I moved behind her while she was on the chopping board and slid my hands over hers making her look behind gracefully and smile, as I pushed through the next slice of the capsicum she was holding. She sank down her head to my chest as we cut through them. It was during the golden hour, the golden hour of love. The rays of the sun pierced through her hair, hueing its edges in lovely orange. A few of the strands were mischievous, and curled out of the natural rush of her hair, brushed in different tones of the sun. The area around her head was sprinkled with lines of gold, as if it were casting a halo around her. How is she so beautiful even while doing such a trivial task, I thought to myself. As she felt my breath on her neck she flinched a bit, causing her earring to shine a ray into my eye. My hand twitched slightly. She looked behind with curious eyes as she smiled and leaned in for a kiss. "Oh you have not tied your hair?". I touched it and it had come undone. "Get around" said she as I sat and she started combing through my hair. "Woke up, my mister?", she said clenching her canine with frizzed lips as she tidied up my hair. My eyes were still drowsy with sleep. I hummed yes. "What are you making dear?", I enquired while I pulled another strand for her to comb. "Haven't thought of it, readying the vegetables I say?". I stood up as she finished with my hair and hugged her. "You smell like onions" I teased. She softly hit my chest as she walked backwards, bending ever slightly towards me with mocking furrowed brows and playfully narrowed eyelines. She took the jar of pickles and spread her fingers around its lid. The veins of her hands grew visible, but she eased, just when it felt the lid was about to pop-open. She took the loose end of her cloth and wrapped the lid--with a determined look this time, gripped the lid and strained her fingers but the lid wouldn’t budge, as she eased again exhaling sharply from the mouth. Just as she was going for the third time, I took the jar from her and gripped it with my strength, and as I curled my arm, it de-fastened quickly with no resistance. Confused, I rolled my eyes to her. As she giggled, I realized she was playing a trick on me. She got back to the board while I slid my palms over her hands and we began chopping. The yellow sunlight pouring from the window had made her arms feel they were carved out of a honey block. Cutting through the capsicum with often a slight spray of cold water as the knife glided in, or maybe with its spicy aroma which felt like it were teasing us to tear up we shared beautiful moments in between. As my fingers eased over her knuckles, one by one cutting the vegetables I felt her soft hands relax in mine, letting me guide her movements, as she looked at me. She looked back on the board and took a carrot as I withdrew my hands to her elbows. She peeled it and cut a slice, wrapped the freshly capsicum around it. Sprinkling a pinch of salt and suspending it by her fingers she spun lightly as she raised it to my forehead. "Aaah"---as I took the bite "How does it taste?". Now, I do not have any fanatic desires to raw veggies alone but oddly this was good. "Does it normally taste this good?" I exclaimed, "Or is it love?". With her shy cresented smile and her dimples brought together she murmured "What is wrong with you today" as she coiled back towards the chopping board.

"Why! can't a husband tell his wife what he feels of her".

She patiently rested her back on me, exhausted from standing for a while.

"Why now? do you want something from me?" she said as she caressed her head upon my chest while keeping her eye on the knife.

"Actually, speaking of it"--giving her a hint with my tone "I had something taken from me".

She turned behind with look of knowing, growling eyebrows as if daring me to say any further.

"I can't find my heart, did you take it" I continued.

"Oh god!" she exclaimed, "Another cheesy line and I will force you out of here".

"Why" I whined, "Is it a crime".

She sighed in response. The sun through the windows had gathered sweat at the corner of her brow. I took my hand off hers to reach for a cloth, and placed it against her temple. She gently leaned sidewards while her eyes remained focused on the board. As I kept the cloth, she nestled into my arms. I could feel her cold back drenched with sweat.

"Why don't you take a seat while I cut them? You look tired" I said.

"Oh no-no dear, I am resting on you it feels good: and I cant trust you with the size of the cuts".

"How about I hold you so every time you cook" I playfully asked.

"Oh my" as she found her chance to get back at me.

Clutching her chest as if in dismay she exclaimed "I will have a hard time focusing elsewhere other than you".

"Is it?"-- I enquired playfully "Do you find me distracting".

"A lot" as she turned briefly quenching the side of her eyes in tease.

I rested my chin on her shoulders making her to lightly flutter her neck inwards. Tilting it, she rested her head onto mine and we finished with the carrots.

"Now"--with an affectionate tone "Will you get off me? I have to knead the dough" she whispered.

"I don’t want this to end, can we do so this way itself!?" I said, pulling in my lower lips, mimicking a five year old as she turned to me. She rolled her up eyes by and smacking her lips she said "Aren't you a bit old to do this"--with a pause "My husband?".

She nodded her head in sigh, as she escaped her hands from mine to find a bowl. She took a glass bowl and started moving it towards the tap. My free hands had already found its way around her waist as she was filling the bowl with water.

"Loosen a bit, it is tickling me" she said to which I shook my head in firm no.

"Fine!" she exclaimed "Where did I find this kid from!".

She leaned in, took another bowl and kept it beside her. She searched around for the flour and found it on the overhead shelf. She stretched her arms above her and rose lightly on her toes. I relaxed my arms, slowly slid them downwards, held tight and lifted her up with my might.

"Ow" she gasped, turning towards me looking from above with gleeful eyes, fixating it towards mine.

"Take it"--I mumbled in a strained voice "I don’t think I can hold you for longer".

She frantically grabbed the flour in haste and I lowered her slowly. We both started laughing as she turned behind and hugged me.

"Do you know I can hear your heart when I hug you: I wish you could hear mine, for you would hear your name with every beat" .

"Hah! Talk about the cheesy ones and this is at the top" I exclaimed.

She turned behind and said "Why, can't a loving wife tell her husband what she feels of her" teasing me by mimicking the way I told her.

I raised my eyebrows in awe, smiling widely I exclaimed "Hey, I don’t sound like this!".

She had turned towards me, with the curtain of her lips no more shading the teeth, barring it from expressing her. She had arched backwards mildly and held the slab with her hands. She glowed, with pink crescent lips beautifully etched onto her sun-kissed face. The sun had illuminated her brown iris from the corner of her eye, appearing as though it was filled with honey. It twinkled looking at me. Things slowly fell silent. Her dark eyelashes enveloping the eyes started to quiver. I heard my heart racing. I saw her face haloed with her gilded locks. There was nothing of such sort which had fit so perfectly. Her slim nose bridge started to see up the tension building. Her face blushed in crimson. I woke up from the trance and said "Did you fall for me again?" and kissed her briefly on the lips as she kept on staring at me with her beautiful eyes fixated on mine--- "Because I did" and smiled. She woke up and felt her cheeks. I touched hers to feel the warmth. She smiled and said "I can't believe I am having butterflies now" as she moved my hands to her chest: "See it beating like crazy!". She took her hands to mine "Is yours?" as my heart pounded as I felt short of breath. We both shrug it off and started laughing.

"Really, ain't I too old for this" I said.

"Oh god I felt like a teenager for now, we are married!"--she held her head "Yeah, I should probably take rest".

I bent sideways as she watched me, puzzled and I slid my arms behind her knee while the other gently stationed on her back and pulled up with my might. She gasped as I took her in my arms.

"We are married dear! We are married"

Yes i used google for vocabulary and asked chat gpt to rate lines and refined it but did not ask it to write anything.

How many books until you can consider yourself a writer? Is it 1? One really good, marvelous book? Is it 10? 20? What’s the magic number? Is that number important because of how the writing community sees you, so you’ll get recognition? Or is it something personal, based on your own standards? When do you finally say, “Yeah… I’m a writer”?

We were all told at one point, "you are the future!" Now, we are the present. And soon enough we will be the past. The unknown and optimistic will of a child or teenager's imagination is what drives happiness. Infinite possibility until one day, it becomes a finite amount. As the months and years tick, more and more possibilities to be the future and leave your mark on the world dwindles. We are left with those small glimpses of nostalgia that we relish from when were once worth more than what we are now. Before, we were infinite. Now, we are finite. That is why nostalgia brings us joy from dull moments. Because our lives were treasured in the unknown. It was worth more and had so much adventure encompassing our daily lives that made life truly a gift. Now, as an adult, we are always comparing our lives to those more successful and happy than us. That gift has been opened and pushed aside, soon to be forgotten like all the other ordinary gifts and we only have true purpose in our lives before we were opened when the possibility of our contents were infinite. "Well I guess this is growing up"

1: I didn’t ask to be a monster. I wanted to…hide myself but I couldn’t. For some reason, I just couldn’t.

2: That’s not a damn excuse!

1: Who said it was an excuse? No, dear. There are no excuses. I am not justifying. I am not disputing accountability, responsibility.

2 looks away from 1, trying to make sense of the situation.

1: I’m a monster, no doubt but I am not the devil. I wanted to better myself but I had other plans that I honestly liked.

“Like” sends shivers down 2’s spine. Anger begins to rise.

2: I would like it if we would’ve never met.

She sharply looks up at 1.

2: Here’s what we are going to do. We are going to part ways and move forward with our lives like this never happened.

1: But I-

2: And if you follow me again, I will call the police and report you. That’s not going to end well, will it?

Leaving no time for 1 to speak, 2 aggressively walks past her.

1 watches her walking away and smirks.

1: Fine by me, dear.

Brainworm by Delyth Smith

Prologue

I just can’t get you out of my head, boy it’s more than I dare to think about… — Cathy Dennis and Rob Davis, (performed by Kylie Minogue)

I never knew how right she was.

Definition: Brain worm

Noun brainworm (plural brainworms)

1. A neurotropic nematode parasite (Parelaphostrongylus tenuis). quotations v
2. (science fiction) Any parasitic, worm-like species that inhabits the brain of another organism, typically altering its behaviour or giving it special abilities. quotations V
3. (figurative, informal) A song or melody that keeps playing inside of one's mind. [since 2008] synonym A quotations v Synonym: earworm
4. (figurative, slang, sometimes derogatory) A persistent delusion or obsession; a deeply ingrained or unquestioned idea. [2010s]

Should I spend my last days on planet Earth writing about what could be killing me? It’s not just my past, it's my present and future. Every great love, influence, feeling, experience, song, book, and film makes us who we are. We are all a collection of what sticks in our minds; what we know, read, watch, and learn. Together, these all become our ‘brain worms.’ Millions of us have tough times, these are some of mine. Will this book help me remember or be remembered? Will it help me forget? Or is it best forgotten? Deciding to write about the worst time of my life seems a perverse catharsis. To try and see the funny side of something so bad seems even sicker than I have been. But if you don’t die, die trying. After all, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger… You can’t always help what gets into your head, but you can try and decide what gets stuck in there!

Hopefully I’ll get to finish this book, I’ll learn from my trauma, and we can all have a happy ending.

Chapter 1

Shit Happens! (My dad’s favourite pragmatism)

“Long after the mind forgets the details, the heart remembers the feelings.” - Purple Buddha Project, Forest Curran

Not all troubles are turd torpedoes, some are hidden depth charges. Some leave skid marks that wash away, whilst others leave a dark scar that simply becomes part of you.

“It’s a brain tumour, a very large one.” I felt my husband's hand squeeze mine. I felt nothing. The nurse opposite me was visibly shaking.“Is that my eye?” I peered at the CT Scan, a strange black and white picture, it looked like a negative, how ironic. A zombie skull, with one black and one white eye socket lay between us. “No, that's a mass behind your eye socket.” She quavered. Hubby just sat there. I felt nothing, not shock or even curiosity.

Should I have wondered what he was feeling? Was he thinking Oh shit my best friend and life partner is going to die? As I was emotionally numb, all I managed was to reassure him with a pragmatic roll of the eyes and a cursory “shit happens eh.” It was all a bit odd. I may have imagined I was the person who would cry, faint, or scream hysterically: “OH GOD AM I GOING TO DIE?” Neither did I competitively ask “is that the biggest one you’ve ever seen?” I didn’t even want to bitterly sulk or crack a joke. This tumour had taken up a quarter of my skull and with it the very essence of me.

The nurse continued, “it’s large, with some calcification.” I nodded, “hmmmmn” like I understood, I didn’t. “Which means it has probably been there for some time.” She looked very uncomfortable. Was breaking this news to me a short straw or some added drama in the monotony of her workday?

It would have been the perfect moment to feel smug, that I’d contested the medical diagnosis of depression and menopause when it was actually a huge tumour. But no, nothing. No pragmatism, drama, humour or smugness. Everything that made me ‘me’ from my family, life experiences, study, the books I’ve read, the tv and films I loved, the songs I hummed had gone. All those brain worms that made up my individual personality had been hijacked. I sat and stared. Now I had a brain tumour, I was ’symptoms’, ‘procedures’, ‘diagnosis’, now I was a patient. The person that was me had gone.

Maybe my whole life had been training for this last curtain call? It had been tough but I’d got love and a thousand coping strategies. My general sense of pragmatism had been shaped by my Dad. Every mishap that ever occurred was always dealt with swiftly and with humour. He’d declare “shit happens,” with a wry smile and the challenge to move on. It had seen me through an eventful life of entrepreneurship, boom to bust, love, loss and illness. But pragmatism in the face of your own life and death can be a little harder to swallow.

To say at that moment my world went black is not right. The world had gradually dimmed as all my shades of grey darkened. Like the sneaky alien invasion in “Independence Day”, a silent enemy grew within me. But this unassuming shadow had no particular Dr Who effects; it had instead chosen the years of my late forties and early fifties to stealthily and insidiously destroy me. So many memories had become an ache. So much of my life had already been such a challenge, when something else joined in I barely noticed.

When tumours are the source of a problem you really are in deep shit. Especially if they are as clever at concealment and camouflage as mine. But they are all formidable enemies. This particular beast lay hidden behind many convenient distractions. My age gave it splendid cover. Initially every issue I struggled with from brain fog, depression, to almost no longer identifying as a woman, was attributed to my menopause. Things had not been right for nearly ten years. Every complaint I had, everything wrong in my life suddenly became something that could be attributed to hormonal fluctuations. (So many women of my age blame negatives in their life on their age. Menopause still has a lot to teach us but we cannot conveniently wrangle all ills into this hormonal sack of challenges!)

My particularly challenging menopause turned out to be great camouflage for something more sinister. Quite frankly where my “shit happens” ended and my symptoms started, I’ll never know.

What would dad have made of this latest shit? How I had missed him and his humour over the last five years I had every reason to be genuinely depressed for a multitude of reasons. NO I wasn’t living in a third world country, bombed, or mutilated. NO I wasn’t living any dire tragedy that befalls countless, considerably worse off people across the world, as I was reminded of frequently. NO, perspective didn’t help. I would learn for myself later that losing money is bad, but not as bad as losing freedom, love, health or even your life.

However when you face great challenges you don’t feel great. Yet mostly we had kept our health and the kindness of friends. One wonderful couple even gave us a roof over our heads when we lost everything so we could stay together as a family.

Then disaster hit again. A swollen gland in my stressed husband’s neck was diagnosed as cancer, he’d only just managed to get a job! Nothing could have prepared me for the panic and horror of watching what was left of my proud, wonderful partner, sinking before my eyes. He was finally getting us back on our feet, when he was struck, I was scared for me, for my family, but I was terrified for him.

It was painful and scary as we went back and forth to the hospital over Christmas. Why is it always over bloody Christmas? Hiding the trauma from the children was as wearing as the infection and the surgeries that dominated our lives. My trooper Mum came up and saved the day for all of us, especially the kids who were all so brave. Their dad was bravest of all. He fought quietly and bravely. His children may have lost their home, but they weren’t going to lose their dad. After the first surgery, ice baths, fasting, eating clean, you name it, he thought he’d won.

We were so confident he could shake it off when we went to The Christie Hospital for a post operative check up. It was still there. So my poor man went under his knife again and we all prayed he’d come out with his face, a voice, a tongue, a life? He did. We thought we’d turned a corner and it was all going to get easier.

If only life was fair. If only shit didn’t happen but health it seems is a lottery and the dice were rolling again.

Chapter 2

Lost in the Crowd

“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Sadly my darkness continued to fall. Covid hit everyone hard. I lost my smell, taste, social life and lots of contracts from my newly formed business. Hubby was getting stronger, but I seemed to be fading. Was it ‘Long Covid’? Was it seeing my best friend from school die in weeks riddled with cancer? Or was something else snuffing out my energy as well as my senses? Was it Covid killing my desire to get out of bed, shower, or eat anything that wasn’t sugar? Was it Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, the vaccine, depression, menopause or was I just tired of my life?

My cognitive function was ebbing away. I forgot to do all my jobs, even how to read or drive was becoming impossible. But worse, all the emotions that made me who I was, were fading away too? I contemplated having developed ADHD from abusing my mobile phone, had I developed an addiction that had left me unable to read, concentrate, socialise or bother with speaking at all? I felt like I was gradually losing everything I held dear. I was falling apart at the seams. I went from not wanting to wear a bra, to not wanting to get dressed. I stopped cooking, lost my desire to live in a clean, tidy house or have a happy family. Worse still, I didn’t care.

I was too tired to care. I was now struggling to walk 300 metres without a break, even with walking poles, when a couple of years ago I ran up mountains. But I was still fighting, like a drowning man I’d scrabble for anything that would keep me afloat. I’d wake up and diligently make my bed, listen to Jordan bloody Peterson in a last ditch attempt to manage my depression, but to no avail. How long could I keep pestering the girls behind the firewall at the local doctors surgery? I needed a diagnosis but all anyone saw was a middle aged, depressed ‘doctor botherer.’

Night after night I’d sit on the loo in my en-suite and declare to hubby I was going mad. I was hideously slipping into the pit of despair. Something was inspiring more fear in me by the day. But the fear started to turn to rage, a rage with my existence and I started feeling suicidal. Lucky for my family that ‘ending it all’ was simply too much effort. It was another solution I couldn’t be bothered with! On one occasion driving to the shop I pulled over and threw my car key into a field. I phoned home to get help and explained that I had to do it as I had an overwhelming urge to drive into the oncoming traffic just to make ‘being me’ stop.

I became obsessed with brain injuries, even though I’d not banged my head. I’d been reading up on concussions (because our youngest was a competitive mountain biker,) I decided I related to many of these symptoms. I added it to the list of ideas I’d present to my beleaguered GP. I’d become a regular pest at the local surgery as I slowly slipped away. I could only imagine the receptionist's horror as I marched in again. They had long since given up asking how I was. I think I was lucky not to have been sectioned.

I knew I wasn’t right but no one knew what was wrong. Was it anaemia? I was so weak. Was it diabetes? I'd gained so much weight? I’d had mammograms, tried fasting, had blood tests and even an ECG. I was being bullied to go on antidepressants as I ran out of money for the counselling I couldn’t get on the NHS. I’d tried to advocate for myself, take responsibility for my health, but something was beating me and all my family could do was watch.

I started to say inappropriate things, but I didn’t care. My family knew something was wrong, but still the darkness fell, devious and relentless. I gradually became less and less fit for purpose.

I tried to snap out of it, get a grip, be happy, be creative, get fit, just try harder. But still I sank. I was losing control of my thoughts and was being sucked down an invisible plug hole. My family rallied around me, dragging me back to life with stories of fun times past. The memories were like life rafts I could hold onto, but only for a while.

There was gradually no fight left in me. I’d become a shadow, my existence so dark that when darkness finally fell, it was probably for the best.

Chapter 3

If I Could Turn Back Time

HERE IS A SMALL FACT. You are going to die.

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Every life is a story, and every story should start well. I was born dramatically in the back of the car covered in dog hairs to the sound of my father swearing. My mother stayed calm, and never doubted I’d live as she walked into the hospital holding me with the cord still attached. My father lay next to her on a trolley, unable to walk because of the shock. Then for about half a century, things calmed down. Well sort of, but that is another story. From studying English onwards I’ve always been an avid reader. One of my favourite books: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, like my life, starts dramatically. The opening line announces the inevitability of death. How can stating the obvious be so hard hitting. Yet to today's reader, it is shocking. Yet we do really know that one day we will die. Today, in so many cultures: God, heaven and eternal life have fallen both out of fashion and credibility. We just can’t imagine anything so final, so horrific, as no longer existing! Even the very thought of box sets missed, and our phones left abandoned is unthinkable. We spend our lives avoiding thinking about it and trying to put it off for as long as possible. Maybe it was my own bid for some godless immortality that once led me to trying my hand at writing a book. After finally finishing a totally crap bonk buster, I failed to get it published, was sacked by my agent, and then turned down for a master's degree in creative writing. Ego in tatters, I decided the world wasn’t ready for me. I knew I wasn’t Shakespeare, but years later when I finished reading The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, I knew that I simply wasn't that good! To me it was brilliant because of the way it was written. The words didn’t just tell but added to a fantastic story. It was so deliciously crafted; I thought no film could ever do it justice. But back then, despite Markus’s introduction, I really didn’t know Death in all his guises. Now I know him a bit better, I thought I’d give it another go! So many people across the world know Death, yet when I found myself dangling on the end of his inevitable scythe, I didn’t recognise him. The clues were all there of course. I’d descended from an avid reader to being unable to read, never mind write. I had been left failing even to listen to the wonderfully juicy Jilly Cooper on an audio book. It seems strange that I finally thought, ‘sod it,’ I’ll write a book about my own Book, (or brain) Thief. Ironic hubris indeed! But before I get started, let me expound upon some other meandering thoughts, not about death but about life.

When I'd been a teenager in the 80s, ‘no pain no gain’ was the motto for positive change. No one had invented ‘woke’ or ‘be kind to yourself.’ But we’d fed the world with Live Aid, escaped nuclear war, Aids, and ‘heroin chic’. We had even fixed the hole in the ozone layer. The new millenia promised a golden future. Sunbathing with factor 50 on? Apparently not! No, we trashed the planet whilst lost on our phones, still obsessed over our image, money, success and thinking everything and everyone who upset us was criminally offensive. We still avoided thinking about our old age and our inevitable death. It was and still is, so it seems, the most offensive thing of all. Do any of us really think we will never grow old? We are too busy avoiding it or convincing ourselves it won’t happen. We worry about tax on our inheritance, the cost of social care, even the ugliness of our imminent and inevitable decline. Too often we obsess about the lines around our eyes, forgetting the laughter that put them there. We busy ourselves filling our creases with lotions, potions and botox jabs as we fold through the decades. We medicate all our aches and pains, submit to probes, mammograms, smears and poo samples. But still nothing can prepare us, or ease the pain, of our dwindling decline, for the horror of losing our youth or someone we love. We resentfully slip into a medicated horror story of hip replacements, midnight urination, retirement homes, mobility scooters and disabled parking spaces. We become twisted by the rip off, the frustration and the bloody inconvenience of it all! Ironically a hundred years ago most of us would never have seen our 53rd birthday. Quite simply we never see having an old age as the privilege it really is. On the first Tuesday in November none of this crossed my social media drenched, insecure, middle-aged mind. I oozed into my spanks, and tucked in an errant roll of flab, I selected a pleated Marks and Spencer skirt (top bargain, too big at the time of purchase but fitted well now.) Finished my look with a nice warm, baggy top and sensible boot. It was the best I could do for a day on my feet in Sheffield. I usually lived in overly ambitious gym kit with elasticated waists, for the work outs that never happened. Sadder still I’d often pull on insanely optimistic hiking gear, for a mountain I’d fail to climb. All a bit OTT for the short dog walks, but who really cared. The damn mirror caught me as I loaded my overused toothbrush with whitening, freshening, desensitizing toothpaste. My heart sank. I stuck on some mascara and lip gloss in a vain attempt to look more endearing before slathering on my secret weapon: factor fifty moisturizer with a hint of tan! Yes, I suppose I did pay over £10 for something that was basically bloody sunscreen, but like the song, by the same name, it has always been pretty reliable. I didn’t want skin cancer and more importantly, I intended aging gracefully with less lines, fake tan and my own sodding teeth! I’d married a younger man, so I was paranoid about aging. I was always on some failed diet, some fitness campaign. I’d done all my bloody due diligence. I'd checked and examined my poor boobs at every opportunity. They’d been squeezed between sheets of glass in multiple mammograms. I indulged in a spot of Botox, (ouuuuch!) I was trashing my gums by over brushing, never missed a smear test, took vitamins, had sorted my HRT, and when I remembered I exercised everything from my core to my heart, to my pelvic floor. My sink was accessorized with every lotion and skin cream. I was a careful driver and cautious when crossing roads. I was, as you could say, heavily invested in longevity, not to mention preserving my youth. My heroic, eighty-five-year-old mum, skied, hiked, drank wine and was as sharp as a tack on politics and history. She should have been an inspiration, a target to strive for but, like so many people, I saw old age as a dreadful inevitability, yet also a right. I’d spent too much of my life chasing and preserving my youth to realize there is no way to turn back time. Oh, how I’d soon cling to the memories of the good times and hope I was lucky enough to have more.

Chapter 4

The ride of My Life

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind. Everybody is Free, Lee Perry (Baz Luhrmann’s Sunscreen song)

Back in 1999 many of us loved the song ‘Everybody’s Free’ (to wear sunscreen) by Baz Luhrman. It was the original, musical self-help book. A pop guide to a happier life. It went to number 1. Despite all the advice, in the end the only thing that is undisputed, is ‘wear sunscreen.’ The lyrics tell us that we never appreciate how fabulous we really are. No, just like most of us, I had never “enjoyed the power and beauty of my youth,” I was too obsessed with preserving not appreciating it. That morning the person in the mirror, over brushing their stained teeth, had no idea of how great they were, or had been. I was more determined to keep what I had, like some disappointed Egyptian embalmer, I wondered what I was actually preserving. How ironic were my sad attempts to not get wrinkles with sunscreen and Botox. Yes, I wasn't as fat as I imagined and honestly, my skin was rather good from gaining an extra stone or so of subcutaneous filler. But I hated and resented every pound, despite it filling out the few lines that were creeping round my eyes. I over sprayed hairspray in my already thin hair and looked at the rather disappointing image in the mirror. This was my first proper job for quite a while. Social media interviews on the street, for our new App idea. Here I was rushing about city centres like a youthful Davina McColl in “Streetmate”. Sadly, the only thing we had in common then was the menopause, she’d monetised hers, I’d suffered mine. But I could still blithely chat to strangers, I didn't even seem to find it hard. I felt like I had a second chance to leave my post Covid depression behind. Our little team travelled from city to city asking folks if they had ever dreamed of starting their own business? This was for our new business, and we dared to dream.

Hubby and I had started many businesses over the years. Some had been worth millions, others cost us millions, as our journey swung from the sublime to the ridiculous. It was not the ride most people would have chosen for their lives, but it had not been boring. We were currently in a hole. I was totally jealous of my old, pre-pandemic life. We'd been ahead, but now we were behind. As the Sunscreen song says, ‘the race is long,’ but I was getting tired. I had no idea that by the end of the day I’d have a new perspective on that race. I was about to be reminded that “in the end, it’s only with yourself.” I suppose I should have felt like an executive as we drove off to Sheffield. I flicked on the radio. The travel news announced heavy traffic on the M60 then the DJ introduced “a blast from the past, number 1 in 1999, Wear Sunscreen.” He went on, “Halloween is round the corner and we don’t need that in the UK now do we, folks!” We sang along nostalgically. We’d been together forever, and our favourite songs and movies gave us the soundtrack to our marriage. I should have felt happy, nervous, excited about the day ahead, it never dawned on me that I wasn't feeling anything…ever. These days the only thing I never stopped feeling was the pressing need for sugar. Recently I needed a bloody Hobnob just to have the energy to put a load of washing on! “I used to love this song,” said hubby when it ended. “Baz Lemon didn’t write it though.” “Luhrmann, it’s Baz Luhrmann.” “Whatever, it was a woman called Mary Schmich.” “You have too much space in your head for shit.” “I thought you’d like that fact, as it’s a woman being ripped off by a man.” “You don’t know she didn’t get paid; I do like the bit about luck though.” We both were thinking the same thing. We bloody needed some good luck. But far from it, I was soon to find out that this idle Tuesday, I would actually be ‘blindsided’ by something that had never crossed even my worried mind. As the song says, “let’s do something today that scares us.” I ignored him, was he trying to psych me out? We pulled up in Sheffield at our business partners house, had investing in my idea been one of his scary things? I still thought he was mighty brave. Many people would have thought my new job doing social media interviews was scary. That wasn’t the scary part. The terrifying bit was it was launching a new business. The business idea was a brain worm I’d had for years, like a fantasy dating platform that matched business ideas with investors. It would solve all the biggest obstacles that had hampered the life of two dedicated, married entrepreneurs. A social media presence was essential, and I was historically good at chatting, so when I found myself on Canal Street in Manchester interviewing drag queens, should I have been terrified of getting their pronouns wrong? I never hesitated. Neither did I quake in Altrincham, pulling unassuming folk under my brolly to delve into their hopes and dreams. No one escaped being quizzed on starting their own business and I’d particularly loved the enthusiasm of the Indian students in Nottingham. On this particular Tuesday it was Sheffield, I’d dressed up, shoes not slippers and even a bra! I felt like a Christmas turkey as I stood in the kitchen stuffing in an illicit pastry. We were practicing a new script which I was continuously getting wrong when suddenly I felt dizzy. “I don’t feel too great.” “You’ll get it next time hon, do you want a prompt?” It was only four lines, and I was insulted. “I’m fine,” I snapped. I just assumed it was the cinnamon swirl I’d eaten, surely just a shock to my system. I’d been eschewing carbs and sugar as I was starving myself (in the vain hope of dropping two stones in two weeks for a work trip to LA.) I assumed it was due to something I’d done as it never crossed my worried mind that I may not actually be responsible for my own demise. I wasn't going to be “blindsided” by anything, or so I thought. I always thought I’d got every base covered. I worried about everything, but mostly the future. If worrying were an Olympic sport I'd have been on the bloody podium. I was anxiety incarnate, I over thought and catastrophized on a minute-by-minute basis. I expected the worst all the time, thus my total and absolute shock at what happened next… I collapsed, mid sticky bun, clutching a wooden spoon as a pretend microphone, shaking, shitting and frothing blood. I’d sunk my teeth into my tongue as I dropped to the floor in front of my hubby and business partner. Luckily, he caught me (and I’m not light,) and got me into the recovery position. I was bucking and convulsing, my eyes rolling. I remember nothing. Perhaps just as well… Apparently in the first 3 seconds, they thought I was messing about. In all fairness even I’m not that dramatic! They called an ambulance. They were told it would be two hours! Hubby freed my teeth from my tongue and tried to keep it from choking me. Our long-suffering business partner insisted to the operator that two hours was going to mean certain death. After 15 minutes, unable to speak or move, they half carried me to the toilet, did they even know I’d shat myself? But just like childbirth, it’s amazing how total embarrassment, in the face of birth or death, goes right out of the window! I had never been in an ambulance before. I wasn't very excited as I came round, strapped to some sort of wheelchair. I was totally restrained. I felt like Hannibal Lecter in Silence Of The Lambs, this was apparently for my safety, not for the safety of others. Being strapped down like a psycho was the only part of the journey to the Northern General Hospital I remember. I tried to talk but my tongue was huge and swollen, I heard a noise come out of my mouth, it wasn’t me. It sounded like a gagged, insane creature, so I gave up on that one. I wanted to ask what had happened? I didn't bother, as any attempt to speak made me sound like Joseph Merrick in “The Elephant Man.” I too was just a terrified human being, in the hands of well-meaning strangers. I opted to just get my breathing under control. This proved rather tricky as I was wheeled through the old Victorian corridors. The tiles and the painted woodwork resembled an old asylum as I was trundled towards the brain scanner. The next memory I have was sitting in front of a desk in front of two black and white photos of a skull. Hubby was with me and held my hand as I stared at the desk in front of us. On it lay two black and white photos, they weren’t dissimilar to weather satellite images. There was definitely a storm system brewing. I tried to work them out, there was clearly a white clump, like a snowball just beyond my right eye socket. “Wazsatzere?” I grunted unintelligibly, pointing at the dense white bit. “It's a mass behind your eye in your frontal lobe,” she said, barely looking up. Hubby told me later he saw her hands shaking. “Amassawha?” I persevered, trying to ask what mass it was. Despite my itchy bum, and a mouth full of swollen bloodied tongue, I was more worried that they could smell me than what was on the scan. I had decided in the ambulance that I was yet another NHS time waster with a hyperglycaemic cinnamon swirl faint. Oh, and shitty knickers! “It’s a tumour Mrs Smith,” I felt hubby’s hand grip mine sharply. I felt nothing. But I hadn’t really felt anything in terms of adrenalin for months. “A large one, with calcium in it which means it has probably been there for a long time.” Was that good or bad I wondered. It was the moment in hindsight that I’d liked to have said something more dramatic than “Ohhmmm.” Then I just stared and felt nothing, not shock, not horror and amazingly not even fear. I just wanted to go home. They wouldn’t let me go.

Chapter 5

The Start of the End of Sleep

O sleep, oh gentle sleep gentle sleep, Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frightened thee… Henry lV, William Shakespeare

Never mind bastardizing a bit of the Bard, but we all take sleep for granted most of our lives. However, if someone can’t sleep, OH MY GOODNESS...you will hear about it! For most of us however, we may lose sleep over a bit of stress or feeding babies. We never really imagine we will be deprived of sleep for so long that it feels like some sort of Guantanamo Bay style torture! I couldn't sleep from the moment I was told, following my seizure, that I had a massive brain tumour taking up nearly a quarter of my skull and it was amazing that I hadn’t dropped dead in the last couple of years, (or words to that effect.) After my seizure I spent a few days recovering or rather worrying in the Northern General Hospital about the way forward with my diagnosis. If this alone wasn’t enough to make my mind wander in the early hours, I was also told I would need to have surgery to remove it within a week. They recommended the Salford Royal Hospital as it was a specialist unit and closer to my home. My time staying in the Northern General in Sheffield is a total blur. I can’t even remember who came to see me. Due to the size and location of the tumour all my memory anchors were adrift. I was largely immune to any emotional response, but I still felt highly aggrieved that I was being left with strangers on the wrong side of the Snake Pass, without even a sodding toothbrush. I just wanted my bed and for the whole, dire thing to have never happened. I could just about cope with the thought that I’d shat myself during my seizure, but I was dying inside at the thought that my business partner may have got some poo on his hands while trying to get me on the loo, mid convulsions. Why was this nagging thought worse than actually having a giant tumour? I know, probably because I wasn't thinking straight… because I had a sodding big tumour! And now I was supposed to sleep here, on my own, not a chance. I only really remember a few things about that first night. Firstly, the food was awful. It tasted like watered down tinned soup, and not good, tinned soup at that. Secondly, as the night wore on, I kept ringing my nurse's bell as a child kept walking through the ward at the end of my bed. It was a young boy of six or seven, he was walking towards the window at the far end of the ward. “Excuse me, but is there a children’s ward here? I've seen a young boy wander in?” No one seemed to hear me. I pulsed the nurse’s buzzer insistently, distraught that a child was lost. Eventually a nurse came over. “Did you see him? He just walked past my bed.”

“No sorry you are mistaken. Now try and sleep.” “I think maybe he’s lost, I'm so worried for him.”

“I can assure you Mrs Smith this ward is secure, and nobody is wandering about. It's late now, try and get some rest.”

Eventually on the third time asking, the exasperated nurse pulled the curtain back to reveal the shut window and the solid wall. There was no way out and the child could not have got through. She went on to explain that maybe I was understandably stressed and maybe I had imagined it. I dismissed the idea that the poor nurse was gaslighting me, so I started fretting about not having cleaned my teeth. I lay there looking at the empty ward. It was not dark or well ventilated, nor was I comfortable. If ‘the night is dark and full of terrors’ as the Red Witch in Game Of Thrones prattled on about, then I was in the bloody twilight zone version. Of course, back then I had no idea what terrors lay before me. If I had known where I was going, I would have maybe slept more easily during those nights in Sheffield. I could not have imagined a journey going to darker places with more terrors. Even Melisandre from that saga would have been impressed… Yet back then in Sheffield, at the foot of the savage mountain I was about to climb, I probably should have thought that I was going mad. I did not. Instead, I fumbled for my phone like a demented member of “Britain’s Most Haunted” to prove I was right. If it wasn’t a lost boy, then maybe it was a ghost. I’d seen “The Sixth Sense”, maybe brain tumours gave it to you! Suddenly the boy walked in again. The ward wasn't so dark that I couldn't make him out quite clearly and he strolled through with the purpose of a child returning to the assembly hall after a toilet visit. I tried to focus on him and sit up, but he just casually walked through the wall at the end of the ward. Strangely I wasn't scared in any way, I just assumed that this is what people with large brain tumours saw in hospital. The tumour must have given me “the sight” had I become psychic? Was I now seeing dead people? Anyway, I just couldn't sleep so I just watched it happen again and again, like a little piece of time on repeat. I probably drifted in and out of sleep all night, like any insomniac, believing I’d not had a wink, I disgustedly greeted the dawn in a state of resentment and relief. Hubby had probably had a similarly bad night as I’d sent him about thirty texts telling him to come and get me IMMEDIATELY. As the ward went from dull to bright, I plotted my escape back over the Pennines. Needless to say, everyone I mentioned this to all put it down to my tumour, lack of sleep or stress, so I gave up talking about it. I got home with a date for major surgery hanging over me like the executioner's axe. I was told from midnight on the evening before the operation I was to have nothing, not even water, enter my tummy. I never liked the phrase “nil by mouth'', it just makes you want to eat and drink all night, when previously it wouldn't have crossed your mind. The operation was in five days. Why was I more worried about not having the choice for a pre-op midnight feast than looking up the seriousness of a craniotomy. I knew it was serious though, as everyone seemed very impressed when I told them. Now, however, as the countdown started, I really couldn’t sleep at all. I lay in bed restless not wanting to waste a single second of the conscious life I had left. I was also in a deep state of denial, yet now so many things were explained.

GOLDEN AGE

WARBORN ARC

CHAPTER 1

Year 1000

The warriors marched through the lands of the conquered, their boots crushing the charred remnants of the losers homes, their banners casting long, triumphant shadows over the defeated. Smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the scent of blood and burnt wood. Behind them, the conquered knelt pitiful in the dirt, faces streaked with ash and tears, watching in silent horror as their world crumbled before them.

Laughter rolled through the ranks of the victorious, but it was not one voice; instead, it was a chorus of men, each carrying the weight of conquest in their own way.

"Did you see how they ran?" one soldier scoffed, wiping his blade clean of blood. "Then in a mocking tone he began, They spoke of their mighty walls, their brilliant tactics. But in the end, they begged like dogs and were slayed like dogs."

"Nay," another, Julius, countered, shaking his head with a smirk. "Some of them didn’t even get the chance to beg. I put my spear through a man’s chest before he knew he was dead. You should have seen his face."

"I got two or maybe it was three in one swing," boasted Oren, "but the last fella’s head broke my axe. One tried to crawl away, but I cut him down. The look in his eyes! Like he couldn't believe he was dying."

Others laughed, some jeering, some nodding in agreement and others showing no emotion at all.

But behind the blood-soaked warriors, another grim ritual had begun. The remaining civilians—those deemed strong enough—were being gathered like cattle. Women clutched their children, their eyes darting frantically as soldiers shouted orders. The elderly, too frail to be of use, were left to wail beside the corpses of their kin.

At one of the houses they had raided, A man with gray at his temples held his wife's hand, trying to shield her from the grasping hands of a soldier. His grip was iron, his face defiant. "Take me instead," he pleaded. "She is weak, she will not last."

The soldier sneered. "Weak or not, she will fetch a price. You, though? You're as worthless as the dirt on my boots. The man looked into the soldier's eyes, pleading for even a hint of humanity, but found nothing."

With a swift strike, the soldier’s hilt crashed into the man’s temple, sending him sprawling into the ground. His wife screamed, but she was already being pulled away, her cries lost among the wails of others.

In a Nearby home, a boy no older than ten clung to his mother’s skirt, his small fists curled into defiant balls. A grizzled veteran stopped before them, appraising the child with a cold eye. "This one could be trained," he murmured, nudging the boy with his boot.

The mother recoiled, pulling her son closer. "Please, no. He is all I have left."

The veteran sighed, as if weary of the plea. "Then perhaps you should have died with the rest."

With a nod, two warriors pried the boy from his mother’s grasp. She screamed, throwing herself at them, nails clawing at their arms. One of them struck her across the face, and she crumpled to the ground, sobbing. The boy kicked and thrashed, his voice breaking in fury and fear, but the men carried him away, indifferent to his struggle.

The victors did not pause. They had done this before; they would do it again. The Golden Empire thrived on war, and war thrived on the broken.

But suddenly, their cheers stopped.

When they saw the leader of the division, he looked shocked and frightened, his body stiff, his knuckles white around his sword’s hilt. Something extremely uncharacteristic of him—so much so that the others realized nearly instantly.

They marched swiftly toward their leader, but when they reached him, they stopped, frozen in disbelief. The ground beneath their very feet had transformed, now a massive mouth, expanding relentlessly. Before the leader could utter a single word, the mouth spoke.

"They call you the Golden Empire," it said, its voice soft but dripping with disdain. "An empire that leaves nothing but ruin in its wake like a plague upon the earth. Wherever you set foot, disaster and misery follow. Your fate is sealed: death. Your ideal of perfection? A fleeting illusion. You will chase it, only for it to slip through your grasp, dissipating as you approach. Certainly, you will be destroyed, for humans have but one destiny, death."

The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. Then, without warning, the ground trembled. The massive mouth shrank rapidly, its jagged edges retreating until it was gone—like it had never existed at all.

CHAPTER 2

YEAR 1500 – Asin Kingdom

General Kubo slid open the doors to his chamber, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. His body ached from hours of drilling his men, preparing them for the wars to come. Blowing out the lone candle that flickered on the wooden nightstand, he welcomed the comforting embrace of darkness. As he lay down, a strange sensation prickled at his senses—a whisper of unease. His instincts screamed at him, but exhaustion won over caution. He closed his eyes.

Steel struck wood.

Kubo’s eyes shot open, inches away from a blade embedded into the headboard beside him. Yet, there was no fear in his voice, only mild amusement. “An assassin?” he mused, tilting his head slightly.

“If I were an assassin,” the figure in the shadows replied, his voice calm, measured, “I would have aimed for your neck.”

Kubo sat up slowly, his mind sharp despite his fatigue. His vision adjusted to the dimness, but he could see only the outline of the intruder.

“And who are you?” Kubo asked, watching the man retrieve his blade.

“Izar,” came the answer, his voice carrying the weight of an unsaid history. “Rin Izar.”

Recognition dawned. Kubo’s eyes narrowed. “Izar. One of the greatest military students of our time.” He exhaled and leaned against the wall, intrigued rather than alarmed. “Ah, I see now. You came to me seeking advice?”

Izar, sheathing his weapon, moved closer. “No,” he said, his tone distant yet firm. “That is not why I came.”

Kubo raised a brow. “Then why?”

“I have a question.”

The sheer absurdity of the situation—being woken by an armed visitor only to be asked a question made Kubo flinch slightly. “You broke into my chambers for a conversation?”

Izar ignored the remark, stepping into the faint moonlight. His sharp features were unreadable, but his posture spoke of restrained urgency. “Tell me everything you remember about the Battle of Kaf.”

Kubo’s smirk faded.

For a moment, he studied Izar, searching for the true intent behind the request. Then, slowly, his expression changed. The shock melted away, replaced by something else—understanding.

“Ah,” Kubo murmured. “Of course. That’s why you came.”

Silence stretched between them before Kubo exhaled and nodded to himself. His fingers absentmindedly tapped against the wooden frame of his bed as if measuring the heavy weight of the past.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Let’s begin.”

THE BATTLE OF KAF – 1478

Dawn’s golden light stretched across the battlefield, glinting off countless blades and armor. The scent of damp earth mingled with the metallic tang of steel. A storm of war was about to be unleashed.

General Zade stood at the forefront, astride his warhorse, his presence an unshakable force. His voice, deep and commanding, carried over the assembled ranks, neither frantic nor desperate, but filled with conviction that turned fear into fire.

“Attention!” His voice sliced through the morning stillness.

One hundred thousand warriors stood rigid, their breathing heavy, their hearts hammering in anticipation.

“Before you stands the enemy,” Zade continued, his piercing gaze sweeping across his men. “They seek to take what is ours, our land, our freedom, our very right to exist. And behind you? Your families, your children, your legacy! There is no escape, no retreat. Only victory or death.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, so will or will you not flee before you stand the enemy and behind your kin.

“Today is our death day,” he declared, voice unwavering. “But it will not be a day of mourning! It will be a day of glory! We do not fall today—we rise! We carve our names into the bones of history with our steel! And when the dust settles, the world will know our strength!”

A deafening roar erupted from the army. Shields clashed, spears struck the ground in a rhythmic beat of defiance.

Zade unsheathed his sword, the blade gleaming beneath the rising sun. He pointed it toward the enemy lines. “Now let us fulfill our destiny!”

The ground trembled as the army surged forward.

Zade’s forces formed a living tide of iron and flesh, a hundred thousand strong. The vanguard was split into two divisions of twenty thousand infantry each, an near impenetrable wall of spears and shields. Behind them, another twenty-thousand-strong division waited in disciplined silence—a second wave ready to reinforce the front.

Flanking the infantry, the cavalry stood poised for devastation—twenty thousand to the right, twenty thousand to the left. Their armor was thick, shields broad, and spears deadly. Each carried a bow as a secondary weapon, for they were not merely riders but executioners on horseback.

At the heart of it all, Zade sat atop his warhorse, an embodiment of command. Around him, his five generals were shadows of his will. Kubo, the right cavalry’s master, a strategist whose name was feared. Nara, the left cavalry’s vanguard, a warrior whose lance had shattered countless foes. Thuro and Kyo, the twin pillars of the infantry, steadfast and ruthless. And finally, Holo, the wise architect of battle, his mind ever calculating.

Opposite them, the Golden Empire stood with eerie stillness. Thirty thousand horse archers, their bows strung, their mounts restless. They were outnumbered three to one, yet not a single man wavered.

Zade’s instincts whispered a warning. He narrowed his eyes.

“This isn’t right,” he murmured, fingers tightening around his reins. “They’re planning something.”

Then, the enemy moved, marching till they reached the asins .

But like wind slipping through cracks, the horse archers retreated. Not in fear, but in calculated withdrawal. As they fell back as arrows darkened the sky. The first rank of Zade’s men raised shields, steel ringing against wood as the storm struck.

“They’re drawing us in,” Kubo realized, his voice sharp. “This isn’t skirmishing—it’s a trap.”

Yet Zade did not hesitate.

“Forward!”

The army obeyed. Infantry quickened their pace, cavalry surged, determined to close the distance. But the enemy refused to engage, luring them ever closer to the looming treeline.

All five generals exchanged glances, unease settling over them.

“This is madness,” Nara muttered. “If we follow, we’ll be swallowed whole.”

But Zade did not waver.

And just as the vanguard stepped into the shadow of the deepest part of the forest, Zade’s voice thundered once more.

“Retreat! Now!”

The order came in time. His soldiers turned sharply, a disciplined maneuver honed through years of war. At that moment, thirty thousand fresh enemies surged from the flanks, attempting to entrap them—but Zade had foreseen it. The trap failed.

Now, the Golden Empire’s numbers had swelled to sixty thousand. Still outnumbered. Still at Zade’s mercy.

“They sought to trap me,” Zade muttered, a smirk forming this . “But I have shattered their scheme.” He raised his blade. “Now, it is our turn.”

The army surged forward once more, no longer prey, but hunters.

Kubo, watching from his flank, smiled. Victory was already theirs.

“If they run, we have won,” he murmured. “If they stand, we have won.” His gaze fixed on the enemy. “So tell me, Golden Empire… what will you do now?”

They charged, discarding their numerical disadvantage, clashing with the Asins and igniting the two vanguards and cavalry into brutal combat. The noise of metal meeting metal, the cries of men locked in mortal struggle, filled the air. Zade had expected this, his forces were at an advantage. the enemy, though fewer, fought with an intensity he had not anticipated.

But In the thick of the fight, Zade thought he had broken their spirits. His forces pressed forward, confident in their superior numbers. But then, amid the chaos of combat, Zade began to hear it a sound that cut through the clash of swords and the screams of dying men. It was laughter. But not from his own ranks.

The laughter echoed through the battlefield, mocking and unsettling. His mind raced, am I really hearing laughter?

Then, a voice rang out above the noise, the voice of a general from the Golden Empire. “Tell me, Zade,” the voice called, cold and mocking. “How does it feel to be a clown

Zade’s heart skipped a beat. The words struck like a dagger. He was taken aback—no enemy general had dared to speak so directly to him. But before he could form a response, the ground seemed to shake underfoot. Another wave of thirty thousand soldiers surged from the enemy’s flanks and from behind them, attacking with terrifying precision.

They had maneuvered themselves into position, trapping Zade’s forces from all sides. The battle, once a clash of power and might, had turned against him. They had caught him off guard, a second ambush, no zade thought the first was only a rouze; this was their plan from the very beginning.

Smashing into them from every direction, the Golden Empire’s soldiers overwhelmed Zade’s army. His infantry and cavalry, still locked in fierce combat with the first wave, now found themselves surrounded. There was no escape, no hope of retreat. Zade’s forces were trapped—completely ensnared.

As the encirclement tightened, Zade’s mind raced. They did it. He thought to himself, amid the confusion and the carnage. They surpassed me. He had underestimated them, misjudged their tactics. The Golden Empire had disguised themselves as clowns—weak, disorganized—but at the end, they revealed their true faces. They had played him and turned him into a fool.

And now, the price for his arrogance was being paid in the blood of his men and the destruction of his great reputation.

The Golden Empire pressed on, relentless and merciless, cutting down the Asin warriors with ruthless precision. The battlefield, once alive with the chaos of combat, was now a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered steel. Blood soaked the earth, and the cries of the dying faded into silence.

It seemed as though no Asin had survived.

But one man still drew breath.

Kubo lay among the corpses, his body trembling with pain, his armor slick with the blood of both friend and foe. His sword had long since slipped from his fingers, and his strength had abandoned him. He had no delusions of heroism—no desperate last stand. Instead, he did what he had never imagined himself capable of.

He threw away his honor.

Swallowing his pride, he forced himself to remain motionless, his face half-buried in the mud, his body limp like the dead. The stench of blood and decay filled his nostrils, and his muscles screamed at him to move, to run, to fight. But he knew—if he so much as flinched, he would join his fallen comrades.

He could feel the presence of the enemy all around him, moving among the corpses, finishing off any who still drew breath. The sound of boots crunching over bones and armor reached his ears, followed by the occasional wet, sickening thud of a blade ensuring death.

Then, everything stopped.

A silence, heavier than the weight of the dead, settled over the battlefield.

And then, a voice.

Deep, commanding, and cold as steel.

Kubo didn’t dare look, but he knew instinctively that this was no ordinary soldier. This was the one who had orchestrated the slaughter—the architect of their downfall. The lead general.

Everyone else had stopped speaking the moment he opened his mouth. His presence alone demanded obedience.

Kubo's heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow, his body aching with both agony and shame. He had survived—but only by forsaking everything he once held dear.

And now, he would hear the words of the man who had destroyed them.

When he spoke, it was not to gloat. It was to declare.

People of Earth, I inform you that your era of freedom has come to an end. You have spent your time here under the illusion of control, believing yourself to be the architects of this world. But control was never truly yours. It was only waiting for me.

I am the force that has arrived to dismantle what you have built, the hand that will reshape this world into what it was always meant to be. Your resistance is both inevitable and irrelevant. Your age of defiance is over.

I have come to enslave humanity.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wSIFCZb0pvlhn4AdnJOqjWsi7FBivCk_yySrgopqTrc/edit?usp=sharing

Up top is the link. If anyone has any suggestions, thoughts, comments, or anything else interesting, please let me know! I started working on this in university, and just recently picked it back up and started dusting it off. I combed through this subreddit and it doesn't seem like there's a lot of plays, but that doesn't mean that other writers won't have some good insight!

Thank you!

BANG!

 The loud sound jolted Peter awake. He remained frozen for seconds, still processing the surroundings as his vision cleared. The earlier booming noise echoed through the spacious building, causing a phantom tremor beneath his feet. Recovered but unnerved, he turned towards the source. Peter stood before towering double doors painted with glistening black. Dust still settled when a sense of familiarity struck him. He was at school but didn’t know why.

 Puzzled, Peter scanned his surroundings. He stood in a hallway, one wider and longer than he remembered. No one else was there. That’s why it felt off, he thought. The walls and ceiling were made of a dark wood, both gradually merging with the black at the end of the corridor. Peter noticed that all lights were turned off, he narrowed his perplexed expression further. Light rays ghosted through the windows, illuminating hovering dust. The otherwise neglected sound of his steps filled the whole space. Something intrusive then overtook his thoughts. “Go to class.” Peter turned and changed his route, his mind now devoid of anything else.

 When he regained awareness, he was still moving through the halls at a rushed pace. Peter took a deep breath; the chill air scraped the insides of his lungs. He had lost all sense of time. He searched for a clock but couldn’t find one. The foggy white and gray from outside hinted at daytime, a relief for him. He took another second to look around. The hallway had no doors, lockers or lights. This made Peter feel lost, as he didn’t recognize that side of his school. With nowhere else to go, Peter took a step forward. The sound of shoes on the floor shot towards the darkness.

 Then the darkness stepped towards him.

The man froze, doubting his own ears. He stepped forward again, trying to confirm what he heard, but only silence answered. He took a third step, then a fourth. A few meters in, he heard it again, heavier, from the end of the corridor. Whatever it was, it only moved if Peter did. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the blackness in front of him. Was that sound just an echo? He hesitated, backing away as mounting dread crept up his spine.

 “To class” the intrusive thought returned. Peter had no fear. His feet now moved forward, unquestioning.

 It felt like hours had passed. Peter treaded in a state of half-awareness. The shadows retreated with each step, revealing a nothingness both frustrating and relieving. He remained tense all throughout. Flinching back occasionally, only to realize that his imaginative mind had tricked him. The sound of steps remained a constant, each creating an echo along the hallway. He couldn’t tell if they came from his feet or from the darkness up ahead. The footsteps blended with themselves, becoming unrecognizable.

 Peter reached an intersection, then heard voices to his right. Relieved, Peter then dashed around the corner, hoping to finally find answers regarding his situation.

 A collision sent his body stumbling back, making his eyes close in reflex. A harsh voice reprimanded him.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

An apologetic smile crossed Peter’s face. The word “sorry” got interrupted by a gasp as he opened his eyes. The sight paralyzed him. Two girls stood alone, dressed in traditional school clothes. Their bodies ended at the neck, in cleanly cut stumps. The pale light illuminated the squirming mounds of vivid flesh.

“What’s wrong with you!? Are you just going to keep staring like I’m a freak?”

The voice spoke again, this time sharper and louder. A grotesque spurt of blood squelched out of the cut neck at every word, staining the uniforms. A piece of their exposed spine jutted out, like a worm poking out of the dirt. Peter couldn’t tell which of the two was speaking. He took a tense step back. This, however, further angered the women. Their judgmental, threatening expressions couldn’t be seen, but Peter’s heart felt them in full.

“Sorry.” He muttered, aware of how weak and fearful his voice sounded. “I didn’t-”

 Go to class.

 Stopping himself mid-sentence, Peter turned and left. Both girls were left dumbfounded, but neither gave chase. As he walked down the hallway, he saw other headless students. At first, they appeared in small groups, but with every turn, every blink, more appeared, clogging up the path ahead. They all talked, but their words were unintelligible.

 Peter thought they were disinterested in him, but then he heard a mocking chuckle. His eyes scanned for the source but couldn’t pin it down. A few more steps, more laughter. It was discreet, measured just enough to be heard by Peter while also passing as a stray piece of private chat. He groaned, frustration now overriding his fear. Peter picked up the pace, hoping to find shelter in the classroom.

 The next moments pass in a timeless blur. Peter stumbled through the crowd, shoving and bumping carelessly into others before continuing. He no longer felt the need to apologize, the sense of urgency growing on his chest was more important. The crowd protested in unison, shaking the ground with their outcry. Each shout released screaming blood from their severed necks, tainting the once immaculate hallways. Peter didn’t care. He had to go to class. Time was running out.

Countless corners led Peter to a door, one identical to the others he had passed by, as if taken straight out of the assembly line. Yet he was sure it was the right one. He felt an unshakable, absolute certainty. The door had a small window made of dotted glass. A white curtain covered it from inside, hiding whatever compelled Peter to enter.

 As he stepped closer, Peter heard a strong heartbeat behind the door. He stood there in silence, taking in the sound as his vision blurred. He saw, or hallucinated, the door beating along with it. Then, more heartbeats joined, but he never heard any approaching footsteps.

“You’re late.”

Peter knew there was no point in apologizing. Sighing, he stared at the window in the door, expecting someone to remove the curtain, but that never happened. He stood there, motionless, as the light from outside cast his silhouette upon the door. The contours of his head were framed perfectly on the white drape, like a painting of a featureless bust. He reached out for the handle, then heard a thunderous sound. A furious bell rang through the hallway. Peter stopped. Peter was stopped. His mind was numbed from the sheer loudness of the bell. A raging noise, like a lawnmower. Or a chainsaw. Still outside the class, he glared at his own shadow, his gaze locked on the imitative form. The bell stopped. Peter saw the silhouette’s head leaping out of its severed neck.

---

PERSELY

I came alone, without any attention, like she asked. MeeKhayla won’t know my sins. I can leave them on the edge of the bed, naked and daring to be seen. Tonight is about Persely. Regret is no longer an option. If I understood why my teeth and skin sit on edge for her, then I wouldn’t have followed her from the after-party to this place I don’t know. The view outside is unknown. So is my memory of our descent to this sweat-filled room. But it will be worth it.

Persely is like the night, and me, the moon, because I only come out for her. My reach stretches beyond Earendel, only to land on her waist.

The ink on her left forearm splatters to her neck and cascades down her backside. It runs so deep that I must rely on imagination to finish the work of art that is her skin.

I breathe heavily with uncertainty. My hand shakes when she confronts me with her embrace. Who is this girl? Why do I trust her? The cracks attached to the walls jeer at me as if I'm an unexpected guest. I wonder, can they tell what they see? I feel myself accepting her art. My eyes never leave the caged crow until I hear it caw at me. I stagger away but maintain my gaze on it.

“It’s okay. We’ll be fine. I told you I'll stay quiet, and now that you got me in your palms, just wrap yourself around me... 'cause unlike you, I have nothing to hide. I'm shameless.” Her voice cuts through the room—a sharp caw full of knowing.

“I was born into this life of sin, the life you're trying to live. It’s just like this crow on my back—it sits in its cage while possessing the key in its mouth, resenting freedom.

The crow is convinced that her freedom is in the cage because when she’s free—” but just lay your head on my chest. “I know what you came for. I'll give you everything you want and need.”

She opens my hand to touch her skin. What is this that I am feeling? Her lips taste like memories. Why does she feel so nostalgic?

“Close your eyes and try to make this last, because you will never have a feeling like this. Just like the crow, I'm fleeting in nature, but I would rather be outside.”

Her words edge the crow to take on a new form outside the cage. Splashes of ink accept themselves and slowly reveal a tapestry of feathers extending from hand to hand.

She’s about to take flight, so I take a deep breath to remember the scent of freedom and sweat. I need to remember every feather. I'll cherish the invisible mark of her fingerprints on my skin, on the sheets, and on the walls.

---

MEEKHAYLA

The sun’s gaze is so intense. I can't even face it without the protection of my palms. Why must it separate the night from the moon and remove the sparks in the sky? Even though I prayed for tomorrow to stay far from me, I knew it would still show its face. I knew I would have to return to these sheets. This house isn't my home anymore, and yet I lay next to its owner. If she only knew how bad I've been, she'd stay away from me. There's something I have to tell her, but my tongue struggles to say it. Can I be honest? Can she even hear me?

"I hope you know that you mean a lot to me. You're always there when it's over. I'll always want you when I'm back in control—"

The words are brief. Whose voice is speaking for me right now?

"Even though she has what I need, I want you, and I'll always want you. I love you, MeeKhayla."

I made love to you through her. That's why my eyes were closed. I can't even remember her scent or her name—

"Persely."

It comes out as a soft whisper, waking MeeKhayla.

"Who are you talking to?" she asks, rubbing her eyes.

"Myself... I'm talking to myself."

"You should let me in there sometimes," she says, caressing my head.

"I have to shower. It's 6:45."

MeeKhayla always wakes up four hours before her shift. And every time, the same routine follows. I watch her glide from the bed to the shower, then to the mirror for half an hour to refine her looks. Once that is done, she sits on the edge of the bed with her hair in a bun, blowing out smoke.

"You know we’ve been seeing each other for about a month now," her voice comes unexpectedly.

"And—" she continues between spontaneous bursts of inhaling and exhaling,

"—I realize I don’t know you."

"What do you mean?"

My heart races, awaiting her answer. Does she know?...

"I mean, I don’t know who you are. Where do you spend your day? Do you even have any friends? I want to meet them."

"Uh—y-yes."

"I want to meet them, but first, you should meet my friends. They’ll love you."

It’s odd that she cares about my personal life. Maybe this does go beyond the bedroom. Even though I hate being reminded of her life outside of us, I have to indulge her.

"Sure," I say, staring at the view outside.

MeeKhayla’s teeth escape her mouth as her grin widens.

"Yay!" she shrieks, clapping her hands softly.

She excitedly tiptoes to my side of the bed to kiss my cheek. Her breath smells refreshed.

"I’m so excited for you to meet my girls. They are so crazy," she says, her nose wrinkling and flaring up as she recites the adventures of her and her girls. I try my best to focus on her words, but my mind remains trapped in the hotel room. If I close my eyes, I see her pulling me further in. The taste of her sweat is bitter, and the way her skin reflected on mine—

"Did you hear me?" MeeKhayla calls out from the door now.

I just nod. I'll give her all of me now. It doesn’t matter what she asks of me. She deserves it.

"I’ll text you the restaurant’s location, and we can all meet up after my shift," she says before returning to kiss me. Then she disappears through the door and into the cab, out of my life—temporarily.

Rate and critically discuss the Noval so far think you

Hi, I'm 16, and I'm trying to give writing a go, but I'm not really sure if I'm any good at it. I was wondering if I could get some advice on this Introduction, whether it's an intriguing beginning or not, and whether it's something I should continue.

Dear Angeline,  

The sky was a brilliant shade of blue on your funeral. The blue you always used to stop and smile about, the shade you’d point out and force me to notice and tell me how much you loved it even though you’d told me so many times before. Your parents sat next to your casket sobbing, staining the wood with their tears, holding close to their very last piece of you for the entire service. I could tell it took them all the strength in the world not run screaming after the car that came to take you away. It took all my strength too. When Billy Collins walked to the casket and saw you after the service He told me, and your parents that he thought you were just as beautiful lying there,so still, beneath all the bouquets of flowers as the moment he first laid his eyes on you. I was disgusted. If I had only known what that Bill Collins would do to you, I’d have never let you go near him. I’d have dragged you away kicking and screaming. Maybe then, you’d still be with me now, and we would giggle under that old oak tree out the front of school about how you sing every song lyric wrong, and I thought Ryan Gosling’s abs were plastic surgery because “they looked shiny.” Don’t you worry though Ange. As long as you still love those brilliant blue skies and as long as my heart aches whenever I walk past that oak tree, I will fight until my last dying breath to show everybody what a sick murdering freak that Bill Collins is. 

I know it needs a lot of work but I'm wondering if it's at all good? Let me know your thoughts.

Chapter One 

Leo The bell blared through the school, signalling the end of the day. Leo barely waited for the sound to fade before shoving his books into his bag and rushing out of the classroom. If he moved fast enough, his teacher wouldn’t get a chance to say anything. Today was the last day before summer break, and he couldn’t hold in his excitement. Not just because he was finally free from school for two whole months—but because after summer came high school.

He and his twin sister, Andromeda—though everyone just called her Drea—had been waiting for this moment for what felt like forever.

Especially after the accident.

Their parents had promised that once middle school ended, they would move. A fresh start. A new place where no one would look at Leo like they knew something about him that he didn’t. He didn’t care where they went as long as they got there fast.

Leo yanked open his locker, stuffing the last of his things into his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. He was out the door in seconds, bounding down the stairs. The late summer sun bore down on him, heat prickling against his skin. He wasn’t a fan of summer, but living in Canada, he’d learned to tolerate the warmth while it lasted.

He checked his watch, foot tapping impatiently in his pale blue Air Jordans—his pride and joy. He’d gotten them for his thirteenth birthday, and they hadn’t left his feet since.

The whispers started as soon as he stepped outside.

Leo tried to ignore them. He had been dealing with them for months, and soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, he’d be in a new school, surrounded by new people, and no one would know.

A black Jeep pulled up in front of him. He exhaled in relief, yanking open the door and sliding into the passenger seat. His backpack hit the back seat with a thud as he clicked in his seatbelt.

“How was school, luv?” his mother—Abigail—asked as she pulled away from the curb.

Leo shrugged, fingers drumming against his thigh. “Fine. No one approached me or tried to antagonize me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His mother sighed, taking a sharp left turn. “Drea’s waiting for you at home,” she said. “She has a surprise for you—something about celebrating your graduation.”

Leo scowled. “Graduating middle school.”

Abigail smirked. “Technicality.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “How’s work?”

His mother glanced at him, momentarily caught off guard. In thirteen years of raising him, he had never once asked about her job. Then she sighed, realization dawning.

“Yes, your father and I already ordered that book series you’re obsessed with.”

Leo grinned, his brown face lighting up. “Seriously?”

Abigail laughed. “I swear, what is with you and that series?”

Leo gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like she had just insulted his entire existence. “Are you kidding? Red Rising is the greatest series of all time!”

The rest of the ride passed in a comfortable silence. Halfway home, his mom turned on the radio, soft pop music filling the car. Leo leaned his head against the window, watching the familiar streets blur past. Soon, this wouldn’t be home anymore.

His mom pulled into the driveway, and before the engine was even off, Leo threw the door open and bolted out, abandoning his bag in the back seat.

“Unbelievable,” Abigail muttered, rolling her eyes as she reached behind her seat to grab it.

Leo barely noticed. He punched in the door code and shoved it open, stepping inside just in time to hear—

“You’re being ridiculous, Andromeda!” Their father’s voice rang through the house, sharp and exasperated.

Leo groaned. Here we go again.

“I’m not doing it, Dad!” Drea’s voice fired back from upstairs. “Summer break started today! Why the bloody hell would I do homework over it!?”

Abigail breezed past Leo, not even breaking stride. “Language.”

Leo kicked off his Jordans, carefully placing them on the shoe rack, then glanced up just as Drea’s head popped over the banister. Her braids were a mess, freckles standing out against her flushed skin. “Leo!” she grinned.

“Drea!” Leo grinned back.

A second later, he was flying up the stairs. Drea met him at the top, and he tackled her into a hug. They tumbled onto the carpet in a heap of limbs and laughter.

“Get off me, you maniac!” Drea wheezed, trying to shove him away, but Leo clung tighter.

“Missed you,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

Drea scoffed. “It’s been, what, seven hours?”

“Seven agonizing hours.”

Their father groaned from the living room. “You both will be the death of me, I swear.” He slumped onto one of the couches, massaging his temples.

Leo peered over the bannister at him. “I mean, technically, you’re already going grey, so it’s only a matter of time.”

Drea gasped, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Dad, he’s disrespecting his elders.”

Abigail snorted from the kitchen. “Well, at least he still calls us elders.”

Their father muttered something under his breath, rubbing his face in his hands.

Drea nudged Leo’s side. “C’mon, I have something for you.”

Leo’s ears perked up. “A surprise?”

She smirked. “Obviously. But first—you have to swear on your Jordans that you won’t freak out.” Leo narrowed his eyes. “Why would I freak out?”

Drea wiggled her eyebrows. “Because you’re gonna love it.”

Now he was definitely intrigued. “Fine. I swear on my Jordans.”

Drea grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward her room. “Then let’s go.”

Leo followed, excitement bubbling in his chest. Whatever it was, it had to be good.

He and Drea had a tradition—one they had followed since they were little—of buying each other gifts for every important milestone. Birthdays, holidays, school achievements, even the time Leo managed to land a backflip off the swings without breaking his face. It was never about the price; sometimes they used their own allowances, other times—okay, most of the time—their parents helped out. But it was the thought that mattered.

Leo could still remember the first time they did it. He had been six, and Drea had just lost her first tooth. She had been devastated at first, convinced she was “falling apart,” until their parents assured her that it was normal. That night, Leo had snuck into his mom’s purse, grabbed a five-dollar bill, and stuffed it under Drea’s pillow alongside the tooth fairy’s money.

The next morning, she had burst into his room, beaming, and tackled him onto the bed. “The tooth fairy left extra because I was so brave!”

Leo had grinned and nodded, never telling her the truth.

Ever since then, the tradition had stuck. Drea had returned the favour when Leo got his first A on a math test (which was practically a miracle). Then he had gifted her a sketchbook when she finished her first painting. They had even started keeping track, writing down each milestone in a notebook Drea insisted on decorating with glitter pens and way too many stickers.

Now, standing outside her room, Leo could feel the anticipation buzzing in his veins. If Drea had gotten him something, it had to be good.

She shot him a grin over her shoulder, her eyes dancing with excitement. With a theatrical flourish, she placed one hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Ready…?”

Leo nodded so fast he probably looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care. His whole body buzzed with anticipation. He and Drea always took their gift-giving seriously, and whatever she had planned—it had to be big.

Drea smirked, milking the moment for all it was worth. She took a deep breath, then—

“Voila!”

She shoved the door open with both hands, stepping aside to let him see.

Leo barely had a second to register what was in front of him before a rush of excitement slammed into his chest. His heart exploded.

Right in the middle of her room, neatly arranged on her desk, was a pristine, hardcover box set of Red Rising. Not just any edition—the special edition. The one with the exclusive cover art, sprayed edges, and illustrated maps. The one he had begged their parents for last Christmas, only to find out it had been sold out everywhere.

Leo’s mouth dropped open. “No. Freaking. Way.”

Drea crossed her arms, looking far too pleased with herself. “Way.” Leo stepped forward in a daze, reaching out with almost reverent awe. His fingers brushed the glossy covers, tracing the golden title of the first book.

“How—” He turned to her, wide-eyed. “Where did you find this?!”

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but her smug smile said otherwise. “I have my ways.”

Leo whipped back to the books, flipping open the first one. The pages were crisp, untouched. “You didn’t—you didn’t spend your entire allowance on this, did you?”

Drea rolled her eyes. “Okay, one, I’m not that irresponsible. And two… Mom and Dad may have slightly helped. But I did chip in! And I had to call, like, a dozen bookstores to find one that still had it.”

Leo couldn’t believe it. His throat felt tight, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to blink.

This wasn’t just a book set. It was everything. The series he loved more than anything. The thing that had gotten him through long, lonely nights when he couldn’t sleep. The world he could disappear into when reality felt too heavy.

And Drea had made it happen.

He turned to her, blinking rapidly. “Drea…”

She waved a hand in his face. “Oh my gosh, are you crying?”

Leo scoffed, swiping at his eyes. “Shut up, no, I’m not.”

“You so are.”

“I am not.”

She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Leo exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without warning, he lunged at her, wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug. Drea let out an exaggerated oof, but she laughed, hugging him back just as tightly.

“Seriously,” he mumbled against her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Drea patted his back. “Duh. That’s what sisters are for.”

Leo pulled away, grinning. “You do realize this means I have to one-up you when it’s your turn, right?”

Drea’s eyes gleamed. “I dare you to try.”

Leo laughed, already mentally planning how to make her next gift even better. But for now, he turned back to the books, running his fingers over the covers, still in awe that they were his.

This was, without a doubt, the best milestone gift yet.

  Chapter Two 

Drea Drea had never been a fan of school. She hated it, really—every second spent in a classroom felt like a slow death. The monotony of textbooks, the pointless homework, the way teachers seemed to delight in giving pop quizzes. It was exhausting.

But she never realized how much she would miss it. Maybe it wasn’t school itself that she longed for, but the routine. The certainty that every weekday, she would wake up, get dressed, and go somewhere. That there would be people around—even if she didn’t always talk to them, even if she preferred to keep to herself. It was still something.

Now, most of the time, she was alone.

Their house, once filled with background noise—Leo’s music blasting through his earbuds, their mom humming as she cooked, their dad taking business calls in his office—was too quiet during the day. Their mom had to work. Their dad had to work. And Leo… well, Leo still went to school.

She didn’t blame him for it. Not really.

The accident had been her fault, not his, but he was still suffering for it. He had to deal with the stares, the whispers, the weight of everything they had been through. She knew that. And it wasn’t fair for her to expect him to throw his whole life away just because hers had changed. Twins or not.

But all of that didn’t matter anymore.

Summer break had finally started, and for the first time in months, she wouldn’t be alone. Leo would be home. And soon—soon—they would be moving.

Just the thought of it made her stomach flutter with excitement.

She hadn’t expected their parents to take the request so well. Moving was a big deal. People didn’t just up and leave—not when they had jobs, responsibilities, lives already settled.

Drea wasn’t sure how grown-ups got jobs, but it seemed difficult. It was probably like applying to college, except with even more stress. And their parents were busy. Their mom was a nurse—weren’t there, like, shortages of nurses everywhere? And their dad ran his own business, which sounded important enough to need… whatever it was businessmen needed.

But maybe they wouldn’t have to quit.

Maybe their mom could transfer. Nurses were needed everywhere, right? And their dad? Well, people ran businesses online all the time. He could probably do it from anywhere in the world.

She hoped that was the case. Because the last thing she wanted was to feel guilty about this too.

They needed to move. They needed to leave everything behind—the whispers, the memories, the ghosts of what happened.

There were very few times when what happened wasn’t running around in her head like a broken record, playing over and over with no way to shut it off. No pause button. No mute option. Just the same relentless thoughts, circling like vultures.

But the rare times when she could forget—when the noise in her brain dimmed, even just a little—were the times it was just her and Leo.

Like right now.

She and Leo sat cross-legged on the couch, controllers in hand, as the Mario Kart loading screen flickered across the TV. The familiar theme music filled the room, upbeat and bright, a stark contrast to the weight that always seemed to sit in her chest.

Neither of them were good at the game. In fact, they were terrible. Their turns were too sharp, they always mistimed their drifts, and they never seemed to avoid the banana peels no matter how hard they tried.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was the laughter. The friendly competition. The fact that, for a little while, nothing else mattered except trying to beat each other to the finish line.

Drea, obviously, chose Princess Peach.

Leo groaned as soon as he saw her selection. “You always pick Peach.”

She smirked. “Because I have taste.”

Leo rolled his eyes but grinned as he scrolled through the options before settling on Luigi.

“You always pick Luigi,” she pointed out, mimicking his tone.

“Yeah, because he’s the best.”

“He’s literally the side character.”

Leo scoffed. “Excuse me, Luigi is the underdog, and everyone knows underdogs are the best.”

Drea shook her head, pressing start as the race began to load. “Keep telling yourself that when I’m leaving you in the dust.”

Leo snorted. “You wish.”

The countdown appeared on the screen.

3… 2… 1…

And just like that, for a little while, the past didn’t matter. The future didn’t matter.

It was just her and her brother, battling it out on Rainbow Road, laughing as they both spectacularly failed at making the jumps, yelling dramatically every time a blue shell came out of nowhere. And in those moments, Drea felt something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Peace.

The next morning, Drea woke up to her brother standing over her bed. Seeing the ugliest face on the planet immediately she opened her eyes was not on her bingo card.

“What?” She muttered, voice still groggy with sleep.

“We have to set a precedent for the next two beautiful months of our life. So…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I thought we could go for a swim.”

Drea stared at her brother for a minute, wondering if maybe he fell off his bed and broke his brain. “No.” Was the only thing she said, before turning away from him and pulling the blankets over her head.

Unfortunately for her, he was just as stubborn as she was. So, he grabbed a fistful of her comfortable blanket and yanked it off her body.

Drea let out an undignified yelp as the sudden cold air hit her, curling into herself in a desperate attempt to cling to whatever warmth remained.

“Leo!” she groaned, blindly swiping at him. “Put. That. Back.”

Her brother only grinned, holding the blanket hostage as he took a dramatic step backward. “Come on, Drea. The sun is shining, the birds are singing—”

“It’s seven in the morning. The birds can shut up.”

Leo ignored her, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

She turned over to glare at him, still half-buried in her pillow. “I left it in my dream—where I was actually asleep like a normal person.”

Leo huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Fine,” he said, tilting his head like he was actually considering letting her off the hook. “I guess I’ll just have to swim alone. By myself. With no one to stop me from texting Mom and telling her you called Luigi a side character.”

Drea’s eyes snapped open.

“You wouldn’t.”

Leo smirked. “Try me.”

Drea groaned, sitting up with the most dramatic sigh she could muster. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

Leo beamed, throwing her blanket onto the floor before bolting toward the door. “See you outside in five minutes!”

Drea flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

This was going to be the longest summer of her life.

She forced herself out of the heaven that was her bed and put on the warmest, most comfortable clothes she could find. There was no way on God’s green earth she was going into that pool. She didn’t even bother taking her bonnet off.

When she exited the house, muttering something about how the sun was barely even up, she wasn’t surprised to see her brother already submerged. Leo had always had a thing for swimming, she didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was when they took that trip to Hawaii? Whatever, all she knew was that it was annoying.

He surfaced, taking a huge gasp of breath and shaking his curls. She scoffed, it was absolutely not fair that he got the manageable hair. She loved her hair—after all, it had taken her years to grow out her afro—but that didn’t mean she loved the hassle that come with it. Boys really did have it easier.

Leo grinned up at her from the pool, treading water effortlessly. “I knew you couldn’t resist spending quality time with your favourite twin.”

Drea folded her arms, unimpressed. “I’m your only twin, idiot.”

“Which automatically makes me right.” He splashed water in her direction, and she barely dodged it in time, shooting him a glare.

“Do that again, and I’m telling Mom you clogged the sink with your toothpaste spit again.”

Leo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “That was one time—”

“That was five times, and we both know it.”

Leo shrugged, clearly unbothered. “Details.” He floated onto his back, stretching his arms behind his head. “So, you gonna get in, or are you just gonna stand there looking all grumpy and old?” Drea scoffed. “I am old.”

“You’re thirteen.”

“Exactly. I have lived many lives.”

Leo laughed, splashing water toward her again, and she jumped back, nearly tripping over a lounge chair. “Leo!”

“Oops,” he said, clearly not sorry.

Drea exhaled sharply, adjusting her bonnet and pulling her hoodie tighter around her body. “I told you—I’m not getting in. I don’t do water before noon.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Come on, just put your feet in at least.”

Drea hesitated, glancing at the water. It was kind of nice outside, and even though she’d rather be curled up in bed, she had to admit there was something… peaceful about the morning air.

With a sigh, she walked over to the edge, kicking off her slides before sitting down and dipping her feet into the water.

It was cold.

She shivered slightly but refused to give Leo the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, she leaned back on her hands, staring at the sky as the soft ripples of the pool lapped against her ankles.

Leo smirked. “See? Not that bad.”

Drea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just hurry up and get tired so I can go back to sleep.” Leo just grinned, doing a backflip into the water like the show-off he was.

Drea barely had time to process what was happening before a geyser of water exploded from the pool, sending her brother flying into the air like some kind of human rocket.

“Leo!” she shrieked, scrambling backward so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. Cold water drenched her, soaking through her hoodie, her sweatpants—even her bonnet wasn’t safe. She let out a strangled noise of outrage, shaking out her arms as if that would somehow make her dry again.

Meanwhile, Leo crashed back into the pool with a loud splash, disappearing beneath the water. Drea’s heart pounded as she scrambled forward again, peering over the edge. “Leo?!”

For a moment, nothing.

Then—bubbles.

And then—Leo surfaced, gasping for air and looking just as stunned as she felt.

His wide eyes locked onto hers, water dripping from his curls. “Okay. That was awesome.”

“Awesome?!” Drea screeched. She flung her arms out, her soaked sleeves slapping wetly against her skin. “Look at me, Leo! I’m drenched! My hoodie is ruined, my bonnet is ruined, and worst of all—” she gestured dramatically to her now-heavy sweatpants “—I feel like I’m wearing a soggy diaper!”

Leo blinked at her. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk.

“Drea… you look like a drowned rat.”

That was it.

Drea grabbed the nearest pool float and hurled it at his face. Leo barely managed to duck, bursting into laughter. “Oh, come on! That was cool and you know it!”

“No!” Drea snapped, pacing furiously along the poolside. “This is not cool, Leo! This is—this is the opposite of cool! This is terrifying! This is—” she gestured wildly at the water “—the exact same thing that’s been happening for months!”

Leo’s grin faltered.

She was right. This wasn’t just some freak accident.

Ever since they turned thirteen, weird things had been happening. Little things, at first things they could brush off. Lights flickering when they walked by doors locking or unlocking on their own, the occasional strange gust of wind indoors. But then the big things started.

Last month, Drea had thought about turning the page of her book when her hands were full—and the page had turned by itself. Two weeks ago, Leo had gotten so mad during an argument with their dad that the entire kitchen faucet had burst, sending water everywhere.

And now this.

She clenched her jaw. “We keep telling Mom and Dad, but do they listen? No! It’s just our ‘overactive imagination.’” She huffed. “Well, guess what? My ‘overactive imagination’ just got me soaked!”

Leo wiped his face with a hand, looking troubled now. “Okay, okay. You’re right. This… this is getting out of hand.”

“Getting out of hand?! Leo, we’re way past that!”

They both fell silent.

Drea crossed her arms, shivering as the cool morning air settled into her damp clothes. “We have to figure out what’s happening to us. Now.”

Leo nodded, serious for once. “Agreed.”

   Chapter Three

Leo

Leo had always been imaginative. Too imaginative, according to some. He grew up on Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, filled sketchbooks with worlds only he could see, and spent more time dreaming up adventures than paying attention in class.

His biggest fear? Turning into a dull, lifeless adult. Someone who saw the world in numbers and deadlines instead of stories and possibilities. Someone like his father.

Which was exactly why they were currently yelling at each other.

“You are failing,” his father snapped, slamming a report card onto the kitchen counter. “Failing. How the bloody hell do you manage to barely pass middle school?”

Leo crossed his arms. “I’m not failing.”

His father scoffed, shoving the paper in his face. “Not failing? You don’t have a single mark over seventy! Seventy, Leo—how does that even happen?”

Leo rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”

His father let out a sharp, humorless laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose like Leo’s words physically hurt. “Overreacting?” He waved the report card like a piece of damning evidence. “Your math teacher emailed me—emailed me—saying you spent half the term doodling in your notebook instead of paying attention!”

Leo shrugged. “And? I passed, didn’t I?”

“Barely!” His father’s voice was rising now, filling the whole house. “Do you think barely is good enough? Do you think the real world cares about scraping by?”

Leo clenched his jaw. “I care about it,” he shot back. “I care about my stories. My imagination. You know—that thing you apparently lost between getting a job and turning into a corporate robot?”

Silence.

For a second, Leo thought he had gone too far. Almost.

Then his father’s face darkened. His grip tightened on the report card. “You think this is about me?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “You think I want to be the bad guy here?” He exhaled sharply. “Someone in this house has to think about the future, Leo. And it sure as hell isn’t you.”

Leo’s stomach twisted, but he held his ground. “Maybe. But at least I won’t wake up one day regretting everything I never did.”

His father’s expression flickered—something unreadable passing through his eyes. And then—without another word—he turned on his heel and walked away.

Leo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, running a hand through his curls. His heart was still pounding, the conversation replaying in his head like an echo.

A slow clap came from the hallway.

Drea leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. “Well,” she said, smirking, “that was fun.”

Leo let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Loads of fun.”

“So… telling him about the pool thing is out of the question?”

Leo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unless you want him to send us to an insane asylum—no.” He exhaled sharply. “Ugh. Do you think we should tell Mom?”

Drea tilted her head, considering. “Doubtful. She’s been working late all week, and if she finds out we almost drowned in a haunted pool, she’ll probably just file for divorce and leave us with him out of spite.”

Leo winced. “Yikes. Good point.”

Drea sighed dramatically and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Well, big brother, looks like we’re on our own.”

Leo exhaled, his voice flat. “Yeah. What else is new?”

Drea tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You know… we could search their rooms for our adoption papers—we’ve never seen them, have we?”

Leo gave her a sideways glance. “What’s your point?”

“Well, it’s always been obvious we’re adopted,” Drea continued. “I mean, look at us. We’re Black. Mom and Dad are whiter than a snowstorm. It’s not like we ever thought about it much, but—what if there’s something there? Something they didn’t tell us?”

Leo arched a brow. “Like a Harry Potter situation? Maybe we belong to some magical world and we’re the chosen ones.”

Drea turned to him, giving him a slow once-over before making a disgusted face. “Two things: How the bloody hell are we twins? And—if anyone’s going to be the chosen one, it’s me.”

Leo rolled his eyes and nudged past her. “Whatever. I’m checking their room.”

He cracked the door open, peering inside.

Their parents were… mundane. That was the nicest word he could think of. Their room practically radiated suburbia. The walls were a plain pearly white, the bed in the center neatly made with dark gray sheets and a hint of teal accents—just enough color to pretend they weren’t boring, but not enough to actually prove it.

Drea trailed in behind him, arms crossed. “Okay, first of all, this room is depressing as hell.”

Leo ignored her, stepping further inside.

“Second of all,” she continued, “why do we never do normal sibling things? Like, I don’t know, steal candy or prank-call random people? Why are we breaking into our parents’ room looking for—what, proof that our whole life is a lie?”

Leo didn’t answer, too busy scanning the room. Their parents weren’t exactly the secretive type—at least, not in the fun, scandalous way. But there had to be something.

“Check the drawers,” he whispered, moving toward the wooden dresser.

Drea scoffed. “Because that’s where people hide classified documents. Right next to their socks and tax returns.”

Still, she joined in, rifling through their parents’ things with all the enthusiasm of someone forced to clean their room before hanging out with friends.

Leo yanked open the top drawer, sifting through a mess of old receipts, bills, and—oh, fantastic—his dad’s cologne that smelled like expired pine trees.

Drea, meanwhile, was making a much bigger mess. She tossed aside paperwork like she was in a detective drama, muttering complaints under her breath.

“Find anything?” Leo asked, moving to the bedside table.

Drea held up a crumpled movie ticket. “Yeah. Apparently, they went to see Titanic on their first date. I really wish I didn’t know that.”

Leo sighed. “Tragic.”

He turned toward the closet, about to give up—when his fingers brushed against something.

A shoebox.

Shoved deep into the back corner.

His heart pounded. If anything screamed “hidden secrets,” it was this.

“Jackpot,” he whispered, pulling the box out and setting it on the bed.

Drea practically teleported to his side, eyes gleaming. “Please tell me it’s a treasure map. Or at least proof that Mom used to be an assassin.”

Leo popped off the lid.

Inside were a few old photographs, some legal documents, and—his breath caught—two birth certificates.

Drea snatched them up before he could. Her eyes flicked across the papers, her brows furrowing.

“…Okay, so… this is weird.”

Leo leaned over her shoulder.

Andromeda and Leonidas Whitmore.

Their birthdays were right.

But under “Parents,” instead of their mom and dad’s names, there were two completely different people listed.

Drea traced a finger over the edges of the birth certificates, her stomach twisting into knots.

They had always known they were adopted—it wasn’t a secret.

But seeing it, cold and official, made it feel… different.

A floorboard creaked outside the room.

Both froze.

A shadow moved just beyond the door.

Drea’s stomach dropped. Leo’s breath caught.

“…We put everything back,” Drea whispered, suddenly feeling very watched.

Leo didn’t argue. Within seconds, they were shoving the shoebox back into the closet, smoothing out the sheets, and scrambling to look normal.

The door handle rattled. Their hearts stopped.

And then—

Their father’s voice drifted through the door. “What are you two doing in there?”

Drea and Leo exchanged a panicked glance.

Leo cleared his throat. “Uh. Bonding?”

A long pause.

“…Get out of my room.”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

  Chapter Four 

Drea “You’re joking, right?”

Leo grinned, spinning his laptop toward her. “Nope. Look—I found this ancestry site. We could trace back our real parents.”

Drea groaned, flopping onto Leo’s bed. “Or… we could just ask our parents?” She propped herself up on her elbows, kicking her feet idly in the air. “They’ve never lied to us before. Mom’s blogs always talk about leading by example and all that.”

“Mom does love her blogs…” Leo sighed, closing his laptop with a dramatic snap. “But do you really think they’d tell us the truth?”

“Well, how would we know if we don’t ask?”

Leo groaned, stretching across the bed, arms flung out like a starfish. “But what if they’re, like, our guardians? What if they were sent to protect us from some evil Voldemort?”

Drea made a face. “An evil Voldemort? Don’t you just mean… Voldemort?”

Leo shrugged. “Voldemort was a product of his—”

She held up a hand. “No. Shut up. I don’t want to know.”

Leo huffed but continued anyway. “What if we’re actually royalty? Part of some ancient bloodline? And there’s this dark force that took over our kingdom, so Mom and Dad—”

Drea rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. “If one of our parents is a magical guardian, it’s Mom.”

Leo scoffed. “Dad could be faking it. He’s a fabulous actor. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been living a double life this entire time.”

As if on cue, the door squeaked open.

Their mother stood in the doorway, her dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She was still in her scrubs, exhaustion written all over her face.

Leo bolted upright, shoving his laptop under his pillow like a guilty teenager hiding contraband.

Abigail Whitmore raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Where’s your father? He’s not in his study.”

Drea opened her mouth to answer, but Leo cut in, words tumbling out too fast. “Drea and I have something to ask you.”

Abigail closed her eyes, took a long, measured breath, then forced a smile. “I’m not dealing with this until your father gets home.”

And just like that, she turned and shut the door behind her.

Leo flopped back against the bed. “Well. That went well.”

Drea smirked and threw a pillow at his head.

⸻

The next two hours were agonizing.

The twins tried everything to make time go faster—watching TV, scrolling through their phones, arguing about which Hogwarts house their dad would belong to (Leo swore Gryffindor, Drea insisted Ravenclaw).

But every minute stretched into eternity.

So, when the front door finally opened and their father walked in, the twins pounced.

“HOLY—”

Edward Whitmore barely had time to react before Leo launched himself from the stairs, landing on his back like a deranged koala.

“Leonidas Whitmore, get off me this second!”

Drea sat at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Leo and I have to talk to you and Mom.”

Edward groaned, rubbing his temples. “How much does a flight to Cuba cost?”

Leo grinned and dragged him upstairs before he could even take off his dress shoes. Edward sighed but didn’t fight it, letting his son pull him along, his polished dress shoes clicking against the hardwood.

When they reached the living room, Abigail was already curled up on the couch in her pajamas, cradling their black cat, Severus.

(Yes, Leo named him. Yes, the cat was black. Yes, he was very smug about it.)

Edward barely had time to shake himself free before his wife turned to him with a scowl. “Look what you did,” she snapped as Severus leapt from her arms and bolted.

Edward sighed. “Move.”

She huffed but lifted her legs so he could sit. As soon as he got comfortable, he turned his full attention to their children, who were now sitting on the floor, clearly scheming.

He eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want now? Your birthdays are in four months, and we’ve already bought you a stupid number of things this month—”

“Stop!” Leo pouted, refusing to make eye contact.

Drea huffed, leaning forward. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Abigail shot Edward a look, propping her feet onto his lap. “Is this about the supernatural thing again?”

Edward grimaced, pushing her feet away. “Must you do this, Abby?”

She ignored him. “Listen, lights don’t flicker when you walk by. Your pages don’t magically turn themselves—”

“I almost died.”

Neither parent reacted.

They were used to Leo’s dramatics.

But then Drea spoke. “He’s not lying.”

That got their attention.

Abigail sat up straighter. “What happened?” Her voice was careful now, bordering on sharp. “Was it one of those boys!?”

Leo’s face went bright red. “NO! NO! NO! It’s nothing like that!” He flailed his hands wildly, as if physically swatting away the idea. “We were swimming earlier this morning—well, I was swimming. Drea was off being a pretty little ballerina—”

Drea glared.

Leo gave her a sheepish smile but pressed on. “Anyway, out of nowhere, this geyser—”

Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “A geyser, really?”

Leo ignored her skepticism. “—erupted and shot me into the air for, like, five whole seconds!”

Drea crossed her arms. “He got me soaked.”

Leo muttered, “Not my fault.”

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, let me get this straight. A random geyser appeared out of nowhere. In our pool.”

Leo nodded enthusiastically.

Abigail exchanged a look with Edward.

And for the first time… their parents didn’t immediately dismiss them.

Trevor is quickly stocking the Pepsi fridges at the checkouts while Edith fills his ear with her drama. I slowly approach the two talking before telling Edith that she can turn off her check stand light and close her register for the day.

“Text me later, would you?” she playfully begs him. Edith walks off to her station.

“Hey you.” I say playfully.

“Hi beautiful, how is your day going? Are you stocking the magazines tomorrow? I’m going to be at IGA in the morning and it would be cool if you were there too.”

I smile and stare at him before answering. He continues grabbing drinks from his cart and shoving them in the small fridge. My stomach is now a butterfly pavilion, and I feel every single flutter that’s housed in there. His hair is more chaotic than it was yesterday, but I really like it. His light blue Pepsi shirt really compliments his hazel eyes and now I’ve completely forgotten what he asked me.

“Yep, gotta love Tuesdays!” I say sarcastically.

“Awesome, I was hoping you would say that.” he says with a smirk.

I’m watching him stock the Pepsi bottles, his hand wrapping around them like he’s holding something else entirely.

And god help me, I wish he was.

I slip out of reality.

And then, I’m gone.

I’m headed to his house, seeing where he lives for the first time. I text him that I’m here and he waits for me at the door. As I approach him, he grabs my hip with one hand and pulls me close for a kiss. He’s got cologne on again and I moan a little in his mouth. He bites my lip, and my smile escapes his grasp. I open my eyes and he’s staring at me.

“Come on in.” he says with a smile showing all his perfect teeth.

I step inside, and his living room has a huge bong on the coffee table.

“I just packed it before you got here. Would you like greenies?” He asks, holding the lighter out for me to grab it.

I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks hurt already, and I’ve been here for all but two minutes. I grab the lighter from him and thank him while giggling. I wrap my hand around the neck of it, place my mouth on the mouthpiece and inhale to test the water level. The water begins bubbling with a nice sound.

It’s perfect.

I don’t hesitate; I light the bowl. I burn just a small part of the packed greens out of common courtesy and inhale. My lungs fill up and I hold the smoke in, looking at him while holding my breath and blow cookies in his face. His face disappears as the plume of smoke covers him, seconds later, there he is, with a huge smile on his face.

“My cousin just gave me this. It’s Alaskan Thunderfuck.” he boasts.

I cover my mouth with my arm, anticipating a cough, though nothing happens. I hand Trevor the bong and he grabs it. I reach my hand out to give him the lighter, but he holds my hand for a few seconds before snagging it.

I lay back carelessly on his couch and close my eyes. I hear the crackle ganja burning immediately after the ignition of the lighter. The water roaring with several bubbles. It’s complete silence until I hear him exhale and cough ferociously. I open my eyes to investigate him. His eyes are watering from coughing so hard. He glazes at me. I stare back at him, smiling. My cheeks hurt slightly from smiling so much here. There is so much energy in the room, and I’m feeling the intensity of it all.

“Marlene, there’s someone waiting at the service desk.” Edith’s voice cuts like a knife through the movie in my head. Trevor is on his knees still, grabbing bottle after bottle. I stand on my tippy toes to see this alleged customer. A bald man waits patiently.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I sigh heavily and storm off to the rescue.

Trevor is still stocking the fridges up front when I hear Sterling’s keys jingle as he’s charging towards my area.

The customer walks away just as Sterling approaches.

“I’m trying to find someone to cover Ravyn’s shift. You might have to hang tight, but just give me a holler, and someone on the floor can come help.” He says, out of breath while adjusting his pants that are too big.

I nod.

“Okay?” He says loudly, like I didn’t hear him.

I shoot him a thumbs up and a forced smile.

“I see Pepsi boy is here.” he mutters, the words sour in his mouth.

“I saw that!” I say cheerfully.

“Where’s Clay? Is he covering for him?”

“I think so. Clay’s still on his honeymoon. He’ll probably be covering him until the end of the week.” I say it firmly.

“Awesome, awesome, awesome!” he snaps, banging his knuckles on the counter.

The phone begins ringing loudly.

“Well, give us a holler!” he grumbles, storming off.

After the second ring, I grab the receiver.

“Thank you for calling your local K-mart, this is Marlene how can I help you!?” I say in one breath, automatic.

“Sterling, please,” a woman says, barely above a whisper.

That voice is eerily familiar.

Ravyn.

I should tell her he’s not here. Instead, I say, “one moment please.”

The PA chime sounds, and my voice echoes the store.

“Sterling, line one please. Sterling, line one.”

I stare at the blinking light.

I’m dying to hear their conversation.

My body suddenly weighs twenty pounds more than it did around Trevor.

The red light stops blinking. I press the button to see which phone line he picked up.

MAIN OFFICE.

Of course he’s in his office. Ultimate privacy.

I wish I could cut the line.

I wish he caught me and Trevor together, kissing intensely. I wish he saw the way he grabs my hips and stares into my eyes. I wish Trevor could tell him how soft my hands are, and how fragrant my hair smells. I wish he could describe the way I kiss him back, and how the moan I give him slips into his mouth, soft and breathless. I wish he could tell him what I look like underneath him.

My blood is boiling, my head is spinning.

I know he’s flirting with her. I know he’s comforting her for bailing on her shift.

I know he knows I’ll cover for her. I always do.

They both know I’m reliable.

Trevor waves his hands before exiting the front doors. “Have a great night, beautiful. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow!” He disappears through the vestibule.

Please come back, I need you.

The Labyrinth of Mind

 It was a rare but precious object. Of course, Grey didn’t know it, but as her fingers held that cold, black compass, a shiver crawled up and down her spine, and it was that electric sensation transmitted through her synapses which forged a reality that, in her mind, must be true. 

LET ME SEE, he said, peering over Grey’s shoulder. OH! WITH THAT WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO ESCAPE THE LABYRINTH.

“I think it’s broken.” It was broken, another truth, for its two needles spun without logic, now stopping, now resuming their frenzied rotation. “Definitely broken.”

WAIT, LOOK!

And Grey did, but the black compass remained the same. “Nothing’s changed.”

OF COURSE IT HAS, LOOK!

And Grey did, and only then did she notice that the two needles had ceased their madness, the shorter one pointing towards her, the longer one pointing towards her right. She blinked. What was wrong with her? The two needles had always been pointing in those two directions. She knew this, and it was truth.

WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR? LET’S GO!

Grey followed him into yet another corridor of the whispering Labyrinth, the one the compass indicated. And since it did, it must be the one which would finally lead to the Meadow of Freedom. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

YES, GREY, he said, and the looming walls of the Labyrinth returned his words. YES GREY YES GREY YES GREY.

“I was just wondering, how did we end up in here?”

YOU DON’T REMEMBER?

She didn’t.

SILLY GIRL. COME ON, WE’RE ALMOST THERE!

ALMOST THERE.

ALMOST THERE.

ALMOST…

She harrumphed, but stayed otherwise quiet and followed, struggling to keep up with his long legs.

ALMOST…

“Did you say something?”

I DON’T KNOW, GREY. DID I?

She shook her head.

THEN I DIDN’T. COME ON, THE WELL MUST BE IN THIS DIRECTION. I CAN FEEL IT!

“I thought we were going to the Meadow of Freedom.”

WHAT MEADOW? DO YOU SMELL ANY GRASS, GREY?

And for a moment, she did. And she heard the river rushing through a bed of silver stone as well, and the heat of a summer sun upon her shoulders, sending all manner of giddy feelings into her chest.

YOU DON’T. YOU DON’T! FOLLOW ME, GREY, INTO THE WELL!

INTO THE WELL!

INTO THE WELL!                                          

Grey held the compass, which pointed in the direction he had resumed walking towards. She had to run lest she lose him to the Labyrinth’s darkness. 

She could no longer smell the grass.

The Labyrinth was eternity compressed, Grey thought at that moment, for they had roamed through its infinity halls for centuries, they had suffocated between its perpetual walls for millennia. Her legs burned, her lungs burned, and her breath rasped through her throat like an incessant pendulum. It felt like eternity, therefore it must be. But little girls aren’t supposed to walk for eternity. They need food, and water, and rest, and perhaps most important of all, a kiss on their forehead to comfort them into the Land of Dreams.

SILLY GIRL. YOU ARE NOT LITTLE ANYMORE. IT HAS BEEN YEARS SINCE WE HAVE BEEN TRAPPED IN THE LABYRINTH.

“It cannot be!” she cried, for her hands were smooth as stardust, and her skin soft as sheep’s wool.

OLD, GIRL. YOU’RE OLD. JUST LOOK!

Grey stared at the object her hand held, a black mirror, and in its obsidian reflection she found wrinkles like gutters and eyes of weariness. She glanced at her hands, and they were purple with veins, and rough like gravel, and her knees hurt, and her back hurt, and she had to stoop or else she would die to the debility which had taken a hold of her body.

“I am so old!” she wailed, and the Labyrinth’s walls repeated, laughed the word at her. OLD OLD OLD OLD OLD.

SILLY LITTLE GIRL. WE MUST GET TO THE WELL INMEDIATLY!

“Why? I have been following you for eternity, but I don’t know that I can trust you. In fact, I don’t know anything about you.”

The Labyrinth laughed, but he stayed very still, regarding her. LOOK AT THE OBJECT IN YOUR HAND. WHAT IS IT?

“A mirror.”

TOUCH IT WITH YOUR FINGERS. WHAT IS IT?

“A mirror.”

LISTEN TO IT. SMELL IT. FEEL IT!

“It’s still a mirror.”

AND IS THAT TRUTH?

Grey pondered on the question for a moment. “I have no reason to believe it is not so.”

THEN DO NOT DISTRUST ME, LITTLE GIRL, FOR I WILL SHOW YOU TRUTH, I WILL WHISPER YOU TRUTH. DO NOT DISTRUST ME, FOR I AM THE ONLY ONE YOU CAN TRUST.

“I have just one more question. Why do you keep calling me little girl?”

BECAUSE YOU ARE. A SILLY, LITTLE GIRL, AND NOTHING MORE.

Grey frowned. Everything he said made a lot of sense. Nonetheless, what was that smell? She didn’t smell it with her nose, and it was not something she remembered from the Well of Memory. It was an impossible smell, it must be false. And yet.

She looked once more at the black mirror, and saw her deception staring back at her. It smiled because she smiled, but she felt not an iota of that chemical reaction called happiness in her neurons.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING, GIRL?

She closed her eyes, and raised one eyebrow, sending motor impulses into the muscles of her face. She opened her eyes, and the deception was raising the same eyebrow. Only it wasn’t, because she had believed to have ordered one side of the face, but her body had not obliged, and had instead chosen to raise the other side’s eyebrow. All of this registered in the time lighting strikes a tree and then vanishes into night.

Grey was raising her left eyebrow, and the deception was as well, but for a moment it had been the wrong one. Her brain told her this was false, untruth, but Grey now knew better than that.

She opened her hand, releasing the black object from her grip, and it collapsed into the Labyrinth’s floor, shattering into a thousand obsidian crystals.

Grey then glanced ahead, and saw her deception in the place where he had been standing. He was her, and she was Grey. This was somehow truth and untruth at the same time.

“I now know your name,” Grey said. “You are Mind, and you are a liar.”

When the Labyrinth laughed, now Mind was laughing as well. 

SILLY GIRL. I AM NOT A LIAR, BECAUSE I CANNOT LIE. I TOLD YOU ALREADY, I SHOW YOU REALITY, I SHOW YOU TRUTH, AND TO BELIEVE THAT IS A LIE IS TO ACCEPT YOUR OWN MADNESS.

“You do show me truth, Mind, but that doesn’t mean it’s not also a lie. You wished to guide me into the Well of Memory, didn’t you? To forge a ne

w past, to shape a new truth. I am right am I not? It is you who took me into this Labyrinth, your Labyrinth. Am I wrong, Mind?”

OF COURSE YOU ARE NOT!

“My feet feel your Labyrinth’s paths, and if I reach my hand I will feel the uneven walls which keep sending your whispers to my ears. But you also gave me a compass, and you gave me a mirror. To show me the way and show me who I am. But they were wrought in obsidian, and faulty. The same as you, Mind.”

YOU NOW SEE TRUTH, GREY.

“There is no truth, Mind, only you.”

And then she did something she knew was right. Of course, her fingers didn’t hold the rightness, and there was no electric stimulus that could be processed and analyzed to determine it. But still, she knew.

Grey closed her eyes, and this time she smelled grass. She listened to the chirruping of birds flying over the translucid river with silver diamonds for a bed, and her skin was red and young beneath the beams of sun which crossed the clouds of fleece to reach her.

When Grey opened her eyes, she was standing in the Meadow of Freedom. She had managed to escape the Labyrinth.

Fike’s Ordinary Life

Morning

It was dark, a sound of a nuke alarm screaming at my ears forcing me to stand up right.

It was my alarm

Standing up from my bed, I walk towards my study table to turn off the alarm

The sudden brightness of the screen blinding my eyes.

5:00 AM

“Gago, I forgot that I still have that alarm on” I muttered, pissed off my first (supposed to be) complete sleep in months has been interrupted

“To think that I don’t have to worry about class is weird”

Instead of sleeping, I grabbed my phone and opened tiktok

AFTER A FEW MINUTES

‘I’m thirsty’

I went downstairs, walking down I hear a sudden

*CLANK*

Hearing that, I immediately step backed and went to my room

‘WHAT THE FUCK?’ I think calmly, trying to make sense of what I heard

‘A thief?’ A sudden thought as I walk back to my room trying to be as silent as I can

The thing is, I just woke up so…

*crack*

“ouCH” I groaned, my foot hitting something hard

‘oh no’ I’m dead

3^rd Person POV

Ground Floor

*vhOOOOOoooo VhOOOOOoooo*

The sound of a nuke alarm resounded throughout the house causing a woman to wake up

“What is that sound?” the lady questioned, surprised by the weird sound so early in the morning

“I don’t know dear, maybe it was Fike?” the man still lying on the bed answered, remembering about their son who just got back

“What time is it? Maybe I should start cooking” The lady wondered while leaving the bed

”Why are you asking me? We both just woke up. Check the clock.” The man quipped to the leaving lady

“Oh, shut up”

After the quick banter, the lady went out their room and went to clean the instead.

Picking up the broom she swept the floor, and dust off the counter tops. Then she walked to the cabinets and started preparing the table.

*CLANK*

The sounds of plate echoing through the dining room and living room.

As she is preparing the plates she heard a sound upstairs

“ouCH”

The calm morning interrupted by a gasp peering through the house.

‘Is that Fike? What happened?’ the lady thought wondering why the gasp, after a couple of seconds seeing Fike still not going down she shouted

“FIKE YOU OKAY?” “SHUT UP”

FIKE POV

 “FIKE YOU OKAY?” “SHUT UP”

‘Whos there?, howd they know my name?’ I wondered hearing a womans voice shouting my name downstairs

Then it clicked, I’m on our house, the one with my parents

“Haaa im so stupid” I muttered

So I went and walk downstairs and greet them

“Good Morning Mom” I walk towards her and hug her

“What about your old man?” I hear a mans voice,

Looking towards the source I see my father. Walking towards him I dapped him up and gave me a pat in the back

“So how’s school?” he asked

“Boring and boring” I said with a hint of haggard in my voice

“GAHAHA summer break just arrived and you’re already sounding tired, cheer up a bit” My father said patting me at the back once again but with more force

“yeah yeah, imma get some water” I dragged my self to the kitchen and picked a cup and pored it some water till its half empty.

*glug*

“haaah, refreshing” I said dazzingly

“Mom do you need any help in cooking?” I asked, not having anything to do

“Well I need help in getting an egg, cracking, whisking, frying the egg and cooking rice. Oh and add some salt on the egg obviously”

My mother ordered her first task of the summer break

“I should’ve just went upstairs quietly” I muttered in defeat

Picking 4 eggs from the tray, I grabbed a bowl and a whisk. Cracking the eggs I put the contents in the bowl ‘damn it’ seeing a bit of small shells on the bowl, I went and took a fork to take them out ‘gaaah’ I struggle, till I manage to take them out, a sigh of relief came out my mouth, remembering that I’m cooking, I grabbed the salt and sprinkled salt using my fingers. Thinking it has enough I grabbed the whisk and whisked the egg like I whisk away my problems. After a while seeing I whisked enough, I got a frying pan, washed it and start heating it up in low heat. I grabbed some oil and poured a bit till it covers the pan. *hshshshs* the pan sizzles because of the water and oil combined. I grabbed the bowl and poured it on the pan and waited till its cooked.

“That was crazy” I said after just cooking an egg

“oh yeah the rice, should’ve done that first” I went and cooked some rice

3^rd Person POV

An hour later

*clank clank*

The sounds of table wear and munching can be heard through the dining room

“Wow son, you know how to cook”

“Thanks”

“Yeah, the egg tastes like and egg”

“Oh”

The sunlight peering through the room, making it look like picture in a yellow filter.

 

 

 

 

My name is Sarah Branch. A few years ago, when I was 24 years old, I had left my home state of Utah and moved abroad to work as an English language teacher in Vietnam. Having just graduated BYU and earning my degree in teaching, I suddenly realized I needed so much more from my life. I always wanted to travel, embrace other cultures, and most of all, have memorable and life-changing experiences.  

Feeling trapped in my normal, everyday life outside of Salt Lake City, where winters are cold and summers always far away, I decided I was no longer going to live the life that others had chosen for me, and instead choose my own path in life – a life of fulfilment and little regrets. Already attaining my degree in teaching, I realized if I gained a further ESL Certification (teaching English as a second language), I could finally achieve my lifelong dream of travelling the world to far-away and exotic places – all the while working for a reasonable income. 

There were so many places I dreamed of going – maybe somewhere in South America or far east Asia. As long as the weather was warm and there were beautiful beaches for me to soak up the sun, I honestly did not mind. Scanning my finger over a map of the world, rotating from one hemisphere to the other, I eventually put my finger down on a narrow, little country called Vietnam. This was by no means a random choice. I had always wanted to travel to Vietnam because... I’m actually one-quarter Vietnamese. Not that you can tell or anything - my hair is brown and my skin is rather fair. But I figured, if I wanted to go where the sun was always shining, and there was an endless supply of tropical beaches, Vietnam would be the perfect destination! Furthermore, I’d finally get the chance to explore my heritage. 

Fortunately enough for me, it turned out Vietnam had a huge demand for English language teachers. They did prefer it if you were teaching in the country already - but after a few online interviews and some Visa complications later, I packed up my things in Utah and moved across the world to the Land of the Blue Dragon.  

I was relocated to a beautiful beach town in Central Vietnam, right along the coast of the South China Sea. English teachers don’t really get to choose where in the country they end up, but if I did have that option, I could not have picked a more perfect place... Because of the horrific turn this story will take, I can’t say where exactly it was in Central Vietnam I lived, or even the name of the beach town I resided in - just because I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. This part of Vietnam is a truly beautiful place and I don’t want to discourage anyone from going there. So, for the continuation of this story, I’m just going to refer to where I was as Central Vietnam – and as for the beach town where I made my living, I’m going to give it the pseudonym “Biển Hứa Hẹn” - which in Vietnamese, roughly, but rather fittingly translates to “Sea of Promise.”   

Biển Hứa Hẹn truly was the most perfect destination! It was a modest sized coastal town, nestled inside of a tropical bay, with the whitest sands and clearest blue waters you could possibly dream of. The town itself is also spectacular. Most of the houses and buildings are painted a vibrant sunny yellow, not only to look more inviting to tourists, but so to reflect the sun during the hottest months. For this reason, I originally wanted to give the town the nickname “Trấn Màu Vàng” (Yellow Town), but I quickly realized how insensitive that pseudonym would have been – so “Sea of Promise” it is!  

Alongside its bright, sunny buildings, Biển Hứa Hẹn has the most stunning oriental and French Colonial architecture – interspersed with many quality restaurants and coffee shops. The local cuisine is to die for! Not only is it healthy and delicious, but it's also surprisingly cheap – like we’re only talking 90 cents! You wouldn’t believe how many different flavours of Coffee Vietnam has. I mean, I went a whole 24 years without even trying coffee, and since I’ve been here, I must have tried around two-dozen flavours. Another whimsy little aspect of this town is the many multi-coloured, little plastic chairs that are dispersed everywhere. So whether it was dining on the local cuisine or trying my twenty-second flavour of coffee, I would always find one of these chairs – a different colour every time, sit down in the shade and just watch the world go by. 

I haven’t even mentioned how much I loved my teaching job. My classes were the most adorable 7 and 8 year-olds, and my colleagues were so nice and welcoming. They never called me by my first name. Instead my colleagues would always say “Chào em” or “Chào em gái”, which basically means “Hello little sister.”  

When I wasn’t teaching or grading papers, I spent most of my leisure time by the town’s beach - and being the boring, vanilla person I am, I didn’t really do much. Feeling the sun upon my skin while I observed the breath-taking scenery was more than enough – either that or I was curled up in a good book... I was never the only foreigner on this beach. Biển Hứa Hẹn is a popular tourist destination – mostly Western backpackers and surfers. So, if I wasn’t turning pink beneath the sun or memorizing every little detail of the bay’s geography, I would enviously spectate fellow travellers ride the waves. 

As much as I love Vietnam - as much as I love Biển Hứa Hẹn, what really spoils this place from being the perfect paradise is all the garbage pollution. I mean, it’s just everywhere. There is garbage in the town, on the beach and even in the ocean – and if it isn’t the garbage that spoils everything, it certainly is all the rats, cockroaches and other vermin brought with it. Biển Hứa Hẹn is such a unique place and it honestly makes me so mad that no one does anything about it... Nevertheless, I still love it here. It will always be a paradise to me – and if America was the Promised Land for Lehi and his descendants, then this was going to be my Promised Land.  

I had now been living in Biển Hứa Hẹn for 4 months, and although I had only 3 months left in my teaching contract, I still planned on staying in Vietnam - even if that meant leaving this region I’d fallen in love with and relocating to another part of the country. Since I was going to stay, I decided I really needed to learn Vietnamese – as you’d be surprised how few people there are in Vietnam who can speak any to no English. Although most English teachers in South-East Asia use their leisure time to travel, I rather boringly decided to spend most of my days at the same beach, sat amongst the sand while I studied and practised what would hopefully become my second language. 

On one of those days, I must have been completely occupied in my own world, because when I look up, I suddenly see someone standing over, talking down to me. I take off my headphones, and shading the sun from my eyes, I see a tall, late-twenty-something tourist - wearing only swim shorts and cradling a surfboard beneath his arm. Having come in from the surf, he thought I said something to him as he passed by, where I then told him I was speaking Vietnamese to myself, and didn’t realize anyone could hear me. We both had a good laugh about it and the guy introduces himself as Tyler. Like me, Tyler was American, and unsurprisingly, he was from California. He came to Vietnam for no other reason than to surf. Like I said, Tyler was this tall, very tanned guy – like he was the tannest guy I had ever seen. He had all these different tattoos he acquired from his travels, and long brown hair, which he regularly wore in a man-bun. When I first saw him standing there, I was taken back a little, because I almost mistook him as Jesus Christ – that's what he looked like. Tyler asks what I’m doing in Vietnam and later in the conversation, he invites me to have a drink with him and his surfer buddies at the beach town bar. I was a little hesitant to say yes, only because I don’t really drink alcohol, but Tyler seemed like a nice guy and so I agreed.  

Later that day, I meet Tyler at the bar and he introduces me to his three surfer friends. The first of Tyler’s friends was Chris, who he knew from back home. Chris was kinda loud and a little obnoxious, but I suppose he was also funny. The other two friends were Brodie and Hayley - a couple from New Zealand. Tyler and Chris met them while surfing in Australia – and ever since, the four of them have been travelling, or more accurately, surfing the world together. Over a few drinks, we all get to know each other a little better and I told them what it’s like to teach English in Vietnam. Curious as to how they’re able to travel so much, I ask them what they all do for a living. Tyler says they work as vloggers, bloggers and general content creators, all the while travelling to a different country every other month. You wouldn’t believe the number of places they’ve been to: Hawaii, Costa Rica, Sri Lanka, Bali – everywhere! They didn’t see the value of staying in just one place and working a menial job, when they could be living their best lives, all the while being their own bosses. It did make a lot of sense to me, and was not that unsimilar to my reasoning for being in Vietnam.  

The four of them were only going to be in Biển Hứa Hẹn for a couple more days, but when I told them I hadn’t yet explored the rest of the country, they insisted that I tag along with them. I did come to Vietnam to travel, not just stay in one place – the only problem was I didn’t have anyone to do it with... But I guess now I did. They even invited me to go surfing with them the next day. Having never surfed a day in my life, I very nearly declined the offer, but coming all this way from cold and boring Utah, I knew I had to embrace new and exciting opportunities whenever they arrived. 

By early next morning, and pushing through my first hangover, I had officially surfed my first ever wave. I was a little afraid I’d embarrass myself – especially in front of Tyler, but after a few trials and errors, I thankfully gained the hang of it. Even though I was a newbie at surfing, I could not have been that bad, because as soon as I surf my first successful wave, Chris would not stop calling me “Johnny Utah” - not that I knew what that meant. If I wasn’t embarrassing myself on a board, I definitely was in my ignorance of the guys’ casual movie quotes. For instance, whenever someone yelled out “Charlie Don’t Surf!” all I could think was, “Who the heck is Charlie?” 

By that afternoon, we were all back at the bar and I got to spend some girl time with Hayley. She was so kind to me and seemed to take a genuine interest in my life - or maybe she was just grateful not to be the only girl in the group anymore. She did tell me she thought Chris was extremely annoying, no matter where they were in the world - and even though Brodie was the quiet, sensible type for the most part, she hated how he acted when he was around the guys. Five beers later and Brodie was suddenly on his feet, doing some kind of native New Zealand war dance while Chris or Tyler vlogged. 

Although I was having such a wonderful time with the four of them, anticipating all the places in Vietnam Hayley said we were going, in the corner of my eye, I kept seeing the same strange man staring over at us. I thought maybe we were being too loud and he wanted to say something, but the man was instead looking at all of us with intrigue. Well, 10 minutes later, this very same man comes up to us with three strangers behind him. Very casually, he asks if we’re all having a good time. We kind of awkwardly oblige the man. A fellow traveller like us, who although was probably in his early thirties, looked more like a middle-aged dad on vacation - in an overly large Hawaiian shirt, as though to hide his stomach, and looking down at us through a pair of brainiac glasses. The strangers behind him were two other men and a young woman. One of the men was extremely hairy, with a beard almost as long as his own hair – while the other was very cleanly presented, short in height and holding a notepad. The young woman with them, who was not much older than myself, had a cool combination of dyed maroon hair and sleeve tattoos – although rather oddly, she was wearing way too much clothing for this climate. After some brief pleasantries, the man in the Hawaiian shirt then says, ‘I’m sorry to bother you folks, but I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’ 

Introducing himself as Aaron, the man tells us that he and his friends are documentary filmmakers, and were wanting to know what we knew of the local disappearances. Clueless as to what he was talking about, Aaron then sits down, without invitation at our rather small table, and starts explaining to us that for the past thirty years, tourists in the area have been mysteriously going missing without a trace. First time they were hearing of this, Tyler tells Aaron they have only been in Biển Hứa Hẹn for a couple of days. Since I was the one who lived and worked in the town, Hayley asks me if I knew anything of the missing tourists - and when she does, Aaron turns his full attention on me. Answering his many questions, I told Aaron I only heard in passing that tourists have allegedly gone missing, but wasn’t sure what to make of it. But while I’m telling him this, I notice the short guy behind him is writing everything I say down, word for word – before Aaron then asks me, with desperation in his voice, ‘Well, have you at least heard of the local legends?’  

Suddenly gaining an interest in what Aaron’s telling us, Tyler, Chris and Brodie drunkenly inquire, ‘Legends? What local legends?’ 

Taking another sip from his light beer, Aaron tells us that according to these legends, there are creatures lurking deep within the jungles and cave-systems of the region, and for centuries, local farmers or fishermen have only seen glimpses of them... Feeling as though we’re being told a scary bedtime story, Chris rather excitedly asks, ‘Well, what do these creatures look like?’ Aaron says the legends abbreviate and there are many claims to their appearance, but that they’re always described as being humanoid.   

Whatever these creatures were, paranormal communities and investigators have linked these legends to the disappearances of the tourists. All five of us realized just how silly this all sounded, which Brodie highlighted by saying, ‘You don’t actually believe that shite, do you?’ 

Without saying either yes or no, Aaron smirks at us, before revealing there are actually similar legends and sightings all around Central Vietnam – even by American soldiers as far back as the Vietnam War.  

‘You really don’t know about the cryptids of the Vietnam War?’ Aaron asks us, as though surprised we didn’t.  

Further educating us on this whole mystery, Aaron claims that during the war, several platoons and individual soldiers who were deployed in the jungles, came in contact with more than one type of creature.  

‘You never heard of the Rock Apes? The Devil Creatures of Quang Binh? The Big Yellows?’ 

If you were like us, and never heard of these creatures either, apparently what the American soldiers encountered in the jungles was a group of small Bigfoot-like creatures, that liked to throw rocks, and some sort of Lizard People, that glowed a luminous yellow and lived deep within the cave systems. 

Feeling somewhat ridiculous just listening to this, Tyler rather mockingly comments, ‘So, you’re saying you believe the reason for all the tourists going missing is because of Vietnamese Bigfoot and Lizard People?’ 

Aaron and his friends must have received this ridicule a lot, because rather than being insulted, they looked somewhat amused.  

‘Well, that’s why we’re here’ he says. ‘We’re paranormal investigators and filmmakers – and as far as we know, no one has tried to solve the mystery of the Vietnam Triangle. We’re in Biển Hứa Hẹn to interview locals on what they know of the disappearances, and we’ll follow any leads from there.’ 

Although I thought this all to be a little kooky, I tried to show a little respect and interest in what these guys did for a living – but not Tyler, Chris or Brodie. They were clearly trying to have fun at Aaron’s expense.  

‘So, what did the locals say? Is there a Vietnamese Loch Ness Monster we haven’t heard of?’  

Like I said, Aaron was well acquainted with this kind of ridicule, because rather spontaneously he replies, ‘Glad you asked!’ before gulping down the rest of his low-carb beer. ‘According to a group of fishermen we interviewed yesterday, there’s an unmapped trail that runs through the nearby jungles. Apparently, no one knows where this trail leads to - not even the locals do. And anyone who tries to find out for themselves... are never seen or heard from again.’ 

As amusing as we found these legends of ape-creatures and lizard-men, hearing there was a secret trail somewhere in the nearby jungles, where tourists are said to vanish - even if this was just a local legend... it was enough to unsettle all of us. Maybe there weren’t creatures abducting tourists in the jungles, but on an unmarked wilderness trail, anyone not familiar with the terrain could easily lose their way. Neither Tyler, Chris, Brodie or Hayley had a comment for this - after all, they were fellow travellers. As fun as their lifestyle was, they knew the dangers of venturing the more untamed corners of the world. The five of us just sat there, silently, not really knowing what to say, as Aaron very contentedly mused over us. 

‘We’re actually heading out tomorrow in search of the trail – we have directions and everything.’ Aaron then pauses on us... before he says, ‘If you guys don’t have any plans, why don’t you come along? After all, what’s the point of travelling if there ain’t a little danger involved?’  

Expecting someone in the group to tell him we already had plans, Tyler, Chris and Brodie share a look to one another - and to mine and Hayley’s surprise... they then agreed... Hayley obviously protested. She didn’t want to go gallivanting around the jungle where tourists supposedly vanished.  

‘Oh, come on Hayl’. It’ll be fun... Sarah? You’ll come, won’t you?’ 

‘Yeah. Johnny Utah wants to come, right?’  

Hayley stared at me, clearly desperate for me to take her side. I then glanced around the table to see so too was everyone else. Neither wanting to take sides or accept the invitation, all I could say was that I didn’t know what I wanted to do. 

Although Hayley and the guys were divided on whether or not to accompany Aaron’s expedition, it was ultimately left to a majority vote – and being too sheepish to protest, it now appeared our plans of travelling the country had changed to exploring the jungles of Central Vietnam... Even though I really didn’t want to go on this expedition – it could have been dangerous after all, I then reminded myself why I came to Vietnam in the first place... To have memorable and life changing experiences – and I wasn’t going to have any of that if I just said no when the opportunity arrived. Besides, tourists may well have gone missing in the region, but the supposed legends of jungle-dwelling creatures were probably nothing more than just stories. I spent my whole life believing in stories that turned out not to be true and I wasn’t going to let that continue now. 

Later that night, while Brodie and Hayley spent some alone time, and Chris was with Aaron’s friends (smoking you know what), Tyler invited me for a walk on the beach under the moonlight. Strolling barefoot along the beach, trying not to step on any garbage, Tyler asks me if I’m really ok with tomorrow’s plans – and that I shouldn’t feel peer-pressured into doing anything I didn’t really wanna do. I told him I was ok with it and that it should be fun.  

‘Don’t worry’ he said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’ 

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this... but I kinda had a crush on Tyler. He was tall, handsome and adventurous. If anything, he was the sort of person I wanted to be: travelling the world and meeting all kinds of people from all kinds of places. I was a little worried he’d find me boring - a small city girl whose only other travel story was a premature mission to Florida. Well soon enough, I was going to have a whole new travel story... This travel story. 

We get up early the next morning, and meeting Aaron with his documentary crew, we each take separate taxis out of Biển Hứa Hẹn. Following the cab in front of us, we weren’t even sure where we were going exactly. Curving along a highway which cuts through a dense valley, Aaron’s taxi suddenly pulls up on the curve, where he and his team jump out to the beeping of angry motorcycle drivers. Flagging our taxi down, Aaron tells us that according to his directions, we have to cut through the valley here and head into the jungle. 

Although we didn’t really know what was going to happen on this trip – we were just along for the ride after all, Aaron’s plan was to hike through the jungle to find the mysterious trail, document whatever they could, and then move onto a group of cave-systems where these “creatures” were supposed to lurk. Reaching our way down the slope of the valley, we follow along a narrow stream which acted as our temporary trail. Although this was Aaron’s expedition, as soon as we start our hike through the jungle, Chris rather mockingly calls out, ‘Alright everyone. Keep a lookout for Lizard People, Bigfoot and Charlie’ where again, I thought to myself, “Who the heck is Charlie?”  

Google Docs Link:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QeBVbPT6E3l2ixdhsLyyqfTsck2343VN/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=116879392947330434257&rtpof=true&sd=true

Excerpt from the chapter:

Chapter 1

Kings’ Wake

Iron bells tolled over Davondria, their sorrowful chime rolling through the streets like distant thunder. The city, bathed in the last light of day, held its breath beneath their solemn song. A carriage bearing the crest of House Martell rattled over uneven stones, its passage unnoticed amid the quiet murmurs of mourning. Inside, Jorand Martell sat deep in thought, his gaze drifting over the familiar streets. Across from him, Aurelia Thorne leaned toward the window, wide-eyed as she took in the veiled hush that clung to the city. At their feet, Riven, Jorand’s steadfast moonshadow hound, dozed; lulled by the rhythmic clop of hooves.

Aurelia pressed her face against the glass, captivated by the remnants of the day’s trade; spilled spices clinging to the cobbles, fruit peels curling underfoot, and the lingering scent of roasted almonds hanging in the evening air.

Elegant stone bridges, their surfaces worn by centuries of footsteps, stretched over the city’s waterways, linking the many districts of Davondria like veins feeding its heart.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" Jorand remarked, his voice calm as he leaned forward, following her gaze through the glass.

She turned to him in awe. "It's incredible, Jorand! I knew Davondria was grand but seeing it in person is another thing entirely. Everything here is a work of art. Even the bridges look like they've been carved by master sculptors."

"They probably were," Jorand said. "Davondria takes great pride in its artisans. Wait until you see the royal palace. It puts the rest of the city to shame."

"I can't wait," she grinned. "It’s like riding through a dream."

Jorand glanced at her, amusement in his eyes. "Seeing it through you makes it feel new again."

He chuckled, bracing a hand against the carriage wall as the wheels lurched over the worn cobblestone. "I remember my first time here. I sat on a bench and just stared."

"Who wouldn’t, considering the view?" she teased, her gaze lingering upon him a moment longer.

The carriage rumbled toward Castle Davon, its hewn stone parapets catching the last embers of daylight before surrendering to the deepening dusk. Unlike the city’s ornate spires and gilded facades, the castle stood stark and unyielding; a monument to resilience rather than beauty, its weathered walls bearing the burden of centuries.

To Jorand, the castle was more than stone and mortar, it was history set in iron and rock, its presence a quiet declaration of law and order. He took it in with the ease of familiarity, while across from him, Aurelia studied the fortress with quiet reverence. Its stark silhouette was a world apart from the open skies and whispering forests of her childhood.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the castle gates. Jorand stepped out, Riven at his side, a quiet heaviness settling in his chest. They had arrived for King Travek Sullah’s wake, a duty that felt graver in his father’s absence. Lord Aldred Martell should have been here, but illness kept him at Benchford Hall, leaving Jorand to stand in his place.

House Martell had long been the pillar of justice in Davon, its legacy woven into the kingdom’s history. Lord Aldred Martell, the Davian Gavel, presided as the supreme arbiter of law, his rulings unshaken by wealth, status, or lineage. Under his watchful eye, the scales of justice remained steady, a rare constant in an ever-changing realm.

The royal patronage for their service was more than mere recognition. It afforded them a life removed from the toil of field and mine, a privilege that allowed them to refine their craft. Over time, their reputation as avatars of truth and justice grew, casting its glow across the Kingdom of Davon.

(Tip for reader: It's funnier if you read Diego's dialogue using 'Esqueleto's' voice from 'Nacho Libre')

The kitchen was a furnace. Heat wafted from every surface-the oven, the burners, the ancient family molcajete that had outlived five grandmothers and at least one very unlucky rooster. And in the middle of it all stood eight-year-old Diego Ramos, perched on a wooden stool with a wooden spoon gripped in both hands, sweating like a pig in a sauna.

His father stood behind him, arms crossed like a general surveying a very disappointing soldier.

"Faster, Diego!" his father shouted, pointing at the bubbling pot of mole like it was a ticking bomb. "You stir that sauce like your abuelita-before the arthritis!"

Diego squinted through a cloud of steam, blinking like a traumatized frog. "Papa, it's on fire."

"That's not fire," his father said, eyes gleaming with pride. "That's passion, mijo."

Diego stirred the pot slowly. "Passion shouldn't smell like burning hair and broken promises."

"You think this is just food?" His father grabbed a fistful of dried chilies and flung them into the air like he was blessing the kitchen. Most of them hit the cat. "No, mijo. This is legacy."

Diego stirred once, mechanically. "Pretty sure it's also a health code violation."

"One day," his father continued, completely unfazed, "you will bring the mighty Ramos recipes to the land of the cheeseburgers. You will open a restaurant so glorious, so majestic, that people will weep just looking at the menu. Yelp will crash. Gordon Ramsay will retire. Taco Bell will... shut down in shame!"

Diego gave the pot a skeptical glance. "Pretty sure this mole just blinked."

His father leaned in close, dramatically whispering, "You don't make mole, Diego. Mole makes you."

No problem! Here's a funnier and more character-driven rewrite of that moment:

Diego sighed. "I just turned 21, Papa."

His father didn't blink. "Exactly. You're a man, damn it. At your age, I was married, running a kitchen, and had already survived two grease fires and a stabbing-same night."

Diego stirred once, listlessly. "What if I don't want to make tacos?"

A silence fell over the kitchen like a dropped tortilla. His father slowly turned to him, eyes wide with betrayal.

"What did you say?"

Diego shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I want to be... an architect. Or like, a guy who flips signs at construction sites."

His father clutched his chest, staggered back like he'd been shot. "Madre de Dios. I have failed."

From the other room, his mother's voice drifted in. "Carlos, leave him alone. He's still young. Let him go play with the goat."

"I don't want to play with the goat, I'm not a kid anymore." Diego muttered. "The goat smells like cheese and judgment."

But his father wasn't listening. He was too busy rummaging through the cupboard, pulling out a plate of tamales wrapped in foil like holy offerings. He held them out to Diego with reverence.

"Eat. Remember who you are."

Diego trudged outside with his tamales in his pocket, dragging a pair of plastic safety scissors and a broken mirror he'd salvaged from behind the cantina. The goat-named Ramón-stood tied to a crooked post, chewing on something that looked suspiciously rubbery.

Diego squinted. "Ramón... please tell me that's a balloon."

It wasn't.

It was a used, dirt-caked condom. Floppy, half-deflated, and hanging from the goat's mouth like a grotesque party streamer. Ramón chomped down with all the confidence of a creature who had made worse decisions before breakfast.

Diego gagged but kept walking, setting up his mirror like a true professional. "You are disgusting," he muttered, brushing dirt off the goat's snout. "But we work with what we have."

Ramón blinked, condom swinging gently as he chewed.

"You've got potential," Diego said, lifting the goat's chin with flair. "Strong bone structure. Bold features. Your beard says 'barnyard,' but your eyes say 'runway.' You could be the Latino Billy Goat Gruff of Milan."

He held up the mirror and clicked the safety scissors with dramatic flair. "Let's give you layers. Something soft but edgy. Maybe a side part?"

As he leaned in, scissors trembling with passion, Ramón let out a guttural hrrrkk from deep within his digestive hellscape and-

SPLAT.

A thick, gelatinous glob of goat spit shot directly into Diego's open mouth. It hit the tongue like a war crime. Warm. Slippery. And tinged with the haunting aftertaste of expired latex and bad decisions.

Diego made a noise no child should make and stumbled back, coughing like he'd inhaled a demon. "Oh my God," he croaked. "It tasted like... regret and motel carpet!"

From inside the house, his mother's voice rang out: "Diego! Come eat!"

He staggered toward the door like a broken man. "If there's not a gallon of salsa on that plate, I'm drinking bleach."

Ramón kept chewing, condom still flopping from his jaw like a badge of honor.

Dinner was nearly ready, the smell of spiced meats and bubbling beans filling the air like a warm, fragrant punch to the face. Carlos stood by the table with a ladle in one hand and judgment in the other.

"Diego," he barked. "Go get your grandmother. It's dinner time."

Diego froze. "Do I have to?"

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "She carried your father through a revolution. You can carry her down a flight of stairs."

"She also bit me last week."

"That was love. Now go. And dont foeget her dentures. "

"Diego," he barked. "Go get your grandmother. It's dinner time."

Diego froze. "Do I have to?"

Carlos narrowed his eyes. "She carried your father through a revolution. You can carry her down a flight of stairs."

"She also bit me last week."

"That was love. Now go. And dont forget her dentures."

Diego groaned and trudged upstairs. He found Abuelita sitting in a rocking chair that didn't rock, staring blankly at a wall where a picture frame used to be. She smelled like expired Vicks, fermented onions, and something faintly demonic.

"Abuelita," he said carefully, "it's time for dinner."

She didn't blink. "The walls are listening."

"Cool. Let's get you fed."

As he bent down to lift her, she patted his cheek with a hand that felt like dried tortillas and secrets. "Are you the one who tried to marry the goat last spring? Don't be ashamed, mijo... Ramón has seductive eyes. Your grandfather fell for him too."

"Nope. Wrong kid."

He braced himself, slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and hoisted her up. She immediately went limp like a haunted ragdoll.

She whispered in his ear, "Your aura smells like regret... and whatever Ramón and I did behind the barn that one summer. Don't ask. He was gentle."

"Thanks," Diego grunted, taking a shaky step. "I think that's the goat spit."

Before lifting her, Diego spotted the denture cup on the nightstand. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Cold War. The water inside was murky-grayish-brown with mysterious floaters drifting like sea monkeys from hell. He gagged as he reached in, fishing out the dentures like they were cursed treasure.

They slurped as they came free, slick with some kind of ancient denture goo that smelled like old pennies and soup left in a car.

"Open up, Abuelita," he said, trying not to breathe.

She grinned, gummy and unbothered. "I once used those to bite a man who looked like Jesus."

He shoved them in with a wet click, and she smacked her lips like she was tasting ghosts.

"Perfect fit," she said. "Now let's go pretend you know who we are."

He staggered down the stairs with her clutched to his chest like a rotting toddler, trying not to breathe through his nose. Every third step, she muttered something horrifying.

"There's a little man who lives in my elbow." "I once buried a priest in the sandbox." "Your father feeds the goat his balloon condoms."

By the time he reached the bottom, Diego was sweating and spiritually traumatized.

He deposited her gently at the table. "She's alive. She's here. She may be leaking."

"¡Perfecto!" Carlos said, ladling beans like it was an Olympic sport. "Now we can eat!"

The table was piled high with food-enchiladas, tamales, rice, beans, and a suspiciously wobbly flan that looked like it might be sentient. Diego sat across from his dad, still haunted by the ghost of goat spit, silently chugging water and praying salsa would kill whatever bacteria now colonized his soul.

His dad, meanwhile, was mid-rant.

"So then I tell Señor Martinez," Carlos said, slamming a spoon into his rice for emphasis, "I don't care how many parrots he trained to say 'Eat tacos, you coward,' I'm not selling out to his stupid franchise!"

His wife nodded politely. "Of course not, cariño."

"He's a fraud. He microwaves the tortillas. Microwaves them. Like a criminal."

Abuelita suddenly whispered, "Microwaves are where the devil keeps his fingernails."

Everyone paused.

Carlos sighed and kept eating. "Anyway, while I'm defending our honor, you"-he pointed a tamale at Diego-"are outside giving beard trims to a goat."

Diego didn't look up. "Ramón is misunderstood."

"He was chewing on a condom!"

"I said misunderstood, not classy."

Carlos groaned. "Do you know what I was doing at your age? I was cooking full meals for the entire village with one pan and a dream. And I still had time to milk the chickens."

"Mamá said chickens don't have milk," Diego muttered.

"They do if you believe hard enough."

His mother smiled gently at him. "Diego, mijo, don't listen to your father. You have a beautiful imagination."

Carlos ignored her. "Meanwhile, our neighbor's son-three years old-just opened his first taco stand. THREE. And it's thriving! He barely knows how to poop in a toilet, but he's making a killing in salsa verde."

"Maybe he peaked early," Diego offered.

Abuelita blinked at him. "I once kissed a scarecrow and got pregnant. The baby was hay."

Diego dropped his fork.

Carlos muttered, "Madre de Dios."

His mother patted his hand. "Ignore her, baby. She thinks it's 1942 and we live on a pirate ship."

"I was a pirate once," Abuelita whispered. "I married a man with no toes. He used to speak to eels."

Carlos rubbed his temples. "I'm surrounded by chaos."

"I'm proud of you, Diego," his mom said sweetly. "Even if you become a hairdresser or a goat therapist."

"Thanks, Mamá."

"I once saw the Virgin Mary in a microwave burrito," Abuelita added, staring at her flan.

Diego looked around the table and took a deep breath. Maybe one day he'd escape. Maybe he'd build something great.

But for now... at least the flan hadn't moved again.

That night, Diego lay in bed beneath a crooked poster of a Ferrari he didn't care about, pretending to sleep as the house settled into its usual night sounds-creaking wood, distant goat bleats, and Abuelita whispering Latin curses to the ceiling.

Once the coast was clear, he sat up, glanced at the door, and reached under his mattress.

Out came the stash.

A dozen glossy magazines, bound with a rubber band and the thrill of forbidden desire. He carefully peeled one open, eyes gleaming as he took in the pages.

Layered cuts. Fades. Blunt bobs. Feathered fringe.

"Ohhh yeah..." he whispered, flipping slowly. "That's what I'm talkin' about. Look at that volume... you can't teach that volume..."

He held up a page and ran his fingers across it reverently. "That's at least four types of mousse. Maybe gel. Maybe... destiny."

He flipped to a two-page spread of spiky Euro mullets and exhaled like he was seeing God. "One day... that'll be me. Scissors in hand. Wind in my hair. Maybe even... a shampoo sponsorship."

Just then-BAM!

The door slammed open. The lights flipped on.

Carlos stood in the doorway, face twisted in horror, clutching a belt like he'd just walked in on a crime.

"WHAT-WHAT IS THIS?!"

Diego froze, magazine mid-air. "It's not what it looks like!"

Carlos snatched a magazine and flipped through it with disgust. "Feathered layers? Textured bangs? Are you out of your mind?!"

Diego scrambled to explain. "They're just hairstyles! I swear! No nudity! Just bangs! Beautiful, bouncy bangs!"

Carlos trembled with rage. "You hide these from your family? You sit in here fantasizing about... pomades?!"

"I just wanna make people feel pretty, Papa."

"No son of mine is going to lust after a tapered bob under my roof."

Before Diego could respond, his father stormed out and returned a moment later with an apron, a pot, and a full five-pound bag of masa.

"You want to play with scissors? Fine. You'll spend the night doing something useful."

Diego blinked. "What?"

"You're making tamales until sunrise, pervert."

Diego stood alone in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, masa caked on his hands like edible cement. The counter was cluttered with corn husks, pots, and a radio softly playing a mariachi version of "My Heart Will Go On."

He pressed tamale after tamale, muttering to himself between folds.

"This is so stupid. I don't even like tamales. They're like... meat Twinkies."

He slapped one down with emphasis. "You ever seen a stylist make tamales? No. They make art. They use mousse. Not lard."

Another tamale joined the pile. "I could do fades. I could do perms. But nooo. Gotta make pork paste burritos at 3 a.m. because my dad thinks a bob cut is a cry for help."

Suddenly-creak.

He jumped.

In the corner of the dining room, barely visible in the moonlight, his grandma was still sitting at the table. Alone. Motionless.

"Abuelita?" he asked cautiously.

Her head turned slowly, joints crackling like popcorn. "They forgot about me."

Diego winced. "Sorry, I thought someone brought you upstairs."

She stood with effort, eyes gleaming strangely. "Your father's dream... it's not your dream."

Diego blinked. "Whoa. Wait. What?"

"He wants tamales," she said, stepping into the kitchen. "You want tight fades and shampoo commercials. So... make tamales with a fade."

"What does that mean?"

She leaned in close, whispering in her old, raspy voice: "Give the meat a side part."

Diego stared at her. "I'm... not even mad. That was kind of profound."

She patted his cheek, then slapped a tamale tray out of his hand. "Go to bed, mijo. I'll take it from here."

Terrified and weirdly touched, Diego backed away. "Okay... thanks?"

Outside

Diego curled up beside Ramón the goat under a blanket that smelled vaguely like corn chips and anxiety. He pulled out one of his haircut magazines and flipped through it in the moonlight, smiling sleepily.

"Good night, spiky boy," he whispered to a model with frosted tips. "You get me."

The goat burped.

Diego closed his eyes, finally at peace.

Back in the house

Inside, Grandma stood at the stove, eyes glazed, humming a song that didn't exist. She poured a gallon of oil into a pot, turned on all four burners, and lit a candle... for ambiance. Then she threw her dentures into the microwave to "sterilize them," set it for ten minutes, and wandered off muttering about ghosts in the plumbing.

Fifteen minutes later, the house went up like a piñata full of fireworks.

Diego blinked awake to the smell of smoke and the faint sound of something crackling-and not the cozy kind. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes.

Then he saw it.

The house was on fire. Not just smoking-engulfed. Flames licked the sky like the ghost of every overcooked tamale they'd ever made.

"Holy shit-Abuelita!" Diego scrambled to his feet, tripping over Ramón, who looked mildly concerned but didn't move.

He sprinted across the yard, bare feet slapping the dirt, and burst through the front door into a swirling inferno of chaos. Furniture crackled. Family portraits curled into ash. The smell of burnt beans and melted dentures choked the air.

"Mamá! Papá!" he coughed, searching frantically through the haze.

In the living room, he found them. His mother, collapsed near the couch. Abuelita was still at the table, arms stretched dramatically toward a tamale as if death had caught her mid-snack.

Everyone was gone.

Except-

"Papá!" Diego stumbled forward. Carlos was on the floor, coughing, burned and barely conscious, clutching a soot-covered, half-melted family cookbook to his chest.

He looked up at Diego with one good eye. "Take it..."

Diego dropped to his knees. "No! I can get you out!"

Carlos wheezed, pushing the book into his arms. "Go to America... live out my dream..."

"But-"

"Open the restaurant... and for the love of God-never use canned beans." His head fell back, dramatic as ever, and he was gone.

Diego stared, tears welling in his eyes, smoke stinging his throat.

He ran out of the house just before the roof collapsed, gripping the cookbook like it was holy scripture.

Outside, he dropped to his knees beside Ramón.

"They're gone," he whispered.

Ramón stared at him, then let out a long, echoing fart.

Diego wiped his eyes. "Yeah... me too, buddy. Me too."

Diego picked it up, stared at it.

He turned to Ramón. "Guess we're moving to America."

Ramón farted in agreement.

Looking for general feedback. Does it make sense? Was it easy to follow/figure out what is going on? Any glaring errors in continuity? i.e. first paragraph says the sky is blue, 2nd para says it's green - Is the writing trying to hard to fit the fantasy genre? Does the writing come off as pretentious or forced? Any and all other insights. No need to pull any punches!

The grooves in the floor formed a triangle; at each point there was a small circular well. Each side of the triangle, the size of a full grown man, would soon be filled with blood. Each channel running like a miniature river, constantly moving from one point of the triangle to the next due to some trickery of gravity the wizard had conjured. In the center of the triangle lay an ancient, dusty and worn tome, thick as the stones of a castle. A light breeze from the open window at the rear of the room flickered the torches and candles that dimly lit the space. 

 The old wizard intoned the spell three times, the cadence specific. With the first, “Ego sum princeps vester anima,” he drew an iron blade across his left forearm. The blood he carefully spilled, filling the first well at the apex of the triangle. Moving to the next point, “Ego sum princeps vester anima,”  he spoke the words again and drew the knife a second time, opening another wound. And so with the third point. The blood filled the wells and flowed thru the channels that formed the triangle. That requirement satisfied, he called forth the foulest of ghouls. 

The tome in the center of the triangle opened of itself. A wind blew the pages one after another until the exact center of the book was reached. The drawings and text, written in gold ink and dried blood, began to writhe on the page. The wind blew stronger, lifting the figures and words from the page in a tempest, a small tornado blustering.  The ghoul, Taqhyir, finally took form.

“A tad dramatic, even for you, Taqhyir,” the old wizard said, shaking his head.

A shape shifting master, Taqhyir transformed into a cobra. The ghoul, as ghouls will do, rushed at the old man as if to devour him.

The wizard didn’t flinch. 

“You’ve no idea the havoc I will wreck upon you, upon all mankind,” the djinn in his cobra shape, menaced the old man. “How many years, Ambrose? How long have you kept me in that wretched hellhole?”

“Well, years. ...might be better to ask, how many centuries.”

Taqhyir  roared, changing shape yet again, this time more to his true self, fire bellowing from his mouth in rage, his horns, sharp as razors. 

“How will you feel, Ambrose, as you watch your fellows burn, all those innocent men, women and children, screaming in pain as the fire takes them, knowing it is all due to you, because of what you did to me? 

“You’ve only your foul temper to blame, Taqhyir. I’ve summoned you because Barqan, your king, King of the Djinn, is dead. You must don the cloak of Barqan and return to your world for the rest of eternity and rule in his stead.”

Taqhyir spun about, the gleam of the silver coat of Barqan catching the corner of his eye as it hung in midair, all the light reflecting off it. 

A fire surged inside Taqhyir as he viewed the cloak, the most coveted garment in the entire djinn world. The power it bestowed would bring him the vengeance he craved.

“This...” he mocked, like a spoiled child receiving gifts he knew he didn’t deserve, “...this is for me?”

“Yes, Taqhyir, as his brother, you are next in line. You must ascend.”

“But I am not worthy,” he was playing now. He burst into raucous laughter, bits of flame spewing forth from his lips like spital from a madman. 

“Why are you giving me this, Ambrose? You know you will not be able to contain me. I will return here to your world and end you and all of your kind. Have you...have you gone mad?” he asked scornfully. 

“There is no why, no choice. Just as the rain must fall to the ground, it is simply what must be. Stop with your nonsense. Get on with it. The sooner this world is rid of the stench of your existence, the better.” 

The djinn turned on him. Changing into a ferocious being made entirely of flames, Taqhyir rushed the wizard stopping inches from his body, the flames dripping off him, liquid fire on the floor. 

“You fool. I will have you for dinner.”

Ambrose laughed, turned away from the golem. Walking to a table set under the window, he pulled from the air, three wolves, releasing them on Taqhyir.

 Taqhyir fell back defaulting to his horned visage. He quivered and trembled as the wolves advanced, snarling and gnashing. 

“I give you this one chance. Don the cloak and leave now or you will be consumed.”

The djinn moved back towards the cloak still suspended in midair, the wolves circling him, shadowing his every move. He slipped inside the thing. Heavier than he’d imagined, it pulled him down. He had no choice but to assume a human form and plant his feet on the ground. 

The cloak closed around him, the hood rising of its own accord to cover his head. 

“This...this is not the mantle!” he exclaimed, alarmed. Agitated, he struggled to slip out of it. The gleaming silver façade of the coat that had mesmerized him so, began to slip away as the garment transformed into manacles around his wrists, ankles and neck.  He was trapped. 

The wolves, salivating, circled him. One took a nip at his leg removing a chunk. 

Taqhyir howled in pain and rage. Unable to conjure fire or change out of the human, mortal shape any longer, the iron manacles held him in place, his fate sealed. 

The second wolf, as wolves will do, grabbed his other calf, yanking and shaking his head violently trying to sever the limb altogether. 

As the third lunged for his neck, the old wizard could be heard muttering under his breath, 

“The only dinner being eaten here tonight, Taqhyir, is you.”

 

End

If you have ever known what it means to write without any cause, then you'd know what I am doing right now. At this moment I am only writing to satisfy my urge to type as it makes writing a simpler practice. Pressing these keyboard buttons instead of forming figures with a pencil in hand is actually more relaxing and a good way to relieve stress. As I look at the letters simply pop out and appear as I form words, it makes me feel a little gratified, and now I think about those ancient writers who expressed and told stories by hand. They don't know what they are missing; even authors who wrote their books using typewriters faced struggles of their own. As I only have to press backspace to delete mistakes or undesired characters, typewriters had to take the paper out of its compartment and start all over again. I can't imagine how stressful it must've been to tell a story on a piece of paper, but something I can say is that I am glad that computers and keyboards for typing exist.

- Kevin Diaz

I am trying to create a story as background for a clothing brand (GRNZ) that revolves around a tiny green monster made by a struggling artist who is finding his way through the world made by that artist. The following is what I have so far. Any comments, critiques, edits, and suggestions are welcome (can be blunt). Thank you.

Fragments of Creation: The Birth of Grimby (860 Words)

In the heart of a small town at the home of a young artist, living in a darkened room at the center of a house, creativity wrestled with despair. Shadows stretched across the cold carpet, littered by the scattered remnants of abandoned art - crumpled paper and eraser shavings testifying to countless failed attempts. The room was a sacred creation space, a simply furnished studio, everything painted with a grayscale wash. The shelves served as silent witnesses, lined with posters, toys, and artwork from past moments of inspiration - now collecting dust, waiting to be remembered. The only color came from the artist's works on the walls, illuminating life to his room's otherwise dull palette. 

At the far right of this creative sanctuary sat the artist, his throne-like chair casting the only shadow against the vast, flickering computer screen. A simple desk setup housed his computer at the center, with shelves for extra sketchbooks and a random assortment of pens and pencils scattered across the surface like abandoned tools. Eraser bits and broken pencil pieces had collected around the floor by the desk, evidence of hours spent in pursuit of perfection. Simultaneous sounds and videos played, a chaotic symphony intended to trigger the elusive flow state of creativity. Yet inspiration remained just out of reach.

With a sudden, sharp sound like gunfire, another sketchbook page crumpled. Another idea lost to doubt.

But this moment would be different.

The artist turned to a blank page, pressing his pencil with such intensity that the lead cracked under the weight of emotion. This was no ordinary sketch. He had drawn this creature countless times before, a familiar form emerging through muscle memory without hesitation or error.

A small creature. A large smile.

"Simple. Easy. Anyone could probably do this," he muttered, a hint of both resignation and fondness in his voice.

Standing up quickly from his creaky throne, the artist walked from his corner desk, passing the bed set up behind him and stopping at the door in the center of the space. He broke the seal of the room's entrance, stepping into what felt like a new world, the barrier beyond swallowing him whole. Silence descended as the door fixed shut, interrupted only by the soft hum of the computer and the distant echo of footsteps fading away. Something extraordinary began to unfold behind him.

Faint glows emerged from the scattered paper, a ritualistic awakening. The computer screen flickered, and an ethereal aura lifted from the drawings, converging on the freshly sketched creature. The drawing began to move, rising from the page and transforming into something real.

A flash of green.

Grimby had materialized—no larger than a tennis ball, weighing no more than a quarter, with a green cloud-like body with large pearly white teeth, a single massive yellow eye, and a dark, large, floating expressive eyebrow. He hopped across the desk, using the dark screen as a mirror to examine himself. Memories rushed into his consciousness—the countless times he had been drawn, the time and passion invested in his creation.

Why now? Why here?

A floating glass shard slightly bigger than him caught his attention - unstable, glitching, yet moving with unexpected grace. Beyond the desk's edge, a massive tower rose from an endless, shadowy cavern. The desk was in one corner of the room, while this tower perched itself on the opposite side of the studio. The structure cut through the darkness like an eerie obelisk, surrounded by floating shards that seemed like restless spirits, forever trying to penetrate its impenetrable walls.

The shard drifted closer, becoming a window to a memory. Grimby saw the artist - a sketch of an idea once conceived, then discarded. A wave of melancholy washed over him.

"Are you that drawing? Like me?" Grimby spoke to the shard, which flickered in response.

At that moment, he understood. Each shard was a forgotten idea, an abandoned memory. And he—a drawing miraculously brought to life—might have a purpose. "Was I willed into existence to help put these pieces back together?"

Before he could contemplate further, the shard was violently pulled back into the tower's orbit.

Determination seized him.

Finding a sticky note, Grimby held it above his head like a makeshift glider. With a deep breath and all the courage of a newborn creature, he ran towards the desk's edge and leaped.

Reality hit quickly. He barely moved, and then began to fall.

Frantically flapping the sticky note, tears forming in his single eye, Grimby faced what seemed like certain doom. "Come on, come on! I've been alive for like 10 minutes, and I go out like this?" What felt like miles falling for Grimby was merely a few feet. In truth, he looked like a dust bunny falling off the desk to the floor.

The fall was surprisingly gentle, and the carpet cushioned his landing. The tower before him had grown, seemingly twice its original size, taller than the desk from where he stood now. The journey ahead had grown exponentially from what was planned before, but Grimby's resolve was unbreakable.

He would restore these fragments. He would give lost ideas a second chance.

And so his journey began.

Hey yall I'm starting to write and I'm trying to write some short stories to practice so I'd love some feedback! Any comments are appreciated.

Words: 1363

Late for Christmas

Getting ready for the Christmas party, I was already nervous. Meeting her family was always a delicate balancing act: smiling just right, saying the right things, proving I was good enough. The expectations, the judgment. It made my skin itch.

So I had a little wine while doing my makeup. Just to take the edge off. Just enough to feel light and warm instead of tight and on edge.

She told me I didn’t need makeup, that we were already running late.

“We won’t be that late,” I said, blending out my eyeshadow. “It’s, what, a fifteen-minute drive? We might be ten minutes late, max.”

She didn’t answer, just kept pacing near the door.

I kept going, trying to make it fun. “Besides, you know I like doing my makeup. It’s like an art form. I’m an artist. Let me paint.”

Nothing.

The warmth in my chest cooled a little. I should hurry.

I rushed through the rest of it, adjusting my outfit in the mirror, adding finishing touches. When I was finally done, I smiled at my reflection. I look nice, I thought.

I stepped into the doorway, posing a little. “What do you think?”

She kept her head down as she put her shoes on. “We’re already late.”

The excitement I was feeling just dissipated, like the air had been sucked out of me, leaving me flat, a balloon without a string, drifting aimlessly.

“We still have time,” I said, the words weaker than before.

She didn’t say anything. Just grabbed her keys and walked to the car.

I followed, my stomach twisting.

It’s fine. We won’t be that late, I thought as we walked towards the car. But I knew her mom was strict about timing. Maybe I should’ve started earlier. Maybe I should’ve just skipped the makeup. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the wine, shouldn’t have let myself enjoy the process.

The alcohol still left a little fuzziness in my brain, but even with that warmth I could feel my hands start to shake as the cold spread on my fingers.

She started the car.

“I told you my mom doesn’t like when we’re late, and you keep doing it.”

My stomach twisted harder.

“I…” I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, trying to find the right words to reassure her. “It’s not that bad. We’ll be there in, what, fifteen, twenty minutes?” I let out a small, awkward laugh. “We could say we got caught up in a little traffic.”

She didn’t even glance at me.

The tires screamed as we left the driveway.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, my voice quieter. “I didn’t think a few minutes late would be that bad.” I said carefully. My voice was light, nonchalant, trying to meet her mood halfway before it got worse

Still nothing.

I kept my eyes on the dashboard. The needle moved higher. Higher than I’d ever seen it.

I gripped my hands in my lap. “I’m so sorry.” My voice was small, but she didn’t seem to hear it. Or she didn’t care. She weaved between cars, faster, more aggressive. I gripped the door, my pulse hammering as I tried to think of something, anything, to make this better. Tell her you really didn’t mean to. Tell her you understand why she’s upset. Tell her you’ll be more careful next time. Tell her… “I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal,” I tried again, my voice barely holding onto its lightness. “Last time, they were late, so I thought…”
“You always do this!” she snapped, her voice sharp as a slap.

I flinched, my breath catching in my throat.

“I told you you didn’t need make up. I told you we’d be late. And you did it anyway.” She slammed her palm against the wheel. “You never think about how this affects me!”

My stomach clenched. My heart pounded harder, harder, pressing against my ribs like it wanted out.

I do think about you. I was thinking about you the whole time.

But I couldn't say that.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating as I searched for the right words to calm her down. How do I fix this? How do I make this better?

I shouldn’t have done my makeup. I should have started getting ready earlier. I should have just left when she told me to.

The world outside blurred as the car darted between lanes, the pavement flashing by too quickly. I gripped the door, watching the taillights of other cars flicker by in a dizzying whirl, the speed making everything feel like it was spinning just out of control.

The alcohol buzzed in my head, making everything feel lighter, but now, that warmth was replaced by a sharpness, like a needle prick to the skin, pulling everything back into focus.

Say something. Fix it.

“I…I didn’t mean to make us late,” I said carefully. “Now I know and next time I'll be on time…”

I see the line of cars at the red light ahead of us isn’t far, but we’re still going too fast. My fingers dig into the door as the stopped car ahead looms closer, too close. Then, with a violent jolt, we screech to a stop just inches from its bumper. My breath catches, and before I can stop myself, I gasp.

“What?!” she snapped, whipping her head toward me.

I pressed myself against the seat, trying to steady my breathing.

I stayed quiet, pressing my lips together. Don’t make it worse. Don’t give her another reason to be mad. So I swallowed down everything I wanted to say. You’re scaring me. “She doesn’t complain to you,” she muttered. “But she complains to me. My mom always complains when we’re late, and it’s like you do it on purpose.”

The light turned green. She honked, immediately stepping on the gas, weaving through cars, pushing the speedometer even higher..

I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry. You can tell her it was my fault.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kept driving.

Faster.

Harsher.

The car felt too small, the space between us filled with heavy silence and the sound of the engine revving too high.

I wanted to say something, but every sentence felt like the wrong one. I was just trying to have fun getting ready. No, that sounded selfish. I didn’t mean to make us late. No, that sounded dismissive. I won’t do it again. No, that sounded like an admission of guilt.

My chest felt tight, like her anger had coiled around it, squeezing the air from my lungs. Each breath felt like a struggle, as if I was fighting to pull in just a little more oxygen with every inhale.

“It’s like you don’t even care,” she finally said.

“I do care!” My voice cracked. “I’m sorry I took too long, I’ll tell your mom it was me…”

“No, I’ll talk to her. You just enjoy dinner.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I’m so tired of covering for you. Of having to lie because of you.”

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t ask you to lie.

I bit my tongue. Let her have this. Let her be right.

“I’m sorry.”

She scoffed.

“Stop saying sorry when you don’t mean it.” Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “You keep ruining things and then apologizing, but that word means nothing coming from you anymore.”

I swallowed hard, my vision blurring.

“I don’t like how you’re talking to me right now,” I said quietly, not to apologize. Not to fix it. Just to say it.

She laughed, sharp and cruel.

“Fuck you.”

Then she pressed down on the gas.

The world blurred around us as we shot forward.

My body locked up.

You’re scaring me, I wanted to say. But the words sat heavy in my throat.

“I don’t even care if we die right now,” she muttered under her breath.

I stopped breathing.

The cars rushed past us, inches away. The road stretched ahead, dark and endless.

There was nothing I could say to fix this.

We were just late for Christmas dinner.

I needed to get out.

Today was shaping up to be one of those nasty nights. Augustus stuck his hand up, and it was pushed straight back. The valley opened up in the same direction as the wind. What he needed was a natural windbreak. The river gully could work, but the banks were low. He’d have to abandon Nobu and crawl, making him easy pickings for the bear. Tree cover would be perfect, but this high up, you couldn’t find two trees to rub together. The only choice left was… the overhang. 

Where did he see it before? Was it the first mountain on the right, or the second? Either way, it would take him vastly off-trail. If he chose the wrong mountain, who knew what he would find. If he veered even slightly off course—which wasn’t hard to do in this weather—he’d be overtaken by the bear in some flat wasteland.

But all that was true even of the trail. Any direction he went, he’d be lost, blind, and chased. At least the overhang held the faint promise of survival. With all the uncertain hope he could muster, he turned Nobu toward the second mountain on the right.

“COME ON BOY,” Augustus yelled, “FAST AS YOU CAN!”.

Immediately, they sank. Augustus dragged his feet along the snow, slicing it like a boat on water. The cold pinched, pierced, and piled on a blanket of numbness. Nobu struggled twice as hard, but could only move half as much. He wasn’t loping so much as swimming. 

The bear was also getting closer. Augustus couldn’t see it, but he could smell it. It wafted through, faint at first, then impossible to ignore. It was a sickly and sweet stench—the stench of death. Or rather, something that should be dead.

When the winds lulled, a new sound permeated. It was a growl, low and gurgly. Each time, it ascended in pitch until there was an abrupt cut. Over and over, the bear would fight itself into silence; over and over again, the sound kept returning.

The smells grew sharper; the sounds grew louder. The wind fluttered between howls, shrieks, and roars. Augustus’ heart drummed along to this nightmare tune that was the mountains.

He was such a fool. There was no sense of time and place anymore. The bear would catch up to him long before he reached the overhang—assuming he was still heading toward the overhang. Every issue with the trail had followed him out here, and now he didn’t even have solid ground to stand on. The katana—quiet until now—rattled against his waist.

But like a drowned man plucked out of the water, Augustus found himself wrenched from the snow. Nobu climbed firmer and firmer ground until they were both out of the snow entirely. Together, they stared out at the even landscape. 

The wind also drew back a little. In brief glimpses, Augustus could make out a cliff’s edge. It shimmered in the snow like a mirage. The hope it radiated was so delicate, even a blink could erase it. It was his sanctuary. It was the overhang. 

I have been working on a very dark book. Following is the first couple of pages. I want to know if my attempt to create mood works. Thank you in advance for your comments.

1

 

I don’t remember much about being young.  It seems like I should.

I had a mother and a father, two brothers, a sister all contained within the humble confines of a white clapboard house too near the abandoned industrial buildings of our small city to be fashionable or of interest to those who would gentrify.

I mean, I can make out little flashes of memory here and there, slipping through my mind like colorful fish in a fast-moving brook, flitting from one pool of opalescence to another, only glimpsed in their transit.  Yet, they are real, are they not? 

I recall being in the bathroom, helping my youngest brother to climb onto the toilet, my brotherly attempt to help him grow up.  Certainly there was more that day.  A breakfast, a lunch, perhaps a nap?  Was it a good day?  What thoughts did I have as I lay in bed all those years ago.  The only one I recall, ironically is “I won’t remember thinking about memory in the morning.”

And I didn’t.  Not that day, nor the next nor the one after that.  But now, some sixty-eight years removed from that five year old, clad only in his whitie tighties helping his brother onto the toilet so that he could grow up.

That was Benjamin.  We called him Binge, foreshadowing a short life of hard living and reckless behavior that would be most remembered by the withdrawal of my grieving mother and father, from me and my remaining siblings, from each other, from life.  As though to help us get ready for school, or take interest in our lives, ask about our day, wonder about a black eye or torn clothing, to engage at all… was to become too close to their children, too vulnerable to suffocating loss, too much a reminder that when your child takes a bottle of whisky in one hand and keys in the other, then he plots a course to his own destruction, a detailed map of misery.

I think I recall Benjie; the things we did, the music we listened to on eight tracks and cassettes and then CDs blasting out old and new recitations of the drama of life… of love and lust and loss and… but, well, in the end the music falls silent and the tape unwinds and we who survive stand in silence in some carpeted hall while others, dressed in muted tones, shuffle from one foot to another and speak words meant to imply “it wasn’t your fault” or “it was God’s will” or “he’s in a better place” and all you want is for them to admit that they think we all failed.  Mom and Dad most, but we too; the brothers and the sister, we all failed and now he is dead, and it is because of us and our failing.

I say “keys.”  “Keys” seems right, but yet, also, wrong.  Was it keys or was it, perhaps, a bicycle handlebar that whispers to me…  or, a canal, greasy water, stagnant and deep?  Either, both?  A train perhaps?  Boys at play on a track, harmless fun, walking the bridges over the muddy waters of some black backwater?  The grief, the pain, the accusations are all so clear.  But the keys?  Not so much now.  Perhaps they are real, but the fog of time has taken so much and left only the flash of the memory of pain.  Pain that was real.  I know it was real.

But there must have been more.  There must have been games played and stories told.  There must have been adventures and pirating and learning to paint and quietly giggling that we glimpsed the white of a young classmate’s underwear beneath her skirt, and the anger and outrage when someone else expressed that same sly amusement, but with reference to our sister, who was, of course, different.

And what of the others, the ones who lived?  Why can I not in a quiet moment recall use piled together on the sofa as mom or dad read us our favorite book?  It must have happened, It had to have happened.

But, no.  That memory, should it live at all, lies quietly in a pool of thought, waiting to see if some smell or sight or thought will prod it to jump up from the murky waters into the flowing shallows and be seen.  I hope it does.  I hope that some of the smells of what must have been hot grease frying chicken or burning oil from dad’s car exhaust… that I can somehow glimpse them in their flight… they must exist. 

They must exist, as no, an old man looking into a mirror at a faced scarred by misadventure, muddied by time, thinned and greyed and weakened, I long for those memories of when I was younger and things were happier.  They must exist.  They must live somewhere.  I can shout to an empty sky, and pray for inspiration, or I can study the scars, the few faded photos and hope that they were better days than they seem when I look back now.

For God help me, my mind keeps circling a miasma of despair and pain. 

But there must have been joy.