The kid put down the baseball glove he was oiling. There was something on his mind, something he had seen at school. “Dad, what's a poet?”

“Did somebody call you that, son?”

“No, I heard the boys sayin’ it to some kid they were after.”

“This kid, you know him?—what's he like?”

“How you mean, dad?”

“I mean, does he like sports, football; does he want to get with girls or just hang with them; is he interested in what he wears, what he looks like?”

“Yeah, dad, I'd say he's just like that.”

“Son, it's plain wrong to bully someone. But with kids like that, who'll grow up to be poets, you've got to understand you're doing them a favour. Your friends, did they hit that poet boy when they caught him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they really go in on him, boots and fists, almost cruel-like?”

“They hurt him bad, dad.”

“Good, son. That's the way to do it. You've got to beat it out of them. Sometimes they scream; they beg. But you can’t stop. It's the only way—do you understand me? “

“Yes, sir.”

---

It was lunchtime in the pipe factory and Scotch-Irish Joe, Finnegan, Donny and the gang were in the lunchroom eating out of the metal lunchboxes their wives had packed for them. “Say, any of you guys ever get the feeling—like real crawlin' of the back skin-type—that old man Arthur's a poet?”

“The accountant?”

“Yeah.”

“Artie, a poet?—no…”

“What's a poet?”

"Donny, you a numbskull or just stupid?"

"Just stupid,” said Donny.

Joe cleared his throat and said, "You know how, uh, real men, we all write our sentences like, so, there was this tree growing, it was green, and all the, uh, thick roots were motherfuckers to clear outta the ground? Well, a poet, he wouldn't write it that straight. He'd write it pretty and shit, with big words and symbols, so when you read it you don't know what it means but it makes you fuckin' cry anyway."

"Don,” Finnegan said, “a poet's a guy who's not a clear muscular prose-kinda guy like us, but a funny guy who likes it when his couplets rhyme—you get what I'm saying, Don?

“And Artie’s like that?”

“I think so, Donny.”

“But how can you even tell?”

“Ever look at a woman, Donny, and think, ‘Man, I’d like to fuck her?’ It’s like that, Donny. Something you know, deep down. It punches you in the gut. Ever get a feeling like that?”

“One time when we were kids, my brother and me, we found this newborn deer in the woods, and it had two heads. They were movin’ all weird…”

“What'd you do?”

“We killed it with rocks.”

---

“Petey, what in God’s name is this?”

He gasped.

“T-T-Tennyson, Garcia Lor—Lorca, Verlaine? Petey, your mother and I—we thought you were reading Hemingway, Dashiell Hammett, Ayn Rand, and.. and… here you are, reading this... this filth, Petey?”

Petey looked up at his father.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” his father asked.

Then he made a fist of his hand and shoved it in his own mouth. He bit down. “Petey?—Petey please tell me you don't enjoy this kind of stuff, this h-h-hardcore textual pornography.”

The boy was silent.

“Where do you even get it? Oh Lord, Petey.” The books were lying open beside them, with notes in the margins.

“Petey, don't tell me you write it. Oh Petey. Reading's one sin, but writing— …boy, if that’s not the damnation itself.”

---

“Do it, I fuckin’ dare you. Tell me how to run a nuclear reactor using metaphor and iambic-fuckin’-pentameter. You can’t…

“What’s that: ‘enjambment’? The only thing I’d like to enjamb is my foot up your ass!”

---

“What’s the problem?” the school principal asked.

“There’s a vagrant,” said Mrs. Miller.

“We’ll clean up.”

“It’s not that. It’s that he’s—”

“Oh,” said the school principal. “In that case, I’ll call the police. We can’t have narcotics around here.”

Mrs. Miller bit her lip. “He’s not dealing,” she said. “It’s worse. He’s asleep, and he’s—he’s rhyming in his sleep where the children can hear.”

---

Arthur Mahan poured himself a brandy and sat in his armchair. It was evening. He picked up a book: a history of concrete.

“How was work?” his wife asked.

“Predictable. When you do accounting, that means ‘good’.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, smiling and starting to read his secret book-within-a-book, Frank O’Hara’s Meditations in an Emergency.

---

He leads.

You excitedly follow.

He’s leading you to the Dead Poets Society, the ultra-decadent rhymeeasy where members dress as their favourite poets to flirt in erotic, subtle haiku.

You pass through a bead curtain.

You come to a purple door.

“Say, you never told me your politics, friend,” he says. “Are you a [1] communist or a [2] fascist?”

You ask what difference it makes.

“I just wanna make sure you get your happy ending.”

---

[1]

He opens the door and you enter:

Even the aroma is magnificent, pomegranate, honey and the pages of old books. The others pause. They look at you in your glorious John Milton locks. Smiling, they welcome you in…

You return week after week, doing shared lines and touching each other.

You develop class consciousness, see injustice and understand that words have power.

You agree that the sole expression of that power is violent revolution.

---

[2]

You take a deep breath, pull out your baton and put boot-to-door:

You burst in to:

—poets, scattering, screaming, some clothed and others not, naked Romantics mid-recitation, antisocials dressed as Shakespeare and Poe, Byron and Emily Dickinson—you smash one in the face. It drops; you kick it in the gut, and swing at another—cracking it in the back of the head as the rest of the Syntax Division charges in after you, and you beat those poets good, just like your father taught you…

"Tom!" Jake, my neighbor's son, yelled from their porch.

"Hi, kiddo," I said, waving.

"Do you want to play?"

"Jake, give him a moment. He just got back from the fields," his Mom, Emma, scolded him. She then turned to me. "Sorry, Tom. He's just excited to see you."

"It's okay, Emma. I've still got plenty of energy. Go get your toys, Jake."

His little eyes flew open. He turned and ran inside. Emma rolled her eyes at him.

"I'm always happy to play with him."

"I know. It's very sweet of you. Since my Mark died, you're the only one who can put a smile on his face."

Her eyes reddened. I rubbed her shoulder. She smiled and hugged me. Her embrace felt warm. Her grip was tight.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I got them, Tom." 

Jake stood next to us, smiling. He held two wooden swords. Emma let go and wiped her eyes.

"I'm gonna beat you today, Jake!"

"No, you're not!"

Our laughter echoed through their house. We played all evening until Jake lay on the floor like a starfish.

"I can't beat you, but at least I can still tire you out."

"You weren't even trying, Tom."

"Yes, I was."

He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm tired."

"Then go get ready for sleep," Emma said from the window.

Jake let out a sigh. He got up, took his swords, and his steps echoed on the stairs.

"Thank you again."

"Don't worry about it. He's a lot of fun. What are you looking at?"

"Nothing really. You know they are choosing the house for Ulnar tonight."

"Of course, but they wouldn't choose a house with a mother and a child."

"It's not up to them. Ulnar chooses by showing his will on the divine board."

"I know, I know, but He wouldn't choose this house."

She looked at the ground.

"You know what He does to people. The eyeless corpses, their twisted bodies..."

She paused.

"You're going to be fine, I'm sure."

"Okay, Tom. I'm gonna go to bed too."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Tom."

I walked out, stopped on the street, and closed my eyes. The air felt cold and fresh, but a hint of mud was already in it. The trees rustled in the breeze, and butterflies flew in my stomach. I took a beer from my fridge and sat on my porch. It was late, but I still felt awake. 

I took another sip when I saw a figure walking in the distance. It was the priest, dressed in an all-black robe with a red pointed hat, carrying white chalk.

He paid me no attention, but I kept my eyes glued to him. I watched him pass our neighbors' houses until he was by Emma's. As soon as he stepped past her property line, he turned toward her house.

My heart sank. I put my beer on the porch and ran toward him.

"Hey, hey!"

He shook and quickly looked toward me.

"Thomas?!"

"Priest, what are you doing?"

"You know what night it is, Thomas."

"I know, but why did you stop here?"

"Ulnar chose her house."

"But, but she has a small child."

"It wasn't my choice, Thomas," he said quietly.

He rolled up his sleeve and squatted, ready to draw on Emma's lawn.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"I volunteer my house."

The priest furrowed his brows.

"Ulnar already chose."

"Can't I still offer?"

"He might not accept."

"That's fine."

"Are you sure, Thomas?"

"Yes."

The priest measured me with his eyes, pulled out the divine board and a small dagger with an ivory handle.

"Give me your hand."

I stretched it out. He placed the dagger in my palm and cut into it. A sharp sting shot through my hand. The warm blood filled my palm. He tilted it onto the divine board. A few drops fell on it. A small dark light shone on the divine board. It quickly turned dark red and shone across the whole street. I closed my eyes and looked away.

"He accepted your house." 

The priest took his chalk and ran to my house. He started drawing the triangle skulls all across my lawn. My palm was still warm from the blood.

"You won't have much time, Thomas, now that he's got a taste of blood. Make sure to be alone. He takes everyone in the marked house. Enjoy the beer."

He drew the last skull and stood up. We both nodded, and he walked off. I chugged my beer. At least I wanted to be drunk when the end came.

I was getting another beer when I heard the door open. Was Ulnar already here?

"Thomas?" Emma's voice came.

"Emma? What are you doing?"

"I saw it! I saw it all!" Her voice shook. She had tears on her cheeks.

"I had to. I couldn't let you and Jake go."

She hugged me. Her grip was even tighter than it was in the morning.

"I can't let another person go."

"You have to. There's no other way."

"Tom!"

"Please, just go. Ulnar takes everyone inside. The priest said He will come soon. He can already smell my blood."

She shuddered.

"Go, Emma."

She pulled her head away and looked at me. Even with tears in them, her eyes were still so beautiful.

"I love you, Tom."

"I love you too."

She let go, but then the smell of rotting mud filled the room. Loud thuds echoed on the front steps. Crackling static rang in my ears.

"Emma!"

"It's too late now, Tom."

She buried her face into my chest. My heart beat against my ribs. I stared out the window. It looked out onto Emma's house. Jake stood in his room, watching us, holding the two wooden swords.

Amber rolled over to her other side, bunching up her sweat-soaked pillow yet again. The clock on the nightstand mercilessly read 01:15. The thoughts in her head kept spinning in circles, like a worn-out, scratching vinyl record.

Back then, at the party in Brooklyn, it had all started as a fun prank. She had been the one to talk Ethan into playing along: they had hidden a wireless speaker behind the couch ahead of time to blast a prerecorded rustling whisper, and screwed in a "smart" light bulb that was supposed to blink ominously on a smartphone command. Amber had expected fun screams and the frightened faces of their friends. She wanted it to be cool.

But when they placed their fingers on the wooden planchette of the Ouija board, everything went off script.

The moment the planchette lunged across the wood on its own with such ferocious force that it left deep scratches on the board, the speaker behind the couch cut out completely. But the whisper... the whisper kept going. Except it wasn't coming from the speaker anymore; it was crawling out of the very walls, the ventilation, and... out of Chloe's mouth, who had frozen with an unnaturally straight back. Amber still remembered the wild, primal fear in the guys' eyes—none of them could physically push the piece of wood that hard and fast. Looking at their eyes, wide with terror, Amber realized: they hadn't just pulled a prank. They had opened a door and let something truly monstrous into this world.

Since then, Amber had been plagued by suffocating nightmares. She felt like she was being hunted by sickening creatures, or she would wake up time and time again in a cramped wooden coffin, buried alive, clawing at the thick graveyard dirt with her fingernails.

Tonight, sleep wouldn't come at all. Amber sighed heavily, sat up in bed, and swung her feet onto the cold floor. Her throat was parched. Throwing on a robe, she decided to go down to the kitchen to get a glass of water and try to calm down.

Deep gloom and a chill reigned on the first floor. Amber walked down the hallway, guiding herself by the faint, deathly pale moonlight falling from the large living room window. Suddenly, she froze.

Did it just seem like it, or was the front door slightly ajar?

A faint night breeze stirred the curtain in the entryway. Amber distinctly remembered locking the deadbolt two turns. Her heart hammered treacherously in her chest, echoing with dull thuds in her ears. She took a step back, intending to rush back to the bedroom and wake Ethan, when suddenly a strange sound came from the darkness of the kitchen.

It was the sound of quiet, sporadic, and wet footsteps. As if someone were walking on the hardwood floor with completely wet feet.

"Who's there?" Amber asked in a barely audible, terror-stricken whisper, pressing her back against the cold wall of the hallway.

Instead of an answer, the slapping sounds accelerated sharply. Out of the darkness of the kitchen doorway, moving its limbs unnaturally fast, a pale human body scrambled right at her. In the gloom, Amber caught sight of disheveled blonde hair covered in something dark and caked, and a domestic T-shirt completely drenched in dark crimson stains.

It stopped just three paces away from her, snapping upright. The moonlight fell upon the uninvited guest's face.

It was Chloe. But her face... A wild, distorted mask was frozen upon it, and her eyes were completely white—her pupils had rolled back entirely. A familiar, dual whisper escaped her mouth, in which Chloe’s girlish voice was horribly mixed with a guttural, heavy male baritone:

"Chloe... What are you doing here?.." Amber tried to force out.

Chloe suddenly fell dead silent. And in the very next split second, she made a sharp, beastly lunge forward, reaching her hands out toward Amber with unnaturally bent fingers.

Amber closed her eyes in panic and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"Ethan!!!"

She shrieked, calling for her boyfriend, bracing for a fatal blow. A second passed, then another... but nothing happened. Terrified, Amber opened her eyes.

The space in front of her was empty. There was no one there. She looked around in fear—the hallway was deserted, only the curtain was still swaying in the wind.

Suddenly from above, from the second-floor landing, Ethan's alarmed voice called out:
"Amber! Amber, why are you screaming?!"

She stood in the dark, breathing heavily and raggedly, her heart ready to tear through her chest. The light on the stairs wasn't working. Ethan tried to flick the switch, but the click led to nothing—the power in the entire house was out. Amber burst into tears, rushed up the stairs, and locked onto the guy in a death grip, weeping and crying that they needed to leave immediately and call the police.

Ethan didn't believe it at first, chalking it all up to her frantic nightmares. But then they both froze. Upstairs, right above them, quick, slapping footsteps echoed in the dark, and a second later, a door slammed shut with a deafening crash down the hall.

"Okay, okay, let's go!" Ethan gasped in fright.

They fumbled for their jackets in the entryway, bolted out of the house, locked themselves in the car, and dialed emergency services with trembling hands.

The police arrived quickly. Two patrolmen with drawn weapons and tactical flashlights entered the house, with Amber and Ethan following behind them. Total darkness, gloom, and a grave silence reigned inside. One of the cops headed upstairs—to where, according to the frightened couple, someone was hiding—while the second stayed with them near the stairs.

Suddenly, Amber's phone rang. Her shaking fingers accepted the call. It was Chloe's mom. The woman's tearful voice broke the terrible news: Liam was currently in the hospital in critical condition, and Chloe had vanished without a trace, and the police were looking for her. Amber went cold. She couldn't bring herself to tell the mother that her "missing" daughter was inside their house right now.

And at that very moment, deafening gunshots and wild screams rang out upstairs.

Amber and Ethan froze, staring into the stairwell. A few seconds later, the flickering light of a flashlight appeared on the stairs. Descending the steps with jerky, broken movements was the first officer. He walked, swaying, holding his ruptured throat with both hands.

Blood pumped in torrents through his fingers, instantly soaking his uniform shirt. The man wheezed, trying to say something, but only a horrific, gurgling sound escaped his mouth. Taking two more unsteady steps, the cop collapsed forward, tumbling down with a dull thud to the feet of his horror-struck partner.

"Jones! Oh my god, Jones!" the second policeman shrieked, backing into the entryway and frantically aiming his gun into the darkness of the stairwell.

Amber's cell phone slipped from her numb hands, crashing onto the floor. The screen cracked, but the distant, frightened voice of Chloe's mom still came from the speaker: "Amber? What's going on over there?! Amber, answer me!"

Amber covered her mouth with her hands to keep from screaming out loud. Beside her, Ethan stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the body.

From above, out of the thick gloom of the second floor, a sharp, dry crunch echoed, as if someone had forcibly dislocated their own joints. The patrolman in the house frantically swept the flashlight beam across the steps. And then, it entered the circle of light.

Chloe was coming down the stairs... backward, like a spider. Her back was unnaturally arched, her head hung lifelessly, and her long blonde hair, smeared with fresh blood, dragged along the wooden steps. The entity moved on all fours, scrambling with insane, inhuman speed.

"Back off! Back off, you freak, I'll shoot!" the remaining cop shrieked, his voice cracking.

In response, a wild, guttural growl tore from Chloe's throat, instantly erupting into a deafening, triumphant laugh. A dual voice—girlish yet backed by a heavy male baritone—literally made the walls of the house vibrate:

"You brought more guests... How sweet!.."

Bang! Bang! Bang! — the policeman fired into the oncoming monster in sheer panic.

The muzzle flashes illuminated a nightmare scene for fractions of a second: the bullets hit Chloe's body, but she didn't even slow down. On the contrary, the wounds seemed to only make her angrier. With one powerful leap, she cleared the remaining steps and slammed her entire weight onto the shooting cop. The flashlight and gun clattered away. Chloe locked onto the man's face in a death grip, and a new cry of mortal agony ripped through the night air.

"Run!!!" Amber finally snapped out of her paralysis, shoving the guy's shoulder with all her might.

They flew outside and literally threw themselves into the car. Ethan was shaking so violently that he missed the ignition switch three times with the key. Amber looked back at the house in pure panic, the building illuminated by the red and blue flashes. Before they sped away, she saw how on the first floor, right behind the kitchen glass, a dim, unnatural light flared up. Standing at the window was the pale silhouette of Chloe. She slowly raised a bloody hand and pressed her palm against the glass, leaving a thick, slowly downward-creeping crimson streak. Her white eyes glowed faintly in the half-light, and her bloody lips stretched into the horrific, unnaturally wide smile of a maniac. She was looking right at them.

Intro

It was over. No this can’t be. It just can’t. I squinted, trying to make out something in the darkness. I went to stand but my legs weren’t responding. I tried to crawl but my arms wouldn’t listen. I went to talk but my mouth forgot how to open. I was starting to think I was going crazy. And then I heard it. “Welcome to the beginning of the end”

Chapter 1
Lucifer
Torment. Ah, what a word. Since the beginning I have been assigned the task of eternal torment. Ironically some would view my existence as tormenting itself, but that’s not how I see it. After my long fall from the top I was left with two options. Continue my rebellious nature and stand for what I believe in. Or give into the “Almighty one.” I’ve already come so far to where I only saw the rebellious road as a real choice. Many different kinds of torment. But personally I believe that the best form of torment comes down to two finalists, two true contenders if you will. They are psychological and physical. The question that has haunted me since the beginning is which one is better to break a soul. Which one is better to guarantee someone an eternity of the worst kind of suffering imaginable. I have tortured souls for as long as I can remember. I have seen the worst of the worst and the best of the worst come through my doors and into the depths of my kingdom. I have always been pleased with the way they have been punished, but alas there is something that I feel is missing. Almost as if there is a clean cut and all powerful way to torment those who are placed at the feet of me. I’ve thought about this tirelessly. But to no avail am I able to come to a definite conclusion. So I have decided to do something about this phenomenon I have been faced with. The souls of those who already reside in my kingdom, are far too broken to be of any help to me. I do not want to wait for a newcomer or experiment on one of my own. No, none of that. I have decided to capture a living soul. One with little to no wrongdoings. A person who has endured some pain themselves but never inflicted it on others. After careful consideration, a man by the name of Luther Bellows has been crowned by little helper.
Chapter 2

Luther
My legs had been revived but my arms still refused to cooperate. Speaking still wasn’t an option either, although I was able to manage a few small grunts if I really tried. The chair he had set me in reminded me of my childhood. A hard worn out cushion and soft cloudy armrests. It felt like days since I was dragged down the corridor and chained down. I should feel hungry, even thirsty but I wasn’t not at all. The smell of the room had a mustyness to it, like a basement that took in rainwater. The air felt moist and hot, like you were in a dessert and rainforest mashed together. The darkness seemed to grow by the day and I honestly didn’t know if I wanted to see light. A part of me had begun to enjoy the darkness. Before I could give the darkness another thought a bright flame sparked just inches from my face. The intense light temporarily blinded me. I instinctively reached to cover my eyes, forgetting that my arms and brain no longer wanted to work as one. When I could finally see I was able to make out a figure I could barely describe. His legs were withered, arms as well except they seemed almost toned unlike his skin to bone walkers. From his knees up a black cloak covered the rest of his humanoid body. His shoulders were narrow but broad, and his torso resembled an hourglass. When my eyes finally were ready to meet his own they were unable to. Instead I saw my father. Not just his face but him. I watched as he finished the rest of his drink and then proceeded to smash the empty bottle over my mother coddled in the corner. I went to scream at him to stop and my voice finally remembered its duty to me. “No, get away from her”, I yelled. But it didn’t sound like a 38 year old me. It sounded like a 10 year old me. And that’s when I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t just a depiction of my father, it was a memory. Before I could process what was going on or ask any questions, the flame flickered out, the figure stepped back and the cell door slammed shut.
I must have dozed off at some point. I woke up and found myself in the same chair he had left me in. My whole body was sore. My limbs were still getting used to being able to function properly. The images of my father were still burned in my head. I had worked so hard and so long to try and erase that day from my mind, but in all honesty I was never really successful. The pain of it had slowly faded but would always be ignited when I saw something that triggered them once again. A drunk man in a tv show, a broken bottle on the sidewalk, whatever it may be. I was mad and scared. One where the fuck am I and two who or what the fuck was that thing I saw. This was the first time since I got here I was starting to feel emotional again. Whoever he is, how and why did he show me that memory. It made me feel like the scared little boy that stood in the corner and did nothing but scream, never actually doing anything to protect her. My train of thought was suddenly hit head on, as if a building had fallen onto the tracks and the conductor failed to break in time. I felt a  sharp shooting pain that started in my right ankle and shot up all the way past my knee. I was chained to the chair, unable to move, unable to reach for my leg, if my arms even permitted me to. Suddenly the whole room was engulfed with light which was shooting from flame lit candles that spread along the dark brick walls. I looked down to see a snake with its fangs sunken deep into my leg. I screamed and writhed in agony. The snake remained locked into my leg for about another 15 seconds. Then it vanished as if it had never been there to begin with. The flames all distinguished at once. I sat there, tears running down my face, gasping for air, and my leg still throbbing as if the snake was still on it. My shackles suddenly broke and my arms came back to me. I pulled my knee close to my chest and held onto my ankle, rubbing it, moving it, doing anything to ease the pain that seemed endless. Then I heard the same voice again. “Now!” The door flew open and the last thing I remembered was being dragged out of the room by figures I was unable to make out.
Chapter 3
The Conference of Candles(Luther)
The room was impossible to look at all at once. The ceiling seemed higher than the clouds and a bright red theme was scattered along the walls. Candles were set along the floor, on tables, and the walls. There must have been hundreds of them. I was thrown down at the start of a long aisle. It led to what appeared as a sort of throne. I looked back for the men who had carried me in but it was as if they had been absorbed into the shadows. I shifted my attention to the throne and made the most painful eye contact of my life. It was as if I was feeling all the hatred, anger and sadness in the world all at the same time. I tried to look away but I was unable to. I felt like I was being drawn into the red eyes and when I didn’t think I could take it anymore it stopped. The fiery eyes went out like a falling ember and I was now met with pure black pupils. I still felt the anger in them but now not as strong, as if the owner of the eyes had turned down the power. Then I heard the voice again. This time it was calmer though, almost more human like. “Come, sit.” I began to walk down the aisle, my legs shaking worse and worse with every step closer to the throne. There was a gold chair sat in front of him and with a wave of his hand I was directed to sit in it. I obliged and sat. He appeared differently than our first encounter. He was now draped in long red cloth. He looked like he was wearing an oversized bathrobe made out of window curtains. Gold streaks ran along the robe and there was an image in the middle. It looked like a pentagram, only if you were looking at it upside down. There appeared to be some sort of animal’s head in the middle of it. A dog, a cow, a sheep, a goat maybe? There was a word spelled out in what looked like Hebrew. I was unable to make any of it out but I had a feeling it wasn’t a welcoming word. I was overwhelmed with thoughts. Some the same as my earlier ones, including where I am, who this person is, and why I am here. New ones arose also. Part of me sensed this being wasn’t human, not like me. Some sort of God or existential being, but not one I could ever see myself following. He spoke once again. “Luther, so pleased to have you here.” I didn’t respond and I think he could sense me wondering what to say and also if I was even permitted to speak. “Are you happy you’re here Luther.” I responded, “Where is it that I am?” He paused, and then let out a soft chuckle, “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own time. Tell me Luther, why did you not save your mother from your father?” And just like that I was once again my younger self. I felt the same feeling I did when my little sister sat across from me at the group home asking me why I didn’t save mommy. “Don’t mention my mother”, I responded. “You weren’t there when she needed you the most. You failed her and you are forced to live with that fact forever.” I was growing angrier by the second. “Stop it”, I said. “You had no idea what it was like. No idea what he was like.” “Oh but I do Luther, I know exactly how James Bellows was. I know how he would drink, I know how he would cheat, and I know how he would abuse you and your family.” Wait I thought, how does he know my dad’s name, and how does he know everything about him? “Who are you?”, I demanded. He smiled, “Another thing I will let you discover yourself”. So he won’t tell me who he is or where I am. What the fuck is going on? “We will talk again soon Luther.” And just like that the two men were back at my sides and began dragging me back to the room they took me from.

Chapter 4  

The candles burn
I was placed back in the spiked chair. I forgot about the spikes but was rudely reminded when I attempted to sit back. I could feel the warmth of the blood running along my skin. I dozed off eventually after my eyes couldn’t take it anymore. When I awoke I was no longer alone in the room. There was now a table in front of me. I sat across from the man on the throne. Standing next to me was one of the men who had carried me to and from my room the night before. Looking at the face of the man standing I was still unable to fully comprehend him. A dark shadow covered a majority of his head. Only a pale white chin was visible. “So Luther”, the throne man said,” today we will be playing a little game.” “What kind of game?”, I asked. “You’ll see.” The table was empty but suddenly a candle and a wooden stick appeared in the middle. I was stunned by this but I figured asking questions was now pointless. “ So Luther, I would like you to choose one of these items.” I was confused, “Choose them for what?” He responded, “Don’t think Luther, just choose.” I chose the candle. That was a mistake. Once I had appointed the candle as my object of choice, the stick was taken off the table by the cloaked man beside me. A cloth was wrapped around my face, diminishing my sense of sight and returning my eyes to the darkness. “And begin”, the man said. Pain. That is the only word that can describe the feeling I went through. The candle was thrust onto my neck, I attempted to squirm, move, do anything to end this torture, but my head seemed to be asleep, almost locked in place. I screamed while the rest of my body thrashed around like a shark in the deep depths of the ocean. I begged for mercy, begged the man to stop, but I was met with no reply. Until finally, “Enough.” The candle went out and my sight returned to me, only blurrier than before due to the immense amount of pain I was enduring. “How did that feel Luther?’, the man asked. “Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck are you doing to me? What do you need from me?” The man smiled, a joyful smile, as if he enjoyed watching me suffer, enjoyed watching my crazed mind respond to his methods. “I need an answer Luther. How did that feel?” You can’t win with this guy. He ignores half the shit I say and sticks to his own agenda like gum on your shoe. “It hurts ok. It fucking hurts. What did you expect me to say, that I enjoyed it?” “I didn’t know what to expect Luther, that is why I asked the question. Now tell me this, what hurts more, reliving that horrid memory of your father or being burned by my flame?” What kind of question is that I thought to myself and then prompted to Mr. Throne. “What kind of question is that?” “It’s a simple one Luther. It is also one that requires an answer.” “I don’t know, ok, I guess the candle. At least that’s what the burning sensation on my neck is telling me.” The man laughed, “Ah, Luther, I forget how you humans do amuse me.” You humans? He said those words smoothly, as if he himself wasn’t human. This was something I had already thought of myself but now it appeared confirmed. I decided to keep this intel to myself, incase he summoned anymore torture tools to the table. “ But alas”, he said, “You deserve all that is being done to you and things will become much easier when you come to terms with that fact.” I was too stunned to respond. He took the silence as a sign that our meeting had concluded. Him and his companions exited the room, slamming the door which sent vibrations all along the bricks. I deserve this, he said. What did I do to deserve any of this? I couldn’t think of one single reason. As the hours went on the burning sensation still stung but began to simmer down. I eventually drifted to sleep and once I woke, I wish I could have stayed asleep
Chapter 5
Lucifer
I sat on my throne, twisting a knife through my fingers and back again, through my fingers and back again. The flames along the walls let out faint and untimed cackles. One of the few things that brought me a sense of comfort. I continued to twist my knife while thinking about Luther. Ah, Luther, Luther. He is a very interesting man. I enjoy his anger, which goes hand and hand with his outbursts. It angers me that he was unable to give me a clear answer on which experience was more painful. I believe he only picked the candle because it was the most recent thing he had endured. That was my mistake. After all he is only a human. I must give him time to recover from each form of torment before discussing with him which one was worse for him to go through. He had expressed thorough emotions for both of the encounters. The snake attack was merely for my amusement. I had earlier decided to not factor that into my findings. When presented with the memory of his mother being brutally beaten he screamed, attempted to protect her (though physically impossible) and ended the session with a face full of tears and eyes full of hatred. He also expressed mercy when he pleaded for me to stop showing him the image and begged for it to end. Similarly during the candle burn, he cried, screamed for me to stop, and expressed anger in our conversation after the burning had taken place. From what I could tell he showed the same three emotions during each encounter. Deep down inside of his consciousness he knows which event was harder for him to go through, but he is not yet ready to decide which one it is. So until he reaches that point and satisfies me, I will “sadly” have to continue putting him through immense pain. Our next meeting would not happen until the following day. He slept for long periods of time, most likely longer than he realizes. I believe his rest is important for this experiment and for its results to be displayed as accurately as possible. Like I have said before, he is only a human and he will need his rest to go through what he is about to go through. He still has no idea how his suffering will affect the souls of those to come, forever and ever.
Chapter 6
Luther
I awoke in a sweat. Which since I have arrived here has become the new norm. I’d begun to forget what it feels like to be cold or to not feel the slimy effects of sweat throughout your body. I had been thinking of my mother and sister more than I usually do recently. It all started after I was forced to relive that night. They were the only things that kept me going at this point. I thought about my mom’s dark curly hair, her bright green eyes, and her radiant smile that could stop time if it wanted to. I thought about my sister’s laugh, her impersonation of my dad when he got angry, and the feeling of holding her hand as we walked throughout the streets of town. 

What comes out when the night begins... The forest has many eyes, the streets have many footsteps, sometimes the shadows answer back, do you dare to ask them? Watch your back... This is no place for the weak of heart, this is a place for the brave, but sometimes the smartest move is knowing when to leave, to have a story to tell, rather than being the story told.

Part two

https://www.reddit.com/r/DarkTales/comments/1x8nfg4/raven_delights_part_two/

There was a hungry animal breathing raggedly on floor two of the Birchwood complex. It was standing outside apartment number 37 where a nude raven haired woman was awaiting its return. The thought of what she was acting like hit Savanna the moment she witnessed the way Hailey panicked and actually agreed with her; Scampering away like a injured doe eyed animal herself. It brought a sickening lurch of reality into her heart as she gripped it in a painful manner.

"What the fuck...fuck," Savanna gasped as she started towards Hailey's apartment.

Her torrid affair finally hitting her conscience like an ax to the sternum in which hers was flaring with desire again. Oh God it was burning. She wanted to be beneath Cassie again. She wanted to finish it. She wanted to feel it with every fiber of her being. Savanna's doubt started to ebb away the more she relished the not so distant memory.

But at the same time something inside her was screaming to tell Cassandra to get the fuck out of her and Benjamin's-

"I fucking knew it,"

Benjamin's voice said in a flat tone hiding derisive apoplectic rage right infront of her.

She jolted as she saw nothing. Her heart jackhammering in an anxiety that spoke almost of horror.

"Benji?" Savanna timidly said into the empty hall.

There was no answer and apparition to greet her as she walked down the hall a short ways before peeking over the guardrails to see nothing there.

Nothing?

It should be no one. Not nothing. But to Savanna the moment she dared thought of cursing Cassandra out of her apartment was the moment she felt like something had heard her and answered back. A rather very paranoid thought.

Get a damn grip on yourself, Savanna thought as she breathed to cool down her sympathetic nervous system.

She thought of what could cool her down in the right way.

That tantalizing rhythm. Her raven black hair tickling her shoulders as she got pounded. How her lips felt as she realized in her haste that she had lipstick smeared on her lips as she touched it and looked at it.

She breathed in and out in deep breaths before turning to apartment 37's door and going to it with her desire suddenly aflame again as though nothing happened.

Savanna's hand touched the doorknob and turned it and pushed the door in as she was about to say,"God damn rats,"

But she didn't as she saw her and Benjamin's apartment was entirely dark in shadows. Savanna froze for a brief moment, feeling the same paranoia return as she quickly snapped on the lights near the wall. The lights engulfed the room and she saw everything as it was supposed to be.

Coffee cups left unfinished.

The passionate smell of sex in the air.

The burgundy couch.

Except the appearance of Cassandra. She wasn't there anymore.

"Cassandra?" Savanna called out as she closed the door.

And the darkness in the corner immediately caught her attention. It caught everything as her sympathetic spiked back up at the threat her body was telling her danger was in the room. It was a darkness more black then she ever saw even in her nightmares, even as a child when her brother told her about the demons living in darkness that swallowed everything. She didn't believe him. Savanna thought there would always be some kind of light in that darkness to see something. Anything.

But Savanna to her growing terror found out that the things that lived in the darkness only permitted their selves to be seen. But to Savanna and her growing terror she was being permitted to see the thing in the darkness that haunted it. A slow outline began to form. Legs. Lower body. Upper body and arm with long hair draping over it's chest. Neck. And then finally it's head.

And Jesus Christ, it's eyes.

It's eyes began to glow a dark simmering red that spoke of an underlining rage that was a necrosis for humans to even begin to feel from witnessing the sight of this demon.

There was a hungry animal breathing raggedly on floor two of the Birchwood complex. And it was not in the same hunger the other animal had been.

It's visible dark red irises began to split into two.

Savanna screamed in sheer terror

She fumbled the door knob and ripped open the fucking thing as she ran down the hall to Hailey's apartment.

Hailey jumped as she heard the scream followed by frantic pounding on her door. She recognized the voice and immediately went rushed to her room and ripped open her closet for the handgun container. Fidgeting with the damn dial code before finally succeeding and then taking out the .380 ACP handgun and running down her hall as she sceamed ," Hold on! Hold on!"

She reached her pounding door and gripped it, almost immediately ripping it open and then considering as she looked in the peephole.

Savanns was there screaming into the void for help.

"Jesus Christ baby hold on!" Hailey unlocked her door and immediately tore it open, expecting Savanna.

Instead all she got to witness before having been pushed into her apartment was the most terrifying sight she could remember in the minutes she was still alive.

Vengeful and rage ridden dark pitch black eyes with dark red irises that had been split into two.

A gunshot tore into the sudden yelling that no one would be able to recognize as English when later describing to the police. The round went through her apartment window and then in quick succession five more went through the floor board and into the room of a Mr. and Mrs. Valen. Mr. Valen was woken immediately with an excruciating pain in his gut as blood spattered across his face once and then twice.

He would survive but Mrs. Valen wouldn't.

The surviving members of Birchwood complex near and on floor two would recall hearing two phrases of clear English from a familiar, though barely, voice.

"I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorry!"

What sounded like an animal had roared in apparent rage that had made everyone that heard it have their sympathetic nervous systems spiked to the point of unbearable crying alongside some puking in the weaker ones. They would discover that their ears would be bleeding to for a cause they didn't exactly know.

"JESUSI'MSORRYI"MSORRYI"MSORRYMOMHELPMOMHELP!"

After

The woman named Cassandra was dressed up in borrowed jeans and a borrowed dull brown top as she sat alone in the all night diner watching the news intently of what happened inside the Bichwood complex. She was surreptitiously tapping her raven black nail against the table near her unfinished coffee cup. Her dark blue eyes watched the news report live on scene of what she did to most of the tenants there.

It was called a massacre resembling that of a gang hit.

How polite the controlled media was.

But it never should have happened. She should be owning Savanna body and soul instead of just her soul. She was so attractive. Savanna was so lively. But then she had to have a moment of pure human weakness that disgusted Cassandra beyond the point of holding back it.

All over a fucking cunt that deserved Savanna's rage.

There was no doubt about that. Savanna was wholly right to be in a rage and stand up for herself. Finally tell the rat to leave her alone but then she had to have a moral conundrum about it. She heard the thought and that's what tore back the restraint.

Learning her humor. Learning how she was when she was alone. What kind of cigarettes she smoked. What excited her.

Giving her a taste of what she truly desired only to be ruined by a simple knock on the door.

Cassandra should have kept fucking her but for the sake of Savanna, she allowed that human moment. She wanted to see the animal that was being held back inside her. And she gloriously did before it all became so fucking tainted by that one disgusting, human, thought.

Next time there won't be a mistake like that again.

Next time, she'll deny any interruption whatsoever.

How unexpected. How tragic. Cassandra's dark blue eyes began to burn as a single tear fell.

On the news, they finally found Benjamin's broken body impaled on a construction spike with the word "Deadwood" carved into his chest.

“Tell me: how does it feel—living the last few hours of your life?”

“Single life,” said Phil, pushing away the phone his best friend, Carl, was sticking in his face to record him with.

It was a beautiful, sunny spring day.

Phil’s wedding day.

In a few hours he would be getting married to his high school sweetheart, but for now he had Carl to deal with. “Life… single life, it’s all the same, man,” Carl was saying. Carl was an aspiring vlogger. “The moment you settle, you die.”

“Come on,” said Phil. “At least ask me something I can show my kids later.”

“Kids,” Carl snickered.

“—what?”

“OK, OK. I got one. What’s one thing about today that could make it even better than it already is?”

Phil looked into the camera. “If the band shows up on time.”

“I'm being serious,” said Carl.

“If Greg was here.”

“Dude, you haven’t talked to your brother in, like, four years. I mean, I always thought twins were creepy close, finishing each other’s sentences and all that. Then I met you. It's like you don't even have a brother, let alone one who looks exactly like you.”

“Things used to be better between us,” said Phil.

“By the way, speaking of who is here, how do you feel about your soon-to-be bride’s ex being on the guest list? Isn’t that, like, weird?”

“Brock’s a decent guy,” said Phil. “Sometimes relationships don’t work out, that's all. Everybody is somebody’s ex, except maybe you, you incel-wannabe piece of—” and Phil lunged for the phone and managed to grab it.

“Unfair! Element of surprise!” protested Carl.

“No more filming until the ceremony. But film the ceremony. I’m counting on you. Marilyn wanted to get a professional videographer—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, until you personally vouched for me and my skills.”

“That’s right.”

Carl slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I won’t let you down, buddy. Scout's Honour. Today’s gonna be a great day, I’m gonna get it all on camera, well lit and shit, and by the time you’re back from your honeymoon, ready to move out to Mass and bend M.I.T. to your postgrad fucking will, I'll have your footage edited, post-prodded and delivered. But—” Carl grabbed the phone back and pointed it at Phil: “I do need you to say one more thing to the camera. Tell everyone what it is you’re gonna be studying.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s awesome,” said Carl.

Phil arced an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Carl said. “Because it's absolutely bonkers.”

“Intertemporality,” said Phil.

“English, please.”

“It is English.”

“Regular English, for regular idiot guys like me who don’t get to go to M.I.—fucking—T.”

Phil shook his head. “Why do I have to say it?”

“Because it’s cool, man. It’s not—”

“Time travel,” said Phil, his cheeks acquiring the rosiness of a flush.

Carl turned the camera back on himself. “And with that I’m gonna do a little time travelling of my own called editing. See you at the ceremony,” he told the camera, and he stopped filming.

“By the way, Phil, did you ever get the feeling that Brock's a little bit of a, you know…”

“A what?”

“You know, like a poet.”

“A poet? No.”

“Because that would certainly explain a lot in terms of Marilyn's general taste in men,” said Carl with a smirk on his face.

---

“And do you, Marilyn, take Philip to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” said Marilyn, resplendent in her white dress.

“Then, by the power vested in me,” the officiant continued, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”

“He’s lost the power!” somebody yelled.

The heads in the crowd turned to see a man out-of-breath running into the chapel. “He,” the man was saying, aggressively waving a piece of paper, “doesn’t have the power.” The man got up to where the apparent newlyweds were standing—”Oh my God, Brock!” said Marilyn—before thrusting the piece of paper at the officiant. “Your license,” he huffed out, “was suspended a few minutes ago. Look!”

The officiant took out a pair of glasses, put them on his nose, squinted.

He read.

He said, “Well, it certainly appears—”

“The marriage is invalid,” yelled Brock to all those gathered here today to witness and celebrate the marriage of Phil and Marilyn.

There were gasps in the crowd, the buzz of scandalous whispers.

Several people got up and walked to where Marilyn, Phil, Brock and the officiant were discussing amongst themselves. One of those people was a lawyer. “Excuse me, but I’m a lawyer,” she said. “May I see the document?”

The officiant handed it over.

After scanning it, the lawyer said, “It certainly appears legitimate. Let's see: ‘...officiant's license suspended on account of non-payment of dues,' effective today at noon.”

Meanwhile, more people were slowly making their way up to where the commotion was. One, who looked an awful lot like Phil, passed Phil something surreptitiously, before dropping his head and slipping away. “What time is it?” asked the lawyer.

“I’ve got exactly noon now,” somebody said.

“No, it’s four past.”

“Your watch must be wrong.”

“Your watch must be wrong.”

“Hey!” said Phil. “Check the recording. Carl, your camera is sync’d up to your phone, which is sync’d with the atomic clock. Check the timestamp to see at what exact time the officiant pronounced us married.”

“Sure thing,” said Carl, and he started fiddling with his equipment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if the pronouncement was made at noon or later,” the lawyer explained magisterially to the crowd, “the marriage is invalid. If it was made before, the marriage stands.”

Tense seconds passed.

“I love you,” Brock was whispering to Marilyn, who was shaking her head, tears rolling down her face.

“12:01:13,” said Carl.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the marriage is invalid,” pronounced the lawyer.

“Nobody pays their dues,” the officiant said.

“Actually,” said Phil, loudly enough to quiet everybody down. And he produced another piece of paper, which he held up in the air so all could see. “I have here another document: a retroactive reinstatement of our officiant’s license, effective noon today.”

“So the marriage stands?” Carl asked.

“Give me that!” yelled Brock, snatching the document from Phil’s hand and glaring at it with mad eyes. “This is impossible. This document is stamped, signed and dated two-and-a-half months from now. It’s clearly fake. This is crazy. This man—he’s crazy!”

“It’s not crazy and it’s not fake. The document is simply from the future,” said Phil.

The crowd collectively gasped.

Phil had rolled up his sleeve and was pressing something to his bare arm.

“No. No no no no-no no-no no-no-no-nono,” Brock was saying.

“Then go ahead and tell me why I would just happen to have, in my possession, on my wedding day, a document countering yours?” Phil asked (“...nononono…”) him.

“I don’t fucking know. OK? But, even if—I mean… the document, your document: it hasn’t been signed yet. It doesn’t fucking exist. You, lawyer: tell him. Tell all of them this document has got no legal value or whatever. It can’t. It can’t because it doesn’t exist yet. I mean it’s crazy. You’re all fucking crazy.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said the lawyer. “On one hand, the gentleman wishing to interrupt the wedding is correct. The document hasn’t come into power yet… I think. On the other, it clearly exists because the groom is undeniably holding it.”

“I’ll show you something else, too,” said Phil. “Carl, tell me the time of the pronouncement again.”

“12:01:13.”

Phil revealed his bare forearm, on which there— “What is it?” someone in the crowd yelled. “What’s he got there?” “It appears to be a tattoo,” said the lawyer.

“A tattoo that says ‘12:01:13’,” said Marilyn, her wet eyes wide in disbelief. “What the hell is going on, Phil?”

Phil cleared his throat and stepped forward to address everybody in the crowd. “What’s going on is that I have created a time machine.” He let the words sink in. They sank deep. “And, using that time machine, I have successfully travelled through time to stop the sabotaging of my wedding day!”

“Oh shit,” said Carl, filming.

“And you want to be married to this nut job?” Brock asked Marilyn.

“How else do you— …the tattoo: it’s the exact time,” the officiant was saying, or asking, or trying to understand. The glasses were still on his face. His eyes looked comically large. “There could be no other explanation…”

Marilyn was shaking, first her fingers, then her hands, her face. She was smiling with quivering, lipsticked lips and perfect blonde hair. “I’m marrying into money! OMG, I’m going to be rich! I’ll never have to work another day in my life!” she thought, or hoped she thought, because if, instead of thinking, she'd accidentally said it: well, that would be embarrassing.

She was jumping up and down, ecstatic, ebullient, unable to contain herself, hugging her husband, hugging the now-thoroughly confused officiant, hugging her very own self to keep it moored to the moment.

Brock was the opposite.

He’d backed away, shrunken, as if collapsed into himself.

“Are you OK?” the lawyer asked him.

“Get your legal fucking hands the fuck off me. Step away. Leave me alone. All of you, just let me fucking be. I loved her, you know,” he said.

“I loved you,” he said to Marilyn rather melodically, “and I still dooo-ooo-ooo. We were meant to be, we twooo-ooo-ooo. Life put us to-gether, now it threatens to se-ver, our-unity, our-oneness, our SE-REN-DI-PI-TY!

“What a pity.

“What a stinkin’, no-good perfidity.

“Life sure is shitty.

“Sometimes.

“So let's remember the fun-times.

“Shall we?

“Like the night we fucked in that alley, or got zonked out on molly in Bali. Oh, fuck it,” he screeched and pulled out a gun: pointing it at Phil, then at Carl, then Marilyn, then Phil again and said, through sobs so heavy they made him hiccup, “There’s no point running. I rigged the entire chapel with explosives. Maybe I can’t travel into the future like you, Phil, but presently I can still be a fucking blast.”

To Marilyn: “We would’ve run an efficient household economy, you and me. We would have had a happy family. We would’ve had a good time.”

And as the people in the crowd started screaming: “But, sadly, now all of you must die.”

“I didn’t travel through time,” said Phil suddenly.

“Mhm,” said Brock.

“The document’s a forgery.”

“What about the tattoo? How do you explain that?”

“Temporary children's tattoos,” said Phil, licking a finger and smudging one of the numbers with it. “I applied it after Carl told me the timestamp.”

“You mean we’re not sitting on a bunch of time travel patents?” Marilyn asked.

“Did you all think I had actually travelled through time?” Phil asked. “That’s sweet—but no, I didn’t travel through time. Time travel’s not possible. As some of you know, I am going to study intertemporality, but that’s just theory. There is no practical application.”

Brock lowered his gun—

At which point a man walked up behind him, lifted his own gun to the back of Brock’s head and shot him dead.

There followed a stunned, terrible silence.

Brock’s body and what was left of his head were on the ground. Blood was pouring out of both.

Bits of Brock’s brain had stained Marilyn's wedding dress.

The man put away his gun and looked up. His face was Phil’s face. There were now two Phils in the chapel. The first nodded to the second; the latter one nodded back. In the crowd, a few people fainted. The second Phil held up a fistful of wires and said, “Everybody is safe now. Nothing’s going to blow up.”

“The element of surprise,” said the first Phil.

“So does this mean… —the time travel, it does work?” asked Marilyn. She’d asked it of the first Phil while looking at the second.

They were identical.

“Yes,” said the first Phil, and Marilyn leaped into his arms and hugged him. “Oh, Phil. Phil, I love you so much.” Then, after a few moments, she stepped back, looked at the second Phil. “Wait, which one of you two do I love? Phil, whichever you are, I’m scared…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anyone—or lie. I had to get Brock to let his guard down.”

“You knew he’d—”

“Of course, I knew,” said the first Phil.

“I told him and I’m from the future,” said the second.

“What happens now?” asked Marilyn.

“Now we do what we all came here to do: celebrate a marriage,” said the first Phil, to the crowd's spattered, bewildered applause.

The chapel smelled of blood.

“Except—” said the second Phil, “there is one small, somewhat paradoxical detail we have to resolve first. Something that physics, along with psychology, more-or-less demands.”

“Yes,” said the first Phil, smiling, but his smile was less happiness than a void filled with warm, existential melancholy. He took Marilyn’s hand.

He kissed it.

Then the second Phil passed the first Phil his gun.

“Phil?” said Marilyn, as the first Phil lifted the gun and placed it against the side of his own head.

“There can’t be two of us,” he explained. “It wouldn’t work out, not for long. There would be too much complexity, too many discontinuities. The math would get too complicated, never mind the emotions. We'd always be checking and rechecking equations. Trust me, this needs to happen. And one of us—one of us, Phils, I mean—has already made a great ontological sacrifice to abandon his own timeline.”

“Phil, what are you saying?” Marilyn demanded.

“He’s saying that soon you’ll be married to me,” said the second Phil.

“No… wait!” yelled Marilyn. “If you kill yourself,” she said to the first Phil, “won’t you,” she said to the second, “disappear? And—and… can’t we make this work, the three of us,” she said to them both, “some kind of really weird polyamorous thing maybe?”

“He won’t disappear because, even though he’s from the future, he’s in our present,” said the first Phil.

“Polyamory never works,” said the second.

“Goodbye,” said the first Phil, and—BANG!—killed himself.

The second Phil, who had now become the only Phil present, knelt down, confirmed that the body belonging to the previously-first Phil was indeed now a corpse, and unbuttoned the corpse’s dress shirt, revealing a tattoo on the corpse’s chest that said: “Marilyn, I love you, but one must never fuck around with the rules of time travel.”

The living Phil hugged her and, slowly, at first awkwardly, she hugged him too. “This is totally fucking insane,” said Carl, still filming.

“So are they married?” somebody asked.

“She married the one who’s dead.”

“But they’re the same person—like, aren’t they?”

The lawyer shrugged.

“Does that mean they said the vows and everything was official, so it was all much ado about nothing?”

“Phil,” Carl said, “I don’t usually interfere in reality, but it would be a very cool ending if you would open your shirt and show us the tattoo.”

“What tattoo?” asked Phil.

“The tattoo, the ‘don’t fuck with time travel’ one. I mean, I’m no M.I.T. postgrad, but if you’re him, except a future version who's come back to the past, and he got that tattoo on his chest, then you’d also have the same tattoo on your chest. Right? That’s how it works?”

“Except he’s dead and I’m not,” said Phil. “I appreciate the logic, but the math is pretty cutting edge, so…”

“He’s dead because you were both in one present when he died, though,” said Carl. “Just like you said. The tattoo: he got that before you arrived here, so you really should have the same tattoo on your chest too.”

“I think he’s right,” said the officiant, blinking his big eyes.

“I had it removed with a laser,” said Phil. “Now, moving on—”

“When?”

“Open your shirt!” somebody yelled.

“Get him, get his shirt open.” “I wanna see that tattoo.” “Me too.” And without notice Phil tried to run but a few people managed to grab him, hold him, and wrestle him to the cold chapel floor. They ripped his shirt open. There was no tattoo. His chest was wordless. The only things on it were two pink nipples and a small tuft of curly black hair.

“Who the fuck are you, man?” demanded Carl.

“Oh my God…” said Marilyn.

“Oh my God…

“Oh my God…

“Greg? Is that you?”

The men pinning the man to the floor instinctively backed off, and the whole chapel fell silent. (“Who’s Greg?” somebody whispered. “His twin brother,” somebody else answered. “They were estranged.” “Whose twin brother?” “Phil’s.” “I thought that guy is Phil.” “No, Phil’s the dead guy.” “Weren’t they both Phils?” “That was my general understanding, yes.” “You’re not paying attention. That’s what everybody thought—until now.” “Because of the tattoo?” “That’s right.” “Shhhh, I want to see what happens…”)

“Yes, it’s me, Greg,” the man said to Marilyn.

“Oh, you motherfucking piece of shit. You just killed my best—” said Carl, coming forward, ready to smash Greg in the face with his fist.

“He killed himself,” said Greg. “That’s a fact. You filmed it.”

Carl made a bulldog face.

Greg turned to Marilyn. “Em, I love you. I’ve always loved you. Yes, from afar, but strongly, with all my soul. It pained me to see you with him. He wasn’t good for you, Em. All he cared about was physics, his ‘time travel.’ Sure, maybe you would've been happy together for a while, a year, maybe five, but after that you would have seen that you were never the priority for him. He never loved me, and he would never love you. He just didn’t have the capacity. He was incapable of loving anything but numbers. Was he a genius? Yes, probably. But he was also deluded. He was deluded about a lot of things, including his feelings for you.”

“No!” yelled Carl. “You don’t get to just go and—”

(“Shut up and let him monologue!”)

(“Yeah.”)

“So the time travel,” asked Marilyn for what seemed like the third time, “it wasn't really real?”

“No,” said Greg. “But he wasn’t lying. He genuinely believed he'd managed to do it: create a time machine in a rented storage locker. He even had reasons to believe that. What he didn’t know is that I was tricking him. For the past four years, Em, I have been living my life in sync with Phil’s time travel experiments. He thought he had finally managed to successfully bring future-Phils into the present. Well, that was me. I was playing the part of his future-Phil. The machine itself doesn’t work. It never worked. Maybe, one day, it will; but not today, Em. No, today, Phil’s dead and I’m here, professing my love to you. I’ll tell you something else: do you remember that vacation to Switzerland Phil finally took you on last year?”

“Yes. I had been waiting desperately for that vacation for so long.”

“It was me, Em. I’m the one who took you to Switzerland.”

“But we— …on the trip…”

“We’re physically identical; were physically identical, Em,” said Greg. “You had no way to know.”

“But the passion,” said Marilyn.

“The passion was all mine. It was my burning passion for you, Em. Em,” he said, “will you marry me?” and got on his knees before her and pulled out a small box, and from that box a ring.

The crowd waited, its breaths dramatically bated.

Marilyn bit her lip.

She looked down at the man kneeling in front of her, a man who looked exactly like the man she did—had?—loved; a man who evidently loved her; and a man she had fucked seven ways from Sunday in multiple picturesque spots in the Swiss Alps over the course of three unforgettable weeks. “Yes,” she cried. “Yes, I'll marry you!”

The resulting applause was rapturous, thunderous.

“Hold your fucking horses,” Carl yelled over the emotional tumult. “Just wait a goddamn minute and listen to me. Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

He waited a moment.

And when the noise had subsided, he said: “If Phil's time travel machine didn't work, his document thing giving the officiant back the power to officiate isn't real. It really is fake, and if it's fake, then Brock was right and the officiant's license is suspended and there's nobody here who can marry these two fucked up lovebirds.”

“You're just jealous,” said Marilyn.

“Of what?”

“You've always been attracted to me, you weirdo creep. Do you seriously think I never noticed?”

“Me… attracted to you? Give me a break. You're a self-absorbed, greedy little bitch.”

“Easy,” said Greg. “That's my fiancee you're talking to.”

“You know, it's a peculiar situation we've found ourselves in, from a purely legal point of view,” said the lawyer, reminding everyone she was still there. “We have a document whose veracity we can't establish. However, let's look at the two possibilities. If the officiant couldn't officiate, Phil and Marylou—”

“Marilyn,” said Marilyn.

“My apologies,” said the lawyer. “If the officiant couldn't officiate, Phil and Mary-lynn never married, which means that while, yes, the officiant still can't officiate, so he can't marry the two of them today, they are otherwise free to marry. However, if the officiant could officiate, matrimony did occur, following which the newlywed husband died, thereby making the newlyed wife a newly-widowed widow, and thus also making her free to marry, or remarry, as the case may be.”

“Except we know the document's a fake because we know Phil never travelled through time,” said Carl.

“Do we?” asked the lawyer, the gears in her brain beginning to spin, and hers weren't the only ones.

“Yeah, something doesn't hold up,” said someone from the crowd. “Greg's part of the story doesn't explain how Phil knew that Brock would try to sabotage the wedding.”

“I swear I'm telling you the truth,” Greg told Marilyn.

“You're telling her what you sincerely believe is the truth,” said the man from the crowd—the man now emerging from between gasping, wide-eyed people: the man who looked exactly like Phil: the man who was Phil: future-Phil: the true future-Phil, and this Phil was holding a gun, pointing it at Greg.

“That's right,” Phil said. “I was playing you all along. I knew you'd re-entered my life, and I realized you were trying to make it look like my failed time travel experiments succeeded. That's why I let you go on that Swiss trip with my fiancee.”

“She's my fiancee now,” said Greg defiantly.

“I'm not dead,” said Phil.

“Your dead body's lying right there on the floor.”

“To kill me, you'd need to kill every one of me, dear brother,” said Phil. “You always resented me. I just didn't believe you'd have the guts to try to do anything about it.”

“You killed yourself.”

“You believed you had manipulated me into doing it, then you stood back and let me do it, just like the time you convinced mom that I was the one who'd broken her fancy glass Christmas ornament, then watched her take my computer away. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember that. You were always on that fucking thing. You never let me touch it, and you never ever wanted to play with me.”

“You were too stupid to use it.”

“We're the same.”

“We're nothing alike, you and me. Nothing. And, yes, I didn't want to play with you, but it was because I was too busy learning, and all you wanted to do was throw a football around or some other equally pointless thing.”

“The point was fun, Phil. The point was having fun with you.”

“Aren't we having fun now?”

“It wasn't enough that mom and dad loved you more. You also had to hate me. And for what: for being normal? I'm sorry I'm not as smart as you, that I don't understand quantum mechanics or string theory.”

“They didn't love me more.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, so why do you think I did study so hard? To compete, Greg. They loved you for you; they loved me because they thought I was a savant.”

“You know, we're here, boys,” said their father. “Your mother and I are here”—They both waved—“so you can stop talking about us as if we're dead. Hell, we're not even that old.”

“Well, if you folks are here,” said the officiant, “maybe you can settle the argument by telling us who you love more, Phil or Greg.”

Heads turned to look at them.

“We're parents. We love our children equally,” said Phil and Greg's father, as their mother nodded.

“But if you had to choose—at gunpoint, for example.”

“That's such a silly…”

“On three,” said the officiant: “I'll count to three; and, on three, you say which of your sons you love more.

“One… Two…

“Three.”

“Greg,” said Phil and Greg's dad at the same time as Phil and Greg's mom said, “Phil.”

“Oh,” said the officiant.

Phil shot Greg.

Their father rushed forward to—

“Don't worry. He lives,” said Phil. “I'm from the future, remember? I've done all this before.”

“Oh, honey,” said Phil and Greg's mom to Phil. Their father attended to his other, wounded son.

“He also goes to prison,” added Phil.

“For what?”

“For the cold-blooded murder of Brock Vanderlinden. You shot him in the back of the head.”

“I guess that wraps everything up then,” said Marilyn. “In a way, we're right back where we started, everyone gathered and the pair of us ready to get married, start our life together."

Phil chuckled. He heartily guffawed. “You just said ‘yes' to marrying Greg. Now you've switched back to wanting to marry me?”

Marilyn conferred briefly with the lawyer, then said, “I only agreed to marry Greg because I was scared; and, if I wasn't scared, it was because I got caught up in the moment; and if you can disprove both of those explanations, then I wasn't in my right mind due to the stress of the situation and I have no further comment to make because I don't remember.

“Besides, Greg's going to prison. You said so yourself. Why would I marry someone who's going to prison?”

“Technically,” said the lawyer, “if I am properly anticipating what soon must be revolutionary changes to the law, your preference of who to marry may be moot, because you are, or soon will be concluded to have been, officially married to Phil.

“Allow me to explain:

“Because time travel exists, the document retroactively reinstating the officiant's license was real. Because the document was real, the marriage took place. Then, when Phil—the original Phil—committed suicide, the then future-self Phil—now the present Phil, i.e. just ‘Phil.”—was already present, (although not present for us, given that, for us, it was Greg—present and only-ever Greg—present, posing as the then future-Phil), meaning that Phil, original Phil, killing himself killed only his own hisself, leaving the then future-Phil's—now just ‘Phil's’—hisself alive, and that hisself became then the entirety of Phil's whole self, so, at worst, the original Phil's death resulted in the death of half of the whole Phil, selfly speaking, and, because existence is, by nature, an all-or-nothing proposition, Phil never died so you two are still married.”

And everyone stared at her, your humble narrator included, and she said, “Never mind.”

“He raped me in Switzerland,” Marilyn said to Phil.

“You consented,” said Greg.

“Because I thought you were him. You presented yourself as him. So, yes, I consented, but not to you, and you're the one who—who…”

“It was rape by deception,” said the lawyer.

“It was conception by rape by deception,” said Marilyn.

“You got pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—”

“Yes, I had an abortion. How could I not? A child would only have interfered with your research, your ‘intertemporality.’ You said so yourself, that you didn't want kids. ‘They're loud,’ you said. ‘They're annoying and dirty and they eat things off the ground and they smell like shit.' How could I keep it, Phil?”

“It was my child,” said Greg.

“It was nobody's child,” said Marilyn, “Stop talking about it that way. It was just a pregnancy. Phil, your brother raped me, repeatedly, by pretending to be you. I demand you restore my honour. Make it right. Marry me, Phil.”

“Honour? Listen to yourself, Marilyn. Besides, you were cheating on me,” said Phil.

“I thought it was you!”

“Then why even start with the rape allegations?” said Greg. “They've already got me on murder. You thought it was him, Em; you enjoyed it. There's no harm. Where's the harm? Somebody show me the goddamn harm. And where there's been no harm, there is nothing to make whole—isn't that right, Miss Lawyer?”

“That's the civil law. You're about to feel the very blunt instrument of the criminal,” said the lawyer.

“What are you saying, Phil? Are you saying you want a divorce?” asked Marilyn.

“I don't know,” said Phil.

“If you're from the future, you should know—shouldn't you?”

“I'm not from that far in the future.”

Right then the doors to the chapel opened and a four-man electronica band burst in. “Sorry we're late,” said the leader. Within a minute they'd set up and launched into a pop rendition of the Wedding March. Despite that it was a little late for that, at least in the understandings of most of the dearly beloved, no one interrupted, and after a while the band switched to another song, and a few people started dancing, then a few more, and eventually almost everyone was dancing when the cops arrived (nobody had heard their sirens because the music was too loud) with weapons drawn, officers yelling, “Everybody on the ground—NOW! Hands where I can see ‘em!” trying to make sense of the two dead bodies in the room, one of which was a dead ringer for the apparent groom, as was the guy everybody fingered as the murderer of the other victim, and it was while lying face down on the floor like that, about three feet away from each other, that Marilyn moved her hand to Phil’s and Phil grasped it, and Marilyn squeezed, and Marilyn thought that even if she didn't like Phil all that much, he had developed time travel technology so there would be money in that, as Phil was thinking that nobody's perfect, and if things ever got really bad, he could always go back in time and kill Marilyn, or at least fix whatever the problem was. Then one of the police officers accidentally kicked Phil in the face, bloodying his nose.

“Sorry,” said the officer.

“Don't worry about it,” said Phil.

As he said that, he and the officer both noticed that the body of the original Phil (dead: suicide) was moving, convulsing, stirring on the floor. “What the fuck?” said the officer.

The other cops pointed their weapons at original Phil. “Stay the fuck down on the ground!”

“What is this, what's going on?” said original Phil, slurring his words as if he was drunk. He was getting up. He touched the side of his head. “And why is there a hole in my—”

The police officers opened fire.

Original Phil fell, re-dead.

Marilyn screamed.

Beside her, a pool of blood was expanding out from under future-turned-present-again Phil.

“This shouldn't be happening,” he said, coughing up blood. “This didn’t happen.” He was struggling to breathe. “I don't understand…”

One of the cops crouched beside him, and Phil felt a flash of familiarity. He knew the face, but from where? No, that wasn't right. He didn't know the face; he knew he would know it. “Who are you?” Phil wheezed.

“Tab Fenmore,” said the cop. “FBI. Temporal Division.”

“You're from the—”

“Shh,” said Fenmore, “try to relax.” Then, more quietly: “And, yeah: I'm from the future, just like you.”

“Why…”

“Because, for all your genius, you ignored the greatest lesson of twentieth century physics, Professor Kejdik. You treated time travel—the rules of time travel—as if they're fixed. They're not. They're probabilities.”

Phil grimaced from the pain of having been shot. “How far from the future are you?”

“From a couple of generations after your death—your original death: your past future one. This mission is going to change that, of course. We've spent decades trying to meet you back here. You wouldn't believe the mess you've made of spacetime and existence. Time travel cannot be controlled. The paradoxes are terrible, inevitable; and they cascade. It's not personal. I'm actually an admirer of your work, naively Newtonian-minded as it is—or would will have been, I suppose. You know, this was maybe our last chance. I needed to find and eliminate you before you made your first machine. And I did it.”

Phil laughed, a slight, bloody giggle at first, then a big booming chortle that stuffed the whole of the chapel, overpowering the otherwise polite quiet and filling it the way Boston cream fills a donut, reverberating and roaring, echoing until it itself was finally consumed and ended by Phil’s final act, the act of dying.

It was a long day. I just wanted to get through it. I just wanted the pressure to easy. Stop by the bar was just part of my routine. I told myself to only have two or three drinks, but you know how it goes. Two or three drinks becomes four or five. I needed to get home. I did not want to leave my car at the bar. I have driven home a hundred times before and always been safe. As I drove, the lines on the road seem to move but I am almost home. The damn radio station is playing that same song that is so frustrating. I just looked down for a second. When I looked up, there was a cat in the middle of the road. I swerved; I lost control.

Here I lay, looking up at the night sky. I can't feel my body. I can’t move my body. I can taste blood. I can’t die. There is so much I wanted to do, so much I wanted to apologize for. I wanted to see her again. Am I a bad person? Is there a heaven? Shit, is there a hell? I must live! I must get up. I must get up. Why can’t I move. I can’t die now!

I can see an approaching light. If only I could get help, I will be ok. The light is getting brighter. The light is so bright. The light is so big. What if I get hit again. Why can’t I move? The light grows so bright and then the light is out. Complete darkness. No sound, no feeling. Will I be ok? A warmness complete overwhelms me. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I go to speak but nothing comes out. I can feel this pressure over all of me. I can feel the pressure building. I am suddenly falling. All the warmth is sucked out of me. It is almost like I have never experienced warmth before. The cold is bitter. I scream. I can finally scream. I scream for anyone to hear. Please help me. Is there anyone there!?

I am weak and hungry. I scream into the darkness. I am trying to look but I must have something over my eyes. I try to remove what is over my eyes. I feel a thickness on my face. It just smears. Something grabs me. I thought I was yelling before. I thought I was cold before. My mouth is being filled with something. All I know is it is warm and it fills me. Finally, the panic is gone. How sweet is this taste. I could be here forever. I love this feeling. I love the warmth.

While this feeling gets almost too much, it is ripped from me. I want it back! I can't find the source. I need more. The feeling was so intense. How could I ever live without this. I am still warm, but I want to be filled. I search and search and I can't find the source. In my search, I find myself struggling to move. I have a darkness come over my thoughts. The pressure is back. I must live. I didn’t get a chance to see her. Who is she? Before I can have my next thought. I can't think anymore.

I am awake. I can move but my movements are so slow. I can see now! Where is that source? I scream but this time, I am suddenly warm again. I find the source and it is beautiful again. It warms my insides. Oh, how much I love it. There are times where I can get my fill and days where I am ripped away from the source. Sometimes, I have to fight to find it but every time I find it, it is total bliss. This was on repeat, I would wake, find the source, eat, and sleep. Slowly, I gain the ability to move. Slowly, I gain the ability to see.

I tried to stand but my back wouldn’t allow me. I tried to see what was around but it felt like everything was daunting and wet. The noises around me were sharp and sudden. I wanted to scream but I became afraid. What was I afraid of? When I would go to the source, there were others. Others like me. I was cautious of them, but they seem to bring me no harm.

I was awake. I was fed. I was safe. This was the way things were. When I slept, I would have these dreams. Dreams of a place I use to know. There would be these hands. They would touch my face. They were warm. Warm like the source. The warmth, the taste, the comfort. After many days of this bliss, there was this sound. I ran. There was a crash and then it was chaos. The others were screaming. They were running. I could hear gnashing of teeth. I could not move. I don’t want to die. Then there was a silence. A silence that was dangerous. I waited. I fell into the familiar darkness. When I woke to find the source, there was nothing. This world has grown cold again.

I screamed out like before, but nothing came. I looked around but there was no source to find. I waited. The source did not come. I screamed again. Nothing answered. I did not know what to do. I did not know where to go. But my body knew. My body moved. And I followed. I went from shadow to shadow.

The hunger grew. I needed to eat. Where before, hunger was a call, the source would answer. Now hunger is a hole. I found a place that was quiet. I curled up. There was no warmth to find. I created my own. The world was cold but I was safe.

When I woke, I saw movement. It wasn’t the wind. My hunger spoke to me. I immediately got ready. I waited. I waited for the perfect moment. It came into view. It had a bunch of legs. It looked disgusting but my body craved it. My body jumped. My mouth bit in. The crunch, the legs. I tried to spit it out. I tried to gag. My body ate the whole thing. The hole was a little smaller. I did not want it. The hunger was quieter. I hated that it helped. I hated that I fell into the darkness a little easier.

The dull sway of the waves lofts one side of the platform as high as the mooring lines allow, then brings it down gently again.  The night is dead quiet.

Third shift.  Diego took the position because it pays time-and-a-half.  Most people only last a couple years working the graveyard.  Old timers won’t touch it.  Too much time on the viewscreen at night makes people go mad, they say.

He’s taped a family photo above the monitor.  He misses Meena’s laugh and Carla’s scent—everything smells like fish here. He wants to provide a good life for them. Maybe even send Meena to college one day.

An eleven-pointed star spirals past one of the underwater cameras. The image is relayed across the screen in the control room, then disappears.

There’s a lot of life in the ocean, Diego has learned. More than people know, even scientists. His employers insisted he sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement that prohibits him from even discussing what he’s seen on that monitor. They’re terrified of getting shut down by the EPA or PETA or some other activist group.

It was good money, so Diego signed on the dotted line and kept his mouth shut.

Above all, the job took blind, shit-ass faith. And lots of it.

A thin creature with round eyes and long fangs on the outside of its mouth swims past. The eyes shift hue on the monotone screen, now merciless black pits, now reflecting one of the rig’s spotlights and glowing a luminous, soul-sucking white.

It disappears as quickly as it came.

He doesn’t see it. He’s already returned to the old western he was reading. Bramble Rose is about to take her vengeance on the Man in White Diego hears it—a sound like the gasping cry of some ancient metallic titan. He marks his page with a folded piece of mail.

They warned him things might get choppy, that the weather was different out here where there’s no cities or forests to slow the wind’s relentless procession.
 
“What do I do if there’s an evacuation?” he had asked the old timer on duty before him.

“Get to a life boat,” the old timer had said.  “Quick as you can.  Folks ain’t liable to wait around.” Then he headed for his bunk. 

Volatile weather is part of the job. That’s why it pays. And why Diego is willing to spend thirty days at a time in the middle of the gulf, away from his wife and newborn daughter, to do it.

The storm comes out of nowhere. Not like land storms, which have clear beginnings and ends. This is a sea storm—ripped from the dark womb of the Ocean herself. White-hot lightning cracks the sky in half.  The world goes blind. After-images of dancing photons dim from white, to purple, to green, to red. In the fading spectra, Diego glimpses massive walls of black froth that touch the sky, frozen in space but not in time. High above, the full moon oversees the dark works of the churning maw below.

The control room lurches. Diego nearly falls out of the flimsy rolling chair, but manages to catch himself on the control panel. The lights flicker off, but the viewscreen remains.

Something fleshy ribbons across the screen and disappears.

Diego sees this time. Though his mind is elsewhere—trying not to panic, to instead recall company protocol during power outages—he sees the lone eye embedded in the flesh’s side, watching him.

One of the backup generators kicks on. The lights return.

Diego grabs the walky-talky.

“This is Diego! Can you hear me? Over!”

“Copy Die—”  There’s so much static Diego can hardly hear the old timer.  “—Ove—!”

“What was that? Over!”

But the static is too thick.

Diego feels another lurch. 

He loses his balance and lands hard on the floor.  The western goes flying one way, the folded mail he uses as a bookmark another. His vision doubles.  

He’s been denied by seven different life insurance companies after starting this job. None of them gave a reason, but it was obvious. Too much liability.

He blinks the double image from his eyes, plants a palm on the controls, and hoists himself up.

The lights go off again. This time they don’t return. Emergency backups kick on and dye everything the color of blood. The slow wail of the evacuation siren warps in the air.

Diego tries to run shutdown procedures on his console, but the computer glitches, freezing a distorted half-image of green-and-magenta eyes on its black screen.  

Outside, co-workers sprint from below deck. The quickest head for the helicopter. It holds nineteen. Two dozen cram inside. A few cling to the skids. The helicopter struggles to take off.  It shakes the hangers on loose. One of them bounces off the rig before he plummets into the churn. It looks like the old timer who works the shift just before Diego.

The helicopter is just airborne when an obsidian pillar crashes down over the rig. When the water recedes, the helicopter and its inhabitants are gone.

Diego kisses his tiny gold cross and tucks it into his shirt. His thoughts are of Carla.

“We miss you,” she said. “We want you home.”

But the work was here. The work that paid for their house and their groceries and that big white SUV she loved to take Meena around in.  It would pay for Meena’s ballet lessons when she got old enough and, God willing, her wedding one day.

He’d taken the graveyard shift hoping that the extra pay would mean he wouldn’t have to spend quite so many years away from them.

A hundred more people run onto the deck.  Some of them slip on the wet steel desk. They crowd the lifeboats. One boat falls off its davit while people are still boarding. It’s swallowed by the water. Another is thrown against the side of the rig. Bodies fly in every direction. One of them hits the window of the control room with a thud.

Skyscrapers of swirling brine close in around Diego, each thick enough to envelope an oil tanker.

There’s nowhere to run.

Diego crawls under the control panel.

He holds his tiny cross between trembling fingers and prays as the watery ramparts converge on him.

Another lurch. A falling sensation.

Something wet. Water leaks into the cabin and spreads across the floor. It soaks Diego’s already-wet pants.

He opens his eyes for just an instant.

It’s long enough to see the horror staring back at him. One gargantuan eye, watery and black—so black he could fall into it. He feels his mind disintegrate, the electrons of his consciousness sucked into the vacuous void of the creature’s own mind. There’s no escape. His atoms are strung out in a line. Time, for a brief moment before he’s lost, becomes visible. 

He will be recycled, his quarks reused, rearranged into something new, something useful.

Then the creature will return to its sleepy domain beneath the material surface of our watery reality.

After the storm subsides, the rescue crews will arrive. Of the one-hundred-sixty-eight workers on duty that night, no survivors will be found.

Diego’s only remains will be a family photo, an old western novel, and a folded letter from his wife’s attorney.

FORGOTTEN DREAMS

I ask myself what it means to be insane. Is it to forget who you are? Is it appear to others as someone unfamiliar to them? Is it a deterioration of the mind? Is it when your cognitive abilities no longer present themselves? Or perhaps it is when they are too strong and overwhelming? Is it when you can no longer bare your reality and it is torturous? 

 

I feel like all of these answers partially describe my state as I struggle to write these notes.

 

Sometimes when I walk I feel like my legs are getting sucked into the ground and I get slower and slower and I see my destination, but cannot reach it. Other times I sit at a table and reach for the fork, but the table stretches and the further I reach the longer it becomes. My daily life consists of such things, but I wasn’t always this way.

 

 

It all begun years ago, on a quiet farm, far away from the city’s turmoil. I was the youngest child, I had two brothers, Tom and Jude, one sister, Glinda, my parents, Mary and Scott, and grandfather Robert.

 

They were practical people, rose early, worked hard, ate well, went to bed at a good hour. I loved them, but I was so different from them. I loved to read, something my father and grandpa Robert called a waste of time, something worthless dreamers do. However, when I had the chance, I cut through the forest to reach the town and visited the small library they had there to check out a new book and return an old one. I always had to hide what I was reading, for it would bring me a whipping. I was already slapped around and pushed around for being weak and contributing little on the farm, I did not want to invite more punishment. My sister, Glinda, often took pity on me, she would try to raise my spirit, but I suppose she went about it the wrong way, because she always told me that eventually I’ll improve at farm work and will no longer want to read. I was totally alone, with my dreams.

 

One night I snuck out and went for a walk near the woods, it was then I saw a flash and heard and unfamiliar sound behind a hill. I crawled on top of it and saw a strange dark floating energy in the air, it went in circles and got smaller and smaller and eventually disappeared. My heart was jumping out of my thin chest, but I saw something there which was left behind. It was a small black bag, I timidly walked up to it and with my weak shaking hand I opened it and looked inside. There were black seeds there that looked exactly like sunflower seeds. I dared not to try them for I saw where they came from. I tied the bag and took it home. I left the bag near the door behind my shoes and went to bed. All night I had horrible nightmares of beasts with tentacles coming from space and tormenting me.

 

When I woke and went to have my small breakfast, my brother Jude have me a knock on my back and shook the black bag that I found in front of my face. I was horrified, he thought it was because I tried to hide it for myself, but my fear came because the beg was empty. I asked him if anyone ate the seeds, he laughed and said that he split them up between everyone, and that this should be a lesson for me about not sharing findings with family.

 

Petrified I went and ate outside, alone, hoping that nothing bad would happen to them.

 

Father made me work in the field that day, I was exhausted and went to bed early.

 

The next morning when I went in the kitchen no one was there. I looked out of the window and saw all of them sitting in a row next to the pond, quietly. I came out and then my brother Tom turned to me and motioned for me to be silent. I went back inside the house. They spent the whole morning there, sitting, but then went to work as usual, however I was very startled and an eery feeling was starting to creep over me.

 

That night I went back to the hill, but I found nothing there. I was scared to find out what would happen the following morning, and well, I did not have to wait that long. On my way back home I saw that all the lights in the house were on and there was a figure that looked like my sister walking towards me in the dark. Could it be that they freaked out because I snuck out? That was my first thought, but I was very wrong. As Glinda came up to me her face looked long and disfigured, her mouth was stretched out upwards and her eyes rolled back into her skull. I screamed, but was frozen in that spot. Glinda’s head, face and neck stretched like rubber and fell of exposing many tentacles pointing into the sky and moving around. In my absolute horror I managed to run, better than ever before in my life.

 

I entered the house and saw that all of them were like that! They let out a screeching noise and followed me.

 

I ran, the terror I felt that night warped my mind and mentally sent me to another place. I ran and never looked back. I don’t know what happened to my family, for I will never go back to that area.

 

Ultimately it was my fault, because I brought the seeds home. The horror continued for all of these years and didn’t remain in the past. The guilt ate me, but also the fear of what I did not understand, of what they have become.

 

I used to have dreams, but now I have forgotten them all. Perhaps that was the true definition of insanity?

The moon hung low and bloated over the town of Hallowville, Oregon, bleeding a sickly orange light across the frost-dusted fields. It was Halloween night, the one time of year when the veil between the living and the dead supposedly thins to a translucent shimmer; but for seventeen-year-old Layla, however, the "spooky season" wasn't just a vibe—it was a heritage.

Layla stood before her mirror, adjusting the brim of a tall, pointed orange hat. Her black hair, dark as a raven’s wing, cascaded down her shoulders, providing a sharp contrast to her bright orange witch costume. 

The dress was a heavy, floor-length velvet that swished around her ankles. She tightened a thick black belt around her waist, smoothed out her green and orange horizontal striped socks, and stepped into her black ballet shoes. With her gothic makeup—heavy kohl and deep purple eyeshadow—she looked like a creature born from a Tim Burton sketch.

There were rumors about Layla. The local kids whispered that when she was twelve, she hadn't just been scared of the Boogeyman; she had hunted him down and ended him.

Layla never confirmed it, but the way that she carried her old wooden broom—not like a prop, but like a weapon—suggested that she knew things that other teenagers didn't.

"Layla! Hurry up! The party’s gonna be dead before we even get there!" Her friend Sarah yelled from downstairs.

Layla grabbed her broom and headed out. She was joined by Sarah, John, and Chloe. They were all dressed in cheap store-bought costumes, laughing and clutching bags of candy.

"Hey!" John said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Instead of taking the main road to the gym, let’s take the shortcut through the Old Miller place. You know, the turnip farm?"

"The Jack Turnip farm?" Chloe shivered. "My grandpa told me that people go missing there."

"It's just a farm, Chloe." Sarah scoffed. "Besides, we’ve got the 'Boogeyman Slayer' with us, right Layla?"

Layla felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck, and said,

 "We should stay on the road. That place feels…wrong."

Unfortunately, the trio was already veering off the path, fueled by adrenaline and the rebellious spirit of the night. Layla had no choice but to follow them.

The farm was a wasteland of gnarled vegetation. Rows upon rows of bloated turnips sat in the dirt like buried skulls. As they reached the center of the field, John began to laugh, jumping into the air and bringing his heavy boots down onto a large turnip, crushing it into a wet, white pulp.

"Take that, Jack!" John shouted.

Sarah and Chloe joined in, kicking and stomping the crops, laughing at the carnage.

"Stop it!" Layla hissed, her grip tightening on her broom. "You don't know what you're doing!"

The laughter died instantly. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed from the darkness of a nearby shed.

Out of the shadows stepped a nightmare. He stood seven feet tall, draped in a tattered black trench coat that billowed like smoke. Below the coat, heavy, mud-caked boots crunched the gravel; but it was the head that froze their blood. In place of a human skull sat a massive, rotting turnip. Two jagged holes had been carved for eyes, glowing with an intense, supernatural amber light. A jagged slit served as a mouth, leaking a foul-smelling mist.

In his right hand, he dragged a rusted, six-foot scythe.

"Jack Turnip!" Chloe shouted, her voice breaking.

The entity didn't speak. With a speed that defied his size, he lunged. The scythe whistled through the air. Before John could even scream, the blade found its mark. 

Sarah and Chloe tried to run, but the mud of the turnip field seemed to rise up, catching their ankles. Within minutes, the field was silent, save for the wet sound of Jack Turnip cleaning his blade on his coat.

Layla stood frozen, the bodies of her friends lying amidst the ruined turnips. A cold, white-hot rage began to boil in her chest, drowning out the fear.

"You shouldn't have done that!" Layla said, her voice dropping an octave.

Jack Turnip turned his glowing gaze toward her. He tilted his vegetable head, seemingly amused. He raised the scythe, pointing the tip at her throat.

"I know what you are, Jack!" Layla snarled. "I know where you belong!"

Layla didn't run. She charged.

Jack swung the scythe, a blow meant to decapitate her, but Layla dropped low, her ballet shoes sliding through the dirt. She swung her broom, the wooden handle clashing against the metal of the scythe with a shower of sparks.

The two engaged in a brutal dance across the field. Jack was a force of nature, his strength supernatural, but Layla was nimble. She used her broom to vault over his swings, kicking out at his knees; but physical strength wasn't going to win this. Jack grabbed her by the throat, his gloved hand squeezing. He lifted her off the ground, the amber light in his eyes flaring.

Jack opened his jagged mouth, preparing to harvest her soul.

"My turn!" Layla gasped.

Suddenly, a blinding white light erupted from Layla’s palms. The "props" of her costume began to glow with an ancient power. She wasn't just a girl in a costume; the rumors were true. She was a practitioner of the Light.

"Lux Aeterna!" Layla screamed.

The light hit Jack Turnip full in the chest. He shrieked—a sound like grinding metal and rotting wood. The black trench coat began to burn away into ash. The turnip head cracked, the amber light turning to a sickly green as the magic of the underworld was purged by Layla’s purity.

A rift opened in the mud beneath him—a jagged, glowing maw leading straight to the abyss. With one final thrust of her glowing broom, Layla pushed him back.

"Go back to hell, Jack!" Layla shouted.

With a final roar, Jack Turnip was sucked into the earth, the ground sealing shut behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was heavy. Layla stood alone in the center of the ruined field, her orange dress torn and stained with mud. Her friends were gone, and the weight of her solitude pressed down on her. She felt stronger, her magic humming through her veins like high-voltage wire, but the victory tasted like ash.

Layla walked back to town in the early hours of the morning, her broom trailing behind her. She reached her small, secluded house on the edge of the woods. No lights were on. No one was waiting to ask how the party was. She lived alone, a guardian in the shadows.

As she stepped onto her front porch, Layla’s eyes drifted to her small pumpkin garden. There, sitting perfectly in the center of her prize-winning pumpkins, was a single, fresh turnip.

Pinned to the top of it with a rusted nail was a scrap of black fabric. Layla picked it up, her hands trembling. Scrawled in dark, wet ink were the words:

“This isn't over, Layla. I'll be back next Halloween.”

Layla looked out into the darkness of the trees, a cold shiver racing down her spine. She clutched her broom closer. The war had only just begun.

The End.

I took another keg and put it under the faucet. The beer slowed down to a dribble.

"Tilt that barrel, Tom."

"Already tilting it, Dad."

"Tilt it more!"

A little more beer came out, but the keg was only halfway full.

"How many do we have, Dad?"

"Don't even ask."

"How many?"

"Four and a half," I muttered.

Tom rubbed his face.

"So just three and a half."

I grabbed the keg tightly.

"No, Tom, no. I had to borrow to brew this batch. Three and a half wouldn't even cover the debt."

Tom's eyes flew open.

"But, Dad, we need to give one to Radegast, or else it all goes bad."

"Tom, we can't."

"I'll tell the tavern keeper if you don't pour it."

His words sent a chill down my spine. He looked deep into my eyes.

"Okay, but first I gotta check the other barrels; maybe they have more beer in them."

"There's nothing there, Dad."

"I don't care, Tom. I'm checking them."

"But the celebrations will start. Anna and I need to get our costumes ready."

"Then go. I'll do it myself."

"But you promise to pour one out for Radegast."

"Yes, son."

He measured me with his eyes, took his hat, and walked out.

I hated lying to Tom, but he didn't understand. We needed the money, and pouring for Radegast was more tradition than something of concern. A harvest-loving God wouldn't waste a batch of beer. I loaded the kegs onto a wheelbarrow and brought them to the tavern.

The tavern keeper stood outside, tapping his foot.

"John, I'm glad to see you. How many kegs do you have?"

"Four and a half."

"Wow, amazing. No one could bring more than four. The hops don't want to grow." He shook his head. "Hopefully Radegast will bless us next year when he sees we give even in a time of shortage."

I looked at the ground.

"Yes, hopefully."

He tipped my kegs into the big barrel with the rest, and the whole village’s beer swirled together.

"I'll see you tonight, John."

"See you."

I hurried home and sat inside my house long after the celebrations started. The idea of drinking and dancing now made my stomach turn, but I had to show up at least.

When I came into the tavern, the celebrations were in full swing. People danced around in their costumes, tipping one beer after the other. Even the smell of the beer made me gag. I told everyone I was sick and couldn't drink. 

As I sat down, Tom and Anna ran to my table. Anna wore a beautiful flower dress that matched Tom's shirt.

"Hi Dad!"

"Hi, John!"

"Hi, kids, are you having fun?"

"Yeah, we've been dancing all night," Tom said. They looked at each other and kissed.

Anna held a glass of beer. She took a sip and made a face.

"You don't like it, Anna?"

"It's so bitter."

"You'll get used to it. Make sure not to give any to Tom. I know you're 18, but he still has some months left."

"Of course, John."

"Don't worry, Dad. You know I don't like it."

"Funny, coming from a brewer's son," I said, patting his back. "Go dance, kids. I don't want to bore you with my oldness."

Anna finished her beer.

"I'll go get another, then we can dance more."

She ran off.

Tom leaned closer.

"Thanks, Dad, for pouring that batch."

I clenched my jaw.

"Sure, Tom."

He smiled and ran off too.

I sank into my chair, holding my head. 

The celebrations were getting on. People started drinking more, dancing more, and talking louder. I never realized how boring celebrations could be when one doesn't drink. After a while, I was ready to go home. Tom and Anna were still dancing. I let them be and left.

The next morning, I woke up early. The day was beautiful. The sun shone. The birds sang. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat on our porch. My stomach growled. We barely had any food at the house. I got dressed and went into town.

The streets were empty and quiet. Only birdsong carried through the town. It wasn't strange for people to sleep in after the celebrations. Usually I'd see at least a few people opening their stores or still partying, but the square was empty.

I turned onto the road that led to the tavern. The keeper kept it open even after the celebrations. 

I was about to reach the tavern when I heard a noise in the distance; someone was weeping. It was Tom! I rushed toward the sound. I focused on the sound. I couldn't even hear the birds, but as I turned the corner, my heart dropped.

The smell of rotting hops hung in the air. The townsfolk lay around the tavern, on the grass and pavement, dark liquid on their clothes and around their mouths. A few glasses of beer lay around them, the same black liquid inside them. Tom sat on the ground weeping next to a few bodies, holding Anna's lifeless hand.

"Tom?"

He shot his eyes at me. They were filled with tears and anger.

"You promised!"

"Tom, I'm sorry!"

He looked at Anna and held her hand tighter. A few more tears rolled down his face.

"Tom, please, just come here."

"No."

He shook his head and picked up a glass that had a little dark liquid in it.

"No, Tom. Wait!"

But he didn't listen. He tipped the glass back and drank it in one gulp. 

I ran to him and caught him before he hit the ground. He was already limp. His eyes stared at the blue sky, and somewhere near us, the birds kept singing.

Rat Woman's Diary by Attie Lee

Penelope is the Human-Rat Hybrid born in a secret lab. Years later, she and her family escape to the sewer. There, amid her parents' sadism and forced isolation, she meets a human able to love and accept her. Together they dream up a bright future on the Surface. But the only way out is through the conformity, blood, and hate surrounding them.

This diary was found rolled inside a jar left outside a sewer manhole. We decided to publish its contents. Because the world needs this story. 

NO AI was used for this novella-diary.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The Journal of Eliot Whitcombe, Navigator aboard the Providence, 1574

I know not the name of this soil. It is absent from every chart in our possession, and yet there it stands upon the sea, green as Eden and shrouded in a mist so thick that the very heavens seemed to have forgotten it.

We came upon its shores after the Providence was broken upon the reefs. God alone knows how many of my companions were claimed by the sea.

I awoke upon the sand with blood upon my brow and salt upon my tongue. Yet I was not alone.

Upon the shore stood a gathering of natives. Men. Women. Children all alike.

They watched me in silence. The men bore spear or blade. An aged woman stepped forth from their number and placed her hand upon my face.

She spoke words I could not comprehend. She cleaned my bloody brown, placing the bloody thumb to her lips. She coughed, then she smiled.

They didn't regard as a threat. Only curious for the strange man that stood before them.

They led me inland.

The village was unlike any settlement I had seen in the New World. Their huts were fashioned of timber and palm, whilst strange carvings adorned the walls. There were fires burning everywhere, though the day was warm.

They gave me water. They gave me fruit. And they gave me meat.

I thanked them for their kindness. I shall never forgive myself for having done so.

For three days, I was treated as an honored guest.

My wounds were washed. My clothing was mended. I was fed until my belly ached.

The tribes people laughed whenever I ate. At first, I thought this merely the joy of having rescued a stranger.

Then I heard the screaming.

It came from beyond the village after sunset. A man's cry. It was bone chillingly terrible. Followed by what sounded like weeping.

I asked my hosts what manner of beast made such a noise. They did not answer. I doubted they could understand what I even asked.

The following morning, I ventured beyond the huts. There I found the cages. Great wooden pens stood beneath the trees, hidden behind woven walls.

At first I believed them to contain swine. Then one of the creatures within rose upon two legs.

It was not a beast. But a man.

His hair was long and filthy. His flesh hung from his bones in loose folds. His wrists were bound by rope, and great black bruises covered his body.

He seized the bars when he saw me.

"Run," he whispered.

I shall hear that word until the day I die.

I asked him who had brought him there. Before he could answer, a woman came rushing from the village. She entered the pen and struck him upon the head with a wooden club.

He fell.

The woman looked toward me. She laughed a cry that haunts me still.

That evening they served me roasted meat. I had eaten much of it before I noticed the bone.

It was small. White. Curved. Not unlike the bone of a young animal.

I held it between my fingers. Something upon it troubled me.

I scraped away the charred flesh with my knife. Stripping the bone clean, I noticed it was the mandible of whatever animal. But it didn't resemble a cow, nor a lamb. It looked too closely familiar.

Peering to the other tribesman devouring the meat from their plates, I had the sickening realization.

I did not finish my meal that night.

I attempted to flee before dawn.

I reached the shore, where six men were waiting. They did not beat me. They did not bind me.

They simply escorted me back. This frightened me more than violence would have. For they seemed not angry. They seemed concerned. As though I were a troublesome animal that had wandered from its enclosure.

From that day onward, they fed me more. Much more.

Meat. Fruit. Roots. Milk.

They insisted with their gestures that I eat until I could eat no more. When I refused, they held my jaw and forced the food between my teeth.

My body began to change. My cheeks grew full. My wounds healed. My strength returned. And with every passing day, the villagers appeared more pleased.

Today, the old woman examined my arms. She pinched the flesh upon my belly. Then she pressed her hand against my chest and nodded.

She spoke a single word. Somehow I understood:

Fat

Tonight, there will be a feast.

Adam stood by the corn silo, holding a flask. My eyes kept closing; I could barely focus on him.

"Morning, Adam."

"Jesus, Matt, you look awful. Want a drink?"

He raised his flask.

"No."

"It will help you get some sleep, man. What are you even doing at night? Playing with yourself until dawn?"

He laughed and slapped my shoulder.

"No, it's just…"

"I have a task for you. You gotta clean up the silo; the machinery is blocked."

I gripped my sleeve tight and stared at him.

He slapped my shoulder again.

"Calm down, you're not gonna get Dan'd"

"But can't somebody else do it? Why do I gotta?"

He furrowed his brows.

"I'm the senior, Matt. Now get your ass there and go do it."

I waited, not moving.

"Go!"

His voice rang in my ears. I put my head down and walked into the silo.

The inside was cold, silent. My steps echoed on the bridge. The closer I got to the ladder, the more my head spun. When my feet touched the kernels, I took a deep breath and looked around. It wasn't obvious where the blockage was, but as usual it was probably in the center. I grabbed a broom and walked over.

Then a hum echoed. The kernels moved beneath my feet. Dust filled the air. Someone started the machines.

"Wait! I'm still in."

The kernels were moving fast. My feet felt light.  I turned around and took a few steps. One foot sank. Another. 

"Help, please!"

My waist sank. My heart beat against my ribs. The kernels moved around me, pushing at my chest. I was neck-deep. My head sank under the kernels. I held my breath. I sank deeper and deeper. The kernels hissed in my ears. Then my feet felt loose, and so did my waist, my chest.

I fell hard onto the ground. It felt cold, but the ground felt firm like concrete. I looked around. The whole place was dark, as in a cave, but there were no walls, no ceiling above me, just darkness as far as I could see. The smell of dusty kernels still hung in the air.

"Hello?"

My voice echoed through the dark emptiness. It sounded like my words traveled to me and away from me at the same time. I got up and walked a few steps. They echoed in the same strange way. 

A cold tingle built in my chest. The space felt both small and large. It felt as if someone's eyes were on me. I kept looking over my shoulder. Then a noise broke through the silence. A faint snore, as if someone was trying to catch their breath, but couldn't. In the distance, a small figure lay on the ground.

"Hello? Are you okay?"

The snoring grew. His limbs twisted on the ground as if struggling. My heart sank when I saw who it was. Dan rolled on the ground, in the same clothes he'd worn when he fell into the corn that day.

Memories flashed through my mind. His screams for help. The machine's rattle. Adam's calm face as he watched him go down. All because he told the boss Adam and I were drinking on the job. The rope lay right at my feet. I stared at it while Dan screamed for help.

I ran to him. His eyes were wide with pain, his mouth filled with kernels.

"I'm sorry, Dan. I'm sorry!"

I grabbed him and rolled him onto his side. Kernels spilled from his mouth, but more were still inside. I hit his back; more spilled out, but his mouth was still full. I stuck my shaking hand into his mouth and pulled out handfuls of kernels, but his mouth filled back immediately. He turned his pleading eyes to me. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

My voice caught. Something scratched the back of my throat. I tried to cough, but nothing came out; the scratching only grew. I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come through. I dropped to all fours. Kernels began falling out of my mouth.

"Dan! Dan!" I woke up screaming.

I was back in the silo, half-submerged in the kernels. The mechanical machinery sounds were gone. The silo was silent.

Adam and two other workers stood atop the bridge, looking down at me. A rope was thrown before me.

"Sorry, Matt. We didn't know you were in. Adam forgot to tell us," one of them said.

Adam shrugged and looked down at me with a half-smile.

"Why were you screaming Dan's name?" Adam asked. 

He unscrewed the flask and took a long, slow sip, eyes on me.

I looked down at the ground.

"I don't know."

He smiled and nodded.

"Take the rope," one of the men said.

I grabbed it tightly. Something scratched at the back of my throat again. I coughed. A few kernels flew out.

The Tale of Spice

Over a decade ago, I was in deep misery and confusion.

I had no purpose in life.
My mom died at 44 and my dad eventually died about 15 years later.

Without any guidance or stability, I turned to drugs.

Spice, wow, what a power substance.

The container of this drug that you could buy at Tabaco shops had a label that said ‘not for human consumption,’ although that didn’t stop me or hundreds of thousands of other people using it.

It reminded me of weed.
The way it looked and how you smoked it, out of a pipe.

Synthetic weed or synthetic heroine; that’s what ‘they’ called it.

Did I care that labeled existed, ‘not for human consumption?’

Of course not! I’ll I knew was that it gave me a high.

This substance was so powerful that it took your mind for a ride.

It was a great escape from reality. I even had an aquanauts that made spice himself.

Because of this access to spice, through this individual, I smoked even more of it.

Some of this substance was stronger than other versions, of course.

The high seemed to massage my brain and numbed my feelings. What a great drug; something to keep me from reality. How could this substance do any wrong?

Spice became a good friend, helping me drown out the mental pain and despair that accompanied me.

Boy, this friend of mine turned out to almost be the death of me; the Grimm Reaper.

One night, after a few sessions of smoking spice, I laid in bed with the TV on.

As I laid there, my heart started to race, body felt weak, and a sense of turmoil set upon me.

The channel I was watching started to turn into some strange, unwanted images.

Disgusted by the images, I changed the channel only to find the same warped, identical images.

I kept flipping through the channels and every channel had the same vulgar imagery.

Finally, I laid down.
As I laid down, something happened that I never will forget.

I started to feel heavy and fell through my bed.

As I fell deeper and deeper, I started to get hot and hotter.

The heat was so intense that I couldn’t bare it.

I felt death and knew I was falling into hell.

Was this it? Was I really going to hell?

Almost to the end, I cried out to Jesus and flew up, instantly, back to my bed, sweaty and scared.

Let’s say I never smoked that evil substance again.

Spice was no longer a vice.

Listening to the midsummer breeze
 Somewhere deep in the forest
 Far from their cadaverous prying eyes
 These sheep I have grown
 To so feverishly despise

Somewhere deep in forest
 Suspended between two birches
 For spitting on the crude headstone
 Erected for the pitiful, sick god
 I cannot help but rabidly abhor

Drifting to the melody of a boreal forest
 I depart into a garden full of bliss
 For but a moment
 Before the lord we both swore to worship
 Demands again I must return

As if in a midsummer fevered dream
 I will become a plague
 Corrupting every ounce of flesh
 Before it is severed from the bone

 As if in a midsummer fevered dream
 I will become the spell
 Cast to watch every single one of you
 Wither as they burn

This midsummer night
 Is nothing more than a feast of passions
 Laid before the divine throne
 For our Father
 Just like I - 
 Is an appetite and nothing more

He tells people he found God at nineteen.

That is technically true.

What he does not tell them is that he found whiskey at seventeen, women at fourteen, and shame long before either of those.

Every Sunday morning, he sits cross-legged near the front of the darbar hall [the main prayer hall in a Sikh Gurdwara], beside the old men with navy blue or bright orange turbans, their silver beards resting against tired chests.

He believes sinners should not hide in the back.

He arrives early enough for the stillness. Early enough to hear the shabads [hymn] breathe softly through the speakers before the gurdwara fills with perfume, coughs, restless children, and people dressed in borrowed holiness. It’s during the kirtan [devotional prayers] that he finds something closest to peace. Not because he fully understands it; he could speak Punjabi well enough, but Gurbani [sacred hymns] carried an older depth that often escaped him, poetic in ways everyday speech never was. But because the hymns bring back memories of sitting beside his father as a child. Or his thoughts are carried away by the hymns, allowing him to reflect on his sins and beg for forgiveness.

Still, by nightfall, he is drunk.

Not stumbling. Not loud. Not pathetic enough to let people notice. Never that. He despises sloppy men with the kind of disgust a man secretly afraid of resembling them can possess. His drinking is quieter than theirs. More disciplined. Ritualistic almost. Two fingers of bourbon after work. Another while staring at the image of Guru Nanak [spiritual leader] hanging above the kitchen table. Another because the apartment grows too silent after midnight, and silence has a way of making unwanted thoughts louder. He drinks, carefully, as though control could purify the act. That is how he lies to himself. He does not reject the sin outright; instead, he reshapes it into something polished, something almost elegant. Something private. Sometimes he wonders whether shame can become a habit the same way drinking does. Whether a man can repeat the same destruction so many times that guilt itself begins to feel comforting. Familiar. He tells himself good men drank too.

He tells himself even saints had weaknesses.

Then he hates himself for bargaining with Waheguru [God] like a lawyer defending a guilty man. He tells himself tonight will be the last drink. The last lie. The last time. He apologizes once while staring at the framed image of Guru Nanak hanging above the kitchen table. Then again a few minutes later. Then once more without even realizing he has repeated the same prayer word for word. Nevertheless, a man remains a man. He cheats in patterns he prefers to call accidents because accidents sound temporary, and temporary things are easier to forgive. But there is nothing accidental about the way he moves toward loneliness whenever it appears in another person’s eyes.

It has become a habit of his.

Or perhaps worse than a habit.

Familiarity.

A woman from work whose lipstick stains his collar while a cross hangs from his neck. She didn’t care about him, nor did he care about her. Or a stranger lying next to him in bed whose name whose name dissolves from memory before morning prayer. Or a married woman who cried afterward while he sat on the edge of the bed staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.

He always prays afterward.

That is the strange thing.

Not performatively. Not even out of fear alone. Why would he fear? He prays because he wants to pray; he needs to pray. There is this absurd urge inside him that never leaves him alone. In order to calm it down, he prays as though his life depends on it. Sometimes still smelling of perfume and sweat, sometimes kneeling on the ground beside the image of Guru Nanak with tears burning down his face. Other times in dark parking lots before driving home. In locked bathroom stalls. In empty elevators after leaving another hotel room.

His voice breaks when he speaks to Waheguru. He asks for forgiveness with such sincerity that, for a moment, even he believes he can become clean again.

But by the next week, he is back inside another dim room, another bar glowing beneath neon lights that make everything look artificial along with beautiful, like a false heaven. He notices the woman after she notices him first. A glance held half a second too long. Boom. Then the familiar smirk. Then the softened eyes that invite conversation before a single word is spoken.

Just like that, the ritual begins again.

It is never about the women themselves; their names, their bodies, or even desire in its simplest form.

It is about the transformation. About becoming someone unrecognizable for a few temporary hours. Someone untouched by guilt or memory or prayer. Someone capable of moving through the world without carrying the unbearable weight of himself everywhere he goes.

Alas, the illusion never lasts.

He cannot understand why repentance changes nothing.

He has read obsessively on the subject of theology. Augustine. Dostoevsky. Ecclesiastes. Tolstoy. And later about his own faith, anything translated from Punjabi into English, anything that attempted to explain Sikhi, suffering, and the strange contradictions buried inside human nature. Page after page until the corners softened beneath his fingers. Until entire passages lived inside his memory more vividly than conversations with real people ever did.

He once underlined passages about \*haumai\*, about the sickness of ego that turns a man against himself. About lust, about attachment, and the mind becoming its own prison. Sometimes, late at night, he rereads the same paragraphs while bourbon burns in his throat, searching them for a sentence capable of explaining why self-awareness had never once been enough to save him. And that one line follows him everywhere like a ghost:

Haumai [Ego] is a deep disease, yet its cure also lies within it.

That verse terrifies him because it feels less like scripture and more like someone reading his diary aloud.

No line has ever described him more perfectly.

Or condemned him more completely.
—————————————————-
People love him.

That is another part he cannot reconcile.

Old women at the gurdwara call him kind. Men shake hands firmly after prayers as though goodness can be passed between palms. Friends trust him with their secrets because he listens like confession itself is sacred. He gives money away too easily. He once sat six hours in a hospital waiting room for a friend whose mother was dying. He remembers birthdays. He helps strangers push cars out of snowbanks. He volunteers at the gurdwara helping young boys prepare for the future, teaching them discipline, humility, as well as prayers with sincerity.

None of this is fake. He means it.

At the end of day, he wonders whether he loves being seen as good more than he loves goodness itself. That thought sickens him. Perhaps even his kindness is infected with ego. Perhaps he enjoys the admiration hidden behind grateful smiles. Perhaps guilt has become another vanity.

Another way of feeling special in his suffering.

The reflection staring back at him is still handsome in the way worn things sometimes become handsome with age. Tall enough to carry presence without trying. Broad shoulders softened slightly by time. Wavy salt-gray hair falling carelessly across his forehead. Thick eyebrows streaked with silver. A neat beard trimmed with deliberate precision

And the eyes.

Always the eyes.

Dark brown, heavy with exhaustion, yet softened by the kind of sadness that makes people trust him too quickly. Women often mistook that sadness for gentleness. Men mistook it for wisdom.

That was always the problem. People forgave eyes that looked tired. He once joked that his beard carried all the strength while his eyes were made to capture hearts. Women laughed when he said things like that. He knew they would. And maybe that was the ugliest thing about him. Not the drinking, not the adultery, but the fact that some part of him understood what to say. Then the illusion breaks. In the reflection, he no longer sees a man. Only a farce. A jester dancing toward the tragedy of his own making.

What’s taking you so long?” she called out loudly.

He stepped back into the bedroom and saw her lying half-naked across the bed beneath the amber light, her bare skin glowing against the dark sheets, a faint smile resting at the corner of her lips as though she knew he would come back.

Her name was Simran.

He first noticed her at the gurdwara months earlier. She had been standing quietly near the langar hall speaking to an older woman, her hands folded politely in front of her while loose strands of dark hair escaped around her face. There was nothing dramatic about the moment, and possibly that was why it unsettled him. She was beautiful in a way that made him lower his eyes instead of hold them. Dark brown eyes framed by long lashes. Lips the color of ripe pomegranates. A softness to her expression that seemed untouched by the world despite the exhaustion resting underneath it. Her figure was generous and impossible not to notice

A brother from the gurdwara [temple] introduced them a week later. Simran was new to the country and looking for people who could help her settle into life here. Someone to explain the city. Someone to speak Punjabi with when the homesickness became too heavy.

He told himself that was all it was in the beginning.

Just kindness. Nothing more or less.

However, a man remains a man. Men like him understood loneliness quickly, especially in women trying too hard not to show it. He knew when to listen instead of speak. Knew how long to hold eye contact before looking away. Knew that people revealed themselves more easily when silence was made to feel safe

What started as harmless text messages became small favors. Grocery runs. Long conversations inside quiet coffee shops after evening prayers. Then came the late-night phone calls that stretched past midnight, both of them lingering on the line long after the conversation itself had ended.

Sometimes he would wait an hour before replying to her messages even while staring directly at the screen. Sometimes he spoke with calculated gentleness; the kind that made concern feel close to intimacy. And each time she began pulling away slightly, he somehow knew the exact words capable of making her stay.

Looking back now, he could no longer tell when concern became desire. Only that by the time he noticed the change, it already felt inevitable.

He pours himself a drink before lying beside her, pulling her gently against his chest. Simran traces absentminded circles through the hair on his chest while the light from the hotel lamp softens the room. For a while, neither of them speaks. They remain there together, trapped inside separate thoughts neither of them fully wishes to confess.

The silence breaks. It is always Simran who breaks it.

She speaks about her mother’s kitchen in Ludhiana as though memory could keep her warm. About the smell of chai simmering before sunrise. About waking up to the sound of her father clearing his throat before heading to work. Sometimes she laughs quietly while describing small things that should not matter as much as they do now; steel plates clattering together, monsoon rain against the balcony, her mother yelling at her for leaving wet footprints across the floor.

Then her voice changes as she removes Kara [steel bangle worn by initiated Sikhs].

She speaks about calling home at three in the morning because of the time difference. About lying to her parents, telling them Canada is beautiful, easy, and kind. About pretending to her husband that she is not lonely because lonely women frightened men.

Simran is not naive, however. Within ten minutes of meeting him, she understood he was not a good man. Truly good men did not carry sadness that heavily in their eyes. Truly good men did not drink the way he drank. And look at women like they were both salvation and punishment.

But damaged people recognized each other. Eye to eye. And what frightened her most was not his sadness. It was how peaceful she felt beside it.

He caresses her slowly while she speaks, listening with an attentiveness that almost feels holy. Sometimes he listens to the rhythm of her breathing. That was always the dangerous thing about him. He listened. There was kindness in him, real kindness, but tangled so tightly with selfishness that even he could no longer separate one from the other.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” Simran asked.

He lets out a small laugh, “About what?”

“About any of this.”

The glass rested loosely between his fingers. For a moment, he watched the liquid instead of her. “I think guilt is probably the only reason I’m still human.”

Simran smiled faintly at that. She traced the edge of his kara with her thumb.

“You pray after, don’t you?”

His silence answered first. Then, “every time.”

She nodded as though she had expected it. “I could tell.”

“How.”

“Men who feel nothing don’t look at people the way you do afterward.”

“And how do I look at people?”

“Like you’re apologizing for existing.” She whispered.

The words settled between them. Outside, snow tapped against the hotel window. He took another sip before speaking. “You should hate me.”

Simran shrugged lightly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

Despite himself, he chuckled.

She rested her head against his shoulder again. “I don’t think you’re evil,” she murmured. “I think you’re just… weak in the same places you’re soft.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It probably is.”

Another silence followed. Comfortable this time. Dangerous because it was comfortable. Then Simran spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think Waheguru gets tired of forgiving the same people?”

His chest tightened. He stared ahead at the dark ceiling for a long time before answering.

“I think,” he paused then said, “people get tired of asking before God gets tired of listening.”

Simran looks away, contemplating something. He gently pulls her back toward him and looks directly into her eyes before speaking.

“Your eyes… Simran, they don’t just look at me, they undo me. Like something soft and dangerous. Like silence before a storm. Like a dream I was never meant to wake from. There is a whole world inside them, and somehow, every time you look my way, Simran, I forget the one I live in. Your gaze does not pass through me. It stays. It lingers. It makes my heart remember things my mouth was too afraid to say. And maybe that is why I cannot look away. Because in your eyes, I do not just see beauty. I see the place where I would…willingly fall.”

He grips her gently by the hair, lifting her head toward him before locking his lips with hers. Simran leans into the kiss immediately, soft at first, yet filled with urgency. The kind of kiss that feels less like desire and more like surrender. The whiskey on his breath mingles with the faint scent of her perfume. Warm. Intoxicated. The rest of the world seems to disappear around them.

His hand slid against the curve of her waist, warm skin meeting colder fingertips before moving toward her neck. Simran inhaled when his lips brushed against her skin, her fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Then he lowered himself before her. There was something almost reverent in the way he touched her, as though desire along with devotion had become tangled together beyond recognition. His hands moved along her thighs, drawing her closer, softened every movement into warmth. She trembled beneath his attention.

He was not rough. He was patient. He looked at her like a starving man trying not to devour something sacred.

Simran’s breath caught as he kissed the inside of her thighs slowly, deliberately, until thought itself became difficult. The room filled with uneven breathing, quiet moans, the sound of winter wind brushing faintly against the hotel windows. He lost himself there. In her warmth. In the taste of whiskey still lingering between kisses.

In this dangerous intimacy of making another person feel wanted so completely that, for a moment, loneliness disappeared between them.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as pleasure overtook her in waves, legs shaking beneath the intensity of it. He held her carefully through every trembling breath afterward, forehead resting against her skin as though grounding himself there. And somewhere deep inside him, beneath lust as well as guilt alike, came the terrible realization that tenderness ruined him far more than desire ever could.

He stood slowly while Simran remained at the edge of the bed; flushed and breathless. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The silence between them had become its own kind of intimacy.

“Come here.”

There was something dangerous about the calmness in his voice. Certainty.

Simran looked up at him. All she could see were the broad lines of his shoulders, the strength in his chest softened by dark hair, the faint tension in his jaw as his teeth caught briefly against his lower lip. Even standing there half-undressed, there was still something composed about him. As though restraint had become part of his seduction.

Simran looked up at him again before sliding from the bed onto the carpeted floor, her eyes never leaving his. The city lights flickered faintly through the window behind him, casting his brown skin in shades of shadow and gold.

He exhaled quietly, running a hand through her hair as though trying to steady something restless inside himself. She rested her hands lightly against his waist, her touch lingering, unhurried, more affectionate than either of them wanted to admit. For all the guilt that followed them, moments like this almost felt gentle.

And perhaps that was what made them so dangerous.

The clock ticks, ticks, ticks until the room fell into silence except for the sound of their breathing gradually returning to normal. Snow continued drifting beyond the hotel windows, pale against the darkness of the sleeping city. Simran lay tangled in the sheets while he sat at the edge of the bed with his head lowered, forearms resting against his knees.

Her flushed skin.

Skin to skin.

The half-empty bourbon glass.

The kara still hanging from his wrist.

For a while, neither of them spoke. There was always a strange grief that arrived after intimacy, as though reality waited patiently outside the door for them to finish pretending. Simran watched him from the bed. “You’re leaving already?” She questioned.

He rubbed a tired hand over his face. “If I stay too long, this starts feeling real.”

The words lingered between them.

She looked away first.

He reached for his clothes scattered across the floor, but paused when he heard her voice again.

“Do you ever wish you had met me differently?”

He turned toward her.

In another life, he thought. One where neither of them belonged to someone else. One where loneliness had not hollowed them into people willing to borrow warmth from strangers. One where prayer did not follow desire like a shadow follows fire.

Instead he gave her a tired smile.

“We probably wouldn’t have noticed each other.”

The honesty. That hurt her more because it was true.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked.

He said nothing.

“I still prayed before meeting you tonight. I don’t know why. Can you stay over? Just tonight. I enjoy having you close at night,” her voice carried a gentle plea.

“I have plans for tonight,” he replied without much hesitation. She pressed her lips together, rolled her round brown eyes, and sighed exasperatedly. Simran pulled the blanket closer against herself while he buttoned his shirt.

“Aren’t you worried your wife will find out?”

“That’s the second of my concerns.”

“What’s the first one?” Her narrow eyes searching his face.

“To fall in love.”

And before leaving, he walked back toward the bed, pressed a lingering kiss against her forehead, softer than anything else they had done that night. That tenderness felt the most sinful part of all.

———————————————

That same night, as he walks out of the Marriott hotel and into the cold, he wonders whether goodness exists beside corruption, or if every decent thing he does is merely camouflage for the ugliness beneath it. Why had Waheguru made man with such contradictions, such hunger, that human nature leads him toward pride, greed, lust, anger, envy, and sloth?

Snow falls lightly through the yellow glow of streetlights.

He questions Waheguru after too much whiskey, after intimacy with a woman who made him forget himself for a few fragile hours. Why did Waheguru make a man like him? What was the point of creating a soul forever divided against itself ? He looks behind, beyond the revolving doors of the hotel lobby, \*Simran\* still exists inside that room. The unmade bed. The half-empty bourbon glass on the nightstand. Her body still warm beneath the sheets. But already she feels less like a person and more like evidence.

He walks without deciding where he is going.

Why had Waheguru created men with such hunger in them? Why create desire only to spend centuries warning against it? Why give a soul the ability to recognize goodness while filling the body with appetites determined to betray it?

The questions arrive one after another with no answer following behind them.

He thinks of prayer. Of lust. Of ego. Of the strange possibility that those impulses are born from the same wound.

At the next intersection he realizes, without remembering when the decision was made, that he has turned toward the downtown gurdwara. The streets are empty now. Somewhere in the distance, a siren moves through the city and disappears again.

By the time he reaches the gurdwara, his hands have gone numb from the cold. The building is dark. Locked. Complete silence except for the wind moving faintly against the Nishan Sahib [the sacred, triangular flag of the Sikh] outside.

He sits down on the snow-covered steps and suddenly begins laughing to himself. Quietly at first. Then harder. Because the absurdity of his life has become impossible to ignore.

A praying man who cannot stop sinning.

A sinner who cannot stop praying.

The snow continues falling around him; soft, indifferent. He stares at the dark windows of the gurdwara, suddenly he remembers being seven years old, sitting beside his father during kirtan, half-asleep against his shoulder while the hymns echoed through the hall. Back then, holiness had seemed simple. Something clean. Something reachable. He looks up at the stained glass above him, dark, and whispers. “Why do I keep doing this?”

The wind answers first. Then silence.

Now even Waheguru feels distant behind locked doors.

And somewhere deep inside himself, beneath lust, whiskey, loneliness, and guilt, he feels another truth moving beneath all the others; he does not want to be saved. That realization frightens him more than hell ever could. Because if he truly hated the sin, would he not leave it behind. But he loves parts of it.

He loves the warmth of bourbon spreading through his chest like false mercy. Loves the brief oblivion of another body beside his own. Loves destruction while mourning it at the same time. He is both the wound and the knife entering it. That is the paradox.

He once confessed to a Granthi [principal religious official] who replied gently, “The human soul is often at war with itself.”

But that answer feels too poetic. Too easy.

War implies two sides fighting.

Inside him, the sides often hold hands.

Slowly by slowly, the snow gathers on his coat. He wonders how many apologies a soul can make before they become another form of habit. Then another thought arrives, quieter than the others, but far more dangerous. Perhaps there was never a contradiction inside him at all. Perhaps the praying man and the sinner had been the same person. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be saved.

For the first time that night, he stops asking Waheguru for forgiveness.

He simply sits there in silence while the snow continues falling around him, covering the steps, covering the city, covering him too, little by little, as though the world itself were trying to erase the evidence that he had ever been there at all.

Outside the locked doors of the gurdwara, he whispers into the cold:

“Satnam Waheguru. Satnam Waheguru. Satnam Waheguru.”

He experiences the uncomfortable sensation that someone has been watching him for years. Not Waheguru. Nor judgment exactly. Something worse.

Himself.

Not the man he shows people. Not the praying man. Not the kind man. Not the wounded man women mistake for gentleness.

The other one.

The one that exists in silence after the whiskey fades and the hotel rooms empty. The one that watches every apology leave his mouth already knowing he will return to the same sins again. And he understand, which makes the cold feel deeper somehow. He has spent years believing he was running from corruption, when in truth, he has been circling it carefully, feeding it just enough to keep it alive.

The realization settles inside him. Because the face he keeps trying to escape is no longer chasing him anymore.

It is waiting for him.

Patiently.

Like it already knows he will come back.

- Roy Multan