Ew, that’s weird, nobody thinks about that.

The words echoed in her head as she lay on her bed, drawing. Really? Nobody thinks about that? But she does. It crossed her mind so many times.

Her glitter pen followed the lines she made with her pencil, but her mind was far, far away from the paper.

Really? Has nobody, nobody ever, at all, ever thought about kissing a girl?  What was so bad about that?

Did her question warrant that disgusted response?

She thought a lot about her friend and how much she sometimes wanted to kiss her like adults do. Like mommy kisses daddy, like mommy and daddy hold hands and like the big kids from the high school across her primary school go on dates.

Should she even ask her parents about it? Kids in her class say that it’s weird for girls to kiss other girls and for boys to kiss other boys, but she thinks it’s weird for boys and girls to kiss as well. Kissing is weird and disgusting. Do people really have to use tongue when they kiss? Mommy and daddy never kiss like that. She wants to kiss somebody like mommy and daddy kiss.

She recalls a conversation she had with her parents, not so long ago. About how there are people who are attracted to the same sex. Was she like them? Was she actually attracted to her friend? Her beautiful friend who has the prettiest writing in class and always compliments her drawings? Her beautiful friend, who can run the fastest and reads the best? Her beautiful friend with long black hair and eyes like the clear, summer sky, with the prettiest laugh she’s ever heard?

She sighs and continues tracing the rugged lines with her purple glitter pen. Her friend’s favourite colour is purple, so now her favourite pen is the purple pen. She remembers, once, when she was younger, in second grade, when a boy gave her a rose for Valentine’s Day. They held hands then; told everybody they were boyfriend and girlfriend. So, she can’t be one of those people who are attracted to the same sex, right? She definitely had a boyfriend before, in the second grade, so she can’t be gay, right?

Yeah. Definitely not. Every girl thinks about kissing other girls from time to time. Every girl thinks about how her best friend is the prettiest girl in the world, and every girl wants to kiss her best friend. That’s just how girls are. 

The dim lights were the first thing Gene's eyes noticed when he opened them. They weren't bright. They didn't hurt. They were just there. It took him a minute to realise he was still on the plane and not in his favourite armchair at home, where he would frequently fall asleep during movie time. He turned his head, scanning the plane. Besides the one or two or three other people who couldn't sleep, Gene concluded that everyone on the nearly full Airbus was sleeping. His two kids beside him, his wife and their youngest in the next row over were also sound asleep. When he fell asleep, the cabin was loud with conversations about taxes and pets and what to get grandma for Christmas. Now?  Dead silence. Well, except the sounds of the airplane, of course. Or so he thought. The cabin started shaking. ‘Turbulence’, Gene thought. He had never experienced it before, which only made things worse for him. He grabbed the armrest of his seat, even scratching the material off the tip of the rest. He thought of the kids and what they probably thought. The youngest would probably sleep through an earthquake, the middle one needs more than a little shake, especially if he’s this tired, and the oldest was likely semi-conscious, thinking to herself that if she dies, at least she’ll be asleep. He felt some relief, laid his head back and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before the immense heat engulfed him was a loud bang, where he thought: ‘Hope that didn’t wake them up’.

Dark. That was all she could ever see.

When she was little, her father told her she had her mother's eyes. She was also blind. Shortly after giving birth, she died in a car crash.

Then it was just her father and her. No relatives, no family. She and her father against the world.

She loved her father even though he was strict at times. Three rules. She always tried to follow them. Rule no. one: no pets. Rule no. two: no inviting people over. Rule no. three: never talk to strangers, especially about father. He told her they would keep her safe.

She felt guilty after spending years trying to get him to visit her mom's grave, until he ultimately had enough and yelled that she was abusive towards him. She never asked to visit mother again.

One time she brought home a stray cat. Broke one of his rules. He got really angry and took her cat away. Then to apologise, he got her presents: jewellery, clothes. Most of them didn't fit her. She never thought much of it. It was his way of apologising.

Sometimes she thought that she was crazy. Their house always had a specific smell that she could never find anywhere else. Her senses were tricking her. Hearing voices in her house calling out to her for help. Her father told her it was in her head. Then she also started hearing crying and sobbing at night. Thought it was also in her head.

After a year, she decided to go to a therapist in secret. Broke one of father's rules. He would be furious if he knew.

The therapist tried to convince her it was in her head, and for a while it stopped. The noise stopped.

Silence.

Then it started again. Maybe nobody can help her.

One day her therapist said the next step was to talk to her father. Reluctantly, she invited him home while her father was working. Broke another rule. He would be furious if he knew.

That gave her enough time to gather her courage. Maybe he wouldn't be mad if it was about her mental health.

When the therapist arrived, he screamed in horror and started calling the police. She was confused. Was there something wrong with their house?

Police took her into questioning when they arrived. Put her father in cuffs. She wasn't allowed to talk to him.

They found 16 women and a cat buried in their back yard. Two women were bleeding in the living room after hours of being tortured. They didn't make it.

Her father was a psychopath. At least that's what they called him. They said the first victim was killed 18 years ago. They said it was personal as she suffered the most. They said it was her mother.

She fell and cried and screamed until she started laughing.

She couldn't believe their lies.

How does it feel in this twisted expressionism of reality a hundred years after the kill of the screaming ones in fear of their echo impressing into what becomes your/my skin tattooed with kisses of retracted love?

Or that's what you used to call it.

Does it sound sexy now?

Was your "I do" louder than my "Don't!" on a sunny day in Spain when you vowed till death does you part over my stiff lips as I remain silenced after being the loudest of the loud? My brain got glitches in the matrix with a special twist in the ongoing end.

Does it feel honest now? 

In between there and now I'm stuck in a loop of how I let you go anywhere with them; may it be rotten again - the spit that used to be called "a soul", whipped out of my essence, my core, my self - your coop against our helping each other a week ago. A week from now, you will have a tan over that promise of yours in front of God herself as the Latino sun shines above your shit.

It is nothing other than (sh)it. 

And I may be mad OR madly in L---,

I may be bad for losing my shell, my shield, my home.

I wish you the stars and the Moon to remind you of

the scars and the wound of nothingness that is left in a void lacking heistation

that night.

Congratulations.

"I told you to go left"

"Uh-huh"

"And of course you didn't listen. Why do you never listen to me?" Jack said while his back was against Tom's. He turned his head slightly so he could see a part of Tom's face.

"Yeah, I get it. I'm an idiot. I was wrong. Could we please focus on our situation?" Said Tom as Jack slightly laughed and turned his head away.

"Oh, yes. Our situation. Alright, let's discuss it, why don't we?" Tom bowed his head down in annoyance. He imagined for a second which old building they could have explored or which abandoned house they could have walked into. But no sooner was back in reality and glanced at the man that had knocked them out and tied them up and was now standing over a giant pot under which there was a roaring fire. Tom's eyes reverted to Jack, who continued his rant to his friend.

"First you talk me into going to a small town in northern Croatia that I have never heard of. Then you forget to hitch us a ride. And when we finally arrive in Chakavec you tell me I can't even relax for a bit because you've got all this planned for us." Tom glanced back at the man. He seemed more alert to them than before. His head was more up, his stirring of the pot was noticeably slower.  "Does he understand us?" Tom thought.

"Tom?" Jack said as Tom turned to him.

"Do you have anything more important to do than to wait for our imminent death while I bitch to you about how you fucked us?" Tom once again looked at the stranger.

"Maybe it's not exactly how I imagined my final moments."

"Oh, really?" Jack said passive-aggressively. "I can't with you. First you say we go to the Em-te-che building. It turns out they demolished it. Then you say we go to the Baraka, which you forget to check that it was burned down by two 12-year-olds. You have us go to the old indoor pool centre, which, surprise, surprise, they renovated and also built an outside pool as well. And the cherry on top, you had us go explore the Pozoy tunnels in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. And instead of going to the left one, like I said, you decided to go into the right one whose entrance was overgrown, which of course led us to being trapped in a fucking dragon cave with a cannibal." Jack put his head down as if to take a break from his rant. He raised his head back up.

"When the entrance to a creepy underground tunnel is overgrown, I think it's so for a good fucking reason. You know, you are fucking incredible, you…"  The stranger finally lost it, he dropped his ladle and screamed at them. All Tom could make out of it was "shut it". The stranger continued to ramble.

"What did he say?" Jack asked. Tom remembered that his friend only knew French and, for some reason, Japanese. He listened to the stranger as he finished his sentence.

"He said something about phtihnit more or something. And that we are going on his dick."

Tom could practically feel Jack turning his eyes towards him in blatant confusion.

"WHAT?!"

"I-I-I guess it's a Croatian expression of you're going on my nerves."

"SO WHY DID HE SAY IT ALL WEIRD?"

Tom slowly turned his head towards Jack and in the most calm and chill way possible said:

"Cause we're in his house. Bitch."

Jack dropped his head down at hearing that but just as quick brought it back up.

"Okay. Forget that. How's your Croatian?"

"Good enough, but he's using a different accent than I am used to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I learned it in a shtokavian accent, but here they speak in a kajkavian accent. And also, Međimurje has its own dialect which doesn't make it any easier."

Jack turned his head back and in a squeaky voice said:

"So, we're fucked."

Tom nudged Jack in a way that said: quit being dramatic jackass. And Jack looked back at him with a "what?" look.

"I can still speak to him." With that sentence Tom could see Jack's face light up. If only Jack knew Tom had trouble with sentences.

"Alright then. Tell him we're just tourists, we're gonna leave and we won't tell anybody about this place." Tom looked at the stranger.

"Mi ss-mo samo touristi, otitchi tche-mo i netjemo ni-komu ret-ji o ov-om myestju." The stranger began speaking to Tom while he listened intently.

"What did he say? What did he say?" Jack asked eagerly.

"Erm, my dick hurts what you are tourists. Better what you at me than at that cannibal in other tunnel." Tom's eyes widened and his eyebrows went up.

I tossed the ball in the air. It bounced off the ceiling and landed in my hand. I tossed it again, and again. I liked the sound it made. It reminded me of table tennis, nights at stuffy underground bars. The beautiful blonde bartender flashing me a shy smile. What was her name again? Ivy… or Iris… definitely something flowery…

"Would you stop it already? That sound is driving me insane.“, Robert grunted, interrupting my train of thought. I slowly turned toward my cellmate. A spot of fear clouded his eyes and he stopped complaining. Only four months in prison, but I had already earned an admirable reputation. Once I smashed in a couple of skulls, the other inmates realized they didn't want to mess with me and they made sure to move out of my way, both metaphorically and literally.

Robert cleared his throat. "They're bringing in a newbie today. I hear he's a geezer. Like, ancient- I'm talking at least seventy years old.“

"Oh yeah?“, I said blankly, watching the prison guards across the hall standing as still as lifeless boulders. Usually there's two of them, but that day the security was doubled. "He might be interesting.“

"How so?“

"Like you said, he's a geezer. Geezers rarely get caught. They know what they're doing, if they've been getting away with crimes their entire lives. Which means, this guy got caught by choice.“, I replied. There were plenty of homeless people deliberately going rogue. As long as they received a warm meal and had a bed to sleep in, they couldn't care less about the bars on the windows. However, a grandpa stealing a couple of hundred bucks from the cash register wouldn't cause this much commotion among the security guards.

The mystery could wait. I closed my eyes and got back to thinking about... Iris. Yes, I think that was her name. God, was she beautiful. Even when she pushed me away. Even when her lifeless body lay limp in my arms.

* * *

The newbie kept staring at me from across the canteen throughout dinner time.

I tried to remain unfazed, but something about him made me uneasy. He wasn't at all what I expected him to be like, hunched over and wrinkled like an old oak tree. He was in good shape; slim, tall, all muscle and practically no fat. He didn't seem demented nor disoriented either. His eyes focused on me, with the sharpness of a predator bird. He didn't touch his food.

I lost my appetite, too.

"You'll have to take care of that guy“, Robert muttered to me. He was right. This level of audacity undermined my reputation among the other inmates. It could be shattered just as easily as I built it. And that meant danger.

"I'll talk to him“, I promised.

After dinner, it was time for the evening walk around the prison yard. It got dark quickly. The days were getting shorter as the autumn was approaching and I could feel the slight summery chill in the air turning into a sharper, stronger one. Or maybe it was just the inexplicable unease that made my senses sharpen.

I approached the newbie sitting on a bench in the corner of the yard. His face was hidden in the shadow of a nearby tree, but I recognized his slender form without much trouble.

"Who are you?“, I asked the shadow, trying to mask the nervousness in my voice.

There was no reply.

"What do you want from me?“

The silence between us continued. A few moments passed.

Just when I was about to give up and walk away, the man started getting up.

As he emerged from the shadow, it wasn't the look of pure hatred that sent a chill down my spine, nor his lips trembling from anger. It was the object he was clenching in his hand so hard that it started shaking.

He was holding a single iris flower.

At 8 A.M. exactly is when Dylan first stepped into the elevator of his workplace. As the doors closed, he reached out and pressed the button labelled '999'[1], where his office was – in the Heading Enlistment Agency for Varying Efficacious Newcomers[2]. He had little idea of what they actually did there, but that wasn’t his job anyway. Instead, his focus was on sorting files for others and making sense of the paperwork clutter that has built up over the years of neglect. He stepped out as he had every day, late for about ten minutes, only to be greeted by one of his co-workers, who greeted him warmly. Before they could expand their conversation onto the topic of last night's football game, their supervisor reminded them of the time with a scowl on his face and instructed them to get to work.

As they bid each other goodbye and went to their respective stations, Dylan's mind began to fuzz. During their entire conversation, did he even see his co-worker’s or his supervisor's face? Did he remember what they looked like? He blamed the confusion on the couple of extra beers he had last night after work. As he settled into his chair, he looked over the box of dusty files on his desk. He pulled a file out. After he was done, he was on to the next. Slowly, one by one, they began to pile up on his desk the more he worked. The more people's faces he saw, the less he could remember, until they all slowly turned into numbers passing by him. This was a normal day. This is what his normal was.

Until it wasn't.

He was interrupted from his work by his boss' secretary, who was knocking on the wall of his office cuticle to announce their presence. 'The boss wants to see you. Says it's urgent and to come immediately.' And with that, they fled back, timid as always, to their desk which was pushed up against the wall in front of the boss' office. The boss never called anyone to their office, so Dylan, worried and anxious, immediately leapt up from his chair and hurried to make his appearance. He made sure to thank the secretary for the notification when he passed them by, them only nodding sympathetically in response. Their face, too, was easily forgotten as soon as he stepped into the office.

The boss man sat comfortably in its leather plush chair behind a luxurious mahogany table, sighing as it scribbled its signature onto one of the many papers haphazardly stacked up next to its hand. Upon Dylan's arrival, it raised its many beady eyes and stared at him, like a predator readying to jump on its prey. 'Ah, Mr Eidolon [3]. Please, take a seat.' Its voice slithered around him enticingly, urging him to comply. Dylan sat down in the one chair in front of the desk mechanically. 'I've asked you here to review your work performance. You see, given your extensive time spent in the company, and still declining quality of your work, I-' It puffed out a breath of smoke through one of its many mouths. The teeth within them slid against each other like puzzle pieces smothered in a viscous, unrecognizable liquid. 'I'm afraid your services will no longer be needed at this establishment. You have become too tardy, and sloppy. This is not what our company seeks to be represented as.' It clicked at him threateningly, a sound originating from the very core of its being. The temperature dropped.

'But- I can change, this is my first offense, I- have never been notified-' Dylan stammered, confused and scared as the many eyes peered at him like he was a glob of particularly tasty flesh. Noticing the stare, all sound escaped his mouth and he stared blankly at his boss. 'We offer no second chances. I'm sorry, Mr Eidolon. Goodbye.' The teeth clacked again. The eyes blinked. The pupils turned into slits. And the boss extended its neck, unhinged its jaw like a snake and ate Dylan whole, along with the chair itself.

Dylan opened his eyes. It was 7 A.M., so Dylan got up to get ready for work.

[1] Angel number meaning: 'an end to a journey’

[2] Acronym: H.E.A.V.E.N.

[3] In Greek literature: a spirit-image of a living or dead person; a shade or phantom look-alike of the human form

When I arrived at the bus station, a bunch of people were already there, standing nervously, checking the time. The bus was late, again. My scalp was burning, I could feel the heat of the asphalt through the bottoms of my shoes, and drops of sweat were forming on my forehead. Forgetting my glasses was the biggest mistake I could’ve made that morning. I glanced at the crowd of people waiting for the bus. My heart sank. A wave of nausea hit me. I turned around and started walking as fast as I could. Was that really you? Now that I think about it, I don’t believe it actually was.

Why is everything colorful, everything is great, can it stay like that? Every color I see is intense. Yellow, green, red, blue, and orange. Why is it so beautiful and can it be like this forever?

Everything around me is happy, that makes me happy too. Will every color stay as it is now? It's like I'm in a tunnel with no beginning and no end. I’m standing still and enjoying the moment. Is time passing slowly, good or bad? This feeling can be described as out of this world. It would be nice if this moment never ended. Is this how my brain wants to communicate with me or is my body telling me something? Someone is talking to me. I can't hear clearly what he wants to say, I can only hear noise. Maybe he doesn't see the colors I see, I wonder if he wants to see them? He calls me to come. I can't move. I hear a scream. My mood still hasn't changed. The colors are even more intense, especially red. Is that a sign? I don't know the answer to my questions. Everything turns bright red. It must be some kind of sign. All colors turn red. Why? Red is a sign of danger. I'm afraid. What if I only see the color red forever. This is a warning. All red plants are mostly dangerous or poisonous. Red color in nature is a representation of danger. Does that mean I'm in danger? What will happen? The blood is red, that's all I can think about. Maybe it's better to fall asleep, close your eyes and see black. I closed my eyes and I see the color black. Does this mean it's over? I fell asleep hoping that when I wake up all the other colors would return. I woke up. Everything is red again. This agony does not stop. I can not wait. I want to see black again. I closed my eyes. Someone is coming. I hear footsteps. He looked at me and told me to go. The red was very intense. He went. The red becomes weaker and starts to mix with the green. Is this a sign that I should go after him? He shows me some numbers or letters. I don't understand the sign he's showing me. Where am I and what's going on? I'm trying to see all the colors again. I hear a voice. He tells me to try again, maybe I'll succeed. I'm trying, but to no avail. I can't even see red anymore. All colors became one. What color is this? Red or green, maybe blue, or yellow, or even orange? My brain tells me grey, but I resist it. I hear a familiar voice telling me there is no going back. Is this back to reality and am I the only one with this problem? I will try again. I hear the phone ringing. The person next to me answers the phone. He mentions illness. Is it me? The answer is yes. I panic. What disease? Daltonism.

I live with my brother on the second floor of an apartment complex in the run-down part of the city. As a result, there is very little traffic in the streets. On this particular night, I was on my computer playing video games and chatting with my friends. After a few hours my friends logged off, which left me on my own. I was always more of a night person, so I decided to stay up for at least another hour. I was just googling when the next episode of my favourite show was going to drop… when I heard through my partially opened window the sound of a car’s brakes as well as its horn honking at something. That alone scared me and forced me to move the blinds and see what the hell had just happened out there. I saw the car go around something standing in the middle of the street. As I watched it drive off, my attention returned to whatever was in the middle of the street. It was a tall dark figure… just standing there, motionless. We don’t have many working streetlights so I couldn’t see what it was facing so I did something that I regret to this day.

I took my flashlight and pointed it at the figure. I pressed the “ON” button and dropped the flashlight not a second later out of pure horror of what I just saw. In only the fraction of a second, I managed to see everything. This guy wasn’t just staring at me wide-eyed, but he was smiling from ear to ear while doing so. And I don’t mean that figuratively. This guy had a fucking Glasgow smile carved from ear to ear. He was still standing there motionless. I was sure, he now knew I was there, and I couldn’t move. I stood there, staring back at him for what felt like an hour. (Bzzzzz bzzzzzz) I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was my girlfriend calling me. I answered the phone without a second thought and explained what had just happened. I didn’t even finish the story when I looked out of my window (pause) and saw no one out there. Was I just imagining things? I told my girlfriend I would call her later and hung up. I kept staring outside at the spot where moments ago I was sure there was someone. (knock knock knock) I turned to the door: “What is it, Ja…” I stopped dead in my tracks as I remembered that my brother Jake went out and I was supposed to be home alone. I didn’t hear anything back. I started second-guessing myself and then (knock knock). I started panicking and grabbed my Swiss army knife and pointed it at the door (boom) my door flung open and there he was. This…man? I don’t even think I could call him that. Its eyes were opened wider than I thought was possible and its smile. That fucking smile. That thing started opening its mouth wider and wider while doing some of the most inhumane sounds possible. It kept doing so. I saw its skin tearing and that’s when that thing grabbed its own jaw, ripped it off and threw it at my feet …and everything went black. 

I woke up the next morning in a hospital bed. The doctors said I had an epileptic seizure, which I never had up until that point. Jake said he found me on the floor of our apartment with blood on my forehead and rushed me to the hospital. The doctors told me that I should be fine and there was nothing more to worry about. Well, my question is this: If I am supposedly alright, why do I always have a need to smile? And why whenever there is a sharp knife next to me, I have the urge to grab it and cut up my own face with it?

Matilda Montgomery has known how she would die since she was eight years old. She was being babysat by her aunt Winifred who decided that the perfect Tuesday morning activity to do with a little girl was going to a psychic. Upon entering the shop, they were greeted by a haggard looking, old woman who gave Matilda the heebie-jeebies. Aunt Winifred wanted the psychic to tell Matilda all about her future love prospects and ideal job. Instead, the fortune teller took one look at Matilda and said: “No point, she will die young. Killed by a flowerpot. Very tragic. Anyone want peanuts?” The last sentence was punctuated by a bowl of peanuts being shoved in their faces.

Aunt Winifred stood very still for a few seconds. When she recovered, she grabbed Matilda and hightailed it out of the shop, all the while yelling about unprofessionalism and scams. Just before she disappeared out of Matilda’s view, the psychic grabbed a lock of her hair and simulated cutting it. Matilda thought this was highly unusual, but after all, the woman was unusual in general, so she didn’t think anything of it. That is to say, she didn’t think anything of it until two days later when at recess, Tommy Johnson put some gum in Matilda’s hair and for lack of a better solution, her teacher was forced to cut off the entangled lock. Looking at herself in the mirror, Matilda was horrified to discover it was the same lock of hair the psychic mimed cutting off. From that day forward, Matilda knew for certain. She would have an early, tragic death (by flowerpot).

Matilda tried to convince her aunt to take her back to the psychic to get more details about her tragic demise, but Winifred wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would her parents, who thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Matilda was forced to wait until she turned nine and was finally old enough to take the bus by herself. However, when she finally returned to the spot she visited with her aunt, the psychic and her shop were nowhere to be seen. In its place was a flower shop which felt like a particularly cruel joke. So, Matilda came home that day determined there was only one thing to do. Destroy all flowerpots before they destroy her.

She started off with her own house. She paid her brother to get rid of every flowerpot in their house and yard, a task he took to with glee only a twelve year old boy, who was just given the permission to break things, could. Her mother seemed perplexed by the mysterious disappearance of her humble flower collection, but she didn’t seem to mind too much as she forgot to water them most of the time anyway. After that, Matilda shifted her attention to her grandmother’s house. Getting rid of her grandmother’s numerous flowerpots was a little bit more challenging. However, over time Matilda managed to convince her grandmother that every single one of her inside plants was poisonous to cats and that every single one of her outside plants grew better when put directly in the ground. The outside world wasn’t as easily convinced by

Matilda’s anti-flowerpot campaign so she learned to avoid flower shops, certain supermarket isles and any other place that could potentially house her killer container. Her efforts were so successful that she managed to make it to her twentieth birthday. Yes, over the years, her friendships slowly trickled out because of her unwillingness to go to other people’s houses or any other place she wasn’t already familiar with. And yes, she didn’t enter any romantic relationships as boys thought she was profoundly weird. But who cares that she was a little lonely. Better lonely than dead. Take that universe. Despite all odds, Matilda was still alive.

And then, she met Charlie.

To say Charlie walked into Matilda’s life would not be entirely accurate. Instead, he crashed into it. One moment Matilda was walking down the street, mindful of stray flowerpots as always, and the next she was lying on the ground and a bicycle wheel was spinning next to her face. She looked around and came face to face with a handsome, albeit ruffled, young man. “I am so sorry, I was avoiding a squirrel and then my foot got stuck and I am so sorry, are you okay?” The man was talking a mile a minute and it took Matilda a few seconds to understand what he said. “Oh, it’s fine, I’m fine.” She answered lamely. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital, I can take you on my…” he was obviously going to offer his bicycle as a revolutionary new mode of emergency transportation but stopped when he saw the state of it. Matilda repeated she was fine but when the man, whose name she soon found out was Charlie, continued to insist on at least getting her some bandages for her scratched up arm, she relented.

They walked together to his place of work. Matilda couldn’t remember the last time she had as much fun as she had on that twenty minute walk. Charlie was a little shy at first, but really easy to talk to and they spent almost the whole walk laughing. However, when they reached their destination, the laugh in Matilda’s throat died a quick and painful death. Right above her, in big block letters stood the name of Charlie’s job. “Charlie’s flower emporium.”

Matilda couldn’t remember the last time she ran that fast. She felt bad for leaving without an explanation, but this was a matter of life and death. She could not let a man distract her from her life mission, even if this one was particularly cute. She went to work the next day focused and ready as always. That focus was short lived. Standing right outside the bakery she worked at was Charlie. She absently remembered telling him where she worked. He was holding what seemed to look suspiciously like a flower placed in a frog shaped flowerpot. Matilda was delighted for a few seconds because Charlie remembered Matilda’s offhand comment from yesterday about frogs being her favourite animal. She shook off her crazy thought and focused. Charlie saw her and approached nervously.

“Hey, you were in such a hurry yesterday I didn’t even get the chance to give you my apology gift”, he smiled weakly and tried to hand her the flowerpot. “Oh no, thank you, I’m, uhm, allergic!” she said quickly. His eyes widened. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you ran away yesterday when you saw my flower shop. At least take the froggy flowerpot. You could use it for trinkets or something.” He looked hopeful. “I can’t, I’m sorry.” She felt like a jerk but what other choice did she have. She couldn’t have a flowerpot in her house, it would mean certain death. Charlie looked dejected as he turned to leave. “Okay, I didn’t mean to bother you, I mean we don’t even know each other properly, I’m sorry. I hope your scratches heal quickly. See ya.” He walked away and Matilda felt sick. Surely she was crazy for wanting to date a florist, that was bound to end in tragedy. She had to protect herself. That is what she has always done, that is what she was good at. “Wait!” she said before she knew what she was doing. Charlie turned around immediately. Matilda walked up to him and said: “Would you like to get coffee with me?” she asked nervously. “Yeah”, Charlie smiled wide, “I would love to.” She took the flowerpot from him and thanked him. Surely just this one flowerpot wouldn’t hurt her.

Matilda woke up in the hospital with a nasty headache. Her mother was sitting next to her,

looking worried. “What happened?” Matilda asked weakly. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you’re

okay. Doctors said you were in this freak accident, apparently you slipped and somehow threw the flowerpot you were holding right on your head. It gave you a concussion and you stopped breathing for a few minutes. Thankfully, that nice man that you were with gave you CPR. Oh, I’m so glad he was there.” “Yeah”, she responded before her mother continued. “Thank God you’re okay, that would have been a crazy, unexpected way to go”, her mother said. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe not that unexpected.” Matilda laughed. After all, Matilda Montgomery has known how she would die since she was eight years old.

I was flipping the pages of my book while I watched him from the corner of my eye, waiting for my train stop. I wonder if he will approach me this time.

I've seen him watching me for weeks. Did he honestly think I wouldn’t catch those eyes following me around?

I haven't talked to the police yet. They couldn't help. There were too many stories like that. Stalkers were rarely caught.

This time I was reading my favourite book. I'm sure he already knew that. Maybe it would encourage him to finally talk to me.

'Hi. I couldn't help but notice your book 'Catcher in the Rye'. A pretty interesting choice for a woman like you' he said sitting across from me.

'A woman like me?' I replied, slowly closing the book.

'I mean... You don't strike me as a murderer.'

'Looks can be deceiving' I smirked.

'You know what they say, many killers are obsessed with that book.'

'Who said I was obsessed?'

'You have a quote from the book on your phone case.'

'Artistic expression.'

'What about the keychain?'

'What about it?'

'Isn't that the hunting hat that the main character wears?'

'Maybe it isn't related to the book.'

'Not according to all editions on your bookcase.', he added so silently I almost didn’t catch it.

'How do you know what my bookcase looks like?'

'I-... I'm just assuming.'

'Want to know what’s behind the bookcase?'

'I-...' he was flustered. Interesting.

'Do you?'

He was looking at me, contemplating, but I knew he was curious about it. About me.

I leaned in closer whispering: ‘It’s my little secret for my little playthings. Wanna see?’

He nodded, consenting to this game we are about to play.

I smiled with excitement. I got him right where I wanted him. While he was flipping through my books, I was listening from the other side of the bookcase. Dangerous people like us who play with knives have to make sure no one is around to witness our little fun. I wonder if he will last longer than my previous stalker, if his screams will be sweeter. I guess I will have to see. After all, stalkers are rarely caught.

"Sit." He said to me while simultaneously sitting on the floor. Milo always thought he could solve problems with talking. Maybe I should indulge him. At least he always knew what to say. I sat down across from him and leaned against the wall. "Do you want me to get you something to drink?" He asked. "I'm pretty sure I can get through this talk sober." I answered. "All right, Rick. I want you to tell me exactly what happened."

I sighed and looked away from him. "I went to her house." I could already feel his eyes rolling and hear him sigh. "I just wanted to talk to her, discuss some things and eventually things escalated." "Into what?" He asked. I looked him in the eyes, and he knew what it meant. He put his hands on his face and then took them away. "Why would you want to talk to her after what she did? Didn't she hurt you enough?" I looked down. "I don't know. I guess I wanted closure. To know that I didn't do anything wrong." "And?" I looked back up. "What do you think? She blamed me for every fucking thing that she felt was wrong in our relationship. That it was my fault that she cheated." "And you believed her?" I lowered my head again and looked at the floor. "I don't know what I believe anymore." When he heard that, Milo clicked his tongue.

"Well. That settles it. You're a jackass." That surprised me. I lifted my head. "What?!" He continued: "You gotta stop feeling sorry for yourself." That annoyed me. "I'm not." "Really? Tell me you're not feeling guilty for any goddamn thing she accused you of." I just stayed silent. "Yup. There it is. You're not helping anyone but her" he stood up and came close to my ear. "...and she doesn't deserve that." He walked away, leaving me to think about what he said. I kept thinking about the fight and her. Maybe he's right.

He wasn't in love with Dante.

No, not at all. Not when they met.

He had just lost his job as a royal guard. The job he worked so hard for, spent years of his life perfecting his skills as a soldier, as a knight, a protector, somebody serving the people.

Yet... he was too kind, they said. Too weak, too protective of the innocent.

Bullshit. Bullshit, utter, utter bullshit, he told himself, as he downed another mug of mead. Sweet, sweet mead, sliding like honey down his throat.

The angelic voice of the tavern’s bard rang through the tavern. Like a being from the heavens above, it sang and sang, of joy and alcohol and sex and love and adventure and stories.

Stories he desperately wanted to be a part of. 

Stories that he could no longer be a part of. 

Not without his job.

“Two mugs of your sweetest ale, for me and the lady!” sang the wonderful voice of the bard right next to his ear. He turned. 

Nothing extraordinary. Just another bard. In his ridiculous getup and a lute gripped in his hand.

He stared as the bartender handed the bard two mugs. And he continued to stare at the head of ginger hair as it went away.

***

He wasn’t in love with Dante.

No, not at all. Not when they started travelling together.

The joyous bard from the tavern he frequented laughed at him. At him? Was it at him?

“Come on. My friend and I could use a big, strong fella like yourself. Come, come, there’s adventure to be had!” he sang in his annoying sing-song voice. So joyous, so absolutely ridiculous, obnoxious. So... bard-like.

Why should he travel with this bard and his wizard friend? What’s in it for him? Adventure? For a fallen knight?

He got up from the gutter he was laying in, covered in grime and monster guts.

And he followed the pair who laughed and sang, sword in hand and armour on.

***

No, he wasn’t in love with Dante.

Not even when they would sit around a campfire, and Dante would tell his ridiculous stories of their “wild” adventures.

“You haven’t done that. That’s not how it happened. I was literally there. I slew the beast,” he commented on the bard’s new work-in-progress song. Dante laughed. That joyous, slightly less obnoxious laugh. 

Less obnoxious? Was it really less obnoxious? It was still ridiculous, that’s for sure.

“Ugh, it’s a poem, you killjoy! A poem, a song, an epic!” Dante laughed and strummed his lute.

“You have to admit it, Dante is really good at exaggerating our stories. He’s the reason we’re so popular with the common folk,” chimed Vesna, and her magical wizard hair glistened under the stars.

It annoyed him.

They annoyed him.

Why did he even agree to travel with them? Had he had nothing better to do with his life? He could’ve

found another job. A personal bodyguard, a gladiator, anything. And yet he’s stuck here, with this stupid bard and this smartass wizard. 

He sighed, got up, laid on his bedroll.

Dante’s laughter made it easier to fall asleep.

***

Dante... was beginning to grow on him. Just a little.

Yeah, maybe he even liked the obnoxious bard.

Maybe the little jester made him laugh sometimes.

Maybe his laugh was like his singing.

Quest after quest, job after job, monster after monster.

Dante saves him, he saves Dante, they save Vesna, Vesna saves them.

Day after day, turning into weeks, turning into months, turning into years.

The quests only started getting more dangerous. Deadly. Terrifying.

***

Okay, fine, he liked Dante. Dante was a good friend. Good company. A funny jester, a skilled bard, an amazing musician, an even greater storyteller.

“You like him!” Vesna laughs. Dante is far away, tuning his lute.

“What? No! That’s outrageous. He annoys me, always has, always will,” he insists, and Vesna rolls her eyes.

“You’re lying through your teeth. You can’t get your eyes off him. You’re in love with our bard~” she teases, and he rolls his eyes at her this time.

No, it can’t be. He doesn’t like Dante like that. That’s stupid.

Their friendship is precious to him, though. That much is true and will always remain true.

***

Why is it, that in stories, there’s never enough time? Why is it that tragedy is so, so appealing to the masses?

Dante always sings of tragedy, of tragic love, of loss, and pain.

Why is it that, now, as he lay there on the dirty ground, all he could think of was Dante, and his stupid face and his beautiful voice and his obnoxiously beautiful, addicting laugh?

As the chaos around them continues, as the world seems to fall apart and they cannot fix it this time, he asks himself.

Why is it that the poets and bards always sing about tragedy?

“Hey, hey, stay with me, don’t go yet. We can- we can do this, Vesna is trying her best, she-” he doesn’t hear Dante’s words. Not really. He hears his voice. His beautiful, heavenly voice. So full of sorrow. So full of pain.

Why?

As he lay there, blood gently pooling out of... where? Somewhere. It’s warm. But he’s so, so very cold.

Were Dante’s eyes always that beautiful, even when glistening with tears? Was his voice always so heavenly, his laugh always so addicting?

He hears the chaos. The darkness, slowly overtaking him.

Everything hurts. Is Dante saying something? Trying to tell him something? The ringing in his ears makes everything so quiet.

Darkness, and chaos, and the pain slowly, gently fading away.

He was in love in Dante.

Maybe always. Maybe just now, as the breath slowly left his lungs. Maybe as he felt soft lips kiss his, wet with tears, maybe then.

But he knows that he was, once, in love with Dante.

Sat in his cell, he was waiting for the inevitable. Stripped of his power, his kingdom, and his dignity, now he was all alone with his thoughts.

He couldn't help but think of the past. He had been born into a life of luxury; with everything he could ever want at his fingertips. But it had all been taken away from him in a matter of months.

The people had risen up against him, demanding change, demanding freedom. He had tried to fight back, to hold onto his power, but all unsuccessfully. Now, he was just a figurehead, a symbol of a bygone era.

Dum dum, dum dum…

Hearing the sound of the drums outside, signalling that the time has come. He stood up, feeling the weight of the chains on his wrists, and walked towards the door.

As he stepped out into the sunlight, he couldn't help but think of the past, in which the streets were his, but now he strolls through them as an enemy of the people who once obeyed when he gave the word.

As he climbed the steps of the guillotine, feeling the eyes of the crowd on him, he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, then waited for the blade to fall.

But before the blade had fallen he had the chance to say his final words.

-One minute I held the key, the next the walls were closed on me.

-Once I could feel the fear in my enemy's eyes, now their anger under the raining skies.

-Oh, who would ever want to be king?

The crowd started cheering and singing, as his head rolled down onto the ground.

Half-way open windows are welcoming the warm summer breeze tonight. If I had known I would stay this late, I would have closed them before I went out. Now, in my short silky dress, I take a few steps left and right holding on to the streetlights. And I twirl until my head gets dizzy and everything in front of me becomes too much. The bell is heard in the distance, and I turn my head towards the sound. But a little bit too fast because my glasses fall on the ground and I follow them, hitting the concrete.

An old lady passes me by, not sparing a glance nor offering a helping hand. I am confused but I get up, regretting what I drank from the last glass. Soon, many people start gathering on the street. I have never seen them before. There usually is not anyone out past midnight besides some troublesome teenagers. I try to get attention from an older man, but he is not acknowledging my presence. I walk further with the crowd, waving my hands in front of their faces. A young couple just laughs at me, a woman gives me a look of disgust because of the way I am dressed, and a man blows smoke in my face. I feel like it was 1970 not 2008. Embarrassed and depressed, I just want to disappear. But I am still curious who these people could be. Some are wearing old fashioned clothes, and shoes I only saw once, long time ago, in a museum when I was little.

I remember how I was on my way home. The clouds in the sky remind me of that open window. But I walk instead towards my favourite means of self-destruction, a bar not too far from here. So, wiping my face to remove any trace of potential tears and carefully avoiding the trail of people, I head in the opposite direction. They continue to walk, heading towards a small church near a cemetery. I used to go to that church with my mother. We sang in the church choir and waved to daddy who clapped for us with so much pride. They were buried at that cemetery last year, but I never found courage to bring them flowers nor light a candle or two.

As I am looking in their direction, lost in my thoughts, a man pulls my chin towards him and says to follow him. He grabs my hand, and we ran far away from my painful memories. We enter the bar I was so desperately seeking. It was my first time alone on a walk. With no responsibilities. I gave myself a chance to just enjoy life, even if it was just tonight. The stranger offers me a seat beside him at the bar.

He is staring in my eyes. I think of my children, who are comfortably sleeping in their cribs.

He is staring at my lips. I take a sip of my drink.

He is leaning closer. The tall stranger holds my hand, staring into my eyes.

He whispers in my ear: "I wish I was your whiskey". A small touch brushes past my lips. I close my eyes, but the window is still open. I take a step back, but he grabs my waist. For a small second, I feel his weight on me but then he disappears.

Outside there is nobody, the cemetery is empty. The silence is replaced by the sound of a church bell.

I can certainly say I was born under a lucky star. I live in a big jungle with my parents and friends. I have everything my heart desires – there is plenty of food and water here. We have monkeys who take care of that. It’s just, they look weird… They have weird skin, no tail, aren’t as hairy as they should be and have funny-looking things on their heads. They must have come from their jungle. The thing is, our jungle ends with lots of thin trees preventing us from getting out. I assume their jungle is the same. We frequently get visitors from other jungles as well. They look the same as the servant monkeys but without the funny hats. My parents are really sad all the time because they want to exit our jungle. They say that the servant monkeys forcefully took them away from an even bigger jungle where they were free. I don’t believe this story. Why would someone take you as a prisoner and then serve you? My parents are foolish. They should just enjoy the luxury we have here.

Part 1: Stirring the pot

As I was stirring the pot, making food for my children, my youngest one woke up. Liam wasn't always an early bird. Until he turned six, he could sleep for 12 hours straight. "7-year-olds need to be more mature", he says but I'm still the one picking his clothes for school. He set the table and added flowers in the middle. I smiled at such nice gesture. His sister Olivia had an exhausting week, so I quietly passed her doors in the morning. Julian, my oldest was an artist, working on his best art pieces in the basement and Olivia just started high school while simultaneously drafting a novel. Liam never went into the basement to try painting with his brother nor writing like his sister. He did like music, so I wondered if he would pursue career as a singer, but he mentioned a couple of times that he would rather be a doctor. To my delightful surprise, he spends hours in the garden. Making his own herbal paradise, plants which would cure my old bones. As I could have predicted while walking down the stairs my oldest was already cleaning his brushes, usual start of his day. I gently held his shoulders, while he flinched, chains making a slight sound. I held his neck sending a slight message of threat. He is no longer allowed to stir the pot.

Part 2: Blue boys gone bad

It was an unusual morning. That day. And he knew it. Julian was pulled from his bed out of the window. His friends packed his clothes and ran towards the abandoned buildings at the edge of their town. It was a safe space to hide him where no one would search. Old people still feared creatures in the dark, old ghosts roaming around. They carefully selected a plan, killing every living plant on the west side. Julian was the key; he knew every street. He was often caught painting them during days after rain, when the life would return to its bloom. He knew what would happen. Yet that night he surrendered himself to sleep. Blue boys, orphan boys, adopted into rich families. Each had their own sad past, but the future here was so suffocating they needed a way to breathe. To make something of their own. To feel the flames as they get closer to the fire. Firstly, they burned an old shed which belonged to Ms. Brown. Then they cut heads of her tulips and poured acid over her roses. They continued to destroy every garden they could enter until they saw Liam. Liam went to get water for his rosemary and peppermint. The blue boys didn’t stay for too long. But when he returned, the plants were plucked out of the earth and their roots were burned. It was the first time Julian saw Liam cry. He resented himself for letting the blue boys hurt his brother. And his mother never forgave him either. But who am I, writing line by line? Guilty observer with a match.

My dear Rosie,

the train stopped at the station where we used to hide from your mother. I remember how she would look for us with fear in her eyes, wearing a blue apron covered in flour. We would then run towards the fields and watch the sunset from a nearby hill. I have been traveling for quite some time and while your book has been a pleasure to read, I keep getting distracted by the giggles and whispers of couples behind me. A young couple in front of me is staring into each other’s eyes. I see them intervening fingers, stealing kisses from one cheek to another. Even the older gentleman brought a glass of wine to his wife. She smiled at him with so much love. I must make a confession. Please do not get married to Albert.

I never understood, why would you give your beautiful life to such a stranger. Why would you offer him a helping hand and open the doors to your home. But I should have known. You have a kind soul. Even when you were little you would feed stray dogs on the street. But their greed grew stronger, so they kept coming back. Following you around until you offered them everything you had. Do not feed that stranger anymore. Let him starve. Has he ever looked at you with those eyes, so deep and dark that you saw your reflection in them. Do not look at him like your life belongs by his side. Do not offer him any more of your kind words, he feeds on your soul. Leave him where you found him, do not search for any solutions. Because once he grows older, he will become a menace in your home. He will drink all the wine by himself and leave the pillows on the floor. He will make loud noise as he stumbles to the kitchen, looking for more alcohol to drown his pathetic mind. He is already becoming the image of his father, making one wrong decision after another.

I know what I am saying might seem confusing. But I already remembered the shade of brown on your doorstep. And the dandelions that grew in your yard. How I was mesmerized with your scent. I will never be able to find a replacement in someone else’s embrace. But I am afraid of bringing you trouble every time I speak. So next time I knock on your door. Please, do not let me in.

Sincerely,

Your Albert

It's a quiet, quaint little café. The noise of chatter and laughter of the people around him make thinking clearly difficult. His thoughts run. Was his message too weird? Will they function well together? Should he had written a different message? Picked a different café? Is this place too old fashioned? Will they like it? What if, what if, what if, what if...

He fiddles with his fingers, his leg bounces. The lines on the table look like marble. They flow and spiral and turn into waves, seeping down and around like honey dripping from a spoon. He’s never worked with marble. How did the old masters manage to chisel the hard stone so precisely, so seemingly effortlessly?

Well, they worked with wax first. Wax is malleable, easy to work with. Soft. They used wax to create bronze statues in Ancient Greece. Then they melted the bronze statues, to use as ammo. He remembered when the bullets pierced his skin, nestled in his muscles, made their home in his flesh. The nightmares still continue.

Will they find the nightmares disturbing? Will his shouts at night cause him to be kicked out? Left on the street, like he was all those years ago.

There’s a drink in front of him. His head shoots upwards, and he smiles at the waiter, nods. The waiter smiles back. He looks back down. The foam on his cappuccino swirls ever so slightly. His leg bounces faster. Is smoking allowed inside? The smell of cigarettes surrounds him. It buries itself deep within his nostrils, almost burning. He takes out his tobacco. Fiddles with the filters. He examines the rolling paper carefully, then places the filter and tobacco. He rolls it around his fingers, getting lost in the motion. He runs his tongue against the rolling paper with caution, and tightly closes the cigarette. He fiddles around his pocket. Lights the cigarette. The smoke burns his lungs. He closes his eyes and exhales. The burning reminds him that he’s alive.

Should he be alive?

He takes a sip of his cappuccino. It burns his tongue. He sets it down with a grimace. He adds sugar to it. Takes a sip again. Burns. He sighs. Swirls his cappuccino with a spoon. The foam swirls around, like the Milky Way in the vast emptiness of space.

He thinks about the pair of eyes he saw yesterday. Peculiar eyes, so very different from anything he’s ever seen. Chocolate brown, glowing almost golden when the sunset light hits them at the right angle. Forest green, comforting. Forest green, like burying your loved ones, like blood running down your hands and you’re unable to stop it and it keeps going and the breathing becomes slower and thinner and you’re losing them you’re losing them you’re losing them and-!

His hair is brown, with purple streaks in it. Almost washed out. Lighter brown than one of his eyes. Brown like his eye when the golden sun hit it at just the right angle. There is no blood running down that brown hair. Warm smile. Customer service smile. He wants it to be warm. He misses warm smiles. There is no violence on them. No malice. No dirty streets, cold sheets, empty promises, meaningless sex, barely getting by, the cold and the drugs and the pain and the loss and the loss and the loss.

He glances up.

A sigh.

He closes his eyes.

Another sigh.

He opens them again.

God, it’s him. The brown eye, the green eye, the washed-out purple streaks peeking out behind long brown locks.

A shaky breath.

A bouncing leg.

Two fidgeting hands.

A cup of cappuccino.

A cigarette.

A nervous smile.

“Um. Hello. Are you Orpheus?” a melodic voice. Warm. Comforting. Inviting. Shaky. Nervous. Two more fidgeting hands.

“Yes, hello! Nice to meet you.” a hand extended. There is no more violence. The blood is washed away. The drugs have long left his system, years have passed, the streets are no longer a home.

The brown eye and the green eye and the washed-out purple streaks peeking out behind long brown locks and the warm smile and the melodic voice.

I never usually read their notebook, but this was a special case, and so I opened it in a hurry. The sound of the shower turning on echoed down the hallway and struck my nerves like lightning. I only had a moment… I flicked past the page covered in doodles.

„There were three times I was sure I knew that one thing about him.

The first, was when he waited for me outside on that stormy afternoon. I saw him through the window, and I couldn't look away. He looked simple, ordinary in his plastic, rumpled-to-death jacket and I couldn’t look away lest I lose it. The bliss of simplicity. And then he returned my look, but I couldn't know if it was from the burning stare I was giving him or if he only looked up accidentally, out of boredom. He smiled at me. And I guess that's about it.

Later, he told me I looked like a corpse staring at him through the window with a laugh, and pressed me deeper against his side, into the confines of the jacket that smelled like him.

The second, was when we were at the beach that one time we all hung together after the first year – the big chosen family reunion - the father, mother, aunt and child. I brought cheap wine, and we went and bought some off-brand fizzy drinks to pair it with. He came later, the prodigal son, and brought weed with him. We, of course, forgave him for being late. He stayed with me well after the sun set, after the girls had gone. I got tipsy and he got high. I told him what I thought. He said nothing. He urged me to smoke, so I did - blame it on peer pressure.

Later, he said, ‘How can you /////////?’, that's what he said. ‘I just can.’, I replied. And then we didn't say anything else. I haven't felt that way in… a good long while. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe it well enough.

The third, is when I showed him that one project. He was thrilled, I think. I’m bad at reading him, but I try my best. He said he loved it, and then he took a picture and put it as his phone’s wallpaper. I bought him a new T-shirt so he could join me next time. He bought me supplies for my birthday, when I remembered to remind him about it - ‘so you can make more’, he said.

Later, I found out his previous wallpaper was a picture of all of us. It was a confusing thought. I made a mental note to talk to my therapist again, to see what it meant, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.

And then…There was another.

It was before, way before, when we were driving home from that one party down at one of his friends’. It was a dizzying spotlight of colours, and I took it too far. It's surprising I remember anything at all. I just laid in the back of the car, and he was telling me something. I don't remember, and I didn't care then. The rumbling of his voice was soothing. There was some music playing on the radio. I didn’t care. The music kept me barely awake, a low thrum in the background of his crooning.

Later, I slept next to him, my face buried in his sweater, smiling into his shoulder. I think my makeup got smudged. He didn’t seem to care. I had sobered up until then, and the moon was full so I could still see his face in the dark. My voice was deeper than usual from how tired I was.

‘You’re /////. “

He just smiled. I didn’t know what to think until he said, “Only if you’re /////.”

Of course, I was. So then… he’s mine.”

The rest of the pages were torn apart. I closed it and stuffed it back into the drawer of their desk.

I got everything I needed.

As I take a sip of my coffee, I can’t help but think that it tasted better last week. Ellie tells a joke, I laugh, but the one she told two weeks ago was funnier. It’s a beautiful day today, but somehow it doesn’t feel as beautiful as the days were a year ago. I’m stuck in a never-ending loop of feeling like tomorrow is going to be the same as today, but it will never be as good as yesterday was. Maybe if I could go back in time, I would enjoy those moments more. Ellie looks at me and raises her eyebrow.

“Are you even listening to me?” she asks.

I didn’t even know she existed a year ago. The memories we made this past year flash through my mind. On second thought, maybe the coffee tastes better today.

“How long do you think this took?”

“Dunno. A long time.”

“You’re a painter. Give me an estimate.”

“This is oil paint. Probably ages. I don’t know.”

“You study at the Art Academy. How do you not know?”

“Well, I obviously didn’t paint this. You study Art History. You tell me.”

“Well, obviously, less than a year.”

“No shit.”

“Fuck you.”

The two friends stared at the painting. Baroque. Diagonal composition, dynamic, heavy chiaroscuro. Oil paint.

The Artist held a sketchbook in one hand, pencil in the other. With skill, the Artist sketched the painting onto the paper with the coal pencil. Shaded the dark parts with rough lines while thinking about how the painter came up with the painting. The Artist paid special attention to the overly exaggerated muscles, studied the anatomy, the facial expressions, the movement, the way the figures’ dresses fell and wrapped themselves around the muscle and skin. Attention was mostly on the lines, as the Artist worked with coal.

There is no surface with coal, just endless lines. Crossing each other, fighting, creating light and shadow, barely being able to copy the masterful baroque painting.

The Art Historian, much like the Artist, analysed the muscles, the modulation, the lines, the expressions, the dress, the shadows. The Art Historian marked their observations in a notebook. Baroque, you say?

They remembered what they mentioned in their lectures. Italian baroque art: dynamic, full of emotion, the heavy chiaroscuro: sharp contrast between light and shadow. Dark, dark backgrounds. Heavy fabrics, wrapping themselves around the figures, showing emotion on their own. Seventeenth century, for sure.

The year says so, but even without the year, the Art Historian could easily date it to the seventeenth century. They reckon that painting the work didn’t take that long. It’s oil, so it definitely did take a while, but not that long.

“So. What can you tell me about baroque art?”

“This is just seventeenth century. Just a small part of Italian baroque. It’s just Caravaggio.”

“Well, he was a great master, wasn’t he? He’s my favourite artist to study from.”

“He’s but a smudge in the great painting of art history. A large one, but a smudge nonetheless.”

“Hm. Interesting take. Is he not among your favourites?”

“I don’t have favourites. They were all geniuses.”

“Anyone can be a genius.”

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Eh. Not really. Do you think you will impact art history?”

“Maybe.”

“You won’t. You aren’t doing anything revolutionary. You’re just you.”

“Way to bring a person down.”

“Hey. I won’t be important either. I just study important people and buildings and paintings and whatnot.

Best I can do is publish a paper making an important discovery or something.”

“Hm. Maybe I will do something revolutionary. Maybe you’ll teach your future students about me in 30 years.”

A shrug. And silence. And four eyes pointed at a Caravaggio. And the soft murmur of people commenting on other various works of art.

If I could dream, I would dream of you. If I could think, I would think of you. If I had legs and eyes, and woke up every morning, I would hold you, I would kiss you. You don’t have hair, or hands or a face and yet you are the most beautiful thing in the world. If I could write and sing, I would write and sing songs about you, and only you. I don’t have to eat, but if I did, I could sustain myself only by looking at you. You don’t look at the sun, but I sometimes do, and I can tell you its brightness and light are no match for yours. I don’t know love, I cannot feel, but I would hang myself on you, my darling coat hook, for a thousand more years. I am just a coat, I cannot speak, but if I could, I would say all this to you, my darling coat hook.

The stupid dog won't leave me alone.

He's been like this since Tuesday, when mother came back from work and noticed one of her children was missing. I was writing homework in the living room and father was sound asleep on the couch. She greeted me quietly and went to Edgar's bedroom to ask him what he wanted for dinner, but all she found was an empty room with balcony doors to the garden wide open.

It took about two hours of roaming the acres of corn fields spreading around the house to find him. We would have done it sooner, had my parents not been arguing every step of the way. The faint smell of alcohol coming from father's mouth was enough to send my mother into an anger spiral. Of course, he'd been drinking during the day again. Of course, he wasn't looking after his children. When he finally sobered up enough to comprehend what was happening and why his wife was yelling at him even louder than usual, the color of his face turned the same shade of gray as the mold on our walls.

All this time Stanley sat on his favorite pillow, whimpering and chewing on my old zebra plushie, now unrecognizable due to the ravages of time, as well as his teeth. He didn't move an inch of his sluggish, fat body or in any way attempted to join the search party for my brother. As if he knew there was no point in looking. His apprehensions proved to be true at around 6 PM, when my mother's scream pierced the warm, suffocatingly stuffy summer's air.

The funeral was quite peaceful, almost refreshingly quiet in comparison to everyday life with my parents. Mother was given a sedative so she finally stopped crying; instead, she spent most of the evening looking through the people giving their condolences as if they weren't really there; and dad started self-medicating with whiskey early in the morning and ended up missing the funeral. Nobody was too bummed about that. The priest leading the service said a couple of generic sentences people usually say about dead children. Nothing too emotional nor too truthful. Nobody likes to dwell on other people's tragedies, not when they don't concern them.

Stanley was there, too. Nagging me every step of the way. He wouldn't leave me alone, not even when I wanted to use the bathroom. He still carried the preposterous zebra toy everywhere we went and would start whining whenever I tried to take it away from him. I felt as if I were dealing with a toddler. I wasn't used to his constant attention, after all, he preferred Edgar to me. Most people did.

It's been precisely two weeks. It's 6 PM and I stand in the field at the exact spot Edgar was found with his skull split open. The soft summer breeze dishevels my already ruffled hair. I feel a bit cold; autumn is slowly creeping in. Seasons are changing without my brother. The universe doesn't really care about a little boy's death.

Stanley silently sits beside me. My patience is slowly running out. I think what's bothering me the most are his sad watery eyes, looking at me like two black marbles. It feels personal, almost judgmental. I twiddle a rock in my hand. The universe certainly won't miss a dumb old dog and neither would my parents. He was really only Edgar's dog. It feels appropriate for them to be united once again.

I take a swing with the rock. It's over in a second, but I linger over his limp body for a while. For some reason, my brain is amused by a thought. It feels almost poetic that I used the same rock on Stanley as I did on Edgar.

He was walking along the Red Square, slowly making his way through the thick blankets of snow covering the streets. He knew he was in Moscow, but the snow was pretty much the only aspect of his surroundings he could logically associate with his hometown. He saw St. Basil's Cathedral towering above him, but the vibrant colors he remembered so vividly were gone; replaced by plates of pure silver and gold, making the entire church seem almost iridescent. The other buildings, as far as the eye could see, were also covered in shiny plates of various colors, reflecting their light off of each other and radiating colorful streaks of light in the snow. He felt as if he were inside a kaleidoscope.

Suddenly, he heard a strange sound and felt a gust of wind blow above his head. He looked up in astonishment and saw a vehicle resembling a hybrid between a car and an airplane. In fact, he saw many of those strange devices piercing through the air, moving in harmony like they were connected to an invisible network.

A hand touched his shoulder and he turned around to meet a man handing him a glass of champagne. „Happy New Year!“, the man exclaimed. Only then did he notice the square was crowded with people laughing, dancing and celebrating with glasses in their hands. Was it already New Year?, he wondered. Then he spotted the posters and neon signs suspended in the air. Happy New Year… 2322.

***

„Wake up, Vladimir!“

Vladimir Putin jolted out of sleep, his hand automatically reaching for the shotgun underneath his bed. It took him a few moments to realize he was back in his royal bedroom. Everything was just the same; the stolen Van Gogh hanging above his fireplace, the bear skin rug of the very first grizzly he shot splayed out on the floor. The calendar hanging above his desk showed the date, February 20th, 2022. He sighed and put the gun down. Heavens! I had way too much vodka last night…

The voice calling for him belonged to his girlfriend, Alina. Her head carefully peeked through the door. „It's me, honey! Time to wake up, your schedule is full for the day. You have to be at the opening ceremony for the new orphanage in Nižnji Novgorod at noon. The farm workers are protesting, again, so you should probably get on top of that. Oh, and, also, there's that fundraiser for multiple sclerosis treatment research we're attending tonight. But first, breakfast! I had the chef prepare you some oatmeal and soy milk, we need to watch your cholesterol levels“, she chirped.

Putin barely managed to crack a smile. „I'll be there soon, love.“ When she left, he looked in the mirror next to his bed, only to find his own sullen face staring right back at him.

God, I need to start a war.

The smell of wet earth fills my nostrils and makes its way deep inside my lungs. I feel it spread all over my body. I try not to think about the smell too much, because if I do, I'll start analyzing the smaller nuances in the air; the faint aroma of rotten flesh, hiding just beneath the surface. And then it will be hard to stop me from throwing up. I put down the shovel and take a big chug out of the glass bottle.

„Heey, go easy on the rum, it's the last of our supplies“, Michael protested.

„Either the rum goes, or I do“, I say, suppressing a burp. „How much deeper?“

„How would I know? You'll know you're there when you get there.“

„As helpful as always“, I mutter and continue digging.

We work in silence over the next fifteen minutes, listening to the dull cutting sound my shovel makes when it comes in contact with the ground. Every now and then, I signal Michael to shine the faint light of the lantern on a particular spot of ground, but each time it turns out to be a false alarm.

„Are you sure we're on the right spot?“, I exhale.

„Yes, I'm sure! The legend says St. Peter was buried here, on the Vatican hill-“, Michael snaps at me, then points to the ground. „Wait, what's that small, shiny thing over there?“

„This?“, I pick up the object. „Pretty sure it's a femur. Of a squirrel. It's worthless, unless you want to sell it to the Pope as one of St. Peter's phalanges-“

„As-what now?“

„Finger bones“, I sigh. „Sorry, I forget how utterly dumb you are from time to time…“

Suddenly, the shovel makes a clinking sound. I freeze and look at Michael. The hope in my eyes is reflected in his. He jumps into the hole and we start frantically removing the dirt from the casket with our bare hands, not caring about the dirt getting stuck inside our fingernails, nor the colony of ants we disturb in the process.

We gently pull the lid off the casket, revealing a perfectly preserved, intact skeleton. And more importantly, an upside down cross next to it, along with a pair of overlapping keys. Michael's face turns white as the bones of the deceased. He falls down to his knees and starts praying: „O Holy Apostle, because you are the Rock upon which Almighty God has built His church; obtain for me I pray you…“

The next day, we bring the relics of St. Peter to the Pope, who gives us a reward so generous that we probably won't have to worry about money for years to come. The night before, I was very anxious and couldn't sleep. Luckily, the Pope doesn't have much knowledge of the human anatomy, because if he did, he would probably realize the skeleton belonged to a 60-year-old woman.

Every day is the same. Same events, same people, same faces. Everything happens exactly the same way, over and over again, and I feel like I am stuck in an infinite loop. I can’t get out. I want to, but I can’t. When I stare at the reflection in my mirror, I get the feeling that my face is not mine, but someone else’s. That’s why I never look at it when I am alone. Everything feels familiar, yet unknown. Even my home feels like an empty, blank space. I sometimes remember things that never happened. Especially my earliest memories. There is something strange about them. Are they real? Or a dream? Why is it that creatures need memories? I lay in bed surrounded by complete darkness - loud and silencing. The feeling I can’t explain. It does not scare me. It is peaceful but not completely. I keep telling myself: “This isn’t a dream. You’re awake.” But I just don’t understand.

In fact, do I even exist?

I love you Josh. I love you too Alice. She leaned in for a kiss and… my father woke me up. Quickly! Wake up. We’re moving today.

You couldn’t pick the worse timing! What is the hurry anyway?

They could arrive anytime, we need to move. It brings us luck.

I got to my senses and jumped out of the bed. My mother was waiting for us downstairs, ready to go. What a shame. – she sighed – I just got used to the bed.

When we opened the door, everyone was sitting on the streets and staring into nothing. They had huge bags under their eyes. We’ve said goodbye to our neighbours. They wished us luck. Others didn’t even notice we were leaving.

As soon as we left the village, father pulled out a coin and a dice from his pocket. He tossed the coin a few times. North! Then, he threw the dice. The third village!

Yes baby, this will be the shortest journey yet. I can’t wait to finish that dream.

On our way to the third village we found a little pond with relatively clean water.

Now this is a rare sight. – said father. I haven’t seen water so clean since I was a child. We all took sips and continued our journey.

When we finally arrived, it was almost dark. Like our previous village, everyone was on the streets. There weren’t many people there, so we had many houses to choose from. Mother picked a small pink house, and we moved in. It conveniently had three beds.

I was getting ready for bed, when I heard a loud noise outside. I looked out the window and saw a huge spaceship. Ten people came out of it and went straight to our house. I heard screams from downstairs and hid under the bed.

Silence…

Footsteps…

Someone barged into my room.

Joshua McFarland, do not be afraid, I will not hurt you. My name is Zed and I came to help you. This planet is not suitable for life anymore. I ask you to come with us; we have food, clean water and can provide a real home.

I crawled from under the bed because there was no point in hiding anymore. There stood a woman in a golden suit.

You will also get one of these where we are headed. Come on, it will be fun. We will do you no harm. I swear to you.

I went downstairs with her. Others were waiting for us and happily introduced themselves when we came.

A man called Zorg apologized – I didn’t want to do it. They left me no choice. Zed pulled out a laser gun and killed him. He betrayed our policy.

We got inside the spaceship, and I got a golden suit which I quickly put on. Zed was kind enough to show me everything. She told me they are on a mission to bring poor people from Earth to Mars and give them a better life. Then, he brought me to the dinning room where there was a huge table filled with food.

You must be hungry, help yourself.

I couldn’t decide where to start. Zed was smiling at me. She was glad I am happy.

Shortly after I ate my fill, we landed on Mars. Zed told me to take off my mask, Mars had an atmosphere and a gravitation like Earth. A lot of people were waiting at the landing site.

They are curious to see the newcomer. You will meet them all later. Come on. You must be tired. Let me show you where you will stay.

Zed led me to my new apartment. There was no bed… There was no bed!

I seized Zed’s gun and killed her.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ALL DAY?!?

I pointed the gun at my head and pulled the trigger.

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy businessman named Mr. Smith who owned a large mansion. Mr. Smith was known for being extremely stingy and never spending any money on anything that wasn't necessary. One day, he received a letter in the mail that informed him he had won a free trip to Hawaii.

Excited about the prospect of a free vacation, Mr. Smith booked his flight and flew to Hawaii. When he arrived, he was greeted by a friendly tour guide who showed him around the beautiful island. They went to the beach, hiked in the mountains, and even went snorkeling.

However, as the trip progressed, Mr. Smith became increasingly frustrated with all the expenses he was incurring. He complained about the cost of his meals, the price of his hotel room, and even the cost of the tour guide's services.

Finally, on the last day of the trip, the tour guide took Mr. Smith to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Mr. Smith was already annoyed by the price of the meal before he even looked at the menu. When the waiter arrived to take their orders, Mr. Smith grumbled, "I suppose I'll have the most expensive thing on the menu since everything else here is so outrageously priced."

The waiter smiled and said, "Very good, sir. I'll bring you a glass of water."

"One foot in front of the other. That's all there is to it." Crissy thought to herself while looking at her feet. One step at a time. A car honk broke her concentration. She looked up, the lights nearly blinded her. The car slowed down and she moved out of the way. A car window on the driver's side went down slightly. She saw a bald guy who looked like he was in his mid-twenties looking at her through the window: "Watch where you're going." As he drove off, Crissy wondered whether he sounded passive-aggressive or if he was yelling at her. She couldn't tell.

She looked up. "When did night fall?" When she woke up before, it wasn't even dusk, now it's suddenly the middle of the night, and the streets are deserted except for that guy she just encountered. Where now? "I could go to that food stand near the subway and then catch the train home. Or I could go to Axl's and crash at his place. Mom wouldn't care anyway." She thought, starting to make her way to her friend's house.

Walking through the somewhat deserted part of town was a special kind of feeling. The streets, usually full of people and cars now empty except for the occasional car passing or homeless guy jaywalking across the street. And the buildings - the bank emptily lit up. The oculist's office, full of glasses that nobody is looking for, and the… public restroom.

Crissy stopped in front of it. Her left arm began twitching. She held it still with her other arm. She started breathing shakily. "Should I or shouldn't I?" She thought. It's not like Axl is waiting for her and would care if she is late or anything. She took a last look at her left arm, still twitching, and entered the building.

The door to the bathroom opened as she entered. The lights combined with the white walls hurt her eyes almost as much as the car's. The mirrors were clean sans the occasional stain, the sinks were tolerably clean, and the floor is not even worth explaining.

She regained her composure and walked in opening the Doors to see if she was alone. She was. A sigh of relief. She turned to one of the three mirrors on the wall and stood over the sink. She took her bag off her shoulder and started going through it. She pulls out and puts three things in front of the mirror - a lighter, a spoon, and a syringe.

The needle did not look the cleanest. "It doesn't matter. Only I used it" she thought to herself. She couldn't find the final thing. She was going through her bag maniacally until she just turned her bag over and threw everything out. Her wallet, her bottle, a hairbrush, and other things and then she noticed IT. A small bag full of a white powder-looking substance.

She took the bag, opened it, and poured the powder on the spoon. She turned the lighter on and put the spoon above the flame. She took the syringe and took in the liquid that was now on the spoon. She began readying her arm for the injection. Her arm was ready.

She took the syringe and the doors to the outside opened. Crissy began to panic. She saw the stall and started kicking all of her stuff on the floor into the stall. She kicked everything in, went there herself, and locked the stall door. She sat down next to the toilet as the door to the room opened. She could see the feet of whoever was out there.

It was then that she realized she had left the spoon and the lighter at the sink. "Hello? Is anyone Here?" Said the voice on the other side. Crissy realized she was fucked. Would it matter now anyway? The person started knocking on Crissy's stall. Flashbacks came pouring down. Crissy was back in her own bathroom at her own house and her mother was knocking. "Crissy open the fucking door. I know what you're doing in there." There was nothing else left to do, she thought to herself. She straightened her arm until the vein popped up and put the dirty needle in.

There is a man standing outside, in the valley, right on my path to the village, in the deepest neck of the woods.

I'm not from around these parts, so I don't know if this is normal. But he wasn't there when I first moved in. I can't avoid him either. I don't own a car.

He stands there, day and night. I can't see him from my window, but I've seen him during one of my several night hunts. He just stands there.

There is a man in the woods, his skin is piercingly white, clinging to his malnourished body, with obscenely disproportionate limbs, and he stands there. He doesn’t do anything.

I managed to look at his face once. It was a white canvas with three tentacles having burst forth out of it, a collection of pure void and nightmares, like a black hole splattered with blood and oozing goo.

Everywhere he goes, blood follows.

There is a white man standing on his designated spot, no matter the weather, no matter the time. Sometimes he sits staring at the ground, sometimes he whimpers and cries out. It echoes around in the moonlight.

There is a white man outside my house.

To this day, he has killed me thrice.

I think I recognize him from somewhere.

Rikita: “Listen here Ron Mennedy: If you don’t withdraw your troops from my brotherly country, I will have to press the button.”

Ron Mennedy: “You have to understand me Rikita, there is much at stake here, I would lose billions of dollars.”

Rikita: “Fuck your dollars Mennedy, you are risking your people’s lives over a few pieces of paper. Be smart about this. Withdraw your troops, I will invest in some of your companies. Then we can shake hands and drink some vodka.”

Ron Mennedy: “Your investment wouldn’t be enough. Listen Rikita, maybe we could…”

Beep beep beep beep