She woke up to the living room floor completely covered with coagulated blood.

Sunlight. Where was it? The girl longed for sunlight. Her fingers reached out and they trailed the floor. Let me catch the sunlight.

Her eyes still nearly closed, they quickly adjusted to the dimness of the room. Out of habit, the girl’s hand went to her head, where she pressed on it gently, searching for any signs of bumps. Her arms caught her attention. No new bruises. She thought. No broken bones. She sighed in relief and began looked around, waiting for her eyes to land on something familiar so she might begin to distinguish where she could possibly be.

But her breath quickly caught when she noticed a masked man sitting on a scratched wooden chair, his hostile brown eyes glared at her. “Don’t. Move.” He said lowly, pointing a pistol directly at her chest.

It was the way he held his arm that she concluded that he had an aim that couldn’t miss even if he tried.

She didn’t gasp, she didn’t ask how he seemed to have grabbed the gun out of thin air. She simply froze in place and waited for him to lower the gun. During that time, she suddenly realized all she was wearing was a large T-shirt and second-hand shorts that she had found under the mattress one day.

Her eyes slowly met his and she couldn’t suddenly breath. She realized he scared her. It had possibly been only a few minutes since they had met and he already terrified the crap out of her.

She gulped, then quickly looked away.

He cocked his head, looking at her for a moment as if contemplating why she wasn’t screaming in horror by now. “Look at me.” He said harshly, stuffing the gun into the back of his pants.  

She obeyed and tilted her head up, used to being ordered around. She brushed the pitch black hair out of her face and met his gaze. In spite of his fierce glare, her eyes never wavered away, but her lips trembled. “What’s your name?” He said quietly.

“I d-don’t know.” She stuttered. Her voice broke as if she hadn’t talked for quite a while. “But I think...I think..people used to call me Sorelle.”

It was a beautiful name, he thought. The masked man looked at her, his eyes analytical. In the silence, Sorelle was given the chance to look at the man more carefully.

He could’ve only been 17 or 18, but his eyes gave away the traumatic events he had been through already. She could tell that he was tired as if he had stayed up the entire night watching her.

   And it seemed that he had, for his eyes had bags under them and they looked at her cynically with every movement she made.  “Sorelle.” He mused, fiddling with the gun that was suddenly once again in his hands, “What a beautiful name.”

   She blushed and she could not help it, no one had ever directed the word ‘beautiful’ at her. It was a rather pleasant feeling that spread through her cheeks and she wondered if she had ever felt this flushed.

She then let her hair fall around her face, creating a curtain that she pretended cut off the man’s piercing gaze.

The silence grew until it became almost unbearable. They both watched the dust settle in the dank room until Sorelle found herself asking, “What’s your name?”

He drew back slightly if he was shocked that she talked without being prompted, he gave no sign. He narrowed his eyes. “No one knows my real name.” She drew in a breath, “But you can call me Thiago.”

She nodded, muttered something about weird sounding names under her breath and continued to stare at the blood-stained wood.

There was nothing more to say, and the silence stretched out once again, until the girl lifted the shirt up to her nose to block out the metallic smell of dried blood that lashed at her nostrils.

Something struck her and she wanted to hit herself for not asking it before. “What….what happened here?” She could only guess that something hadn’t gone someone's way for the room to be this unusually bloody.

She had come to realize that she was in the room she nicknamed the ‘Abattoir’. Where her father had used it for slaughtering people.

He had also used it to beat her.

The walls were thick. No one ever heard her screams.

No one would care anyway.

“A rebellion.” He replied. He said the words slowly as if he’d never once spoken that neglected word. “A rebellion happened here.”

She didn’t look up, she didn’t dare move, that explained the blood on the floors and the blood that stained the couch. “A rebellion?” She repeated softly, “What do you mean?”

“Your father-”

She couldn’t help it, she had to say it. “He’s not my father. He may be related to me, but to me he will always be the leader of this stupid gang. ” Sorelle said sharply, then clapped a hand to her mouth and her eyes widened at her reckless outburst.

“Fine.” He said. “The big boss,” He hesitated, “He was going..to kill..someone.”

“For no reason.” Bile rose up in her throat, and she wanted to bend over and throw up. Her insides twisted and her throat fought to not close up in horror. “He was going to kill your sister.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “You remember?”

“I was talking to her. Before….I helped her escape.”

He stood and walked towards her. She flinched.

It felt like they were reenacting her worst memories.  

“Where is she now?”

Her voice shook, “I gave her all the money I had and directed her to the little house near my mom’s destroyed garden. I told her to hide until she no longer heard the gunshots.”

He nodded, he knew what she was talking about. “She’s probably still there.” He reached for the window and jumped out of it.

He looked back at her, then at the abandoned clearing not far away. He closed his eyes and silently cursed at himself. “Come with me?” He asked, holding out his hand. “I..kind of forgot where to go.” He smiled sheepishly.

She smiled and took his hand, before leading him down to the clearing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He cursed in Spanish, looking at Sorelle (who was now wheezing in laughter) in disbelief, how had this girl, who seemed so fragile and delicate, managed to push him over into the river? And she’s like what, fifteen? It took me way too long to get muscle. "Ah, don't worry." She teased, "The sunlight will warm you right up." She pointed towards the sun, getting brighter as midday arrived.  

His pants sagging and his brown hair considerably darker, he trudged out of the river’s muddy banks, muttering curses at himself, more shocked than mad. My balaclava is wet. He thought, disgruntled, guess I’ll have to wear it like that.  He turned around, “Are we almost there yet?” He asked, pointing towards the opening in the woods.

She nodded, “Yeah.”

Sorelle walked along with Thiago, who was complaining that he had a wedgie until a moderately sized house came into view. It wasn’t hard to imagine that it was once a beautiful house, now covered with mold and invaded by tiny creatures.

Sorelle smiled sadly, gesturing to the forsaken garden. “This was my mom’s old garden,” she said, her face nostalgic, “She used to take care of her flowers every spring until it was fall when the flowers would die because of winter.” She paused, unsure of whether to go on or not.

   “Hey,” Thiago said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder; he felt her almost jerk away and quickly pulled his hand from her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” He said awkwardly, his hand clenched and unclenched.

The tension quickly ceased as Sorelle finally voiced out her reply, “No, it’s okay.” He could hear the determination in her voice and her face was unreadable, except for her eyes, which threatened to overflow with tears. “I just never told anyone.” He nodded and beckoned for her to continue. “She...caught cancer. I was only 8, but I already understood that mom wasn’t going to get any better.It was so hard to watch her growing weaker and weaker, withering down to barely any bone. But he, the ‘big boss’, refused to help her.” Sorelle’s voice was full of contempt for him, “The little coward thought we would get caught. So I stayed, dropped out of school to take care of her. Right until the very day she died.”

She drew in a shuddering breath and her lashes became wet, but she didn’t realize she was crying until a tear hit her thigh. “After she died, the big boss blamed me. He was so..sad, and angry. The only person to understand him was dead. Dead.” she said. She then rolled up her sleeve, which showed her entire arm embellished with yellow and deep purple bruises. “He blamed me. Said I didn’t take care of her well enough. He took his anger all out on me.” Sorelle said bitterly, harshly tugging the sleeve down.

Now Thiago knew why Sorelle flinched every time he so much as made a move towards her. It wasn’t her fault, it’s was her father. A feeling of hatred rushed through him, it was all in the memories that haunted her, which was the cause of her acting the way she was now.

No one could blame her for that.

He couldn’t help it, he knew she was sensitive to touch, but he hugged her.

She tensed up in his hold, but as the few tender seconds passed, she relaxed into his embrace and her arms slowly wrapped around his waist.

“You were knocked out. So I don’t think you remembered anything.”  He leaned in, his mouth near her ear, his voice barely a whisper. “But I killed your father.” His breath tickled her ear. “And every single person in that goddamned room.”

She only nodded, then took his wrist, and tugged his arm towards the house, the both of them feeling slightly happier than before.  

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house was too dark and their eyes struggled to adjust. “I don’t hear her,” Thiago said, finally deciding to rely on his other senses.

“She’s probably hiding,” Sorelle suggested, her eyes darting around. “We should look around.” Her hand gestured towards the right, pointing to the staircase that had evaded their vision, despite that it was almost right in front of them. “Take a look upstairs, maybe? I’ll go downstairs. But be careful where you put your feet though, some of these stairs are moldy and you never know when it’s going to break.”

He saw no reason to disagree and began to climb the steps, the stairs creaking under his weight. “Valencia?” He whispered, “Thiago’s here.”

There was only one room. A small, almost closet sized room.

It was an abandoned, but still beautiful room, in a vintage sort of way, with lavender wallpaper peeling off the walls, showing the deep cracks that adorned the dirty confines. There was only one bed, neatly made and covered with worn purple blankets.

One more thing.

He smelled the faint stench of rotting flesh before he even reached the room.

   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was so faint, he had almost not noticed it due to the mask covering his nose.  It came from the bed, which seemed to be covering something, and Thiago stepped closer, his hand trembling, he had seen dead bodies before, but he’d never gotten used to it. The way their blank gaze stared up at him. He knew they couldn’t see, but it brought chills to him every time.

His family had been slaughtered when he was two years old, it was a true bloodfest, but he was glad to know that he never remembered any of it. All he could recall was a red haze. Everything else was left in the past, completely cast off.

He tugged his mask off his face and threw the blanket on the floor, the smell hitting him harder than before, the blankets seemed to have covered the majority of the rotting stench. He tucked his chin in and lifted his shirt up to block his nose. Ew. I forgot what it had smelled like.

It didn’t matter, the sight that met him made him completely forget about the stench.

   His eyes found a girl’s body, her neck twisted at an odd angle, but positioned her head up as if he knew where he was, as if the killer knew that he was going to be right there, in that very spot, staring at the dead girl.

Her eyes were closed and her neck was bruised, her throat almost completely smashed, and her face was half covered by the pillow, but he knew who it was.

He would know his sister anywhere.

And no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t look away, despite his brain screaming for him to close his eyes or wrench his gaze away from the limp body lying on the bunched up blankets.

Strangely, his throat did not close up and he whispered her name hoarsely, calling out to her as if she were only asleep. “V-valencia?” He leaned closer, wanting the dead teen in his bed to be anyone but his sister. She had been alive yesterday...

A knock at the door shook him temporarily from his newfound horror. It was Sorelle, holding a hairbrush. She nodded impassively at the bed, looking neither terrified nor curious at the body on the bed. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow and simply asked. “Found Valencia?”

She said it in a way that suggested that she was mocking him. He gulped, turning around to fully face her instead of straining his eyes to look at her from the corner of his eyes. It was then that he finally realized. “It was you?” He whispered, his eyes starting to water. He took out his gun and pointed it at her chest, a second nature, but it was hard to focus through the tears that threatened to fall.

He took a deep breath, he knew if he tried to aim now he would miss; his arm was so shaky that he could barely keep it upright.

Sorelle’s eyes widened and she took a step back, the floor creaking. God, this place is unbelievably moldy. “What are you talking abou-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” Thiago snarled, “I’m not that stupid to believe you-”

“Yet you decided to trust my story about me helping her escape.” Sorelle interrupted, her timid tone gone, replaced by a hard, cruel voice that Thiago would’ve never believed came from someone so scarred and so...submissive...

He was ready to press the trigger, willing to sacrifice her confession for justice, but Sorelle surrendered, “So you finally figured it out?” She said, her hands shaking with excitement.

“Why?” He repeated, “Why? That’s the one thing I can’t figure out. You kill a 14-year-old. But for what reason?”

She looked down at her feet, “She was 14 years old. And yet, she was happier than I ever could be in 10 lifetimes.” She punched the wall, aiming perfectly, her knuckles becoming bloody almost instantly.  “She was never beat by her family, she had someone who cared about her, loved her. But me? I’ve forgotten what love feels like.” She threw the hairbrush at the window, the glass shattering into a million pieces and falling onto the floor. “So when she ran out that door, I couldn’t help it, I followed her.”

She tilted her head back up, her eyes sadistic. She smirked, as if proud of herself, and Thiago couldn’t believe anyone could be this heartless, so careless about someone else’s life.

He pointed the gun at her, no longer shaky, instead he felt anger and adrenaline running through him. He would not cry for his dead sister’s life until it was avenged and brought to justice.

“Choking her with my hands, it was almost too easy... and you know the best part?” Sorelle grinned wickedly. “Watching her eyes glaze over, the life draining out of them. The sound she made...it was satisfying.” She smiled almost innocently at him, her voice dropped to a mocking whisper, “I’m glad I killed her. Your stupid, pathetic sis-” She didn’t get to finish.

A bullet had already gone through her head.

It landed neatly into one of the cracks in the walls.

Her body fell to the floor, blood rushing out of her head and Thiago fell to his knees, the hallway echoing his anguished cries.

While all Thiago could do was wonder why he could not see that something was wrong the minute his eyes met Sorelle’s.

Her true self had been hidden in plain sight.

 

Everything began without warning. The winds roared and the waves towered high above, cackling as they swallowed all that the world had held close. The screams of the buildings, people, sidewalks, all were silenced by the blanket of water. Running down an empty street I shrieked, watching as the water prepared to bite. Colors blurred, voices muffled, whoosh, everything is carried away.
My eyes crack open, staring up into the sunset. Thoughts race through my mind, the wave, the screams, the horror. The world is silent, the steady chatter no longer fills the streets. No one is left, not a speck of life can be seen.
I used to be afraid of crossing the street, worried the cars wouldn't stop and they would hit me. I always pondered where I'd go when I died. Away, lost in oblivion, alone, searching for something to touch. Never did I think I would be in such a situation when I was alive and well.
This was a busy, powerful city in the past, at any moment you had a 75% chance of seeing a celebrity walking in the streets, being one of the crowd. Large corporations chose this city to be their headquarters. We were rich, we felt important. I bet all of the CEOs thought they were the ones who were going to be in history books, generations away people would say their name in awe. The minute disaster struck, all of their empires crumbled into nothing. There are no more children to whisper their name. There is only me.
It's only me to remember all of the people that once lived. I was always told to make my mark on the world, but never did I believe I'd have the task of remembering everyone else's marks too.
Tough challenges or disasters for that matter don't daunt me. When I was a 21, all of my family died in an airplane crash. I stil had to go on with college, get my Bachelors, and my Masters, and do everything like nothing happened. I was an adult. I couldn't break down and cry. That hardened my heart against future tragedies, and it may be the reason I'm not so effected by this one. It's not the fear of being alone that scares me, it's the fear of being lost. Having no path. No dreams to hope for.
I used to know these streets inside an out, but all of the buildings blend together into the same, the streets too destroyed to even recognize. Billboards hang helplessly on the posts, the streets lie cracked and useless beneath my feet. I do not know this city that I stand in anymore, but I still have a path. A path to something better. I have hope.
Once the day disappears and night covers the Earth, the feeling of lost begins to set in. The feeling that every step could be the wrong step, every breath might be your last. In the darkness, mysterious things begin to happen. Your eyes easily twist images, you see things that aren't really even there, you feel a hand touch your shoulder when it's really only the air. I look up to the sky full of stars, unaware of my presence in a tiny, fallen apart world light years away from them. They give me tiny crumbs of hope that maybe aliens will come and rescue me from this darkness, and I will sail away in a UFO safe in the hands of the aliens. Far fetched I know, but you play these games with yourself when there is nothing more to hope for.
I can feel the soot and dirt common of an alleyway, and I lightly feel a brick wall behind me. Sliding down, I sit on the bare ground and close my eyes, dreaming of something better. In my dream, it is the City Festival, where all are let off from work, school, or any other obligation and we dance around the city square and rainbow confetti flies everywhere. Arcade game stands line every street, children and adults alike enjoy the fun little prizes. There's an aura of pure happiness, no worries, no thoughts. I was strolling around the plaza, watching all of the schoolchildren as they ran about, shouting at one another with
bright colored ribbons tied in their hair. Beneath my feet I felt a soft rumble, then a larger, one, then a larger one, and the ground began to split in two. The atmosphere was crowded with fear and shrieks, as everyone tried to grab hold of their loved ones on the other side. Running away, I weaved down the streets in the comfort of the buildings, although a growing sense of fear was taking over me. The fear that I had no path, no place to be. I didn't have anyone to scream for, I was alone amongst the giant buildings, I was on a race to nowhere. The sun grew dimmer and dimmer as I mindlessly wandered the streets, panicked and flustered, every footstep beating on the ground like a drum. Darkness was taking over, and I continued to run faster and faster only this time the street seemed to go on forever and ever. My feet never stopped moving, the darkness constantly biting at my heels, and it seems like I would run forever...until a voice whispers in my ear.
“Wake up, wake up,” it whispers, gently patting my shoulder. My eyes shoot open, heart still pounding from the nightmare. I look up and see a pale, almost transparent face with glowing blue eyes staring back at me. “Shhhhhh,” it whispers, “don't let the devils hear you.” Taking my hand, it begins to lead me away, and oddly enough, I follow.
“What devils?” I whisper, looking around, although all I see is darkness. The figure looks back at me and shudders, and their eyes dart, looking into the distance and shuddering.
“The devils lurk in every nook and cranny. In every shadow, any place of darkness, they hide, and pray on the weak, the vulnerable. Your nightmare was nothing more than the work of a devil. Devils trap you in your nightmares, you may have run forever and ever away from the splitting Earth. But it is such a torture to run that long, isn't it? So, I had to save you.” Stories of devils, good guys, bad guys, they all sound like they're meant to be on television or in novels. Life appears so simple, so straightforward, but we never know what really goes on unless we look close, until there's nothing left to focus on but the details.
I look up and see I begin to see a long, long road, like the one in my dream, except this one is filled with hope, and the sun lies in the sky to guide my way. My city is an isolated little community surrounded by the vast desert, and the world lies beyond. We begin to run, surging faster and faster with every step. In the distance, a small village begins to emerge, with green grass and daisies, and log cabins and tall trees. The figure stares back at me, beginning to fade into the sunlight.
“Hope is what the Devils tried to get rid of. Now hope is what I'm giving to you. There is something better.” It whispers, and I begin to lose the touch of it's hand as it fades into nothingness. I turn my attention back to the village which seems so far, yet so close at the same time. I begin to hear the sound of voices, children's laughter, echo across the land. The road to my dream of reaching that village seems never ending, but with every step I am closer. No matter if I run 20 more minutes or 20 more years, I will run all the way.

Of Pachyderms and Predators                                                                                           

           

12-year old Cora had always enjoyed contemporary history. She knew almost everything there was to know about the three American Emperors, name every senator who voted for the Imperialization Act of 2022, and every province of the Empire. She listened intently to her history teacher, Mrs. Carrey.

            “In 2016,” she began, “The same year that Donald Trump became 45^th President in a landslide, the Imperialist Party was formed. They won almost every single seat in Congress in the next six years, and in 2022, senators Harvey Chase and Vincent Starr proposed the Imperialization Act.

            “They felt that such a large legislative body like the Old Republic could debate and compromise endlessly, leading to no government progress. They fixed the problem by investing supreme power in one Emperor of America.

            “Harvey Chase was elected first Emperor. The Siege of Mexico, his very first act, frightened Canada, who essentially sold themselves to him. By Chase’s death in 2024, only one year after taking office and two after the formation of the Empire, the Empire encompassed all of North America!

            “Vincent Starr was chosen as the next Emperor, as Chase had no heirs. He attacked Brazil, and, when they surrendered, Argentina followed suit, and then the rest of the continent.

            “Starr was assassinated by his son, Vincent II, who is the third and current Emperor. A very persuasive man, Vincent recruited Russia, China, and Japan without a fight. With most of the world’s military, the rest of the world was assimilated. The Empire was complete!

            Cora knew all of this. First Caste students had access to almost everything on the Net, and she loved to read it.

            “In 2045, the Caste Act was signed, officially creating the Castes. In the Old Republic, all different races were together, leading to extreme racism, prejudice, and sometimes terrorism. The Castes keep them separate, creating the happy society we know today.

            Mrs. Carrey walked over to her small desk at the end of the room. “The notes should be projected onto your iDesks. Complete it to the best of your ability.

            The surface of Cora’s iDesk glowed white for a moment, then a worksheet appeared. She removed her stylus from its sheath on the desk’s curved side and smiled. She knew this.

 

 

            “Have you got your toothbrush?” A voice called from upstairs.

            Cora sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

            Cora looked through her suitcase. Clothes, toothbrush, tablet, $300 backup cash.

            Cora thrust her head up. Where was her ID card?

            She leaped away from her blue king-size bed over to her mahogany wardrobe. She inspected every article of clothing she had. Not there.

            She stared out of the window of her family’s suite in New York, the capital of the world.

            She remembered suddenly. She dug in the back pocket of her tight jeans – blue ID card, right where it should be. She sighed, this time for relief.

            The sun was setting now. As she looked out the window, she could almost feel the sunlight.

            Almost.

 

 

            Cora and her parents exited their plane. An attendant came with their luggage. The airport was nearly empty; this part of the world wasn’t often visited by the First Caste.

A hoovering billboard, usually plastered with advertisements, had a warning.

 

Cora read curiously. She hadn't heard of anything going on here. It said, "due to recent rebellions, some areas of the Kenya province were off limits"

 

 

Cora turned to her mother. "Will the safari still be open?"

 

Her mother looked at her. "I would have been notified if it had closed."

 

"I'm not sure -" Cora started to say, but she was interrupted by an unusally handsome man with brown hair and a blue suit. 

 

"Welcome to Kenya" he said warmly. "I'm your tour guide."

 

They left the airport before Cora could finish her sentence. 

 

The African elephants in the safari were in paradise. Troughs full of food were scattered all over their large enclosed territory. They had a large lake in the center, in which a couple were sitting. They all had an air of satisfaction.

 

Cora stared as the tour guide spoke about the elephants. They looked puny in their idyllic existence, unaware of anything else in the world.

 

Their small jeep moved forward. There was a smaller territory of zebras, then impala, then hyenas. 

 

The penultimate habitat was small, containing two lions, both male. They had a small grassland with a water corner and a couple of steaks spread out. 

 

To Cora's surprise, the tour guide didn't say anything about the lions.  He just skipped over them like the king of the jungle was insignificant. 

 

"That concludes our safari. Feel free to explore the - "

 

He was cut off by an explosion. 

 

The four looked around wildly. Cora remembered the billboard and crossed her fingers that nothing bad had happened.

 

The tour guide took out his phone. Cora's family sat there staring, petrified. "The plane was bombed, I'm afraid you'll be stuck here for a while."

 

 

 

Cora took a walk. Her parents were stressed and wanted some quiet. The dry grass was stiff beneath her feet. The safari climate was controlled, so it wasn't hot, but Cora was sweating anyway. 

 

She saw a wooden sign that read "Do Not Pass" in white painted letters. For no reason, she decided to go past it. 

 

It wasn't any different on the other side. Same grass, same fake sun. She followed it, curiosity taking over.

 

She went on for five minutes. The farther she went, the more jumpy and nervous she became; a person could catch her at any time. She still had an urge to go forward. 

 

After about seven more minutes, she came upon a hill. She saw a figure in the distance, at the bottom of the valley. She lay on the ground quickly.

 

The figure had a white robe with a hood, but was too short to be an adult. Cora stood back up and came a little closer. 

 

The figure whipped around. To Cora's surprise, it was native, dark-skinned girl. She had never seen someone from another Caste, except on television. 

 

Cora wanted to run away, but she was frozen to the spot. The same seemed to be true of the other girl. 

 

Cora's nervousness slowly abated, resulting in a curious "Hi".

 

The stranger relaxed her shoulders but was not yet at ease. "Hi", she said reluctantly. 

 

"What are you doing out here?" Cora said, trying to break the ice.

 

"Walking." the other said.

 

"What's your name?"

 

"Maoca. And you?"

 

"I'm Cora", finally relaxed. "Where are your parents?" Cora asked. 

 

"Dead", Maoca said spitefully. 

 

Cora was taken aback. Based on her age, Maoca's parents couldn't have been that old. "Didn't they take their medication?" 

 

"What medication?' Maoca paused.  "AH...another blissfully ignorant first Caste child." she laughed. "Boy, do I have news for you!"

 

Cora was confused and indignant. "Ignorant?" She had a high tech, first Caste education! But news?

 

Maoca took out a mangled notepad and scrawled something in cursive. She tore off a piece of yellowed paper and gave it to Cora without a word. 

 

Looking at it, Cora read "noon tomorrow." She started to say "why?" but when she looked up, Maoca was gone. 

 

 

 

"Tell me what you know about Castes." 

 

Cora took a deep breath. "In 2045, the Caste Act was signed, dividing the Empire into seven Castes. To prevents racial tensions, races were kept separate, happily unaware - "

 

"That's the catch", Maoca said

 

They were back in the desolate field. Maoca wore an intricate cloak made of dusty, stained linen, while Cora had a silk shirt with a blue skirt. The difference between the two girls was obvious. 

 

"Unaware. What proof do you have of the other Castes' lives?" Maoca said.

 

For once, Cora didn't have an answer.  "TV?" 

 

Maoca laughed. "The propaganda filled government regulated TV programming? The truth is, only the first Caste has the life you have. Sixth Caste: bad food, scraps of clothing, disease-causing drugs." She shuddered "I'd hate to see Caste seven." 

 

 

 

It had been seven days since the plane was sabotaged. Cora and her parents went on a different safari, but she didn't pay attention. All she could think of was the first one - isolated, happy elephants and overlooked lions, waiting to pounce. This time, Maoca came to her in a snack room. 

 

Cora looked around. "Aren't you worried about the cameras?"

 

Maoca smiled. "Taken care of.” 

 

They sat at a clean white table. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

 

Maoca started with Cora’s specialty. “Do you remember what the Empire was called at its creation?”

 

Cora said confidently, “The Second Rome.”

 

“And what happened to Rome?”

 

Cora began to see where this was going, and she didn’t like it. “It came apart from the inside.”

 

Maoca put her hands down on the table. “No further ado. I am the daughter of Confu Ceta, leader of the anti-Imperialist society." Cora gasped. Maoca continued, "I bombed the plane to keep you here". 

 

There was a long pause

 

"I have a proposition for you. Having seen both sides of the story, will you join us?"

 

Cora stared at her blankly. "Your parents are close friends of Vincent II. You could get close enough to kill him."

 

Cora looked out towards the safari. Elephants and lions

 

She chose lions.

 

 

 

 Vincent Starr II was poisoned on May 11, 2064, the same day Imperial facilities on every continent were sieged. They all surrendered. The world was restored to its former structure of countries, and the Imperial regime began to fade from memory.

 

 

 

The year was 2082. 30-year old Cora was sitting in her large house in New Minneapolis. She sat on her bed looking out of a window. The setting summer sun shone on the luxurious carpet. As she looked out, she could almost feel the sunlight. 

 

Almost. 

 

But that wasn't enough. Cora stood up, walked over, and threw the window open exposing her room to the cool breeze.

 

Now, she could actually feel the sun. 

 

And she was satisfied. 

 

 

The dusk of dawn peeked through the trees as the bus disgorged me onto the pavement and belched off in a cloud of black smoke. It was really a very nice bus, but it just happened to have a few respiratory problems, just like my ball. I didn’t know what time it was but I took a chance--perhaps I could practice before work as well. Rolling the ball onto the street, I gave myself a chance to take aim before taking a sweeping kick, connecting to the ball effortlessly with my toe, and watched satisfied as the ball shot by exactly an inch left of the lamppost. When I was small and had just reached los Estados Unidos I used to have to aim at the lamppost itself--a concrete target--but now I aimed at the air left and right of the lamppost--an abstract target-- and hit it most of the time, though honestly sometimes it was hard to tell and I estimated my success rate. Still, it wouldn’t be long before some professional football club recruited me. It took me a while to recover the ball so I decided to head straight to work. It paid (sometimes) to be on time: Edward had arrived an hour early once of his own accord and had received in compensation a morsel of cake. Thinking of the cake made me walk faster, but not much faster. Since I was small I had gradually learned that my knees had a tolerance point, as did my back--it was better to save energy to play football. I reprimanded myself for having such powerful muscles; even just after kicking the ball my knees ached.

* * *

I walked into the restaurant only to find a line of figures cloaked in mist in the freezer, hands dancing with shiny plastic, meaning that I was late. Swirling my way through the spray was the best option and the one that was the least provocative...if only I could find Henry in the mess. Henry was an americano and my closest friend, along with his wife, Melanie. Melanie was very beautifully-spoken and I thought of her often. How nice it would be to sit by the fireplace and talk, as I imagined Henry and Melanie doing! In some ways I was extremely jealous of Henry. Since I was small I had picked up some English and I had communicated this to him. Honesty, my father had always said, was what made one person a friend and another an enemy. Henry had told me: “I hear ya, brotha. A guy without a doll...well if a guy ain’t got a doll, who would holla at him?” I didn’t understand all of it but I nodded my head yes and he clapped me on the back. Henry loved to talk, regardless of how much I shook my head or nodded my head or said, “Again?” Some of his favorite words seemed to be “damn Republicans” and “social security”. He was also fond of pointing toward the sky with his middle finger whenever he said his favorite words, a habit I noticed in many of the workers at the restaurant. From my observation the middle finger seemed to be a method of acknowledging God and His ultimate role in everything, for mentions of “God” were ever-present near to when one pointed with the middle finger. Perhaps it was a nod to God’s omniscient glory.

Henry saw me before I saw him and turned his back as a method of motioning me to start working inconspicuously beside him. The mist parted for a second as Henry pointed to the sky with his middle finger--it looked like the birth of Aphrodite out of sea foam, a shimmering pink thing appearing out of nowhere. “God, why are you always late!” He whipped at me in a whisper furiously. “What do you do before work?” I nodded my head, because it sounded like he was asking a question. “Do you eat breakfast? I ain’t got money for breakfast after me and Melanie’s pills. Think the old man can spare me some eggs from the fridge?” Aaaaaa-choo-choo-choo! (Henry) Eddies in the mist signified facial movements. “Those damn Republicans. I ain’t got no coverage after that Affordable Care Act was congressionally vetoed. Where’s my damn social security cash anyway?” I nodded again. “Damn lucky fellow. You have breakfast to eat off of this dump of a job? Me and Melanie barely scrape by lunch every day!” I nodded, having not understood more than a few words. Aaaaa-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo...Henry sneezed again, much more conspicuously than the last. More eddies, in fact, waves, meaning that the owner was entering the freezer, something that didn’t happen very often. Suddenly a tapered hourglass figure appeared out of the fog, with another gray-suited individual on his left.

“Say, Marks, look at those two old geezers, Henry and Memo. They about ready to kick the bucket, don’t you say?”

“Why wait until they’ve kicked the bucket? Just fire ‘em now!”

I felt a ripple in the mist as Henry stiffened beside me, but I didn’t know what they were saying. The owner had only started saying “old geezer” around me recently so I assumed it was a term of great respect. He never said it when I was smaller. It made sense because after all, I had been working here for a while, and was one of the more experienced packaging unwrappers in the business.

“Marks, you’re right. But we should at least let them get in a last day of their enjoyable work, wouldn’t you say so?” Ah yes...enjoyable. I knew that word. It was the word my father had used to describe football. I didn’t know what they were describing though.

* * *

The dawn of dusk greeted me at the bus stop. Reflecting back on the day’s work, I felt that it was the first day I had really integrated into the workplace. After the owner's walk many people embraced me and Henry, making me feel as if I belonged. Henry and Melanie had seemingly become more pious people within minutes. They had seemed to be caught in a religious frenzy, gesticulating wildly with their middle fingers, but who was to judge? For I remembered not to be judge lest I be judged. It was all too bad that it was the last day, though the work wasn’t enjoyable at all. The owner had greeted me by the door and waved goodbye personally to me, addressing me using his title of great respect: “Go home and don’t come back, ya old geezer! Your work here is done!” Henry had taken the better part of the day to explain to me that I was retiring, and that the owner had decided I was ready. He coupled it with a new word: damn capitalists! It was odd, because I thought the retirement age was sixty five, and I wasn’t a day past fifty five.

The bus wasn’t there yet, so I decided to get another practice in, keeping in mind my powerful muscles. I walked over to the lamppost and decided not to take aim this time; after all, my reflexes were as fast as a cat. Again, the ball flew in a broad sweeping motion--this time, it hit straight on the lamppost, so hard, I swore the lamppost shook. Too much power! Grimacing, I ran over, recovered the ball, and took aim this time, trying to hit the air around the post. I accidentally hit the post square-on again, the ball flew, and this time, stuffing went flying--rippled out in a circle like so many pigeons flying away, and the ball contorted and collapsed in on itself in a sad little moue. The bus pulled up. For a moment, I was struck with indecision. Would I keep the old, imploded one? I didn’t have the money to buy a new ball, and without a ball, how could I become a football player to become rich? The ball was my hope of a better future, a better life. Bus drivers are rarely patient, and bus horns are rarely honks: this one quacked. QUACK. It was time to go. I boarded the bus and saw the sad moue for one fleeting moment more, and then the bus sped up, bouncing down the hill like a basketball. I thought to myself: it was time to find a new ball anyway.

 

 

Four

Prologue

Xenon- The place of health

She walks in this infirmary not knowing her place or her purpose. Then she sees. “Susan! It will be alright it is only faint!” a nurse says rushing to calm Susan. “It is not alright, and do not call me by my name!” Susan yells rushing out the door swinging her blond hair behind her. She pushes past the girl’s invisible self, and drops her bright blue scarf moaning and whipping her hair in irritation. The girl gathers her scarf and places it in her palm then takes out the two barrettes that once had a home on her head and gives them to her, “ They might help with the hair, to keep it out of your eyes.” she says. A smile tugs at Susan’s mouth and there is gratefulness in her eyes.  She disappears into the door and was never seen by the girl again.

Strontium- In the vicinity of food

She sits in a chair straighter than she is and at a table too nice for her, with smells from delicacies too rich for her tongue. “Oh, I am so sorry sir!” a waitress stampers at a finely dressed customer with the look of horror as his shirt is dampened with a bright red substance. The server holds out a hand but the angry man stands up and pushes her away, “do not touch me!” he stomps off and brushes the girl’s shoulder and something falls.  As the man turns around to pick it up the girl holds out a handkerchief to the man and the man takes it and looks at her in a gracious manner and walks away, never to be seen by the girl again.

In the comfort of- Barium

She speaks in this place of comfort still stiff, but still at home. “You will listen to me, as I order and put those books back!” a scolding James yells at her drilling his eyes in her skull. “They aren’t mine.” A voice comes from her mouth but she does not speak it. “I don’t care, I told you to.” His voice lowers to almost a whisper which is the scariest part because you do not know what to expect next. But she is not afraid. She walks up and sorts the books.  She takes one half of his unread books and put them in his hands.  The other she holds in her grasp and puts back on the shelf as she walks away with no vocals pronounced.

Entertainment of-Thorium

She listens in this place of sound booming and eyes wide on a screen. She hears a thud then experiences popcorn flying in every direction and a mad voice, unfortunately. “You imbecile! You lost me 10 dollars and nearly disrupted the whole building!” a woman’s voice shouts. “I’m sorry, Ava.” A boy stampers and sits down four seats away from the girl. She looks at the boy, then at her popcorn bucket and reaches to the boy giving him the popcorn. He looks at her in disbelief.  His eyes soften with pleasure and gratitude. He doesn’t say anything but you can see it in his eyes, that it’s the small deeds that matter most.

 

12 years later.

2035- The world of Erbium

She sits in this glossy leather chair smiling as she is announced vice president of Erbium. The President shakes her hand and says a flattering speech but it does not quite connect to her brain, she is thinking of her new life and what she did to deserve it but there is no time.  The president is gesturing for her to come forward to speak. She stands on the platform that doesn’t touch the ground and thinks, “I should be nervous”, but she strangely isn’t. She looks down into the crowd and sees all the eyes staring and the words come streaming out without her giving a second thought. “Imagine when you were young.  Picture yourself now. Would you ever dream of becoming the first female vice president? I certainly did not.  You may think that you have to be a certain kind of person to stand up here but the truth is, you don’t. All you have to do is have hope, kindness, and motivation and if you have that you will make it as far as anyone can possibly go in the world.” She takes a step back, off the floating pedestal, and she gives a smile to the crowd.  The president smiles back.  When she looks in his eye’s she sees the man she’s known for four years.  The man that tutored her and helped her become a better person. However, after all this time she still feels relief when he gives his thumbs up and she knows that it went well. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she was just trying to have hope, kindness, and motivation while she was talking. They walk out of the big building and into an osmium and it starts moving all by itself as she sits. She can tell that Nobelium, the president’s body guard, must feel a little uncomfortable in the dry silence but she doesn’t mind it, she actually finds it quite peaceful.  Then the president breaks the stillness in the air. He reaches over to one of those foldable touchscreens and starts clicking.  She watches him press on her address and the osmium turns the corner.  He probably directed it to go to her house, but why?  She couldn’t help her curiosity, “Sir? I was just wondering… why are we going to my house this early?” she says trying to sound as polite as possible. “Oh, well to pick up your belongings of course!”  He says obviously to her, but yet it is not so obvious. “I am sorry sir, but why are we picking up my belongings?”  She asks feeling not so smart, “oh miss V.P! This will be the last time you are seeing your house because you will be living at the palace, so instead of going straight there I thought you might want to pick up a few possessions” the president says. “Oh, well thank you Mr. President” she says blushing at herself. The osmium comes to a halt and she gets out going inside her quaint little home. When she opens the door she finds a cozy living room with only a couch and a coffee table, a decent sized kitchen, and one bedroom with not many objects accept one picture on the wall, a picture of colors and shapes in all shades and sizes, and in the center of the beautiful picture there is only one word. Trust. She gathers a few belongings and thinks of what the president said ‘this will be the last time you are seeing your house.’ She thinks about it over and over again second guessing everything. What did he mean by she won’t see it again, of course she will, she could visit it or pass by it, but it is not like she will never see it again. Then she thinks of something, too absurd to say but just in case she walks to the front door to check.  When she pulls on it, it doesn’t budge, as if she’s trying to move a mountain. She tries to unlock it but it is locked from the outside. She did not do that. That means that only someone from the outside did it, but who? Questions start running through her head in a blur like a fast car speeding by. What if the president is in trouble? Has he been kidnapped? Maybe nothing is wrong but then why is the door locked from the outside? She starts to pace, thinking intensely, gears shifting and churning in her mind. A window. She runs into the kitchen to the only window in the house, but before she can open it she hears a click tick click repeatedly. She looks at the door then the noise stops and momentarily the door burst open and she jumps at the sight of the president’s body guard, Nobelium. “What are you doing here? Where is the president?” she asks in a rush at first not noticing him panting and his red face. “He’s gone” he says trying to catch his breath. “What? How?”  she asks her heart thumping. Without waiting for an answer she runs past him and onto the solar panels that touch the ground and looks everywhere not seeing any sight of the president for miles. Then all of a sudden something goes around her head that smells like sweat and tears and she can’t move or breathe being tossed everywhere and by that point she has no point in struggling so she lays limp.  She is sat in a chair and is tied up, immobile in all possible ways. The bag is taken off her head and she gasps for air and Nobelium, not gasping at all, and suddenly someone familiar steps into view.  The president, smirking a smile that did not belong to the president she knew. It all comes together in her mind, everything. He only went to her house so he could distract her, she knew something was wrong, she should’ve known because in the V. P handbook it clearly states that the V. P will live in his/her OWN house, never the presidents. And when Nobelium looked uncomfortable in the osmium but she thought it was because of silence, and then the president noticed it too so he broke the silence so she wouldn’t notice or say anything. Then the whole locking the door thing to get her worried and Nobelium breaking in and gasping for air like he’d been under attack, it all makes perfect sense. How could this be? The man she knew for years betraying her with the snap of his bony fingers. Then he speaks with only coldness in his voice, “Here’s how it’s going to work.  You’re going to do something for me and if you don’t I kill one of them.” He gestures toward the door and Nobelium opens it and pushes four people forward. They look familiar in a way like she’s seen them before but they’re different. After a lot of confusion she finally remembers. 12 years ago she knew or met each one of them briefly. She can’t remember their names but all she cares about right now is their lives. But why?  Why these people?  They never did anything for her but yet she feels they are her responsibility. “Why are you doing this Nick?” it is the first time she has said the president’s name in a long time but he doesn’t seem to notice as his eyes are hooked into hers. “Because that is what I want dear, Selah.”

 

This saga has only begun to unfold…….

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

A long time ago, when people fancied not money, but what it is now used to buy. And when the most desired possession of all was food and shelter, where there were only farms and rural land. There lived a young girl. She had fair black hair and deep brown eyes that didn't quite fit into her youthful persona. For her entire life, so far, she did not give a care about what she looked like. This girl lived in a cottage by a big lake with her dad. They were poor for their only income was the fish they caught and sold to the farmers at the market. Yet, they had each other and it was enough for them both. Oh, and her name was Gracie. Gracie Smith.

 

Every morning, Gracie would wake up two hours earlier than the golden sunrise, and go fishing so that her dad could rest longer. She knew her dad didn't approve of her early rising but it was no secret that they had no money to spare and every fish was needed for the market. Gracie slipped on her worn-out blue jeans and her dad's old shirt (that was certainly too big, for she had to tie it in the back). And as always she tied her light blue bandana, letting her two braids fall to her shoulders.

 

And this July morning was like every other morning, she did just that, except she felt somehow different. She drank some milk right from the jug and made herself a hurried sandwich. Grace ran up to the storage and grabbed her favorite fishing rod and rowboat and hurried on to the bridges. There were three in all: the East Bridge, North Bridge, and the West Bridge. Almost all the time she would go to the East Bridge.

 

As Gracie headed in the East direction, she noticed the chilliness of the day. The unexpected wind rustled the leaves on the birch trees growing by the pier. The moon still faintly showed and there were eerie shadows on the planks of the bridge. It was all dark even though it was summer and the sun usually rose early.

 

“What time was it?” Grace wondered. “Did I oversleep? Or maybe I rose too early?”

 

But that matter was soon resolved, for the sun peeked over the horizon and the day instantly warmed up. Grace climbed into her small vessel and started rowing along the bank. It wasn't easy to look into the water for signs of fish and row at the same time and required all of her concentration. The water seemed to be sparkling more than usual that morning or maybe it was just the sun gleaming on the water.

 

Before Gracie saw a single fish there was a glimmer of light some way off. Grace paddled to that spot and peered into the water. There on the bottom, was a faint outline of a glass bottle. She reached to grab it but then slipped and SPLASH!!! fell into the water. The water was colder than it seemed and she scrambled out as fast as she could onto the boat. Yet, she managed to grasp the bottle.

 

Grace managed to slightly dry off, but even the sun couldn't manage to dry her soaked clothes until noon.

 

“Ugh! I'm so dumb! Why did I ever go here, following a shimmer in the water. It could have been a whirlpool!!! And now I've fallen in the icy cold water for a stupid bottle and am all wet. What will I tell my dad?! Now I scared away all the fish!!!”

 

She paddled away frustrated and angry at her foolish actions, yet the water seemed to sparkle yet, even brighter, now everywhere. Grace took the bottle ready to throw it into the water, when she noticed something inside the bottle.

 

Grace uncorked the glass bottle and squeezed her fingers through the slim opening. The paper she took out was yellow and hard from age and water leaking in. Gracie unfolded the paper and stared in amazement. It was no ordinary paper either, it was a hand drawn map. There were details even the most skilled artist was incapable to replicate. It was magnificent and not a single spot on the map was blank. The map showed forests and towns, villages and farms, lakes and rivers. Gracie had never seen anything as wonderful.

 

Yet, Gracie noticed right away, and was astonished by the thought, that the map had a red arrow to Gracie's exact location and there was a rowboat there too. Who would draw a map, knowing the exact location of Gracie and put it in a bottle? Even if the map was dropped here and was meant for a fisherman, how would they know that the bottle wouldn't be swept away by the tide? Grace also noticed there was a red dot on the South Bridge. This was just as peculiar and Gracie was filled with wonder.

 

Gracie couldn't stop herself and she rowed back to the East Bridge. Maybe there would be a free market where she could buy her dad food for free and they would be the richest people of the village! That was her only hope, because if this was all a prank, her dad would be devastated. There would be less fish, meaning less food for the two of them. Gracie decided to check it out and come back right away, so that her dad wouldn't notice. Grace got out of the rowboat and tied it to the pier. Looking at the map, she checked where to go, and started running, slowly at first, but then gradually faster.

 

The dark brown wooden boards of the pier thumped as Grace ran faster and faster, curiosity took over and all Gracie felt was the eagerness to find out what was under that red dot and what it was hiding. Finally, she reached the intersection of the bridges and dashed onto the South Bridge. The boards here were older and obviously used a lot, because there was gum everywhere and it was quite weather worn.

 

The map led on and soon there were great big buildings and cafes and a whole lot of people. Grace had never been to a city, and she stopped running now. She watched all of the people and stared with wonder at the stores. People had fancy dresses on, and were wearing makeup. Gracie felt somehow out of place and started running again.

 

Looking at the map, she was only a store or two away, and she slowed down her pace, looking carefully at the signs on stores. The map showed the title of the particular store but half of it was erased. Grace saw that the store on the map was small and red but it took her a half an hour to figure out the right shop. She came to a shabby little hut with the sign: Book Addict. Gracie checked the map a hundred times yet everything matched up. The map had brought her to a bookstore. What if this was a meet up place for somebody a thousand years ago and she accidentally found the useless map? There was nothing here, it was obvious. She was frustrated beyond description by that time and felt horrible for leaving the pier and not helping her dad. A thought streaked by in her head: What if her dad comes and she's not there? What would he think? What would he do? Gracie was lost in decision. It would be right to go back to the bridges, but something was drawing her to the store.

 

She decided to lose no more time and head back, it was the right choice. Yet, as she turned away, something extraordinary happened. Her legs wouldn't move and then Grace subconsciously walked into the store. She came to herself, and almost collapsed in astonishment. How was she in the store? What had happened? Yet maybe she was so deep in thought and didn't notice, that wasn't the cause of the eerie feeling she had now. Everything was dark, and it seemed that there was no other world except this dark, creepy store. Grace looked around herself, there were ancient bookshelves casting long shadows. Something was different, though, in a dark corner to Grace's right. There was a bookshelf which looked the same as all the others. Though, the books on the shelf, they were different, somehow.

 

Gracie looked at the other shelves and realized that there were no titles on any of the books on that shelf. She slowly walked up to the shelf as to not wake anything up in the bookshop. Grace was filled with wonder, how come no book from that shelf had a title on it's spine? She carefully pulled out a book from the top shelf. It was dusty and very heavy. Gracie was pulling gently, but the book wouldn't come out. She pulled harder now, but the book didn't come out no matter how hard she tried. Gracie didn't like how everything was going.

 

It was dark, the book wouldn’t come out of the shelf, the shop was scary, and she had just disturbed something. Grace stepped away turning to run back when- Bshhhhhhhhhhhhhhp Bshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhp! The historic shelf seemed to come to life and it opened with a sound of a lion roaring in it's cage. The store was instantly illuminated by golden light as though the sun was hiding behind the shelf. Gracie's was blinded and her eyes burned like they do when you go outside after a long day indoors. When she opened her eyes, she saw an opening in the wall where the bookshelf had been. There was a great stony winding staircase and even though it was stony it was warm. Gracie now gladly went on. She was fearless and was eager to see all that was ahead.

 

Meanwhile, her father had woken up and was dressing to go to the pier. He didn't suspect that his daughter wasn't fishing. And neither of them knew that Gracie had just stepped over the threshold to another dimension and world.

 

The stairs were steep and Grace took her time going up, up, up, to make sure she didn't trip and fall. Gracie counted the steps out loud as she went, first bravely, then softer for she was very tired. 1, 2, 3,...45, 46, 47, 48, 49,...102, 103, ...180, 181,...249,...340, Finally she reached the top and collapsed. Then she jumped back up thinking maybe this was a test to the market. If you could make it past the obstacles, you got the reward of a lifetime.

 

In front of her, she saw a weird shaped monkey. It had a triangle head, with blue dots as eyes and a red chin and mouth like a baboon. It's body was small yet seemed as tough as a gorilla's. It was red as well with blue stripes.

 

“Hellow!” said the monkey with a weird kind of accent. “Houw did yoo get heer? It said smirking.

 

“I, uh, opened the bookshelf and walked up the stairs,” Grace said breathing heavily.

 

“Right ansver. Pleez choose vun object yoo vood like, yoo have sree minnets,” answered the monkey.

 

Grace looked around and saw that there were three giant glass pillars. Each had something inside on a round table. Gracie walked up to the columns and saw that they each had a tablet on which three words were written: I WANT THIS. In the first pillar, there were mounds of gold and gems of all sorts. This would make her family rich for many years to come. But that would also mean there would be no point for fishing with her dad. No, that wasn't the right choice. The second column had dresses of all sorts. Looking down at her attire, Gracie was embarrassed. She had no pretty clothes, at home. Only old clothes from her father. She almost touched the tablet when the monkey said-

 

“Be troo to yorself,” smiling broadly.

 

Gracie looked at the dresses. The monkey was right. This choice shouldn't change her life. It should enhance her prior life.

 

BAAAAAAAAM!!! BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!! Somewhere an alarm went off.

 

“Yor tiem iz up!” Said the monkey.

 

Gracie ran to the last pillar and without looking at what was inside, slammed the tablet with the palm of her hand. Yet, the alarm didn't stop and now the monkey fiercely charged at Gracie. Suddenly, blaring red words appeared on the pillar: STEP INSIDE. Gracie plunged into the glass expecting to run straight into a solid surface, but there was no impact only a little wind. The pillar extended forming a large dome around Gracie. She turned around and saw that the monkey was making the noise of the alarm. It's eyes were now red and evil.

 

Grace couldn't stop staring. But then she saw the evil monkey shrink into a tiny, barely visible dot. The dome was moving faster and faster away from that place and Grace realized she was floating on something like a glass jet. The feeling was amazing. Pink and orange fields passed underneath Gracie and she could see weird animals in a forest. In the center of the dome, there still stood the table with the object Gracie had chosen without a single thought.

 

On the table was a locket. It had rusty metal that formed some sort of design on top of a dark purple velvety fabric. It seemed antique and majestic. Though Gracie was starting to weep. How could she have chosen something so lame. She could have chosen the money and made her dad proud. They would have had enough money to pay for their food. What would she tell her dad? That she chose this thing over being rich?! She would never where it anyway. Why not a golden fishing pole? It had to be that stupid locket! Grace chucked the locket at the glass. It crashed and the glass shattered. The dome split into a million pieces and black smoke started to seep into the dome. The dome was falling and with a loud BANG! It disappeared into the air.

 

Gracie was falling straight down. With nothing but the air to hold her back. She heard the air whistle in her ears and she closed her eyes ready for the impact. She was a foot from the ground when suddenly the ground let go a powerful whoosh like an untied balloon and Gracie was surprisingly caught by that let-go of air and safely was lowered to the ground. He was confused for a moment but then-

 

“Whoa!!! That was awesome!” She yelled into the atmosphere.

 

Lying next to her was the locket; still tightly shut. Grace gently picked it up, and looked for any signs of damage. But she found not a single dent in the delicate masterpiece. However, turning it over in her hands, Gracie found a keyhole. With the inscription- You have always had the answer to my questions- above it.

 

“I have an answer to this person's questions?” muttered Gracie, “What?”

 

She fingered at the necklace her grandmother gave her when she was little. Grace wondered what answer she could have; and even if she did have an answer, what was the question? She looked at the keyhole and her thought trailed off. A keyhole always reminded her of a mystery that must be solved. And as though somebody had slapped her across the face, Gracie knew the answer. If the keyhole was a mystery, it was like a question. Yet, what answer did she have?

 

“The necklace!!!” Grace screamed with excitement! The necklace from her grandmother was the answer.

 

When Gracie was 6, her grandmother had given her a necklace and said it was important and would come in handy one day or another. Grace did have the answer. Burning with excitement she took the necklace off and fit it into the keyhole.

 

Something clicked inside the locket and it opened. Grace was overjoyed and full of confusion. How had this person known about the key necklace from her grandmother? But she pushed that thought out of her mind, for now. Inside the locket, there was a tiny stem growing out of the bottom and growing on the stem like a flower, was an orange gem. The stem seemed alive and Gracie touched the gem.

 

Suddenly, everything went black. A faint light appeared in the distance. It grew until all around Gracie was illuminated. She was back at the pier where she had found the map in the first place but her grandma was standing next to her.

 

“Gracie,” she said lovingly, “the next time you touch that gem, something incredible will happen.”

 

“What?” asked Grace.

 

“You will go into a place where you can do whatever you want,” said Grace's grandmother, “I know that you have found your true self because you picked the right pillar.”

 

“But it was an accident, I didn't even see what was inside!” argued Gracie dumbfounded.

 

“No! You did not pick the wrong ones, because you knew who you were on the inside, and that is the bottom line,” she said.

 

“A place where I can do and be anything I want, just from touching the gem?” asked Gracie still not believing what she heard.

 

“Yes, now listen, any other person would go insane if they had the ability to travel to that place. They would try to take what they have gained there with them into this world. Only a person like you who has found their true self can enjoy a privilege of the such sort, ” she answered grinning, “I'm proud of you!”

 

Gracie went to that mysterious land many times after that encounter. She could wear the prettiest dresses and own the most riches in the entire world. But when she returned home, she was her one and only self.

 

 

The Dreamer

 

“Don’t dream your life, live your dream. And never stop dreaming .If your dreams die, then nothing can carry you on.”

 

These were the lines that had replayed itself in the 13 year old Aralia Syntyche’s mind, over and over again. She would wish upon a star everyday, knowing exactly how useless it was. Her wish would never be granted. She could dream though, and dreaming was something she was good at. It’s her one redeeming quality. Like for instance, she could dream that she was the secret ruler of the earth, and that she could control everyone and make them like her. Or that she was a genius and knew everything the world could offer her. Or, her favourite dream. The one that pops up all the time. The one that keeps her wishing on stars, candles, and just about everything.

 

It starts as just an average spring day, sunny with a couple of clouds in the sky, nothing too special. Green grass, pretty flowers, all is good. All is normal. A 6 year old Aralia would be outside playing and laughing, just radiating happiness. There were other ecstatic children in the background, none of them really important to the dream. If the short brunette thought about it, their faces were indescript, because the children weren’t the important part of the dream. The important part, the part that keeps her wishing upon stars was yet to come.

 

The 6 year old Aralia would giggle and pick a couple of pretty flowers from the ground, before proceeding to spin around like a maniac. She went until she felt dizzy, at which point she promptly fell to the flower, still in hysterics, as if spinning around was the funniest thing ever. To the tiny girl, it probably was. Then again, the tiny hazel-eyed girl hadn’t experienced much sadness in her life yet, so everything was the best, or the funniest, or the prettiest thing. They say light can’t exist without the dark, but at this period of Aralia’s life, everything was light. The closest thing to dark was her mother not letting her have a piece of candy, or her older brother telling her that he was better than her in every way. Back in her favorite dream, she would fall to the ground cracking up, and just lay there, trying to calm her fits of laughter.

 

At this point, a man with a striking resemblance to her younger self would come lay down on the soft grass right next to her, chuckling to himself. This would be Aralia’s dad, the one person that she looked up to. Though she loved everyone in her family, and all of her friends, her dad was undoubtedly the person she loved the most. Just, there was the feeling when she was around her dad. A feeling of warmth, of love, of care. A feeling of safety. Much like a safety blanket, when her dad was there she felt like nothing bad could happen. She felt like she could rule the world, but why would she want to rule the world, when everything she wanted was right there, in her dad? Aralia just wanted to be happy and to be loved, and being with her dad brought her both of these things. Well, she also wanted candy and infinite free time, but if she was to choose between candy and her dad, her dad definitely comes first.

Once again, going back to the dream. The wind would blow, the sun would shine, brightening the blue sky. Birds chirped and flowers blossomed. Everything was literally perfect. The scenery looked like a painting. Aralia was content with life, even if her little brain could not really understand the word content. The day wasn’t particularly exciting, but it was very pleasant. She would look over at her dad, his eyes closed and his face in a state of bliss. He would open his eyes, grinning at Aralia. Her dad would then check his watch on his left wrist, before hopping up with a kind smile. He held out his hand for 6 year old Aralia, pulling her onto her small feet. Once she stood up and stretched, she jumped up and her dad grabbed her, pulling her up.

And now this is the best part of the dream. Her dad pulls her up into his arms, hugging her tightly, as if protecting her from the rest of the world.

 

“I love you, Aralia,” he’d say, not letting go as he carries her to their car.

 

“I love you too, daddy!”

 

Now, the “I love you’s” were nice, but the most amazing part was just being in her dad’s arms. She was being sheltered, and nothing bad could touch her. Her dad was like a charm to ward off evil.

 

It was truly a great dream, only it’s so much more than a dream. It’s a memory, and so it’s actually happened before. But as it’s still a dream, Aralia will never experience it again. It’s physically impossible, if this scenario happened again it would literally defy the rules of life. But as it was mentioned earlier, it was a dream and Aralia’s really good at dreaming, the ability to dream being her only redeeming quality. If you’d even count that as a redeeming quality. To be able to hope when all hope is lost, and to be able to find joy in the impossible. Nowadays, that’s called being stupid or naive, so it really isn’t much of a redeeming quality.

 

The current Aralia is always in shock of how protected she felt then. It was so much better than the current circumstances. It was raining, and each water droplet that fell brought misery through the world, as sad as itself, the crying sky. The sky was darkening, the inky blue color marred with gray clouds of sorrow.

 

Today she went through the dream several times in her head, like a song on repeat. Maybe today she could go out and talk to people. Maybe today she could smile again. Maybe today would be the day that she opened her heart again.

 

Of course, on such a dark gloomy day, all of the positive thoughts could be forgotten easily, washed away by the rain. But it won’t always be rainy and miserable. And if after rain comes rainbows, maybe the rain could be bearable as well. Even if the positive thoughts were washed away today, she could always try again tomorrow. And if tomorrow rained again, she could try the day after that.

 

Or maybe the rain wasn’t even washing away the positive thoughts. If the positive thoughts were there already, then maybe the rain is just washing away the pain from the past, to give you a rainbow to look forward to in the future.

 

With happy thoughts, Aralia didn’t mind the rain. A little rain never hurt anyone. Instead, she just kept on walking forwards, concentrating on not stepping on any of the flowers that brightened the depressing place on a depressing day. She was walking through the cemetery, looking for her father.

 

She found him, handing over a bouquet of flowers.

 

“I love you, daddy.”

 

She had outgrown her dad’s arms, but that was only so that she could now carry herself. She just had to realize it. She smiles at the stone, before turning around and making a promise to herself.

 

“I promise to support myself, now that my dad can’t protect me anymore.”

 

Sometimes, you just have to let the impossible dreams go. Hard-to-reach dreams are good, they give you something to strive for. But impossible dreams can only bring you down. Improbable, not impossible.

 

She’d outgrown her father, and all anyone knew of her father was, “In loving memory of Daniel Syntyche. 1967-2008. Loving husband, brother, and father. ‘Don’t dream your life, live your dream. And never stop dreaming .If your dreams die, then nothing can carry you on.’”

When I woke up on Friday the 13th of November, I expected it to be a normal day. I would just sit at home playing on my phone like always, but I was way off. I walked downstairs to get some breakfast and chat with my sister Lola. Here’s the weird thing… Lola wasn’t there. She was always awake way before me, so I ran up to her room, but she wasn’t there. I called her and listened to my yell echo across the house. I thought that she might have taken my dog Lily for a walk, but I could sense something was wrong. I tried not to think about it and I sat on the couch waiting for her to get back, but she never came. I waited there for hours and hours until I finally thought that I should call the police, but right when that thought occurred to me, I heard the door creak open. It was my sister, out of breath and panting.

“Conner!” She gasped. “You will not believe what just happened! I was taking Lily for a walk, and then I saw something moving in the graveyard! I walked into the graveyard, and one of the graves had something written in a different language. I looked up closer and realized it was written in Arabic. I took my phone out and took a picture so I could show you. It said أدخل إذا كنت تجرؤ  which translates to ‘Enter if you dare’. I said it out loud while trying to decipher what it meant and the grave opened up, turning into a door! I wanted to go in but I got spooked because I heard something talking in there, and then I saw it walking towards me, so I ran as fast as my legs could carry me.”

I stood there for a while just staring at her in awe. Was this some kind of sick joke? Was she just trying to creep me out? I didn’t know what to think so I just said “Are you okay?” and she looked at me as if I commited a crime.

“You think that I’m lying, don’t you?” She accused. “You think that this is just a joke! You know that I hate running and wouldn't do it just to prank you! I'll prove it to you! We are going back to that graveyard, and going inside the grave to find out what's inside of it! Are we clear?”

Lola looked so angry, that I was afraid to say no, so I said “Um, if you say so,” and that was when our adventure began.

Lola ran upstairs to her room to pack while I just sat there thinking about what I had just gotten myself into. When Lola ran back down she had a backpack for her and one for me too. She had made a list and started to read off the items that we needed.“Water bottle?” She asked.

“Check,” I replied.

“Protein bars?”

“Check.”

“Flashlight?”

“Check.”

“Batteries for the flashlight?”

“Check.”

“First aid kit?”

“Check.”

“Walkie-talkies?”

“Check.

“Okay, I think that's all we need.”

We set off on our journey to the graveyard, leaving Lily at home. When we got to the graveyard, I immediately knew what Lola was talking about. The grave was mysterious and had symbols written on it. Almost immediately Lola said “Enter if you dare.”

I stared in amazement as the grave slowly turned into a door, and watched as Lola crawled into it. She looked back at me to see if I was coming, so I crawled in after her. Eventually, the tunnel turned into a huge chamber. There was a sign that said    غرفة الموتى . Lola studied it for a while, and then said “It says, ‘The Chamber of the Dead’.”

I looked at her, and then said “How do you know Arabic?”

“I studied it in school,” she said.

She walked over to a white desk that had an Arabic map on it. She stared at it in horror. “What?” I asked.

“Don’t you see? This place is called The Chamber of the Dead and this desk is made from human bones!” Lola explained. “There’s another sign over there that says    لا الإنسان جعلت من أي وقت مضى على قيد الحياة which translates to ‘No human has ever made it out alive’! Conner we have to get out of-”

“Crash!” It took us a moment to figure out what just happened, for it to sink in, but once we found out what happened we panicked. Lola had started to cry, and I was pacing around the room. We were trapped! The gate that let us through the tunnel had collapsed, and the tunnel was no longer escapable.

“Lola, settle down. We have to find a way out, and crying won't get us out,” I told her. “So come over her and help me look.”

Lola walked over to me, and we looked around the room for some way of getting out. We tapped around the walls until I heard Lola let out a shriek of excitement. I whipped around to see what had happened, and I saw that she found a secret door. We walked into it, knowing it was just leading us further in, but it was our only choice.

When we walked into that door, we didn't know what to expect, but it was horrible. Skeletons were roaming around the place, some with humans slung over their bony shoulders, others guarding more doors with a dead look on their face. Lola and I looked at each other with fear in our eyes as we decided what to do. There were three entrances, a narrow one, an entrance filled with spikes, and a tunnel that looked perfectly safe. We snuck past the skeletons that were guarding the doors, and went through the last tunnel. Once we were in the tunnel, we started to second guess our decision. Every few steps we took, we heard a cry for help. I was about to turn around, and go the other way, but I saw an opening in the tunnel that meant I was through it. We climbed out of the tunnel to find two more tunnels that were identical to each other.

“Okay,” Lola said breathlessly. “I’ll go right, you go left. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” I agreed. “If anything goes wrong though, use the walkie-talkie. Okay?”

“Got it.”

We went our separate ways, and hoped for a sign of getting out. As I walked through this tunnel, I noticed something felt different about it, it felt… safer, and it felt like I was going the right way. I kept walking on the path, until I was positive it was the right one. I was in high spirits, and had completely forgotten about Lola by this time. This happy moment ended for me very quickly though. I heard a blood piercing scream coming from where Lola was. I yanked out my walkie-talkie, and said, “Lola! Are you okay?”

I paused for a moment, waiting for a response, but soon the eerie silence that filled the chamber turned into static, coming from my walkie-talkie. I ran back through the tunnel that I came through, and before I knew it, I was back to the place where we split up. I ran down the tunnel that she went through, looking for my sister. I stopped, and looked at the scene. Tears filled my eyes as I looked down on my sister’s lifeless body lying on the ground. I didn’t want to believe what I saw, but it was the truth, the hard and painful truth. Everything around me seemed to be evaporating right before my eyes. Everything was spinning around so fast. I tried to gasp for air, but nothing happened. My feet were stuck to the ground, and I couldn’t breath, and then, everything went black.

I woke up gasping for air, and panicking.

“Connor! Connor! Come on! Wake up! We’re going to be late for school!” Someone told me as they shook me awake.

I opened my eyes, and looked up to see my sister, standing in my room, with her backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Lola?” I asked.

“Get up so you can get to school,” She told me.

I got up and started to get ready for school so I wouldn’t be late. Once I was ready, I looked at my calendar, and found that today is Friday the 13th of November. I walked outside, and found Lola out there, waiting for me.

“Hey, while you were inside, I couldn’t help but notice that spooky graveyard over there.” She said pointing to a graveyard with a peculiar grave in it. “After school, let's go in it, and see if anything spooky happens in there, since it’s Friday the 13th.”

I looked at her, with fear in my face.

“What?” She asked.

“I'll explain on the way to school.” I told her, as we walked off to school, wondering what would happen after school.

Some people are better suited to certain lives than others. I know because I failed at the one I thought I had.

And before you say something cheesy along the lines of “everybody is unique and there are never losers” — you’re wrong. I don’t believe in those sayings anymore. Somehow, I messed up on universal-scale rulebooks… and this is coming from the guy who won the “Honestly Actually Going to Become Famous” award every graduation year.

Who would’ve thunk.

I began piano lessons at age ten. Nothing formal, nothing fancy, just a good extracurricular diligence activity for a boy whose hands seemed simultaneously occupied yet empty at the same time. (You know, the way only an elementary school student can be bored.) Already at the double digits, the instruction was “already too late”, taking into account so-and-so’s little natural and so-and-so’s young prodigy. Of course, there wasn’t too much to lose at the time, as even if I proved inapt as a pianist… well, as my father had initially put it, there was always violin!

I remember being a subconsciously lazy little prince who expected things to come easily. Looking back, mini-me wholly believed he could have all he wanted at his beck and call! My parents were both Asian-American immigrants who always wanted the best for their son, and my upbringing was something to be jealous of. At the time, practically the entire community’s youngsters were trained to be musically literate, and so the parental unit figured, why not give it a try?

I began actively practicing by my own motivation a year or two afterwards. The breakthrough period was rough, I’ll readily admit. A typical dramatic routine: scene one, I am at the old upright, playing my pieces over, before shrugging and attempting to return to the addictive computer screen; enter my mom, who begs me to play and sits next to me, even as my focus wanes with each new chord; eventually we both have enough; repeat. Yes, the whole dramatic walkthroughs, but by some means this strapping young lad began to make his way over to the piano himself, willfully, mind you…

I confess that it wasn’t magic — it took blood, sweat, and tears before I took a liking to piano — especially from my mother’s part. She not only paid for and shuttled me back and forth from lessons, but took me to professional masterclasses, brought me to internationally acclaimed concerts, and sat by me when she could. Well, no intent to sound at all “life-quote-y”, but her hard work paid off, and kudos to a parent who can actually make their picky eater love spinach!

I began to enjoy myself soon after, nonetheless. Age fourteen and counting, and yours truly was by far the best pianist in the grade — of those who were still left. A reshuffling of teachers and new instruments later, plus regular performances, and people were beginning to take notice. One time, a retired cellist told me I had the aptitude for Juilliard, as the prestigious school was “looking for that kind of musicality from youngsters these days.” In those moments, I was beaming, dreaming that I would’ve become a successful artist, but my parents, who despite still attending every one of my performances without fail, seemed more reserved in their praise.

I suppose it was a one-of-a-kind experience to spend my summers constantly next to a keyboard. My teacher was a stickler for immersion. I was even told to avoid basketball matches and volleyball games to take care of my hands, for it would be complicated if I scraped some skin or — god forbid — broke a bone.

I began a piano-centric lifestyle as a teenager. Not going to lie, but this ordeal was wholly addictive. Looking back, I’d say it was (somehow) almost like drugs — I just needed that little bit to get me hooked, and BAM! “You reckon he’ll continue like that? All the way to Carnegie?” other parents whispered conspiratorially, if a little curious. However, there was no denying I had definite talent, and nobody could turn a deaf ear to gorgeous arpeggios and effortless trills from a nearby keyboard, if I do say so myself. I was so sure my parents were proud. So much effort trying to have a musical genius for a son and it finally paid off. My social life was put on hold, but so what? I felt like I was on fire!

I didn’t realize myself that it was becoming a dangerous path. My hands felt numb if a night’s worth of homework led me to abandon a practice session. I unconsciously drilled tabletops through AP Psychology, then Biology. My father genuinely wondered if there were therapy support sessions for overdosed-on-hobbies teen boys.

I began “spiralling out of control” junior year, according to everybody I met. Countless date offers were rejected (although, note to self: apparently musical expertise was something girls found attractive!); the latest game crazes remained on pause; pre-SAT scores took the brunt of the attack. I don’t say any of this proudly, mind you. Up until then just about everything was going smoothly, and nobody truly expected anything less than perfection. I didn’t either, being the perfectionist I am, but here I was, stuck in a black and white piano addiction out of anything! And it felt all so very fulfilling!

One weekend, my parents sat me down at the formal dining table, an infinitesimal settling of dust upon a stauch-white cloth, and outright told me to think about my future. I mean, we’ve had numerous conversations like this before, pre-college life decision talks, but this time they cut right to the chase. “Well you need a proper job, you see? We just can’t have you pursuing a career like music. It’s always been our dream to send you to one of the best schools, with one of the best resumes, to become one of the best doctors.”

It was that feeling when an elevator suddenly drops nineteen stories — right after the door shuts — that moment of zero gravity when you fall past disbelief, hope, and then minimalist wishful thinking all in one thrilling loss of altitude. My eyes blurred over, and after an unforeseen surge of nervous adrenaline, I left the back door open as I blindly stumbled outside, not knowing where to go, not particularly caring.

I did not know what all the point was, not only in my case, but for all parents who implored their children to continue extensive private music lessons just to expect a doctor by the end of their education. Was this something about our society or our generation then? Why was it so prevalent nowadays and almost a bucket list requirement, it seemed, for success? Life, for me, would be dictated by me, I then decided. I was a storybook, damn it, not a resume!

My emotions are what makes my piano playing so fiercely impassioned; as an artist I am quick to be poignant, otherwise rather tense. But then I reeked reckless frustration, and on the spur of the moment, begin to hit the wall, once, twice, several more times.

You know, I had become ambidextrous over all those years of two-handed piano practice, and had spent so much effort protecting my hands, yet the irony seemed a practical joke as I unknowingly fractured my left fist — initially my dominant hand as well.

According to the doctor’s diagnosis, there was a “broken fourth metacarpal bone” or “Boxer’s Fracture”. With what I remember from Biology, translated into in layman’s terms, I snapped my ring finger by hitting a hard object using improper punching technique (not that I’d know any). A broken hand, a broken dream.

People say to never act on impulse. Would it, for me, have been for better or for worse? What would have been classified as better then? I’m no life counselor, but I know this much: it’s not a black and white world — most things are left up to improv cadenzas. I wouldn’t attribute this to any pre-destined Fate, but after all, in a way, isn’t everybody unique only because they just jazzed up a little bit?

And then, what of my parents? They only ever had the best intentions for their only son, and it seems the only reason I played piano was for another footnote, not the entrance theme.

So now here I am.

Working towards what will hopefully be a career in analytical education, trying to solve the infinitely complex parenting paradox: when the child doesn’t like something, they are pushed to do it, but when they develop a passion for it, they are held back from such a career! The attempted artificial upbringing stitches only a complicated Catch-22, when high expectations yield unexpected consequences.

With a new purpose in life, I’m working harder than ever.

Well, at least I might be able to prevent a few Boxer’s Fractures for other aspiring students. Perhaps more importantly, I shall certainly prevent those broken dreams.

It all started on September 29th, 2035 in my hometown of Leicester, England.  That day, I was sitting peacefully in my office at the news agency The Star, sipping my afternoon coffee when a man, coughing up blood charged into the building.

He was yelling and clutching his arm.  He reminded me of a drunk man, screaming at the top of his lungs and bumping into things.  Of course, drunks don’t usually have blood pouring out of their mouths.

He screamed one last time.  I don’t think anybody called an ambulance, for he was obviously dead.  When I approached him, I looked at the arm that he had been clutching so hard.  There was nothing wrong with it.  No blood had been drawn, there were no fractures, no nothing, just a plain arm.  I looked down at his stomach.  Everyone behind me either vomited or turned away.  It looked as if someone had been dripping acid onto his stomach.  Something had dissolved through his skin and his outer muscles leaving the intestines for all to see.  The thing that frightened me the most was that this killing was right up my alley.

 

My name is Johnny Bagg.  I am a news reporter.  I report on homicides, but not just any homicides.  I report on the ones not so easily explained.  I am the researcher, the detective of the media.  If they have a case that the police can’t solve right off the bat then they call me up and give me the the job of reporting on it and solving the case before the other news agencies figure it out.

When I inspected the man’s stomach, I first thought that it would be easy for the police to figure out who killed him.  But, of course, this crazy killer had to leave a hint.  He actually pinned a note to the dead man’s spleen!  And from what I’ve seen, this will lead to another hint, then another, then another until either we find the guy, he gets bored, or we all die.  The Star usually  assigns me to report on these cases immediately.

I read the hint over once and left it there for the police to find.

You could call me a mystery nerd.  All I read are mysteries, often books with serial killers in them.  I loved the detectives in these books so much that I tried to become one.  When that didn’t work out I decided to write my own novels.  Apparently my mother took one of my better writings and turned it into The Star. They really liked my writing style, so they offered me a job as an assistant writer.  I was placed in the music department.  They told me that this was just to see how I would adapt to a higher-pressure work place.  Being the stubborn kid I was, I refused to write anything related to music at all.  When they would ask me to write a review for the latest opera or whatever, I would write about how midway through the show a man walked onto the stage and shot half the people in the audience.  

They quickly tired of my jesting but loved my writing, so they asked me where I wanted to be placed.  I told them the homicide department or they would get more of the same.  I quickly rose in the ranks of the homicide writers.  Early on I was given small cases, such as “a man gets shot at a failed robbery” or whatever, but I would peek at the other writers’ stories and suggest little things and sometimes piece together things they had missed, solving the case.  The “higher-ups” as I like to call them were impressed with my work and after a year I was the head of the department. It was unheard of!  The only bad thing about my new role was that it kicked my only real friend in The Star out of his job.  His name was Sam O’Brian.  He was very kind and very smart, but he was a bit angry at me for taking his job.  

The Star won many awards because of my writing and I even solved some cases before the police could work them out.  I became cocky, a bit too cocky for some of my co-workers.  I probably still am, but at least people aren’t leaving The Star or complaining about me.

I went home and studied the riddle until I fell asleep.  No dinner, no food, no drink.  I think much better on an empty stomach.  First of all, the man who left this slip of paper on a man’s spleen had balls. You have to have balls to reach into a man’s stomach.  Second of all, he was very smart.

The hint was very short.  I read it over and over again trying to catch onto anything that he might have given away on accident.  One thing I had learned over my years of being a sort of detective was that you don’t follow the hint except as a last resort.  Often times the person who wrote the note will give something away about themselves that will help you find them without having to play their twisted game.  Unfortunately, this one was the odd one out.

I probably looked over it one hundred times but couldn’t come to any conclusions.  I decided that I would have to follow this man’s clues, go where he wants me go, do what he wants me do until he gives something away that allows me or the cops to bust his ass.

I’m usually excited if I have to go out into the field, play the Sherlock Holmes that I’ve always wanted to be, but in this case I was a bit worried.  I always found something that helps me piece the story together after the first murder, but not this time.  This time, whoever this riddler is stumped me.  I always hated people that were smarter than me, and this person certainly was.  And, just to add to my fears, he was dangerous.  If I ever got close to him he would probably do the same thing he did to that last man: Melt my stomach open.

I decided to go to sleep and work on the hint tomorrow.  Maybe follow wherever it led me to.  I got into my pajamas and brushed my teeth, even though I hadn’t eaten all day.  Finally, I got into bed and slipped away into darkness.

 

I arrived at The Star at 12:00.  I had eaten and drunk some coffee so I felt very much awake.  I slipped quietly into my office and studied the clue again.  I must have been very tired the night before because I realized what was different about this clue compared to all the other clues that maniacs had left for the cops.  This one was short.  So short that all there was room for were directions for people to follow.  There wasn’t enough writing for him to give anything away.  I suddenly held him in even higher regard than I did last night.  This strategy was genius! He probably forced himself to fit it into a certain number of words!

After that realization struck me, I knew I would have no choice but to follow this man’s directions.  I read the hint again, this time out loud as to see whether it sounded different coming out of someone’s mouth.

“I await at the place where 19 years ago our elite eleven brought fame to our humble city, only to have their dreams quenched as one man stumbled.”

I split the hint up into three phrases that I tried to decipher.  The first was “our elite eleven.”  I thought of everything in this town that had eleven anythings.  I came up with… nothing.  

The next phrase I examined was “19 years ago.”  I searched on my computer for anything that happened in Leicester 19 years ago.  Again there was nothing to be found other than something about football (and that’s real football.  Not American football where you hardly use your feet!).

The third and final phrase was “brought fame to our humble city.”  I scoured the depths of my memories and searched on the computer but I found nothing.  I began pulling my hair out.  I must’ve made some loud noises for one of my co-workers, Joshua James, came into check on me.

“Are you alright sir?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Yeah,” I replied, “I just can’t figure out this riddle!”

“Maybe I can help sir,” Joshua said, taking a seat on my desk.  He put on his reading glasses and picked up the piece of paper that I had written the riddle on.  He read through it once, turned to me and asked, “Do you watch sports?”

“No, not very much,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, if I’m correct,” Joshua began, “the elite eleven refers to Leicester City’s football team who led the Barclays Premier League 19 years ago.  They brought fame to our humble city as it states in this riddle, and in their last game against Manchester City, the striker Jamie Vardy tripped and missed an open goal which would have tied the game.  They lost the game by one goal and Manchester City jumped ahead of them in the table and won the league.”  I just stared at him, jaw hanging open.   Finally I said thank you and he left.

I swiveled in my chair and got directions to the soccer stadium.  I felt under my desk for the pistol and ammunition I kept just in case something happened.  I stuffed them into my bag and got some snacks from the vending machine before walking out of the building and driving off towards the football stadium.

I arrived at the stadium and got out of my car.  I didn’t know where to start looking for this mysterious man or whatever clue he had left for me this time.  I decided the best place to start would be the entrance.

After a few hours of scouring the outer areas of the stadium and persistently pleading with security guards to let me into the stadium, I was about ready to give up.  I was walking around a small bush for about the third time when I spotted something that hadn’t been there earlier.  A shoe, a rather big one at that, was sticking out from behind the bush, but only enough for someone who was looking hard to see it.  

I stepped behind the bush and witnessed the exact same spectacle I had seen a day earlier in The Star.  A security guard with his shirt torn apart lay face down on the ground.  I turned him over with my shoe and looked into his stomach, still sizzling from whatever acid this maniac had used.  Again, I could see a piece of paper pinned to the man’s spleen.  I read it over and stuffed it in my pocket.

I ran over to a nearby security guard and told him that there was a body.  When the man examined it, just like my co-workers, he nearly vomited.  He thanked me for letting him know and warned me that there would be an investigation and I would be a prime suspect.  I just shrugged, saying that I didn’t do it and that there was no evidence that suggested I did.

When I arrived at my house I went straight into my study and read the note over.  This one was much easier for me to figure out mainly because it had nothing to do with sports.

“Meet me in the new Hall of the Romans as the bell strikes noon tomorrow.  Thou shalt find this place near the wall that shielded unwanted eyes from watching them bathe, and in the grand Mansion where the Romans of Leicester and their artifacts are frozen in time.”

The line “in the grand Mansion where the Romans of Leicester and their artifacts are frozen in time” gave it away.  Whoever this madman is wanted me to meet him or whatever dead body he left for me this time at Jewry Wall Museum, the local Roman and medieval history museum, tomorrow at 12:00, right when it opened.  I decided to rest and build up my energy for tomorrow, hoping that I would finally be able to confront this man once and for all.

 

I was at the museum by 11:50.  It opened at 12:00, so I sat in my car and thought over all the killings.  I found it weird that both of the dead men appeared exactly where I was.  The first one ran into my office building and died at my feet.  The second one only appeared after I arrived at the football stadium.  I had looked behind that very bush at least twice before the body appeared, which would mean that the maniac had been watching me while I searched for him.  When I was on the other side of the stadium he must’ve placed the guard there for me to find.

Just then I also realized that the ink on that note was still wet when I picked it up, which meant that it had been written after I had reached the stadium.  It was obvious that I was no policeman, so the man behind these killings must’ve been trying to draw me in for some reason.  But why?

Two minutes before the museum opened a middle aged man with slicked back hair arrived.  There was a bulge in his left back pocket, but it looked more like a wallet than a gun.  I still fingered my pistol and kept my eye on him.

When they finally allowed us in, I followed the man until I was sure no security guards were around.  I pulled out my pistol from my coat and shoved him against the wall, jamming my pistol into his ribcage.  “This gun’s loaded mister, so I suggest you tell me why you killed those two people,” I said as fiercely as I could.

“What are you talking about?” He asked.  “I haven’t killed nobody! In fact, I just arrived from the United States today! I can show you the ticket I bought on my phone if you want.”  I recognized his drawl from the Southern United States.  It was possible he wasn’t the one.

“Show me.” I ordered.  He reached into his pocket and I readied to pull my trigger.  Out came his phone and he quickly pulled up his ticket.  “Shit!” I said. “That son of bitch played me! Very sorry sir.  A few people were killed in the last couple days and I was assigned to find out who did it.  I was expecting to find the man here.”  He just looked at me like I was crazy and walked away.

I strolled through the museum and asked a few security guards if anyone else had entered the place, only to find myself disappointed.  I was about ready to leave when I saw him.  The man I had spoken to earlier was lying on the ground unconscious while a masked man stood over him.  I saw the man dripping some clear, steaming liquid onto the unconscious man’s belly and I could hear it sizzling.  I pulled out my pistol and crept up behind him.  I lept at him, put him in a headlock and shoved my pistol into his back.  “Freeze motherfucker!” I whispered into his ear, trying to imitate the cops in U.S. television shows.

“Even if I wanted to move I don’t think I could,” the man cackled.  I recognized the voice.

“Y… You!” I stammered.

“That’s right. Me!”  He removed his mask and lo and behold, before me stood the man I had once befriended at The Star, Sam O’Brian.

“What… How could you do this!? When we worked together you were so kind!”

“Losing a job can ruin your life pal.  You have to take drastic measures.  Of course, you wouldn’t know about that now would you.  You go around ruining other people’s lives thinking that if you’re happy, then everyone else is happy.  Well face the facts! It ain’t that way!” He cackled.  I stepped away from him, still pointing my gun at him, but horrified at the monster that he had become.

“So you killed both those other men?” He just nodded.  “Why?”

“Well, if you haven’t already figured it out, it’s because of you.  You took my job and ruined my life.  There is nothing left for me in this world other than to take revenge on the one who left me like this!”  He kicked my leg.  I thought I was out of his reach, but he was surprisingly quick.  I grabbed my leg and dropped my gun.  He dove for it, rolled over and pointed it at me, knocking the statue of a Roman behind him.  “Well this turned out better than I had expected!” he cackled. “Maybe if I write a good enough story pinning you as the criminal for these killings then they’ll accept me back into The Star!”

Then the statue fell on him.  He wailed in pain as I snatched the gun from him, pointing it back at him.  “Well then,” he said. “I guess it’s goodnight for both of us.”  He reached into his coat and pressed a button.  I heard a loud sound and then passed out.

When I awoke in the hospital I was told that he was wearing a vest often used by suicide bombers.  It had malfunctioned, not fully exploding, so it only killed him.  All I thought was that he must have been really angry at me go that far.