Though his Focke-Wulfe had been riddled with bullets from an American bomber’s turrets, the bullets could not have hit in better places unless they hadn’t hit at all. A few rounds had severed his fuel lines and a few had left holes in his wings, but otherwise, the craft was still in working order.
To add to his luck, Klaus’ engine had been disabled around seven kilometers up, giving him plenty of altitude to work with. He fancied that he would be able to glide all the way back to an airstrip well within his home country.
This was not the case.
Klaus’ distance from the battle had sapped the adrenaline from his system, and he began to settle down. Unfortunately, this caused him to have a momentary lapse of judgment as he adjusted the attitude of his craft, and he neglected to account for the additional holes in each wing created by the bomber’s rounds.
These holes caused the craft to lose lift and begin to fall rapidly. The adrenaline returned, and Klaus eventually wrestled control of the aircraft back, but not before losing two or three kilometers of altitude. With this loss came a massive loss of options on where he could land.
Realizing he would not be able to make the soft, controlled landing he had been hoping for, Klaus frantically began to look for another option.
As his eyes searched the ground beneath him, his heart sank.
All that lay beneath him was forest.
Even in the waning light he knew where he was.
The Black Forest.
Klaus had heard hushed stories and tall tales about this region since his childhood. Though he would never admit to it, he had always put stock in these stories. He was terrified of the region and avoided it at all costs, but in this situation he had no choice. He was too low now to do anything but pick somewhere that wouldn’t kill him on landing. Angling his plane towards a quickly approaching lake, he murmured a prayer and did everything he could to slow his aircraft.
The fuselage of the Focke-Wulfe skidded violently across the smooth surface of the lake and Klaus began to lose control. With a terrible crunch, a wing tore from the plane, jerking Klaus around violently. Unable to handle the forces of the rapid deceleration, Klaus blacked out.
When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the water lapping at his hair. In the landing, it would appear that the canopy had shattered, and the plane had come to rest upside down on some form of raised ground under the surface of the water. Unnerved by the possibility that a shift in weight might send the hunk of metal to the bottom of the lake with him in it, Klaus scrambled to free himself from his restraints.
Succeeding in climbing out of the broken canopy, Klaus righted himself and stood in the clear water. Surveying his position, he noted that he was a good distance from any shore. Looking upwards to the sun which was sinking towards the horizon, Klaus was thankful that he wasn’t nearer shore. Though the water likely posed a more immediate threat, it felt safer to Klaus.
As he inspected what remained of his plane, Klaus realized that the landing had wedged the wreckage firmly in the lakebed and that the shallow area didn’t seem to drop off for at least a meter in any direction. Deciding that this was secure enough, he climbed atop the wreckage and tried to dry himself so that he could sleep.
Sleep did not come easily.
Though he felt secure on his accidental island, Klaus could not shake his unease about his surroundings. Laying on the smoothest section of metal skin, he stared towards the shore. In the dark, he couldn’t discern anything, but he imagined that he could make out shapes moving in the black depths of the trees. Shivering, he turned over.
He woke with a start.
He wasn’t sure when he had managed to get to sleep, but it couldn’t have been too long ago as it was still dark. Turning back over, he stared towards the shore. The moon had risen and he could see the trees slightly better. Catching movement, he sat upright. Eyes fixed on the shore, he watched for the most miniscule movements.
In his mind, each brush of the wind on the leaves was the footfall of a ghostly figure. In his mind, each cry of an owl was the shriek of a banshee. In his mind, each ripple from the shore was a figure coming towards him.
Coming… towards him…
Breath quickening, Klaus clutched at the torn metal under him.
He had seen something enter the water from the trees.
Slowly snaking towards him, Klaus swore he could see the wake of some creature sliding towards him.
Scrambling for his pistol, he realized that he had not retrieved it from the cockpit. Retrieving it now would mean moving closer to whatever was approaching him, and Klaus could not bring himself to do it. Besides, bullets could not kill ghosts.
A sudden shimmer of moonlight on the water caused Klaus to shriek. Moving as quickly as he could, he leapt into the water in the opposite direction of the figure and swam.
He swam as hard and as fast as he could, but the shore never came up to meet him.
Water began to fill his flight suit and tug him downwards.
When the locals stumbled upon the crashed plane, they were puzzled by the lack of a pilot. Stories began to circulate of water nymphs dragging another man to his death and were met by nervous laughter.
It was just before 1 o’clock when Mrs. Susan Beatrice Smith walked into her bedroom after a day of planning for the Montgomery Community Gala. She was the chair of the decorations committee. Mrs. Smith had always loved shopping for matching table clothes and drapes for her home. The table clothes were changed every other day. The drapes, every week. She took pride in aesthetics of her home.
Mrs. Smith sat her small purse at the foot of her bed and sat done to remove her shoes. They were the newest pair of pumps at Macy’s. She then reapplied her matching Revlon Fire and Ice lipstick and nail polish which she had ordered from their magazine just three weeks earlier when the products were debuted.
Mrs. Smith walked to her desk and was just about to read the latest Macy’s catalogue when she noticed a small wooden jewelry box on her desk. She opened it. Inside was a folded up sheet of paper. She opened it. It was a letter from her son, Johnathan. It read
April 24, 1952
Dear Momma,
I hope you like your birthday present. I spent a long time putting it together during woodshop at school. I was hoping to paint it but I won’t have time, though I think it still looks nice without the paint.
Mrs. Smith’s birthday was still a week away. She wondered why he decided to give it her now. She appreciated the thought but she wished he’d painted it first because she did not care for the light colored wood from which it was made.
I just wanted to tell you something that I don’t have the courage to tell you about in person. I don’t really know how to say this but I’ll just start at the beginning. Last year Pop started taking me to his meetings with the Ku Klux Klan. I didn’t want to go. I never had a problem with a nigger. Addy May worked here for a very long time and she was quite nice. After we came back from the first meeting I told Pop this and slapped me across the cheek. He asked me if I knew why she stopped working for us. I told him no. He said it was because was drinking from a Whites Only water fountain at the park and continued to drink from it even after she was told to stop. So Pop along with some other Ku Klux Klan members figured out where she lived and broke into her house to kill her. They hung her from the tree in her front yard. That’s why Addy May doesn’t work for us anymore. Did you know that Pop did that?
She knew that her husband had gone with some of the other men to her house but she did not know what they planned to do, although she had her suspicions. She did not really care what they did either way.
Why did you let him do it! I loved her. She practically raised Marcia and me because Pop was always working and you were playing bridge or at a book club Mrs. Jacobs.
“That’s not true!” she thought to herself. She was always home when her children were younger.
I have never hated niggers even though Pop keeps trying to force me to hate them. He always says that they are the source of this city’s problems and that nothing can really be fixed until they are gotten rid of. He wants to kill all the niggers in Montgomery! What did they ever do to him? Addy May took good care of us. I’m sure all of them are just like her. Pop says they aren’t. He calls them all kinds of horrible names. All the men at the meetings do. I don’t like to listen to them so I always try to find an excuse not to go. Sometimes my excuses work. Most of the time they don’t. Pop brought me to a meeting last night. During the meeting, they were planning to bomb two houses on Penworthy Street, which is home to many black families. They said they were just going to pick to two nicest looking houses and destroy them because niggers don’t deserve nice things.
Mrs. Smith agreed with that. Niggers cannot take care of anything of value and therefore do not need to have it. She was glad that they were taking these expensive items from them.
I think that whoever can pay for nice things should be able to have them but I didn’t tell this to Pop. I knew that he would probably beat me again just like the last time I said something he didn’t agree with. Pop hits me all the time. He hits me when he disagrees with what I say. He hits me when I don’t say anything at the meetings. He says he wants me to become an active member of the Klan. I want to tell him that I don’t want anything to do with the Klan but I know he will punish me severely if I do. I’m scared of Pop. I didn’t want to be around him anymore.
“So that’s where he got all the bruises,” Mrs. Smith thought to herself. She thought that he was being picked on by the other students at this school but decided not to say anything because was 14 and needed to learn how to take care of himself.
When we were walking home from the meeting last night, we saw a nigger walking home alone. It was a girl about my age. She was just walking with her hands in her jacket pocket and she watched the ground when she walked. Pop called out to her and asked where she was going. She didn’t answer and started walking a little faster. “Hey nigga!” he called again and she still didn’t stop. Pop mumbled that niggers should always listen to Whites because we are the superior race. “Girl! You better stop or I’ll make you!” She started to run. “Oh now you are running?” Pop darted after the girl, caught her and grabbed her. “You will listen to us you nigga!” “I will never listen to you people.” The girl said back. “That’s it.” Pop said. “James lift up my jacket and get my gun. ” The girls eyes grew wide. So did mine. I didn’t know that Pop carried a gun with him.
Mrs. Smith knew. Mr. Smith told her that one could never be too safe. He thought that every White man should carry a gun.
Tears were forming in the girl’s eyes. I pulled the gun out and tried to hand it to him. “No! You are going to do this. You will teach this nigga a lesson!” I told him I didn’t want to do it, that I couldn’t do it. I could see the rage growing in his eyes. He took his arms from around the girl’s middle and took both of her hands into one of his and used his other to try and punch me. He was fast and hit my nose. It started bleeding. “I am going to hold this girl down and you are going to shoot her,” he said to me. “You will not defy me or your nose will not be the only broken body part you go home with. Do you understand?” I nodded. The girl and I were both sobbing. “Now do it.” He wrestled the girl so that she was lying with her face to the ground and pointed to the middle of her back. “Shoot her right there,” I told him no and he took one arm off the girl and punched me again this time in the groin. I sank to the ground. “Do it or I will make sure you will never have children.” I shook my head and he hit me again, this time even harder. The pain was almost unbearable. “James!” He punched my head. “You! Will! Do! This! Now!” I shook my head again and Pop landed 5 more punches. I couldn’t take the pain anymore. I picked up the gun and told the girl I was sorry. He hit me again for that. “Now James!” The girl screamed and I pulled the trigger. The girl didn’t move after that. Blood was starting to flow from the wound. Pop let go of the girl and put his arm around me. “That’s my boy. Now let’s get you cleaned up.” He took me to a gas station and I went into the bathroom to wipe off my face. I could tell me nose was broken even though my vision was blurry from tears. I couldn’t believe I just killed someone. She hadn’t even done anything to me. She was just walking home minding her own business. I tried to sleep when I got home but I couldn’t. I couldn’t forget her face. I couldn’t forget the look in her eyes. I knew I would never forget and I knew I could never live with the guilt.
Mrs. Smith began to worry. Could this letter be what she thought it was?
I’ll miss you and Marci. Tell her that I love her and that I never wanted to leave her. This morning was the last time you will ever see me.
“Oh God,” she thought to herself. It was. She could feel the tears coming.
But if you really want to see me one last time, come to the basement of the school, room 029. I’ll be the one with the noose around my neck hanging from the ceiling. At least one thing the Ku Klux Klan taught me was useful.
If you ever took the time to notice, you would realize that Caroline not only did not own any carpets in her house, but refused to step in a room with carpeting no matter where it was.
Somehow she had managed to keep it a secret for as long as she had. Scoping out the the places she needed to go ahead of time, casually changing the topic whenever someone started getting too close for comfort, and faking a headache to get out of a bad situation were all solid strategies. At least until today at one of the most crucial moments of her life.
She was invited to present her research in front a panel of some of the most distinguished persons in her field. She had been working her whole life towards this opportunity and it would never come around again. But now she’s stuck outside the door, holding her notes, paralyzed with fear staring at the ground just a few inches in front of her.
“Ms. Attison?” a gruff voice questions her from inside the room, “Are you ready to present?”
“Just give me a couple of moments,” she somehow manages to reply. She takes a couple of deep breaths. Turning back now is not an option. She will have to conquer her fear today. A couple more slow and deep breaths are necessary to prevent herself from hyperventilating.
“Alright I’m ready now,” she announces and takes her first step into the room. Nothing happens. She breaths easier and takes another step. Maybe her fear was all for nothing?
It’s not long into her presentation though, when a chill runs down her spine. She feels the little strands of carpet creeping up and grabbing at her feet. She stutters at a weird moment and sees some of the panels give her a weird look. She tries to subtly move her foot, but panics once she realizes that her foot can’t move.
She stops talking at once and pulls her foot off the carpet with a yelp. The panel give her a long stare.
“Is there a problem, Ms. Attison?” one of them asks. She gives them an embarrassed look.
“Of course not,” she responds, “my shoe merely snagged on the carpet and it surprised me is all.” They don’t look impressed at all and Caroline quickly tries to smooth things over by continuing along with her presentation. When she next feels the strands of carpeting making its way up her shoe and then her pants, she someone manages to do nothing. It’s really only her imagination fooling her when she thinks one of the panelists is staring in shock around her feet.
When the carpet suddenly rises up and swallows her whole, Caroline doesn’t even scream. The panelists just stare at the spot where the woman disappeared with varying expressions.
“Shall we invite our next speaker up to talk?” one says with a questioning tone. The rest all mutter degrees of approval and they continue on.
Robert suppressed a shudder as he saw his family shoveling large quantities of unspeakable filth into their mouths. He picked at his own food, his appetite now largely gone. Even though he usually loved mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken, watching his dining companions eating so much spinach, even drowned in cream and garlic, was enough to sicken him. His family made no attempt to even be decent about their spinach consumption either, despite knowing full well of Robert’s hatred of – no, revulsion toward – spinach.
Robert crossed his arms and leaned back, musing on the origins of his spinach aversion (he had now largely resigned himself to not finishing his meal). He supposed that it had started when he was a child and had caught a stomach virus from school. His mother had insisted that he needed to eat his greens, and after choking down several forkfuls of the bitter vegetable, Robert promptly vomited all over his pajamas, his bed and his favorite book. He had never looked at spinach the same way again.
Robert sighed and picked up his fork as his family finished eating. He poked at his food a bit and then started to slowly finish his meal.
Late at night, Robert was lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, pondering the meaning of life, when he was suddenly struck with the urge to go listen to some music in the basement. He wrapped himself in a robe and blanket then quietly crept down the stairs, careful not to wake his family.
As he walked through the kitchen, Robert heard a... well, a squelching sound. He looked down to see if he had anything on his slippers, and to his horror he found a small piece of spinach. His heart beating loudly now, Robert tore of his slipper and rapidly scraped it against the edge of the garbage pail until the spinach was gone. Even with only a damp spot on his slipper, he was reluctant to re-don the footwear, but he did and continued on his way.
The basement door creaked open, revealing stairs that led down into darkness. Robert pulled a chain near the ceiling and a helical FCL blinked on, its modernity in contrast with the old wooden stairs.
Robert turned right as he reached the bottom, entering a small room with a computer next to an exercise machine and a turntable on the other side. Walking over to the turntable, he pulled a milk crate from next to it and flicked through the records inside, stopping at Schubert’s String Quintet in C Major. He pulled the disc out and blew it off.
As Robert lifted the cover off the turntable, he heard a low grumble, and a wet noise. It seemed to be coming from the cellar. Robert slowly grabbed a slat of wood from the exercise machine and, arming himself with an extremely conveniently placed flashlight, went to investigate.
Stopping at the door to the cellar, Robert gulped, turned on the flashlight, and firmly grasped the wood. He flung open the door of the cellar, wood lifted behind his shoulder, and a horrible sight met his eyes.
There was a large, gooey blob in the cellar. Multiple red eyes and tooth-filled mouths covered the monstrosity in all the wrong places.
The beast didn’t seem to have noticed him. Robert lifted his flashlight to investigate it further. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel scared. In fact, the whole encounter had a surreal, dreamlike quality to it. Robert knew he wasn’t dreaming, but that didn’t change the feeling.
As the monster became illumined, Robert saw that it was glistening, and slightly green. Robert began to grapple with rising terror. He noticed a smell in the air. A bitter, nauseating smell.
There was a spinach monster in Robert’s basement. And in its writhing tentacles, it shook about Robert’s unconscious family members.
Robert doubled over, retching. Bile poured out of his mouth, splattering on the floor. Not questioning the existence of sentient and apparently malicious spinach in his basement, rather he questioned why it had to be spinach, of all things.
Looking up at the monster, he saw that the monster was looking at him as well. Robert was shaking wildly. He dropped his flashlight and plank. Even though the flashlight broke upon hitting the floor, some of the light from the other part of the basement still filtered through the door, making the eyes glow and the teeth glitter, menacingly.
Robert collapsed sideways onto the ground, his insides still churning. A liquid seeping out from the spinach wet his cheek. It was salty and metallic. Robert felt a wet tentacle wrapping itself around him.
His vision was fading. Robert took smaller and smaller breaths, and then blacked out.
“Lieutenant,” said the major. “Lieutenant Harlan.”
“Yes sir,” said Harlan.
The major held some papers up to his face. “I’d like to commend you on what looks like respectable service.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harlan. This wasn’t what he was expecting.
“Some very nice numbers, indeed. However, there is one point of contention.”
“Contention?”
“Do you know what ‘milquetoast’ means?”
“No sir,” Harlan lied.
“It’s in here, written by a Captain Strong, a literary fellow.”
“I guess so, sir.”
“You guess you are… ‘milquetoast’?”
“No, I mean, I guess Captain Strong is literary.”
The major took out a book and put on his glasses. He looked like the head Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
“Noun. A very timid, unassertive, spineless person. Do any of these words describe you?”
“Uhh…I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Check, then.” The major drew a check in the air.
Harlan tried to think of a comeback, but couldn’t find one.
“OK,” the major smirked. “It could be worse. Well, congratulations on your promotion, Harlan.”
“What?” Harlan wasn’t ready for this. He knew it was coming, but at the same time he didn’t.
The major pushed some little bars across the table. “2,000 men getting sent across the ocean every month. We need people to command them,” he said. “Even if they’re…candy-ass nerds.”
“So…I get a company?”
“That’s right.” Harlan felt his blood pressure go up. There was one thing that terrified him, more than locals with guns, more than improvised explosive devices, more even than his commanding officers. That thing was making decisions. Harlan was so afraid of making decisions, he had joined the army to escape it.
“Uhh, one more thing sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Will I be taking orders from you?”
“I guess so,” sighed the major.
The wind blew in Captain J. P. Harlan’s face, and dust got in his eyes. He tried to swagger.
“Uhh major,” he whispered into his walkie-talkie.
“Harlan?”
“Yes sir.”
“If you were going to talk to a company of recruits, would you –“
“Are you talking right now?”
“They’re right in front of me, sir.”
“Then fucking talk to them!”
“Major?”
Whenever Harlan had to make up his mind, his face would get pale, his breath would quicken, and he’d feel a tingling in his chest. He would grow light headed. Oddly enough, his balls would also start to itch.
He cleared his throat. “Hello everybody, welcome to Company 937. I hope you’re not too jet-lagged. And if you are jet-lagged, uhh, get over it.” The men were silent. He didn’t know what he expected.
“Okay! Let’s get to the game plan…”
“Question, sir,” said Pvt. Wolkov.
“Yeah,” said Harlan.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere where you’ll need these,” said Harlan, holding up a bottle of quinine pills and trying to smirk like the Gestapo-esque major.
“Thanks, that narrows it down,” said Wolkov.
“Captain,” called the pilot. Harlan went to the cockpit.
“Looks like there are two landing spots over here – we have one here, and here.”
“One minute,” said Harlan. He took out his walkie-talkie.
“Major.”
“Yeah Harlan?”
“So we have these two landing sites, right –“
“What would I know, I don’t have the map.”
“Well, it’s on that mountain we talked about earlier, and one’s kind of near the top and one’s more to the lower left –“
“Harlan.”
“Yes?”
“If you ask me another one of these goddamn stupid questions, I’m kicking your milquetoast ass back down to O-2, got it?”
“Got it.”
The pilot raised his eyebrows and blew out through pursed lips.
“Okay,” said Harlan. “Let me do some calculations.” He took out his phone and clicked the magic 8-ball. Should I take the higher site? he thought.
“REPLY HAZY. TRY AGAIN,” It said.
“Dammit!” He wished that he didn’t actually have to shake the phone to get it to work.
“YOU MAY RELY ON IT.”
“Okay, looks like we’re going with the top one.”
Landing near the top of the mountain had been a bad decision. Luckily for Harlan, it wasn’t his. For two days, they hiked down through mud and parasites, in the rain.
Cpl. Shimano held up a leech. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a leech,” said Harlan.
Shimano put the leech close to his face and tried to stare it down.
“Where are we?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Harlan.
“Well Toto, we’re not in fucking Afghanistan anymore!” said Pvt. Wolkov, throwing up his hands.
Harlan was angry, too. He was mostly tired, and angry because he was tired. They had been forced to hike through this creepy jungle, only by night, towards some hazy objective he wasn’t allowed to tell anybody about. He thought it would be satisfying to see that goddamn major’s face melt off.
They had gone another three days.
“Uhh, sir,” someone whispered. “Look at this.”
Harlan took out his flashlight. It was a piece of metal, barely sticking out of the ground. “Shit,” he said. He looked at his map. “That’s not supposed to be there.”
“Front Toward Enemy” was written on it. Harlan tried to call the major, but there was no response. “Shit.”
Harlan felt an itch in his nether regions.
“I think we should get behind trees,” said Cpl. Shimano.
“Good idea.” They waited.
“Where the fuck are we, sir,” said Wolkov.
“Shh,” said Harlan.
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t do my job if I don’t know where I am.”
“Wait.” Continue straight? He thought. He shook the phone.
“IT IS CERTAIN.” Shit.
“We’re going straight.”
“Sir, sorry, WHAT?”
“Orders are orders. We have metal detectors, after all.”
Day broke, and they had to camp. Harlan still wasn’t sure if they were out of the minefield yet. But the men looked OK. At least, he thought so.
He was nervous when he entered his tent. At least he was alone now. It felt good to be in here, away from the stress of giving commands. He inserted his earbuds and put on some Kelly Clarkson.
He vaguely heard a tearing noise from behind him. Suddenly, someone was on top of him, holding a gun to his head.
“Shit, WOLKOV?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” whispered Wolkov in his ear.
Harlan felt like telling him that no one actually said that, but Wolkov had the advantage. “Granted.”
“If you don’t tell me where the fuck we are,” said Wolkov.
“You’re going to kill me? Then you’ll never know.”
“I don’t have to kill you. I can hurt you, bitch.”
Harlan thought about this. “Let me just, uh, check my phone?”
“Check your phone?”
“Matter of life and death.” Wolkov handed the phone over, still pointing the gun at him.
He shook the phone up and down.
“What the fuck?” said Wolkov. Should I tell him, he thought as the blue triangle rose up.
“MY SOURCES SAY NO.”
“I’m waiting,” said Wolkov.
He looked at Wolkov, and at Wolkov’s gun, and back at his phone. He wondered what would happen if he followed its orders. He breathed in. He shivered. He made a decision.
You glance at the clock at the corner of your screen. It’s two minutes to three. Your roommate is home for the weekend. You’re browsing an image board, sifting through neverending flow of macros and shitposts, put up by a legion of insomniacs. There are half a dozen pages open to threads of various topics.
You unscrew the cap of your Mountain Dew and take a swig. You don’t plan on sleeping anytime soon. You blink your bagged eyes and click back the first page of the board, where new threads pop up. You scan them for something interesting, and are about to go back to another thread to check for updates when one of the threads catches your attention. It reads:
“Ask the devil anything.”
It is accompanied by a screencap from a music video you know, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. No one has posted a reply yet.
You open the thread in a new tab and post:
“prove it fagot”
You jump back to another thread, scrutinizing Japanese porn, then to another, commenting on the cringe-worthy antics of betas across the internet. You’ve seen most of images before, but this is your nightly routine, judging QTs who you’d never have a chance with laughing at people who are bigger losers than you are.
After a few minutes you go back to the devil thread. There are around a dozen new responses.
“Prove it.”
“when and how am I going to die”
“August 16, 2027, at 4:33 AM. A sudden heart attack. You’ll be asleep, and won’t feel a thing.” With a picture of an alarm clock.
“Fag”, with a picture of Neil Patrick Harris
“dubs. Check em”, with a image of Christian Bale from American Psycho. He doesn’t have dubs.
“am i going to hell or heaven?”
“Heaven. Even though you put on a facade of apathy on this image board, you don’t truly enjoy being here. You’re just lonely, and you think this is the only place people will accept you. Julie from your science class has a crush on you. She’s free this weekend, ask her to a movie or something, and don’t come back to this site.” With a picture of Eeyore.
“/thread”
“I am asking you to prove your the devil”
“You have a dog named Sasha. She’s a german shepherd. Your mother died giving birth to you. Your father subconsciously blames you, and you’ve suspected it for years.” With a picture of a dog.
“Shut up”
“You asked me to prove it. Do you believe me now?”
You notice that each of the responses from “the devil” come seconds after the questions are asked. The timestamps don’t lie. You wonder if this is an elaborate prank, maybe several people in on it with pre-prepared responses posting at once. You screencap the thread as it is now and save it to the appropriate folder.
You switch back to the thread, now thoroughly intrigued.
“is pergatory real”
“No. It was made up to make people feel better about their crimes, make them feel like they have a chance of eternal happiness. Heaven is harder to get into than you’d think. Not just mortal sins can get you in, but a build-up of smaller sins will do the same. Most people go to hell, but’s it’s worse for some than for others. Almost all of the people who visit this board will be going to hell. Of course,people feel true remorse for their sins can get in to heaven. But very few do. Most people just regret the punishment.” With a picture of Charles Manson.
“Shut up faggot”
“fske and gay”
“Is god real?”
“Last time I checked. He’s not in a very good mood right now.”
“you seem very helpful for the self-proclaimed devil. why?”
“The human interpretation of the devil is wrong. I am not evil. Humans are capable of evil, and I punish the ones who deserve it. I enjoy punishing those who deserve it. Good people do not need to see this ugly side of me.”
“fake real devil is ebil”
“what’s hell like?”
“Hell is different for everyone. You, for example, raped an intoxicated and drugged girl after a frat party, then when she got scared, you choked her out and accidentally killed her. You drove two hours to the beach and dumped her body in the ocean, then drove all the way back, stopping to buy a pack of cigarettes on the way home. Your hell, because as much as you try to deny it to yourself, you are going, will be to have will be to have barbed wire strung through your body, from mouth to penis, be suspended in the air by it, and have it moved through your body like a conveyor belt. You will never be able to get used to it, and I will watch, and l will laugh.” With a picture of a barbed wire fence.
You wince as you read the post. Everything about this thread is rubbing you the wrong way. It feels too… real. Too real. You move your cursor over the next tab, but something stops you from clicking. Curiosity? Or something else? Guilt?
You return your focus to the thread, trying to push the thoughts away.
“holy shit”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP”
“I answered your question. I’d say I was sorry you didn’t like the answer, but I’d be lying. You could stop this fate for yourself. Repent, feel bad for what you’ve done. But we both know you don’t regret it. All you regret is the repercussions, and that isn’t enough.” A picture of a guilty looking dog, with a stain on the carpet behind it.
You don’t know what to think. You numbly watch the screen, your fingers slack on the keyboard, as the thread updates. Should you write something else? Ask a question?
“Whats heaven like?”
“Not my jurisdiction. You’ll just have to be good and find out.” An image of the Pearly Gates.
“this is fucked up”
You screencap again.
“can you post a picture of hell?”
“Cameras don’t work down here. In fact, most recording technology doesn’t work around me, or God. Someone in here has been screencapping, and when he checks them, they’ll be blank.” A picture of an eraser.
You practically jump out of your seat, and scroll back to your screencaps, sweating. They’re all white, wiped out. You’re panting, terrified. The devil knows you’re here. Hand trembling, you switch back to the thread.
“is president going to hell?”
“I can count the number to politicians who went to heaven on one hand.” A picture of Nixon.
You stay up watching the thread continue for hours. By six in the morning, the number of responses is waning. People are getting back to their everyday lives. Many might even forget what they’ve seen. But you won’t. You can’t.
The thread will 404 soon. It’s now or never.
You type out a question, fearing, and deep down, already knowing the response.
It’s Halloween and people getting on the train are wearing a variety of costumes. There’s a girl wearing a witch’s hat and a little boy in a superman costume. One woman has intricately painted her face unzipping to reveal flesh and bone. They all sit down in their seats and get ready for the ride when a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase dashes onto the train in the last minute and sits down, huffing and puffing. The passengers muse briefly at his good fortune before going back to minding their own business.
The man wearing a suit is in fact not dressed up for Halloween, but rather getting ready for an interview. Why the interview happens to be on Halloween and at night is a mystery to him, but he doesn’t mind. An interview on Halloween is just like an interview any other day of the year and he’s never been a fan of giving out candy anyways.
His name is Max and he notices that next to him sits a little old lady knitting a scarf. Max does a double take as it appears the scarf is shimmering in and out of existence as he stares at it. What kind of material does that? He tries to take a peek into her bag, but the old lady gives him an odd look and he realizes that he might be acting rude and stops.
The girl in the witch’s hat is chatting loudly on the phone nearby and mini-Superman is jumping up and down in his seat when the train lurches for a moment and stops suddenly. The passengers are all quiet for the longest time, waiting to see what happens. The old lady continues to knit.
“Don’t worry folks,” a voice comes up over the intercom, “there’s another train ahead of us and we have to wait for it to pass. We’ll be continuing on soon enough.” The passengers seem to breath out a sigh of relief and the lady with the unzipping faces mentions in passing to those around her that she’s got a costume contest to make. Max is relieved too. He may have left the house early, but all the websites say that you should get to an interview early.
Though the window, Max can see another train pass by from the track next to theirs. The train also seems to shimmer in and out of existence like the old lady’s scarf and he wonders if it’s possible that they’re made out of the same material. The train starts moving again moments later.
“Oh dear,” the old lady says, peeking into her bag, “I’m almost out of yarn!” Max muses to himself that she couldn’t possibly be using yarn and feels a bit concerned when he sees her eyeing him with a suspicious look. “Did you take my yarn?” she demands to know.
“What?” Max says, “Of course not!”
“I’ll have you know that this yarn is quite hard to come by!” she says. Max isn’t surprised, but he really didn’t take her yarn and tells her so much. She doesn’t believe him. “This man stole my yarn!” she yells at the top of her lungs. The other passengers give him nasty looks.
“What the hell, dude?” a college kid in a makeshift Where’s Waldo costume says to him, “you can’t just steal her yarn. Give it back.”
“I didn’t take her yarn!” Max insists, “You can check my briefcase. I swear!” Max opens up his briefcase and shows the other passengers just to back up his statement and gets up just to prove he isn’t hiding it behind his back either. Satisfied, the other passengers give the old lady a questioning look.
“Are you sure you didn’t just use it all up?” a the girl in the witch’s hat asks, “You did make progress on that scarf of yours.” The old lady stares at her scarf and seems to be measuring it when she shakes her head in annoyance.
“Well this won’t do,” she mutters to herself and waves off the concerned faces of the other passengers. “You must be right,” she says, “silly me.” Max thinks it’s a bit unfair that she can get away with accusing him of theft, but she’s old so he doesn’t make much of a fuss either. He doesn’t try to scoot a bit further away from her in his seat and carefully keeps his hands and feet to himself.
When he peers over at the old lady again, it seems that she’s taken out a new pair of knitting needles, ones that are larger and shinier than the ones beforehand. There appears to be no string that she’s working with this time, but she starts to click them together like she’s knitting anyways. Max tries not to give her a weird look and focuses on what type of questions he might get in the interview. Yes, Max is a hardworking sort of fellow. A team player too.
As he’s thinking about his good qualities and boosting up his ego, he begins to feel tired. It might just be his imagination, but the lights seem to flicker and get darker and darker. His body feels weaker and weaker and suddenly, his fingers slacken and his briefcase falls to the ground with a thump.
The thief slipped off a pair of gloves and took off a mask. Chuckling softly, the thief tossed a newspaper into the wastebasket. The headline: “STRING OF CRIMES COMMITTED BY NOTORIOUS THIEF BLANK;” below that, partially obscured by the folds in the paper, “Duchess of York to inaugurate Trans-Euro train.” The thief gathered the necessary items, strode out the door and slammed it shut.
-----
The Trans-European Railway, a decades-long effort by several large conglomerates and European governments, was finished at last. The main line spanned 2000 miles, from London on the British Isles, crossing by sea bridge over the English Channel, through several major capitals of Europe and ending in Moscow. Its peak speeds reached about 300 miles per hour, making it superior to both Europe’s previous TGV system and the maglev trains of China. Its inaugural ride was to be an eight-hour-long express trip from Moscow to London, and in a show of honor to their sometimes-friends and sometimes-enemies, the New Soviet Republic had cordially invited the United Kingdom’s Duchess of York to snip the ribbon and ride first-class. To ensure a new era of cooperation and peace between Eastern and Western Europe, or so the Republic said.
-----
The TER gleamed in the sunlight, a sleek, aerodynamic snake of glass, metals and man-made polymers. Excited crowds jostled each other on the platform, yelling in a myriad of languages. A red, gold and blue ribbon hung across the front of the train, emblazoned with a rampant bear and lion and a circle of stars in the center.
The duchess smiled pleasantly, her hands folded across her lap as she waited for the Prime Minister of the Republic to conclude her speech. An elderly but sprightly woman, the she was bedecked in jewelry of pearls, sapphires and gold, with a pale pink and cream dress beneath.
The Russian Prime Minister finished her speech in her staccato-like manner, eliciting cheers from the crowds. The duchess rose and walked to the podium, accepting a large red scissor-blade from the Minister. Bowing her head to the Minister, the Duchess turned to the crowds and said, “On behalf of the United Kingdom and Territories, I would like to graciously thank the New Soviet Republic and its Prime Minister for their gracious hospitality and willingness to work towards a brighter future for all. And without further ado, I hereby inaugurate the Trans-European Railway!”
She stepped back from the podium and, carefully slipping the sharp scissor-blade beneath the ribbon, swiftly swung upwards. The ribbon cut easily, falling away from the train silently. The cheers from the crowd were deafening.
Still smiling, the duchess offered the scissor-blade back to the Prime Minister and stepped down to her guards.
-----
The German politician pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. As he stepped through the security checkpoint, he imperceptibly held his breath and let it out once it was clear everything was in order. Taking his briefcase with cold and slightly trembling hands, he walked purposefully to the doors of the train.
-----
The police officer walked quickly through the crowd, sidestepping excited tourists and keeping her eyes on her mark: the boss of the local mafia. Although there was no evidence to incriminate him, everyone knew who he was. The police officer was certain that trailing him would yield some leads, and eight hours on a train with him would be certain to reveal some new information. Discreetly flashing her badge to security, she walked towards the train.
-----
The French journalist eagerly stepped through security. Holding his hat down to his head with one hand and clutching a camera with the other, he scanned left to right for interesting scenes. Not only did he have the chance to cover the inaugural trip of the TER, but he had also heard rumours that the mysterious thief Blank was going to strike.
Blank was presumably responsible for a series of high-profile thefts across Europe, ranging from rare art to cold, hard cash to piles of jewelry. The only thing the crimes had in common, other than no clues at all, was the blank white card left in place of the stolen goods. Some people even said that Blank was responsible for hacking into government and commercial databases and selling top secret intelligence and trade secrets.
The journalist did a double-take, and his breath caught in his chest. The mafia don was here. Avoiding the grizzled man’s meaningful look, the journalist swung his camera back to the right and took a picture of the first person he saw: a businessman in coat, hat, scarf and gloves, stooped over coughing and carrying a heavy attaché case.
The journalist lowered the camera and risked a glance towards the mafia. He wasn’t there anymore. Sighing with relief, the journalist stepped aboard the train.
-----
The actress haughtily stepped through the crowd, ignoring the notepads and pens placed under her nose. Her entourage was actively pushing away the crowd, yet a great deal of stragglers got through. After getting through security, the actress smiled, then turned around and waved to the crowd. Turning back to the train, the actress smirked.
-----
The waitress smiled pleasantly as everyone boarded the train, bowing slightly whenever anyone passed her. Luckily on this first trip, the only passengers would be occupying the first class car. The duchess closed her eyes and tilted her head, smiling as she passed the waitress. The duchess’s guards walked stonily by, ignoring the waitress completely as she silently quailed in fear. Next, a bespectacled man in a blue suit grimaced at her as he walked by, pushing up his glasses. A tall, rough bearded man in a heavy coat then walked by, and the waitress blinked disconcertedly. He didn’t look like the type of person to be riding first class on a train’s inaugural trip. A tall man dressed nearly entirely in black passed by next, coughing and looking at the floor. The waitress couldn’t see his face thanks to his hat and scarf. A stern-looking young woman in a long coat followed, stalking carefully with one hand by her waist. A tall woman in a low-cut dress sauntered by, preceded and followed by two men wearing suits and mirrored sunglasses. Finally, a young man in a newsboy cap and suspenders walked carefully forward, caressing his camera and looking frantically from side to side.
The waitress blinked and rapidly shook her head. What an odd assortment of passengers! Still, it was not her place to question who rode the train. Her job was to wait. Ress. Or something. Checking to make sure that all the passengers were aboard, she nodded to the man at the door, signaling him to close it. The waitress walked forward into the first class car and waited patiently at the back as the conductor welcomed the passengers. This would be an interesting train ride indeed.
-----
On the dot at 4:00 pm, the train smoothly departed from the platform to more roars from the crowd and steadily climbed to top speed.
-----
The mafia swirled his whisky in his glass and sighed heavily, looking out at the blurred scenery. That foolish journalist! What was he doing aboard? He could ruin everything with an ill-timed word or photograph. Scowling, the mafia downed his drink then rose and walked over to the casino car.
-----
The actress looked around the poker table. She did not think she had ever seen an odder collection of gamblers. A grumpy and heavyset Russian downing drink after drink, sure, but would he be able to pay up when he lost it all? And that blue-suit. He kept adjusting his glasses and glancing at his watch. If he was that nervous in the game, he wouldn’t last more than a round. One of the duchess’s bodyguards was there as well, off-duty. He leaned back leisurely as the dealer riffled the cards. Completing the picture was a young, serious-looking woman and a man in a heavy coat and hat. Why couldn’t that woman lighten up? It was just a game, after all. With a lot of money on the line. And that guy in the coat. The cars were heated, at least. He must have been sweating like a pig in there. The actress bit her lip and smiled. It would be easy to rake it in here. She leaned over the table to pull her drink closer and nearly laughed at the heavyset man’s discombobulation and the bodyguard’s easy grin. This would be an interesting ride.
-----
The police officer frowned at her cards. She couldn’t believe that she had to gamble to keep an eye on the mafia. Not that she was doing badly, she mentally amended, eyeing her stacks of chips appreciatively. Only the bodyguard was doing better than herself. Her mark was doing alright, as was the blue-suited man. The actress was doing the worst, with the black-clad man following.
The blue-suited man looked more at ease now that he had a few chips in front of him. “Don’t you think you should stop now? Anymore folds and you won’t be able to have any more drinks,” he said, smiling slightly, to the actress.
The actress, somewhat disheveled now, glared at him and gulped down her cocktail. “Oh, be quiet. You’re not doing much better than I am.”
“I’m a politician,” the blue-suited man said, still half-smiling. “Bluffing comes second nature to me. Anyway, you know what they say about gamblers,” he continued. “There are two types. The type who likes gambling, and the type who likes the part of himself that gambles.”
“Just what are you trying to say?” the actress snarled.
“Nothing. All I’m saying is-“
“You’re wrong, you know,” the mafia interrupted. He was slightly drunk by this point, but not to the point of unruliness. “There’s a third type. Of gambler, that is. There’s the one who wants to make money fast without working!” He let out a bark-like laugh.
The politician was silent for a moment, but then he smiled, clapping the mafia across the back. “And which type are you, eh?”
The mafia picked up his drink and looked sideways at the politician. “Whatever I need to be.”
-----
The journalist shifted restlessly in his seat. He was sitting a few rows behind the duchess, who was serenely watching the twilit scenery fly by. He resolved to ask her for her picture for the paper. As he was about to get up, however, the waitress appeared.
“Hello, sir. Would you care for anything to drink?”
The journalist laughed sheepishly. “Nothing for now, thank you. Maybe a little tea later.”
The waitress bowed her head and walked away. The journalist waited until she was gone and stood, walking to the duchess.
“Excuse me, my lady, but I was wondering if I could have your picture for the paper?”
The duchess tilted her head and smiled at the journalist. “But of course, my dear boy. Is this alright?” she asked, assuming a pose.
The journalist smiled and took the picture. “Your jewelry is quite magnificent, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh, thank you. They don’t really have any sentimental value, but I must say they do look nice,” she said, chuckling.
The journalist gave a half-bow, smiling, and thanked the duchess for the picture. As he made his way back to his seat, he saw the other passengers filing in from the back. The actress looked decidedly grumpy, and the other players wore looks of faint amusement, even the stern-faced young woman.
The journalist tried to make his way back to his seat, but bumped into the businessman. The journalist’s camera plummeted to the ground, but the businessman quickly stooped and caught it before the moment of impact.
The businessman straightened, handing the camera to the journalist with a strange half-smile. This was the first time the journalist had seen the businessman’s face clearly; although he still had his hat on, he had removed his scarf and gloves. He was in his fifties or sixties, with silverish hair and a Van Dyke. He gave off an atmosphere of confidence and ease, although he had a somewhat sickly pallor.
The journalist stammered out an apology and thanks, and got them mixed up and very flustered. The businessman waved away the apology, simply saying, “Looks like you should invest in a neck-strap for that camera.”
The journalist stood in the aisle, watching the businessman make his way back to his seat. The blue-suited man stood quietly behind the journalist, and coughed quietly into his fist. “Excuse me.”
The journalist jumped and turned around, apologising profusely yet again and letting him by. The journalist made his way back to his seat, red in the face, and sat down. The waitress came and set down a cup in front of him. “Your tea, sir. Would you like any milk? Sugar? Lemon?”
The journalist gratefully accepted the tea and a lemon wedge, thanking the waitress. By now, it was a full starless, cloudy night outside, and the journalist could only see his reflection in the window. As he was sinking into his seat, he was suddenly roused by the actress’s outraged shouts.
“Just where have my pillow and blankets gone? You! Did you take it?” she demanded of her entourage. They raised their hands in defense, shaking their heads, but she would have none of it. “Fine! In that case, I’ll just have to take your blankets, since you,” she pointed at one guard and then the other, “have somehow lost both our blankets. Ugh!”
The journalist sank into his seats, inspecting the pictures he had covertly took of the actress and the other passengers. These would at least make for a few stories, he hoped. He looked around the car and saw the blue-suited man engaging in conversation with the duchess while sipping some wine. He looked at the mafia again, but he was apparently sleeping off all his drinks.
-----
The train was now barreling through the western European countryside, on its way to the English Channel. The conductor reappeared, ready to make his speech about the train and its merits. The journalist sat up with everyone else and took out his notepad after taking a picture of the conductor.
As the conductor reached the end of his speech, praising the strengthened bonds between the European countries thanks to the TER, all went dark.
-----
The car was pitch-black. Thumps were heard. Gunshots were fired. Glass shattered and gale-force winds tore at everything inside the car. And a barely perceptible silhouette rolled out the now-open window.
-----
The lights came on, blinding the occupants of the car. Although still somewhat in shock, the journalist raised trembling hands and started taking pictures of everything.
SNAP. The duchess had been knocked out, her dress stained a deep red, and totally stripped bare of her jewelry. Her guards had pulled out their guns, preparing for a threat and belatedly realizing that it was too late.
SNAP. The waitress was helping the blue-suited man out of his seat, carefully avoiding the shards of the wine glass which had fallen and spilled its contents over the duchess. The blue-suited man quickly grabbed his briefcase from below his seat.
SNAP. The mafia had assumed a wide stance, eyes moving side to side and assessing the situation.
SNAP. The glass from the panoramic window on the right had completely shattered, leaving a gaping hole into darkness. The journalist could vaguely see glimmers of light below.
SNAP. The actress had a welt on her neck, and her pearl necklace was missing. She was yelling at her bodyguards, who were futilely trying to get a word in.
SNAP. The businessman was shaking the duchess, trying to rouse her. His other hand was clutching his briefcase.
SNAP. The young woman had pulled out a badge and was flashing it at everyone, trying to get their attention.
SNAP. The conductor lay in a heap on the floor.
SNAP. A bullet lay embedded in the front wall of the car, still smoking. The bullet had pierced through a single blank card.
The journalist lowered his still-shaking hands and put one to his forehead. This couldn’t have anything to do with the mafia, could it? If it did and the mafia got found out, he would definitely pull the journalist under as well. But he hadn’t done anything wrong. The journalist took deep breaths. Everything would turn out fine.
The young woman – whom the journalist now realized was a police officer, was directing everyone to move to the rear car. The waitress and the blue-suited man dragged the conductor towards the back, with the businessman looking on as the duchess’s bodyguards carried her. Everyone else moved as well, each looking at the others suspiciously and trying to see if anyone was missing.
-----
The train, now slightly worse for wear, pulled into the brightly lit station at the edge of London. Roaring crowds abound to see the return of the duchess. Only some of the excitement turned into confusion upon seeing the missing window – most of the people hadn’t even noticed it. Not even many people noticed when the duchess walked out leaning on her security guards, wearing not a gram of jewelry other than her rings and holding a cold compress to her head. The other passengers walked out slowly, blinking at the noise and glaring lights. Then, baggage in hand, they went their separate ways: the actress, again swarmed by adoring fans, sauntered off through the crowd, letting her bodyguards do the dirty work of pushing the crowd away; the politician and businessman looked at each other and tipped their heads slightly, then walked in opposite directions – the politician to a motel to place a phone call and the businessman to a car waiting for him. The mafia staggered through the crowd, pushing away any people who got too close and making his way to the nearest pub.
The journalist walked away from the police officer and waitress, both crouched over the body of the conductor, and made his way out of the casino car. The police officer had gotten ahold of their passports and made sure that they would not leave the city – she had a lot of questions to ask.
The journalist, with a vague smile on his face, flagged down a taxi. What a story, he thought to himself, forcing himself to ignore the death of the conductor. Not only had he had the chance to cover the inaugural ride of the TER, but also a gruesome murder-death pulled off by the phantom thief, Blank.
-----
Weeks later, a tiny fishing dinghy rowed out to the middle of the English Channel in the dead of the night. The moon shone on a figure surfacing from the Channel with a pack of sodden blankets and pillows. The blankets fell away, revealing glimmering metals and stones. Silently, the figure re-covered the valuables and rowed back to shore. The figure’s mask bore a ghastly grin, completely bleached of color.
Lucas reached into his pocket for his watch, only to remember once again that he didn’t have it. Knowing the time would have made the trip go faster, but no matter; the train would reach its destination at some point or other regardless of if he knew what time it was or not. Having left the watch behind was a real shame; it had been his father’s pocket watch, and his grandfather’s before that. It had a rather poignant engraving on it, “This too shall pass.” And this loss of the pocket watch, he supposed, would pass too.
Lucas surveyed the other passengers. Here across from him a family sat together, huddled for warmth — whoever had designed this train had decided that heating wasn’t important enough to fit into the budget. Over there a man and his son shared a piece of bread — funny, food wasn’t supposed to be allowed. And in this corner, a young boy fixed his gaze straight ahead of him. While the boy’s features were hard steel, his eyes betrayed him — the fear they held made it clear that he’d never been alone on a train before.
If only Meira were here, too. Meira, with a smile like the sun and eyes like a cool blue ocean and a laugh like the ringing of bells.
They had met on an autumn evening, when the poems had still been joyful, when the leaves had been flames, but not fires, when the night stars had still shown like crystals overhead. He had seen her from across the way, leaning against the fountain, dropping in a coin, a wish. She was wrapped in a mink coat, and her breath made ghosts in the air.
He had approached the fountain and stood next to her in simple silence for a few minutes. His voice broke it. “Nice evening,” he had said.
“Yes, quite lovely,” she had agreed.
“I’m Lucas.”
“Meira.”
And they had talked until the first rays of sun had begun to creep up from the horizon, and by then they had already inscribed each other’s names upon their hearts.
Meira, with a gentle touch and a soft voice that he would probably not hear again for a long time.
The train rattled on the track, jolting Lucas back to the present.
Unfortunately, Meira had gotten on a different train, and they’d only had time for a short goodbye before they’d parted. Neither had been able to tell the other where they were going. Perhaps they would reunite when he got off of the train? No, that was only foolish hope. The chances they were going the same place were infinitely small.
Lucas shivered. Although he usually had a tolerance for cold, the chill of winter was getting to him. He’d left his coat when he’d boarded the train, too — yet another thing he wished he had.
Hopefully Meira would be able to buy herself some nice coat when she got to wherever she was going. Or perhaps her new husband could make one for her. She’d run off with some tailor — Josef, his name had been — saying it would give her a better life than Lucas could. Though it hurt him, deep down, Lucas had to admit that she was right. Had she gotten on this train with him, their life could have held only despair.
The train shook, and a child began to cry. “Mama,” he sniffled, “I don’t want to go.”
“But we must,” the boy’s mother answered. “It is what God has decided for us, and we cannot change his will.”
In the corner, the man and his son had almost finished their piece of bread. Another man, tall and gaunt with clothes that hung loosely on his skeletal frame, eyed it enviously.
The young boy hadn’t moved from his original position, his body still slumped against the wall, his features still hard, his eyes still betraying him. Lucas turned toward him.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “My name is Lucas. What’s yours?”
The boy didn’t look at him. “Milo,” he answered, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat. “Milo,” he repeated, more firmly this time.
“It’s good to meet you, Milo. You ever been on a train before?”
“I haven’t.” Milo turned toward Lucas. “This is my first time,” he said.
“It’ll be okay,” Lucas lied, his speech sounding stilted and unnatural. “I’ve been told we’re going to one of the nicer ones.” Another lie.
“I don’t know where my mama and papa are,” Milo said. “I got separated from them at the station.” He let his steel façade soften. “I hope we end up at the same place.”
“I’m sure you will,” Lucas said. “I know I’m going to see all of the people I love when I get there.” The lie seemed to burn his throat. How would God be able to forgive him for all these deceptions?
The boy looked Lucas in the eyes. “Lucas,” he said, “I’m cold. Will you sit with me?”
Lucas gave the boy a closer look now. He was so young, only 7 or 8. Too young to be on this train alone; no, too young to be on this train at all. “Yes,” Lucas said. He sat next to the boy.
“Thank you, Lucas.” The boy leaned against him. “I don’t want anybody to know, but I’m very scared.”
“It’s okay, Milo,” Lucas replied. “I’m scared too.” And for once, that was the truth.
The train rolled on, and what little light passed into the car made way for the inky darkness of night. Milo fell asleep, his head leaned against Lucas’ shoulder.
Others were asleep now, too. The family in the corner were piled against each other; the man and his son slept side-by-side; the gaunt man who had watched them in jealousy snored softly in the corner. Lucas, however, was wide awake. A combination of fear and worry tossed his stomach and troubled his mind.
The temperature had dropped. Chill wind whistled through the sides of the train car like the wailing of ghosts, and the air was tinged with dampness.
Lucas sighed. There were no windows on this train. No way to look out at the snow that was surely falling swiftly outside.
Meira would have welcomed the snow with open arms. They had gone skating many times when the lake had frozen over, when the cold had kissed her cheeks until they turned bright red. The snow had always turned her into a giddy schoolgirl, a dancer who drew inspiration from the beauty of winter.
Hopefully, she was dancing somewhere now.
The train stopped with a jolt, and Milo awoke with a sharp inhale. “Lucas? What’s happening?” His voice wavered with fear.
“They’re probably just stopping the train to repair it. Or to check on us.”
“Check on us?”
“Yes. They like to investigate their… cargo.” It felt like a sin to use that word, but that was essentially what they were.
There was a loud bang as the door of their car slid open. A man in black uniform stood there, his form only visible in the light of the flashlight he carried. The eagle on his cap seemed to wear the same permanent scowl that he did.
“Get up,” he ordered, sweeping his flashlight beam across the inside of the car. A few people stood slowly. “Now!” the man shouted, pulling a handgun from his side. The passengers scrambled to their feet.
“You will all be getting off here,” the man said. He motioned with his gun. “Now move!” Lucas and his fellow passengers shuffled through of the doorway. Milo clung to his side. As he filed off the train with the crowd, Lucas noted the various badges sewn on their clothes: here was one with a brown triangle, the point facing down; another wore a pink triangle, the point facing up; this one, who walked with a limp, had a black triangle. The overwhelming majority, though, wore the same badge as Lucas: a yellow star with a single word emblazoned in the middle.
Lucas stared ahead of him as he waited. High walls, with a metal gate between them. Men in black uniform milled about the entrance, hands on their weapons. The sharp scent of the falling snow did little to mask the overwhelming stench of death and disease that surrounded the place.
This place would be his future. It had a name, he knew, but that name was so terrible it was only said in whispers. Auschwitz.
Milo stuck to Lucas’ side as they shuffled toward the gate. Lucas looked down at the child, and swore to himself that he would keep him safe, that Milo would at some point leave this place alive.
Hopefully Meira was safe at least. Knowing it would have been taken from him, Lucas had given her his watch before they had parted. He stared at the gates ahead of him, the doorways to death, and thought of the engraving on his watch. This, too, would pass. One way or another.
A certain Connecticut commuter reclines in his business class chair. He takes out his book, American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, and opens to page 2. Behind him is coach class. In front of him is the engine, in which an engineer sits. Contrary to popular belief, he has a steering wheel. To his left, out the window, hundreds of squirrels bury acorns in a forest. To his right stretches out the American continent. Above him, cosmic rays millions of times his age finally end their lifetimes as they collide with particles in the atmosphere. Below him, colorless and sightless creatures crawl through underground pools.
The commuter is having trouble concentrating on his book, and puts it down. He can always start tomorrow, or the day after. He remembers a TED talk about how ten minutes of doing nothing can recharge the brain. He sips his coffee, and stares at the seat in front of him.
Outside, the forest ends. The train passes by one of those places that only exist around railroads, an old factory with rusting cars. Because the track is older here, the train slows down.
After two minutes, the commuter takes out his laptop. He might as well get work done. He thinks of those cheery men and women in the advertisements for first class, always doing something that involves graphs on their laptops. He marvels that they have wi-fi on trains now. When he was growing up, they didn’t even have TV on trains.
He is distracted. As the sun rises into a clear sky, he reads about hurricanes and floods in the South. He reads about the latest shooting in the same city he is entering, just as the shooter himself is apprehended. He can’t help but click on the link at the bottom of the page to the worst celebrity wardrobe malfunctions. He lifts up his coffee cup. There is never enough.
The commuter joins millions of others, riding into New York from every direction. They hold their drinks in their hands, millions of hot drinks made from tropical plants from across the world. They wish the ride would last forever, so they don’t have to step out into the cold and go to work.
Thousands of feet above, their bosses float in their helicopters. The commuter’s boss is thinking about the future. After he finishes work today, he will work out, and then eat ethnic food somewhere. He hasn’t decided what it will be. He has all day to think about it.
Below the helicopters, Canadian geese fly to their winter homes. Below them, monarch butterflies fly towards Mexico to breed, never to return. Below them, the commuter enters a tunnel.
He is reading about vacations, imagining himself in some bright place filled with lots of life. He could be lying down next to a beach, or even better, a swimming pool where the water was always hot. The kids just started school, though, so he will have to wait.
Or he could be skiing, carving through clean snow with the shiniest, most expensive equipment. He could be sitting in a sauna, braced against the cold outside, relaxing after a backbreaking day on the slopes.
He realizes that it has gotten dark. The train is underground now. He has missed the junction between open air and tunnel that he keeps trying to see, because he can’t remember what it looks like. He can never remember to look, no matter how hard he tries. But he can always try some other day. The train speeds towards its final destination. Buildings and millions of people pass overhead, held up by a metal superstructure under the city. The coffee is all gone.
The commute is over. The commuter walks off into the stuffy air of the station, pushing other people around. It’s nothing personal. The movements of the people on the platform can be approximated using an ideal gas. He walks with them, trying to escape the pressure.
The noise level increases with altitude, and TVs and big screens are everywhere. Words and pictures consume his attention. He is assaulted by a huge Doritos advertisement at the foot of the escalator. Vaguely, he wonders how much they had to pay for that.
Light and cold filter in on the way up, and he puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at the skyscrapers. He feels there is so much happening now that he’s out in the open. He wants to go back to his train, where everything was peaceful, and it felt like nothing was changing in the world. But just like every other day, he gets off the escalator and steps into the light.
The train clattered into the station, slowing down to a stop. The intercom said it was okay to board and the lights on the platform went dark. The doors hissed open, and a dozen tired commuters got into each car.
The doors shut and a voice crackled from the ceiling. It was old and rural, something you’d hear from a farmer down south. “Mornin’ folks. Now I know most drivers don’ talk to their passengers, but I jes’ like to to be friendly. My name’s Mr. Bones, and I’ll be takin’ ya’ll to the end of the line. Have a nice ride.”
The commuters barely looked up from their phones, tablets, or laptops. One mother was trying to hush their excited child. The train lurched forward in the direction it had come, and by the time it was all the the way in the tunnel, it had reached full speed.
White and yellow lights flew by in a blur, and the roar of the train through the narrow tunnel echoed into a dull, continuous scream at the windows. All at once, several of the train’s occupant’s faces screwed into a puzzled frown, glancing at the ceiling or tapping their phones. One by one, they put their devices back into their cases or pockets.
A young man laughed. “Can never get good wifi on these things, right?”
The woman next to him smiled tersely and nodded.
“Mommy,” asked the boy. “Are we there yet?”
“Not yet, honey. We’ve got–” she glanced at the map on the wall “–five more stops. Here, read some Thomas.” She pulled out a picture book from her purse.
The boy eagerly paged through it, sounding out the words under his breath.
An old man at the end of the car glanced at his watch. He tapped it and let out a frustrated sigh. “Fuckin’ batteries don’t even last a month anymore. Christ…”
The mother threw him a dirty look, but her boy hadn’t looked up from his book. The man didn’t notice.
A few minutes passed in silence. The boy finished his book and laid his head on his mother’s lap, where she stroked fingers through his hair.
The young man looked around the car nervously. He wrung his hands and began to sweat. The woman next to him tried to scoot away without being obvious. Finally, he spoke.
“Hey, umm… shouldn’t we have gotten to the next stop already? It’s been, what, fifteen, twenty minutes?”
The rest of the car eyed him, some with disdain, others with confused nods.
“I don’t know,” said the old man. “Fuckin’ watch is broken.”
“Does anyone have a clock on their computer?” asked a woman in a suit. “The one on my phone’s acting weird.”
A teenager with a backpack slipped out his laptop. “Mine too.”
The young man stood up in one jerky motion. “I’m gonna talk to the driver. Maybe the train’s slow today or something.” He went to the intercom and pressed the button. “Umm, Mr. Bones? We were wondering if we were getting close to our next stop? Sorry, but it seems to be taking a while…”
The crackling voice sputtered onto the intercom. It sounded fuzzier now, warbled. “I-I’m takin’ ya’ll to the e-e-nd of the line. Be p-patient, now, s-s-sonny.”
The man frowned and wiped his forehead. “Is there a problem or something? Some of us have schedules to keep. Is the next platform coming up soon?”
“N-n-next station’s at the e-end of the line.”
“What? But the map says–”
“The map’s wrong.”
“Well, why weren’t we informed about this on the platform?” There was no reply. “Bones? Mr. Bones?” There was a distinct click over the speaker.
The man ran a hand through his hair and returned to his seat. “Jesus.”
The boy woke up and climbed onto his mother’s lap. “Are we there yet, mommy?”
“Not yet, sweety. Might take a bit longer than we thought.” She was smiling, but the side of her mouth twitched. Her son didn’t notice.
“But I took a whole nap!”
“I know, baby. How about you just go back to sleep for a bit?”
“Not tired…” he grumbled, reluctantly laying his head down.
The mother put her purse behind her head and laid back, closing her eyes.
-----
“Okay, even if we were supposed to go all the way to the end of the line, shouldn’t we have at least passed a couple stops? Besides, it’s been at least two hours. We should’ve reached the end by now!”
“Will you shut up, kid!” growled the old man. “None of us are happy to be here, but there’s nothin’ we can do about it. Just sit back and shut up. Fuckin’ Christ.”
The young man narrowed his eyes and made for the intercom again.
“Mr. Bones, we’ve been on here at least two hours! Are we close to reaching the end of the line?”
He let go of the button and listened for a response. None came.
“Mr. Bones? Mr. Bones! Answer, you… you piece of shit! We have places to be! We–”
“Sorry s-sonny, we still got a wh-hile l-l-left to go before we r-reach the end o-of the line. Now, I-I need y-you to sto-op with that. N-o-o distractions.”
He jammed the button again. “A while!? What the fuck does that mean?”
There was no answer.
“Hey, I’m talking to you you son of a bitch, we’ve been on here for two fucking hours–”
The old man got up from his seat and whacked the man with his cane.
“Shut up!”
The man collapsed like a sack of rocks, his head smacking a metal rail on the way down.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” screamed the business woman. She rushed to his side and put pressure on the wound. “Christ. Who knows when we’re getting off, and now this guy needs a doctor. I oughtta smack you with that cane.”
“Kid was askin’ for it. Makin’ a fuss over nothin’.”
The woman snorted in disgust and turned to the teenager. “Hey, kid, call the driver. Tell him we need to stop and call and ambulance. My phone still isn’t working.”
The teen nodded and went for the mike.
“Mr. Bones, someone’s hurt back here. We need to stop.”
There was only static.
“He’s not answering!”
“Keep trying!”
The mother looked at the situation with dawning horror and selfish relief that her boy wasn’t awake for this.
-----
The young man was sleeping fitfully on one of the longer benches, struggling and clawing at a nightmare. The boy had turned his Thomas book into a coloring book, doodling in it with a pen. The old man had been relegated to a corner, where everyone cast him sidelong glances.
No one knew how long it had been.
The business woman screamed and pressed her face against her window. “Lisey! Lisey!”
“The fuck are you babblin’ ‘bout now, you dumb bitch?”
She turned to him, eyes wild and tears streaming down her face. “Shut up! Don’t you hear it?”
Everyone listened. There was only the sound of the screaming passageway they were riding along, and the woman’s frantic breathing.
“You don’t hear it? It’s my sister! That’s my sister! She died three years ago. She needs help! Lisey! Where are you?... She’s outside, she’s outside the window!”
She tackled the old man and wrestled his cane away from him. Spit frothing from her lips, she began bashing it with the cane. Judging by how quickly it started cracking, it was filled with lead.
The intercom crackled to life, filled with harsh laughter. “Enjoy the ride!”
The window blew open, and the harsh screaming of the tunnel filled the car, echoing like the halls of an asylum. Everyone covered their ears and watched as the woman jumped out the window.
The mother forgot to cover her child’s eyes.
-----
“Are we there yet?”
The reply was a stifled growl. “Not. Yet. Sweety.”
“But we’ve been on here so long! The tunnel’s so loud! Are we gonna be there soon?”
“I don’t… know, honey.”
“I can’t sleep with the tunnel, mommy. Why won’t the Mr. Bones stop?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know, sweety! Mommy doesn’t know! Now please shut up!”
The boy’s lip quavered, and tears formed at the edges of his eyes. “Mommy…” He grabbed her waist.
The mother shrieked and threw him to floor. She took her purse by the end and brought it down on his head. There was muffled, choking gasp. She brought it down again. And again, getting into a rhythm with it.
Everyone watched with dull interest. The men had grown beards, and the women’s hair was starting to grey. Two more had jumped since the first, claiming to hear voices, not counting the body of the young man they’d dumped.
-----
“I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. I want to get off Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride.”
It had become a chant. Everyone whispered it under their breath, and together, their voices somehow overcame the din of the tunnel shrieking through the empty window. The lights flashing by had turned red.
Only half of the original occupants remained.
The sound outside the window changed… waned. One by one, the passengers ceased their chant. Their faces were wrinkled, hair grey and matted., clothes torn and moth-eaten. The lights outside slowed down, passed less regularly.
There was a slight yank as the train stopped.
“Alrighty, folks, we’ve reached the end of the line. Everyone out.” The doors hissed open.
The passengers gazed at each other with wide eyes and scrambled for the exit all at once, pushing and shoving to get through. They were too happy to notice that the platform was empty, or that the lights were still red.
They sprinted as fast as their skinny legs could carry them for them, heading for the ticket booth. Then they stopped, confused. There was no booth. Only a cliff, a cliff at the edge of a dark, sinister, crashing sea, that extended to infinity.
An intercom crackled in the distance, calling them back.
“All aboard. All aboard Mr. Bones’ Wild Ride. The ride never ends!”
“Hi Mom,” I called into the kitchen as I walked in the house after school.
“How was your day, Sweetie?”
“Not bad but I have a lot of homework to do so I’m just going to get started on that if that’s alright with you.” I told her as I entered the kitchen.
“Of course that’s alright with me. No parent would ever complain about a kids who actually does their work.” My mother replied. “Take a cookie. I just pulled them out of the oven a few minutes ago.” She gestured toward a plate on the counter. I took a few cookies and headed toward my room.
I grabbed my European history text book from my bag and started reading. I hated history but I really needed a good grade on the next test to knock my grade in the class from a B to an A. I read a page and then another and another.
“Margana,” my mom called up the stairs to me as I neared the hallway point in the reading.
“Yea Mom”
“I’m headed to work and I have a long shift tonight so I may not see you before you go to bed.”
“Alright. Have fun.” I told her.
“Thanks. See you later.” She replied. I heard her grab her keys from the hook on the wall and walk out the door. My mom was a nurse at the local hospital. She worked a lot but I knew that she liked working there much more than working in the lab. I was happy for her when she got this new job.
I looked down at my book. King Louis the… something. So. Many Louis. I couldn’t handle it any more. The words were all starting to melt together at this point. I slammed the book shut and took a deep breath. I needed a break.
I got out of my orange swivel chair and walked to my closet. Buried under my huge pile of shoes was the tan leather briefcase I’d been given a year before. I flipped open the latches and took out the silver skeleton key inside.
The key slipped silently into the hole in the bottom of the bookshelf in the den. I pushed the secret door open and walked into the cool, dark hallway. My footsteps echoed against the large cobblestone ground. I unlocked the door in the passage with the key and stepped inside.
“Margana. How are you” Marta asked me as I soon as I closed the door.
Turning to my left, I grabbed a match and lit the torch on the wall. The mirror behind the flame threw the light around the room, which was filled with books.
“I’m sick of history. How are you?” I replied as I turned around to face the ornate mirror that kept her alive. Marta was the last of the nature fae, a group of fairies whose magic, produced from their wings, provided bountiful crops, clean water, trees and flowers and many other beautiful aspects of nature. But humans became hungry for this power and killed all of the nature fae except Marta, who managed to escape by cutting off their wings.
After I’d been given the key by Christopher, her previous protector, I took over as her protector even though I didn’t want to at first. Over the past year, I’d come to think of her as a third grandmother. She was so wise and kind. I made a point to visit her at least a few times a month so she wouldn’t be lonely all the time.
“I am… I am alright.” Her voice sounded heavy.
“What’s wrong, Marta?” I was worried about her.
“There is something you need to know. Retrieve the book from the shelf marked with your name.”
“You have a book with my name on it?”
“Each of my protectors has had their own book.”
“What’s in it?” I asked her.
“We will discuss that after you find it.”
“Wait you don’t know where it is?”
“No. But I know it is here somewhere.”
I sighed and turned around. Every wall was covered from floor to ceiling with books. I started with the shelf closet to Marta’s mirror. I clubbed the ladder to reach the highest shelf and began scanning the spines for the names.
“Are you sure there is no accio spell that will make this easier?” I said, as I started scanning the second section of books.
“What was that?”
“You know that spell Harry Potter uses to help him find stuff.”
“Who is Harry Potter?”
“Never mind.” I turned back to the book shelf and after ten more minutes of searching I found it. “Here it is.”
I brought the book to Marta. It was bound in heavy brown leather and the writing was in gold. Decorative swirls encased my name both on the spine and on the cover. The pages were thick and yellowing. It was clear that the book was written many years before I was even born.
“How old is this book?” I inquired, setting the book on the small round table next to the mirror.
“It is only a bit younger than I am and I am now 607 years old. I have spent the last 400 in this mirror.”
I did the math in my head. “So you spent 207 years outside of the mirror? How long do nature fae usually live?”
“I was nearing the end of my life when the war started. Most of us lived to be between 200 and 250 years old before the war.”
“Did you write the books for the protectors?”
“No. I did not write them. My first protector, Dimia wrote them.”
“She wrote them all? That’s impossible.”
“But she did. There are other magical folk who live long lives as well. Dimia was a prophetess.”
“A prophetess. Got it.” I mumbled under my breath.
“Most prophets live to be older than the average human. They can reach 200 years of life.”
“That explains a lot. But what you’re saying is that Dimia knew that I would be here protecting you this far into the future?”
“Yes. She did. She also knew that you would be my last protector.”
“How can I be the last? Won’t you live forever as long as you stay in the mirror?”
“As long as I stay in the mirror, yes. But there is evil in the world Margana.” Her voice shook as she spoke. “Only one prophet can be alive at a time and the knowledge of the previous prophet is passed down to the newer. The current prophet is not a kind man. He uses his power for evil, not good. He knows am here and I know that soon he will come for me.”
“No.” I stammered. “He can’t reach you here. You are safe.”
“He will find me here. It has already been foretold. The book you have in your hands is the key to my survival, your survival and your family’s survival.”
I thought about the younger sister, Cindy, and my parents. “Now you are telling me my family’s involved in this too?”
“Yes. I am very sorry.”
“But this book holds all the answers?” I asked hopefully.
“It is the start of the answers. The rest you must solve by yourself.”
“How am I supposed to do that. I’ve never done anything but keep you company. I can’t possibly be the protector you need me to be.”
“Ah, but you can, and you will.” Marta closed her eyes. “I sense movement within your home. You must go now. Take the book. Read it in its entirety and come back when you have finished.”
“But Marta. I-“
“Go now and do not doubt your abilities.”
I looked at Marta and at the book in my hands. “Okay.” I replied and put out the torch. The book felt heavy in my hands now. All of the sudden the well-being of my family was in my hands. What was I going to do?
I walked back through the hallway into my den and closed the door. Sitting down on the sofa, I opened the book to the first page.
Margana Rose Jacobs, Last Protector of the Last Nature Fae, Marta.
Katie heard voices inside her head. “The answer is D,” one would tell her during an exam, or “Turn left on this road,” another would say when she got lost. The voices never steered her wrong. She got smarter and more ambitious. The voices were leading her to a great future. She found herself in lucky situations, meeting an employer looking to hire a person just like her or winning a contest to a shopping spree. She never told anyone about the voices.
But she wasn’t happy. As she herself seemed to move up, she became more lonely and isolated from those around her. The voices made her life better and more bearable when her parents fought and her boyfriend broke up with her. There were many voices that spoke to her, but the one that stood out and spoke to her the most was a soft tenor voice that spoke reassuring words to her whenever she felt lonely.
“Hang in there,” he said when she realized her friends had not invited her to the their party, “You don’t need them anyways,” he reassured her.
“They’re my best friends in the world,” she replied with despair, “Why don’t they care about me anymore?”
“They see something changing in you,” he said, “You’re smarter and have bigger dreams. You’re more than they ever could be and they’re starting to realize it.”
“Then I don’t want all of that,” she cried desperately, “all I want is to be loved again. By my parents, by my boyfriend and by my friends.”
“Are you sure?” he replied sadly, “We could take to you new and better places if you would like.” She shook her head and whispered no. “Alright,” he said after a long pause, “we won’t bother you any longer.”
The voices leave her after that and she’s stuck building her life back up. Some things are lost to her, but she manages to win back her friends and after a while things go back to normal. She’s content again, but in the back of her mind she realizes that she misses the voices that used to talk to her and give advice or make funny quips. There’s nothing quite like someone who you can rely on twenty four / seven and knows all your innermost thoughts, literally.
It’s a couple years later when she hears his voice again, and she does a double take when it comes not from inside her head, but from a man standing behind her.
“Hey!” he says and taps her on the shoulder, “you dropped your wallet.” He looks older than what she imagined, but only a few years older than she is and it has been years since they last ’talked'. She must be staring because he gives her a concerned look and asks “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” she says and takes her wallet back from him. She doesn’t stop staring though and before she realizes it she’s blurt out “Have I seen you before?” which is of course a ridiculous question. The more appropriate question is “Have I heard you before,” but saying that would sound even more insane.
“I don’t think we have,” he replies, but she swears she can slight smirk that says he knows what she really wanted to ask and isn’t being helpful. “I’m Andrew,” he says and holds out his hand for her to shake, “I’m here on vacation.”
“Katie” she says and shakes his hand, “you just seemed very familiar.” There’s an awkward pause between the two after that. “Well thank you for picking up my wallet. I don’t know what I’d do without it,” she admits.
“Wait,” he says as she turns to keep walking, “if you’re free someone this weekend. Maybe we can get coffee or something. It would be nice to have someone show me around the area.” He looks hopeful and for some crazy reason she decides to say yes.
She shows him a couple of the local sights and she decides that she enjoys his company. He’s not planning to stay around after tomorrow, but maybe they can keep in touch with one another. They’re sitting down drinking a cup of coffee when he gets pensive.
“You’re happy,” he says, “I can see it now. You weren’t happy before.”
“Before?” she says, “you didn’t know me before.” He looks at her sadly.
“But I did,” he insists, “do you not remember?” She looks at him steadily and they share a look of understanding.
“I thought I had gotten it wrong before when I heard your voice, but I guess I wasn’t. Why have you come back?” she finally replies.
“It’s time for us to leave for good. I came to see if you would have wanted to come with us.” he says, “but I see that you’re happy. Much happier than we ever could have made you.”
“How were you inside my head?” she asks, “you’re in front of me now.” He gives her a secretive smile.
“If I told you, I’d have to take you with me,” he responds and gets up to leave, “Instead, you’ll just have to be content with the fact that it happened.” He gives her a hug before he leaves. “I really liked you, Katie.”
Right before she falls asleep that night, she hears a chorus of voices telling her goodbye before they leave for good.
Quent was in love. The first time he ever laid eyes on Yuliya, he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life wrapped in her wooly embrace. Although Quent and Yuliya did not get to spend much time together, as Quent often worked near the house while Yuliya was out in the fields, Quent believed that they had a lot in common and tried to be around Yuliya whenever he could.
“Hello, Yuliya! Fine day to be up and about, eh?” Quent tried one time. Yuliya made a noncommittal grunt and a small nod, turning around and wandering off. Quent sighed, with a dreamy look on his face. He loved her noncommittal-ness. He decided to propose the next day.
“Yuliya, I know that we don’t have the best rapport since our jobs keep us so far apart, but I don’t think that should keep us apart. I love you, Yuliya. I love how you never let anything bother you, how even the rain never buoys you down. I love the way you walk and the way your hair shines in the moonlight. Yuliya, will you marry me?”
Yuliya stared at Quent. “Bloody hell, man. You really are a featherbrain. We can’t possibly marry, you cocky cock!”
Quent’s jaw dropped. “But – but – but – why not? Is it something about me? Did you find out that I was watching you sleeping last week? Or that I took some of your bedding a few days ago?”
Yuliya, completely thrown, looked at Quent. “No! What are you – no! It’s not that at all! You’re a rooster, Quent, and I’m a ewe! That’s the problem! And why did you take my bedding, of all things?!”
Quent, ironically enough, sheepishly kicked at the ground. “Well, you know... it smelled of you. And in any case, I don’t think that we should let such small details like biology get in the way of true love!”
“I’m sorry, Quent,” Yuliya said quietly. “We can’t. It can only end badly. Just... forget about me.
* * *
Quent spent the night tossing and turning. If true love couldn’t overcome the barrier between different species of barnyard animals, then what on Earth could? He decided to ask his good friend Uno, the draft-horse, what to do. Uno was well-versed in matters of love.
“Uno. Uno! Wake up!” Quent pecked at Uno’s ankle.
Uno snorted and tossed his head. “Whaddayawant Quentaroo issa middle of a night sajfxwkj zzzzzz....”
“Uno! Wake up! My heart is troubled! I need your wise equine advice!”
“Well y’come ta th’right place then m’boy...” Uno mumbled sleepily. “When ‘t comes ta th’ladies I’m a pretty smooth... uh... well, y’know....”
“My love has shunned me because of the difference in our species, Uno. I don’t know what to do. It feels like... it feels... I feel... awful. How can I win her back?”
“Well, m’boy Quentarino, when it comes ta th’ladies, ya gotta impress ‘em. Maybe if ya do some’n real brave, it’ll show yer lady friend wha’s what... now lemme sleep, kid...”
“Oh, thank you Uno! I knew that I could count on your experience.” But Uno had already drifted back off to a land of apples and fresh hay. “Hmm... something brave, eh? I’ll do something brave. That way Yuliya will see that love can exist even between a chicken and a sheep.” And in saying that, Quent decided that there was no use in wasting time. He would fly the coop right then and there. He hop-fluttered up to the open window and stealthily crept out from a hole under the fence and walked into the night.
* * *
Yuliya woke up to the farmer’s shouts, which was unusual. Typically, Quent was the one who woke the entire farm with his proud crowing – or was it roostering? Yuliya shrugged and followed her fellows out to pasture. In the back of her mind, though, there was a small niggling of worry.
* * *
Quent was lost. After leaving the farm, he had followed the dusty roadside, reaching larger and larger intersections until he reached a noisy forest of steel and glass: the city. He had carelessly wandered in, strutting under streetlights as the city slowly filled with cars and people. And now...
“Foortyy fiirsst street. Well, that isn’t helpful at all. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.” Quent swiveled his head from side to side, searching for something – anything that would prove to Yuliya his bravery. A sparkle caught his eye inside a dumpster. Quent went to investigate.
Rooting through canisters of Ovaltine, Cornetto wrappers and rotting banana peels, Quent found what he had glimpsed earlier: a brass oil lamp. “Whoa! I bet Yuliya would love this ancient oil lamp! Although I really don’t know what a sheep is going to do with an oil lamp... Wow. This is really a dirty oil lamp. I’d better polish it off a bit.”
And Quent took his wing and rubbed it over the lamp.
And the grime and dust slowly disappeared from the lamp.
And the lamp shone in the morning sun.
* * *
Quent was lost. Again. And now he was being followed by a crazy floating blob.
“Ho! Thou stone-eared duck! Art thou not listening to me?! I hath said I could granteth thee thine wish!”
“Be quiet, you. I’m trying to drag this lamp back to my beloved Yuliya so that she’ll see that nothing will get in the way of our love!” Quent exclaimed.
“Verily, that exact thing is what I am trying to tell thee!” the blob protested. “For I be a mystical genie! And since thou hast rubbed the lamp, thou hast liberated me and I can useth mine incredible mystical genie powers to grant thine wishes!”
Quent was skeptical. For one thing, his mother had always told him not to trust strangers – especially floating and blobular ones. And then there was the sheer improbability that what the genie was saying was true. “Oh yeah? Prove it, genie. I wish for it to rain right now. I want it to pour cats and dogs! Figuratively.”
“As thou wishes it,” said the genie obsequiously, and snapped his fingers. Immediately, thunder cracked and the heavens opened. Quent was soaked in seconds.
“What did you do that for?!” Quent, irritated, snapped at the genie. “Now I’m soaked! It’ll take even longer to get back to the farm. You’re really a useless genie, you know that?” The genie pouted and started grumbling to itself as Quent trudged through the downpour.
* * *
It was already late afternoon and Yuliya was kind of worried about Quent. She hadn’t seen him all day, and usually he tried to follow her around or watch her at a distance while she grazed. She hoped he hadn’t done anything rash after their talk the previous day.
* * *
Quent’s life was in danger. While he was wandering through the gloomy city streets, idly mumbling to himself, he had off-handedly mentioned that he wished he could get back to the farm faster. But the genie overheard him.
The next thing Quent new, there was a violent updraft. Quent instinctively flapped his wings, and the small lift that he gained from that somehow propelled him onto the top of a garbage truck. The garbage truck, now at the end of its work day, sped through the wet city with reckless abandon, making its way to the outskirts. And Quent clutched desperately at the side railing with his talons, his beak clamped firmly down on the handle of the lamp. The genie smirked and crossed its arms. Quent was too terrified to make a comeback.
* * *
At twilight, the truck barreled past the farm. Quent belatedly realized this and hastily fluttered off the truck. The genie had been silent for a while now, but it suddenly spoke up. “Wherefore art thou doing this, duck?” it asked softly. “If thy love dost not love thee, simply asketh me and I shall make it so that she dost.”
Quent grunted, “Because it’s true love, genie. I’m the one who loves Yuliya, so I have to prove to her my love through my brave quest. If you did it, then you would deserve her love.”
The genie was stunned. “That... beeth the most foolish thing I have heard in many a year. She shall not know if thou wishes for her love. ‘Twould be much simpler, methinks.”
“Be that as it may be, I won’t do it,” Quent said stubbornly.
They spent the rest of the journey to the farm in silence.
* * *
As Quent snuck back in, he saw that all the other animals were asleep. He dragged the lamp over to the sheep enclosure and whispered, “Yuliya. Yuliya! Wake up! I have returned triumphantly!”
Yuliya looked at Quent bleary-eyed, and then snapped into awakeness. “Quent! Where were you all day?! I was so worried!”
Quent dropped the lamp and stood up straight. “I went on an adventure for you, Yuliya. I went on a quest, to a distant land, and brought back an incredible treasure. Look!”
Yuliya turned to the lamp, and then the genie, and then back at Quent, and then the genie again. She did this several times. Quent, wide-eyed, looked at her expectantly. “Umm... well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Quent. What... what exactly is it?”
“It’s a lamp,” Quent said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A brass lamp. I brought it for you.”
“That’s nice, but... what is that blobby thing above it?”
The genie remained silent, so Quent answered, “That, my dear Yuliya, is a mystical genie. But enough about that. I went on a quest for you to prove my love! Surely love that can instigate a quest is love strong enough to overcome even the barrier between chicken and sheep!”
Yuliya tilted her head and looked at Quent. “But... you have a genie. Why can’t you wish yourself into a sheep? That way we truly can be together.”
Quent was puzzled. “But... I’m a rooster. Even if I turned into a sheep, that wouldn’t be me. Yuliya... don’t you love me, even though I’m a chicken? Don’t you love me for me?”
“Of course I do, Quent,” Yuliya said hastily. “It’s just... never mind. Let’s talk in the morning, Quent. It’s so late.”
Quent paused for a moment. “Yes, you’re right. We can talk tomorrow, my beloved.”
* * *
Yuliya opened her eyes and made sure that Quent was asleep. Then she walked over to the lamp and rubbed it with her fluffy white wool.
The genie slowly rose out of the lamp, and intoned “Whosoever rubs this lamp shall be granted three wishes.”
Yuliya made her wish.
* * *
The next day, Yuliya woke to the farmer’s shouts, which was unusual. Or was it? For some reason, Yuliya couldn’t quite place her finger on why that should be odd. She meandered over to the rams and nudged Quent.
Quent shook his head, his magnificent horns catching the morning sunlight. “What do you want, woman? Can’t you see that I’m sleeping?”
“It’s me, Quent. Your beloved Yuliya. How are you on this fine morning?”
“What are you talking about? Since when are you my beloved? What is this madness?”
Yuliya’s heart plummeted. Fear gripped her stomachs. What was wrong with Quent? Why couldn’t he remember that he had courted her the previous day, showing off his spiral horns and toughness?
“Move out of the way, Yuliya. I’ve got work to do.” Quent pushed past Yuliya.
Yuliya stood rooted to the spot, watching Quent’s receding back.
Your kitchen is trashed, the curtains are in tatters, and the sofa is on fire. Your landlord is going to have a conniption.
A noise overhead catches your attention. Oh, great. Now the sprinklers kick in. Not soon enough to extinguish your now scorched furniture, but plenty soon enough that it will surely flood your apartment.
This day has been just fantastic.
7:07AM
“No, I really can’t make it today,” you lie. “I’m awfully sick today.” You cough halfheartedly. “So sick.”
Your boss mumbles something through the phone about how your absence will “decrease synergy and impede workflow,” but you’re already hanging up the phone. You should be off the hook for now.
You breathe a sigh of relief. It seems that your boss bought it.
So now you have all this free time. What now?
You look out the window. It’s a beautiful day: the sun is shining, a light breeze is blowing, and you feel like you could take on the world.
Well, maybe after a few hours of sweet, sweet sleep.
9:43 AM
You wake up two hours or so later feeling quite refreshed. You take a quick shower; have a bowl of oatmeal with some brown sugar and raisins.
You’re not even sure why you called in sick today, to be perfectly honest with yourself. You’re feeling pretty much fine, after all. Not even sneezing. Perhaps you just wanted to sleep, perhaps you wanted the day to just chill out. Your job, after all, can be pretty stressful.
That’s it, you conclude. It’s because you’re too stressed. Too bogged down in the pressures of the workplace or something like that. You need to clear your mind.
You decide to take a walk.
10:25 AM
Your eyes didn’t deceive you when you looked out of the window earlier: it really is nice out. The autumn leaves rustle in the gentle wind, and the sun’s rays feel like a warm embrace. Birds chirp merrily from their treetop perches, while squirrels dart along the ground. Couples laugh at picnic tables. A mother pushes her giggling baby along in a stroller.
You feel so peaceful right now, as though all of your worries have vanished into smoke. You’re practically radiating positivity.
You sit down at one of the picnic tables, taking in the beauty of nature and the serenity of a pleasant autumn day.
A small creature eyes you hesitantly from behind a bush. You can’t quite make out what it is, just two yellow eyes, like lanterns, peering at you curiously through the shrubbery.
Then the shrubbery ignites and is reduced to ash, and you very rapidly come to a pretty good hypothesis.
Standing behind where the bush used to be is an adorable creature: black skin, bright yellow eyes, clawed feet, a tail that ends in a rather lethal-looking spike, and a pair of leathery wings. It smiles at you, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. It tilts its head and looks at you with a sort of timid curiosity, its eyes wide. It sneezes, and a tiny puff of fire gusts from its nostrils.
“Hey, buddy,” you say, walking up to the creature. It cocks its head to the side even more as you approach. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to see you as a threat. Perhaps it’s related to your expertise in dealing with creatures of its ilk, or perhaps it’s just a nicer youngling than most.
You’ve gotten close enough now that you can touch it. You move your hand down slowly toward it, and rather than attempting to murder you viciously, the creature nuzzles it affectionately.
With a sudden motion, it snaps its head downwards, causing you to draw your hand back in fear. It comes back up from the ground with a stick. It motions its head toward you, and then toward the rest of the park.
It wants to play fetch.
Oh goodness, it’s ridiculously cute. This has got be the cutest baby dragon you’ve ever seen. And by far the friendliest.
Gosh, even when you take the day off you can’t avoid work, can you? The dragonling happens to be a wonderful specimen. And, uh, of course you’d love to take it home with you to keep you company. That too.
Unfortunately, the law is the law, so you’re forced to leave it where it is.
It cries out as you go, a heart-rending sound that makes you feel as if you may rank up there with some of the worst people ever.
That’s OK, you decide. You’re going to have to pretend you didn’t see it anyway. Your boss would kill you if he knew you had.
1:17 PM
Well, that was a nice, refreshing walk. You grabbed a light lunch on the way home, too: a salad with some kind of deliciously tangy dressing and more add-ins than you could care to name. For a salad, it was actually quite filling, leaving you somewhat groggy.
You decide that the best course of option at this point is to take an afternoon nap. After all, if you’re taking a day off, you might as well enjoy it. You want to be fresh and relaxed when you have to work again tomorrow.
As soon as you go into your apartment, you head straight for your bedroom. You climb into bed, rest your head against your pillow, and close your eyes.
Goodness, is your bed cozy. Like floating on a cloud, wrapped in comfort. You don’t think you could feel stressed right now if you tried.
Well, actually, now that you think about it, that baby dragon is pressing on your mind. It was so young, and so adorable, and all alone, and it just needed someone to study, er, nurture it…
Your eyes snap open. You should do something. You should go back for it. To capture, er, adopt it.
But no matter, you decide. A good nap will help you forget all about it. It’ll survive out there. After all, you know that young dragons have a mortality rate of somewhere around 60%. Which gives it a better chance of surviving than not.
This statistic, combined with your incredibly comfortable bed, is enough to help you rationalize not going back to the park.
You close your eyes and fall asleep within a matter of minutes.
1:53
An enormous clash from the kitchen wakes you from your slumber. Glass breaking.
Oh dear. Someone has probably broken into your house. Just what you need on your day off.
Loud footsteps come from the kitchen. Whoever this intruder is, they are woefully incompetent at moving silently and stealthily.
Sighing, you move yourself out of bed, scanning the room for something you could use as a weapon.
An umbrella! One of the long ones, with a hooked handle on one end and a point on the other. That will do nicely.
Wielding the umbrella like a baseball bat, you head toward the kitchen.
What you find there is a strange sight indeed.
The good news: a burglar has not destroyed your window, entered your home, strewn your pots and pans everywhere, decorated your table with a rather large burn mark, amputated two legs from your only kitchen chair, and torn apart a pair of oven mitts that had a decent sentimental value to you.
The bad news: the baby dragon you saw earlier has done exactly that.
Given your job, you don’t even need to question how it found you. Any researcher worth their salt knows that dragons have a very strong sense of smell.
It must’ve misconstrued your interest in it as affection. You just wanted to look at it more closely – after all, you identified it almost immediately when you saw it as a very rare species. A very rare species which, as your luck would have it, is prone to forming close bonds.
The dragon looks at you with what you could swear is a mischievous grin. You clutch your umbrella more tightly.
Then, in a sudden motion, it takes off and swoops straight toward you. You duck just in time as it sails into the living room.
You whip around, but the damage has already begun. The dragon is using your curtains as a scratching post. They’re torn to shreds within only a few seconds.
“Hey!” you shout. “Stop it!” You wave your finger at the dragon in a manner that clearly indicates No, don’t do that. It follows your finger with its eyes, then makes a leap for it.
You jump out of the way just in time. The dragon decides that perhaps the sofa would be a better target.
Before you can even shout at it to stop, the dragon lets loose a stream of fire onto your sofa. Oh dear. This sofa was a recent purchase. You had selected white because you thought it looked clean and crisp. Looking at the large scorch marks on the sofa now, you’re regretting going against the salesman’s suggestion of black, or even burnt orange.
“HEY!” you yell. “I will not tolerate that in my apartment!” You’re fully aware that this species is highly intelligent. Which means that it is both able to understand you fully, and mischievous enough not to.
It smiles at you and then sets your couch alight.
“STOP!” you shout as it eyes your coffee table. Thankfully, it listens to you.
You bend down toward it. “If you promise not to do any more damage,” you say, “I’ll give you a treat.” Obediently, the dragon plops down on the middle of the rug. “Good,” you say. “You wait right here.”
You go into your kitchen, stepping carefully over your battered cooking vessels, and make your way to the fridge. You pull out a large ribeye you had been saving for a special occasion. You suppose that this certainly qualifies as a special occasion.
You go back into the living room, where the dragon is waiting patiently. It perks its head up as it sees you enter, steak in hand.
“Here,” you say, throwing the steak on the floor near the dragon. “You enjoy this, you little devil.”
The dragon inhales deeply, and before you can tell it not to, it breathes out a gigantic torrent of fire, charring the steak to a crisp. The dragon coughs, and smoke wafts from its nostrils. That’s enough to alert the smoke detectors. A loud beeping echoes through your apartment.
Time freezes for a second, and then the sprinklers kick in.
The dragon screams in discontent. As you happen to know, dragons, like cats, despise water. Desperate for an exit, the dragon shakes its wings and eyes your window. It hops up onto the sill.
“No,” you say. It feints forward. “No,” you repeat, more firmly. At that moment, a rather large drop falls from one of the sprinklers and slams into the dragon’s head. “NO!” you shout, but it’s too late. The dragon has made up its mind. It crashes through the window and soars out into the afternoon. As you watch it wing away, you can swear it gives you an evil little smile, as if to say, You can’t get rid of me, silly human. I’ll be back. Remember, I like to form close bonds.
You sigh, leaning against the wall and sliding down into a sitting position. You’re getting a headache from the smoke detector’s persistent beeping, and the water from the sprinkler is soaking you to the core.
A knock on the door cuts through your misery. “Hey, it’s the landlord,” a voice shouts. “We had a noise complaint, so, uh, I’m gonna need you to let me in so I can check everything out.”
Just what you need. So much for having a relaxing day off.
