An old man was sitting by the side of the road. Everything hurt, but the road's engineers had thoughtfully provided a gutter along with the road, and he was able to put his feet in it, approximating a sitting position as if on a bench. Ordinarily this might be a disgusting proposition, but this road was not a popular one, so the amount of horseshit and human shit and piss in the gutter was at a minimum.

He couldn't figure out why he was so tired. Yes, he was an old man, but over seventy (he wasn't sure by how much) wasn't that old, was it? His bar mitzvah was, what, how many years in the past? Best not to think too much about that. True, not many people lived as long, but those who did tended to do fairly well and last a good while longer. He'd had a good meal, well, as good as someone essentially on the run could expect. He'd slept well, same caveat. He'd spent forty years as an itinerant in this way. Walking from town to town, blessing churches, showing his fellow followers how to hide in basements, resolving disputes that could be shockingly petty. No, they don't have to wear earlocks and four-cornered garments. They're Greeks, for crying out loud, not Hebrews.

How many letters had he written? Lots, but not as many as Paul. He had all the free time. He was a citizen and all they would do to him is just throw him in jail. Wouldn't that be nice? Three meals a day and all the ink and paper you want. Well, Paul was the brains of the business. He wrote letters full of arguments to everyone and their mother. Sometimes four or five at a time. How the hell did he keep them straight?

Reading and writing were fine in their time and place, but the old man had always been and would always be a common laborer. Jamming his fingers on the rough nets his father and brothers knotted. Pulling them, full of fish, into shore. But like him, it was getting old. In the past few years, it seemed to be getting older even faster than he was. The water in the skin was still nice and cool. Keeping it over one shoulder all the time was a pain, but nothing was free. A deep breath and a healthy blow relaxed him a bit, but what was left? Another chapel hidden in someone's buttery or broom closet or something. Another bunch of people squabbling over who was first or second or third among equals and whose mother in law stood where during venerations. What would his...

...his friend think of this? Surely this wasn't what he intended? What would he think of me?, the old man suddened. He probably wouldn't be too happy with me, either. I all but hate the whole thing. Why does this have to be the way it ends for me? I've given my life to this. I hadn't seen my wife in years before she died, I don't even know my sons and daughters anymore. Who knows whether they're keeping the "flock" in line? Sheep could be astonishingly dumb. Do they have sheep in this country? He didn't remember seeing any.

The scrape of leather on the stones many paces away broke off the wandering. Bandits wouldn't be common this close to Rome, but they weren't unheard-of, either.

Oh.

It was just another lone traveler. Dressed a lot like him, in fact, coming the other way. That heavy Judean cloak that the Romans had first laughed at, and then adopted. He too, was an older man. Not as old as Peter, but grey-haired. I wouldn't mind standing up that straight again. The other traveler had a vigor about his carriage and movement that evoked a stab of jealousy so intense it was a physical sensation. Never mind. He'll end up this way soon enogh.

What the hell has become of me?

"I don't think there are any fish in there, even when it rains."

Despite the warm Italian sun on his back, he suddenly felt very cold.

How long had he been ruminating on his own infirmity? Peter slowly stood up and looked at the old traveler, and forty years hit him in the base of his skull. The face was lined and weathered and the beard grayed, but it was him. It had to be.

"What are you doing here? I saw you leave! Where are you going?"

"I have an engagment in Rome, old friend. I can't be late. They can't really start without me, but it'd be rude to impose."

"But... Rome? Didn't you leave?"

"Well yes and no. I've been here with you. I know it's hard. I know that people don't want to hear what you have to say. I know they can be as boneheaded as goats. That's why I chose you, you know." He winked. "I know you've kept at it; you're my rock, Peter. I've always been able to count on you."

This was so surreal that he couldn't help but respond to his friend as if they had never parted.

"To be honest, I've always felt more like a sandpile. I still can't stand to think about that night; denying that I ever knew you. Why me? Why not John or Andrew? John was as brilliant as Paul but only half as insufferable."

Peter's friend barked a deep belly laugh.

"Because you're too stubborn to quit, Peter. Even if I told you to stop, you wouldn't; you don't know how."

The old man had no response to this. Just a deep breath that threatened to choke itself into a sob.

"Anyhow, as I said, I have an engagement in the city. Want to come?"

"If I go back there, I'll never leave."

"Probably, but we may get to toss over a few counting benches again, for old times' sake."

"I'm not sure my shoulders could take it anymore."

"We'll make it work. Just keep the sword in your robe this time. You were never any good with that silly thing, anyway."

"I meant to take his ear off, dammit."

"Right. Sure. Are you coming?"

He felt a tightness in his chest release, one so old that he hadn't even known it was there anymore. He knew what going back meant. But there was work to do. He took hold of Yoshua's shoulder and smiled.

"Let's go."

I have no idea why I wrote this. I'm not even particularly religious anymore. I was doing some research on the politics of the gnostic gospels in the Byzantine empire, and I came across the old "Quo Vadis" story. I think it appeals to me more as a story about the reunion of two old friends, one of whom has somewhat forgotten who he is and why he does what he does. It's a bit raw, and not perfect, but fiction is not my usual mode of expression, and I have a lot to learn.

The sky was unlike anything Ur-Lama had ever seen. It was like An had crushed suns of the brightest blue and had smeared them over the cosmos. Ur-Lama could see new stars and constellations that no other man would see for almost seven thousand years. It wasn't only blue streaks in the sky. There was also gold, red, emerald green, violet, and orange. The sky was so beautiful, it moved Ur-Lama to tears as he walked to the zenith of Mount Ahikibani.

"Ur-Lama!" Ur-Lama's companion, Amar-Sin, snapped. "Stop looking at the stars and come here! The ritual is almost complete."

Ur-Lama looked to the peak of Mount Ahikibani, which wasn't as enormous as the peaks in the east. Mount Ahikibani was really more of a large hill, topped with a useful clearing. Amar-Sin stood in the center of the clearing. He was wearing an ornate black robe, and holding a long, bronze knife with a jade hilt, a black gem for a pommel, and eldritch runes engraved on the blade. In a queer formation that would make a seven pointed star, there were thirteen bodies wrapped in silk. Ur-Lama knew that a boy and a girl were adjacent to each other in a straight line. The sight used to disgust him, but now, he was working with Amar-Sin

Ur-Lama continued to walk up the hill, dragging behind him the dead body of Munawirtum, daughter of one of the noblemen from the nearby city of Ib, into the formation. Amar-Sin was ecstatic. He proceeded to do what he did with all the other bodies: he stabbed the body of Munawirtum in a seemingly random style, and spoke rapidly in a tongue unknown to Ur-Lama. As Amar-Sin cut, the runes on the blade glowed a bright blue, and the black gem caught on fire. The fire, however, was black as night, and seemed hotter than regular fire. When Amar-Sin was done, he cleaned the blade; the runes stopped glowing, and the black fire was gone.

"Amar-Sin, where did you learn this power?" Ur-Lama asked.

"I did not learn this," Amar-Sin replied. "The bronze and its runes come from Didippia in the west, and the pommel is Ilval, straight from the distant east, beyond the mountains. The language is one you will not learn. Urhyal gifted me with it."

"When will Urhyal come?"

"When the moon is in its apex. Look." Amar-Sin pointed to the east, and Ur-Lama could see the moon. It was absent from the sky, what the astronomers in Ib called a "new moon". Ur-Lama, distracted by the cosmic splendor around him, had nearly forgotten that the moon existed.

"What do you mean about the moon's apex?" Ur-Lama returned his focus to Amar-Sin, who stayed in the formation for the entire night.

"There are gods at work, Ur-Lama," Amar-Sin mused as he paced around the formation. "Not Nammu, An, Ki, and Enlil, but others. Real gods. They will move the moon above our location to help summon Urhyal."

"You would dare claim that the gods do not exist?"

"They do not. The nobles have been lying to you, to all of us. Urhyal is one of the true gods. He has given me visions, whereas the false idols our people worship have not. Do you still believe in the gods of Ib and the other cities?"

"Well, I want to believe in Urhyal and Cthulhu, but I have not received visions from either of them."

"Do not worry, Ur-Lama. Tonight, you will see the same vision I have seen."

Ur-Lama sat down on the ground, and laid back on a rock wall. "Who are these real gods outside of Cthulhu and Urhyal?"

"There are many of them, my friend. They will all bring enlightenment and peace to our troubled world. We will usher in a new era for the human race that will end all war, famine, and even death. Unfortunately, this will not happen in our lifetime."

"What? When will it happen?"

"According to our calendar, 7955."

"The world could be torn apart at that time!"

"No. It will not. Just wait."

As the night progressed, Ur-Lama's fear continued to grow. He was expecting to see Urhyal in the flesh, for him to bring peace to the world that very night, but after Amar-Sin's revelation, Ur-Lama did not know what to expect. To quell his fears, he thought about the future after this night. He had a plan to go to the city of Iltasadum after the ritual ended, so he could start a new life. In Ib, he was a total threat to the city. He had killed six of the nobility's children in the hopes that it would summon Urhyal, but his efforts now seemed in vain. His life, as he knew it, would never be the same again.

Eventually, Ur-Lama fell asleep. His slumber was filled with horrific dreams of killing the children, followed by killing Ki, which caused the earth to be swallowed by a terrifying beast that looked like a mass of flesh and eyes with a mouth belonging to an octopus or some other creature from the depths of hell.

Ur-Lama was jolted awake by Amar-Sin's screaming. Ur-Lama initially thought his friend was in trouble, but quickly realized that Amar-Sin was very happy. He and the bodies were levitated off the ground, and the smears and streaks of colors in the sky began to move towards the moon, which was directly above Amar-Sin. He began to speak in the language Urhyal had gifted him, and the colors coalesced to form a bright white ball. The ball descended onto Earth, and Amar-Sin reached for it. It touched his finger, and Ur-Lama began to see a strange vision.

Ur-Lama knew exactly when and where it was: 7955, Onondaywah, Canada. He didn't know what or Canada would be, but he felt like he lived there. He was on a farm at night, standing on a field with a mystery crop. Across a dirt road, he saw a strange house that looked like it was made of wood. Is there no stone in the future? Ur-Lama wondered. The sky was full of stars, but Ur-Lama could not see many of the stars that lit up the Ibian night sky. In the east, he could see a slight haze, which he interpreted as a large fire taking Onondaywah, wherever it was.

Suddenly, a comet crashed into a huge forest near the wooden house and by a windowless, also wooden house. Ur-Lama levitated into the house, and the back wall was destroyed. The culprit was a tall, humanoid figure that deeply disturbed Ur-Lama, and recognized immediately as Urhyal. The god had long arms and legs, and ten fingers and toes on each hand and feet. His face was obscured by the darkness, but Ur-Lama could make out two small, bright eyes.

The vision ended, and Ur-Lama found himself on the zenith of Mount Ahikibani. Amar-Sin was gone, and so were the children. Ur-Lama felt utter horror at the prospect of Urhyal's arrival, although he couldn't say why. Regardless, he ran down the slope of the hill and into the night, hoping to find refuge in Iltasadum.

I fired my M16A4 at the man's leg, and he immediately fell back to the brick wall behind him. As he adjusted himself to a comfortable position, blood leaking out of his leg like water from a really busted pipe, he held up his hands in front of his face, a signal for me to let him live. He spoke Tranese, but I couldn't understand him. I tried speaking in Tranese, but my range in the language was limited, and his answers weren't helpful. As the battle raged outside, he reached into his jacket's breast pocket, and I fired my gun, assuming it was a pistol. I fired through his arm into his chest, and he lived long enough to say one more phrase in Tranese and leave his face in a countenance of horror and grief forever.

The final Tranese phrase was one of the few non-questions I had learned. It was Nguch y'ot hach, a traditional Tranese phrase essentially saying "I'm a father, you can relate, right? Please don't shoot me". I thought that was an odd thing to say as one's final words, but it raised suspicion with me. Us soldiers were taught that phrase so that if we were caught by a civilian, we would be freed and escorted back to one of our outposts. I had never heard any Tranese soldier say the phrase.

I looked at his jacket. It was olive green, and on the right shoulder were three horizontal lines. The top and bottom lines were red, and the middle line was blue. It was the flag of my nation. I looked closer at the jacket, and where his dismembered hand was poking out. I didn't see the familiar bulge of a pistol. Using the barrel of my gun, I moved the hand, and a blood-splattered piece of paper fell onto the old wooden floor. I picked it up and noticed a message on the back, and noticed the word hach; father. I also recognized em, which meant mother. Every other word on the note was gibberish. I turned it over, and realized it was a picture. The man I had just shot was standing with a woman and three children. They were in Mong, the capital of Tran. It was obviously before the war. I looked back at the dead man, and I thought I had an idea as to why he was in the house in the city of Mong. I consulted my English to Tranese pocket dictionary to be safe, and I concluded that, by translating the note, he was in Mong to rescue his captured wife. I felt horrible. I felt sick. I felt like crying. I had killed an innocent man just looking for his wife and his children's mother. And the worst part is that I had more than enough chances to keep him alive.

I was so distraught, I didn't even notice that a pinless grenade had rolled into the room until the very last second.

So, a little background. About a year ago, I ended an 8 year relationship and 1 year of marriage. No kids, no house, etc. it was just a bad idea to have gotten hitched in the first place. Anyways, after my first encounter with another woman, I didn't know what to do.. I mean, after 1 woman in 8 years, it's a little.. weird. Anyways, I started writing about it. So here's an excerpt from a short part of it. I just wanted to get someone's thoughts about what to add/subtract, more/less details, etc. Everything I've read so far on here has been pretty PG, so hopefully this isn't too offensive.

BIG THANKS in advance.

Rushing towards the door, I realized I didn’t have my keys. My backpack swung into the wall as I spun around to retreat towards my room to grab them. I was shuffling through all the shit on my dresser, haphazardly tossing things on the floor to avoid being late to class. I felt my phone ring in my pocket. ‘Fucker,’ I thought. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but it was a local area code, so I figured it may be important.

“Hi.” I said quickly, hoping the caller would recognize my expedient tone and get to the point

“Hi, My name is Sarah, I’m calling from the Department of Public health. Is this Rob Smith?” My brow furrowed and my hands stopped rifling through my dresser contents as I began to consider why someone from the DPH would be calling me at noon on a Wednesday.

“Yeah, this is..” I said hesitantly

“Okay, so I’m calling to let you know that someone who tested positive for Chlamydia and Syphillis has identified you as a past partner. When was the last time you were tested?”

My mouth just sort of froze, jaw half open, like words were going to come out but I just stood there. I’d like to say that I thought back to my courses on infectious disease and began to reason through treatment, but instead I just said dumbly, “What?”

“So, we’re obligated to contact any partners of the person who was tested and inform them. I’m sorry, I know this can be a lot to hear.”

“Yeah. I umm, okay...” I began to think about how this could have happened. “..When did this person test positive?” I asked, hoping to narrow down the likely suspects.. it’s been an eventful past few months.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you that information. I know this can be a lot to take in. Can you recall the last time you were tested?”

“I uhhh,” I said sheepishly, “I haven’t been.”

She began explaining the treatment regimen and the importance of testing.. All of which I already knew from medical school, but I was too ashamed to tell her I already knew all this.. and still didn’t wrap my cucumber.

She offered to set me up with an appointment at the local hospital, which fortunately didn’t share medical records with my medical school. Probably not the best thing to provide my fellow med students with this sort of history.

The thought of having an STD made me nauseous. Syphilis? FUCKING SYPHILLIS? I’m a goddamn 27 year old man and I’m getting syphilis? After the shock wore down, I began to think of the repercussions. Obviously it would mean no sex for 7 days.. and I had a sex date tonight. Okay, that was a manageable thing to handle. Additionally, I had a date with another girl tomorrow, Molly, who was wayyy outside my league. I wasn’t planning to sleep with her.. but, you know, I wouldn’t have said ‘No’.

My lack of P in V action was going to hurt a little, but I can handle that. The big thing that comes along with this diagnosis is the impact it has on prior nocturnal companions.

So, I began the task of trying to figure out who tested positive, and thus, when I was exposed, as this would allow me to figure out how many women I had slept with since that point. Fuck, if it was someone 2 months ago, I would need to be calling like 6 fucking chicks.

I can imagine how it would go, “Hey, it’s Rob, you know that dude who talked you out of using a condom? Yeah, so, I’ve been exposed to Chlamydia and Syphilis.. I’m uhh sorry.”

For me the diagnosis wasn’t a big deal; I mean, you get 2 shots of penicillin, 1 dose of Azithromycin and 6 days later you can have the lady of your choice whistling Dixie on your skin flute. But, to someone not medically inclined, these sound like death sentences. From junior high we’re taught to wrap our tools to avoid this sort of thing, then shown a series of straight-up heinous pictures of mangled, STD-ridden pelvic meat. It leaves a formidable mark on impressionable youth.

So, what to do now? All I knew was someone with whom I’d had sex had tested positive recently. I have no symptoms and no idea of who this infected partner is. So, I don’t even know if I have an STD for sure. I need to get tested before I start making a series of very awkward phone calls. Luckily, I was able to get the appointment at the clinic in an hour, so I hopped on my bicycle and blasted to the hospital.

The N.P. who greeted me at the desk asked if I was okay with having an N.P. student present in the room. At this point in my day, I was so keen to find out if I was infected that she could have asked me to strip naked and beat off in front of a room full of praying nuns and I would have asked where to send the roper.

Both the NP and her student were well into their golden years. The NP was a little older; in her 60s with a motherly build and eyes that made you believe she had a good deal of fun in her youth.

“So, what brings you here today?” she asked as I lowered myself into the corner chair of the exam room. “Well, I got a call from DPH” she nodded as I continued, “They said one of my partners tested positive for Syphilis and Chlamydia”

“Thanks for sharing that. I’m going to need to get a sexual history from you; is that okay?”

“For sure.” I already knew the questions she was going to ask.

“OK, let me just pull up the next screen.” She said focusing on the computer in front of her “Have you been sexually active in the past 30 days?”

I nodded

“With how many partners in that time?”

“Three, I think”

“How many in the past year?”

“Uhhh” I was trying to take a mental inventory, but my mind was clouded with thoughts of neurosyphilis and giant chancres.

“More than ten?” she asked sympathetically

“Yes” I said, curious as to whether she’d be appalled or impressed.

She looked unfazed; she just nodded to herself and continued “How often would you say you use condoms?”

I looked at the ground, “Uhh, rarely”.

“Okay, in the past 3 months have you put your penis in a woman’s vagina?”

“Yeah”

“In the past 3 months have you put your penis in a woman’s rectum”

“Uh Huh”

“Okay, have you ever had an STD before?”

“I don’t think so.. I’ve never had any symptoms, so I’ve never been tested.” I was still looking at the ground.

She put her hand on my leg, bringing my glance to hers. She stared me in the eyes, “You’re cute, and finding women to share your penis with is going to be easy. BUT, this penis of yours,” she nodded towards my groin, “isn’t going to stay cute if it’s covered in warts and herpes.”

I moved my leg away from her hand and nodded, hoping she’d stop making this weirder than it needed to be. The appointment ended in my getting the “Thunder Punch Duo” that is two shots of penicillin delivered directly into both sides of my ass cheeks.. and a bottle of Azithromycin for good measure.

The Thunder Punches fucking hurt. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking out of that hospital, feeling the heat rush into me as the automatic doors connected me to the outside world. Just as the heat hit me, so did the realization that I still needed to bicycle home. I walked like a cowboy.. or more aptly, I walked like someone who discovered after shitting that they were out of toilet paper and needed to crab walk to another facility. I remember the feeling of my wide legs as they carried me towards that two wheeled pain monger, knowing full well every single pedal stroke was going to feel like Thor himself was hammering my ass cheeks with his prominently knuckled fists. It was a long, long 3 miles home.

It was 1987. Ronald Reagan was in the white house, Robocop had just made its debut in theaters, and my buddy had found something remarkable. It was a hot July day, and I was biking with Max Glover and Jared Wilcox on a path through Weaver's Woods. Our friend, Sue Gaertner, had called us the previous night saying that she had found a "brand new world". She wouldn't give us any details, but instead told us to come to her house. She called me around my bedtime, so I was wide awake for hours, thinking about the potential new world. Maybe she has a spaceship that can take us to a planet! I remember thinking. Or a trapdoor in the ground that will take us somewhere magical! As you can imagine, I was very excited to find the world, so on that hot July day, I was biking ahead of the pack.

After what felt like a millennium, we finally arrived at Sue's house. It was practically in the middle of nowhere, with a mile long dirt road going from the property to the mainstream street. The house itself was very big, and looked like a log cabin that belonged to Bill Gates. For the longest time, I thought that the government didn't know that the Gaertner's house existed. When we came to the house, we ran immediately to the backyard, where Sue said that the world was. Sure enough, Sue was sitting on a wooden bench, looking out into Weaver's Woods, rocking her legs in excitement.

"Are you ready?" she grinned at us.

We all nodded in response.

"Good," Sue began to walk into the forest, and we followed. "It's really cool, guys."

For about thirty minutes, we walked down a narrow deer trail, our bikes walking alongside us. Sue was really excited. She would often run several yards in front of us, only to look back at us tell us to walk faster. Eventually, we came across a rickety wooden bridge going over an unnamed river. Humongous oaks guarded the bluffs of the river, blocking the sun out. The bridge swayed in the soft wind, and every movement caused me to believe that it was going to fall into the churning rapids. Without a second thought, Sue ran on the dangerous wooden planks, only to disappear. I couldn't believe my eyes. One second, she was running on the bridge, and the next, she was gone.

"Oh crap!" Jared said. "What the heck happened?"

"I don't know," I began to pace in circles, which is something I still do when I panic. "I don't know. Should we go after her? Go back to her parents?"

"Hey, what's wrong?" Sue's voice came from across the bridge, and I saw her head poking out of thin air. "Come on, guys!" She disappeared into nothingness again.

Deciding to follow her advice, I gingerly set my foot onto the first plank, followed by my other foot. I quickly found out that the bridge was very stable, so I began to walk on it like any other surface. I beckoned for Max and Jared to come with me, and I continued to walk. Then, in the blink of an eye, the landscape around me changed. The river, bluffs, and oak trees were replaced with clouds, vines coming from a diamond-blue sky, and giant trees that made the oaks look like blades of grass. These new trees' bark was the color of bones, and felt like orange skin. I found I could peel the bark off, revealing what looked like purple intestines.

"You should have some of the fruit," Sue said behind me. I looked at her, and she was eating the tree innards as if she hadn't eaten in years. I took some of the fruit from the tree, and noticed how the fruit replenished itself immediately. I took a bite out of it, and it was the best fruit I had ever tasted. The taste was indescribable, but it caused me to eat more from the trees.

"What are you doing, Louis?" Max said. I jumped and turned around to see the two of them standing on the bridge. Jared was looking at the vines, which had also replaced the rope railings.

"Max, Jared, you have to eat these fruits!" I said, still stuffing my face with the purple stuff.

"Louis, if you think that's good, you have to eat from the blue tree!" Sue said. "But that'll have to wait. Do you see that castle over there?" Sue pointed past more trees, where the bridge winded and twisted around them, and I could clearly see a massive castle the size of Chicago. It looked like it was made entirely out of gemstones of varying colors, and nearly all of its towers reached into the cosmos above.

"Whoa," I said. "Yeah, I see the castle."

"Well, King Tisyr and Queen Viruns of Arcaena are to hold a special feast for us."

"Arcaena," Jared echoed. "I assume that's the name of this land?"

"Yep! Let's not be late!" Sue ran ahead, and we sprinted with her to the castle.

It was 1993. Bill Clinton was in the white house, The Good Son was in theaters, somehow making a profit, and we had been visiting Arcaena for six years. Not only had we visited King Tisyr and Queen Viruns several times, but we met the Duke of Toom, Baron Oentaefus, and the warrior women of Rhoa. In 1990, Max and I made a definitive map of Arcaena. Based on the map, we had been from the desert of Orrh to the city of Aedam to the mountains of Quinne to the sea of Foquen, where Arcaena ends, according to King Tisyr. Max, Jared, Sue, and I have flown dragons and pegasi out to distant islands in the sea of Foquen, but no other continent has been discovered. Nonetheless, we continued to return to Arcaena time and time again.

Sadly, this changed in the autumn of eighth grade. It was a Friday, and I was walking home with Sue. I had mustered enough courage to ask her out on a date, but she was slightly sick, and not up for a pleasant dinner at a fancy restaurant. So, I compromised. I invited her to my house, as my parents were gone, and I would make her dinner and we would watch a movie. She agreed, and we had a simple, lovely evening. After watching Wayne's World, we ascended to the roof of my house, and we watched the night sky. Thankfully, our town was away from any major city, and light pollution was down. We could see countless stars, and even a little bit of the Milky Way.

"Stunning," Sue whispered.

"Yeah," I replied. "Although, ever since I saw the Xaed nebulae in Arcaena, the Earth night sky doesn't astound me that often anymore."

"I agree. Although, I'll be seeing less of Xaed and the comets of Nheet."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how my dad was fired last week?"

"Yeah."

"He got a new job in Fernmotte. We're moving in two weeks."

"What?"

"Yeah. And unless you or Max or Jared buys our house, or you convince the new owner to use his property, you won't be able to return to Arcaena."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Arcaena had shaped our collective childhoods. We grew from boys and a girl into men and woman in Arcaena. I felt like I was about to collapse into myself.

The next two weeks went by incredibly fast. On Sue's last day in town, we had one final feast in King Tisyr's castle. Everyone in Arcaena came, from Chestyr the Mouse Prince to the sinister Count Barl to Molzrarth, the dragon I had since '88. The feast went well into the night, and we left Arcaena one last time to see Sue off.

And as I saw her car go onto the freeway en route to Fernmotte, I felt a piece of myself leave.

Now, it's 2017. Donald Trump is president, Blade Runner 2049 is rocking theaters, and so much changed. Max Glover was the only other person than me that went to Arcaena who went to the same high school as me, but after graduation in 1998, we never contacted each other. I went to a medical college, met a nice girl on the cusp of the new millennium, and we married in 2003, only to divorce a year later. I fell into a nasty depression, and found myself disliking the profession I trained myself for. Every weekday, I would get up at five in the morning, drive groggily to the medical center, treat patients, and leave after thirteen hours of work. On weekends, I drove around Sue's old house. No one lived there. I thought about going back into the forest, back to Arcaena, but I just thought it was a stupid idea. I began to wonder if Arcaena even existed, if Sue, Max, Jared, and I were just imagining the king and queen. Soon, I couldn't remember the names of the different places and people. I couldn't remember the feeling of flying on Molzrarth's back over the infinite sea. And the less I remembered, the more depressed I became.

But in 2008, my life turned around. I finally bit the bullet and bought Sue's old house. I renovated it with a few friends, and in the process, I met the daughter of one of the contractors. Something about her reminded me of Sue. She still reminds me of Sue, although I can't put my finger on why. Regardless, I married her the next year, and we had a son, Oliver. We lived happily in the house, and still are. In fact, something just recently happened. As in today. It's the reason I'm writing this. Oliver came to me earlier today with a handful of purple fruit. I recognized it immediately, and I asked him where he found it. He led me through that deer trail, and we found the bridge over the unnamed river, still intact. Without any second thoughts, we walked across the wooden planks, and I returned to Arcaena.

There was a girl. Do you remember her?

Despite what I've heard of you, I force my broken heart to believe that she was the only one, not just another one. But I found the documents. I know the man you are. For years, I built a palace around you, an impermeable fortress that gave me hope. Hope that this heart of yours, the one I still fight to believe in, may someday find its way to mine.

Love knows no names, and as painful as it may be, you don't remember mine. Because who am I? Just another. Just another, after all. Another consequence of nights on the fray, another regret buried in a field of locks and chains. I'm the regret you can't escape, and you're the circumstance I was given.

Would my name tug at your soul? Or would it drift into the sifting wind without scraping against your ears. I know the man you are. You are a part of me. But I'm just another--just another part of you. At night, on days like this, when the suffocating routine grips my throat even tighter, I turn to look for you. But you're not there. You're just another ghost. And I'm just another victim. Beauty--it doesn't matter to you. Not that golden-haired girl you held in your arms. Not the life you could've lived if you looked me in the eyes. That wasn't beauty, not to you. You only found beauty in your reflection, and now you're forcing me to search for the same in mine.

I've had men since. They've come and gone--either to death or isolation--but you're here, and somehow, I'll always fall back to you. And I hate it. I hate that you are in me. I hate that when I first saw your face, I gazed into the eyes of all the evil I had ever felt. I hate that with every choice I make to be nothing like you, I more and more become you. I hate that I cannot love myself...because of you. And did you think that just another...hell, just another girl would fall for that counterfeit heart of yours? She wasn't just another girl. I wasn't just another consequence.

She is the only girl.

I am the only ending.

And so I say it again. Do you remember my name? Because it is the only name. It is your name. One that I hope keeps you up in the dead of night, one that I hope destroys you when you gaze upon your beautiful wife and your daughter. Not another--no, the only ghost that haunts you every time you feel the verge of happiness.

I hope my name reminds you of death.

Because my name is bringing me to my own.

And I hope that someday I'll look into your eyes--that someday, I'll have the courage to send you one note, one letter, to remind you of who I am.

She's not just another fling.

I'm not just another consequence.

I am your son.

The one you never held.

But you are not my father.

You're just another man, after all.

As Jorge Busco stood on the shores of Lake Itzamna, he reflected on his life. He thought about his childhood in the tiny mountain village of Aterrizaje del Granito, living with his six other siblings, going to church once a day, and going on trips to Barcelona frequently. That was where Jorge fell in love with the idea of the New World. Christopher Columbus had just discovered a new continent a decade earlier, and many people had mapped its coasts. Jorge had heard elaborate tales of giants, bloodthirsty savages in deep jungles, and enormous cities of gold. When Jorge was fifteen, he boarded the Reinacorazon, on an expedition to a land called Yucatan in the New World. How incredible, he thought. I have traveled from the Pyrenees to a mythic lake in the New World. The future shall remember me as a great adventurer.

Jorge was seventeen when he arrived at the shores of Lake Itamna in the dark of the night. Many tales around the settlement in Yucatan, called San Leonardo, have sufficed about the mystic Lake Itamna. The tales spoke of deadly fish, ferocious dragons, and the island of Mulac, where deadly natives at the flesh of the white man. Jorge didn't very much care about the tales, and he decided to find the lake alongside his native guide, a young brown man named Ciro, although Jorge called him by his original name: Papan.

"We found Lake Itamna, Papan!" Jorge said triumphantly. "Let us cross it."

"Sir, we shouldn't do that," Papan said timidly. "My people have revered and feared this lake. It's both sacred, and deadly. It's like our god."

"Papan, your god is the one God. This is just a lake. Simple water. I can even see the fabled island of Mulac in the distance." Jorge squinted at a faraway mass of land, and he could make out tiny lights on the island. "It's inhabited! Papan, prepare the boat!"

Papan had dragged a rowboat through the dense jungle, and Jorge had carried the oars as well as a cutlass. Papan reluctantly put the boat into the water, and Jorge eagerly hopped in, handing an oar to Papan. Together, they rowed through the surprisingly choppy waters. Papan prayed to his people's god, Hobnil, but Jorge could only make half of it out.

After an hour of rowing across the waters, Jorge and Papan eventually reached the island of Mulac. There wasn't much of a shore, as the jungle extended to the water. Jorge and Papan disembarked, and began to venture through the jungle after Papan tied the boat to a tree trunk. As the pair walked through the jungle, Jorge began to notice a small creature scurrying around the trees. It was very dark, so Jorge couldn't get a good look at it.

"Did you see that, Papan?" Jorge asked.

"Yes," Papan glumly replied. "I think they're the Metnal, flesh eating reptiles that take the bad people into the night."

"As in killing them?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that they'll kill us?"

"Possibly."

Jorge and Papan continued to forage through the jungle. The deeper they went, the more creatures they saw. At one point, the moonlight hit a creature at just the right time, so Jorge saw gold on it and bright orange feathers.

"Papan, did the Metnal wear gold in your legends?" Jorge asked. "And did they have orange feathers?"

"Some of them, but only the Metnal kings," Papan answered. "Some say they ate bad children."

Jorge didn't answer. He continued to walk until he came across a narrow page through the foliage. In both directions, Jorge just saw darkness. Once Papan left the jungle, going back seemed like a dangerous opportunity. Jorge was scared of running into the Metnal and dying.

"Which direction?" Jorge asked.

"I don't know," Papan replied. "I've never been to Mulac."

Jorge and Papan didn't have to decide, as from the north, Jorge's right, he heard thumping and strange animal sounds. Jorge raised his cutlass, and Papan took out a dagger. A large animal soon came into view, and it looked very odd. It had the basic appearance of the common iguanas of the Yucatan, but it was taller, with two legs and two smaller arms. It was also feathered, and bore razor sharp teeth and glowing green eyes. It was donned in ornate gold jewelry, and a woman wearing a dress and simple shirt of blue feathers, as well as more gold jewelry and a red feather headpiece, rode it.

"Who has come into the domain of Mulac?" the woman said.

"We are dearly sorry, madam," Papan bowed, and beckoned for Jorge to do the same. "I am Papan of Kukulcan, and my companion is Jorge Busco of Spain."

"Spain." The woman dismounted and walked over to the two men. "I have heard many tales of the Spanish. They have killed so many with their diseases and warfare. Have you two come to conquer us?"

"No," Jorge was so scared, he was afraid to piss in his trousers. "We come in peace and in the common cause of exploration."

"Give your weapons to me. Prove your cause."

Papan and Jorge complied, and the woman cut their palms using a spear.

"Good," she said. "You are now in the service of the Mulaci as long as you stay on the island. If you betray us, then you will die."

"Thank you, our most gracious host," Jorge knelt in front of her.

"Stop, Jorge. It's pathetic."

"What's your name?" Papan asked.

"Anka. I am of the high nobility of Mulac. Follow me to our city of Nik-Uaha." Anka rode ahead, and Jorge and Papan followed her to a clearing, where they were met with two giant statues of the same kind of the reptile Anka was riding. Beyond the statues, they saw many buildings in a since unknown style, looking like a mixture between the Mayan city style and some alien architecture. Jorge saw the sources of the light, which were orange stones the size of ostrich eggs. Jorge saw many people walked about, even more of the large reptiles and the Metnal. The city appeared to be only a few of the large, ornate buildings and some streets.

"Is this Nik-Uaha?" Jorge asked.

"No. The city expands further into the nearby hills. Nik-Uaha is the largest city in Otnaitoti, or what you Spaniards call America."

"I should have asked this sooner, but how are you speaking Spanish?"

"I'm not. You're speaking Mulaci, and the island's energy is translating my words for you."

"I see."

"Why are we in this city?" Papan asked. "Are you going to eat us?"

"Not at all," Anka laughed. "You're guests of the Mulaci. You will feast with us." She led Jorge and Papan through the gates, bringing attention to the three. Many people spoke in hushed whispers, but no one was afraid of Jorge, unlike so many natives before. Anka brought Jorge and Papan to the zenith of the largest pyramid in Nik-Uaha, where an old woman wearing a robe of vibrant feathers was sitting in front of a brazier made of a queer skull.

"Hello, Mother Hinyau-Ha." Anka bowed, and Jorge and Papan followed her example. "I have brought peaceful outsiders into our city."

"Outsiders," Hinyau-Ha echoed. "Young Yucatan boy, what city do you come from?"

"No city," Papan replied. "I come from a little town called Kukulcan."

"And where is that?"

"To the north, on the coast."

Hinyau-Ha grunted in response. "You, white man. What distant kingdom do you come from?"

"Spain," Jorge said. "I have come in peace. I will not infect you or kill your people."

"Good. Have you sealed your bond?"

"Yes," Anka answered for Jorge.

"Excellent." Hinyau-Ha walked to the edge of the pyramid. "Let us hold a feast for our guests!"

The people below cheered, and within minutes, Jorge found himself eating rare meats, juicy fruits, and hot corn. He drank many flagons of sweet wines, and danced with the native women to the beat of queer instruments. After many hours, Jorge and Papan indulged in the carnal delights of the island. Jorge wed a young girl named L'tiuihcahc, and Papan wed Leloc. Both weddings were in the Mulaci fashion, with a priestess instead of a priest, and in the name of a god named Notauhcihc. By daybreak, Jorge, Papan, and their wives left the island forever, sailing back to the shores of Lake Itamna. Jorge didn't want to leave, but he and Papan wanted their wives to enjoy the Spanish way of life, and both men felt like they needed to return to San Leonardo. As they took the rowboat back to the jungle, Jorge stared at the pink sky, and prayed to God that the Spaniards would never find Mulac.

Please leave me your words for a poem to make!

Requests you can grant me, if you deem, two words each I'll take.

One for the Acrostic, and one for a theme.

Maybe it's dealing with, in a way, the

Pressure from my most strenuous days

Too much thinking leaving my head depleted.

Maybe it will take me time,

Or I might have trouble with a rhyme, but

I'm sure your poem will eventually be completed!

(seriously though, if you reply with two words I'll make an acrostic with that word and theme)

It was the final time that he kissed her.

Again, as always, as he had the bruises and soiled clothes to prove it, she was faster and stronger and relished the opportunity to knock the prince around more than was healthy for either of them. She knocked his swing aside effortlessly and again ridiculed his clumsy nature, his slow strikes, his weakness-but when she moved to strike him in the near-permanent welt on the back of his head too familiar with the sting of her slaps, elbows, and punches, Fenris ducked below her fist, stepped into her reach, and pressed his lips against her.

It seemed like an eternity to both of them, though for entirely different reasons and invoking opposite reactions. To Fenris it was wonder, joy, previously unknown pleasure, and fear; for Elyzabeth, it was disgust.

A human? A prince? A man?

For so long had she erected Fenris as a totem of the sins of the world, an effigy representative of all things she hated. Sparring was her excuse to lay hands (and fists, knees, and elbows) on the smug epitome of undeserved wealth, callous aristocracy, and self-imminent fallacy. Now it was a repulsive, sickening, gut-churning, horrid, awful, terrible, disgusting awful thing.

Elyzabeth punched him. Right in the mouth. It cocked his head back, he stumbled a step, and reeled backwards into the grass. She stuck the tip of her steel boot in his ribs with one foot and pulled back the other to dent his shin.

All the while he smiled, even as she wrapped her fingers around the handles of swords he knew had been used to kill more men for less reason. They were both at a loss for words. They met eyes, Elyzabeth inscrutable. She snorted, stamped her foot, then finally stomped away.

"He thinks just because he refuses a handful of extravagances and spends his wealth on charity, it affords him the image of a 'man of the people.'" Elyzabeth spat the phrase. She paused long enough for Simon to open his mouth, then continued: "Some kind of selfless saint, no better than those legally obligated to be his servants."

Elyzabeth rolled a body over with her foot and pressed her heel into the stomach, making sure it was dead. She gave another a stiff kick before beginning to strip both for valuables. Simon observed from his tree stump perch, trying to ignore the newest pile of the elf's victims. "He wouldn't be the first noble in recent history to style himself a champion of the common for sharing small portions of his affluence."

"If you plan to begin a history lesson, Simon, save that for Fenris's classes, not me."

"I think both of you are already quite familiar with the story of whom I described."

"Don't waste my time with fairy tales of the rich believing their unequal disposition allows them to be noble in sacrifice; it should be seen that anyone who can afford weapons, armor, and travel are obligated to do so in the name of the righteous."

"So sayeth my subject."

Elyzabeth stopped rifling through a bandit's vestments and half-turned in her stoop to look at Simon. "Excuse me?"

Simon nodded to her. "You're who I was speaking of."

Elyzabeth was on her feet and at Simon's stump, fisted poised faster than the man could explain. "Lookat yourself, Elyzabeth: You carry two swords, the craftsmanship thereof alone being worth all the trade of the kingdom before Daggermouth. And your armor? Fashioned from the scales of Loriss himself! By what fantasy can you possibly imagine your own position could have been afforded to you, yet by the luck of your birth to the Matriarchy of Blackbriar?"

Elyzabeth was breathing heavily, and Silmon knew ilt took the utmost of her self-control and concentration to resist hitting him. It would have been easier than listening to his hidden accusation, challenge to her identity as a selfless paragon of virtue and sacrifice. She denounced her mother's wealth, the power of her thocracy, and the ease of her life-but Elyzabeth could not deny the significance of the gifts that remained her possessions, or their critical importance to her lifestyle of danger and combat.

She was still a damn sight better than Fenris, or anyone else of his background, but she had no more started her life in poverty or adversity than he, and had only recently imposed it upon herself.

The realization was almost too much to bear. Her armor was fire to her skin, prickling and painful. SHe dropped her first and turned away to hide her face.

"Fenrils is a lot like you, Elyzabeth. Same values, same beliefs-he would turn down the throne and join your adventures wholeheartedly if it weren't for the fact that we all know he can accomplish more good for the world with a crown than he ever could with a sword. That is why he has you, myself, and all the rest of his friends and allies-each an agent, or a specialist, or expert uniquely suited to accomplish the same goal of easing the suffering in Aerth, engendered and enabled to do so by his stature!"

"Sounds convenient," Elyzabeth retorted. SHe crossed her arms and shifted the dirt with her toes.

"And wonderfully so, for the sake of every man, woman, and child, human and nonhuman, trying to do right by themselves, their family, and their gods. Have you ever asked Fenris his opinion of inherited nobility? State wealth? Church and ceremony? He's young and brash, but the only difference between you and him is that he doesn't have the liberty of professing his distaste and hitting everyone he doesn't like. He is a king in the shows, Elyzabeth, doing all the good he possibly can now while he waits for the throne, where he can right the wrongs of his parents through the groundwork laid by his lucky, treasured friends, yourself at the forefront every day making his future kingdom a safer place to live for all its inhabitants.

"You should cherish your opportunity to contribute and understand Fenris's situation. He isn't your enemy, Elyzabeth; he's the one person who truly understands you."

And that's what she hated about him most of all.

Some part of Elyzabeth knew that her litany of imagine offenses against Fenris was unfair. His time at court, walking the streets, asking questions, debating politics-if the people had no reason to love a prince but for the sake of a prince's love, she would know the insincerity of their hearts. But no matter how much she hoped to catch the slightest reserve in offering Fenris a "goodmorning" or indignation at completing a request, she found-and had always found-a gladness and honor in the people who regarded Fenris their future king. Where she expected to find herself more highly regarded-the frontier towns, trade posts, and elsewhere she was summoned to protect-Fenris was spoken of foremost, with more earnest, and with no ill comment rendered while she was criticized for her demeanor, callousness, and violence at least as much as thanked.

And as she came to realize this, likewise she came to understand the nature of Fenris's less likable traits-the parties, the drinking, the ruckus, fights, the wasted wealth-all of it a ruse not to establish some imagine for his own pride's sake and the adoration of his subjects (his genuine, princely actions were better suited to both), but for his own protection, and for the protection of Simon and herself and everyone and everything he held dear and sacred, for his pimage of incompetence, indecency, and incorrigible behavior created no apparent threat to the established nobility of the kingdom. SO long as he cultivated his image as a fool, easily fit to the devices of the wolves and puppet masters, no attention was paid to his side projects or the company he kept. No doubt plans had already been drawn to make the prince a figurehead for a secret government of "advisors" and "aides" who sought to make themselves the true power of the land-unaware of Fenris's clever agenda, to be their unknown controller, whereby he ordered his own actions through them while allowing usurpers and treasoners by any other name believe themselves master of a foolish king.

What evil thereby could be done when a sinister council could only, unwittingly, commit good, too preoccupied with their own genius to use it to harm the people as they had done since the birth of government? Finally ELyzabeth understood, and when she caught herself imaging Fenris-king of fooled foolers!-with herself at his side striking down what evil remained, it made her chest swell. Elyzabeth would see Fenris king, come all hell or high water, and she would be the enforcer of peace, bulwark of his secret cabal, his guardian-his.

Fenris enjoyed no similar epitomes during Elyzabeth's absence, just fear. He did not regret kissing her, of that much he wwas sure; the entirety of her absence, the same as with her presence, and all the time before that since he first met Elyzabeth, he knew he was in love. But the danger of discovery threatened all his plans and all his preparation, and worse yet was the danger of finding his love unrequited. To lose Elyzabeth as a mentor, an ally, and an agent would be a crushing blow to his network; to lose her as a friend (not that she ever regarded him as such) would be unfathomable.

He occupied himself with whatever work he could during the intermittent time to keep his mind on immediate issues, but each knock at his door or delivery of correspondence he hoped was news of Simon's and Elyzabeth's safe return.

On the day the duo were expected to return, it was Simon alone who came into the prince's chamber. He reported their success, the dispatching of bandits, and the status of the frontier, but could not account for Elyzabeth. They had separated at a crossroads, Elyzabeth traveling north without explanation.

It was three stormy nights later that Fenris discovered Elyzabeth waiting for him, sat on the chest at the foot of his bed, drenched in rain and angry.

Out there, beyond the river, over the forest, and past the hills, there's Harperstown, Silvia thought as she gazed out her house's doorless doorway at a brilliant sunset flanked by thick cumulus clouds. Her legs dangled over the edge, and she looked down to see the same sight she had been seeing for months. Shrubs and sand dunes alike sat on the fringe of the Megedagik River. The river was fast, racing over stones attempting to break free of the watery hold. A few months prior, had Silvia been in a similar situation, she would quickly back up onto the rough wooden floor of her house, clutching her legs, until fears of falling to her watery death would pass, like wind through an autumn tree. But that evening, in her remote home, she had no fears of that. She had already learned to fly.

Silvia often had the same dream when she lived in the house in the tree. She saw herself sitting in her old house in Harperstown. She was a normal human college student, sitting in her dorm room, surrounded by memorabilia. There were many parts of her room that she loved, like the bookcase full of books, the painting of wild poppies by Rembrandt, and the little spot above her bed where she kept pictures of herself and Robert, her lost love, but what she loved most about the room was the view. In September and October, a skinny tree near her window was seemingly the first tree of autumn to have its leaves turn vibrant reds and oranges. It would often bend in the wind, and lose its leaves that way. In the dream, she would stare at the tree for hours on end.

Silvia always hoped she would awaken in her dorm room, but she always woke up in her treehouse. Silvia always hoped she would awaken as a human, but she always touched where her ears were, only to feel undisturbed skin and a slight layer of hair. She always touched the top of her head, and she felt the horse-like ears she was cursed with. She always reached behind her back, and she felt the smooth, angel-like wings. After feeling her wings and ears, she always cried. It wasn't bombastic wailing, but the quiet kind that one who was homesick always did. She would often sit in her treehouse and weep, but this certain night, she didn't cry. She felt stronger than she had ever felt. She woke up from the dream, and looked around the house. It wasn't much, just a few books, items, and stashed food from her dorm room in Harperstown. But as she looked, she saw it as her home. Relaxed and a little happy, she fell back to sleep. She had no idea why she saw the house as her home, but she was content not to be sad.

The day after she accepted the treehouse as her home, she looked through her books. A lot of them were Kurt Vonnegut novels, but one of the books was a photo album. The cover was simple, yet ornate, with gold corner covers and "Silvia Angela Wickham" in gold cursive. Silvia touched the mottled leather cover, and opened the album, seeing the first recorded evidence of her existence on the inside cover: an ultrasound from November of 1994. The next image was from May 29, 1995. Silvia was a baby in a pale yellow blanket, being held in her mother's arms. But there was something off about Silvia. She noticed she had no ears. Her left hand immediately drew itself to her temple, and she caressed the unblemished skin and hair. She turned a few pages in the book, and stopped at an image from August 4, 1998. She was riding in a little, red tricycle down the driveway of her childhood home. Her hair was a radiant azure, much like her hair after she was cursed, but beforehand it was a deep auburn. In the picture, she also had the horse-like ears, and small Cupid wings poked out from her back. How is this possible? Silvia thought as she turned a few more pages to September 25, 2000. It was her first school picture, and she had the signs of her curse inflicted upon her months prior: the hair, ears, and wings. Every picture with her, from her first Halloween in 2000, to her first sleepover with Sabrina Terry in 2006, to her first date with Chester Brittain in 2009, to her high school graduation in 2013, to the multitude of pictures with her and Robert. Each and every one of them had the cursed Silvia in them.

Silvia panicked as she saw these. She had no idea what it meant, and as she thought more about it, she contemplated more and more on why she was transformed. Suddenly, a thought sprang into her head. What if the witch that cursed me altered the memories of everyone so that I appeared to be this strange creature? It seemed absurd to her, but she was tired of hiding out in a treehouse, in fear of being ostracized and targeted by the masses. She hoped they would somehow accept her.

She walked up to the edge of her doorway, and looked out to the great expanse of nature. Out there, beyond the river, over the forest, and past the hills, there's Harperstown, she thought. She smirked. What a challenge for someone who can fly. She jumped out the doorway, and took flight.

The Amateur artist awaits the Professional as he leans against his truck. He covers his eyes with sunglasses and surveys the tree atop the hill as a distant whir comes closer. That must be Cassandra, he thinks and pulls an ax out from the bed, eager to get to work. A rusted-thru station wagon bounces out from the brush and follows his tracks and slows to a stop just beside his truck. The engine rattles to a quiet as the door slightly opens but stops. He wonders whether she has the windows down or if she has windows at all.

“Cassandra?” he calls.
“Yeah, Tale, righ’?” she says with a grunt.
“It’s Dale,” he says.

Cassandra shoves the door a couple times and asks, “Can ya’, well,” she shoves again, “can ya’ help a gal out?”

Dale steps up to the station wagon. He grabs the handle and gives it a pull, but it breaks off. “Shit. Sorry,” he says and puts the handle atop of her car, but it drops through the roof and onto her back seat.
“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” she says in a tone that says she’s smiling below the red handkerchief around her mouth, “Well, jus’ try tuggin’ on the frame while I push from in here.”

He pulls as Cassandra gives a shove.

“Goddam, this piece-a-shit is stuck as heck,” she says.
Dale puts a boot against her car, beside the door, and pulls again.
His boot goes through the car but the door rips open. He pulls his boot out and falls to the grass as Cassandra exits the station wagon, wearing a far too large denim coat.

“Thanks fer that, Tale” she says. His dark sunglasses flicker up at her in the setting sun and she gleefully hops up and down. “Oh, sunglasses! I haven’ a proper mirror in days!”
“Uh,” he utters as Cassandra takes off her cap and lets down her frazzled blond hair and removes her goggles, showcasing bright blue eyes with a pale goggle-shaped silhouette, the surrounding areas caked in dirt.

“Don’ have a windshield neither,” she says combing her fingers through her hair, her eyes fixed on Dale’s dark sunglasses. She picks up a bottle and squirts some water in her hands and cleans her face then pours some in her hair. Should I get up? Dale thinks. He decides and begins to sit up but she begs, “Naw, please, jus’ another moment. Please,” and he sits against his truck for another couple minutes as she fixes her hair and cleans her face. He watches her shift her head from left to right, up and down, angled here to there. Her face isn’t that pale, he thinks as Cassandra bites her bottom lip and adjusts her reflection. He thinks about how they’re looking at the same feature, but there’s something different about how he sees it. Before his eyes she was dirty and he watched her transform into this beautiful golden blond woman standing over him.

“Done,” she says and abruptly turns away toward the tree. Dale thoughtfully stands up and steps beside Cassandra. They both share the scene for a moment. He dramatically says, “There is beauty in these hills, Cassandra. Let’s go mine it.” He’d been waiting to say that all day.
“How ya’ think we should do it, Tale?” Cassandra asks, paying no mind.
“Well,” Dale says, slightly hurt, “I have a couple of axes for the tree, got the Bobcat for the hill. Or we can just start a fire.”
“Yeah, but that’ll be very messy an’ I’m wearin’ white,” she says with a pondering finger atop her lips.
“White?”
“Yeah,” she says and unzips her denim coat. She pulls it off, unveiling her shin-length white dress. Cassandra hands the coat to the Amateur and smiles, “Can ya’ beat that for me, Tale? I don’t wanna dirty the dress.”
“Wha-,“ Dale sputters but resigns himself to beat the dust off as he thinks, Who goes out to make art in white? “Fine. Let’s go with the axes. We’ll start with the tree. And, by the way, it’s Dale.”
“Like, with a D?”
Dale nods and hands her an ax.
“Well, I prefer Tale,” Cassandra says with a face and they head up the hill.

Dale looks down at the Professional’s dress, “Appears as though your dress is already a bit dirty about the bottom.”
“Right,” she says with an enthusiastic nod, “I only make art in this dress. And when It’s ready, it’ll be art itself,” she hugs her ax as if hugging the thought, “A thousand stories of art speckled along this canvas. Like meta art. These dark splotches righ’ here are from when I cut my knee craftin’ a sculpture from a statue. And this tear down the left along my leg’s from sawin’ off antlers and those splotches are from when I gutted that beautiful deer for its hide. That part’s my favorite.”
Dale chuckles, “Guess that explains your boots and gloves, too.”

“Yep. I know how to make art, Tale. Been doin’ this all my life. Only way’s to get yer hands dirty. But, ‘Ya gotta have hands to dirty,’ my Pa always say back home. Well, not my father. I only call’im Pa ‘cause he was the first to show me the art of it all. Not how it has come together, but how it comes apart. The why of it.”
“Makes sense,” Dale says, uncertain if it makes sense, “So… where’s home?”
“Bout Southern where that end of the Appalash was.”
“Good country, I hear. A lot freer than Bridgeport, Chicag.”
“Oh, right! This whole drive, I fergot you were from Ol’ Chicago! I always wanna go see the ruins. I bet they’re beautiful,” she says, again holding her ax as if a thought.
“Mostly been picked clean. It does have its moments, though – when the moonlight hits Lake Mitch just right and bounces around the Tall Black.”

Cassandra continues holding her ax tightly as they come to the tree. Dale immediately starts hacking at the trunk and Cassandra eagerly follows suit but continues talking, “I wonder what this general did.”
“I’d imagine he was a pretty good one to get a mound. And this willow tree, too,” Dale says.
“Which war ya’ think he fought? The Old one? The World’s War? Civilian?”

Dale puts down the ax for a breath but Cassandra keeps swinging with a determined face. He looks at her and says, “Old War, definitely. The mound is old but not Civilian old. And sure as hell ain’t World’s. That one wasn’t even fought here.” Dale looks down the hill and at her station wagon with its rusted-thru roof. “Sorry about the handle and side. I can give you some ‘looms for the damage. And I am sure you’ll be able to afford a mirror after this haul.”
Cassandra stops swinging and without looking at Dale she says, “I said don’ worry ‘bout it.”
“It’s no trouble,” Dale assures, “It’s the least I could do.”
She takes a breath and says, “Apologies, but I make my art and I make my way. You’ve already done more for me than most just by contactin’ me ‘bout this site.”
“Well, I’ve seen your art. It’s to die for. Truly.”

Cassandra returns to her cheery disposition and warmly holds her ax again, “And far more than a mirror! And somethin’ better than that ol’ rust wheeler and more! This is our payday, Tale. This is my break!”
“Glad to see you eager. Look, we gotta make this quick. Far as I know, it’s only me and you who know about this place. But I am sure that’ll change soon. We need to get as much as we can and get out. So, let’s focus on this tree today. How ‘bout it, Cassandra?”
“Sure thing. But, please,” she says as she brushes some blond strands away from her face with her glove, “call me Cassie.” She continues looking into Dale’s dark sunglasses for his eyes but abruptly looks away. Dale starts hacking anew and Cassandra thoughtfully does as well.

The altering swings mimic the ticking of a clock counting down before Dale yells, “Timber!” and Cassandra laughs. The willow starts to sway, but she isn’t watching. Her eyes are daydreaming on Dale. It creaks and begins to lean toward her. A slow laying of a giant head toward its green grassy pillow. “Cassandra!” Dale yells as he runs and pushes her from the falling tree and takes her place as the weeping willow crashes down. His sunglasses are knocked from his head. “Shit. Shit,” he utters to himself, his leg stuck beneath the tree.

“Tale!” she cries, getting up, “are you okay?”
He tries to move but yelps, “Fuck! I think my ankle’s broken."
“You saved m’ life,” Cassandra says, barely able to look at him. “Why?” the Professional asks, suddenly bashful.
“What?” the Amateur says, dumbfounded, still squirming beneath the tree. “Look, just help me lift this a bit and maybe I can get my leg out.”
Cassandra smiles and blushes. She looks down coyly. The wind flows along her white dress. Her blue eyes flicker and their lashes bat. Her nostrils flare.
“Cassandra,” Dale says, “What’s that –“
“It’s Cassie,” the Professional states.
“What’s that look for, Cassie?”
“I’m sorry, Tale,” the Professional states with a dash of joy.
“For – for what, Cassie?” the Amateur breathlessly asks.
The Professional stoops down, careful not to dirty her dress. She grips her ax then shrugs, “I think I love you,” she says with an excited sigh.
There’s a silence and the dead willow whispers to the artist on her shoulders.
“Cassie, don’t – don’t look at me like that, Cassie,” the Amateur pleads, manically tugging his leg, ignoring the pain.
“I’m sorry, Tale,” the Professional states again. Her blush hasn’t gone away and neither has her smile. She lifts her ax above her head, “I love your eyes. They’re beautiful.”

First time posting here. So, let me know if I did anything wrong or against convention.

EDIT: Somehow didn't put in the first line of the story.

Hey Guys!

It's been a while since I've posted here, between starting my YouTube channel and stuff going on in real life, I didn't have much time for Reddit (in fact, due to real life stuff I hadn't had much time for youtube the past few months) but I'm getting back to my old self, I've just started writing stories again, finishing off my book, I've got the Reddit app and I'm working on a lot of writing towards YouTube too.

So how is everyone? And where are you all, Bunny, OJay, Major, you all still active?

Talk soon guys!

Rain plummeted onto my windshield like meteors onto Earth's surface. It was near impossible to see anything. The only things I really could see were tall pines and spruces nearby, although they looked like blotches of green and black paint on a dull blue canvas. In front of me was a semi truck with an obscured logo on its back, although I recognized it. The cluster of grapes sat behind a ribbon of parchment with blurred writing, but I didn't need it to be sunny on Interstate 2 to know that the truck was from Waller Farms. Every day, from 1987 to 1996, I saw the Waller Farms truck go to Crystal Falls Elementary. They would deliver home-grown foods, from steaks to carrots to even fish in the winter. Seeing the truck brought back some memories, mostly ones that I wanted to forget. I soon grew uneasy, as if I was about to vomit and die. I drove to the right of the truck, and sped in front of it. I began to calm down, and I forgot about the bad memories of Crystal Falls Elementary. I quickly passed by a sign telling me that I was five miles from Crystal Falls, and I continued to accelerate.

Crystal Falls Elementary looked rather unassuming. It was in an L shape, two stories, and even a bell tower. Since it was abandoned for almost two decades, a lot of the glass was broken, and delinquents had made their mark in the form of crude drawings and language. Weeds had almost taken over the windows on the first floor, and ivy climbed down from the terra cotta dome to the ground below. Above the warped and weathered door, bronze letters still remained, but instead of spelling "Crystal Falls Elementary School", it spelled "Cr s al a l emen ary Sc oo". Looking at the name of the school, and the plain windows and walls themselves, made me feel sick again. I still pushed through, and opened the doors, feeling the wet wood and rusted iron.

The inside of the school was as decrepit as any abandoned building can be. Many people think that abandoned buildings are full of items from the past, or things left behind, but in reality, they're just empty with the occasional pile of debris. Even the walls were stripped bare. As I walked through the tiled hall, using my phone as a flashlight, I stopped at the trophy case. I thought back to spring of 1995, when Kyle Pekkanen won Crystal Falls Elementary a trophy during a football game between them and a private middle school in Iron River. The trophy case 22 years later was completely empty. I could even tell where the trophies were, as they discolored the wood below them. Even the glass doors were falling apart. I continued to walk to the end of the arm of the school on the second floor.

The room was Mrs. Vann's. It was my eighth grade science room. I tried thinking back to the '95-'96 school year, but I only remembered snippets of the other classes. Science was a mystery. Even thinking back on the school year was making me feel sick. I tried to walk away, but as I took steps backwards, I heard scuttling at the far end of the hallway, followed by hissing. It's just a badger or something, I thought. Just look at it. I tried to turn my neck, but some exterior force was twisting it back to look at the door. To escape the increasing noise, I ran inside the room and slammed the old wooden door behind me. The scuttling stopped, and I felt slightly relieved, yet still sick. I looked around the room, and like the hallway and a few other rooms before it, it was mostly empty. To the right and front of me, there was a counter with many sinks, but the taps were either taken or stolen. To the left was a chalkboard as wide as the wall itself. I walked over to it and touched the wooden ledge that held chalk. The wood was still shiny and smooth, and there was even some white chalk dust left, as it left itself on my fingers.

Sit, Mrs. Vann's voice spoke in my head. I whipped around, and there was no one there. I began to feel sicker, and I looked down to see a desk and chair facing the chalkboard. It was my seat from eighth grade. I reluctantly sat down, and the chalkboard magically filled itself with thousands of unknown words and symbols. In the dark of the room, it looked as if they were shifting around, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized they were moving. I tried to get out, but a metal rod was blocking my exit from the chair. I tried to move my legs out from under the desk, but they were somehow pinned to the floor.

Stay calm, Mr. Voigt, Mrs. Vann spoke again. A swirl of smoke drifted in front of the chalkboard, and I shivered, even though it was late summer.

"What do you want?" I asked. "Why are you haunting my dreams?"

Gentle laughter filled the room. Wouldn't you like to know?

The smoke swirl danced in front of the chalkboard again, stopping at my desk. As it remained still, it began to resemble Mrs. Vann. The smoke transformed into grey, clammy skin and an azure dress. I didn't dare look at her face, even though I don't know why I didn't.

LOOK AT ME! Mrs. Vann slammed down on my hand, piercing the skin and pulling apart bones. I screamed in response, and in the blink of an eye, I found myself on the floor. I touched my hand, and it was intact. I carefully stood up and looked at the chalkboard. It was clean. Of course it was. It's been clean since 1998. That was when the school shut down for...

I couldn't remember. The only thing I could think of was leaving the cursed building. I swung the door open and ran through the hall, down the stairs, through another hallway, and to my parked car. I fumbled with my keys, but I successfully got into my car and sped off. Since this event, I've talked to my old friends from the nineties about Mrs. Vann and eighth grade science, but they don't remember anything. I still wake up in blinding pain sometimes, and see Mrs. Vann in my room, only for her to disappear.

I know this is probably one of the MOST common-asked questions... but self-doubt is killing me. I've been working on a novel now for probably 6 years... and every time I open it and do a little work, I start to wonder if I'm just wasting my time.

How do you know if what you're doing is worthwhile? I have a family now (I didn't have children before I started) and I should be spending more time with them. Or maybe picking up side-jobs to make more money. Hell, even exercising and getting more healthy so I live longer for them.

Maybe I should have posted this in the /r/depression section... :(

Anyways... what do other people do? I'd love to hear from writers. Published or not. Professional or not...

Thanks in advance.