r/shortstories

It’s 1972. My husband is cheating on me with his secretary. I know it, his family knows it, everyone at the company knows it—and now he’s also cheating on me with the HR coordinator.
Two things are certain: he’s a son of a bitch… and a goddamn sexual machine. Quite the stamina for an overweight smoker pushing forty.

Privilege doesn’t help me. While a housewife would have to wake up, pack the kids’ lunches, take them to school, and tidy the house, I spend my mornings in pajamas, smoking and drinking coffee with whiskey.
The nanny gets the children ready, the maids clean the house, and the driver takes them to school.

My poor creatures.
Even though I keep them entertained with television or send them off to the club, I haven’t been able to shield them from my decline.

They’ve watched me transform from a happy wife and devoted mother into something half-human—when I’m not numbed by Prozac, I’m locked in my bedroom sobbing, and when I do appear, it’s with eyeliner drawn too thick to hide the swollen eyes from all the crying.

I was diagnosed with depression.
The psychiatrist says the problem is in me—that I don’t produce enough serotonin, something very common in women.
My mother and my sisters say it’s not a big deal, that I have everything to be happy.

But my depression has a name and a last name.
My soul, my entire life, the love of my life… does not love me the way I love him—and never has.

I admire him for many reasons. He’s brilliant. Successful. He has a sharp mind for business, a sensitivity for art… and an insatiable appetite for asses and tits.
I, on the other hand, have only one passion: him.

He believes money makes him irresistible.
He believes desire belongs to him.

He was born into privilege and knew how to use it. I played my part too: I’m a woman who looks good, dresses well, knows how to speak, knows how to laugh at the right moment.
When I’m not falling apart, of course.

When we got married, I swore I would never become my mother. I would never lose my figure, never stop taking care of myself, never spend too much time on the children. That way I could always be available to him. I could never disappoint him.
Aerobics, tennis at the club, befriending his partners, taking his mother to the salon. Everything for him.

I gave him two beautiful children.
My daughter is brilliant.
My son is captain of the soccer team.

They’re perfect. They’re everything we did right… before everything started to rot.

My mother told me that infatuation only lasts the first few years. That was never my case.

My devotion is total.
It doesn’t ration itself.
It never rests.

In return, he gives me the house in Las Lomas and the lifestyle, a kiss on the cheek before leaving for work, and coming home every night—even if it’s at dawn and smelling like another woman.

And even though I’ve become invisible to him for quite some time now, I’m still convenient.
It’s easier for him this way—to tell his lovers he stays with me for the children, and keep everything neatly in place.

Tell me, light of my life… when did you become what you are now?

I remember when we used to walk at night through Roma, making absurd plans about moving to Paris.
We searched for Ethiopian jazz records because you said that’s where true freedom lived.
We danced in record stores.
We kissed with our eyes closed so the world would disappear and only we would remain.

I remember telling you the most painful parts of my childhood.
The emptiness my father’s suicide left behind.
I remember your embrace.
I remember thinking: this is where I belong.

Is it the devil tempting you with the most banal pleasures?
Is this your midlife crisis?

My love, this tragedy is devouring us.
Well… it’s devouring me, while you’re out there fucking like it’s the end of the world.

But I’ll tell you one thing, Damián: when I die, I will come back.

All this love I feel for you will make me speak to you from beyond the grave.
I will become something that haunts you.
When you make love, you’ll hear my laments.
I’ll find a way to give you erectile dysfunction from the afterlife.

The psychiatrist told me to write.
And here I am, my fingers numb over this damn typewriter, smoking one cigarette after another as ash gathers between the keys.
I can’t stop.

They also told me to meditate.
A technique from India, where one connects with one’s true self.
You’re supposed to silence the voices that hover around existence.

But in the silence, all I hear is:

You’re losing him.
He doesn’t love you anymore.

For a while, I found refuge in books.
I started with the Bible, then self-help, then meditation.

Until I came across a theory that resonated with me because it’s true.
As real as the love I feel for my husband.

Multiple realities exist at the same time.
Suffering happens when the wrong self inhabits the wrong dimension.

And finally, I understood: there is a reality where Damián loves me.
It is happening right now.

In that reality, I wake up and he kisses me before getting out of bed.
We make love slowly as the light comes through the window.
Then we make coffee.
We wake the children.
He takes them to school while I get ready to receive him, beautiful and perfect.

We embrace in the kitchen.
We dance barefoot.
He touches my waist.
He asks for another kiss.
I tell him not to leave yet.
And he stays.

In that dimension, work is not more important than me. Nothing is more important than me.

I cook his favorite meal.
He always comes home early, consumed by the desire to be with me.

At night we have dinner with the children.
My daughter talks about school.
My son boasts about a goal.

Damián and I look at each other in silence, thinking the same thing: another baby.

Then we leave the children with the nanny and go out for a walk.
We enter a bar.
We dance.
We kiss.

And in this monstrous city of millions, only the two of us exist.

That reality exists.
I feel it. I know it.
And it’s the only reality where I can be happy.

But how do I get there?
How do I change dimensions?
How does one leap from a miserable life into the correct one?

Jump.

Of course. A quantum leap.

My father jumped too.
And he disappeared from this dimension.

I’m going to jump from the St. Regis.

I reserved the presidential suite.
I ordered champagne.

I left a message for Damián with his secretary—yes, the same one he’s cheating on me with.

We’ll meet at 7:00 PM.
It’s critical that he’s there.
The alignment must be perfect.

I’m counting the hours, my love.

I will become the brilliant woman you fell in love with again.
I’m sorry for failing you so much in this dimension.
For not being enough.
For breaking.
I’ll be beautiful again. Understanding.
The woman who never complains.
The woman you deserve.

—What the hell are you doing up on that fucking balcony, Helena?! You’re going to fall! Stop this nonsense! You’ll do anything for attention! Get down from there!
—I’m going to find you. I’m going to find my husband… the one who loves me the way I love him.
—What are you saying? Helena… I know we have problems. I know I haven’t treated you the way you deserve, but come here. Let’s fix this.
—Are you afraid, Damián? Is that it? Are you scared of losing me?
—Helena…
—This is the first time you’ve held me in months.
—Come inside. Please. Let’s talk.
—No, my love. I have to set things in the right dimension.

And in a matter of seconds, the love of her life fell into the void.

Brilliant businessman.
Exemplary father.
Devoted husband.

Now Damián inhabits the correct dimension.

Snowmelt

Winter was ruthless in Montana. For some, the cold was too much to handle. But it doesn't last forever. At the first sight of spring, James was excited to take time away from work and enjoy the bloom of May when the snow had melted. He decided the first week he'd take time off to go camping in the mountains. While far from any form of civilization, he knew he'd be at peace, after all, that's all he needed, just a little peace.

The first week of May had arrived. James woke before the sun and set off in his midnight blue diesel truck, two hours from his home. The drive went by fast from the excitement and breathtaking views. He'd made this drive a few times before but never got used to the beauty. By the time James made his way to the trail head, the sun was just peaking over the horizon behind him. He checked his GPS and smiled at the four mile hike ahead of him. He took only what he needed for a three day camp in the backcountry: a pack with the essentials for survival, a tent, a sleeping bag, and his 45-70 lever gun slung over his shoulder. It was May 3rd, 2031.

James enjoyed himself out in the mountains. He spent the days collecting samples of soil, water, and other things in the wilderness. While he was no professional researcher, he loved conducting various experiments. On his last day, he hiked up to a ten thousand foot peak, high above all others. He sat quietly admiring what mother nature spent eons growing from plate tectonics. As he surveyed the surrounding peaks, he noticed large columns of black smoke rising in several different locations, all from directions of major cities. James knew this region was prone to wildfires but this felt... off.

Smoke on the Horizon

He decided it was time to head back down to camp, there was nothing he could do from a mountain peak. The day began like all the others, the air was cool, foliage was damp from the morning dew. James woke up well rested and satisfied with his trip, it was time he returned home. The whole time he was packing, he couldn't help but notice the lack of wildlife in the area. He felt slightly unsettled as he packed his things and began his long hike back. Through the trees he could finally see the glint from the chrome on his truck. He checked his phone for any messages from friends or family but he had no signal.

He knew he was back to a point where he should but also knew the area was spotty. He didn't find anything weird about that until he noticed the smoke again. As he was loading the bed of his truck, James looked up at the clear sky and saw a plane, then two, then hundreds. Small specks of black began falling from the planes, then James saw the parachutes. Standing motionless in the truck bed, his heart sank. He had close ties to the military and knew every time there was training in Montana. Parachutes could only mean one thing: his country was under attack.

Planes and Parachutes

James stood in the bed of his truck as he watched the foreign paratroopers gliding gracefully to the sovereign ground. The only thing he could think of was his friends in the town he called home. James knew at this point that his way of life was over, never to return again. Though a pit grew in his stomach only comparable to the size of mountains, he forced himself out the truck bed, closed it all up, and climbed into the driver's seat to begin his new life. He must get to his friends. James then remembered his HAM radio in his pack. He and his friends swore to keep them on and charged and had extended range antennas for them to communicate while hunting and shooting. He called out into the void praying for a response. There was only static.

The truck roared to life as he threw it in drive and hit the gas. He raced down wide open country roads keeping an eye out for any signs of danger. A few miles outside of the nearest town, James decided to stop and survey the area ahead. He deployed his drone and flew well above the ground where he knew it would be out of sight. James flew out above the town and saw squads of soldiers setting up checkpoints on the edge of the town. He sighed as he recovered the drone and turned away from the road. Going off road was unfavorably slower but it was his only option. James carefully made his way toward his home.

Home?

He was only a couple miles away from the border to his property by the time dusk began settling in. He hoped night meant safety. While he couldn’t confirm a country of origin, he didn’t recognize any of the uniforms or aircraft the occupants used. He only knew they weren’t American. His mind couldn’t stop racing. He could only land on one question: where were the Americans? His train of thought broke when he finally saw the fence that marked his land. James felt the biggest sense of relief when he saw that gray F-250 in his driveway. It was Garcia.

... to be continued

“Irshad!”

The boy’s bloodshot eyes snapped wide open. He jerked his head up, with the look of a petrified deer. Rows and rows of classmates stared back at him and ahead of them all, there stood Professor Hamza glaring at him.

“You’re sleeping in my class again.” Hamza thundered, “Come here!”

Irshad stood, wincing as his legs ached again. They were still so sore. Carefully, he made his way down, trying not to look at anyone. He stared down at Hamza’s feet.

“Look at you.” Hamza said, disgust in his voice, “Dirty clothes, bloodshot eyes and just a complete lack of enthusiasm for the divine subject of magic. Why, I ought to have you expelled. What were you even doing up so late last night?”

Irshad looked up, hesitant before opening his mouth. “You told me to-”

“Of course there’s always an excuse.” Hamza quickly roared, “This is why the academy’s reputation is going down, because of students like you. It’s a miracle you even managed to get in, Irshad, with your background.”

Someone snickered among the students. Irshad felt his ears burn. “What do you mean by that, professor?” He asked, keeping his voice carefully level. “I passed the exam like everyone else.”

Hamza snorted. “Sure, of course you did. That’s why you can’t even manage healing magic to keep your own eyes open.”

“But that- that’s because you-”

“Enough!” Hamza glared at him, silencing any further comment, “For such an obstinate attitude, you will sit in this classroom for 2 hours after everyone has left. I will check in on you and if you have even left a minute before…” He wagged his finger menacingly.

The class didn’t end for another hour and Hamza left with a final scowl in his direction. The others only giggled and whispered as they left. “Country bumpkin.” One of them laughed.

When they were all gone, he pulled out the book he had been studying. It wasn’t a course book, it was something of his own personal research. A history book, about their ancient ancestors and their usage of magic. He stared at the enormous triangle engraved on the cover.

“Trifecta.” He whispered again in awe.

But suddenly, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching the classroom. He slipped the book under his desk, not wanting Hamza to find something else to poke fun at. But it wasn’t Hamza who stepped through the door. Irshad’s breath caught.

“So” Ali said as he walked in with an arrogant smile, followed by his 2 cronies, “you can’t even pay attention in class now. I think he thinks he’s smarter than the rest of us, hm?” His 2 cronies snickered, nodding along.

“Go away, Ali.” Irshad said, frowning, “The professor might come in to check in on me at any time. If you do anything here, you would get us both in trouble.”

“He won’t touch me. I’m not a dirty peasant like you, piggy.”

Irshad stood up, trying not to wince. “My name is Irshad.”

Ali snapped his fingers, pointing at him. “Zayd, Omar, get him.”

His two cronies moved forward, bulky and stout beyond their teenage years. Irshad stepped into the aisle of the next desk, moving away from them. He eyed the door, with Ali standing a few feet in front of it. The cronies rushed for him, clambering on top of the desks.

Irshad stepped on top of the desk too, leaping across to the next, desperate to get closer to his only exit. But Zayd closed in on him with surprising speed and he felt a foot slam into his back as he was sent sprawling toward the floor. His face crashed into the marble first and he felt the metallic taste of blood on his teeth. He lifted his head to find the door a few feet ahead of him, spinning dizzily about.

“That’s a good spot for you.” Ali’s foot stomped into his back as Irshad screamed. “Now, squeal, piggy!” Zayd and Omar grabbed him by the arms, lifting him to his knees. Ali grabbed him by his long black hair, “You know the drill, piggy. I’ll ask you nicely since we’re starting. Drop out of the tournament.”

Irshad spat. “I worked hard like any of you to get here. I can do magic well, better than even you ca-” Ali’s fist punched into his left cheek, knocking the wind out of him.

“Let’s try again.” Ali raised a finger and it pulsed with white light. He touched it to Irshad’s face and he felt the pain and growing numbness fade away. “Frankly, it is embarrassing for a noble like me to be in competition with you. So get out and know your place already.”

Irshad glared up at him, at Zayd and Omar too. “Go to hell.”

Ali punched again but this time, Irshad was ready, he ducked his head, sending the punch straight toward Omar’s groin. Omar cried out as he let go, dropping to the floor in a whimper. Irshad acted quickly, using his free hand to send a straight chop straight up to Zayd’s jewels as well. Zayd howled as Irshad staggered back onto his feet. He grinned as he turned and ran right out the door.

And crashed right into Hamza’s tall figure. Hamza glared down at him. “Professor,” He began, “These boys are attacking me!” He pointed toward Ali and his cronies, who were staring at him wide-eyed.

Hamza glanced at the other 3 before gritting his teeth, “I told you to stay inside the damn classroom.” He shoved Irshad right back into the room and pulled the door shut.

It took a few moments before anyone recovered. It was Ali who spoke first, “Told you, piggy. Get him!”

When he returned to his dorm, it was dark. He looked in the mirror. Of course, there weren’t any marks. They were too smart for that but he remembered the pain. He winced as he touched his cheek, his under eye, his ear… He punched the wall beside the mirror, taking heavy breaths. “I won’t leave.”

He pulled out the book again and opened it. It was the history of the lost art of magic. Only legends, most claimed but Irshad believed differently. He felt it was calling to him, that something was in ther-

Knock! Knock!

Irshad jumped before tutting his tongue. He ignored it but the knocking only came again, louder. “Open the door, Irshad!” Came the sharp voice of Hamza. “I know you’re in there.”

With his fists clenched, he opened the door, glaring up at the man.

“Why aren’t you in the kitchen?” Hamza demanded, “You were supposed to start an hour ago.”

“You told me to stay back in class for 2 hours. I just got back now.”

“I don’t care.” Hamza said, his eyes narrowing, “That’s your own fault. Because of that, no dinner for you tonight.”

“What?!” Irshad shouted, feeling his blood boil, “You’re the reason I can’t sleep. You make me wash everyone’s dishes but no one else is forced to do it!”

“That’s your own fault as well. Your disorderly conduct merits that. Now, leave or would you like to be disqualified from the upcoming tournament as well?”

Irshad gritted his teeth, swallowing his rage. He couldn’t afford to be disqualified. That would make Hamza win. Without a word, he stormed off toward the kitchen. Rizwan was baking bread again, wiping the sweat from his brow as he hefted another loaf out of the oven. “Ah, I was wondering if you were dead.” He exclaimed.

Irshad only grunted as he picked up a loaf and started cutting slices.

“Hamza made you stay back again?” Rizwan asked after a while.

“I hate him.”

“They definitely don’t like us either.” He sighed, “Study well, Irshad or you’ll end up having to work for him like me.”

“He told me I can’t have dinner either.”

Rizwan chuckled. “Well, there’s no magic to tell if someone has food in their stomach.” He produced a loaf of bread and some chickpeas in a bowl. “Here, eat for a while.”

Irshad thanked him, devouring the hot bread hungrily. “Ali and the others were trying to get me to quit again.” He said between mouthfuls of food.

Rizwan beat the dough with his hands. “And?” He huffed, “Did you?”

“As if!” He swallowed, “I want to participate, Rizwan.”

“But….” Rizwan glanced at him, “Your magic is not that good. You know that.”

“That’s because-” Irshad looked around, lowering his voice, “I’m working on something.”

“Like?”

He smiled. “Can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

Rizwan stopped beating the dough, a twinkle in his eyes. “Come on, you can’t do that. You know I love secrets!”

Irshad grinned. “Actually, I’m not very sure what it is but I know I’m getting to it. And when I find it, the people in that tournament will be shocked. Trust me.”

Rizwan laughed. “I used to say the same things. Now look at me.” He went back to beating the dough.

It was late midnight by the time Irshad was done washing the dishes. He returned to his room, yawning. He had dodged Ali and others in the dining hall. That was one good thing about being in the kitchen.

He shut the door behind him and locked it. Then he scowled. It was so dark. He lit the candle on his desk as he sat in the darkness, his eyes begging him to sleep. But he remembered. The pain. The mocking. The humiliation. His fists tightened. “My magic is good enough.” He whispered.

He lifted a finger and imagined his happiest memory. Of his mama and papa sending him to the academy. The pride on their faces when they received the acceptance letter. His lover, Fadwa’s tears of joy and sadness as she heard he was accepted. A white brightness began to glow from his finger. Healing magic.

Then suddenly, Ali’s face popped into his head. How they had tricked him on the first day, posing as friends only to bully him later. Hamza’s spiteful words in front of the classroom. The giggles and mocking of his noble classmates. The white light suddenly turned red and he felt his finger burn. He yelped as he let go of the magic and sucked on his finger.

Happiness was the focus needed to transmit magic, anything opposite to it can ruin the transmission and destroy the user themselves. There were many cases of mages who had burned themselves up in a fiery rage of using magic. He shook his head. He needed to learn to be calm. Once he achieved that control, his magic would be flawless again and he would beat everyone in the tournament.

He brought the book into the light of the candle and opened it. The ancients had many ways of controlling their emotions. There were even legends that they could channel when angry. He read the texts, trying to decipher how they achieved such control over themselves. He needed it in order to win!

The days before the tournament quickly passed. Irshad spent nights staying awake, trying to understand the trifecta book, dripping burning candle wax on his hand to force himself to stay awake.

Everyone in class was also buzzing with excitement over the tournament, thankfully not paying as much mind to him. Hamza was explaining the rules. “Remember, students! Your opponent and you will each be given a heavily injured war-hog. It does not matter how well you heal, all that matters is who heals it the fastest. That person will be the winner of the duel. In the battlefield, mages have to run from one injured soldier to the next. Speed is most important for a mage…”

Irshad was not listening. He was busy flipping through the book. There was only one more day left for the tournament and he was no closer to understanding how to control his emotions any better. He clenched and unclenched a fist, desperately trying to find some answer. Any answer. But all the pages did not give anything other than useless information. One of the most confusing paragraphs read:

Magic is divine, and so are the emotions used to power it. Do not try to control them. They react as ordained. Who are we to change to change divine will?

He read the confusing paragraph again. What in the world did that mean? He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, sighing angrily.

“Irshad.”

He looked up to find Hamza standing right beside his desk. A cold sweat broke out over him. “I- professo-”

“You don’t seem to be paying attention to my class. Maybe you have something more interesting to learn?”

“No, I was just-”

Hamza reached out his hand and picked up the book. He closed it and his eyes widened. “Trifecta.” He said out loud, “The myths and legends of ancient magic.” Some of the others in the class frowned, glancing at one another. “Is this what you are wasting your time reading instead of studying or paying attention to my class? How disappointing.” He narrowed his eyes, “This is not the village, Irshad, where people would be interested in rumors and myths instead of real magic!”

“Maybe that’s all he can do, professor.” Ali called from front of the class, eliciting hushed laughter and sniggering.

Irshad stood up, banging his fists on the table. “I can do magic! Better than all of you!” He screamed, his blood boiling, “That’s why none of you like me! Because none of you can accept a peasant like me who can do better magic than all you so-called nobles!”

Silence. Everyone turned to stare daggers at him but Irshad stared back.

“Such insolence!” Hamza exclaimed, “You are insulting the nobility of this city?! You’re disqualified from the tournament, Irshad! Get out!”

“But, professor-”

“Out!”

Irshad did not attend any more classes. He simply went to his room where he stayed. He did not even go out to eat. Rizwan came to visit him at night. “Irshad? You in there?”

“Go away.”

There was a click and then his door opened. “You realize I have the master key, right?” He chuckled. But Irshad only lay on his bed, facing away from him. “What happened?”

“I got disqualified from the tournament.” He said softly.

“What?! Why?”

“I insulted everyone in class. All the nobles were laughing at me. Calling me a….country bumpkin.” His voice strained at the final words.

Rizwan was silent for a few seconds. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Silence.

“What about the secret you were planning to show off at the tournament? The one that would shock the world?”

Irshad sighed, before sitting up. “I don’t know, Rizwan. I don’t know anything. I thought I knew what I was doing but…maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I think you need to eat some dinner. I brought you bread and some chicken.” He brought it close for Irshad to take. “You’ll feel better after some food enters your stomach.”

Irshad slowly tore the bread and chewed on it mechanically. “Do you want to know what the secret was?”

Rizwan nodded.

Irshad smiled, shaking his head. “It was a dream I kept having. I kept seeing a triangle…the trifecta, I guess. Every night, I saw it till I was convinced there was something it was telling me.” He sighed, “Maybe I am just a country bumpkin.”

They didn’t speak for a few minutes after that, as Irshad ate. Then it was Rizwan who spoke, “My mama used to tell me that God speaks to us through dreams. She told me that if I really had a dream that kept coming, I should listen to it for it is God speaking to me.” He stared at Irshad who was watching him. “I did have a dream, Irshad. Every night, I saw a dragon. It was massive and beautiful. Something told me I was supposed to find it, to go searching for it…” he looked down, “But I never did. Instead, I bake bread for the Academy students.”

“A dragon?”

“Yes.”

“But they’re only told about in legends. No one even knows if they ever existed.”

Rizwan shrugged before getting to his feet. “The point is, there is nothing that feels worse than not having listened to something you believe was a divine calling. You can take that from me.” He took the empty plate from Irshad. “Get some sleep. I’ll wash the dishes alone. Forget about the tournament. I see them come and go every year. There are things bigger than that.”

But Irshad could not forget about it. He went for the tournament the next day. He sat among the throes of crowds packed in the spectator stands, watching the enormous area cleared in the center for the duel. People shouted and screamed as contestants came into the arena and used magic.

“And the winner of this bout is Zayd!” The announcer hollered, “Another round of applause at that lightning speed of 8.3 seconds!”

Irshad did not clap like everyone else. He glanced toward the raised podium stands where the King and Queen sat, watching and clapping their hands. There was a certain elegance to even the way they moved their hands. He tutted his tongue, annoyed. Rizwan was right, he shouldn’t have said that in class. He could have maybe impressed the King himself.

And then came the next duel. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your next contestants: Ali, son of the noble Khalid and Irshad, son of…peasant Abdullah!”

The crowd laughed as Irshad sat, feeling his ears burn.

“It turns out Irshad has dropped out by manner of disqualification! Ali is the winner by default!” Cheers and hollers erupted from the onlookers.

Irshad scowled, staring at the proud look on Ali’s face before he glanced toward the King. But His Majesty was not watching the arena, he was staring up, toward the sky. He was frowning as one of the chief soldiers stepped forward, peering up at the sky.

KURRRGGGGHHHHH!

Suddenly, everyone in the crowd was covering their ears. People shouted, unheard under the roar. Irshad winced, dropping to his knees at the noise. He looked around, confused. What was that? Everyone was starting to look to the skies.

And there, in the blue expanse of clouds, there moved a large black shape, swirling around the arena. It circled closer and closer, growing larger and impossibly larger. Someone pointed at it. “Dragon!” The crowd erupted into chaos, screeching and howling as the entire arena broke out into panic. People shoved and shouted as they scrambled over one another. Children cried loudly, searching about for their parents in the pandemonium.

But Irshad stood, staring with his jaw hanging at the creature. It swooped down, settling on the arena floor, making the entire structure tremble. It opened its mouth as it flapped its wings defiantly.

KURRRGGGGGHHHHHH! It roared again.

The Royal Guards moved the King and royalty away as they took formation in front, holding their shields and spears up. “Archers!” The captain thundered, “Fire!”

A volley of arrows rose from the back as they rained down on the dragon, making it shake its head about in irritation. When it was done, it turned its eyes toward the Guards and opened its mouth.

KURRRGGGGHHHH! Fire spewed out from its mouth as it crashed into the line of guards, charring them to a crisp immediately. One moment, the guards were there and the next, there were only ashes floating about.

“A d-dragon.” Irshad said slowly in disbelief. Suddenly, he remembered Rizwan’s words. “He was right.”

The King and Queen were covered by more Guards rushing in as the King drew his sword, staring fearfully at the enormous beast.

“Help!” Someone screamed from the arena.

Irshad’s eyes followed down to find Ali running away from the dragon. “Papa!” He screamed, “Help me! Someone!”

But the dragon heard his cries as well. It turned its head toward the little ant that was causing the ruckus. It waved one of its wings, beating up dust with wind so strong that Ali fell on his face, turning around frantically on his back and screaming.

For a moment, Irshad smiled. Then he blinked, his smile disappearing. He frowned at Ali again as his fists clenched, before he was running down toward him. “Ali!” He screamed.

Ali turned back to look at him. “Save me!”

Forget saving, there wouldn’t even be anything left to heal of him if the fire hit him. “Stop shouting, you idiot!” He shouted.

He leaped over the barricades, stepping on the arena soil. The dragon turned its beady eyes toward him now, interested in the newcomer. A new volley of arrows shot at the beast, only for it to bat its wings about as it roared in annoyance. It opened its mouth and unleashed fire around at the arena as Irshad fell flat on the soil.

To be honest, he had absolutely no plan. He was simply spurred to do something. To buy time. He could feel the heat of the fire blowing far above him. The dragon shut its mouth as it blew its nose, flames leaking out. Then it eyed Ali and him again, as though remembering about them.

“Do something!” Ali screamed at him, “Are you just trying to play hero, piggy?”

Irshad grit his teeth, regretting his earlier decision. “I guess you’re nothing without your cronies.” But he was right.

Suddenly, he remembered the trifecta. Who are we to change to change divine will?

The dragon drew in another breath, getting ready. Irshad looked around at the fearful faces of the King and nobility. He took a deep breath himself, remembering how they all laughed at him. How they all mocked his name. He raised both his hands, pointing both his index fingers at the dragon. “Here goes nothing.” He whispered.

“My name is Irshad.” He shouted at it, for everyone to hear. He willed the healing magic to come, white light glowing from his pointing fingertips as the magic flowed. He remembered their laughter, their looks, their disgust. The light turned red as his fingers burned. But Irshad did not let go of the magic, his lips peeling back at the pain. He gritted his teeth.

The dragon tucked its chin before opening its jaw. Irshad glared at it before bringing both his hands closer together, the red light blindingly bright at the index fingers’ tips. He touched the two fingers and his thumbs together, completing the triangle.

KURRRGGHHH! The dragon roared as orange flames spewed forth from its mouth, rushing toward him like a wave.

“Son of Abdullah!” Irshad screamed with what was left of his strength as the magic rushed through his thumbs, through his fingers, coursing around the triangle circuit formed by his hands, faster and faster. It exploded out as crimson flames straight where it was pointed, toward the dragon.

The flames met in the middle, pushing against one another as they shoved mercilessly. The entire arena was lit in a dazzle of furious orange and red as everyone covered their eyes but still stared through to watch the battle. Irshad screamed as the dragon roared, both angry. Both unwilling to bow their heads. The air grew hot, boiling to the point that the sand itself began to glisten. And then, after a few moments that felt like an eternity, both the flames abruptly stopped.

Irshad heaved deep breaths, panting as he grabbed his knees, his hands burnt to the point the skin was blackened. He looked up at the dragon defiantly, not looking away. The dragon shook its head, snorting its nostrils as it watched him. Then, it flapped its massive wings and rose heavily out of the arena, leaving behind crystals of glass skittering about. Its roar faded into the distance.

For a few moments, no one dared speak before the King himself shouted, “Our noble hero, Irshad!” The crowd and guards erupted in screams and tears, hollering and hugging. Irshad looked at Ali before smiling haughtily, “I’m better than you nobles.”

At the top of the tower, Elias sits at the desk by the window, hunched over his book. Behind him, the door scrapes open. 

The candlelight flickers across the pages. Thunder booms in the distance. 

Elias glances back. 

The princess wanders across the study toward him, her bare feet clicking off the limestone. Her eyes drift over the oak bookshelves, carved into the perimeter of the study. 

Elias turns back. He presses his fists into his temples. Keeps reading.

The princess brushes past, twirls, and leans on the open window sill. Her silk dress flutters slightly in the breeze. “Watcha doin?” 

Elias turns the page. It makes a soft scratch. “Studying.”

“What for?”

“Trials.”

The princess nods. Then her eyes narrow. “Wait… are you a librarian? You look like a librarian.”

Elias looks up. “Sorry, my princess. Was there something you needed? Because—”

“Call me Evelyn.”

“I’m Elias. This may be difficult to understand, but tomorrow’s Trial is the most important of my life—”

“To be a librarian.”

“I’m not a librarian.”

“Hm. You could have fooled me.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Elias drops his eyes back to the book. He pulls it a little closer. 

At the side of the room, the fireplace crackles. “Are librarians always this boring?”

“I’m a wizard. Not a librarian—a wizard.”

“But you haven’t passed your Trial yet.”

Elias tightens his grip on the pages. “And I’m not going to pass it unless I study. Look. I know this isn’t something you could ever understand, but it is very important I don’t fail. My father... My family is counting on me. Please let me study.”

Evelyn tilts her head. “What do you think I don’t understand?”

“Failure.”

“You think I don’t understand failure?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

“I…don’t wish to be offensive, my lady.”

“No. I wanna know.”

Elias pushes the book away. He adjusts his glasses. “You will be waited on, hand and foot, for the rest of your life. No matter how much you screw up. Because you’re a princess. And, this may come as a surprise, but for the rest of us? It’s not like that.”

“Well, then,” Evelyn says, standing up straight. “Now I know you’re not a librarian.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too stupid.” 

Elias blinks. He sits back. “Why am I stupid?”

Evelyn faces the window. “I know your type. You think you’re the only one with problems. Read your book, stupid.” 

“Question, princess. Do you consider your maid bringing you one slice of toast instead of two problematic?”

“Don’t call me princess.”

“Do you sometimes have to draw your own bath?”

“Shut up.”

“Is that really hard?”

“I said shut up.”

“Do you hurt your back to bend over—”

Evelyn turns on Elias, coiling her hand back. She swipes at Elias’s face. 

Smack. 

His glasses sling down and clatter against the oak tabletop. Evelyn draws back again. She swats, but Elias hooks his hand up and catches her wrist. 

“Let…go.” Evelyn rips her hand back, then lunges at the table. 

She grabs the book, backs up, and hurls it out the window. It arches into the night sky, dips, then hurtles toward the moat. 

“No!” Elias says, shoving past her. He sticks his hand out the window and curls his fingers into an invisible grip.

Evelyn bumps shoulders with Elias and leans on the window sill, and they both peer down as the book slows to a stop, hovering three inches above the lapping water. An alligator floats by. His left eye peels open and curls into focus. Elias twitches his hand and the book slaps into his grip.

Evelyn’s jaw drops. 

“Thanks for that,” Elias says. “Thank you so much.” He steps toward his desk and slumps back into the chair. He moves his hand to open the book, but then relaxes it. He slouches back. Shakes his head. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Elias.”

“Maybe I’m not smart enough to pass the Trials. My sorcery is fine enough…but the learning…” Elias stares down at the book. 

“Elias. That was—”

“And you know what’s funny? My father says the same thing. He says, ‘what the Gods gave me in looks, they took away in intellect.’”

“Elias. This is the tallest tower in Ishmel.”

“I know.”

“You just pulled something from the bottom.”

“Yeah. Thanks again for that.”

Evelyn approaches him. “The strongest mage we have here can pull something across a room. But only just.”

“Get better mages.”

Evelyn stops a few feet shy from Elias. She stares down at him, the candle flame burning in her eyes. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t.”

“Can you manipulate fire?”

“…I can.”

“Show me.” 

Elias studies her face. Then he glances over to the flame. With his arm hooked around the top of the chair, he flips his hand upside down and curls a few fingers toward himself. 

The flame tears off the wick and glides in front of his eyes. Then he raises it up to Evelyn’s eyes. 

He traces his index finger, and gently, the fire spells out E-V-E-L-Y-N. As she studies the letters, a smile warms her face. Then Elias squeezes the letters back into a tiny ball and guides it back to the candle. 

Evelyn’s eyes move from the candle to Elias. “Elias,” she says under her breath. “That is incredible.” Elias looks away. “But...I don’t understand,” she says.

“What?”

“Why would you need to pass a Trial to be told you’re a wizard?”

Elias rises to his feet. He stares down at Evelyn. “I don’t. I need to pass the Trial to work under the high king. But, honestly, I don’t think I can.”

“You want to be a soldier?”

Elias nods. 

Evelyn lifts her hand to Elias’s face and presses her fingers on the red mark she left. She falls silent, peering up into his eyes. He stares back into hers.

“If they don’t take you,” Evelyn says, “they’re the stupid ones.”

Elias smiles.

The door slams open. Evelyn quickly draws her hand away.

Evelyn’s father steps through the doorway, his fur coat scraping the stone. He flicks his eyes back and forth beneath tangled strands of hair. He locks onto Evelyn. “Well, well. Didn’t take you for a reader, sweetheart.”

“No, sir. I was just making sure our guest…had everything he needed.”

“And—” He eyes Elias. “Did you get what you need?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then. Evelyn?”

“Sir?”

“Your next man’s here. Most fertile in the land, I’m told. If he can’t pump a son in your belly, I’m gonna start thinking you’re the problem. Go on. Get ready.”

Evelyn rushes across the room. When she passes her father, she stops and turns. She raises her hand and gives Elias a little wave. Then she mouths, “Goodbye.”

She disappears into the darkness. 

Elias stands in place. Frozen. Staring across the room at the king. The king shakes his head in disappointment. He turns, grips the door, and begins closing it behind him. Then he pauses. He turns with a grin. “Come sun up, I want you gone. But before then? Don’t even think of opening this door. Don’t even touch the knob.”

The wooden door slaps shut. 

Elias stands there, staring at the closed door. He blinks. He turns toward the desk and eyes the candle.

The flame wavers side to side, a stream of smoke snaking up from the point. Elias raises his hands and tugs the flame into his cupped hands. Then he turns back to face the door. 

Elias decides, right then, he will leave this tower tonight. 

And he won’t be leaving alone.

Hi everyone,

I’m working on a novel and wanted to share the opening chapter to see if it’s engaging enough to pull people in.

I’m mainly trying to get a feel for:

• whether the concept is interesting
• if the pacing works
• and if you’d want to keep reading

Any feedback is appreciated—especially honest reactions.

Cause and Effect

Chapter 1

You don’t need to hear the words to know what kind of situation is going down. Tone carries more weight than words. Just outside my peripheral vision, a teenage barista is doing his best to deal with a middle-aged man who wants to start the day off making his problem everyone else’s.

“This is full cream,” the man said, slamming his cup down onto the pickup counter.

The barista looked about nineteen. He had that practiced apologetic expression—something worn in from being yelled at over things that weren’t really his fault.

“Sir,” he said carefully, “that’s not your order.”

“I asked for almond. Don’t give me that bullshit excuse. I was next in line—this should be my drink. You fucked it up.”

The boy took a breath. “The woman in front of you ordered two drinks. This isn’t yours.”

The man let out a short laugh through his nose. Not amused.

People nearby, me included, started paying attention. Not turning fully—just enough to track the shape of it. That’s how it works. You ignore it until it sounds like it might become something you can’t.

Across from them, a woman stood holding her child’s hand. The kid clutched a paper cup—hot chocolate, by the look of it. Neither of them moved. Fair enough. She didn’t have a drink of her own.

The barista reached for the cup.

The man moved first, shoving it into the boy’s chest. The lid popped loose and coffee spilled across the teen’s apron.

The barista gasped, hands flying to his chest.

The man screamed. Not in anger. Not in surprise. Pain.

He staggered backwards, knocking into the edge of a table, both hands clutching his own chest like he’d been the one burned. For a second, nobody understood what they were looking at. The boy stared down at the coffee soaking through his apron, then back up at the man doubling over in front of him.

Same place.

The man touched his chest carefully. Then flinched. Hard.

Nobody moved.

The room held its breath like it was waiting for someone else to explain it first.

“I barely touched him,” the man said, his voice thinner now, like that mattered.

The barista didn’t answer. He was still staring at the stain spreading through his apron, fingers hovering just above it like he wasn’t sure whether touching it would make it worse.

Across the café, the woman tightened her grip on her child’s hand. The kid looked down at his hot chocolate, then back at the man on the floor, trying to line the two things up.

It didn’t fit. It didn’t make sense.

The man tried to straighten, then folded again with a sharp breath through his teeth.

Nobody stepped forward to help him. Nobody stepped forward at all.

Because suddenly it wasn’t clear who needed helping.

My phone vibrated in my hand.

Mia.

COFFEE. NOW.

That was probably enough of that.

I turned back to the counter. “Large flat white, two sugars. And a long black,” I said. Then, after a beat, “Get a damp cloth for him.”

The girl behind the register blinked once before nodding, already moving.

Behind me, the man was still breathing hard through his teeth.

“Make it two,” I added.

I didn’t wait for anything else. Nobody was stepping in. Nobody seemed entirely sure how.

The girl handed them both a wet towel. The boy pulled off his apron and dabbed at his chest, never taking his eyes off the man. When she stepped forward to offer the man one, he brushed her off and walked out.

It might’ve been the light, but I caught a glimpse of red just above his collar.

Same place.

The girl ended up making the coffees herself.

I picked them up, thanked her, and walked out.

Mia was in the driver’s seat of the unmarked sedan, one hand on the wheel, the other scrolling through her phone.

“You took your time,” she said as I got in.

“There was a situation.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

“You’re the one who told me to grab coffee.”

“Yeah, because I thought you’d be quick.”

I handed her the coffee.

She checked the lid before taking a sip. “Please tell me they got it right. Was it Steve?”

“No. The girl at the counter.” I took a sip. “Wrong orders probably won’t be happening there for a while.”

Mia frowned slightly at that, then took a sip of hers. “Ahh. Must’ve been Jess. You ask for two sugars, but really, it’s like one and a half.”

Australia likes to think it has a serious coffee culture. Mia takes it personally. Or maybe it’s the sugar.

She glanced at me again. “Your mum gave me food this morning. She said it was vegetarian.”

I looked at her. “And?”

“She also said she only put a little bit of meat in it.”

“That sounds about right.”

Mia nodded toward the centre console. “It’s there if you want it.”

“I know. I knew she’d pack one for you. But really, she packed it for me.”

Mia snorted. “You’re thirty-two. Your mum shouldn’t still be packing your lunches—even if she thinks she’s packing it for me.”

“Giving you food makes her happy. But lets not be wasteful”

Traffic crawled past in wet streaks across the windscreen. A bus hissed somewhere behind us. Someone leaned on their horn like it might solve something.

I took another sip of mine. Still too hot. Didn’t matter much.

Mia glanced sideways at me. “You’ve got your weird face on.”

“I don’t have a weird face.”

“You absolutely do. The look is part concussed, part constipated.”

“The guy in front of me shoved hot coffee into the barista’s chest,” I said.

Mia winced. “Jesus.”

“He felt it too.”

She paused mid-sip. “What?”

“The burn.”

“Well of course he felt the burn. The dickhead threw coffee at him.”

“No. The man who threw it felt it.”

She stared at me for a second, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

It didn’t come.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Outside, traffic kept moving like nothing had happened. People crossed the street. A man argued with a parking inspector. A kid with an oversized school bag dragged it toward the bus stop.

Normal.

Or close enough.

The baristas had come out to sit under the awning. Steve still had the towel pressed to his chest. They were laughing about the morning.

One of them shoved the other lightly.

Both flinched.

Then laughed.

Mia saw it too.

“…okay,” she said.

Neither of them did it again.

Mia took another sip of her coffee, slower this time.

“That’s not funny,” she said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“There’s nothing else to it.”

She studied me for a second longer, then shook her head and pulled into traffic.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll add it to the list of weird shit that isn’t our problem.”

It didn’t sound convincing.

We drove in silence for a few minutes until Mia started singing along to the radio.

My phone buzzed again.

The captain.

“You need to come in,” he said.

A pause.

“Now.”

The line went dead.

Mia stopped singing.

 

The Rich King
There once was a king who inherited his kingdom from his father. The dying king was a weak old man, loved throughout the village by both peasants and fools. On his deathbed, the old king gave his son one final order, “Provide for your people always. Never leave them wanting.”
The young king swore to be true to his dying father’s last command, no matter the cost. Even as a young prince, he was desperate for approval from his father and the townspeople. Every smile  and words of praise from his people fed his appetite for validation and his pride more than food ever could. The king swore to be selfless, but he was not selfless, every action he took was to win over favor and win more praise from his people.
Years passed, and a great war came to the valley. The kingdom was attacked, and homes set on fire. People were executed and hunted, and the king’s knights were struggling to demand their homeland. Villages fell while soldiers died face down in muddy fields. The people cried out, desperate for the massacres and killings to stop. Their precious king could not bear hearing them suffer, knowing the king was powerless to save them. The king cared not that they were dying, or because he loved them as their praise songs claim, but because he hated the idea of his people turning on him once he fails them.
So he came to me. He came alone, desperate and crying like a baby. He dropped to his knees, begging between his hysterical cries. “Please,” he begged, “End this war. Spare my people. Their praise will soon turn to hatred if I cannot save them” I remember meeting his eyes, peering into his soul and judging this once ‘great’ man who now comes to me begging for salvation. His  kingdom thinks him of a fearless and noble leader, yet the man trembling on his knees before me resembled more of a frightened child pleading for a golden ticket. I asked him what he would offer in exchange. “My life,” he said quickly. “My soul too, just please end this war.” I chuckled, how desperate this man before me is, all while I hold all the cards. I accepted, out of kindness, of course.
The war ended, with soldiers lowering their weapons and returning home. The fires that once consumed the village homes, now extinguished. Thousands of both soldiers and innocents who should have died, now alive and safe from further violence. The king went to bed that night, hearing the chants of praise. The next morning, he failed to awaken. The entire kingdom mourned him and looked upon him as if he were a once living god.
That should have been the end of it. But the gods always meddle in the affairs of man. One of these puny gods took pity upon the king. He undermined our agreement and went behind my back to raise the king back to life. His once lifeless body was encased entirely in gold, and the god granted him an eternal life, so long as the gold remained on his body. “If the gold is removed,” the god said to him, “the flesh beneath shall rot and whither away, and die.” The king, grateful for a second chance at capitalizing on his townspeople renewed praise for their ‘might’ king, happily accepted. How typical of him, I thought.
The people celebrated for weeks afterward. Celebrations and laughter echoed throughout the valley. Drunken idiots filled the streets, singing songs of praise and love. New songs were written, heralding the king’s sacrifices and expert leadership intuition. Gifts and flowers and treasures were thrown at his feet by the crowds wherever he walked. And the king, despite appearing humble and self sacrificing, loved every single second of it, barely able to contain his ear to ear grin. He held festivals constantly after, all singing his praise. Fairs, feasts, celebrations, all dedicated to him ‘planned by the community’. What a lie, he planned these events while appearing humble to the crowds. These celebrations were an open invitation to all, provided they belonged to the kingdom. This was an obvious attempt to exclude me, who the celebrations should obviously be praising. But did I have a problem with it? No. I humbly let the king bask in his ‘glory’. The people call him generous, merciful, loving. No one said that of me. I called him vain, self-serving, egotistical.
The sound of their celebrations and laughter echoed through the valley. For months I put up with it, knowing I had saved the kingdom and the king knows who really saved his kingdom. However, I eventually grew sick and tired of hearing it. I was kept up many nights by the sounds of ringing bells and cannons firing at all hours of the night. I hated it. I devised how to shut down the celebrations, for the sake of the people.
I cursed the kingdom. Not the people themselves, I would never do anything to hurt the people, I loved the kingdom's people, my only quarrel was with their king. I only cursed their food supply. The harvesting fields turned black and withered. Not a single crop was left. Pigs, chickens, goats and cows died in the fields. Anything even remotely edible was now dead and lost. Within days famine spread within the valley like a plague. A plague that would certainly lose the king’s favor with his people. The king formed search parties desperately trying to find me. The kind demanded that I be bound, gagged and dragged before him. I was afraid for my life, so I hid and no one could find me. 
The king held a town hall meeting and attempted to consolidate all of the townspeople's money to fund a central food bank. Less than a third of the people were present, and not a single person contributed. I found it interesting. The same kingdom that worshipped the king, could not sacrifice even a single gold piece for their neighbors. The king was forced to dip into his vast chest of gold pieces. He was more wealthy than the entire kingdom, yet was still reluctant. For weeks he sold all of his treasures. Gold pieces, jewelry, valuable artworks and even his furniture that filled his castle were sold to neighboring kingdoms to buy food. Aid arrived, many carts full of food were arriving everyday. The celebrations continued, still dedicated to the king’s kindness, while they still consumed in excess and fed their greed and gluttony. Yet still, they contributed nothing themselves, reliant on the king and feeding his pride.
Rather quickly, the king ran out of money, and for three days he pleaded and begged his people to donate their excess coins so the kingdom would have food. Still, the selfish people refused to donate and help their fellow neighbors. The king then gathered his entire army, all of his knights, and even his royal guards to search for me. When they finally found me, they were brutal and hurt me without cause. I was dragged by an angry mob through the streets while partially unclothed and bound in chains. My hands bound so I could not cast any spell that may save me. I was humiliated, the chains dragging behind me, while the mob and townspeople alike cheered for my execution. The children threw stones at me while I was defenseless, and men tried to humiliate me further by violating my modesty while spit at me. The women called for the mutilation of my body and called me a monster. They brought me before their king, my knees were bloody and all the skin had been taken off by the coarse stones and I was dizzy from the stones that had nearly knocked me unconscious. I had been violated and had patches of hair pulled off from my scalp. Yet the king seeing this, still demanded I reverse the curse. He allowed me to be treated this way and still asks favors of me?! This was no king, he was a monster. I refused. I refuse to help a king and his people who treat people like this.
The kingdom cheered and took bets on what was happening from within the king’s castle in the dungeon. My screams were heard for hours. My agonizing screams of terror and immense pain. I was tortured to the point of losing my sanity. The sheer creativity of the king would scare even the most ruthless gods. As the sun began to peek over the horizon and fill the dungeon with light, I saw the horrors of what had been done to me. The smell of copper was lingering. I was walked out of the castle, the streets lined with on lookers. Except this time was different, rather than throwing stones, there was just silence. My hands had been crushed and severed from my arms. The king did this to prevent me from casting future spells upon his precious kingdom. I only had half of my vision left. I had been robbed of my dignity and humility, and both my hands and an eye. Blood had soaked my ripped clothes as I stumbled through the streets, unsure if I was being led home or taken to a field far from the public’s view. No one spoke to me, no one helped me.
I had broken the curse, and yet not even a thank you from the king. Not even a helping hand. If I was left alive, what kind of life would I be left with. I was unable to fully reverse the curse that night simply due to my distressed state, nothing to do with my pettiness. I told the king the curse would be broken, but only a year from this fateful night. The people claimed I reversed the curse because the king persuaded me and made me see reason, however that was not the truth. I was tortured until I was left no other choice, and because I could not stand to see the sight of starving children.
The next night, the king gathered an anxious but hopeful crowd. He had not told them yet there was still another year left before their fields would yield food. The people panicked, and yet again called for my death, but the king saw it fit that I live the rest of my days as a cripple rather than end my misery. He assured them that he would not let a single person starve, and to further place blame on me, he cancelled the celebration that was planned. He then said goodnight to his people, and called his council and knights to meet in his quarters.
“Place me in my throne and fetch the cart. I need you to strip the gold from my feet, use it to buy food for the people.” The gold was then removed by his knights, and his feet immediately turned black, withered and died. He had given his feet to help his people, while my hands were sliced off of me against my will. The hypocrisy. The people yet again celebrated him. Songs of praise were sung, commending him for his selflessness and sacrifice that allowed his kingdom to continue living. The king again was faced with starvation of his people. A starvation I must say again, was self inflicted. The king ordered his men to strip the gold from legs. This cycle continued for many months, the king gave his arms, then his whole lower body, then his back and chest. This continued until the king was nothing except for a sorrowful face encased in gold. His labored breathings were torture for his knights to hear. Each piece removed physically hurt the king, and emotionally strained those closest to him. However, with each piece of his body that was stripped, the cheers for him grew louder, feeding his ego once again. And still, the people that celebrated and cheered for him, still gave nothing to ease his suffering. 
Nothing remained of the king except a face, cased in gold, still smugly sitting upon his throne. Words of his strength and heroics still continued, however his knights were heard telling stories of the feeble king when they believed they were alone. They told stories of the king crying, the king protesting and trying to plead with them to stop stripping the gold from him. But those stories never reached the people. Only lies of his immense bravery were told. What a coward he was, crying after he placed this fate upon himself. Time passed, and now the king was nothing but a golden pair of ears, with matching golden lips. He left his ears to hear his knights speak to him, and his lips to give his final command. Starvation was once again present, and still the fields were not producing. His kingdom was just days from starvation, and the curse still had weeks before it would let go of its grip on the crops. He sheepishly asked his men if his people were fed, and how long they would survive. The knights cried as they spoke to him, knowing what had to be done to keep his family alive. They told him the truth, while the fields would begin producing before the month’s end, yet his people would all be starved and dead in just days. The king remained silent, knowing what comes next, but too scared to say it. If his eyes were still alive, surely they would be full of tears. Finally the king broke the silence, uttering his final command. With great struggle and pain, he softly said, “Strip the gold from my mouth as these shall be the last words I need to speak to you. Leave my ears for last, after each knight has said their last praise of me, remove my ears, and leave me to rest.”
So they did. With great internal struggle, the knights finally said goodbye and wept, their leader was gone and the kingdom was left directionless. The king died, staying true to his father’s final commands, quite ironic I found it. The kingdom mourned him, praising him as if he was a god. While the knights were preparing his body for his service, they had found his heart was encased in gold, even though the rest of his body had gone. The knights gasped and exclaimed, “a literal heart of gold” Much deliberation occurred within the kingdom, unsure if they would use the heart to buy a year’s worth of food, or to hold it as a treasure and reminder of their king. The kingdom ultimately decided a living reminder of their once great hero was more important than a year's worth of food. How foolish, I thought. They placed his heart high in the castle, where a church bell would usually be found. Every morning as the sun rose, its rays would deflect and light the entire kingdom in its rays and remind the people of their king. Despicable, if they only knew the truth, I thought.
The kingdom was fed, the last of the king's gold from his lips and ears had staved off the starvation, and the kingdom was gathered at dusk on the day that the curse was to be reversed. The crowd wept with joy, anxious to see if the witch had been true to her word. Suddenly, a glimmer of the sun began to shine over the horizon. Yet, nothing happened. Everyone’s throat felt as if it had moved down to their stomachs. As the sun crept higher and higher over the horizon, their future began to become uncertain, the fields were still black and they no longer had a king to bail them out. However, as the sun fully emerged, its rays caught the king’s heart, and a big blast of light shot out in every direction originating from the golden heart. The fields began to lose their blackness right in front of them. The fields began to sprout, and within a minute, miles upon miles of crops suddenly appeared, seemingly like a year’s time had passed in just a minute. The crowd erupted into cheer and laughter, “We’re saved! Our king is here watching over us!” Songs erupted dedicated to their king, and festivals were held for the next month. Everyday was a festival filled with an abundance of food and drink and games. All was well in the kingdom.
They still sing their songs now, praising their king for what they think they know. If only they knew the truth, my truth. My truth is much darker and twisted, I was jealous. I tell myself, maybe one day I will come to terms with the fact that I was the villain, that the king was right in his acts against me. Without me, there would be no kingdom still standing, and at the same time without the king, the kingdom would fall upon the same fate. We both needed each other, and yet both could never exist as equals.
After all these years, I no longer know whether the people truly mocked me and threw stones and cast insults upon me as I remember, or if I needed them to. Years had mixed up events, and allowed me to look back with clarity. How the king sat by and watched his people treat me with cruelty, had it happened the way I had told myself it did?  The truth is, I was my own worst enemy, for I had demonized a kingdom full of people who simply just wanted to be alive. I still cannot come to terms with this fact. These people have not seen the last of me. Their celebrations are painful for me to endure.
I tell myself, that one day, I will succeed in destroying their memory of their great king, and all will fall to their knees. Begging for mercy, or praising me as the god that holds their salvation, I do not care which. Do the people deserve this? Or do I need to be loved like they once loved their great king? I am unsure of which, but it doesn’t matter, for soon everyone will come to know me. Love me or fear me, I do not care which.

We're getting ready for our 27th date at Seb's (but who's counting?) and we've made reservations at 8. Mr. Always Right, of course, forgets to tell me about it until 3 hours before so now I'm panicking because I don't know if I have enough time to wash and blowdry my hair and cut my bangs.

He's wearing the checkered shirt I got him last Christmas. It's not something he'd pick for himself, but I needed to see him in something else other than oversized hoodies which he claims to be "super fashionable" these days.

Being around Alfie is like hugging sunshine. He can turn the dullest moments into a crappy joke, always singing a tune and managing to tell me weird biology facts I could've gone by without knowing. I told him once that I sometimes feel like I'm dating Jake Peralta from B99, but of course he doesn't get the reference. Claims he's not old, yet acts spiritually fifty two.

And not to mention watching him get ready is my favourite thing. The smell of aftershave, (and weirdly Neosporin?) the sound of his watch clasping shut, the air of Dior Sauvage which I can almost taste on my tongue and the rhythm of my heart pulsating when he glances at me through the mirror, watching me lying on the bed like those models in Playboy magazines.

As we’re about to leave, I throw my usual ten thousand questions at him, because I can’t stand silence lingering between us when it could be filled with our voices- or better, our mouths on each other’s.

"Did you book us the corner table? Will it be packed? I want privacy. Have you restocked the mints in our car? Are you really going to wear that shoes? I can see your shaving cream residue behind your ears. Are you gonna get the Sunset drink again? I hope not, because I think the waiters might ban you from there if you spill it again."

Alfie is laughing. I suddenly notice the box cutter protruding from underneath the pillow. We keep it under our pillow in case of any break-ins. Mrs. Fuller next door was traumatized last year when some weirdo wearing all black broke in and stole her antique pots and understandably enough– Roquefort cheese from her fridge. Though rumour has it, it wasn't just anybody- they say it was her son who she put in rehab 6 years ago who somehow made the escape.

Alfie catches my glance takes quick steps to grab it when,

"Does knowing me more leads to loving me less?" I ask, eagerly waiting for an answer.

“That’s random.” He says.

“It’s not.”

I could feel the tension building up. He didn't know what to answer. Will & Grace is running in the background as white noise.

“I think people like me more at first,” I said. “Before they know everything, you know."

He sat on the bed, on top of the pillow and tilts his head. I realize he's devilishly handsome.

"Everything like what?”

I shrugged. “Like how I sad I get sometimes. I can't help it. It's a part of me. Or how I disappear when I’m upset instead of talking. It bothers me but again, you know where this comes from right? Unresolved childhood trauma."

He laughed a little. “I know. I accept your flaws as it is. You don't need to shit your brains out worrying about it."

“Still.”

He watched me for a second. Then he said, “You know what changes when you know someone longer?”

“What?”

“The fantasy disappears.”

I looked at him, unsure if that was supposed to help.

“But something else replaces it,” he continued. “You stop loving the idea of them. You start loving the actual person. You start noticing the patterns, what made them this into this person, their mental scars and everything else they keep hidden from the rest of the world. The chaos, the vulnerabilities, the weight of their hearts, I could go on.."

“And if they stop loving you after knowing you?” I ask him.

“Then they probably only liked the easier version of you."

The TV kept flickering light across the room. A bolt of thunder lit up the apartment, making us both realize how much time had passed and that we were supposed to be leaving for our date. Without much more discussion, we got up and started heading out. But before we left, I couldn’t help asking one last question.

“What if someone knows everything about me one day? The ugly parts too?”

“Then they’ll finally have the chance to love all of you instead of just the easy pieces."

He answered without even thinking. Not even for a split second.

Was he always prepared for moments like this?

How could someone be so grounded, so perfect, and somehow always know the right answers to all the wrong questions?

I take it back, he's Jake Peralta but better.

He locks our door, takes my hand and walks me to our car. As we're about to leave, I ask him to get me the mints from the backseat, and so he did.

Wearing the beautiful checkered shirt I got him last Christmas where he spent the entire day with my family sharing Christmas cheer, he reaches over, his sleeves pulling up, just enough for me to notice it,

and in that particular moment, I swear I felt my heart give up. I felt my throat dry up and the will to live drained straight out of my body.

Cuts on his arm.

(Why?)

Cuts on his arm.

Vertical cuts.

Purple bruises.

(No, that can't be.)

Oversized hoodies.

Neosporin.

(He's supposed to be happy.)

Cuts on his arm.

(But why?)

The box cutter.

The box cutter under the pillow.

(You oblivious, selfish, pathetic fool.)

Cuts on his arm.

Purple.

Vertical.

(Why?)

There were cuts all over his arm.

Nothing can beat the feeling of publishing for the first time.
The story [Freeze] might not get the most likes or shares, but for me it is the whole world

He was around seventeen years old when he began to feel that inner pain while wandering through those hallways. It was already his final year in that place… in that little hell he had called school for so long.

Every morning, he walked with his head down and tired eyes. He felt eyes fixed on him, whispers, and even mocking laughter that made him wish he could stay home and never go out again. But running away had never been a word that defined him.

There was a boy from another class whom we will call Lucas. He was a year younger than him. The kind of person who always talked about others, though never in a good way. Curiously, he was the kind of person everyone seemed to like; he fit perfectly into the stereotype of the popular guy.

He did not particularly stand out in school. He had terrible grades and was always surrounded by students who seemed to have no idea what to do with their lives. They only talked about girls, motorcycles, drugs, and other people’s flaws.

They watched everyone, searching for flaws, insecurities… anything that could become a reason for mockery. They wanted to make others feel small in order to feel superior, to feel powerful.

And he was no exception.

A teenager who overthought everything, shy, with few friends, who only tried to fit in and go unnoticed… was the perfect target.

They searched for something in him that could make him feel vulnerable, something that would give them power over his mind. And the only thing they found was something truly stupid… something only people without empathy, empty on the inside, would make fun of.

One day, like any other, he walked through that horrible hallway and heard a fake laugh… a laugh filled with malice, a laugh overflowing with hatred.

They had found something in him they considered worthy of mockery. They began to imitate the way he spoke, every sound, every gesture… they did it with cruel precision, only to burst into laughter afterward.

From that moment on, his life began to change drastically in that place.

At first, he tried not to pay attention. He convinced himself that those words did not matter.

And for a while, they truly did not affect him.

But when a group mocks someone every day, at every moment, in every corner… even the strongest person can begin to break.

Every time he heard them talking among themselves, his heart raced. His body trembled just from seeing Lucas’s silhouette in the distance.

Without realizing it, he developed an irrational fear of groups. He thought they were always talking about him, laughing at him, judging him.

His life began to fall apart.

He never told his mother what was happening. He always tried to appear indifferent to the mockery, even though inside he was devastated, drained, feeling like someone with no value.

He became a deeply insecure person.

He had always been reserved, but he had never been afraid to socialize. However, now it was no longer that he did not want to… it was that he was afraid of being hurt again.

He spent almost six months without leaving his home.

He did not want to go out and have fun like any other teenager. He did not even want to go to the local store. He became rebellious, addicted to social media, consumed by a fear of people he could not even describe.

But one day, after so much time locked away, without talking to anyone, and spending almost all his time in front of a computer, he gathered enough courage.

He decided he could not keep living like that.

He could not allow someone to steal his life.

He had to face it.

He left his house.

There was a soccer match in the town square.

He was determined to face those inner fears that were consuming him.

He remembered walking while trembling. His heart was pounding, his hands were sweating, and at times negative thoughts flooded his mind.

He felt the urge to turn back and lock himself away again.

But he kept going.

This time, those thoughts would not stop him.

When he arrived, Lucas was there… and so were his friends.

There were about seven of them.

At first, they did not notice him.

He sat next to an acquaintance we will call Pedro. He was a young man who neither studied nor seemed too concerned about his future, but he was one of the few people who had never judged him and who treated him like a true friend.

He spent quite some time talking with him.

Little by little, he began to feel comfortable…

Until one of them noticed him.

And in an instant, all his courage disappeared.

They were about seven meters away, and in the middle of all the noise from the match… he heard that fake voice once again.

The voice that had stolen his integrity.

The voice that had stolen his peace of mind.

It was probably one of the days he suffered the most internally.

All he wanted was to run away.

To lock himself in his house.

To disappear.

But he tried to remain firm, as if nothing mattered.

Even though, deep down, he was probably the most broken person in that place.

And the most painful part was not the mockery.

It was seeing his younger brother and his cousin laughing… enjoying his misery without the slightest remorse.

Pain is not always physical.

Sometimes, the deepest wounds are the ones no one can see.

There were nights when ceasing to exist seemed easier than continuing to feel.

His only refuge in that gray place was a classmate who noticed his pain.

Not even his family realized it.

But that little blonde girl did.

And without exaggeration… she saved him.

She was probably the only person he truly considered a friend.

When he talked to her in some corner of the school, he felt peace.

His mind disconnected from the world.

For a few moments, everything else stopped mattering.

It was never romantic love.

It could not be described in such a superficial way.

It was something much deeper.

Much more human.

Without her, he would never have been able to overcome that bitter stage.

It was a dark year.

A year that left scars.

He graduated with the highest grades and entered university the following year.

But even though he had improved a lot, the ghosts of the past continued to haunt him.

More than once, he thought that perhaps he should seek professional help.

Because even years later, although he no longer returned to that school, every time he visited that town… he still felt an irrational fear running through his entire body.

He held no hatred toward those who had hurt him.

Nor toward the school itself.

He had also found good friendships there, in the middle of so much malice.

Today, he was about to finish university.

He had moved away from that small town that had been a prison for his thoughts for so long.

Sometimes he returned to visit his parents, and although the wounds were still there… they no longer bled as they once did.

He still tried not to cross paths with some people from his past.

The fear still existed…

But it no longer controlled his life.

Changing environments helped him more than he had ever imagined.

He met new people.

People who do not look for flaws.

Who do not judge.

Who simply listen.

And that was when he understood something…

Bullying may seem like a simple game to some.

A passing joke.

A meaningless laugh.

But for others…

It can become a wound that follows them for years.

An invisible wound.

The kind no one sees…

But one that is never forgotten.

After taking a drag of his cigarette, Tod tapped the loose ash off and rested his hand by the ashtray. As he slowly exhaled, he stared at the lit cigarette between his fingers. 

It’s 2022, who smokes nowadays… Tod thought. Who the hell would work for a tobacco company as well. Tod looked around; it was after hours at Jimmy’s Bar, and only Jimmy’s regulars were allowed to hang around.

“I got sweaty palms,” a nervous man said from behind the bar. 

Tod looked at Jimmy. A short plump man who was proud of the business he built here. A true third place, Jimmy would proudly say. See, Jimmy was an old-school bartender; a callback to the 80s sitcoms. He made it his mission to get to know his patrons, be involved in the local community and wanted his regulars to feel at home. 

“You’ll be fine Jimmy. Can I get a double?” Tod asked. 

Jimmy turned and grabbed an unbranded bottle with just brown liquor inside. He popped it open, and the fumes cleared out his sinuses. 

“Here, smell this,” Jimmy said as he shoved the bottle under Tod’s nose.

“Ohwaa! A new batch?” A recoiling Tod said. 

“Its bark is worse than its bite,” Jimmy reassured him. 

Jimmy set up two-whisky glasses, added an ice shaped rose in each and started to pour. The whisky gently flowed down through the petals submersing two-thirds of the rose.

Tod lifted the glass to his mouth—the potent aroma instantly hit him. The rich whisky immersed his palate in a smoky smooth taste—nothing like the aroma foreshadowed. Tod swallowed and the whisky warmed him as it made its way down. 

“That was an experience. How did you get it so smooth?” Tod asked in amazement.

“A great distiller never shares his secrets,” a jovial Jimmy responded.

“This drop is the clincher, Jimmy,” said Tod. 

“Maybe a bit too bold. I’m going to present the 2018 sherry oak, aged I made.” Jimmy said confidently. “It’s bold, yet subtle, with fruity undertones. It won first place at the SIP Awards, this drop is trendy right now...”

“Hold up, slow it down Jimmy.” Tod interrupted cutting short Jimmy’s rambling. “Remember, what we practiced; let the whisky do the talking and say the absolute minimum.” 

Tod tilted his glass to Jimmy and finished off his double. Buzz buzz, Tod checked his phone. 

“Show time Jimmy.”

Jimmy turned around and saw a nervous wreck in the mirror. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined the nervousness exiting his body as he breathed out. 

“Yeah, this is a real third place,” Jimmy heard Tod’s voice coming from the door; he turned around with his trademark warm smile. 

“Penelope, Spence this is Jimmy, the master distiller I told you about,” said Tod.

“Pleased to meet you, Jimmy,” Penelope reached her hand out to shake; Jimmy nervously accepted.

“Thanks for coming to my place. Please take a seat,” said Jimmy, trying to sound confident but sounded meek instead. 

“Relax Jimmy, my friend here is Spence the Crossword’s master distiller,” said Penelope.

Spence and Jimmy shook hands. Jimmy took a breath and relaxed his shoulders, which didn’t help his nerves. Sharing his Whisky with family and friends was one thing; but having it assessed by the best in business was another. Jimmy liked being a quiet bar owner who distilled as a hobby. After winning the SIP Awards, Tod convinced him he could be more, should be more and set this meeting up.  

“You weren’t wrong about his place Tod, I feel like I’m 22 again,” Spence enthusiastically said as he looked around reliving memories past.

“So, before we start tasting, Penelope could you explain what’s on offer here?” Tod asked.

“Just like you, Tod, putting work before play. Jimmy, my main job is product innovation. I work closely with Spence to enhance our product line. Recently, one of our senior distillers retired; this is when Tod reached out to set this up.” 

“We want to expand into this town, and we like what we hear about you,” Spence, cut in.

“There is a job on offer and a potential sale here?” asked Jimmy.

“Very astute Jimmy, but we’re not authorised to make any offers. What we can do, is refer you to our boss and possibly secure an interview.” Penelope spoke with an eloquent business tone putting Jimmy on the back foot.

Jimmy could feel the nerves increasing and could not hold back “That’s not what…” 

“Jimmy! How’s that 2018 we were talking about?” 

The sound of Tod’s voice snapped Jimmy out of his train of thought, he was able to refocus on the task at hand. He set up 4-glasses and added his signature ice rose.

“Here is the winner of this year’s SIP Awards. It’s aged in a sherry oak, it’s bold, yet subtle with fruity undertones.” *Nailed it!*Jimmy thought to himself.

Spence and Penelope took a sip of the 2018 whisky, and in unison put the glasses down.

“Jimmy, this is a great drop. I can see why you won. But this is very close to our highest-selling product ‘Crossword’s Sherrie’,” Spence said. 

“Mmm, you’re right. It’s good to know, this flavour profile will work here,” Penelope said. 

A silence came over them. Jimmy could feel his dream slipping away, and the smell of Tod’s cigarette wasn’t helping. 

“Jimmy, thanks for taking the time. We’ll welcome your application if you still want to apply. Cool place,” Spence said and he reached out his hand. 

“Wait!” Jimmy shocked himself at this outburst. “I got one more to show you.” 

“Ok… can I… arrr…” the pain from Spence’s hand caused by Jimmy snatching it and squeezing for dear life made him stutter.

“Sorry, one more tasting,” Jimmy said.

Jimmy frantically set up the next drink. Penelope and Spence shot Tod a concerned look; Tod smiled back and waved his hand reassuringly at them.

“Don’t let the bark scare ya,” said Tod.

“I think, I’m going to call this Sensations,” Jimmy pushed two-glasses forward. 

Spence and Penelope picked up the glass and recoiled from the strong aroma that burnt their sinuses. But noticed Tod drinking his, and the look of proud appreciation on his face. They looked at each other and went for it. As Tod before them—they were blown away by the experience.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy!” Spence said. “Now this—is what I’m taking about!” 

Tension left Jimmy’s body, and he simply smiled letting the whisky do the talking. 

“I’ll offer you, a 1-year signing bonus and we’ll discuss about buying this place, but this drop comes with you,” offered Spence.

“Spence. You don’t have authority to offer that.” Penelope said sternly. 

“I’m the hiring manager,” Spence said brushing her off.

“Jimmy, can you meet our boss on Tuesday? That will give me time to discuss Spence’s offer,” asked Penelope.

“Of course!” Jimmy instantaneously agreed. 

“Make sure you bring a bottle of Sensations,” requested Spence.

Jimmy nodded. The 4 of them said their goodbyes. Spence and Penelope were making their way to the exit.

“Penelope,” called Tod. “Two-year signing bonus.”

Penelope smiled and nodded in agreement “I’ll try.”

“My man!” Tod and Jimmy gave each other the highest of fives.

“This opportunity, I don’t know what to say,” Jimmy said with a thankfulness in his voice that would strike a chord in the coldest of people.

“I work for the devil, Jimmy; it feels good to do good,” Tod stamped out his cigarette and left. 

As someone from rural Spain, I thought I understood strange roadside culture. We have old pubs older than America itself and roundabouts that appear to have been designed by the devil himself.

But nothing, nothing, prepared me for Buc-ee’s.

Mi amor, Sadie, had insisted we stop there during our road trip.

“You gotta experience it,” she said with the excitement of someone taking me to Disneyland.

We pulled off the highway into Luling and I nearly mistook the place for an airport terminal.

The parking lot alone could host a small war.

Cars. Trucks. RVs. A horse trailer for some reason.

And towering above it all was that thing.

That massive smiling beaver statue.

Its buck teeth gleamed in the Texas sun. Its little red tongue poked out cheerfully. It stared down at me with black cartoon eyes so empty and wide they felt almost human in the wrong way.

“You alright?” Sadie asked.

“Why is your petrol station so large?” I muttered.

She laughed.

“Wait till you see inside.”

he doors opened.

And I swear to God I heard angels sing.

It was enormous.

Rows upon rows of snacks, merchandise, drinks, jerky, fudge, sandwiches, hunting gear, candles, shirts, home décor, taxidermy, barbecue sauce, and things I still cannot explain.

The floors gleamed like polished marble.

Not a crumb anywhere.

Not a stain.

It was too clean.

Far too clean.

Everyone inside smiled.

Not regular smiling.

The kind of smile where teeth show just a little too much.

The kind of smile people wear when trying not to blink while their picture is being taken.

“Howdy, welcome in!” one employee chirped in a thick southern accent.

Her face was unnaturally smooth. Plastic almost. Like someone had stretched skin over a mannequin.

“Try the brisket!” another man shouted.

His smile never faltered.

I leaned toward Sadie.

“Why do they all look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like they’ve never had an unhappy thought in their lives.”

She snorted and walked off toward the jerky counter.

That was when I first saw him.

The mascot.

Inside.

Full costume.

Just standing near the drink fountain.

Watching me.

Its massive beaver head tilted slightly.

Still smiling.

Still staring.

I blinked.

Looked away.

Looked back.

Gone.

I found him again in the chips aisle.

Half-hidden around the corner.

Watching.

Then by the fudge counter.

Then behind a display of beaver-themed pajamas.

Never moving when I looked directly at him.

Just… appearing.

Always staring.

That big obnoxious smile.

“Sadie,” I whispered, “why is the mascot following me?”

She looked over.

“What mascot?”

“The beaver!”

She frowned.

“There’s no mascot in here.”

I turned.

Gone again.

My stomach twisted.

Either I was losing my mind or Texas was significantly more cursed than advertised.

Then I remembered.

The mushrooms.

Earlier that day Sadie had convinced me to try some “road trip gummies” from Austin.

“Just enough to make the drive fun,” she’d said.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

I was tripping in a giant American beaver supermarket that was also an airport of a gas station.

I rushed toward the bathroom.

The restroom was somehow bigger than my flat back home.

Marble walls. Spotless stalls. Better maintained than most hospitals.

I was stunned at how well kept it was. It was too perfect.

I locked myself in one stall and bent over breathing heavily. I was prepared to puke when suddenly, the chatter outside all came to a stop.

Then I heard it.

Heavy footsteps.

Soft at first.

Then stopping outside my stall.

I looked behind.

Brown furry feet.

Flat cartoon mascot shoes.

Just standing there.

Waiting.

I froze.

“Hola?” I squeaked.

Nothing.

Just silence.

Then slowly…

the feet bent downward.

As if crouching.

Trying to look under the stall.

I screamed and kicked the door open...

Darkness

The bathroom was gone.

The whole store was dark.

Bathed only in red candlelight.

I stumbled backward.

People stood in black robes in the center of Buc-ee’s.

Employees.

Customers.

Everyone.

Still smiling.

Still too wide.

Bucked tooth galore.

They chanted in unison around a massive stone altar.

And on it, someone screaming.

Blood spilled over polished tile.

The manager stood at the front.

I recognized him instantly.

His face stretched unnaturally tight, swollen with too much Botox, lips trembling in that permanent smile.

His front teeth were filed into points like giant buck teeth.

He raised a knife to the heavens.

“ALL HAIL THE BEAVER!” he shrieked.

The crowd roared.

At the center of them towered the enormous Buc-ee’s statue from outside.

Only now its eyes glowed red.

Its mouth split wider than should be possible.

The stone cracked.

And the thing inside moved.

A voice suddenly shrieked through the darkness.

“BRISKET!”

The entire congregation snapped their heads toward the deli counter in unison.

Then chaos erupted.

The robed worshipers screamed like starving animals and charged, trampling over one another in a rabid frenzy toward the glowing carving station. I stumbled back as dozens of them piled atop each other, clawing and biting for scraps while wet, animalistic noises filled the air.

The beaver-toothed manager stood behind the counter, hacking violently with a butcher’s cleaver.

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

Chunks of meat flew onto wax paper.

The worshipers shrieked in delight.

“FRESH BRISKET! FRESH BRISKET!”

One woman tore into a slab beside me, grease and blood dripping down her chin.

Then I saw the hand.

A human hand.

Still wearing a wedding ring.

My stomach dropped.

The “brisket” wasn’t brisket.

It was someone, hacked apart on the cutting board while the crowd devoured him in fistfuls, chewing and moaning with bliss as blood soaked the tile beneath them.

The manager looked at me, smiling impossibly wide.

“TRY A SAMPLE?”

Before I could run, hands seized me from every direction.

Cold fingers.

Too many of them.

They grabbed my arms, my legs, my throat.

I screamed as they dragged me kicking across the polished floor while the congregation chanted louder and louder.

“COWARD! COWARD! COWARD! COWARD!”

They tore my clothes from my body in frantic jerks, shredding fabric until I was bare and trembling before them.

The beaver mascot approached slowly, carrying a rusted bucket sloshing with thick red liquid.

My voice cracked as panic overtook me.

“¡No más, por favor! ¡No más!”
(No more, please! No more!)

Dios mío… sálvame… por favor, Dios…”
(My God… save me… please, God…)

The first splash hit my chest warm.

Sticky.

Metallic.

Blood.

They painted it across me with their bare hands, smearing symbols and words over my skin while the crowd shrieked with laughter.

Across my chest, in dripping crimson letters, they wrote:

COWARD

Then they dragged me outside.

The night air hit my skin like ice.

Above me towered the great Buc-ee’s sign, glowing against the black Texas sky.

They hoisted me upward with ropes, lifting me naked into the air beneath the massive smiling beaver logo.

I swung there helplessly, blood dripping from my body, suspended beneath the neon sign as the crowd below dropped to their knees in worship.

The mascot stepped forward beneath me.

Tilted its head.

And in a deep, guttural voice that sounded like gravel forced through a throat unused to speech, it finally said its first words.

“He was not worthy of the Beaver.”

I woke up screaming in the bathroom stall.

Lights normal.

Everything clean.

Silent.

I stumbled out drenched in sweat.

No candles.

No blood.

No cult.

Just Buc-ee’s.

Normal Buc-ee’s.

Sadie found me pale and shaking near the clothing area.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I think your gas station is cursed.”

She laughed so hard she snorted.

“Told you not to take that many gummies.”

We walked outside.

The warm Texas air hit me like freedom itself.

I laughed nervously.

“Right. Hallucination. Obviously. Just the drugs.”

We climbed into the car.

I buckled in.

Took one last glance toward the store.

And there he was.

Standing beneath the giant sign.

The mascot.

Motionless.

Staring directly at me.

Head tilted.

Smiling.

He slowly raised one gloved hand.

And waved, goodbye.

The sun set on the horizon. On a veranda looking out into the purple panorama, a man and a youth sat. The man was passing on some important advice to the youth, punctuating his speech with vigorous hand motions as the late day shadows stretched across the beachfront walk. The business day was closing, and the laughter of merchant children echoed in the youth's ears as he attempted to pay attention to what the man was saying. Two lovers strolled by, and the youth watched them split the infinite sea of humanity.

Suddenly, a band of gypsies appeared in the street. They were magnificently dressed, wrapped in brightly colored sequins and plumed vests. The men drove horse carts, while women with large baskets balanced on top of their heads walked beside them. In the rear, groups of children struggled to keep up with the procession. A girl of eighteen walked among the children, and the youth's eyes locked onto hers. The girl's green eyes glowed through the black curls on her cheeks. She stared back at the youth as she passed. The sun set, and the man asked the youth if he was listening.

Several hours later, when the sun was long gone and the moon watched the lovers of the world with one eye closed, the youth made his way to the camp of the gypsies. As the fires burned low, the youth stole glances into each tent, searching. At last, he found the one in which the girl slept, along with several others.

Silently, he made his way to the curls, and put a hand on her sleeping shoulder. He turned her over--but gently, enough so when she felt his touch, she opened her eyes, but made no sound. With a blink of surprised recognition, she gave him her hand, and he led her out of the tent. The two walked for a spell in the outlying forests, their purple shadows trailing in the moonlight, until they arrived at a golden grassy plain.

The horizon glowed in front of them. The two shadows merged as one.

At dusk the next night, the youth once again sat at the veranda, this time alone. His feet rested on a railing next to a beer and the setting sun. A curled silhouette approached him from behind, and put a hand on his shoulder. The two figures remained still, watching the sun complete its descent. Yellow, orange, purple. In the last glimmer of the fading twilight, the girl leaned over and kissed the youth on the cheek. The darkness arrived, and the girl was gone.

The next morning, the sun rose to find the youth still at the table. His head was buried in his arms, and his shoulders shook.

Nine months later, a baby boy was born to the girl.

THE HORSE IS TAKEN

Twenty-six years later, the gypsy child went looking for a horse. Miguel entered a stable office where an old man sat, feet propped up on a desk.

The old man looked up, and spoke.

"Ah Miguel, I suppose you have come for a horse."

"That is correct."

"There is one left, but it has no name."

"I'll take it."

The old man stared in disbelief, and then shrugged. “As you wish.” His feet dropped heavily to the floor, and he leaned forward to shout, "Pepe!"

A small boy walked in.

The boy did not move immediately, looking from the old man to Miguel and back in confusion.

"Hondale!" barked the old man.

The boy looked once more to Miguel, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Please come with me, senor."

Miguel followed the boy out the back door. The old man put his feet back up on the desk, and closed his eyes.

The boy held out to Miguel the reins of the last horse in the stable. Miguel took them, but the boy did not immediately let go. Instead, he spoke, "Senor Miguel, a horse with no name will take you nowhere."

“Who said I am going somewhere?”

Miguel took the reins from the boy's hand, and put a gold piece in it. Then he threw his pack on the horse's rump, and walked the horse off into the sandy, desolate plains stretching out infinitely in front of them.

​

My first memory was the warmth within my egg sack. I consumed the nutrient rich semi-fluid substance around me, unaware of anything that existed beyond the soft rigid walls of my home. As much as I could manage, I practiced moving; wriggling from side to side, stretching forward and back, contracting and expanding the muscles in my body - movement without going anywhere.

My second memory was of my food slowly running out and the walls of my home beginning to close in around me. My fate was sealed...which would come first, suffocation or starvation? I began thrashing against the inevitable doom with every muscle my feeble body had developed! Then I saw my salvation, a weak spot in the wall! I pushed my head into it. I could feel it beginning to give way. A crackling, tearing noise accompanied my charge toward freedom! There must be something on the other side of those walls I could feel it! I could sense it...

A gap began to take shape! I grasped at the edge of my prison with my mandables, bit down hard with my sharp teeth, and I ripped! I tore at the hole desperate to free myself. That's when I smelled it...the world outside. The air was acrid and metallic with a pleasent sharpness to it, that of bile and grease, a multitude of conflicting smells hitting me all at once. This...this is what freedom smelled like? I continued to break free and when the exit was big enough for me to squeeze through - I left my home, once so warm and comforting, now a hazardous trap. The smell of my new world washed over me. The moisture in the air mixed with a thin layer of slime covering my translucent skin and quills. I had lain on the ground for a long time until, eventually, I took in my surroundings.

The ground was meat. Solid and squishy, marbled with fat and gristle.

The walls were meat. On their surface were metal pipes draped in thin facia and a ventilation system that ran upward toward an unknown ceiling somewhere far in the distance.

The hallway was meat. A single passageway extending outward, fading into the darkness, leading away from the chamber of my birth.

On the floor beside me sat my now empty egg sack, it was beginning to shrivel and harden. I turned toward it and checked the remains, looking for any trace of leftover nutrients. I found a few scraps flaking off of the inside of my egg and ate them - they were dry and not very tasty. Then I tried eating a bit of the outer casing of the sack - it was not very filling and was brittle like chewing thin glass. The meat of this place seemed edible enough, but I wanted to save eating the walls as a last resort - so instead I ate as much of my former home as I could. Sustained for the time being, I left the room, crawling down the tall hallway hoping to find some more food - leaving a thin trail of slime behind me as I went.

With my path forward streatching ever onward, I had time to think and my mind began to wander. *Where is this place? How did I get here? Who am I? Oh! A ceiling!*

Out from the darkness above me I could see the meat sloping down into view. As I crawled, the walls also began to slope inward, becoming a more confined corridor. Further on it became a tighter tunnel. Further on it became a small hole. As the walls and roof closed in on me, my pulse quickened. As my quills brushed against the meat surrounding me, my muscles tensed. A sound in the distance was slowly growing louder. A soft low whistle at first, the sound was now a gale with a metallic creaking underneath. I was being funnelled forward but I had a goal, a destination after all of this crawling! That sound! I crawled faster, allowing my mucus to aid my propulsion. The cramped space pushed my quills flat and pressed them into my back, I could feel the way their rigid structures were causing my skin and internal organs to shift around them. The sound was now an orchestra of giants wheezing in unison, a symphony of agonal breathing! I shot out of the opening of the hole. The external pressure on my body immediately released, my quills popped back up, my squished organs moved back into place, and the tension in my body relaxed. The air howled all around me and I laid on the floor.

I had emerged into a great cavernous room, the loud air was thin and stale, I could feel the muffled metal beneath the meat vibrating at a different frequency than before. I got up and began to explore. Contained within the room were rows and rows and rows of enormous lungs - hung upside down by massive tendons, supported by beams of metal, wire meshes fused into the sides of the air sacks, breathing asynchonous with each other. Ventilation ducts jutted from the tops of the lungs, billowing air upward into a haphazard spiderweb of interconnected shafts, all creaking and moaning from the ever-flowing air, all sticking into the meaty walls and ceiling of the room. Wherever meat touched metal there was scar tissue. A thin fleshy layer of film was spread over most of the exposed metal, veins could be seen pumping an unknown liquid into the meat, organs, and connective tissues. Wires were sending electrical signals to and from machine and flesh. The sound made in this room was hundreds of eternally dying breaths.

As I crawled the rows, the lungs became more gray, more wrinkled, they didn't pump with as much vigor, the surrounding metal and tendons showing signs of age and general wear, calcified growths could be seen on the lungs and the vents. The thin layer of flesh on the metal was thicker and more wide-spread the further I travelled. Eventually I came across a lung that had fallen. The tendons had snapped, the metal beneath had buckled, it's ventilation duct dangled uselessly above, one of the structural beams had pierced it's side - and it was still weakly continuing to pump. The air escaped through various holes where it had torn itself free of the piping and wheezed out of the hole ripped in it's side. Hungry, I approached the fallen lung, found a place that wasn't pumping too much, and bit down. It was thick and leathery, the more I chewed, the tougher it seemed to get, turning into a wad of un-swallowable gristle. I continued to chew, letting the sour juices coat my mouth, and continued on.

Reaching the other side of the large room I found a metal hatch. I extended my body up, clamped my mandables onto the handle, and pulled down. The hatch opened away from me revealing another passageway. With nothing here to eat aside from tough lung meat, I entered the corridor. The hatch closed behind me, cutting off the roar coming from the previous room. I hoped that this hallway wouldn't try to squash me like the last one did. As I travelled down the hall I noticed a change in the hum given off by the meat in this area - a less chaotic, more consistant vibration.

With my path forward streatching ever onward, I had time to think and my mind began to wander. *What is this place? What am I? Why am I here? Oh! A hatch!*

This passageway was much shorter than the one before. It ended in a hatch just like the one I had entered. Opening the hatch (towards me this time) the sounds and smells of this room hit me. A savory smell mixed with a hint of sweet decay, wafts of something acidic. The sounds of grinding, churning, turning. I exited the hallway, the hatch closing behind me and I found myself on a metal catwalk. The tightly gridded grating suspended high above the ground by cables. To my left were tall thick spires of bone, large growths spurred out from them, huge lopsided buckets were welded onto the spires spiralling upward, in the buckets were great chunks of clean juicy fat. As the spires turned, the fat was scooped up from somewhere down below and carried up to it's destination in the darkness above. Above me to my right were a mosaic of gears of all sizes, starting huge at the top and getting smaller toward the bottom. They were attached to a wall made not of meat, but solid bone, the gears were metal, the gearshafts were calcium barbs growing out from the wall itself. Chunks of rotting discolored fat were being fed into the gears at the top. as they were smashed and ground up into smaller and smaller pieces, the grease from the putrid fat oiled the gears. What was left of the fat after the mashing fell down into an enormous vat underneath me where it was mixed into an odd colored slurry. As new fat was added, the slurry hissed and bubbled creating a layer of thick greasy foam at the top. Every couple of minutes a long flat metal scraper would rotate over the top of the vat, scraping the foam away, causing it to spill over the edge, plopping onto the unseen ground far below.

My belly rumbled, I chittered with excitement, I was spoiled for choice! While the fresh fat was slick and juicy, the smell of the rotten fat was irresistable. The catwalk was uncomfortable to crawl on. The floors of meat were sturdy but soft, the grate was hard and had rounded protrusions on the surface, and my slime was less helpful in my movement here. I came to a crossroad in the catwalk; the path to the left would take me toward the bone spires, straight ahead would continue onward to another passageway, and to the right would take me closer to the gears. I took the catwalk to the right and crawled until it ended at the wall of bone. I rolled onto my side and stuck some of my quills into the grating. Using the muscles I had built up from crawling, I did my best to maintain balance, keeping my center of gravity as close to my rear as I could - and I streatched, reaching out toward the falling small chunks, snapping my mandables trying to grab a morsel of sweet sweet rot. One piece of fat got skewered on a quill, then slid off falling to the depths. One piece bounced off my head leaving a spot of grease. I had missed four falling pieces before I had manage to grab my prize. I slowly retracted myself, the fat was heavier than I was expecting and I was shaking with the effort and anticipation. Firmly back on the catwalk, the lump of fat was mine! I bit down, it popped, rotting grease filled my mouth, I buried my head in the fat chewing with barely enough time to swallow! Surely this is what being alive is all about! While I didn't know much, I knew nothing could be better than a big tasty meal when you're starving!

Slapping sounds from above, thudding, getting louder! I pulled my head from my meal, grease and fat rained down around me, a wet slamming sound getting closer! I looked up to see a massive boulder of rotten fat hurtling down towards me! I scrambled, whipping my front up and over my back, my slime mixed with the grease, flailing, no movement, heavy smacking sounds echoing all around me! The hard bumps of the catwalk let me get purchase, I flung my whole body forward, every panicked muscle in my body screaming, surging! The fat meteor crashed into the catwalk right behind me causing the whole thing to shake and ripple violently, the end tore away from the bone wall, bone and metal shrapnel flew, the cables holding the end snapped, within seconds the catwalk was tipping downward! I dug my backside into the grating and pushed upward, once I was streatched as far as I could manage I dug my face into the grating, climbing to keep myself from falling into the abyss below! Tension on the catwalk released as the big ball of fat ripped free, what remained of the right catwalk shot upward and threw me into the air! I landed toward the center of the catwalk crossroad, I came down hard, my squishy body slamming into the pointed grating. A loud thick sploosh followed by a long sizzle came from far below me. The catwalk creaked and swayed as I layed there. My pulse was sprinting, my muscles were on fire, my body ached, but I was alive. I heard a light plip-plopping sound. Then a thick spash and my body was on fire! The foamy odd colored slurry had splashed across the back part of my body. It was sizzling! I writhed, my quills flared and shook, the pain was a white-hot knife barbed with needles! As half of me melted away, partially digested fat slid out of my belly mixing and dissolving with the back half of my body, quills, muscles, and organs. I watched as half of me dripped through the holes of the catwalk.

With my pain streatching ever onward, I had time to think and my mind began to wander. *Why me?! Why was I even born?! Why do I keep going?! Why do I have to drag around this shitty body?! WHY?!WHY?!WHY?!WHY?!WHY?*

Everything went black.

I awoke some time later. Pale yellow liquid was leaking from me, what was left of my organs were partially dangling behind me, the burning was dulled but still painful. As I moved, the hot needles came back. Half of my muscles were gone, I needed to re-learn how to crawl and every inch was torture as my organs dragged against the bumpy metal grating. Eventually, I made it to the corridor leading away from the catwalk. Finally back onto the soft meaty floor, my slime would help my mobility here. I pressed on.

With my path forward streatching ever onward, I had time to think and my mind became focused. *Keep going, just make it to the next room. Keep going, just make it to the next room. Keep going, just make it to the next room.*

I crawled through a doorway into a small room, empty except for a bone pedestal in the center, there was no wall opposite the door. The space gave way to a cistern extending out and down beyond the confines of the little meat room, metal archways streatching out beyond vision held up the low ceiling. It held a viscous milky liquid of unknown depth. As I approached the pedestal, the cistern began to sparkle - first the liquid, then the arches, then the ceiling. I saw and beheld an endless colony of neurons activating. In the liquid they were swimming, dancing around each other, creating strands of light whenever they bumped together. From the pool they had grown up the arches, linking together to form twinkling webs of unknown calculation. From the arches they had continued to move up and now coated the ceiling of the cistern, they clumped together creating glowing stalagtites that slowly dripped falling stars of thought, returning to a silky pool of ideas.The yellow blood coming from my body was coagulating, making me sticky. I crawled up the side of the pedestal and onto the flat angled top.

My final memory was of curling up on top of a flat piece of metal affixed to the top of the pedestal. Shimmering dancing lights illuminated the plaque and the alien words that had been etched into it untold eons ago.

*WELCOME HOME*

The key to a good soup is the right ingredients. This has been proven many times. Rarely correctly.  Rollin knew this after years of practice and work, trying new ingredients, finding failure and some success, but not the right recipe. Not just yet.

He strolled up to the immense space, a mansion, one of the many peppering the Appalachians in this Cashiers though certainly one of the more ostentatious ones.  He knocked on the door and waited as a man with sunken eyes but a warm demeanor, slowly opened the wooden door made of a single slab from a tree Rollin knew to have been extinct decades past.

“Ah, you must be… Rollin? The chef? Am I saying that right?”

“Rolly works if it’s not too difficult. I am here for the work. That is correct yes?”

“Right,” the man said with a raised brow, “The work… come on in, it’s hot out there, and you should meet the kids and my wife. She’s the one who found you.”  Rolly crossed the boundary, feeling a charge as he stepped inside, the taste of discovery on his lips.  He followed the man inside, who introduced himself as Harry, short for Harold, a name given by his father and passed down through the years until he was the latest victim of its passage.

A moment later, the sound of designer heels rang out as his wife, Veronica, the one who contacted Rolly for employment, came down with two children in tow, clearly looking to have offered at least some form of protest before descending.

Veronica reached out with a firm handshake, saying, “Rolly. Excellent to meet you, you come highly recommended by my friends in DC.” The handshake was ironclad, as was the woman, as her piercing eye seemed to search and investigate Rolly more than greet him as she held his hand a fraction beyond polite.  “These are our children, Benjamin and Jessica,” she said as she pushed them forward.  Rolly regarded them as he bowed to the children, saying, “Good to meet you, small ones.  I will be serving you, yes?”

The children yelled out in protest, “My name's not Benjamin, it’s Benji, and Jessica hates when you call her that, just call her Jessie jesus mom.  So this guy’s going to be making us lunch and dinner and stuff?”  Anger flared behind Veronica’s eyes as she turned to the children, the anger filling the air with tension as she answered, “Yes, Rolly will be assisting your father and me in feeding you in exchange for room and board.  Now behave and get to know your new caretaker, your father, and I are busy.”

Without another word, those heels clacked as she disappeared into the study upstairs, and Harry apologetically mumbled a few words before disappearing up the stairs himself.  The children looked up at Rolly, an uncharacteristically tall man with a sunken form, as if he’d never eaten one of the meals he had created, and with defiant eyes, Benji spoke up, saying, “Lunch. Now.”

Rolly eyed the children, one full of fire and force, the other too happy to sink into the shadow of her brother.  “Bad start, but good soup does not always come from the best start.  Come, I make lunch.” Rolly said, walking away towards the kitchen.  Benji strode behind with a confident smirk as Jessie mumbled, “How does he even know where the kitchen is?”  The children entered the kitchen and began to climb onto the stools that surrounded the island as their eyes cleared the counter and Benji insults began afresh.  “You know if your food’s bad, I could have you fired, right? My mother would tell everyone. You’d probably never work again…” his eyes suddenly noticed the food already lay before him.

 A simple meal, but the aroma punctured the air around them, enticing their senses just the same, a bowl of red liquid adorned with a parsley leaf, accompanied by a crisp and well-melted cheese sandwich, picture perfect in all regards save the speed at which it arrived.

“How?... You were in here for ten seconds!” Benji exclaimed as Jessie mumbled out a thank you and began to eat.  “You ought to dig in, tomato soup is best when it’s piping hot,” Rolly replied as he began clearing the pots and pans he had used to make the meal. 

Angrily, Benji mumbled under his breath, “Hope it burns me, then I’ll make mother fire you.” Dipping his sandwich in the soup as he took his first bite alongside Jessie.  It felt like a rush of air hit him in the face.  

Wind tore past his face
Heat permeated the air around him as he felt sweat drip down his body
An engine betwixt his legs roaring with life - Fast, loud, and free

The snap back into the kitchen felt violent as his senses regained control once more

“What? Where.. Where did I go?” Benji said as he looked to his twin, her eyes sparkling with wonder as he could tell she had the same thought.  Rolly looked calm and collected as he droned out, “You haven’t left your seat.”  

“Bu-but my bike? The desert? Where did it go?” Jessie nodded along, saying, “I liked it, I wanna do it again.”  

Rolly turned to the children, already putting away the final clean pot as he said, " That would be the wanderlust children. I bought it from a man in the desert.  A good fellow he was. The reaction is common, but you’ll find your footing soon. The heartiness of the tomato soup keeps you grounded.”

A pause.

“Too much distance can be destabilizing.  Please finish your meal.”  

The children returned to their meal, those same emotions filling them as they finished their dinner.  Jessie’s bowl was empty first and she ran around the counter and gave Rolly an embrace saying, “Thank you, Mr. Rolly, that’s my favorite lunch ever.” Rolly, without lowering himself, patted her back and eyed her, saying “Good soup” before turning his eye to Benji and continuing, “Even unexpected ingredients can beget surprises.” 

Another long pause before he said “A better start than the last.”

Benji eyed Rolly warily as he rose from his spot, leaving his dishes behind as he said, “Whatever, not bad cook. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll last a week.”  He stomped off furiously as Jessie trailed behind him.  Rolly took the dishes and plates, finishing cleaning up before finding a private area in the backyard to set up his tent.

Through the window of his father's study with his latest manuscript stacked on the desk as his father continued to write, Benji asked, “Dad? What’s wanderlust?”  Harry, engrossed in his writing, muttered without his eyes leaving the screen, “It’s a feeling, an impulse to travel and see or explore the world.”

“Then how do you add it to a sandwich?” Benji questioned as he watched Rolly begin to set up his tent behind a tree in the backyard. “And why in the world is the servant putting a tent up in the backyard?”  

Harry continued staring at the screen with his bloodshot eyes, saying, “You can’t add it to a sandwich and Rolly insisted on staying in his tent in the backyard even though we have rooms here. That’s enough questions, I need to work, go play with your sister or something.”

Benji strode out, his mission accomplished as he felt the small flask of whiskey strain against his jeans pocket.  He wandered off to play with his sister, as he glanced at the backyard one more time to see Rolly place the final stake as if he knew where it belonged, and disappeared into the simple pyramid-shaped tent.  Shrugging his shoulders, he went to his room to enjoy his newfound spoils. 

The faint hum of the fans cooling the system buzzed as Veronica played back the scene from the kitchen. Rolly moved at impossible speeds as the simple lunch seemed to appear almost from thin air.  She watched as her son and daughter's eyes went blank as Rolly stood there observing them before they snapped back to reality.  

She reviewed the biometrics.

Heart spiking.

Brain activity elevated.

She opened a new window and typed a simple message

“It’s begun.”

A human life, as it turns out, is worth exactly $71.42.

"Not again..."

Nathan muttered under his breath. His eyes were fixed on the notification lighting up his phone screen.

[Collective Liability Alert]

Unit 12 Member: Sean M.

Assault in District 14. Fine: $800.

Your split: $80. Auto-deduction at midnight.

In this country, public order was maintained by a system of collective responsibility known as the "National ID Unit System." Citizens were forcibly assigned to random groups of ten. When one member committed a crime, the resulting fines or damages were split equally among the entire unit.

"One for all, all for one."

The slogan was beautiful, but in reality, it was just a system of mutual surveillance and snitching.

If a unit consisted of ten decent citizens, there was no issue—and most units were like that. Even if a unit was unlucky enough to have a true predator, they would usually commit a felony, pay a heavy initial price, and then be hauled off to prison and removed from the unit.

But Sean M., a member of Nathan’s Unit 12, was worse in a different way.

He specialized in petty crimes—vandalism, minor theft, brawling. He never committed a crime severe enough for prison, but he committed them constantly. As a result, the fines were perpetually drained from the bank accounts of Nathan and the other members. No matter how many times they warned him, he didn't care.

To Sean, this system wasn't a deterrent; it was a service that diluted his sins by 90%.

"Did you get the alert? The one Sean assaulted was Mr. Tanaka from our unit," a woman whispered in a dim, crowded bar. "He said he was just standing on the street when Sean shoved him for being in the way."

"He stole money from me the other day, too," another added. "But I was afraid to report it because I didn't want to cause more trouble for Nathan and the others..."

"Please, report it," Nathan sighed. "If you stay silent, the fines only grow later."

They were at a local dive bar in the city. It was a gathering of several members from Unit 12 and other surrounding units—a "gripe session" specifically about Sean.

"Can't anything be done about him? He's terrorizing the neighboring units, too," someone asked.

"He only commits petty crimes that end in fines. If he’d just go to prison, we could kick him out. But as long as he pays the fines—with our money—he’s technically a 'law-abiding citizen.'"

"We've warned him a thousand times. We’ve complained to the authorities. But they just tell us that unit matters must be settled within the unit."

Everyone let out a long, heavy sigh. The drinks were flowing, but not a single person felt the slightest bit of joy. Nathan, his eyes growing dull and cold as the alcohol took hold, suddenly whispered:

"...What if I just kill the bastard?"

The table went silent. Everyone gasped.

"Nathan, take it easy! You’ve had too much to drink!"

"Think about it... Sean always says it, doesn't he? 'My crimes are everyone's crimes. Thanks for covering for me, guys!' If that's the case, if I kill him, shouldn't that crime also be split ten ways? Or nine ways? Maybe it’s worth it."

As the people around him started to sense it was time to wrap up the night, a man named Nate, who was even more wasted, let out a hollow laugh.

"That's a great idea. But it’s not fair for Nathan's unit to bear the whole burden. Look around—we’ve got members from five different units here, all of whom have been harassed by Sean. If these five units conspire to kill him, the split becomes even smaller!"

"That... might actually be legally viable."

The voice belonged to Maddy, a woman in Nathan’s unit who held a law degree.

"There have been cases where a crime was committed across multiple units, and the penalty was distributed among them. Murder is a felony, yes. But if multiple units cooperate, we can testify to Sean’s history of violence and manufacture a specific situation. If we play it right, we could keep the verdict down to a fine."

Fueled by the alcohol, the plan became rapidly concrete. No one stepped in to stop it.

"Hypothetically," Maddy continued, "if we select one executioner from each of the five units, and the primary killer cannot be identified—if everyone claims they were merely trying to stop Sean's 'sudden rampage'—it could be treated as negligent homicide or excessive self-defense.

In that case, the maximum fine is $3,500. We divide that among the five units—totaling 50 people. Subtracting Sean, we split it 49 ways. That comes out to... $71.42 each."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

"That’s... about the price of two nights out at this bar," Nate muttered with a smirk. No one laughed, but everyone reached for their drinks.

One month passed.

Nathan and the others worked tirelessly to build a consensus within the units. Many resisted at first, but in the end, their shared hatred for Sean won out. Maddy assigned roles: who would be the 'witnesses,' who would testify to Sean's long-standing harassment.

Choosing the executioners was difficult, but eventually, five people who held the deepest grudges against Sean—including Nathan—were selected.

The night of the act.

A vacant lot along the path Sean always took after drinking. The five executioners stood before him.

"What's this? Another lecture?" Sean sneered. "I told you it’s useless. The law says it’s my right to let you pay for—"

Before Sean could finish, Nathan gave the signal. The five of them lunged at once.

The police investigation went exactly according to Maddy’s script. Every testimony was identical, down to the last word.

"A drunken Sean suddenly pulled a knife and went on a rampage. The five of us tried to restrain him, but in the struggle, tragically..."

Multiple witnesses from the scene and those who knew Sean's reputation testified that he was a ticking time bomb. With such consistent evidence, the prosecution had no way to prove individual murderous intent.

The verdict was exactly as Maddy predicted: negligent homicide with a total fine of $3,500.

A week later, a push notification arrived on Nathan’s phone.

[Administrative Settlement]

Unit 12 Member: Nathan C.

Fine payment by court order.

Amount: $71.42. Auto-deduction at midnight.

Nathan stared at the notification with hollow eyes. It was the same screen he had seen a thousand times because of Sean. But this time, he had triggered it by his own will.

$71.42.

The cost of erasing a human life and buying back their peace. It felt far too cheap. The reality of it had yet to sink in.

A few days later.

"Cheers!"

They were back at the same bar. The same members.

"Man, what a relief. Things are finally quiet without Sean."

"We really owe it to Nathan and Maddy. They were the heart of this."

"Yeah, that consensus-building and the legal strategy were brilliant."

The atmosphere was warm and harmonious. The suffocating gloom of a few months ago seemed like a bad dream.

But the peace was shattered by Nate, one of the executioners.

"...Hey, you guys. You need to show me more gratitude."

Nate was more wasted than anyone had ever seen him.

"I’m the one who actually did it. If I hadn't finished him off, you’d all still be getting bled dry by that leech!" Nate’s voice roared through the bar.

"Maddy, your plan was great, sure. But without someone to do the dirty work, it’s just a piece of paper, right? Don't you think I'm the real hero here?"

Nate slid into the seat next to Maddy, throwing an arm around her and touching her skin with brazen familiarity. The warmth in the room evaporated instantly.

"Yes, Nate, we are grateful. So please, that’s enough..." Maddy tried to pull away.

"Shut up! I’m a hero! You people don't show enough respect!"

As Nate began to rage again, a chilling silence filled the bar.

Without a word, several people began checking the balance of their bank accounts on their phones.

Not a single person had less than $71.42.

Benji observed the large man crawl from the tent in his backyard, his brow furrowed.  The tent shifted as if accommodating his size before adjusting back into place.  Rolly, his new chef, hired by his mother, was far too large a man to fit comfortably into a tent of that size, yet he seemed to disappear into it every night just the same.  Jessie fetched Benji as it was time for a long day of tutoring.

His mother had connections. Of what kind Benji and Jessie had remained unaware, as she was never forthcoming with very much detail, but Benji had seen the dark-tinted SUVs she often left in for work meetings, ones like she left in this morning.  Benji’s mind wandered as the tutor droned on about world politics.  

His sister Jessie, on the other hand, quietly studied and paid attention. Often asking insightful questions that earned her praise from the tutor, even as she squeaked them out in her soft, often almost impossible to hear voice. While Benji pondered on the mysteries that surrounded this new chef and his mother, Jessie found her stomach grumbling, excited to try another meal, wondering what effect this one might bring.

The children exited their studies for a break, hearing the clang of kitchen utensils ringing out as they approached.  As always, sitting on the island ready for them were their lunches, this time two steaming bowls.  Rolly seemed to be able to predict their hunger like he could feel the pangs in their stomachs and had food ready before they even asked.

They climbed onto the counter to see two bowls of what looked like brown sludge with bits of meat, potato, and carrot bubbling to the surface.  The aroma was divine even as the sight appeared unappetizing.

“You can’t just serve us muddy, whatever this is,” Benji growled out, “Mother said you have to serve us appealing and nutritious meals only.  I’m going to send her a picture and finally be rid of you Rolly.” Benji pulled his phone out as Jessie laid a napkin across her lap and sent a picture to his mother.  His phone buzzed before it even reached the counter, ‘Eat your meal. Don’t embarrass me.’  

Benji wanted to protest, argue back, but he knew there was no point as he slumped in his chair and picked up his spoon in unison with his sister. “Stew is an ancient remedy shared across people and cultures.  I served this recipe to a young man from Atlanta once. He believed he could carry the suffering of others without breaking, and he was effective…. For a time,” Rolly prosed in his never-changing monotone voice as he began to clean.

The children lifted the stew to their mouths as Benji held his nose closed, and they swallowed.

The weariness of a Mother standing over a sink cleaning dishes after a long day.

The way your back aches after toiling to build homes for men richer than yourself.

The emptiness that comes from sitting on a street, asking for crumbs, and not even having the eyes of a person pass over you, even acknowledging that you take up space.

The snap back to reality at the kitchen island was as sharp as ever, but Benji wasn’t having it this time.  He stood on the stool, pointing his spoon at Rolly as if it were the sharpest sword, exclaiming, “Enough of this! I’m sick of this! What are you doing to our food? Is this poison? Drugs? And how do you always have it ready? I haven’t seen you cook a thing, and I know we didn’t have these ingredients in the kitchen yesterday.  Talk. What are you doing to us?”

Rolly calmly looked up as he put the final pot away, sparkling clean, as he said, “I only feed you the freshest ingredients.  They were… carefully sourced.  How does it present?”  

“It presents like you’re trying to drug us and manipulate us! What the hell was that? Why does my back hurt?  What the hell are you doing?!” Benji’s voice was shrill as he screamed, and as his voice rang out and faded into the endless hallways of his family's massive home, he finally heard the sniffles of his sister next to him as she mumbled into her lap, “It’s not just me.”  

Benji’s heart softened for the only other person he had a drop of care for as he sat to comfort his sister as she cried softly into her lap. 

Rolly observed this with interest.  He raised an eyebrow, the first expression he had shown.

“Interesting.”

Benji screamed, “Shut up, she’s crying, what did you do to her?”  

“You are upset.”

A pause
 
“This is expected. Please finish your meal.”

Jessie wiped her tears and continued eating as Benji sat back with his arms crossed, refusing another bite but staring at his sister, worry written across his face. Jessie finished her meal, and Benji stood with her, leaving the bowl untouched as he walked back to his studies with her.  Alone in the kitchen, Rolly began to clean up, but not before pulling out a notebook.

Empathy

J - Emboldened and seen

B - Resistant. Desired effect achieved through J’s response

Note: Study environmental effects post consumption.

He put the notebook away as he cleaned the dishes and the children returned to their studies.  Upstairs Jessie was the one distracted this time.  It wasn’t just her who was ignored and overlooked.  Benji always had her parents' attention, whether for his poor behavior or to praise his strong will.  Even the tutors.  She was often the better student, answering more questions and paying better attention but still the praise was mounted on Benji when they’d report to their parents.

It wasn’t fair.  None of it was fair.

Veronica sat in the imposing board room, her own house visible from the higher vantage point the building stood upon in the hills. She’d laid it all out for the voice on the other side of the screen, the distorted one with only the emblem of a fox, it’s eyes segmented like a machine, as a picture.

These findings are adequate for now. How are the children behaving? Any noticeable change in behavior?

“Some,” Veronica replied, “However, I don’t think whatever he’s doing has really taken hold yet.  The children seem to be questioning themselves more, though.  I’ve noticed they observe more than they used to. Further findings will need to be established.”

Do not return without more results. Dismissed

Veronica quietly packed her things and left the boardroom, and entered the back seat of the black SUV that drove her home.

At home, the children had finished their day, their father, Harry, popping out of his study to say goodnight as they settled in for the night. Jessie joined her brother at the window as they watched the tent adjust to Rolly’s large form as he crawled inside before heading to her own room for bed.

Benji lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of his sister’s crying face.  It bothered him. He couldn’t explain it… but he’d never let it happen again.

Jessie stared at her own ceiling with a scowl as she rolled the same phrase over and over in her mind.

It’s not fair.

It had never been fair.

I could feel the weight of the sawed-off in my lap.

Rough stock, cut down to a pistol grip.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked.

“None of your business,” Slug replied.

“What are we going to do with it?”

“We’re going to hit those fuckers tonight. You know they’ll be at Sledgehammer. It’s tradition, everybody’s going to be there.”

I lifted the weapon and caught a faint whiff of grease. I wore the leather gloves Slug had insisted I take.

“Is it loaded?”

“Nah man, not yet.”

Slug left the room; I heard him rummaging in the hallway closet. He came back and dropped a grocery bag with two dozen shells on the living-room table. After rolling up his sleeves, he planted his ass next to me on the sofa, picked up my driver’s license off the table, and started raking lines on the chipped IKEA plate in front of him.

“Are we really doing this, dude?” I asked.

I wasn’t even sure if I was talking about the amphetamines or the shotgun. This was the first time I’d held a real firearm, but I’d known for some time it was inevitable. Ever since they shot Big George last month.

“Of course we are. That’s why I bought the damn thing.”

He was putting the finishing touches on the last of four rails, now neatly lined up on the plate. Slug tightened the rolled-up dollar bill in his hand, bent forward, and deftly disappeared one of the lines up his nose. He passed the note my way, and I followed suit. The familiar burn hit the back of my throat, and my heart started to pound, from the speed, and the anticipation. I started fiddling with the shotgun, trying to get it open so I could load it. Fuck, I thought, I have no idea what I’m doing.

Sledgehammer was a bar on the outskirts of the industrial zone, just across the road from the cluster of high-rises Slug and I called home. The front was a patchwork of corrugated metal, I thought I might catch tetanus just looking at it. It didn’t have a sign, just a nondescript black door flanked by two gorillas who looked like they’d broken a graveyard’s worth of alcoholic bones between them. One was a blond with a ponytail named Dano. The other was a bald guy with a thick black mustache known as Ronny Rat, when he was out of earshot, and Ronny Roy when he wasn’t. Not because he snitched to the boys in blue, but because he once stole an entire wheel of cheese from a specialty shop in the mall during a drug bender, years ago. They were the gatekeepers of this less-than-fine establishment and foot soldiers for the man in the back office. The man responsible for what happened to Big George.

I looked over at Slug, sitting in the driver’s seat of his old, rusty VW bug. Even though we lived just across the street, we’d taken the car and circled the block a few times before parking in the shadows of the empty lot beside Sledgehammer. We’d entered from the alley behind the bar, so the goons out front wouldn’t make us. Slug looked back at me and smiled. The amphetamines had worked up his courage, he looked positively crazed. Then, something that resembled a coherent thought hit me.

“Are we just winging this shit? We didn’t even plan anything. We just drove around for twenty minutes listening to Tom Waits.”

“Stop worrying so much, we’ve got a fucking blunderbuss,” he answered back.

His confidence, and my own chemically enhanced courage, erased my doubts.

All of a sudden, the door opened, and a short, stout man in a bone-colored suit stepped out. Steven “Ahas” Roy. Ronny’s older uncle and though smaller in stature, his presence somehow dwarfed his nephew. Ahas was a nickname earned while stationed overseas. It means snake in Tagalog, and unlike his nephew’s nickname, there was no humor or shame in this epithet. This was the man behind the mahogany desk. He was followed by his right-hand man, a tall man with hollow eyes named Doc Anderson, known for his murderous temper. Doc was the piece of human filth who’d pulled the trigger that night, right after Halloween, when Big George had accidentally burned Ahas on the cheek with the ember of his cigarette. Through the door I could hear the jukebox playing “Jingle Bell Rock”. It was the annual Sledgehammer Christmas party.

Slug hissed, “Go!”

And before I knew it, I was out of the car, sprinting toward the entrance, shotgun in hand. I let loose both barrels at once and hit Doc square in the chest. The blast opened an oozing, red-and-black hole the size of my head. I immediately realized I had an empty gun and three, most likely armed, professional criminals standing in front of me. It all hit me at once. These guys are murderers. They kill people for a living. They know how shotguns work. They know how to load a pistol. I’m a fucking junkie, avenging my dead junkie friend. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and now I’m about to die too.

Time slowed to a crawl. Ahas threw himself to the ground in his now-soiled suit, stained with the blood of his best friend and confidant. Dano and Ronny Rat reached into their suit jackets and pulled out pistols. I turned on my heel and saw Slug peeling away into the night, the red lights of his VW burning like the ember of Big George’s last cigarette.

The first shot hit me in the shoulder, but I kept running. Up ahead, I saw Slug skid off the road and smash into an electric pole. The second shot tore through my lung, and I hit the ground. I heard a woman scream in fear, and felt a pang of nostalgia. It reminded me of Christmas at home. I wondered if Mom would know I’d died. Footsteps approached.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” a disembodied voice asked.

Snowflakes melted on my face as I died on Christmas Eve.