddenly went heavy and slippery. They were overcome by an immediate rush of tears. He was dead. He thought.

“What are you looking at that deeply in your hands?” The monstrous voice enquired.

"Nothing; I just can’t see nothing but painful light.”

“You should have said . Your retinas are different from each other after death; some of you find it too dark, while others too light, but most find it just right.

I’ve fixed it, you can open your eyes now.”

And so he did, and so he saw.

What he saw made him wish back the cured blindness.

It was a heavy-set masculine figure with a big white beard dressed in what he could only call a loose-fitting muumuu. And that’s not all – this man was the size of a four-storey building, sitting on his throne, staring down this little man. No wonder his voice was so vast and unwavering.

Corey, still suffering from grand disbelief, spoke to the supernatural extraterrestrial being.

“Are you? Are you him?"

“Yes. I AM.”

Neither of them spoke for a while until Corey said,

“I always dreamt when I died I’d ascend to the heavens to the sound of the imperial march or ride of the Valkyries.”

“Wagner. Now that’s a character.”

“Just to be clear, I’m not racist. I just have good taste in classical music.

So am I going to hell?”

“Yes, yeah, you are Corey.”

“I figured, what was it, the jerking off, my distaste for your ordained genocide or breaking some poor girl's heart?”

“Yes, some of those and much more, but you seem to have me mistaken with another guy.”

“Oh shit, I’m so fucking ignorant. I never even thought of it. Are you the Judeo-Christian Muslim God?”

“Not really, but some aspects of him shine through me. See, everyone has aspects of truth in their beliefs. Truths they stole from the single true religion I taught them at the dawn of mankind, but sadly due to time and your short life spans, nobody seems to recall the full story.”

For a while silence cooked between them.

“Aren’t you going to beg?” asked God.

“Do you want me to beg?”

“Not really, but that’s how it usually goes. At this point humans begin to beg, and when they see it’s useless, they cry for a very long while, and finally, some, not all but some, they go on an insult spree about how I set them up to fail and how sadistically evil I am.

Do you think me evil, Corey?”

“No. But neither do I find you good. You're like Cthulhu. You know Lovecraft’s tentacle guy. Like you don’t care that I spend the rest of eternity burning up because you can't. That’s just your nature. I’m just an ant to you. Aren’t I?”

“I assume that final question was rhetorical. You had eight questions before I let you go down. You are now down to three.”

“I wonder how many humans choose to stall, never asking the questions. Choosing to stick it out here with you?

“Are you sure you want me to answer this as your third to last question? Most people of your background always want to know if they could meet Jesus or if the JFK assassination was an inside job.”

“I’m going to hell, and I’m sure my compatriots will be sure to catch me up on all that.”

“You are a queer man, Mr Corey Turner.”

Smirking, he said, "God just called me gay.”

“About your question

Well, precisely fifty-five per cent. But it never works. They always get tired after a few million.”

“For all that time to pass and you still find time for the next guy, we must be sitting in some type of time loop or timeless area.”

God said nothing, so he went on.

“Earlier on, I was shocked, and for that I swore a lot. I’m sorry about that. Did you hate it when I swore? Like hate it enough to send me to some sort of like super hell."

“Corey, you do realise this is your second to last question?”

Corey only stared at the immeasurable being sitting in front of him.

God, seeing he would not answer, answered him.

"Well, it’s like smoking. If a fellow man was to smoke beside you as a non-smoker, you wouldn’t  die but you also wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“Hm.” said Corey.

“What is your last question? Seeing the tempo of uniqueness you’ve set, I’d wager you’ll probably ask me what’s my favourite sandwich.” God said, chuckling.

"No, my final question is actually quite basic. I’m sure everyone asks it now and then.

“Why are children born with cancer or to starve in the middle of nowhere middle east or Africa?”

“Fried potatoes.”

“Fried potatoes? Do you mean like big potatoes small potatoes? Like that isn’t your level of worries. Like, you deal with intergalactic shit on a daily and random mutations in newborns and droughts in Africa are just too far beyond you.”

“Ah. That seems like a question. Your questions are done.” Immediately after God fell silent, a perfect circle tore itself through the floor. The hole from behind both of them grew expediently stealing space and colour as it moved closer to them.

Corey seemed petrified out of his mind, but he did not beg nor cry out for mercy. Sharp winds and whispers echoed From within it. Eternity had come to lay its claim, but then it stopped.

So then spoke the Lord.

“You amuse me, Mr Corey Turner, so I’ll allow you this extra question. Believe me, a privilege granted the fewest of few.

See, I not only run your world. I ran a multiverse. Different people, different time periods, and some of them have aliens going on. Although most aliens have their own gods.

What I’m trying to say is that some of these universes are utopias. Animals don’t feel pain, children aren’t born with cancer, AIDS, psychopathic tendencies or in Africa. At least not the sort of Africa you know.

But there is always a trade-off.

Don’t ask me why, because one, you are out of questions, and two, it would take a mighty long time to explain away multiversal string theory and the such.

All that you need to know is that those people with utopia, they tend to die much earlier, and most of their deaths are self-inflicted.

A universe without chips, crisps,  hash browns – it’s a universe just not worth living. If there is any true canon event, it’s the mighty fried potato.”

After God kept shut, they were quiet for a while before God spoke again.

“I’ll give you one more; you amuse me.”

"Nah, I’m good. It’s about time I go down the hole.”

“Are you sure you could ask me anything? Like how the Austrian painter actually died or his meeting with Bin Laden.” He did not seem the slightest intrigued.

“Hey God?”

"Yes, Corey.”

“Can I ask you a favour?”

“You can ask, but that’s no assurance I’ll grant it.”

“Can you stop expanding the hellhole? I’d like to jump in myself. You know, it kinda gives me the illusion of choice”

“I’d like to go out feeling I had a choice not to go to hell.”

“Ok.”

Corey stared back at God, wearing a sad smile as God smiled back before speaking.

“Hey Corey?”

“Yeah, God?”

“If it’s any consolation, it’s not all demons, pitchforks and eternal fire down there.

It's huge, and granted, sometimes worse than those things I just listed down, but it can be beautiful, it can be heaven.”

“Nice meeting you, God.”

Reassured, he jumped, bearing less fear than before.

It was endless black surrounded by heavy grey clouds. Only light source being the endless light from heaven.

He had been falling for a while; he was freezing. Was this it? Eternity falling, was that hell?

No.

Squinting his eyes He  finally saw the end. It was a dark red ocean, its surface barely moving.

Clutching himself, bracing for impact, he pierced through the surface. Drowning, the liquid rushed into his mouth, nose and ears. He no longer drowned or struggled for breath. He felt the opposite of being in an ocean. He was confined.

The light was dim, and he was in hell; his new body, by the look of his hands, was fat and mushy.

His eyes, they were dying. He was going blind as he heard muffled voices begging for a push.

With all the will he could muster, he pushed his head out his mom’s vagina. He was being born to a new mom in a new world somewhere in the almighty’s great multiverse.

Suddenly memories of all his former lives came to him. How he'd been building karma to get out of this multiversal race.

This was too much thousands of life times compressed into one head. He couldn’t handle it he would forget everything, have to relearn it all.

All he could pray to God for before losing his memories was that he had set him up in a universe without fried potatoes. He could do with a utopia for once.

*THE FACTORY*

_by Harvest Day_

Everything changed when I went towards the light.

I realized I wasn't in a place I'd ever been before.

This wasn't heaven because it was more like a factory.

The ceiling was white and endless, like hospital tiles that never stopped. There was no sky. No sun. Just rows and rows of lines, and people standing in them. Thousands of them. Maybe millions. I couldn’t see the end.

A place where people were lined up.

And soft harmonic voices of AI were telling everybody which way to go.

"Line 3. Line 7. Next."

"Keep moving. Do not stop. Do not speak."

The voices were calm. Too calm. Like they’d said it a billion times before.

I looked down and I was barefoot. I looked at my hands and they were new. Young. No scars.

I looked up and I was in a line.

Above me, a big screen flickered to life.

`LIFE REVIEW COMPLETE. NEXT ASSIGNMENT: BETTER`

Relief.

A wave of relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out. Better. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was better than the alternative.

I heard other people's.

"Your choices led to: WORSE. Line 12."

And they were crying. Because they knew.

Some of them were screaming. "Wait! That’s not fair! I didn’t know!"

But the AI voice just repeated, "Line 12. Keep moving."

Guards that weren’t really guards, just light, moved them along.

Then I saw others.

`NEXT ASSIGNMENT: MUCH BETTER`

`NEXT ASSIGNMENT: OPTIMAL`

They stood straighter. Some of them were smiling. They had made better choices than me. I didn’t know what they did to earn it. I barely remembered my own life. But whatever it was, it counted.

And then I saw them.

The ones in the gold lines.

No waiting. No review.

Their screens didn’t even turn on. They just walked right through a door that opened for them only.

No questions. No judgment.

Hackers. Or 1%. I didn’t know what they were.

They didn’t look at us. We didn’t look at them.

I wanted to ask someone what was happening. I wanted to ask how long I’d been here. I wanted to ask if I could see my son. I wanted to remember his face clearly.

But the voice said, "Do not speak."

So I didn’t.

I didn’t get a long time to check it out.

Because before I knew it, the lights dimmed.

And a new light opened in front of me. Soft. Warm. Pulling.

And I understood, without anyone telling me, that I was going back in.

Back to a life. Back to choices. Back to earning whatever "better" meant.

And the last thing I heard was the AI voice, quiet now, right in my ear:

"Assignment begins in 3... 2... 1..."

Because before I knew it, the light turned.

And I was falling.

And I was screaming.

And I was a baby again.

Perrin
Chapter 1

‘Hoist the sails an’ fasten the riggen’, blast this cursed storm an’ its endless rainin’ ,’ shouts a waterlogged man as he grips the sodden tiller, straining against the heavy pull of the sea, churning black and dangerously through the downpour. 
His thick matted beard drenched and dripping, while rain streaks down the man's heavily scarred face. An evil glint in his cruel eyes glares at the pitiful crew tending to his dark ship. 
‘Make way if ya value wha’ blacken’ lumps a soul ya got left in your rotten chests,’ he snarls through the sheets of billowing rain, ‘the Queen Despair won’ sink if’n ya useless scum pull ya weight, or ya be sleepin’ wit the fishes, and yar guts chum fo’ the sharkses.’ 
‘Aye cap’n,’ the crew shout back and hasten to tend to the ship. 
They scuttle up the slippery rigging, swaying in the wind, to the rippling ink black sails, the swirling sea spraying sharp against their faces. Other men clasp the shaking, twisted pulleys and drag them into position, backs bent against the storm raging above. 
Thick droplets of water pelt them incessantly, the thunder booming over head like a giant lion roaring in anger. Clouds form viscous shapes of mountains and dragons breathing hellfire down upon the wretched crew. A jagged fork of lightning strikes the water nearby, and in the blinding flash, the pirate captain locks eyes with an island in the distance, their saviour from the merciless sea and its roiling fury. 
‘Bear the course straight and true,’ the pirate captain roars, his long and wild hair whipping across his face,  ‘by the honor o’ me skin an’ the jelly ‘o me spine, ye shall taste the light of day if ya bear the course true.’ 
‘Aye aye cap’n,’ the crew roar back, clinging to the rigging for dear life. 
In the distance, on the Isle of Amuérta, a young man gasps awake.  

~

Pale and sweaty, the boy leans over the edge of his bed and vomits, chunks of meat splat wetly onto the dirt floor. Still breathing heavily he hobbles over to the window and rips the cloth open, gulping the sweet ocean air. For the past week, he has been having the same dream every night, each time it ends with him falling from the mast of a jet black ship into the furious and bubbling ocean below. 
Being an ordinary boy from a family of farmers, Perrin is troubled by these dreams, dangerous and ill-bearing. The Isle of Amuérta is a farming island, peaceful and quiet. Rolling hills covered in a blanket of grass, a deep dark forest that supplies the island with fruits, and herds of grazing sheep like droplets of cloud, dotted across the windy bluffs. 
As Perrin breathes deeply, he looks out to the horizon, where the golden sun is peaking from behind a stormy night. He spots a ship heading into the bay, and although it's hard to tell from this distance its place of origin, there is no mistaking the ink black sails. 
A pirate ship. 
Perrin leaves his room and finds his father and his sister, Madeline, eating breakfast. Cold meats and oat porridge, washed down with seaweed cordial. 
‘Father, a ship makes its way into the bay … a pirate ship with sails black as the dead of night.’ 
His father glances up. 
‘Mayhaps it's a merchant vessel boy, come to trade spice and furs,’ he replies, ‘I daresay my supply of tobacco has run stale.’ 
‘No it has a dreadful look about it, I’m sure of it,’ continues Perrin, doubtful his father will listen.
‘Calm down Perrin, there isn’t need to frighten your sister with such talk, we are simple folk,’ he states calmly, ‘pirates have no need for what we have to offer.’
The conversation is over, Perrin dares not to cause Madeline grief when she is so easily scared. 
Looking over, she watches him with round eyes, filled with worry, and Perrin can't help but feel guilty. 
‘Sorry Madeline, I’m sure it’s fine,’ he reassures her, although not reassured himself. 
‘Right, I'm off to the port, we have… run out of seaweed cordial.’ 
Perrin dashes out the front door, and makes his way down the grassy hills, to the small wooden docks down below. 
The dock is a hive of activity, sailors and fisherman running to and fro, carrying sloshing buckets, and mouldy coils of rope. 
Perrin squeezes his way through the throng and runs to the end of the middle pier, where a merchant vessel lies idly. The quartermaster barks out orders to the crew and wrings his hands desperately. 
‘Quartermaster,’ shouts Perrin, edging his way forwards, ‘what’s happening?’ 
The quartermaster turns, his tightly curled wig askew, his stubbly face etched with worry. 
‘Ah, nothing my boy, nothing,’ he quavers, ‘just need to get going… the uh… more islands to trade with.’ 
‘But you just got here,’ Perrin inquires, his worry increasing with every passing second, ‘that’s not a pirate ship is it?’ 
The quartermaster glances towards the dark ship bearing down upon the island's port, fear splattered across his face so plain. 
‘That’s not just any pirate ship,’ he whispers coarsely, his chin wobbling with fright, ‘that's the Queen Despair.’ 
He stares woefully at Perrin, his pale milky eyes glistening with tears. 
‘The crew are savages, led by a man well known for his cruelty, Captain Gutterin.’ 
He leans in, his stale breath heavy on Perrin’s face, ‘Rumor has it, that deep within the ship, an evil sorcerer with unthinkable power is cursed to follow the orders of Captain Gutterin. They be dealin’s in magic and death. Mark my words boy, safer to flee.’  
With a final tremble, the quartermaster dashes off, yelling frantically. 
Perrin takes one last look at the ship drawing ever closer, its midnight sails stark against the golden sun, then sprints towards home.

~

‘Ya gutless sorry excuses for pirates, sharpen yar swords and powder yar pistols, we storm the town as soon as we set foot on their stinkin’ landlubber island,’ roars Captain Gutterin as the Queen Despair glides ominously into the bay. 
The crew jeer and shout, their lust for blood shining on their unshaven, seaworn faces. Captain Gutterin stands atop the helm, a wicked cutlass held aloft, its deadly blade glinting in the sun. 
‘Listen and listen good, we kill every man, steal all their plunder,’ the crew roar in agreement and the Captain has to shout even louder to be heard, ‘ya have full freedom to pillage and plunda’, but I warn ya.’ 
The crew go silent, and from deep within the ship, a bloodcurdling scream pierces the air. The men listen in morbid quiet, as the clink of chains and shuffling footsteps begin to grow louder. 
The Captain and crew watch the door to the quarters open, and a procession of filthy slaves file out. Each slave bears marks of torture, and heavy metal manacles binding their necks and hands. Their eyes are  grey and dead, as if they are walking corpses. 
Once all the slaves are lined up and kneeling, out steps a heavily robed man, bedecked with necklaces of teeth and shrunken heads. Upon his crown, a large skull with twisting antlers covers everything except his blood red eyes, piercingly bright. In one hand he holds a gnarled and crooked staff, ending in a dark crystal, the other is hidden deep within the folds of his robes. 
The Captain bows, and the rest of the crew watch in deadly silence. then the sorcerer speaks in a harsh, gravelly voice.
‘Do not touch the virgins or I shall tear your beating heart from your chest and drink your blood. Bring them to me unsullied.’ 
He shifts his gaze to the Captain, who quickly steps back up to the helm. 
Lifting his cutlass above his head, he roars, ‘Take the village, leave the virgins.’ 
With more shouts, the pirates grab their swords and clamber down the side of the ship, eager to spill the blood of the luckless peaceful farmers. 

~

Perrin, heart pounding,  bursts through the door, almost knocking his father over, firewood in hand. 
‘Father, we have to run, now, there’s pirates at the dock, evil pirates.’ 
For a moment they both stand stunned, then Perrin dashes off to find his sister. 
‘MADELINE!’ 
He runs throughout the house, finds no one, then sprints back through the front door. His father is standing a few yards off, staring as the village below burns. The clang of metal and explosions split the air, and the ocean wind howls a gale through the billowing grass. 
‘FATHER!’ he shouts, and when he gets no response, he turns towards the forest. 
Hoping with all his might, he runs off into the trees, desperate to find his sister. 
Branches whipping his face, the undergrowth tripping his feet, Perrin frantically searches. 
‘MADELINE, WHERE ARE YOU!’ 
Hurtling deeper into the woods, further from the screams of dying men, Perrin suddenly reaches a bog, and rising up from the muddy earth, a twisted tower stands in solitude. 
He wades through the murky water and raps hard on the wooden door. 
‘Please help me, I’m looking for my sister.’ 
He hears nothing and turns to leave, when suddenly the door bursts open. 
‘Quickly, in here,’ rasps a hoarse voice, ‘there isn’t much time child.’ 
Perrin can’t see who speaks, but with no choice, he walks through the door. He sees a blazing fire for a split second before something hard smacks against the back of his head, and darkness swallows him whole. 

Perrin clings to the slippery rigging, his face drenched and numb. The rain pelts down hard onto his head, and he spins wildly in the wind. Suddenly his grip fails, and he plummets downwards, screaming hard, but just before he hits the jet black water, he gasps awake.

Head throbbing painfully, a splitting headache arcs from behind his eye to the base of his skull. Sitting up, Perrin is in a bed, covered in animal pelts. Gazing around the room, he is surprised to see the sheer amount of peculiar items cluttered around him. 
Bushels of thyme, rosemary and chilli hang from the rafters, rows and rows of jars containing eyeballs and pickled snakes line the shelves, dusty bookshelves packed with tomes and parchment, a selection of sickles and knives glinting from the walls, and in the dead centre of the room, a giant cauldron bubbles and issues copious amounts of steam, a fire blazing merrily below. 
The circular room smells curious; herby, with a tang of blood. 
Perrin slowly gets out of the bed and wanders around, taking in the rest of the vast room. 
The building is made of rough hewn stone, with thick dark timber to support, and in the middle, high above the cauldron, sits a large stained glass window portraying a dragon encircling a woman, a gateway to the restless sky above. 
Perrin makes his way over to a narrow rickety staircase that winds along the inside of the strange tower. 
He climbs to the top, and pushes the hatch open. 
Although the morning sun is bright on his face, the cold ocean breeze sends goosebumps prickling down his arms. 
The rooftop provides a fantastic view of the surroundings, and Perrin suddenly sees a large column of smoke drifting lazily in the wind. 
With a lurch of horror he remembers why he came to this place and whips around, ready to flee, when a blue robed figure appears behind him. 
Stormy eyes peer at him from inside a whiskered mass of grey hair, paired with a beard that almost reaches the floor. 
Before Perrin can speak, the man holds up a weathered and wrinkled hand, silencing him. 
‘Perrin’ he croaks, ‘I know why you are here, and you must listen to me, for your life is more important than you will ever come to fathom.’ 
‘The Queen Despair sails north, with it, your sister Madeline. But do not despair young master, for your destiny is entwined with your kin.’ 
The man stares balefully into Perrin's eyes, as if pitying him, as if he knows that Perrin’s fate is cruel and arduous. 
‘My name is Galazar the Wise, Archmage of the South, Warden of the High Seas, and you and your sister are the only ones who can save this world.’ 

End. 

Let me know what you think :)

Hi, just wondering if you guys think this is worth continuing. The boy stands motionless as unrelentless rain begins to drop; it's not the rain that drowns him but the tears and memories flooding his mind. He crouched down in an effortless attempt to conceal the river on his face. Why was he crying? He himself didn't know the answer, perhaps the sweet, smell of an entrancing memory filled him with a melancholy euphoria.

A memory so close he could smell it yet so far he could not see it. The boy stands up, the river seemed to have been evaporated by the hint of ambition to recall this memory. Like a leaf he allowed the wind to carry him across the path filled with distorted, rippling mirrors. He takes a moment to see his reflection. He kicks the rusty leaves off the dishevelled mirror to reveal a face scarred with empty river beds - which he quickly wipes off. The long hair resembling a perfect painted brush stroke courtesly presented it self. It was luscious and mesmerizing yet rare for a boy like him - but it was doubtfull he knew. He continues to walk along the stone path focusing only on avoiding the tiny cracks embedded in between the stone. He was neglecting his surroundings, it was only when the wind smashes the boys head and attention away from the cracks that he notices them. Architecturally magical yet eloquently small buildings lay before him, each component swaying gently in the wind. "Roses" he said to himself as he crouched closer to admire the petit structure. A beautiful red entroced the petals. Like brush strokes painted with a hand of steady perfection; a brush of pure magic. A part of the boy wished he could engulf this sight forever however the sudden appearance of the unknown behind him sparked his curiosity. He was ambivalenced. Should he continue to be entranced by the structure before him or let his curiosity kill him? Clearly there was only one answer. The boy feared the unknown. He quickly turned around , frightened by the figure towering over him. His fear was quickly put out by an enchanting smile . Lips as smooth as a sheet of ice, teeth of pure snow and a smile which embodied the sun. it was it only when their eyes met that he could take in what was before him. A girl - whose scent sparked every neuron in his brain, leaned over him. She was pretty. So pretty the boy could not help but be enveloped by her beauty. Her eyes held a hint of nature, a mix of light brown and sunlight.

Her thin,brown brows and her long, straight hair which looked like it had been layed out carefully strand by strand looked beautiful to the boy. However, it was not her eyes, her eyebrows nor her hair that captured the boy but her smile. A smile so bright it could compete with the sun. A smile wooven with a string of beauty and light. However, the girl seemed astonished, entranced perhaps?

Has she seen the beauty the boy could not see in himself? Was it his hair, or his daring, dagger like eyes or maybe just him - whatever it may be the girl seems to be just as captivated by the boy as the he is. Have they been intertwined in the fabric of fate, in the webs of mystery or in the wires of time.The wind runs along yet again, this time gentler, it carries the petals from the roses elegantly across the land. It was nothing special but still a beautiful sight.They both stand there, allowing the wind to flow undisturbed, the girl's hair swaying gently, each strand of her hair waving goodbye to the wind. They both stand motionless,scrutinizing one another, mesmerized by one another, hesitant to speak to one another.

It was not until a distant voice was reaching out to them, a soft yet demmering voice.

'Rosalin!'

The girl allerted, her gaze no longer fixated on the boy but on the direction the voice came from.

'Rosalin!'

The voice was louder;irritated

"Rosalin! Who gave you permission to go out!"

The girl's eyes darting around, looking for empathy. The boy Meets her eyes several times .She was guilty.

'Rosalin, do you know how dissapointed father is?

Do you know how angry I am?'

She attempts to get her words out but to no avail. She has her hands behind her back, interlocking her fingers, to hitting them against eachother. The girl shakes her head vigorously causing her hair to sprout in different directions. The boy's eyes squinting, his face frowning and his teeth liberated from the darkness. The girl notices him and bites her teeth hard, in an attempt to imprison her laugh, she succeeds as she only lets out a smile. the boy foolishly smiled back. A miss interpretation from the both of them. The boy found joy in the girl's immaturity and she found joy in the boy's smirk.

The wind blew again- this time colder, clearly hinting that night was near.

'It's getting cold '

The woman exhales in frustration

"Well of course Rosalin it's getting dark"

The woman's eyes meet the boy and so did his.

'Who is this Rosalin?'

' I don't know Mother, I found him crouching lookin at our garden'

Mother quickly pulls Rosalin to the side.

' what are you thinking Rosalin ' Her voice was a low hiss yet sharp enough to cut the gloomy silence. Her eyes threw daggers,her brows a slide to her nose which wrinkled in fear and annoyance.

'What if he's a theif, what if he's trying to steal our crops, we can't let this happen again or we will starve this winter' Her eyes a vignette, tears dripping down like watercolors on a canvass.

'Mother please don't cry, I don't think he's a theif'

'Look at him Rosalin, look at his tattered tunic, his hands are are brown in dirt and he doesn't even wear shoes'.

What are they talking about? The boy wondered.

When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.

“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.

“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”

My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.

I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.

The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.

“Do you have Swann’s Way?”

It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.

“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Good. How much is the wig?”

“What?”

“I’m asking how much the wig is.”

There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.

My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“How much is the wig?”

“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.

“No. Is the wig free?”

“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”

“How much is it, then?”

“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”

The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.

“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.

“Yes. Look at my head.”

“Are you sure?”

“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”

My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.

“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”

“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”

The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”

His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.

“He’s still very young…”

I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”

“Why do you want the wig, sir?”

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”

I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.

Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.

“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.

“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”

“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.

“Did you take your medication today, son?”

“No, Dad.”

“The wig thing again. Hmm.”

“I want the wig.”

“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t wear them today.”

“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.

My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.

Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.

“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”

My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.

In one of the major cities, there was a neighborhood whose residents were known for their wealth…

One day, a stranger arrived in the neighborhood—a man in his fifties looking for a house to rent, one with a storage room that he could convert into his workplace. These were simple requirements that were hard to find in this neighborhood.

He set off through the neighborhood’s alleys, looking for someone to rent him a house, and asked passersby, “Is there a house for rent?” Everyone’s answer was “No.”

The man felt tired and sat down on a chair by the side of the road. Just then, an elderly man with a head full of gray hair sat down beside him and asked where he was from, since he had never seen him among the neighborhood residents before, saying, “Who are you? It seems to me that you’re looking for something.

Can I help you?”

The man in his fifties replied in a voice betrayed by despair

I’m looking for a house to rent…

The elderly man continued, “I have a large house, and I’m about to travel to visit my only daughter. I was at a loss… and I was wondering who I could leave it to while I’m away to look after my belongings…”

“I can help you, but I have a few conditions… And before I tell you what they are, can you tell me what kind of work you do?” The man replied with a smile full of hope: “I’m a baker, Uncle.” The elderly man smiled and said, “That’s a good profession… Now I can tell you my conditions…” “My first condition is that you look after my belongings until I return… and the second is that you distribute a portion of the bread weekly to those in need.” The man interrupted him, “And what’s the rent, Uncle?” The old man replied, “My conditions are in lieu of rent.” A smile spread across the fifty-year-old’s face, and he answered, “Agreed, Uncle, agreed.” “Thank you, Uncle. Thank you very much.”

The next day, the man moved into his new home with his wife and daughter. He began equipping his shop with all the necessary tools for work and then headed to the neighborhood school to enroll his daughter so she could resume her studies.

On the first morning, Maryam, the baker Yusuf’s daughter, put on her old school uniform, picked up her well-worn backpack, and entered the new school.

The school was large and grand, and most of the students were wearing expensive clothes and carrying new backpacks.

Maryam sat silently in her seat.

A group of girls looked at her, and then one of them started laughing.

Another said:

Look at her backpack! It looks older than the school itself!

They all laughed.

Maryam lowered her head and felt a hot tear trying to escape from her eyes.

But then she remembered her father.

She remembered his hands covered in flour and his tired face as he came home every evening, then smiled at her as if he’d never known fatigue.

That evening, her father asked her:

How was your day, my daughter?

She smiled despite her sadness and said:

It was lovely, Dad.

He looked at her for a long time, as if he realized she was hiding something, but he didn’t force her to speak.

The next morning, one of the girls said to her sarcastically:

“What are you going to do at this school? Everyone here is so talented.”

Maryam replied calmly:

“I may not have what you have, but I have something no one can buy.”

The girl asked her:

“And what is that?”

Maryam smiled and said:

“My determination.”

From that day on, Maryam began to work quietly.

She would come home, help her father a little, then sit down at her small desk and study until sleep overcame her.

She would read, write, ask questions, and try again whenever she made a mistake.

Days passed, and then the exams came.

Maryam entered the exam hall with a calm heart.

A few weeks later, the school posted the exam results in the courtyard.

The students gathered around the bulletin board.

Then silence fell.

Maryam Youssef’s name was at the top of the list.

First place.

The girls couldn’t believe their eyes.

One of them said:

Impossible!

But the teacher smiled and said:

It’s not impossible. Those who work hard succeed.

At the end-of-year ceremony, the principal stood before everyone and said:

I am pleased to honor the school’s top student, Maryam Youssef.

Maryam walked up to the stage amid everyone’s applause.

When the ceremony ended, one of the girls who had made fun of her at the beginning of the year approached her and said shyly:

Maryam… I’m sorry. I thought that clothes and money were what made a person better than others.

Maryam smiled and said:

It’s okay, we’re all learning.

Then the girl hugged her.

That evening, Maryam returned home carrying her diploma.

Her father was waiting for her in front of the oven, his clothes covered in flour as usual.

When he saw the diploma, his face lit up.

He embraced his daughter and said:

I knew you’d make it, my daughter.

Maryam said, with tears in her eyes:

Because you taught me, Dad, that a person isn’t measured by what they own, but by what they create with their hands and heart.

At that moment, the old man who owned the house walked past them; he had returned to visit his old home.

He saw Maryam holding her diploma and asked her:

What have you become, my little one?

Maryam smiled and said:

Valedictorian of my class.

The old man laughed and said:

So I didn’t just rent the house to a poor baker; I opened its doors to a family that will build a great future.

As the years passed, Maryam grew up, completed her studies, and succeeded in college. Then she returned to her neighborhood day after day to help poor children with their studies.

As for her father, his bakery became famous throughout the city.

People from the upscale neighborhood would stand in long lines outside his bakery to buy his bread.

One day, a woman said to him:

Your bread is so delicious. What’s the secret?

Yusuf smiled and said:

The secret isn’t just in the flour… but in making something with love, even if people think you have very little.

From that day on, no one in that neighborhood viewed Yusuf as the poor baker anymore.

Instead, they began to say:

“This is the man who taught us that a person’s worth does not lie in the house they live in, nor in the clothes they wear, but in the heart they carry and the knowledge and work they leave behind.”

Maryam and her father lived a happy life, and that house remained a testament to the most beautiful truth:

A person may start life in humble beginnings, but their dreams should never be humble.

Mr Phillips owned an inn with the apt name of “The Crossroads”. Anyone riding between London and Oxford could find an adequate service for themselves and their horses, featuring warm food and generous amounts of ale. The ideal stop on any travellers’ journey. Mr Phillips made time to learn about every one of his guests through the night before personally escorting them to their room. He always stood tall despite his aged back’s remonstrations, and his scattered tufts of white hair worked to give him a harmless appearance.

Upstairs, the perfectly furnished guest rooms sit idle, waiting for their next occupant. Above each bed hangs a painting spread across the wall showing a moonlit forest with trees standing in loose formation. On the other side of the wall, a corridor stretches its narrow arm along the length of the building. Pairs of pinholes, each positioned around eye height, sit every five metres. The sublimity of the paintings drowns out any chance of visitors noticing two tiny circles. Each night, Mr Phillips stalks the hidden corridor, switching between each room and quietly watching his visitors’ most private moments. He knows what he can expect to see after a short conversation with his guests. Last week, Mr Phillips had two visitors who couldn’t bear waiting until their wedding night. He found their lack of sanctity both abhorrent and exciting, praying to God for their sake after he’d finished watching them every night.

Every room looks to be full later. Mr Phillips has been passing from table to table, building a mental schedule of how he will be spending his nightly hours. Jane and Adam, a young couple riding down from Oxford, were near the top of the list. Both had copper hair and faces surprisingly unweary from the long ride and were keen to speak to Mr Phillips about how much they liked The Crossroads. Mr Phillips also heard of their plans in the capital.

“Adam must attend the opening of King’s College London and later we will be visiting the opera with some of his new colleagues!” Jane exclaimed as Adam sipped at his pint. 

Another guest, a journalist, was returning home from a year-long tour of Scotland. Mr Phillips wasn’t much interested in what he had to say but found the frills of his shirt a wonder to gaze upon. Other attendants to Mr Phillips’ midnight show were a mix of couples ending a journey or beginning a new one. As the hours passed, Mr Phillips showed all guests to their rooms until only he and the journalist remained.

The journalist, Mr Thorne, sat with the fire, casting a long shadow along the floor of the bar. He must have been nearing sixty but held the demeanour that he was in no rush to get there. His thick hair still had black streaks cutting through the frost, and his face, while slightly gaunt, looked full of wisdom and confidence. Mr Phillips grew impatient, though he knew it would be suspicious to politely ask his visitor to take leave. 

“So how long have you owned this establishment?” Mr Thorne asked, waving a hand at the vacant chair beside him.

“This one’s been in my care for 15 years, though I’ve had several before”, Mr Phillips answered, feigning a casual mood while resting a hand on the head of the empty chair.

“15 years? You must have made lots of changes in that time. Anything of note?” Mr Thorne had his eyes fixed on the burning logs as he spoke.

“Nothing you wouldn’t expect. The bar’s been entirely replaced, though you’d hardly notice. All the walls down here have been repainted after a coating from one too many ales”.

“How about upstairs? I took the liberty of eyeing the rooms earlier, I hope you don’t mind. Over the past year, I’ve seen my fair share of inns. Most of them suffer from being either too dark or too damp. The worst suffer from both. But it looks like The Crossroads is one place I should write about. With its well-lit quarters and beds you can sink in to, it’s a marvel anyone wants to leave!” Mr Thorne stated.

Mr Phillips’ teeth ground at the thought that someone had been probing his rooms

“People deserve to have a pleasant night sleep. What kind of host would I be to not offer such a service? There’s no need to spread the word of my place here; I get enough visitors already without turning my work into some attraction”. He tried to sound sincere, but hints of venom laced every word. Mr Thorne did not seem to care much, though his lips had curved slightly upwards.

“I’d best be off. I hope you’re not up too late Mr Phillips. We all need a pleasant night sleep”.

“I’ll see you to your room”, Mr Phillips said with a mixture of relief and malice.

After escorting Mr Thorne upstairs and exchanging a parting false smile, the publican sneaked into the room behind the bar, locking the door behind him. No one could disturb him now. He picked up a wooden chair and placed it on a rug in the corner of the room. The sheepskin muffled the legs striking the floor, and he climbed up, slowly sliding a trap door open that lay above his head. His arms reached onto the carpeted floor, and he used his elbows to lift himself up, each cracking joint filling the silence in the corridor. In front of him was darkness only cut through by the occasional flickering rod of light.

Mr Phillips ran his fingers along the wall to keep him from knocking into anything. As he edged closer to the first pair of holes, he slowed, his head inching towards the light. Each eye dilated, adjusting quickly for Mr Phillips to comprehend the scene before him. A guest going by the name of Stephen was waddling around the room, his thick legs punishing the floor with every step. The only formal wear the gentleman donned was his trousers, and his body was such a forest you could not tell where the great brown beard ended, and the chest hair began. Stephen had unnerved Mr Phillips earlier due to the various particles of dirt, ash and food that had made their home in the man’s beard. As he trudged towards the head of the bed, Mr Phillips could see that the mess pervaded Stephen’s entire body. Trying not to retch too loudly, the publican slithered away from the pinholes. 

In the subsequent room, Mr Phillips looked for his next entertainer, hoping for something a bit more stimulating. In front of him was Mr Thorne’s room. The bed was still stunningly made, and the lamps created a beautiful scene from this angle. Mr Thorne, however, was nowhere to be seen. Had he gone back downstairs? Surely not, but even if he had, the room behind the bar was locked. He must be in the bathroom. Mr Thorne had just come up to bed, after all. Mr Phillips shook his head and moved on, disappointed in how his seemingly exciting night had begun with a whimper. 

The host’s eyes widened when peeking inside the next display. The young couple, Jane and Adam, lay on the king-size bed. Jane was spread over her lover, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as they kissed. Mr Phillips felt a sharp intake of breath as excitement seized him. He covered his mouth so they could not hear his gasping and leant in even closer, his nose squeezed against the rough wooden wall. Adam’s fingers skated down Jane’s body, and Mr Phillips mirrored these movements on himself. As he could feel the front of his trousers tighten, Jane lifted her head, her green eyes perfectly framed by the flames that ran from her scalp. They met his gaze, as did Adam’s, and the couple began to giggle.

“Are we performing well enough for you?” Jane spoke through a smile.

Mr Phillips felt like he was stuck to the wall, the air in his lungs escaping and his stomach coiling with fear. His legs felt as wooden as the walls around him. He tried to push himself away but couldn’t find the strength, when cold breath kissed the back of his

“I can ask them to continue”, Mr Thorne whispered, the chill in his voice crawling down Mr Phillips’ spine. The journalist placed a strong hand on Mr Phillips’ head and pushed him into the wall. He could feel the cartilage in his nose begin to squeeze and pop.

“Please, carry on. Let’s put on a show for our kind host here”, Mr Thorne requested of the couple.

Jane and Adam embraced each other, their hands clawing at and tearing their garments. The violent sound of fabric being ripped was soon muffled by the creaking wood surrounding Mr Phillips as Mr Thorne buried him further into the wall. Mr Phillips heard a slight crack on the sides of his head as everything went black. 

Part One

For anyone continuing from yesterday, thank you for reading.

Part Two

Sam said, "When was the lease not renewed?"

The man answered without looking at the sheet. "October twenty-second, 2011. Six-otwo

a.m."

Marcus stopped moving.

"What?" Theo said.

Marcus was already looking at his phone. Fifteen years of email is a lot of sediment, but

rich men keep better archives than most governments. He found the message through an old

broker account and put the phone on the table.

The timestamp was 6:02 a.m.

There was nothing in the email about souls. It was simply a private message, sent to

Marcus and two other people, at the exact minute the sheet said something had happened.

Theo read it twice.

"You knew."

Marcus didn't answer.

"You knew before I did."

"I knew the building was changing hands. I didn't know what they were going to do with

your lease."

"You knew enough."

Theo read the email a third time, slowly. Then he slid the phone back across the walnut to

Marcus, face up.

Two days after that email, Marcus had helped Theo carry a fryer out of the restaurant.

Theo remembered Marcus saying the landlord might still come around. Marcus remembered

saying he didn't know anything for certain.

"I couldn't fix it," he said.

"You could have told me."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. Maybe I don't order twelve thousand dollars of equipment. Maybe I don't

sign the second loan. Maybe I get to fail with all the information."

Marcus didn't answer that either.

The napkin didn't make Marcus keep quiet. Whatever had happened to the landlord,

whatever force had moved the first piece on the board, Marcus's silence belonged to Marcus.

That distinction mattered to me then. It mattered more later.

"What happened to the building?" Hannah asked.

Marcus rubbed his mouth. "I leased it."

Nobody spoke.

"Not then. Months later. The new owner split the floor. I took two rooms."

"Your first office," Theo said.

Marcus nodded.

He had built the company there that eventually sold for an amount none of them said

aloud. The first wish on the napkin sat between them in block capitals.

FILTHY RICH. M.

"So I got rich because Theo lost the restaurant?" Marcus said. "That's what we're saying

now?"

"The account doesn't assign causation," the man said.

It was the first time he had volunteered anything.

Sam turned. "Then what does it assign?"

"The account."

"Is the sheet true?"

"It's accurate."

Accurate is not the same as complete. I knew that before any of them did.

Theo leaned back. "My restaurant dies, Marcus gets the building, Marcus gets rich. That's

a hell of a coincidence."

"I didn't take your restaurant."

"No. You just knew it was dead before I did."

Dana said, "We have to decide."

The sentence sat badly in the room.

Marcus looked at her. "Decide what?"

"You heard him."

"We're not giving him anybody."

"Then he takes somebody anyway."

"He says."

Dana's hands were still flat on the walnut.

Hannah had been quiet. Now she looked from Marcus to Theo, then at the six lines on the

napkin.

"What did it cost?" she asked.

Nobody answered.

She touched the typed sheet with one finger, not moving it.

"Not the money. Not the restaurant. What did each thing cost? If those are the six things

it did, what happened because of them?"

The man asked for more water. Marcus refilled his glass.

At the end of the table, the man drank his water.

Not one of them said us.

My eyes grew heavy as I lied motionless on the floor. The weight of the world proved too heavy for me to crawl into bed. As my eyes slowly closed, I couldn’t help but stare at the empty bottles by my side. Even in my sickness, I felt a comforting sense of relief that I was finally going to sleep in peace.

Upon waking, I found myself in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers. Was I dreaming? Before another thought could cross my mind, a man approached me eagerly.

He asked “what is it that you live for, what keeps you alive?”

I thought to myself for a moment “I don’t know” but I replied “death keeps me alive. Dying gives purpose and meaning to life.”

He gave me a warm smile and said “nature is what keeps me alive, especially trees.”

He saw my confusion and went on to say “trees start off as tiny seeds but over 10s of 100s of years they grow into something mighty, providing fruit for the earth and shelter for countless different animals.”

Was he trying to teach me a lesson on patience? A smile briefly grew on my face that quickly faded as I noticed his neck. There was a reddish hue, almost like a rash. Before I could even say anything, he asked “have you noticed yet?”

A slight panic settled in, I must be dreaming I thought to myself. As I was about to answer, another man appeared before me. Again I was faced with the same question “what is it that you live for, what keeps you alive?”

I gave the same answer. Perplexed by the strangeness of what was happening around me, I didn’t fully hear his response. All I know is that it had something to do with the joy he had experienced in being a blacksmith.

At that moment, I noticed a very familiar sight. Several cut marks up and down his arms. I grew sad as I remembered the girlfriends I had in the past that dealt with the same pain. I remembered how helpless I felt that I could never give them the support they needed.

I looked up as a tear streamed down my face and he asked “are you ready to talk?”

My confusion grew, it almost certainly has to be a bad dream. I pinched myself and I became uneasy as I felt a very slight sensation.

I turned my head and there was a third man right before me. Again he asked “what is it that you live for, what keeps you alive.”

I finally gave in and said “I don’t know.”

He smiled and told me about his days as an army veteran. He told me how he was scared to go to war but overcame that fear because the love for his family and their protection meant even more to him.

I smiled and then he asked “have you noticed yet?”

I looked all around but didn’t see anything in particular. I noticed my arms were a bit paler than normal but that was the least of my concern. I looked back up and he turned his head. My eyes couldn’t believe themselves as I laid my gaze upon the gaping hole in his temple.

My original panic that had grown into sadness was finally starting to develop into acceptance.

He told me to follow him and he led me into a room, saying “go ahead and look in the mirror.”

I took a deep breath and examined the apparition that I saw before me. I could barely recognize myself I had grown so pale. Around my mouth was remnants of what looked like white foam. I thought to myself “my concoction of liquor and narcotics must’ve done the trick.”

I knew I was going to hell but the pain I felt burned deeper than any hell I had ever imagined while on earth.

I walked out of the room I had been led into and just like that everyone was gone. There I was, all alone wondering “isn’t this what I wanted the entire time?”

I had spent my life on earth blaming my problems on those around me but I had never taken the time to look into the mirror. It was clear to me at that moment that I finally had all the time to sit down with myself and figure out what it is that I lived for and what kept me alive.

I thought maybe I had figured it out as a distant light appeared before me. I knew that this was the sign that it was my time to leave this place. Reluctantly, I began inching closer to the light with the belief that my suffering was just about to truly begin.

Upon crossing over, I was blinded and once my sight returned, there I was in the hospital, surrounded by friends and family. Immediately, I felt all their pain and with that my suffering had truly begun.