“When is it going to end, Grandpa?”

“Soon I think.”

“Really?” Elsa perked up with a bright smile, a contrast to the dark hour.

“Do not let joy win your heart yet.”

“Why?”

“We are losing.”

“Should we pray, Grandpa?”

“It’s past the time for prayer.”

“But, isn’t that what you do?”

“Not anymore.” Somehow he knew, an instinct playing a discordant tune against his heart. Tonight the walls would fall. The realization confirmed Alfred’s certainty, his granddaughter would see death. He just hoped death would not see her. Lilly clutched the hem of his woolen jacket, reminding him of how she held her mother’s scarf as if it could replace the parents she lost.

“Grandpa, what will happen if the fighting comes here?”

“Terrible things. It’s war, you need only know that.” What would a man give to save his only blood? Alfred didn’t know what he could do, but he would do all he could bear. His son and daughter-in-law deserved the sacrifice. He owed them.

Down his cobbled street, lantern poles cast shadows in accord with a vivid moon, the light cutting across the mill of frightened people. The spectacle convinced him how futile it would be seek refuge in the city center. He grimaced, disgusted at the foolhardy of his neighbors plying their way to a vane hope, possessions clipping their heels and slowing their steps. “Fools.”

“What, Grandpa?”

“Nothing. Let’s get inside.” The edge of his oak door pinched between his aged fingers. He pulled the frame open with a scrape of wood on stone eased by the dew.

“I don’t like it here. It isn’t cold, but the air still makes me shiver.” Lilly took a couple small steps backwards into their house, the front of her pink dress bunched in her fists. A warm glow from a single lantern flickered from behind her, casting her shadow in a dark sway at her feet.

“Neither do I.” The door creaked mournfully as he began to close it, pausing at the distant howl of a horn. One blast, then two, and finally three the horn blew. He shivered, old bones and all. “Lilly, run upstairs and…”

“What was that sound?” She cut him off, her usual demanding approach to discovering what she didn’t understand.

“It doesn’t matter. We might be able to exit the southern gate.” Alfred closed the heavy door and dropped the latch with a clang. It wouldn’t do much, but it might give them a few seconds. “Now run upstairs and grab the pack you use for picnics and fill it with clothes and everything you can’t leave behind.”
“Are we not coming back?”

“No we’re not.”

“Where are we going?”

“Remember my friend Mildred?”

“Yes, she makes great soup!”

“She does. Well, we are going to sneak out the castle and head up the eastern road till we get to her village.”

“But, won’t that take awhile?”

“It will. A couple of days probably, but not of concern. Now no more questions, go!”

Her face paled with shock, she spun and ran up the steps to her small room.

Alfred felt bad for yelling at her, but haste or the lack thereof was deadly. A scream came from outside. His neighbors would have to take care of themselves. Ignoring it as best as he could, he shuffled through the house as best as he could, his limbs tender to the rigid movements forced on them.

A banging on the door drew his attention and he grabbed the nearest item he could use as a weapon, procuring a poker from the fireplace across the room. The banging didn’t stop and someone yelled on the other side of the door, but he couldn’t make out what they said. Sweat streaked down his cheek as he moved the distance to the door. “Who is it?”

Lilly came running back down stairs. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry yourself. Go back upstairs.”

“But…”

The banging continued and Lilly hadn’t moved. “Go! Stay upstairs till I call you. Now go!”

She sprinted up the stairs.

He placed his ear to the frame and the voice became discernible.

“Let me in you old fool.”

“What?”

“I said let me in.”

“No. Who are you?”

“You really are getting senile, I’m your next-door neighbor, Henry. Unlock the door!”

Alfred snorted. “You’re not coming in.” He didn’t trust Henry a wit, and besides, the man smelled of dusty books.

“Have it your way. I just wanted to tell you the southern gate is blocked. There is no way out of the city. Messengers are running down the street, saying the city has surrendered and all citizens are to go to the Central Square.”

Alfred almost spit, but refrained, thinking of Lilly. He stopped a lot of things since his granddaughter moved in. “Of course! They would want us in one big circle. Easier to kill us. Henry, don’t tell me you’re following this foolhardy? You were smarter than most of the lot around here.”

“What choice do I have? It is better than running around like a cat and dog, before I get cut down. I would rather take a little chance of survival than none at all. They say we’re going to become citizens of the Empire. As long as they leave us in a peace I’m fine with that. You must go. You have to think of Lilly. Give her a chance!”

“Foolishness.” Alfred shuffled from the door, effectively muffling Henry’s pleas. He went about his packing, trying to figure out another way out of the city. Within a few minutes the man outside ceased his banter. Lilly  inched down the stairs. Alfred lifted his left eyebrow in question.

“The man outside stopped yelling and you didn’t say I could come down so I thought I would check and see if it is alright.”

“Hmmph.”

“Can I come down, grandpa?”

“I don’t see your pack, so the answer is no.”

She darted up the stairs, ebony curls dancing behind her.

“Change into something better for traveling!” Alfred tossed his jacket in the corner, walked to his desk, and pulled back his chair to sit, banging his knee in the process. It knocked him off balance. He teetered, grasping for the chair before he fell. The world spun. He tried to break his fall with his arms, but then he knew he would need his hands more than any part of his body, and he let his hip take the brunt of the fall while his shoulder the rest. Pain erupted in his side and his vision went black.

When he opened his eyes Lilly sat beside him, but he couldn’t hear her. Finally his hearing returned and he noticed tears stretched like long lines down her face. “What has got you all a fluster?”

“You were on the floor, and and I was worried and I don’t know what to do.”

“Hush yourself. Now help me into my chair.”

She tucked her small frame under his shoulder pushed up with her legs, while he grabbed the edge of the desk. With a bit of grunting, Alfred sat upright in his chair, left out of breath. His granddaughter crumbled at his feet, exhausted. A pain walked along his chest. At first he worried it might be his heart giving out, but he quickly realized it brooded deeper, beyond his physical ailments. He gave Lilly his hand, pulling her to her feet. A fresh stab of pain in his side drew his attention. He couldn’t walk and even sitting in place hurt.

“What now, grandpa?”

Alfred had no idea. “Do you have your pack with you?”

“Yes.” She held out a small satchel with a stuffed doll sticking out of a corner.

“You remember the picnics we used to go on?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I want you to gather all the food we normally take on a picnic and stuff it into your bag.”

“But grandpa, there’s no more room in my bag.”

Another jolt of pain shot through his side and he suppressed a wince. He didn’t want to frighten Lilly and so waited a moment to regain his bearings. “You’ll have to take some out. Be quick about it and go!”

She ran around the steps into the kitchen without arguing.

Alfred exhaled a sigh of relief. Now to figure out how to save her. He dug into his desk, opening drawers and threw everything about him in such haste it seemed like a waterfall of paper, quills, ink bottles, and more cascaded over his shoulders. He withdrew an old piece of parchment wrapped around a copper tube and almost tossed it aside before an itch of a memory made him stop. He laughed, a deep chuckle escaped unbidden from his chapped lips. He knew the idea was absurd, but it felt right, much like he used to feel after hearing good news he had prayed for coming true. It was an outrageous project he spent a number of years working on, while never quite getting it right. Eventually, he had set it aside for later speculation and must have forgotten it.

Unrolling the parchment revealed scribbled notes along the edge of an intricately sketched tube with the purpose of transforming time into fire. It would transfer the prayers of the wielder into a burning luminance of a desired shape by shortening the time it would take for the prayer to come true and filtering it through the device as a fiery projection. Originally, he hoped it would become a holy relic, a tool of immense power to smite evil, along with blessing him with praise from his fellow clergy.

Alfred set the parchment on the table and held the instrument in his hands, the cold metal chilling his sweaty palms. The chill reminded him of death. He shivered. Could he get it to work? The light could only enter from one point, where it was supposed to exit, a magnifying lens he procured from a rare spyglass. The device would be easy to wield, even Lilly, with her small hands, could use it.

A strategy for escape built in his head, hinging on the device, as a smile creased his lips. Once the bulk of the army passed their house, Lilly could slip out and leave the city, using the device to fend off straggling soldiers. Then she could head north to the country village of Hampsteep, which has skirted most of the fighting. But, how to get the light into the tube?

“Grandpa, I was able to get food in the pack.”

Alfred hadn’t seen her come back in the room. “That’s good. What did you take?” The doll still stuck out of the bag, but with more of it exposed.
“The rest of the loaf of bread we got from the baker yesterday, a small block of cheese, two apples, a small sack of rice, and a couple carrots.”
Some of Alfred’s concern eased due to his surprise at how much she was able to pack. “Well done. Now Lilly, I need you to do one more thing.”

“Sure, grandpa.”

“Run into my bedroom and in the closet you will find my coffer. Can you get it for me?”

“Why do you need it?”

“Because, we’ll need the money for our trip.”

“Alright.” Lilly gave a quick nod of satisfaction and darted across the room slipping into the door to the left.

Returning to his desk, he opened the device, pride swelled his chest, the inner mechanism was more intricate than he remembered. He even designed a miniature grinding stone to create a spark, which created small flashes of light, but not to the effect he hoped. He adjusted the gears to leave room for a final instrument, as to what he didn’t yet know. The rolling thump of countless footsteps echoed up the street towards their house. He hoped the soldiers passed them unnoticed. Where was Lilly? She should have been back with the box. After a quick inspection, he saw a lump in the curtain of the window next to the door. “Lilly get away from there! We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

She backed away, stumbled, fell, and lost her grip on the box, which spilled its contents on the floor in a wild spray of letters, trinkets, and jewelry. Lilly’s face was ashen and her mouth opened and closed in a slow motion much like a dying fish out of water.

“Lilly! Come here, come here.” Alfred knew if he left the chair he might not be able to get back up. But, his granddaughter laid on the floor, shaking and terrified as if the life already drained out of her. Alfred dumped out the contents of a box and put the device inside it, set it on the floor, and shoved it in Lilly’s direction. He then tried to inch himself towards the floor using his right hand to grab the edge of the desk, but as soon as his full weight pulled on his arm, he collapsed and struck the floor on his injured side. Shock splintered his vision and pain quickened his pulse. He thought he heard a thudding sound, it could have been the sound of him hitting the ground or someone striking the door. He ignored it, forcing his eyes to narrow on Lilly. A whimper release from her lips, the only sound so far and not one to ease his worry.

Alfred dragged his pain-wracked frame towards her, pushing the box in front of him as he scattered trinkets, dashed on the floor earlier. Something wet oozed down his leg, but he dared not look. He must get to Lilly. Pulling himself the last few spaced, he reached her side. He let a hand rest on her small quaking shoulder. “Lilly, it is grandpa. Don’t worry I’m here. I need you to look up at me, please.”

After a moment she lifted her eyes, smeared with the wetness of fear. “You don’t know, grandpa, you don’t know what they did…what they are doing.”
“It’s alright, don’t think about it. I want you to concentrate on something. Clear your mind for now. Think on…think on…” Alfred searched both around him and in his thoughts for a suggestion to help his granddaughter deal with her grief. Then he saw what he needed on the floor. A small trinket, full of meaning and history, a ring, old in its design, passed down to him, then to his son, his son to his daughter-in-law and back to him. He couldn’t explain how it would make the device work. Maybe, because it symbolized an unanswered prayer, which went dark with the death of his child. He just knew it would bring the weapon to life, a gut feeling, which turned his innards like a mortar and pestle, grinding the herbs for an unique and rare elixir. The golden ring glowed from a deep green emerald intricately mounted as its centerpiece. With a bit of biting and bending he was able to get the gem out. “Now Lilly, this was your mother’s. I was going to give it to you on your birthday, but now…just consider it an early present.”

She grabbed at it, but Alfred snatched it behind the closed fist of his wrinkled fingers.

“No, I want you to imagine it. Capture its image in your mind. Close your eyes. Do you see it?”

She nodded her head.

“Good. Now take that terrible memory and place it inside the jewel for safe keeping so you don’t have to think about it till you’re ready. Now open your eyes. Better?”

She hesitated, but finally responded in a pale whisper. “Yes.”

Banging sounded at the door followed by yelling.

Alfred opened up the device, took the system of gears, fixed the gem to one end, and inserted it into the tube. The banging on the door increased.
“Grandpa, they’re coming!”

He closed the tube. Nothing happened. Lilly stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. It must work. He shook it, but still no light. The door started to crack at the hinges.

“Grandpa!”

“It must work!” Alfred prayed and prayed pouring himself into the device. Then something caught as if an invisible force from inside the weapon latched onto him. He opened his eyes, and to his amazement a flicker of green light appeared inside the lens. He closed his eyes prayed some more and it grabbed on him as if it took a part of his spirit and filtered it into the light. His energy drained and his head spun, but to his amazement and delight the device projected a long green blade of light curved at the tip shinning like the rays of a foreign moon. It reminding him of the sword he had seen at the Grand Temple Hall during his inauguration into the priesthood. “Now Lilly, put on your pack, take this weapon and leave the city. If anyone tries to hurt you point this at them, pray, and it will glow so bright it will scare them away.”

“What if they don’t run?”

“Then swing it at them and they wont be able to hurt you.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. Run to your aunt’s house in Hampsteep and you’ll be safe.”

“But what about you grandpa? I can’t leave without you.”

The pounding change to splintering thunks as the assailants used sharper tools to breach the door.

Alfred didn’t know how to answer her. He couldn’t move and he was afraid she wouldn’t leave as long as he was here. “I’ll be with you, but…inside in this.” He dreaded the thought, but he saw no other option.

“How?” Tears fell down her face, dark curls matted to her cheeks.

“Just…trust me. Feel inside this device and you will find…”

The door crashed open, splinters of wood flying over their heads as two men stumbled in, swords gleaming in an eerie green light. Alfred prayed. He prayed with such devotion his soul seemed to cringed in pain as the nature of his being fought his very will. He had never been so intent in all his life so driven with purpose. Letting his whole being fall into it, he gave his soul to the device. He felt no pain, only a sense of losing oneself, of melding or becoming something else. He heard a distant voice.

“What do we have here?” The soldiers laughed to each other. Alfred couldn’t discern their actions, but anger built in him cudgeled by the men’s arrogance and his granddaughter’s danger.

Green brilliance, screams of pain, and the soft padding of small feet was all Alfred knew. He could see very little, but he moved. He heard a soft voice calling to him, yet he couldn’t make out the words. It’s as if life became a dream. Fear oozed into him like oil over clear water. He was trapped in a boundless world with only a verdant radiance for companionship. Then a soothing warmth slaked his panic. It was Lilly. Somehow she was able to reach him with her thoughts.

Alfred didn’t understand what was being said, but he did know she was safe. He had become the device, scorching luminance, the weapon to her salvation and death had not seen her nor shall it.

Their pale blue shadows stretched towards her like ethereal hands, clawing a trail around the refuge of her home.

Momentary silence and her mind drifted. “Where did I put that change?” Cassandra tossed a plastic Kool-Aid bottle to her left and peeked inside a broken TV, poking at its innards with gloved fingers. Her misty breath obscured her vision, making the quest all the more difficult. The street lamp feebly scattered the night, offering little help. It seemed the TV would produce no treasure today, perhaps tomorrow.

The shadow-cut alley whistled. The chill bit to the bone, seeping into her frayed clothes and tattered boots. She wiggled her toes to improve circulation. A scarf needed to be garnered soon, before winter’s minions tightened their tiny grips. Maybe a cup of coffee too.

Yes, she liked the idea of that. Coffee to soothe her rigid fingers and brittle tongue.

The laughter ignited once more splaying a cacophonous tune in her direction. Cassandra winced. Ignoring it as best as she could, Cassandra snatched what she hoped to be a weapon, but instead procured her lucky Pepsi bottle.

When it jingled under her grip, her tension evaporated, left behind by the excitement of finding her savings. The laughter continued, but she gave it no heed, intent on her meager wealth. Over the last couple of months she scavenged the lost, forgotten, and discarded to garner this jingling hoard. She pulled the crumbled plastic out of the mouth of the bottle, used as a makeshift stopper, and dropped the coins into her left hand. “Two pennies, one dime, eight quarters, and four dollar coins.” Pride split the premature wrinkles of her face into a smile. Beauty still lingered under the tarnished matte of her sun scorched skin, but none cared to notice nor would she want them to. If her counting skills still proved competent, she had earned enough to attempt her escape plan once more. Even now, jabbing at the innards of a broken TV, she dreamed of her escape from the clutches of poverty’s cloying grasp.

Daily, Cassandra made herself forget where she hid the coins just in case the boys came back. She never remembered the specifics from their visits. The lingering aftereffects painted a vivid enough picture for her to ascertain what happened. The wretched vermin stole all her money, usually crushed her lucky bottle, and left her with bruises as a keepsake. They didn’t exclusively come to see her, having overheard a few of the other speak of it. Somehow, knowing she shared the experiences made it better, like she participated in a secretive community of the tormented. It was one of the ways she dealt with the beatings. Besides, they weren’t even boys. They were rats, nothing more, vile creatures with bottomless eyes, never with a glint of empathy. They didn’t see her as human and she didn’t see them as human. A fair trade, she thought. If only she found a way to rid herself of them.

They approached, shoving aside piles of refuge in their way.. Deep shadows cut the edge of hard jawlines, which could be construed as handsome or even beautiful to some, if it didn’t expose the twisted grins smeared across their vile faces. She felt a tingle crawl up her calves and along her spine as they got nearer. She slipped the bottle inside her trench-coat. If she threw the TV at them, their ugly grins would stop menacing her. A smile sweetened her lips. Last week she crushed a rat in a similar way, a pleasing comparison of tiny rat boys squeaking underfoot as she dropped the TV on them. No more vermin, big or small.

Cassandra sneered and spat at their feet. “Hey Billy, how are you and your rats doing?”

***

“I’m going to throw out the coffee. Do you want me to save a cup to bring to that homeless girl?”

“No, I’m too busy. I need to get something faxed before I go home.” Jen finished filling the ketchup dispenser and then handed the bottle over the counter to her coworker Gayle. The sun lazily drooped in the sky. It glimmered through the windows of her work, a limpid cage of daily economic dependence.  She only had an hour at most before the sun set. It felt weird finishing work with the sky darkened, like she lost the day before it began. Besides, she felt guilty. This morning she rushed and didn’t visit her homeless friend. The beggar woman seemed bat crazy, but she wanted to do the right thing. Something to do with karma, she was sure.

Fighting against her resolve to always be happy, the day burrowed a nice ache in her back. She forced a smile and bent down to get napkins from the cabinet at her feet when a flash of pain rattled up her spine. She grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from falling and bit off a squeal.

“Jen, you OK?”

“I’m fine.” Jen waved Lisa away. It could have been worse. It had been worse in the past. “I just need a moment…to let the pain pass.”

“You should really consider retiring. You’ve worked here how many years now?”

“Fifteen, but I want to wait a few more years.” Jen lengthened her spine gingerly with her left hand supporting the small of her back and the fingertips of her right hand preparing to use the counter again. “To help my pension along and such.” That wasn’t the real reason, but it suited most people. She liked her work, even if she hated the customers. This was her social life, her only life. It beat reading trashy romance novels. On most days at least.

A group of boys shouldered open the doors, letting their cocky laughter spill into the restaurant. Jen thought she recognized one of them as Billy Galliard, the son of the drunkard football coach for the local high school team. The father beat his son bloody in a parking lot after a lost game. The police found him drunk in a bar that night and threw him in jail. The boy spent the next few days in the hospital. It made headlines in the local paper. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “…five minutes before we close,” she mumbled under her breath. As the boys approached, she slapped a plastic smile on her face and began the prerecorded greeting logged in her head. If she got out of work soon enough maybe she would bring the beggar a cup of coffee after all. She needed something to make herself feel better and it might assuage her guilty conscience for forgetting this morning.

***

Billy sat at home, melding into the couch as the TV blurred in front of him and the afternoon sun cut hazy rays across his dingy living room. A McDonald’s bag and its moldy inhabitants sat next to him. Earlier in the day, he skipped school and ran home, it took him an hour of feet slapping against pavement, but he didn’t care. It gave him time to think. He knew he should have stayed, it was the right thing to do. He grew tired of the moral banter flung at him daily. It seemed every step of his life he must measure, calculate. He was smart and he knew it. He figured out the best choice without someone’s unwanted input weighing him down.

He spent so much time reading, he never spent any time living. That realization caused him to create the Rebellion, a group of friends who did everything in opposition to society and the norm. He figured if they, his group, did everything wrong they would understand what it meant to be wrong and would then be able to make decisions based on reality, not pointless theory or archaic tradition.
When he hung with the Rebellion, he felt more alive. They could do anything. No one could stop them, and if they did, he accepted the consequences whatever they panned out to be. Life was immediate and clear. Action and consequence, experience and result. The simplicity of it made him laugh, not caring who overheard. He laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

He can’t believe at one point he followed the oppressive traditions of right and wrong, the old prodding beast. The moldy shape of its archaic form held little appeal to the lively youth of the Rebellion. He noticed the time displayed on the flickering jabber of the Fox news channel and his pulse sped up. Fifteen minutes and the rest of the crew finished school for the day. He wondered what they would do. Each day reared its head differently, some grimacing with pain, some licking ice cream off its lips, and some bearing its fangs. He did his best to lead, but things always took a more organic turn. “In the moment,” he called it when recollecting such events. “You get lost, separated in a way as if you’re not there, you’re not really the one doing it, which makes it so easy.” He knew talking to himself should be a warning sign for some mental impairment, but he couldn’t think of a better person to understand himself than himself.

Billy stood, stretched, and ran out the door, leaving the TV to flicker behind him with reports of the communist doings of Obama and the radical decline of our culture. He didn’t slow as he worked his way to the daily meeting spot. He ran by a woman in a business suit, most likely walking back from work, he grimaced and she ignored him. He hated Suits. Money grubbing pigs, nothing human about them. His stomach rumbled and he remembered he hadn’t eaten today. The Rebellion should snag a bite to eat before going on the prowl. Besides, he liked the older clerk, she reminded him of his grandmother, the only worthwhile human in existence.

***

Cassandra’s sneer was answered with a fist slammed into her stomach. The air blasted out of her lungs and before the pain could grip her voice someone kicked her in the face. Her vision blackened and the world spun. Her shoulder pressed against the cold pavement, blood dribbled over he lips. She spit a piece of tooth and pushed herself up on her elbows. The boys were getting rougher than usual.

“Can’t you put up a fight?”

She tried to stand. They never let her. Cassandra did her best to kick, bite, scratch, claw, and scream, but it seemed to only invigorate their efforts. They taunted her, as if they wanted her to win. Some of them cheered her on.

Afterwords, as she laid on the ground wheezing from her lungs being impaired by a sharp pain in her ribs and dull aches everywhere else, one of the boys got a grand idea in his head, which started an argument. She didn’t care what bothered them. “Rats!”

“What did you say, bitch?”

“Cut it. We had our fun, let’s go.”

“Rats.” Cassandra repeated with barely a whisper.

“Ya, whatever, I always knew you were pathetic, Billy.” The boy raised his hands in question. “What, our big leader wussing out?”

“What are you doing?”

Tighter, Cassandra curled into a ball to lessen the pain or make the rats forget her. She hugged her knees to her chest, but it did little to assuage the fear and pain building in her chest.

“Stop it!” The voice was the one they called Billy.

At first she thought they were urinating on her as a wet stream coated her face. Cassandra licked her bloody lips. It lacked the salty ting she expected, being bitter instead like vinegar or liquor. She spat and frantically wiped her face, but the substance wouldn’t come off. The boys started yelling at each other. It looked like Billy walked away and kicked a trash can, but it might have been someone else.
A bright flash of orange light engulfed her vision, licking her with a molten tongue. She screamed. It seared into her skin, her eyes, her clothes, and her mouth, like being dragged naked over coals. Her flesh peeled away and her heart quickened with vain attempts of perseverance. The fire hurt, the fire ate, the fire was. She didn’t know anything else. Her mind had become the pain and the pain was the fire. She could no longer scream, see, or even breathe.

Then the agony faded, her mind momentarily cleared. She thought of days picnicking with her mom, of nights eating ice cream with her father at the local dairy shop, of early mornings with over-easy eggs and pancakes with too much syrup, and so much more. She remembered it all and nothing. She knew where she was, but also knew she wasn’t there. She saw irony, even as her last vestiges of thought faded into the after. Like sipping coffee in the chill of winter, the heat consumed her. At least she wouldn’t be cold when she died.

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Noah whispered to the bundle in his arms as a passing breath of wind raked across his skin. “So you’re the last Hope. I’ll do my part. You’ll get to the hospital, but can you bring that which you are called?”

“Hey Noah, what were you saying?” Tom went rigid and his eyes deepened in their sockets. “Wait! Do you feel that?” He shoved away from the willow tree he had been leaning on, strode out of the shadow of its hanging branches, licked the back of his hand, and lifted it to the air. “It has the bite.”

“It’s too soon. Run!”

“Where?”

“Over there, a ditch. We might make it.” The infant held firmly in his arms, Noah sprinted up the dirt road, dodged chunks of pavement jutting out of the earth, and dove into the ditch, spinning so he landed on his back. He slammed into the ground, the breath blasted out of him, but the child was safe. Tom slid next to him, breathing hard.

Noah rolled over and covered the infant as best as possible. The wind whined above him as it picked up speed. Within moments it roared. They were lucky to have made it. The acid wind stung the back of his neck and burned his scalp with its venom. Seconds and minutes dragged. Ignoring it as best as he could, he closed his eyes and prayed to every god he remembered.

A few hours must have passed by the time Noah noticed the pain had eased. He worried about the length and angle of the shadows. Tom huddled next to him shivering with his eyes shut and body curled in for warmth. The sun had dropped to a mere sliver, while the wind left a deadly calm with its passing. The infant in Noah’s arms stirred, unintelligibly gurgling. He was fairly confident it meant the thing was hungry, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at the moment. His thoughts drew on what he would rather be doing like reading a good book or organizing the archives. The child would just have to make it to the city.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you to the hospital and there will be food aplenty waiting for you. You’re going to get certified meals, no affliction or anything. What do you think of that?”

“She probably isn’t thinking of anything other than she hasn’t eaten anything. I’m pretty sure they don’t feed the infants anymore for fear of contamination.” Tom sat up and stretched his arms. He peeked over the edge of the ditch and raised an open hand over his head. “It looks…or rather feels all right. The wind has passed at least.” He stood, but still kept a keen eye on the horizon, his body stiff with tension and a hard night of sleep.

“We should get going then.”

They climbed out next to the willow, which had broken much of the wind while they slept.

Noah didn’t recall it being so gnarled the night before. The branches bent so deeply, even the dry leaves had fallen to the ground. Is there anything this curse doesn’t kill?

“Which way?” Tom shoved his hands in his pockets, scanning the thin wisps of a dusty horizon. The youthful lines of his face were masked behind bruises, announcing the affliction clawing away his life.

“I’m not sure. Give me a moment.” Noah did his best not to stare at the bruises. Who doesn’t have the curse anymore? He unrolled the faded street map, cradling the bundled infant in the crook of his arm, noted the late hour by the falling sun, and found their location not more than five miles out of the remains of Detroit, marked by a bent road sign he observed a few miles back. “We need to head east, away from the sun.”

“Are you sure you can read that thing?”

“As well as I can piss.” Noah did his best to ignore his irritation with Tom. The poor schmuck would die soon enough and he didn’t want to make it any worse. He reminded himself, few people were trained to understand the symbols anymore. That’s probably why I got picked. They started east with Noah pointing the way as he periodically checked the map.

“How’s she doing?”

“She seems well, as far as I can tell. But we can’t even look at her face to see if the affliction has set in yet. You know about as much as I.” Noah’s experience with infants was about as lengthy as a toothpick and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. He had to get to the Remnants, trade Tom for passage, leave the child at the hospital, and he would be done with this mess.

It was her, the mother, who did him in. Her sharp green eyes and a smile that belied the sickness eating away her life was enough to convince him to agree. The mother didn’t last much longer after the birth, but it was enough to burrow guilt into Noah’s resolve.

Tom stared at him. “So where are we going exactly?”

“The Detroit Metro Hospital. Last I heard it was still running.” He didn’t mention he hadn’t been to Detroit for over twenty years.

“I hope you’re right. And the Angels will be there?”

“They took over all the hospitals as far as I know.”

“How long will take to get there?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions. I would know better if we had a topographical map, but we’re stuck with what we got…”

“It was the only one in the compound. The last five teams only had rumors to work with. Be glad we have what we got.”

“I hope they made it. How do you know so much about the other missions?”

“My father was chancellor of our compound.”

“And he let you be a Sacrifice?”

“My affliction shows. I was either to be cast out or sent with one of the sojourns as either a Sacrifice or Bearer. This was my choice not his.”

“Did he try to stop you?”

“Once it was common knowledge I had been cursed, how could he?” Tom stared at Noah unblinking, the smooth lines of his face held taut.

The boy’s determination to die bothered Noah, but he was grateful for it all the same. “No, I suppose there wouldn’t be much he could do.” He let a silence drift between them with only the rustle of branches from the languid cracked from of a nearby tree. “We need to hurry up if we are going to get to the hospital in time.”

“Lead on.”

“We should avoid the roads.”

“Do you really think anyone, including the Remnants, are alive? We haven’t heard from the other compounds in over a year.”

“You’re probably right, but I’m not interested in finding out who is or isn’t alive. We shouldn’t risk it. Let’s get this child to the hospital and be done with it.”

“Do you think it needs food?” Tom leaned over to peek at the bundle, but Noah stepped back out of reach.

“What are you doing? Keep your curiosity to yourself.”

“What? Come on, man, I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I don’t think you want to hurt her, but that doesn’t mean you won’t. Besides, I don’t feel comfortable exposing her to the winds. You’re afflicted and we don’t have any food.”

“Where the hell have you been? I’m not contagious, the curse…has done its part, at least if what the Angels told us is true. I’m not a threat anymore. You should know that. Besides, you should have a little of the curse in you as well. Everyone does.”

Noah ignored the last point. He hadn’t seen any signs of being afflicted and he wasn’t about to start getting paranoid about it. He had enough to worry about like whether or not his companion would be able to survive the trip. He was definitely in the later stages, his skin had already begun to show signs of decay. “Can you make it till morning?”

“I should.” Tom narrowed eyebrows with what seemed like annoyance, but suddenly a fit of coughing tore at his lungs followed by dry retching. They stopped for a moment while he got his breathing under control.

Noah worried if this kept up this speed his companion wouldn’t last much longer. Seeing a young man slowly die sickened him. “I hear the wastelands have better air. Maybe we should forget this mess. We wouldn’t have to deal with the city, the Remnants, or whatever else is in those dead streets.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Tom’s lips parted with an incredulous snarl. “You expect me to take my last day and walk away from the only duty I’ve ever been given? Fuck you, give me the child! I’ll take it!”

“You can barely stand, let alone carry anything.”

“At least I have the guts to do something with my life. Are you going to give me the child or not?”

“I don’t see the point of any of this. The infant will probably die and us soon after. What if we get there and find the hospital abandoned? I just don’t see why we should do this. We don’t even have any evidence that the Angels of America are still there.”

“You’re that pathetic. You don’t get it. This is our last chance.”

“At what?”

“Saving what can be saved. If we go to the wastelands you’re killing the child. You might as well throw it against a rock.”

“Wait a second, you’re being a little harsh here.”

“No, I’m not. When was the last time you heard of a child living past a day or two at most?” Tom waited a beat. “I know. I can’t think of a single one. This is the only chance she has. She must get to the hospital. I’m going, even if it doesn’t make any sense. This is the only way I know how to live with what I have left, and live I will, till I fulfill it.” A fit of coughing doubled Tom over and he dropped one knee with a hand pressed against the dry earth for support.

Noah backed away.

Tom spit a lump of blood onto the parched tundra and strained to regain his posture. “Man, it hurts. I feel like something is eating me from the inside out.”

“No, your innards are just rotting.” Noah kept his distance. “Don’t die yet.”

“Thanks for the concern. I said I’m fine. Now are you going to do this or not?”

“Well I won’t let you die for nothing and you’re probably right that the child wouldn’t live. Why couldn’t I just read about this and not have to live it?”

“At least you can read.”

“That’s true.” Noah kept his eyes on Tom, taking in how bad he appeared. He’ll be lucky if he makes it another hour.

Tom’s eyes traveled the area between him and his companion, noting the distance. “Superstitious?”

“Or safe…sometimes…it is hard to decipher superstition from reality. Besides, the acid winds are enough to make anyone look over their shoulder.”

“Well, if you’re so fond of superstition, just ask the Remnants about their cures.”

“You little shit.” Being likened to the atrocities of the Remnants and their supposed cures put Noah’s anger to the coals. His jaw creaked as he spoke. He hated them as much as anyone. Superstitious or not he wasn’t a Remnant, nor did he agree with what they did. “I should leave you die for saying that.”

“Why? Plan on speeding things up? How about we get back to this after the hospital?”

Noah whispered, hiding his words. “At least I won’t have to deal with you by then.”

“What did you say?”

Noah waited a second to respond, mulling over what the kid said about superstition. Maybe he was a bit superstitious, but he had all the right to be. “…sometimes it feels like superstition is all we have.”

“That, and death. I haven’t seen any good from either yet.”

“And if we stay here much longer, later is all we’ll have.”

“Lead on, Bearer.”

They traveled for a couple of hours, crossing a barren plain, cutting over a silent interstate, and navigating around a faded but resilient building. A school or jail, Noah wasn’t sure. His friend, or rather compatriot, walked beside him with as much vigor as the dry earth they traversed. Tom stumbled as much as he walked. Noah tried not to stare. It suits him…pale, bruised, heavy eyes. Another damned soul in the hell we are left with.

Noah’s foot caught a rock and he barely kept his feet under him. He held the child in his arms tighter. She remained silent, content as far as he could tell. The day was weighing on him, but he dared not take respite. The green eyes of the nameless mother, who gave up her child for him to supposedly save, haunted him whenever he closed his, as if she was watching in her death, judging his actions and even his thoughts.

The sun fell without warning and Noah squinted to read the aged map, a difficult enough task before the day decided to abandon them.

Tom wheezed nearby, holding his chest while he rested against a rusting car. “How much further do we have?”

“If we don’t get stopped and we’re able to keep this direct route, we should be there by sunup.”

Tom hesitated. “…she might make it.”

“She better. Its the best we can do.” The infant squirmed in his arms as if she knew they were talking about her. It must be hungry. There’s not much I can do. It will just have to survive till we reach the hospital. Before they left, Noah had asked for milk or some other type of food, but everything was tainted, or at least there was no way to tell otherwise. He still believed it best to give the infant some food before they left, even if it wasn’t certified, but it wasn’t his decision. “We should pick up our speed. Our time is fading faster than I hoped.”

They skirted a dry pond and reached the rim of an expansive resting area for cars, leading into the wasteland of an outdoor plaza. They kept to the shadow of a withered oak also claimed by the affliction, rotting spots along its once proud trunk. Noah knew they should avoid the plaza, but they would lose at least a half hour if they went around. They were on the edge of the city and chances are any survivors would start appearing. He whispered, “We have to go through.”

Tom nodded his compliance.

If anyone still lived, Noah hoped sleep held dominion over the place. The bundle squirmed in his arms as if sensing his unease. It stayed so quiet. He thought babies cried. That’s what he remembered at least. Maybe I was wrong. Last year when the five newborns were taken away to the city, they all shed tears as if their first days were meant for their last. Noah sharpened the hard lines on his face as he scowled against the bitter breeze caressing his skin.

Tom walked ahead of him along the shadows, intent on what might lay before them. Noah became aware how much he depended on the resolve of this one man’s willingness to take his own life. A few hours of travel alongside him had done little to assuage his concerns.

They worked their way across the mall parking lot, doing their best to keep to the shadows of the metallic dead, where the vehicles lay in decaying tribute to a vague past of prosperity and convenience. A few cars had orange For-Sale signs against the broken glass of open windshields, like languid tongues against glass teeth, breathing the silence of failed desperation.

Noah couldn’t recall what the signs meant. Something to do with wanting to get rid of something. He waved the concern aside and kept going.

They cleared the rusting graveyard and heard a crack from within a tall brick building to their left. The infant shifted in Noah’s arms. He clutched the bundle harder and it went still. Tom and Noah shared a glance.

After a handful of slow breaths, Noah nodded for them to continue. Now can’t be the time. It’s too soon. He took the first step as if placing his foot on the water of a raging sea ready to consume him in its convulsive grasp. His hesitation was evident and he knew it with annoyance. He eased each step with as much silence as he could garner, willing his feet to be as light as the child he carried.

Away from caution, Noah’s mind drifted to the infant in his arms and an awkwardness settled into his gait. He wished she had a name. He couldn’t stop thinking of her as a simple bundle of fabric and it bothered him. But children weren’t given names anymore. They were all Hope, an ideal fixed to a child stripped of its humanity, its distinctiveness. As he passed through the night filled desolation of the mall, he wondered if the children of Hope would see their world reborn.

A poster of President Obama with the word ‘Hope’ in large letters at the bottom caught Noah’s attention. He almost laughed at the irony of the word compared to his situation. What would life have been like without that message? Noah felt a hand on his shoulder and was surprised to find Tom’s dark lined eyes questioning him.

“You OK?” Tom took his hand back and scanned the area.

“Uh, I’m fine. Just fine.” They were no longer moving. When did that happen?

Tom shivered, his face masked in sweat.

Dew had crept up on them and Noah’s hands were clammy and chilled. He pulled out the one glove he owned and, gently cradling the child in the crook of his arm, worked the worn glove onto his left hand.

Tom stared at the child and the glove. He didn’t offer to help. Only one of them touched the child, only one of them was the Bearer.

Noah would have preferred a right glove. Maybe if he lived, he would barter for a one. At least it provided something to do, if he made it through this mess.

They passed store after store greeted by the whistle of a breeze, hinting at the wind, which hid in the darkness. The place continued as a dim specter of what it once was, a commercial center for the affluent, now filled with scattered shadows of disrepair and silence. Noah felt strange being surrounded with so many signs after years of having letters be a luxury, but he forced only one word to roll across his silent tongue as he held its carrier in a protective embrace, using it as a weapon against his fears. Hope.

The pillars of dependence, as Noah liked to think of them, ended ahead, opening to the wide expanse, which led to the hospital.

At first, Noah thought the shape another cancerous bulge amidst the rubble of the past, until it moved. It rose into the cloaked shape of a man barring the middle of their path. Noah tensed, but didn’t stop, intent on walking around the person. This can’t be the Remnants. Not yet. We are still too far away.

Framing the languid frame of the man, his patched and stained cloak billowed in the damp breeze. “More people come to my place.”

“Are you from the Remnants?” Noah wanted to just pass by the man, but something held his footing. No need to anger him. The exchange is going to be sticky enough.

“The Remnants?” Laughter exploded from the man’s dark hood. “What is your desire for those left behind?”

“We want safe passage into the city, as per the pact set so many years ago.”

“And you have a Sacrifice for the exchange?”

Tom stepped up from behind Noah. “Yeah.”

“It’s been a number of years since I’ve seen anyone on the journey. If you make it worth my efforts, I’ll show you how to find the Angels.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Why should we trust you?”

“It’s simple. If you don’t, you’ll die, along with your Hope and what it stands for. Only one hospital is functioning in the city, and unless you guess correctly out of the ten to choose from, you won’t make it in time.”

Noah’s patience dried up. “I’m not sure if I like you or what you’re about. If you’re not one of the Remnants, how do you know so much about us?”

With no response, Noah almost threw the encounter to foul play and left, but after a lengthy pause the cloaked figure spoke.

“I was once on the same journey as you are on now. I made the exchange, gave up my Sacrifice for the life of Hope. That is why I know what you are about and it is in vain, but if you persist in this folly I would be willing to provide you with my services.”

“Why don’t you just help if you’re not lying about your past?” Noah stared up into the dark mass of the hood and thought he saw a glimmer of eyes. He held tight the bundle in his arms.

“Because what you do is without point. Hope breathes no more even if the child in your hold does. I provide a service, nothing more. Give me payment and I will make sure you don’t end up in one of the hospitals, which no longer functions.”

Noah wished to be done with the man, but a deeper instinct told him to listen, something primal, linking them together on this journey, bearing a child of no more than a day’s age. Maybe it was desperation, a need to Noah pulled off the glove and tossed it at the cloaked figure’s feet. “I don’t even have a jacket for my shoulders, a blanket to lay with, a hat for scalp, or any other necessity. Only this glove. It was my brother’s.”

“It’s not much, but it will do. I know an old witch who can make something of it. What guides you, sun, memory, or map?”

“A mix of the three, but we do have a map.”

“That is well. Let me see it.” The cloaked figure pointed with his blue and scabbed hand to a place on the map a couple of hours southeast of their current location.

Noah was glad he couldn’t see the man’s face. “You’re sure that’s the place? It doesn’t say it’s a hospital.” He memorized the location and rolled the map back up to stuff into the loop of his belt.

“It is. I think it was built after the compounds were erected. A couple of years ago the other hospital closed and everything was moved to this location. You should have seen the exodus, large plastic bubbles with terrified white robed people walking in them to keep the wind away, but no children.”

“When was this again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten years ago, maybe five. I lose track of what time is or where it might be. I’m just doing what I can to stay here while I can. Thank you for the glove, by the way.”

“Do you know where we are most likely to meet the Remnants?”

“That is easy. They haven’t moved much in a while. They are quite content staying a couple of blocks from the new facility erected by the Angels.”

“Thank you for the help.”

“There’s something about you. Maybe you will live. A shred of advice if you want it.”

The urge to get underway built in Noah, but he conceded with a nod. “As long as it is quick.”

“It is only this; speak the language of the abandoned and they will question, find their mother and they will listen.”

Tom grunted. “That’s it?”

The cloaked figure stood in silence.

“It appears so.” Noah went to leave and Tom didn’t hesitate to step in beside him.

The man bent to retrieve the glove as they passed, but when Noah glanced back, the figure of their strange encounter had vanished.

It didn’t take long for the mall to disappear beyond the crest of a hill behind them. A few minutes later, they walked down the middle of a long abandoned interstate. Neither Tom nor Noah spoke as the moonlight guided their progress.

Tom hugged his arms to his chest and pinched his hands in his armpits. “How much further?” He coughed, grimacing with pain he failed to conceal.

“I’m not sure. Maybe an hour or two.”

“Do you think we’ll survive?”

“Is the question worth asking? I don’t intend to dwell on what might catch us, whether it’s the Remnants, wind, or a foul chill.”

Tom laughed. “Probably, all three, but that’s not what I meant. Will we, humans, survive?”

Noah became acutely aware of the infant in his arms, and wished he could see her eyes, but a thin cloth protected her face from the winds.

“Noah, you there? Ah, it doesn’t matter. The sun will be up soon. We should hurry.” Tom gained speed, enough to give him a subtle wheeze. Even with the strain, he didn’t falter or slow.

Maybe humanity will live. Noah kept pace. They bent around a curve in the road and a dark outline of the ruin of Detroit teetered before them. No lights, no noise, just the tall crumbling peaks of what had been. It now crawled with the carnal desperation of those who couldn’t release their past, bound to it as securely as any iron wrought chain. This territory belonged to the Remnants.

Noah wondered how many people still stared at their blank TVs, sat in their crumbling homes, and ate the molded remains of their past, while the affliction caused their bodies to decay even as they lived. It amazed him how many people refused to move on when he left this desolate place for the compounds. He caught Tom’s eyes. “I’ve thought about what you asked, about us living, and I’m fairly certain we’re going to die and all we know will go with us…but her, our Hope, and the infants before her might make something of what’s left.” Noah chuckled. “At least they have a better chance than us.”

“I hope you’re right.” Tom fixed his gaze on the city’s dark silhouette. “And, I hope they forget all of this.”

“It would be nice, but let them remember enough to learn.”

The first threads of the sun cut between the jagged spires of Detroit.

“We should get off the road. We are only an hour or so west of the hospital.”

Noah followed a few steps behind Tom as they navigated the dead stalks of brush reaching like claws from the parched earth, yearning for a drop of their blood. Scratched and scraped, they worked their way free.

Tom found a sign buried under rubble, which marked their location. Noah removed the map from inside his shirt and breathed a sigh of relief. They closed on their destination. No choice remained but to continue on through the decaying streets, where billboards lined against each other like a forest of classifieds. ‘Stop Sex’, one read, and another, ‘Virgins are Not a Cure’. ‘Plants Infected, Eat Only Certified Food’ proclaimed a sign dangling against a broken wall. Smaller posters plastered everywhere read ‘Give Your Child, Save a Child’, ‘The Angels Wait’, and ‘Official Mandate: All Children Must Be Brought to the Angels’.

Noah had fled Detroit before these last posters were erected. Now he was glad he wasn’t there when it happened. He shuddered to think of what people would have done. The outcry would have been…unimaginable.

Deeper into the city the signs took on additional markings much like graffiti, but with crude black paint as if wrought of ash. Some of it Noah recognized as gang or cult symbols, but as they progressed all the designs deferred to one or were defaced. He couldn’t explain his concerns, but the shape of it worried him. It depicted a cross with wings behind it, a snake wrapped around its base, and a halo at its crown.

“Noah.”

“What?”

“Look around.”

Noah had fixed on the signs, now he glanced up as Tom nodded toward mounding heaps on either side. It took a moment to recognize them as skeletal remains discarded in thoughtless decay. Some he could identify as human, others appeared to be animals, all mingled in a dance of death. “What savagery is this?”

“Maybe the Remnants did this?”

“I’ve heard a lot about them, but nothing like this. This is where we are supposed to meet them though.” Noah forced his eyes away.

“If the Remnants aren’t here, how are we supposed to find them?”

“We don’t need to. The hospital is only a few blocks up. If they were going to stop us it would be here. I think this is them.”

“If that is true. Who did this?”

“I don’t know, but I would rather try to figure it out after we give the infant to the Angels.”

“You’re right on that. I would like to be done with this place.”

Noah checked the map to verify their location. “I can’t and don’t want to argue on that account.”

A painfully loud horn sounded from ahead. Noah flinched and his stomach clenched. Foreboding urged a desire in him to flee from the horn’s call. He ignored the impulse. The infant snuggled deeper in his arms within its protective wrappings. “I don’t know what that was, but we’re almost there. Run!”

Their feet pounded against the uneven pavement as they sprinted towards the hospital. Noah caught a glimpse of a faded road sign and then another. Only one block left. Luck was their companion.

Concrete buildings loomed above them, cracks running along their walls like veins exposed with age, while the doors and windows yawned with jagged glass teeth sparkling in the early sun. The shadows seemed to shift unnaturally in the buildings, but Noah pressed forward not interested in discovering what lurked inside every dark corner of this retched city.

“Wait! Noah, those are children!”

Noah came to halt, shocked by what his companion said and more so by what came into focus from within the buildings.

Countless children barricaded the doors and windows, huddled over each other, staring at them with a wild innocence gleaming from their eyes. They wore random pieces of garments wrapped around their small bodies in every, which way possible.

They seemed so strange, almost foreign or alien to Noah. Maybe it had been the years since he had seen a child. One oddity stood out among the others, the soft lines of their small faces were bent with what appeared to be fear. Why would they fear us? These poor children. “Hey, weren’t not going to hurt you. We’re just heading to the hospital.”

They didn’t respond and, if anything, the lines of fear deepened.

“I don’t think they get what you’re saying. Hey wait! Noah, they’re not cursed. They’re not cursed! Not a single bruise.”

“That’s impossible. Who are they?”

The horn blasted once more and the children flinched almost as one, pulling further back into shadows of the early dawn. The fear conquered the innocence in their eyes.

“I don’t know what has happened here, but we should get to the hospital. Maybe they will know what is going on.” Noah itched to run.

Most of the children stepped into the light and some of the older ones crawled all of the way into the street, moving more like animals than humans, on all fours. Soon a throng merged behind them. The horn sounded and the children towards the rear yelled with pain, but the ones in front only grimaced, snarling as if an animalistic frenzy took them.

“Tom, I think we should run.” Noah couldn’t break his eyes from the drool, which fell from the chin of a child not ten paces from him. More animal than human.

“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here.”

They broke into a sprint and almost at once the children screamed. The sound deafened, making Noah dizzy. He stumbled, but caught his footing, holding tighter to the precious girl in his arms. Beside him, Tom held his hands to his ears and tried to keep up, wheezing with each lurch of his feet. They rounded a bend and in front of them loomed a pristine white building devoid of decay. The sun caught a corner of the left wall, shining with a warm golden brilliance.

“Come on! We made it!” Noah lengthened his stride and lost sight of his companion. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Tom sprawled over a pile of rubble, attempting to regain his feet.

Noah, against his instincts, skid to a rough stop and ran back toward his friend just as the children appeared from around the corner, fighting each other to get at them, their small feet driven forward by some unexplainable carnal hate. The horn blasted from behind them even louder this time, but the children didn’t stop. Only a few flinched and the rest ignored it completely. The infant in his arms began to cry. Noah was still a good ten feet away as Tom managed to stand, but a swarm of children leapt over him. They bit, grappled, and clawed at his friend.

Tom screamed as one grabbed the edge of his eye socket with its little hands. Too weak to make much of a fight, he fell to his knees.

Noah was lost for options. The slender throats of the children yelled, screamed, snarled, and cried in a cacophony. Suddenly, Noah became certain. They can’t speak. As desperation built, a primal instinct triggered inside him and he yielded to it. He called out in a single sound, a single low pitch, which resonated from every fiber of his body. It erupted in a deep bellow, which shook his teeth and dried his tongue, reverberating like a cornered lion’s challenge, roaring with its last breath. He didn’t know what overcame him, but it worked. The children scattered at the noise just as he lost his breath, revealing Tom huddled in a ball, bruised and bloody. His left eye was shut and wouldn’t open.

“Come on!” Noah kicked him, not knowing what else to do. “Move!”

Tom seemed to gather his senses and Noah offered a hand, helping him stand. They scrambled to the hospital and met white double doors at the entrance with a blank display screen to the right.

Tom coughed up blood with his right hand against the white double doors for support.

Noah averted his gaze and forced himself to go over to the screen. He scanned it, but there were no buttons, no keypad, no place to insert anything, he had absolutely no idea what to do. There was only the blank screen.

“Hurry. They’re coming.”

“I am, but I don’t see how to make the thing work.” Noah cursed his luck, his situation, and his life. He had no idea what to do. We’re going to die.

“Hurry.”

“Give me a second.” Noah heard Tom bang on the doors. Worth the try. He felt along the screen for a latch or panel that would open a keypad or anything and accidentally brushed his fingers across the screen. It blinked to life with a dim white glow. Tom cried out with pain before being muffled under the snarls of children. Noah kept his eyes on the screen.

“Welcome to Angels of America.” A motherly, feminine, soft, and soothing voice responded, like the sound of silk against baby’s skin or the gentle flow of an undisturbed stream. The words caressed. Noah didn’t know what happened to the wild children other than he could no longer hear their mad cries. His purpose lay before him and he feared what lay in his wake so he kept his eyes focused forward with the infant firm in his arms.

“Please place your hand on the screen to initiate the drop off process.”

Noah did as instructed and the motherly voice thanked him with his full name, confirming his identification was verified. It asked a series of questions about the child, including weight, time of birth, sex, parents, ethnicity, and more. He made it all up except for the gender. A keyboard appeared on the screen followed by a request. “Name?”

Noah typed in one word, ‘Hope.’

“Thank you for your request. Processing…”

Noah held onto Hope and waited.

“We are sorry to inform you, your request has been denied. Capacity is currently full. Please come again. Have a blessed day from Angels of America.”

Noah’s mouth wouldn’t form words. Unbidden tears crawled down his ashen cheeks, escaping at his jawbone. He couldn’t stop them as they fell onto the thin fabric, protecting Hope’s face. He knew his tears were contaminated, but he couldn’t stop. He dropped to his knees and shook, rocking back and forth with Hope in his arms. He pulled the cloth away from her face. She had green eyes. They were so beautiful, more than he could ever have imagined. “I’m sorry. I’m…so sorry.” He wiped his tears from her face and she smiled at him.

With a click, a small panel below the screen slid open. Inside it contained a cylinder the size of his thumb. He picked it up and the panel closed.

“Emergency Provision Order 1111E released. Use sparingly. Blessings, Angels of America.” The clamor of the children halted, leaving a drift of dust an unsettling calm.

Noah held Hope and the cylinder, waiting for what he did not know. He heard rustling behind him and turned, placing his back against the wall.

Noah couldn’t see the end of them. There must have been a thousand children packed into the street. They all looked above him at the screen as if waiting for it to speak. What struck Noah the most was how normal they seemed. Innocence was with them once more, but something else lingered, visible in the way they held themselves. They appeared lost, without purpose, direction, or even understanding of who and what they were.

Noah closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the children were dispersing. He noticed small pictures along the side of the cylinder in his hand. They’re instructions. He removed the cap, revealing a tiny needle on the end. Confident he knew what to do, he gave Hope the shot. Finished, he tossed it aside.

A loud speakerphone announced above him in the same voice as the screen. “For your convenience, Angels of America is now providing the first meal of the day.” Multiple sections of the building swiveled open in large portals. Similar shaped tanks slid out ten feet, locked in place with a click, and numerous long tubes drifted out of them, stopping within inches of the ground.

The children began to return.

“We hope you enjoy.”

Noah noticed one small boy mouthing the words as he walked to one of the tanks, not seeming to understand what he was saying. The boy grabbed a tube hanging from the tank and began to suck a clear thick liquid into his eager stomach. The rest of the children did the same and since there were plenty of tubes the communal act was done with complacency in strong contrast to the violence of only a few moments ago.

Noah stood, clutching Hope to his chest. Tom lay on the ground not too far away, ragged and bloody with children passing around him, intent on reaching their tanks.

Noah worked his way over to Tom’s side. “You all right?”

“More than I thought I would be. No, I’m…I’m fine.” Tom waved Noah away.

Seeing nothing else he could do for his friend, Noah walked to one of the tanks. Sitting down, he grabbed an unused tube and brought it to Hope’s lips. She drank with as much vigor as any suckling babe. A soft sound played against the air. A moment passed before memory stirred him to recollection. What? A symphony?

The music danced like the waves of an ancient river, flowing to sea with highs and lows, which guided the rhythm of Noah’s unsteady heart. Yet, the melody contrasted with the wild shuffling of children driven solely by raw instincts. Noah then knew. He knew what he and every other person had done. All the small faces around him lacked one vital element separating him from them. We abandoned them…we stole…their humanity. He stared down at the child in his arms, cradling it tight to his chest. “Tell your brothers and sisters…we didn’t know. Tell them…we are sorry.” The large green eyes of the child called Hope sparkled with recognition of memories to come.

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Published: “New York Twist Magazine,” October/November 2008.

Won: “WeMakeYourMovie Contest,” March 2009.

He sat down, leaned against the damp stone wall, and took his night’s meal from a torn, gray duffel bag. He chewed on the empty juice box till his jaw went numb and spit the remnants aside. He didn’t like the taste anyway. Too savory. After eating a few more objects discovered earlier in the day, he rubbed his long fingers together in defense against the shallow chill of his cavernous home.

A screech, followed by the racket of heavy metal being crushed, erupted somewhere above, sending jolting vibrations into his back.

“What? What be this noise? Dare, dare you break the sleep of my ears?” He stood and sniffed the damp air. “You not know who I be?” He craned his neck and twitched his ears, but the noise didn’t answer his movements or questions. Irritated, the Lord stomped his feet and his subjects scattered. “Little rats, I apologize. Apologize, yes I do. A disturbance, minor, minor it must be.” He glanced up at the gleam of light from a rectangular opening and caught the sound of a low moan. “This annoyance, discover, yes discover I will…to protect us. I go. Til then…be as you may.”

The Lord of the Dome worked his way up the wall, grabbing notch, lip and ledge, till he reached the narrow space. Set at ground level on the edge of a hard path, the rim dribbled water down his front. He licked some to wet his lips and quench his thirst. He spit out the gritty after-bite. Hmm, water, drip drip warmer here. Remember this, must remember.

Outside, darkness held its comforting grip, scattered only by a singular glow attached to a tall pole. He could see well enough, the vile rays had not yet appeared. Across the hard path, twisted metal whirred for a second and puttered into silence against a wall. Painful groans came from within. He considered going back, but the potential threat required closer inspection.

He squeezed through the opening and immediately two bright eyes charged him. He leaped away, dodging the monster, and crouched to prepare for another attack. It roared in passing and was gone.

“Dark Eaters, light bringer, vermin wretches! Yes, damn, damn Dark Eaters. Find a way to destroy them later. Time not right.”

A quick check revealed no more dangers, and he scampered to the wreckage. Inside a hideous creature whimpered. A huge rat, devoid of fur save a long patch on its nearly snoutless head, squirmed feebly. Mutation. I’ve heard of such. This be ill omen. It moaned again and the Lord noticed the reason for its piteous cries. Pinched within the metal heap, a large piece of see-through stone pierced the rat’s shoulder.

The Lord knew what must be done. He had helped many of his subjects before and this one was one was no different than the rest, other than being bigger and mutated. Fix the wound first, yes, before the life runs out. Then free, free it.

He ran down an alley and found one of the Boxes of Instruments. Each of these wondrous containers held many a prize, if he could find what he needed. Lifting the large lid, he tossed it up to flap behind the huge box, and leapt in. He rummaged through its secret contents, before raising his prize in the air with a triumphant cry. “Yes! Magic cloth of breaking water!”

He returned with much speed using all hands and feet. It took a moment, but he wrapped the wound at the base of the clear stone with the cloth he had found. His subject cried out at his ministrations, but seemed too weak to take notice of what occurred. The red water of its life stopped draining out. He needed to find another handful of the water-breaking cloth in order to remove the stone, but at least he had gained some time.

Clambering from within the wreckage, he heard a distant wailing. It escalated to a high pitch and suddenly a bright rainbow of colors flashed from the dark further up the hard path. He rushed to hide and covered his ears as the sound grew louder and louder. The lights and sound came from a large square beast. The noise stopped as the creature came to a halt not far away. It split open and more tall, mutated rats scrambled out.

They ran to the junk pile and the Lord prepared to attack, scratching his nails on the ground. When they carefully removed some of the twisted shards entrapping his injured subject, he stopped, retreating into shadow. They be helping. He watched more intently, hoping to learn from their magics. He never knew such creatures existed above the Dome.

They left in their magical flashing beast, taking the wounded rat with them. He stared after them as they departed, then into the great dark overhead. The Eyes of Above still twinkled there but he saw them differently now. They were much more. The Eyes of the Greater Dome.

His true realm lay here. He was sure of it. He would be Lord of this Greater Dome. Protected, protected, they must be. Long nails clicking, he clambered up a nearby wall to perch atop a tiled roof. “Rule over all rats of this dome, surely it is true. I will be. Yes. Be your sovereign! My subjects, I am your Lord!”

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Published: “The North Shoreian Magazine,” The Writer’s Issue, Volume 1, Issue 9, September 2008.

The forest watched Jared run. He could feel their eyes on him, even if he didn’t believe it. He had grown to love these woods, and today he felt a part of them. He moved among them. Under branch, over fallen tree, around bush, and across stream, he ran, more akin to the forest than a passenger under its shadowy gaze.

He never ventured so deep before this. His heart raced. The taste of forbidden sweetened his lips. He wouldn’t be able to return before dark. He laughed at the sense of freedom.

The sky was closing. Branch intertwined with twig and trunk, becoming a barrier between him and the sky. Jared squinted as his eyes adjusted, but didn’t slow his prideful steps. Nothing would stop him. He would see the heart of the forest, of which the townspeople spoke in haunted whispers and dark corners. A forbidden place, and he would be there. His determined heart beat to the rhythm of his goal.

“I’m coming,” he called to the trees, speaking with them as naturally as ever he did his own family. After all, he spent equally as much, and often more pleasurable, time amidst the woods.

He stumbled, but regained his balance. Where did that root come from?

Some said the forest was alive, old, and angry in its age. Jared shook off the thought. “Just more of their scary tales,” he told himself. “Fairy tales to keep children from going so far.” Shadows shifted from behind two large trees he passed between. My imagination. The feeling of being watched persisted, prickling at the nape of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder so frequently he ran face-first into a branch.

Jared shoved it aside and sprinted deeper into the forest. That branch…wasn’t there. He swiped leaves from his hair, and his hand came back red. He remembered the path, there had been nothing in his way before he glanced over his shoulder. His resolve wavered. A root caught his foot and he tripped, stopping his fall with his hands. He shoved himself upward to regain his balance, but vines ensnared his right hand.

Jared crashed to the ground, ripped his hand free, and tumbled into a bush. Propelled by momentum, he passed through the thick foliage and rolled into a dry clearing. Towering trees raised their trunks to unimaginable heights to form a canopy of interwoven branches and leaves. Pallid light squeezed through, as if exhausted from its travel to the clearing. Around him, a wall of old trunks, thick roots, and tangled vines caged him. He couldn’t even tell how or where he’d entered.

In frustration, he tried to force his way between two trees, but the opening proved too narrow and seemed to close all the more tightly with his efforts.

“Now I’ve done it. I’m all but trapped.” His usual resourcefulness fled, he couldn’t think of a way out. His mother would already be terrified he was gone so late. How would she feel when she only found his bones. “I have to get out of here.”

Searching the perimeter of the clearing, he examined the brush and even tried to make an opening, but only came away with a handful of crushed leaves and no progress toward making or finding an exit. He set the leaves on the ground.

“Sorry. I need to get out,” he murmured from habit.

“I admit the sapling confuses me.”

Jared jumped at the sound of a deep, creaking voice, which carried from somewhere above. “Hello?”

“Yes, he does confuse, sunfuse, concuse.” A rustling, breezy voice responded.

“I wonder. What do you think he is?”

“Me, I have ideas! Lots of them. Maybe he is a branch. A stick!”

“Yes, yes, that’s enough, Pine. It is just another fleshling. He’s just like the rest. We should finish him.”

“Hasty, you always are. Vine, calm yourself. We must think on this first.”

Jared fell to the ground, staring up into the talking branches. Certainly it seemed they were talking. They have to be, he told himself. They even sounded like trees, though he couldn’t explain what precisely that meant.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want with me?”

“Too many questions. I can’t take this ramble, rabble, babble. Lost, he must be Lost.”
“You might be right, Spruce, but we must take our time with these things.”

The vines around the clearing moved and rustled into a slithery voice. “We should pinch the life out of the fleshling and be done with it.”

Spruce interjected, “I don’t blow, sow, know if that be good idea. What do you think, Oak, Smoke, Hoke?”

“Watch your tongue, Spruce! Anyways, it is just a sapling. Barely old enough for its first greens. No, Vine, we cannot. We vowed always be watchful, to always hear and wait till they return. We cannot forget what we are.”

“What you are. I did not agree to the pact when they left.”

Oak continued, seeming unruffled by Vine’s disregard. “We have given every other creature fair chance, why not this one? The Trees of Evermore…”

“Forevermore…” Spruce intoned.

“Nevermore…” Pine continued.

“…will always keep watch for the Lost.” Oak, a large towering tree in front of Jared, seemed to bend with age and sadness, as if the steady crawl of the ages had worn deep into its bark.

The vines covering each tree coiled slowly down to the edge of the clearing. It made him think of a snake with no end. He shuddered with a sudden aversion to the thought.

“I’ll wait.”

Jared heard the voice come from the vines, yet it seemed not so clearly a voice so much as he understood what the natural rustling and creaking meant. His mind put words to every sound. “Who are you?”

Oak glared down at him as if considering what to say. Jared couldn’t explain how he knew the tree looked at him, but he decided not to question it. Enough was strange already.

“He understands us. It has been a long since one has understood.” Oak’s leaves rustled as if releasing a long held tension.

“A sign! It must be! Right, Oak? It must be, must. Yup must.” Pine creaked, evidently quite giddy.

“Are you, young sapling?” Oak asked.

Jared didn’t understand what they were asking and inched backward, but heard the vines moving close behind. What did they want of him?

“Am I what?” He almost shouted, barely holding back tears. Sweat chilled his neck and he shivered.

“He is confused.”

Vine slithered by inches into the clearing, as if testing water. “Maybe he is Lost, and the Found are never to be.”

Jared’s stomach churned.

Oak creaked. “Do you know who we are? If you can answer this question we will know if you are one of the Lost or Found.”

Jared’s heart quickened with fear. All he could see were vines, root, and trunk. No escape.

“Your silence is an answer. Do you want to keep it?” Oak rumbled.

“You called yourselves the Trees of Evermore, Forevermore, Nevermore.”

“That is what we are called not what we are.”

“Maybe I don’t remember.” Jared wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but if he stalled long enough he might be able able to figure something out or find a way to escape.

Pine, thin and tall, bristled. “What you mean? Speak! Want to know.”

“Umm…” Jared had no answers. His time was up. I’m dead.

“Not yet.” Vine coiled closer, covering the dry ground of the clearing.

On instinct, Jared said the first thing which flew into his mind. “Last year, I buried one of my favorite toys, a wooden gargoyle my grandfather carved for me. I did it because my older brother kept saying he would break it. Later when my brother was away I went to dig it up and play with the gargoyle, but I couldn’t remember where I put it. I looked and looked and looked.” Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away with the back of his fist, but not before a few drops salted his lips.

“Poor, lad. Look what you’ve done, Vine.” The great oak rustled its leaves.  “Did you find the gargoyle, young sapling?”

“No, but he still is my favorite. I can’t remember where it is. Just because I can’t remember doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” Jared dried his face on his sleeve and waited.

The vines circled closer and Jared brought his feet in close to his body and huddled against his knees. He tried to peel his eyes from the slithering mass and failed.

“I think the creature, vreeture, deeture, makes good its point.”

Oak’s exposed roots twitched. “What do you mean, Spruce?”

“Maybe, he doesn’t remember, september, varember, who he was. I think wees should riddle, spiddle, diddle, him. Then we knows yes or not.”

Vine shivered, exhilarated. “Yes, riddle. I like riddles.”

Pine gave its agreement in a whistle of wind through the tower of its needles.

Silence covered the clearing. Nothing stirred aside from the small movements of Vine as it made sudden shifts around the boy.

“Vine.”

“Yes, Oak.”

“You are best at these things. Riddle him.”

“Hmm, I might be able to oblige you.”

No, please don’t let Vine have me. Jared stood as the vines writhed with even more vigor. “But he isn’t part of the forest. You said he wasn’t part of the Trees of Evermore, Forevermore, Nevermore.”

Vine grew still.

“You are right,” Oak rumbled. “It is strange that we ask you to do this, Vine.”

Pine needled in. “Wasn’t always such. Nope, nope, not always such. Never Vine before Lost. Nope, nope.”

“Shut up!” The vines tightened around Pine. “Those times are gone. You will listen to me. I riddle. It has been such since they left and it will be till they return.” Vines knotted around the trees, but Jared noticed they also caressed and soothed.

The trees calmed and whistled with the wind.

Oak answered. “We see what you mean, Vine. Please, riddle him.”

“Wait!” Jared cried. “Do you know the answers to his riddles? What if he asks me something that doesn’t have an answer so that he can kill me?”

Vine lurched toward Jared’s face and stopped within inches before retreating. Jared was sure he went too far.

Spruce perked up. “Good point, voint, joint, the creature has.”

“Yes, I would say he does.” Oak bowed lower. “Vine, you will give him the riddle of old, which we know and have put to heart.”

“I will say it in my own words. Agreed, Trees of Evermore, Forevermore, Nevermore?” Vine gave emphasis to the last word.

In unison the three trees responded by the creak of root, the rustle of leaf, and bristle of needle. “Agreed.”

Tendrils closed about Jared and wrapped around his ankles, waist, and arms.
In front of him, roping vines coalesced into the shape of a man, clothed in leaves, flesh of root, and smile of embittered age. It spoke, but its lips did not move. “Your time has come fleshling. Are you ready to be riddled?” With the last word, the vines tightened around Jared, making him gasp for air.

He’s just trying to scare me. He wouldn’t give in. He never gave in to his brother. He came into the forest even though people said it was dangerous. Vine wouldn’t scare him now. “I’m ready.”

“This is their riddle, but I will say it.” Vine paused as if gathering a breath. “We are the Trees of Evermore, Forevermore, Nevermore. Branch, root, and trunk make us one. We are Evermore. Bug, claw, and feather are akin. We are Forevermore. Betrayal, slavery, and yearning marks the Lost. We are Nevermore. Who are we?” The vine man smiled down on him with malice and surety.

Jared had no idea. It could be the names of the trees. But, that would be too easy.
“What is your answer, fleshling?”

The vines constricted and he struggled to breath. His vision blurred from lack of air and panic began to take him, but anger conquered his fear. This was too much like what his brother did to him. He wouldn’t be bullied. “My name isn’t…fleshling. My name is Jared!” Suddenly, the vines fell away and he took in a full gasp of air.

The vine man glared at him and pounced, gnarled hands going for Jared’s throat.

Loud cracks and snaps reverberated through the clearing and Vine reared up in surprise. The vines on the trees broke away to fall in a rain of broken root and twisted leaf. The trees straightened, as if casting away a long held weight. Their leaves straightened with new vibrancy.

Vine wailed.

“You are done, Vine. Leave the Trees. Your riddles are no longer needed.” Oak’s deep voice boomed through bark and flesh.

Jared smiled, but hid it when Vine looked back at him.

“I will remember this, fleshling.” Vine unraveled and slithered from the clearing, revealing exits among the trees.

“You have done well. One of the Lost is Found. Welcome home.” Old, muscular roots parted soil and lifted Jared to the sky, passing him from one thick branch to another till he perched above the trees elevated on a nest of soft leaves. The forest came alive with song and celebration.

Wind, rustle, and creak comprised the tune and it brought tears of joy to Jared’s eyes, washing away all fear. He could see the green floor roll away into the hazy distance, forever alive, forever there.

Still the riddle plagued him, and he frowned. “Oak?”

“Yes.”

“Why did Vine leave?”

“Because you answered the riddle correctly, releasing us from his chains. When you left so long ago we had no one to protect us and Vine promised just that, but his gifts were twisted as you could see.”

“But how did I answer correctly?”

“You said your name.”

“But, Vine asked who you were.”

“That is true and you answered correctly.”

“So I am the forest?”

“And the forest is you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s alright, sapling. With time you will.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Whenever you are here, live with us. This your home now as much as it is ours.”

Jared grinned and held tight to a branch, enjoying the view as the sun worked its golden fingers on the green landscape. Home.

John hasn’t moved it from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend is rather terrified. Now this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John, while he locks himself in his house for days. The food dwindles as apprehension rises.

“What can I do,” he thinks.

On the fourth day the answer seems as evasive as the rat he tried to catch last summer. He wearily sits down on his front doorstep, staring at his intruder with no less tension.

Finally, he dares a peak at the label. Oh, no. It’s true, the gift, if he may call it that, is from his mother. Hands shaking, he begins to disassemble the tape bindings of his fear as if this was some ticking bomb ready to enlarge his doorway along with other imaginative painful effects upon his physical well being. Taking a deep breath, he clenches his eyes from the enemy and attempts the well traveled, but bumpy road of control.

He gathers his wits, ready for the last step. The cardboard lid is lifted under his damp fingers. Again the demon sucks at his soul, like an unknown parasite, tapping away at his energy with self indulged delight.

How could he do this to himself? His mind races. Quick. He must act quickly, before he falls victim. With uncanny agility and speed for his extra girth, he leaps across the yard, around his finely pruned flowers, and almost trips over the lawn chair, until he reaches the gapping maw that will consume his fears. Sighing, he drops the contents into the trash.

Exhausted, he falls to the ground and pulls himself to the fence, sitting against it. He checks his watch. Damn. Three hours till the trash man arrives. Four minutes. He pinches his lips. Six minutes. He closes his eyes. Eight minutes. “Enough.”

With uncontrolled desire he lunges into the trash, tears falling across his stricken face. His hands grabble around the box of Twinkies and with devilish glee he skips into his home and his defeat.

“What’s this?” Illya picks up a rough stone, her youthful hands cupping its dark oval shape. A feeling itches at the back of her senses, tempting her out of reality. The rock gains meaning and changes before her eyes or is it in her eyes. It matters little to her. Even the obvious lie before her does not dissuade. This is what she wants and her tormented mind answers. A sad smile touches her lips and her face softens with a remembrance that steals her sight. She’s covered in a thick down comforter and the warm body next to her brings her awake. Gripping her husband’s strong hand, she rubs the back of his palm against her cheek with bitter delight. His eyes open and he smiles.

The rock is rough against Illya’s fair skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A tremor walks along her visage. “How did you sleep?”

The rock embodies the taste of silence.

A tear falls radiantly down Illya’s lovely face, a stream surely crimson if colour took union with heart. The fragile warmth of emotion strikes the dew covered stone, fragmenting, lost amidst the play of tiny prisms.

The rough stone seems to bristle against her wet cheek.

Lowering her hand, Illya is leans over and grips the edge of the wooden coffin her fingers almost as ashen as her face or the body within. A deep ache bites into her chest, a whimpered breath escapes her lips. “Why did you? Just tell me why? What happened to forever?”

Illya stumbles away and her vision blurs. Trees loom above her cutting gaps of darkness upon the grass strewn floor. She reaches a large oak and drops to the ground with her back against it. She notices the rock in her hand and is about to throw it into a nearby stream, before something about it catches her eye. A thin line of purple runs along the side of it. Interesting and beautiful she wonders how something so strange could be made. She looks more closely, and the purple becomes more vivid. Suddenly it is a stream of purple and she screams out, but then it changes from a torrent to a calming brook and she calms. The purple stream stills and lays immobile in time as if it were a blanket of silk soothing her eyes. Then a body is revealed within its midst as if it were always there just never noted. She is close and stands up so she can see well. She is frightened, she hasn’t seen his body yet and the last days of the cancer were unbearable. But she has to if only to save face in the eyes of all the people around her. To herself she curses this place and everything it does. None of them know and none of the will know. With forced hesitant movements she approaches the coffin and stares at the dead form of the catalyst to her ambivalence. “You had to die and leave me. I still love you even though I shouldn’t. I might even say that I forgive, but I don’t know how. I just wish I knew what you saw in her. She was my friend…” She has to take a deep breath and clamp her eyes shut to stop the shame that might escape them. Her voice is weak, almost a whisper. “I love you still.” She reaches out for his hand.

Illya blinks through the haze of her failing existence. She holds the rock cupped in her hands, her eyes closed. So rough. Tense, she rolls the stone in her fingers, yearning to feel strong warmth blend into her skin. “I love you still.”

The stone responds with continuity.

Illya binds the stone against her chest, but the lifeless piece of earth doesn’t give comfort and her soul quakes. But, she grips it tighter, needing to hold something, anything, even if it holds no life.

A hiss of wind and the rush of powerful current whispers to her ear, mixed with the surge of crashing rapids.

Illya licks the tears falling over her lips, the taste of salt claiming her senses, anything to turn her mind. The water’s seductive voice calls. Standing on shaky limbs she stumbles towards sounds. A mist rises up to meet her and she takes a soothing breath, which clears her lungs. Finally, she feels alive and she jumps.

The air damp and cool cradles her fall in deceiving comfort. The strong hands of the mighty water embrace her to the end of silence. A screech, unrecognizable in its agony, crawls into her ears smothered in water. Her fair flesh to runs chill. She rolls within the rapids and is slammed into a boulder and just as quickly thrown off. The little air left in her now gone she scrambles for reality. And then it strikes deeper and colder the fast current she is within, a simple question. What am I doing? She cannot stand the pain of the voice. “Stop! STOP!” Desperate to find the source, she loses her grip on the stone. Frantic, she flails against the current of her release, but avails nothing. She cannot move. The water threatens. The stone is lost.

The screeching heightens, piercing into her like a blade of ice. Deep, deep it borrows, chilling her heart, stilling her soul. Illya’s voice rises in a deafening pitch to match the shrill madness in her ears. Yet, both voices are hers and the pain is too real. She weeps in the turmoil of icy water, her leg pinched, caught, and broken in rough boulders under the water of her release. The current weighs against her, licking her with its hunger. She weakens. The water threatens to engulf her one source of life, air, her ability to scream. She grapples with her twisted leg, plunging her head into the deathly cold of the water.

Something new, but very old breaks loose from within her, warming her deadening flesh and invigorating her torn muscles. A part of her being, a signature of her soul, commonly held by all life. Glimpses of her past and the potential of her future shine from within. Pain, sorrow, loss, agony have no meaning to the true desire sparkling in her dilating eyes. The desire to live. So primal, but so beautiful. With a crack and gurgled scream she wrenches her leg free. The current takes her once more. Not yet, in time, my love. The words of her mind flow outside existence, temporality, and reality snatched up by hands of spirit and carried on wings of purpose to the ears of her intent.

Illya clings to the branch.

Mr. Hopperhill made his way to the edge of the forest will due haste, not seeming likely in his age, but when kids were in danger he forgot his discomfort. He gave a sharp whistle and hawk swooped down to land on his shoulder. “Clip, look ahead and try to divert Kleger as best as you can.” With that the bird took off and cut through the darkness of the forest with Mr. Hopperhill behind. He’d never let the kids into the forest before. It was his charge and now for the first time in five years he had slipped or let them slip. Whatever, it made little difference. He batted a branch out of his face and step over a fallen log, while trying to scan the area for where the kids might have gone. He didn’t know their names, but he was pretty sure they were Twinkletoes or maybe Biddlehorns and their parents where surely going to hear about this. If he got them out. “Twinkletoes, Biddlehorns!.” The words echoes around the trees lost in the rustle of leaves and hidden life of the looming Festerwood Forest. He shivered and took a few more steps until he caught the signs of the kids passage of broken branches. It didn’t make sense. They should be able to hear him. They were only a few steps ahead. “Twinkletoes, Biddlehorns! It is Mr. Hopperhill. You can come out.” He was really getting worried and sweat began to bead down his face.

A muffled hawk screech resounded from up around one of the big oaks and Mr. Hopperhill scrambled his way forward worried now for Clip as well as the boys. Reaching the other side of the tree, he was astounded to find Kleger, a single eye blinking down at him from a giant frame, while the kids sat in front of a small fire as if on a picnic, which they seemed to be exactly doing as they handed out a loaf of bread. One of the boys, a Twinkletoe, Hopperhill thought, dropped a cup of steaming liquid and cursed as it landed on his hairy feet. Clip was nestled in the cyclop’s hands accounting for it’s muffled screams. “Kleger, I don’t know what you plan on doing with these kids, but I wont allow it. And let Clip go.”

“But he was flying at my face.” The single eye narrowed in confusion.

“Then explain yourself. What were you planning on doing with these kids. I see you had a nice campfire set for them. Were you planning on eating them.” Mr. Hopperhill pointed his gnarled staff up at the giant accusingly.

Kleger let go of Clip who squealed and flew towards Mr. Hopperhill’s shoulder, but diverted and left the small clearing. The cyclops farrowed his brow as if in deep thought.

“Wait! Mister Hopperhill don’t be mean to Kleger. He is our friend.” The hobbit appeared to be Biddlehorn, which would account for his lack of intelligence.

Mr. Hopperhill waved his staff in frustration. “Don’t you see. He might pretend to be your friends, but he really wants to just eat you. Believe me I know.” He shifts a scornful eye to Kleger. “You remember what happened.”

The cyclops nodded pathetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your brother. He came at me with sharp sword and it hurt.”

“Enough! I will not have you retell the deed of your greatest evil.”

“You heard him. It was an accident.” It was one of the Twinkletoes talking now, which really surprised Mr. Hopperhill since the old hole dwellers tended to be surefooted.

“It doesn’t matter…”

Kleger cut him off, which really took Mr. Hopperhill aback. “Yes it does. I’ve been thinking. I’ve spent many years with these trees and I want some new friends. I think I have paid you the debt of your brother. I might not be the hardest branch in the forest, but I understand things when I see them and I think you are just be mean.”

Mr. Hopperhill took a step back. Could this really be happening. The creature was sticking up for himself. But before he got his bearing Kleger continued.

“I’m through with what you’ve done. These are my friends and they will stay my friends.” Kleger nodded as if in finallity.

The boys seemed content and safe. It was all Mr. Hopperhill could ask for in such an awkward and astounding situation. “I believe you are all old enough to make decisions for yourself so I’ll let you be to it. As for you Kleger, you are right. Your debt is paid and should have been paid a long time ago.” He hesitated, finding the next words difficult in coming. “And I”m sorry I didn’t speak to you sooner about it.” With those last words he left and gave up on a part of himself he had refused to let die for a long time. Revenge. A man will learn with time as long as he lets time work its magic, Mr. Hopperhill thought as he trekked back to his small cabin. He had lived there for five years. Longer than he had been at any place since he could remember. It was about time he checked out what the rest of the world had to offer him. Rummaging through his house and packing the last of his belongings, which were few being a good Hopperhill traveler that he was, He hit the road before nightfall and the future twinkled in his old eyes adding new vigor and hope for a destiny yet to come.

This button was simply the wonder and gift of her life. According to Martha, it was truly the greatest invention of man and her only necessity in life, except for dark chocolate with the girls on Sunday, but she wouldn’t talk about such things. Alfred isn’t supposed to know. Besides she was on a diet.

Damn, she hated diets. She wished she could stab all those skinny bastards with their white coats and PhDs. Then how would they feel. “Just money hungry bastards,” she grumbled to herself.

The machine steamed and popped inviting a wonderfully rich aroma of beans. “Aaaahh,” she exclaimed with exultation. Smacking her chops, she shuffled to the cabinet and produced a mixing bowl. Silence called to her from the steaming machine much like the beauty of the Siren’s song so tempting and pleasing.

Being utterly seduced, she shuffled over to the coffee maker, took her favorite purple mug from an overhead cabinet and poured the elixir into her cup. Being satisfied with nothing other than black coffee, she sipped a soothing portion of her bitter remedy. Vitality washed over her, reviving her fogged soul, releasing it from the prison of sleepy mist. A memory drifted into her clarity and she smiled. She liked her memories and thus relished a bit in this one now.

He drove up in his black mustang and Elsa was in her new red dress, tight and fitting to her fine twenty-four year old body. She looked good and knew it. He stepped out, his long black cowboy boots biting into the grass. Alfred commented and she smiled, giggling.

Old bones straining, Martha took another sip and sets the cup down with a deep wrinkled smile. “Good times.”